Welsh History
We were a people taut for war; the hills
Were no harder, the thin grass
Clothed them more warmly than the coarse
Shirts our small bones.
We fought, and were always in retreat,
Like snow thawing upon the slopes
Of Mynydd Mawr; and yet the stranger
Never found our ultimate stand
In the thick woods, declaiming verse
To the sharp prompting of the harp.
Our kings died, or they were slain
By the old treachery at the ford.
Our bards perished, driven from the halls
Of nobles by the thorn and bramble.
We were a people bred on legends,
Warming our hands at the red past.
The great were ashamed of our loose rags
Clinging stubbornly to the proud tree
Of blood and birth, our lean bellies
And mud houses were a proof
Of our ineptitude for life.
We were a people wasting ourselves
In fruitless battles for our masters,
In lands to which we had no claim,
With men for whom we felt no hatred.
We were a people, and are so yet.
When we have finished quarrelling for crumbs
Under the table, or gnawing the bones
Of a dead culture, we will arise
And greet each other in a new dawn.
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Related quotes
Peace Everywhere
Peace, everywhere, peace today!
Peace in lands of scruffy trees and pine,
Peace in lands of olives and wine,
Peace in lands where peaks are white,
Peace in lands where fields are bright.
Peace in lands of oasis and sand,
Peace in lands where people band,
Peace in lands where children play,
Peace in lands where people pray,
Peace in lands in the thick of the fight,
Peace in lands ruled by force and might.
Everywhere, everywhere, peace this day!
Pray that all world leaders lead the way,
Encouraging moral people to stand proud and tall,
No government too great, no nation too small.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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In A Certain Culture
In a certain culture,
People do eat and drink blood;
In a certain culture,
People wake up early to eat before they brush their teeth;
In a certain culture,
People eat animals already found dead;
In a certain culture,
People wake up early to eat before they bath;
In a certain culture,
People eat snakes and dogs;
In a certain culture,
People wake up to brush their teeth before eating;
In a certain culture,
People eat monkeys and crocodiles;
Ina certain culture,
People wake up in the morning to bath before they eat;
In a certain culture,
To be naked at the beachside is okay;
In a certain culture,
It is a taboo to be naked at the beachside;
And this is all about life on this earth!
Because what is sweeter on your lips is bitter on mine;
And it is very strange to experience all these facts around the world.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Since the Cities are the Cities
FOOLS can parrot-cry the prophet when the proof is close at hand,
And the blind can see the danger when the foe is in the land!
Truth was never cynicism, death or ruin’s not a joke,
“Told-you-so” is not a warning—Patriotism not a croak.
Blame will aid no man nor country when the dark days come at last—
As with men so with a nation, and the warning time is past.
Our great sins were of omission, and the dogs of war are loosed—
And we all must stand together when those sins come home to roost.
Since the cities are the cities and shall stand for evermore,
Let us justify our being, be it peace or be it war.
For because we are the townsfolk, and have never ridden far
Shall we call the bush to aid us that has made us what we are?
Westward went our brothers, fighting distance, drought, and loneliness
While we lived in light and comfort knowing nothing of distress,
We who never shared the hardships when the sunset led them on,
Now’s our time, O street-bred people, with our faces to the dawn!
They have conquered with the cross-cut and the wedges and the maul,
With the spade and axe and mattock and the saddle-packs and all,
They have mighty work before them for the sake of you and me—
Let us stand up to our duty! We’re the Rearguard by the Sea.
Days of gibes at “street-bred people” by the street-bred bards are done—
Shall the man who lays the yard-stick never learn to lay the gun?
Shall the crouched type-writer toiling for his home in days like these
Touch the button the less firmly when we play on other keys?
We have seen in many countries what the street-bred men can do—
In the desert, scrub and jungle they were men who battled through!
Human weeds of grand endurance winning where the strong men quailed,
Pigeon-chested leaders leading on where beef-born courage failed.
Street-bred people down the ages—beggars, mobs and democrats—
Fought through many desperate sieges (fought on horseflesh, dogs and rats)
When their own cowed country failed them, then the city soul was proved—
“Street-bred people” died in thousands for the cities that they loved.
In the days when strength was needed—days of pike and axe and sword—
Daylight found the peaceful burghers ready, keeping watch and ward.
