Whispers in the Star Class Crab Soup Restaurant
'It's too hot Master and please do not hurry to eat the soup.'
'Hey! Are you still alive? '
'Speak slowly Sir, boss could hear our conversation.
To tell you frankly I jumped out from the cauldron when the water was boiling,
I guessed my customer is so kind and I am sure you hide me in your pocket.
If it's possible throw me into the nearby lake on your way back home.
As same as your loving wife my darling too waits for me,
Luckily who escaped from the catch.'
* Dedication to the poet Edgar Lee Masters for his ' Spoon River Anthology'.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Mabel Osborne
Your red blossoms amid green leaves
Are drooping, beautiful geranium!
But you do not ask for water.
You cannot speak! You do not need to speak --
Everyone knows that you are dying of thirst,
Yet they do not bring water!
They pass on, saying:
"The geranium wants water."
And I, who had happiness to share
And longed to share your happiness;
I who loved you, Spoon River,
And craved your love,
Withered before your eyes, Spoon River --
Thirsting, thirsting,
Voiceless from chasteness of soul to ask you for love,
You who knew and saw me perish before you,
Like this geranium which someone has planted over me,
And left to die.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Walter Simmons
My parents thought that I would be
As great as Edison or greater:
For as a boy I made balloons
And wondrous kites and toys with clocks
And little engines with tracks to run on
And telephones of cans and thread.
I played the cornet and painted pictures,
Modeled in clay and took the part
Of the villain in the "Octoroon."
But then at twenty-one I married
And had to live, and so, to live
I learned the trade of making watches
And kept the jewelry store on the square,
Thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking,—
Not of business, but of the engine
I studied the calculus to build.
And all Spoon River watched and waited
To see it work, but it never worked.
And a few kind souls believed my genius
Was somehow hampered by the store.
It wasn't true. The truth was this:
I didn't have the brains.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters from Spoon River Anthology (1916)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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To Be An Anthology Poet
To be an anthology poet whose work
Children hate to read in school
And re-discover in later life as meaningful and beautiful-
To be an anthology poet
And have generations know one’s poems
As part of the eternal canon-
To be an anthology poet
One of the few names
That has survived
When thousands of one’s contemporaries’ have not-
To be an anthology poet
To have written a few of the great and the memorable poems-
To be an anthology poet
To be what I am not
And most likely never will be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Archibald Higbie
I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you,
I was ashamed of you. I despised you
As the place of my nativity.
And there in Rome, among the artists,
Speaking Italian, speaking French,
I seemed to myself at times to be free
Of every trace of my origin.
I seemed to be reaching the heights of art
And to breathe the air that the masters breathed,
And to see the world with their eyes.
But still they'd pass my work and say:
"What are you driving at, my friend?
Sometimes the face looks like Apollo's
At others it has a trace of Lincoln's."
There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River,
And I burned with shame and held my peace.
And what could I do, all covered over
And weighted down with western soil,
Except aspire, and pray for another
Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River
Rooted out of my soul?
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Harry Wilmans
I was just turned twenty-one,
And Henry Phipps, the Sunday-school superintendent,
Made a speech in Bindle’s Opera House.
“The honor of the flag must be upheld,” he said,
“Whether it be assailed by a barbarous tribe of Tagalogs
Or the greatest power in Europe.”
And we cheered and cheered the speech and the flag he waved
As he spoke.
And I went to the war in spite of my father,
And followed the flag till I saw it raised
By our camp in a rice field near Manila,
And all of us cheered and cheered it.
But there were flies and poisonous things;
And there was the deadly water,
And the cruel heat,
And the sickening, putrid food;
And the smell of the trench just back of the tents
Where the soldiers went to empty themselves;
And there were the whores who followed us, full of syphilis;
And beastly acts between ourselves or alone,
With bullying, hatred, degradation among us,
And days of loathing and nights of fear
To the hour of the charge through the steaming swamp,
Following the flag,
Till I fell with a scream, shot through the guts.
Now there’s a flag over me in Spoon River!
A flag! A flag!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters from Spoon River Anthology
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Josiah Tompkins
I was well known and much beloved
And rich, as fortunes are reckoned
In Spoon River, where I had lived and worked.
That was the home for me,
Though all my children had flown afar—
Which is the way of Nature—all but one.
The boy, who was the baby, stayed at home,
To be my help in my failing years
And the solace of his mother.
But I grew weaker, as he grew stronger,
And he quarreled with me about the business,
And his wife said I was a hindrance to it;
And he won his mother to see as he did,
Till they tore me up to be transplanted
With them to her girlhood home in Missouri.
And so much of my fortune was gone at last,
Though I made the will just as he drew it,
He profited little by it.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wallace Ferguson
There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above
The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown
Out of an empty sky of blue, and the roaring Rhone
Hurried under the bridge through chasms of rock;
And the music along the cafés was part of the splendor
Of dancing water under a torrent of light;
And the purer part of the genius of Jean Rousseau
Was the silent music of all we saw or heard --
There at Geneva, I say, was the rapture less
Because I could not link myself with the I of yore,
When twenty years before I wandered about Spoon River?
Nor remember what I was nor what I felt?
We live in the hour all free of the hours gone by.
Therefore, O soul, if you lose yourself in death,
And wake in some Geneva by some Mt. Blanc,
What do you care if you know not yourself as the you
Who lived and loved in a little corner of earth
Known as Spoon River ages and ages vanished?
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Penniwit, the Artist
I lost my patronage in Spoon River
From trying to put my mind in the camera
To catch the soul of the person.
The very best picture I ever took
Was of Judge Somers, attorney at law.
He sat upright and had me pause
Till he got his cross-eye straight.
Then when he was ready he said “all right.”
And I yelled “overruled” and his eye turned up.
And I caught him just as he used to look
When saying “I except.”
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Wrong Way
I don't know which planet I'm living on today,
But I got on the Tube, and went the wrong way!
I was travelling North, instead of travelling West:
That I was going the wrong way, no one else guessed.
The heat has, very obviously, gone to my head,
Plus I am feeling tired, as it's too hot in bed.
Catching the wrong train is just not like me,
As I travel around London a lot, you see.
It's a boiling hot day, so that's what I'll blame:
I'm sure many others are feeling just the same.
The heat made my brain feel slightly pickled;
Down my back, the sweat slowly trickled.
Usually, when I'm in London, I'm totally fine,
As I am pretty familiar with all of the Lines.
I don't usually make mistakes of this kind,
But, I guess, I just had other stuff on my mind.
I had travelled as far up as Leicester Square,
When I suddenly realised, I shouldn't be there!
Luckily, I had not made too much of a detour,
And a tricky situation was, very quickly, cured.
I jumped off and caught the very next train back,
And, soon enough, I found myself back on track.
I changed from the Northern to the District Line,
And I reached my singing workshop just in time.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Hancock Otis
As to democracy, fellow citizens,
Are you not prepared to admit
That I, who inherited riches and was to the manor born,
Was second to none in Spoon River
In my devotion to the cause of Liberty?
While my contemporary, Anthony Findlay,
Born in a shanty and beginning life
As a water carrier to the section hands,
Then becoming a section hand when he was grown,
Afterwards foreman of the gang, until he rose
To the superintendency of the railroad,
Living in Chicago,
Was a veritable slave driver,
Grinding the faces of labor,
And a bitter enemy of democracy.
And I say to you, Spoon River,
And to you, O republic,
Beware of the man who rises to power
From one suspender.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lambert Hutchins
I have two monuments besides this granite obelisk:
One, the house I built on the hill,
With its spires, bay windows, and roof of slate;
The other, the lake-front in Chicago,
Where the railroad keeps a switching yard,
With whistling engines and crunching wheels,
And smoke and soot thrown over the city,
And the crash of cars along the boulevard,—
A blot like a hog-pen on the harbor
Of a great metropolis, foul as a sty.
I helped to give this heritage
To generations yet unborn, with my vote
In the House of Representatives,
And the lure of the thing was to be at rest
From the never-ending fright of need,
And to give my daughters gentle breeding,
And a sense of security in life.
But, you see, though I had the mansion house
And traveling passes and local distinction,
I could hear the whispers, whispers, whispers,
Wherever I went, and my daughters grew up
With a look as if someone were about to strike them;
And they married madly, helter-skelter,
Just to get out and have a change.
And what was the whole of the business worth?
Why, it wasn’t worth a damn!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters from Spoon River Anthology
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Well and river, inequitable.
A bath in a river is soothing to your skin.
But the river cannot replace the well.
From well water, you sooth your throat.
So the well has no reason to fear the river.
The one who swims in a river
Returns home with renewed vigour.
His desire to swim in the river
Is not his hate to draw from the well.
No grace will the well lose
Because his master visited the river.
No shame does the river has
Because her visitor is not her master.
One will not desert one’s wife
Because the one courted a tart.
24.03.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harry Carey Goodhue
You never marveled, dullards of Spoon River,
When Chase Henry voted against the saloons
To revenge himself for being shut off.
But none of you was keen enough
To follow my steps, or trace me home
As Chase's spiritual brother.
Do you remember when I fought
The bank and the courthouse ring,
For pocketing the interest on public funds?
And when I fought our leading citizens
For making the poor the pack-horses of the taxes?
And when I fought the water-works
For stealing streets and raising rates?
And when I fought the business men
Who fought me in these fights?
Then do you remember:
That staggering up from the wreck of defeat,
And the wreck of a ruined career,
I slipped from my cloak my last ideal,
Hidden from all eyes until then,
Like the cherished jawbone of an ass,
And smote the bank and the water works,
And the business men with prohibition,
And made Spoon River pay the cost
Of the fights that I had lost?