Clerks and tailors fought like heroes at the gates and in the trench—
(Even Falstaff brought his herrings with some slaughter through the French).
Every man should have a cottage and a garden to defend,
But the “should-be” is for ever—cities stand until the end,
Every farmer has a country that he loves when war-drums roll—
Every clerk may have a city that he loves with heart and soul.
Fat or lean, we all are sinners—lean or fat we all would be;
High or low or lean or fatted, ’tis for Nationality.
It will be till all is ended, as it was since all began—
’Tis the head and not the feathers! ’tis the heart and not the “man”!
poem by Henry Lawson
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They The People
they the people, united by flashing lights
huddeled alone with sharp words taken flight
they the people, who love things that do not move
and cower before them lest otherwise be proved
they the people, with passion for throwing stones
to hit any target except for their bones
they the people, guarding piles of shells
to rally against neighbor at the ringing of bells
they the people, dumb deaf to distant cries
but the belief that two plus two equals christ
they the people, praying forever for more
tithing thier children to the shadows of war
they the people, they the people, they
choke on thier blood like wolves licking a blade.
poem by David Grant Sinclair
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I Know People
I know people who help you through the night.
And I know people who
fight that very good fight.
And, I know people who're goin for the gold.
And, I know people got them aces so you better fold.
I know people who are quick to light your cigarette.
And, I know people who say 'Buddy, ya ain't seen nothin yet.'
I know people who're workin harder every day.
And I know people who got kids come out to play.
I know people, you know people, said, I'm not so different from you.
Won't you be one of my people who
Who do too.. Won't you be one of my people who.
I know people who
are cruisin up and down the track, and
I know people who
won't be comin back.
I know people ridin too high at the wheel.
And, I know people, there to cut you that dirty deal.
I know people who'll take you into town. And, I know people who
really get around.
And I know people who're buskin up and down the mall.
And, I know people who're gonna take a fall.
I know people, you know people, see, I'm not so different from you?
Won't you be one of my people too. Said, won't you be one of my people who, who do too.
poem by Buddy Bee Anthony
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In Pretoria West
Years ago my car
was in for repairs
and I had to work overtime
and the work’s small bus,
took me home one night.
We first had to take other people home
and in Pretoria West
I saw a place,
where very poor white people
lived together like in a commune
in houses
with asbestos thin walls.
.
I could hear a drunk
and his wife argue
and somewhere a baby
cried disconsolately
and thin dogs,
sneaked around the building
afraid of being kicked.
There where teenage girls
chatting with boyfriends
at the windows of cars
and a mother screamed angrily
at one of them,
to immediately come home.
Still there were other people
who were driven there
by life and fate
and I saw people,
sharing the little that they had
with each other.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Messidor
Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.
Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.
In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red-gold harvest-rows,
Full-grown, are full of the light
As the spirits of strong men are,
Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?
Who put back morning or mar?
Put in the sickles and reap.
Till the red-gold harvest-rows
For miles through shudder and shine
In the wind's breath, fed with the sun,
A thousand spear-heads as one
Bowed as for battle to close
Line in rank against line
With place and station to keep
Till all men's hands at a sign
Put in the sickles and reap.
A thousand spear-heads as one
Wave as with swing of the sea
When the mid tide sways at its height;
For the hour is for harvest or fight
In face of the just calm sun,
As the signal in season may be
And the lot in the helm may leap
When chance shall shake it; but ye,
Put in the sickles and reap.
For the hour is for harvest or fight
To clothe with raiment of red;
O men sore stricken of hours,
Lo, this one, is not it ours
To glean, to gather, to smite?
Let none make risk of his head
Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep,
When the people that lay as the dead
Put in the sickles and reap.
Lo, this one, is not it ours,
Now the ruins of dead things rattle
As dead men's bones in the pit,
Now the kings wax lean as they sit
Girt round with memories of powers,
With musters counted as cattle
And armies folded as sheep
Till the red blind husbandman battle
Put in the sickles and reap?
Now the kings wax lean as they sit,
The people grow strong to stand;
The men they trod on and spat,
The dumb dread people that sat
As corpses cast in a pit,
Rise up with God at their hand,
And thrones are hurled on a heap,
And strong men, sons of the land,
Put in the sickles and reap.