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Peleg Poague
Horses and men are just alike.
There was my stallion, Billy Lee,
Black as a cat and trim as a deer,
With an eye of fire, keen to start,
And he could hit the fastest speed
Of any racer around Spoon River.
But just as you'd think he couldn't lose,
With his lead of fifty yards or more,
He'd rear himself and throw the rider,
And fall back over, tangled up,
Completely gone to pieces.
You see he was a perfect fraud:
He couldn't win, he couldn't work,
He was too light to haul or plow with,
And no one wanted colts from him.
And when I tried to drive him -- well,
He ran away and killed me.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Slowly slowly like this
Slowly slowly
The rippling waves hit the boat
A small fishing boat on the lake
In which he and I sit
Softly back and forth
Waves caused by some water ski
Do not disturb us
My hands stretch out on wood
Behind me as I look
At him
He is telling me a story
Bashfully looking away
Each time I try to catch
His eye
Familiarity warms his body
To mine
The distance is now less
But he still looks away
I smile
He is so cute
When he does this
He has no idea how much
I love him
And how happy I am
Just being with him
Like this
Looking at him
Watching him
And loving him
Always loving him
Like this
poem by Harriet James
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Death Of River
As the scorching sun gains height,
The river nearby dries up,
The quiescent river never fights,
For its water even a cup.
Once, it was full of life,
For each and every living,
Like the altruism of a wife
Her power in her ring.
The poignant image of the river
Is threatening to me,
Like a women in consternation
Sitting numb on her knee.
The mother of our ancient civilization
Will bring life back again,
For her loving children,
She will keep her sane.
poem by Shivam Madeshia
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Elmer Karr
What but the love of God could have softened
And made forgiving the people of Spoon River
Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt
And murdered him beside?
Oh, loving hearts that took me in again
When I returned from fourteen years in prison!
Oh, helping hands that in the church received me,
And heard with tears my penitent confession,
Who took the sacrament of bread and wine!
Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Baby I Need Your Loving
Baby, I need your loving
Baby, I need your loving
Although you're never near
Your voice I often hear
Another day, another night
I long to hold you tight
'cause I'm so lonely
Baby, I need your loving
Got to have all your loving
Baby, I need your loving
Got to have all your loving
Some say it's a sign of weakness
For a man to beg
Then weak I'd rather be
If it means having you to keep
'cause lately I've been losing sleep
Baby, I need your loving
Got to have all your loving
Baby, I need your loving
Got to have all your loving
Empty nights echo your name
Sometimes I wonder will I ever be the same?
Oh yeah!
When you see me smile
You know things have gotten worse
Any smile you might see, darling
Has all been rehearsed
Darling, I can't go on living without you
This emptiness won't let me live without you
Loneliness inside me, baby
Makes me feel half alive
Baby, I need your loving
Got to have all your loving
Baby, I need your loving
Got to have all your loving
song performed by by Michael Mcdonald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr.Parkinson
I thought he should go to the Zoo.
The gentleman who's sitting on a bench
in the amusement park.
In the summer evening he's in his bare body
And half of the animals in the jungle tattooed there,
And he seemed to be a tough guy.
When I just tried to avoid him and go to the other bench
He smiled like a child and started the conversation.
'I am Parkinson and you? '
'Nimal'
'Indian'
'No, Sri Lankan'
'That doesn't make any difference and I guessed that you're looking for a job? '
I said; 'Yes'
'You never get a job even if you get that won't be long last.'
'Why'
'Because you have a smiley face, try to be a hard hitter
Like Don Bradman,
Show a tough face like Tyson at all,
Not to women they're very kind
And if they need sweet, offer them candy
Never give bitter pills.
Kick the ball into the goal like Pele!
Never mind if you go to Church, Temple, Shrine or anywhere else
Just pretend as Worshiping and why so hurry?
You may go to Heaven, Nirvana or Hell
Enjoy the life first!
Remember when she needs a candy
Never ignore her!
On the way home in the Twilight I hummed!
'And here's to you Mrs.Robinson
Jesus love you more than you will know............'
*To the Sri Lankan celebrated poet Mahagama Sekara for his Masterpiece 'Prabuddha' the poetry anthology.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Ezra Bartlett
A chaplain in the army,
A chaplain in the prisons,
An exhorter in Spoon River,
Drunk with divinity, Spoon River --
Yet bringing poor Eliza Johnson to shame,
And myself to scorn and wretchedness.
But why will you never see that love of women,
And even love of wine,
Are the stimulants by which the soul, hungering for divinity,
Reaches the ecstatic vision
And sees the celestial outposts?
Only after many trials for strength,
Only when all stimulants fail,
Does the aspiring soul
By its own sheer power
Find the divine
By resting upon itself.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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