The dumb dread people that sat
All night without screen for the night,
All day without food for the day,
They shall give not their harvest away,
They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat:
They shall see the desire of their sight,
Though the ways of the seasons be steep,
They shall climb with face to the light,
Put in the sickles and reap.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Sans People
Will you let me have a glimpse of people?
People on the streets? People sauntering by, people smiling.
People intending to take a right turn,
Suddenly changed the mind and took to the left.
People across the meadows,
Past the shops, cinemas, theatres, Opera houses,
People racing down, people in the cars, bus, tram, train.
How I wish to have a glimpse of them, the procession of people!
Will you let me have a glimpse of them-
Men, women and children in the houses?
Am I to live only with the fluky glimpse of a strip of cloud
Or the streak of sun, penetrating through the chinks of my window?
People, they said are barred out,
I've to live the rest of my life sans people.
poem by Taslima Nasrin
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All Different, But Still The Same
Some people have short hair, some have long.
Some people have thick hair; some people’s hair is all gone.
Some people have black hair, some have gray.
Some people have brown hair, some blonde, some red.
Some people’s hair a color unsaid.
Some people are short, some people are tall.
Some people will love you; some won’t like you at all.
Some people like hot weather, some like cold.
Some people are timid, some people are bold.
Some people have dark skin, some people have light.
Some people have black skin, some people have white.
Some people eat meat; some won’t touch it at all.
Some people have a good memory, some can’t recall.
Some people accept Christ, some never will.
Some people are stingy, some people give.
Some people like school, some people don’t.
Some people will excel, some people won’t.
Some people smoke cigarettes, some never will.
Some people are honest, some people steal.
Some people have book knowledge;
But don’t know the Holy Book.
Some people burn food, some people can cook.
Some people are old, some people are young.
Some people do smart things, some people do dumb.
Some people just have a diploma
Some people have degrees.
Some people do things slow, some with a breeze.
Some people are complainers, some easy to please.
Some people hate shopping, some stay in the mall.
Some people hate God, but God loves us all.
We are all different, but still the same.
When I get cut, I bleed red;
You get cut, red blood you’ll shed.
Some people are plump, some people are thin.
But we are all the same, we’re all human being.
Copyright © 2010-Phyllis Strong
poem by Phyllis Strong
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For Zbigniew Herbert, Summer, 1971, Los Angeles
No matter how hard I listen, the wind speaks
One syllable, which has no comfort in it--
Only a rasping of air through the dead elm.
*
Once a poet told me of his friend who was torn apart
By two pigs in a field in Poland. The man
Was a prisoner of the Nazis, and they watched,
He said, with interest and a drunken approval . . .
If terror is a state of complete understanding,
Then there was probably a point at which the man
Went mad, and felt nothing, though certainly
He understood everything that was there: after all,
He could see blood splash beneath him on the stubble,
He could hear singing float toward him from the barracks.
*
And though I don't know much about madness,
I know it lives in the thin body like a harp
Behind the rib cage. It makes it painful to move.
And when you kneel in madness your knees are glass,
And so you must stand up again with great care.
*
Maybe this wind was what he heard in 1941.
Maybe I have raised a dead man into this air,
And now I will have to bury him inside my body,
And breathe him in, and do nothing but listen--
Until I hear the black blood rushing over
The stone of my skull, and believe it is music.
But some things are not possible on the earth.
And that is why people make poems about the dead.
And the dead watch over then, until they are finished:
Until their hands feel like glass on the page,
And snow collects in the blind eyes of statues.
poem by Larry Levis
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People, People, Lovely Little People
The crooning
Of the clocks,
The redundant
Machinism:
I am undaunted.
People
Too tired
Bereft of sleep,
Of reason,
Of life,
Of sex and fire,
Drugs and magic,
Souls raw
With soliloquy.
People
Too scared
To fall off ledges,
Off beds,
Off their skins,
To the pits,
The bottomless submissions
And the tasteless thrills.
And it’s either
They take you
Away,
Or you
Drive them
Astray.
People, people,
Lovely little people
What are you doing?
It’s too late
To be just slumbering
Inside yourselves
Love battles,
Hatred sinks
Into seas,
Sins lurk,
The temptations
Are ubiquitous
Small wonders
Into immense
Waves of
Peccadilloes and
Surrender.
Come now,
People,
People,
Lovely people.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here 's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried--
'Though gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;
Here 's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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I Don't Understand
I don’t understand
Why people kill
Why people have hatred
Why people destroy nature
But most of all
Why people never care
Why people gamble
Why people died
What I understand most is
Why people love
Why the world rotates
Why people feel
poem by Stardasia Livngston
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1983 And Ghana Today
In a season,
They were all lean! !
And i saw their bones;
But today,
My people have grown fat on their bodies.
This reflects to the life in Ghana!
Yes, of what was seen in 1983 and Ghana today;
For the very people who were looking very thin are now very fat today! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath..
I cannot read one word of her,
who would put a price
on the rights
of soul searching, now?
Wow:
Copyrights! ! ..
Her bones must be red with anger..
Please business people!
You are taking the food
from the table
of the many,
let them the least with a chance,
a small one, any,
to feed their
souls with a few crumbs of poems..
poem by Elena Sandu
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Them We Tolerate
For being different to others there is some price to pay
That's how it is and it was always that way
Many good people executed for being seen as a social threat
Since Jesus was crucified and put to death
Our own praises as a race of people we often do sing
But a truly tolerant society there is no such a thing
Because of our laws them we do tolerate
But their culture with them we'll never celebrate
Our brave soldiers who died where the gunfire was loud
We remember and honour them and of them feel proud
Their courage when in great danger of them cannot be denied
And we are told that for peace and harmony amongst people they died
But the successes and culture of those different we never celebrate
Them we do not love though them we tolerate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In The Name Of People
In the name of kind people who aren't hopeless
The people who are looking for bless
In the name of people who have a great self steam and a great view of life
The people who help other people to be alive
The people who respect each other
People who learn to not bother
In the name of people who had pure tears
People who lived a life full of fears
In the name of people …people who will stay
People who are strong in their speeches, they don't say may! ! ! !
In the name of people who believe what is disgusting is LIE!
People who haven't seen my tears tonight…I'm going to say good bye.
In the name of people, the people of a forgotten place
People who stayed strong, even with their blooded face
In the name of people, the people who are dear
People that will cry, will laugh, but they don't betray, with their pure tear
poem by Ellias Anderson
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Why are people always
Why are people always cheating?
Why are people always fighting?
Why are people always dieing?
Why are people always crying?
Why are people always hating?
Why are people always debating?
Why are people always trading?
Why are people always trying to fit in?
Why are people always cursing?
Why are people always bursting?
Why are people always tripping?
Why are people always not trying to be fair?
Why are people always trying to be dumb?
Why are people always playing too much?
Why are people always misbehaving?
Why are people always do drugs?
Why are people always not trying to have a future?
Why do people always try to ruin their life?
Why?
poem by Shaquan Mack
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A Asome Poem About PEOPLE
Some people
Care about you, some people
Don’t care,
Make fun of you and walk away,
Some people,
Run past, some people
Hand you presents,
Give you a pat on the back,
Some people
You love, some people
You don’t know
Some people, some people,
You do,
Some people
You notice, some people
Eat cauliflower, some people
Are teenagers,
Some people walk to restaurants,
Sit down at the counter,
Eat there food, through it at
People,
Some people never notice you,
Some people always look, some people
Want to take you away, some people
Will never exist
Some people are other people; some people are you, some people
Die ever second,
Some people are you
poem by Annie Nosich
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Diggin Up Bones
Verse 1:
Last night I dug your picture out from my old dresser drawer
I set it on the table and I talked to it til four
I read some old love letters right up til the break of bone
Yeah Ive been settlin alone diggin up bones
Verse 2:
Then I went to the jewelery and I found our wedding rings
Ive put mine on my finger and I gave yours a flame
I crossed this lonely bedroom of our recent broken home
Yeah tonight Im settlin alone diggin up bones
Chorus:
Im diggin up bones,Im diggin up bones
Exhuming things that better left alone
Im resurrecting memories of love thats dead and gone
Yeah tonight Im settlin alone diggin up bones
Verse 3:
And I went to the closet and I found some things in there
Like that pretty neglige that I bought you to wear
And I recall how good you looked each time you had it on
Yeah tonight Im settlin alone diggin up bones
Chorus.
Im resurrecting memories of love thats dead and gone
Yeah tonight Im settlin alone diggin up bones
Chorus (til end).
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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