En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Smile, Smile, Smile

Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)
And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.
Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned;
For, said the paper, "When this war is done
The men's first instinct will be making homes.
Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,
It being certain war has just begun.
Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, --
The sons we offered might regret they died
If we got nothing lasting in their stead.
We must be solidly indemnified.
Though all be worthy Victory which all bought,
We rulers sitting in this ancient spot
Would wrong our very selves if we forgot
The greatest glory will be theirs who fought,
Who kept this nation in integrity."
Nation? -- The half-limbed readers did not chafe
But smiled at one another curiously
Like secret men who know their secret safe.
This is the thing they know and never speak,
That England one by one had fled to France
(Not many elsewhere now save under France).
Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week,
And people in whose voice real feeling rings
Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.

23rd September 1918.

poem by Wilfred Owen
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A Strange Wild Song

He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said,
"The bitterness of life!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the police!"

he thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a Coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"

poem by Lewis Carroll
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A Private

This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
"I slept." None knew which bush. Above the town,
Beyond `The Drover', a hundred spot the down
In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps
More sound in France -that, too, he secret keeps.

poem by Edward Thomas
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Hurrah for Cooper and Cary

Air -- "Rally 'Round the Flag, Boys"

We will rally in the city,
We will gather from the farms,
Shouting equalization,
Greenbacks a legal tender,
Then the poor will get along,
The poor that dwell throughout our nation.

CHORUS:

Three cheers for Cooper and Cary,
Hurrah, boys, hurrah;
Three cheers for our nation,
In peace and in war;
If it were not for our laboring men,
What would our nation do --
Take this in consideration.

It is now one hundred years,
Or just one century,
Stood grand this good old nation,
And our forefathers fought
That we may not be a slave --
A slave to the monarchy of England.

Revolutionary war was fought
With the British, this we hear,
To make this an independent nation;
We, the independent men,
We will not be a slave,
To bond-holders in our nation.

The Republicans are for gold,
And the nation as it is;
Take this in consideration.
In eighteen seventy-nine
Taxes must be paid in gold,
If Hayes and Wheeler gain election.

The Democrats are for gold,
Reform and economy;
What better off will be our nation,
If Tilden and Hendricks,
If they gain the day --
Poor people will come to starvation.

Come, freeman, now arise,
Put your shoulder to the wheel
This Presidential election;
Vote for an independent man,
One in favor of greenbacks,
In this great financial question.

Three cheers for Cooper and Cary,
May they keep marching on --
Marching with God upon the right, boys,
May they conquer o'er their foes
And the cursed money rings --
Right will yet conquer might, boys.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Yesterday's Smiles

If we could count yesterday's smiles
and double that number today.
We might feel the kind of happiness
that would take our frowns away. A smile can say so many things
and still not speak a word.
So many times a smile has said,
the kindest words I've heard. Your smile can ask, "how are you?"
I hope you're feeling well.
And when a smile is returned to you
You'll know the message it tells. We know a smile says nothing wrong
like the words in our prayers we pray.
Let's try to smile more often
to brighten someone's day. A smile doesn't show any envy
it only shows we care.
To give one never cost a dime,
God gave them to us to share.

poem by Ruth Stuart
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Forth Of July Celebration

(7/4/12)

It's the 4th of JULY celebration
Where people who wanted freedom
Fought to create this nation.

Many had died to give us this right
And over two hundred years we continue to fight.
We still give freedom to all who arrive
This is our nations pride.

People who have come here from every nation
Join one another for this celebration.
In our nations capital we have our liberty bell
Where our cry for freedom was to " give them hell".

Through out our nation you will see fireworks shot in the sky
To remind us of how these AMERICANS fought and died.
So weather it be fireworks you shoot in the sky
Or a sparkler that you hold in your hand
Pride is something that we understand.

Join us in this celebration - "feel the pride
Feel the sensation."

poem by Louis Rams
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The Ballad of the Thoughtless Waiter

I saw him lying cold and dead
Who yesterday was whole.
"Why," I inquired, "hath he expired?
And why hath fled his soul?

"but yesterday," his comrade said,
"All health was his, and strength;
And this is why he came to die--
If I may speak at length.

"But yesternight at dinnertime
At a not unknown café,
He had a frugal meal as you
Might purchase any day.

"The check for his so simple fare
Was only eighty cents,
And a dollar bill with a right good will
Came from his opulence.

"The waiter brought him twenty cents.
'Twas only yesternight
That he softly said who now is dead
'Oh, keep it. 'Ats a' right.'

"And the waiter plainly uttered 'Thanks,'
With no hint of scorn or pride;
And my comrade's heart gave a sudden start
And my comrade up and died."

Now waiters overthwart this land,
In tearooms and in dives,
Mute be your lips whatever the tips,
And save your customers' lives.

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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The Fool

"But it isn't playing the game," he said,
And he slammed his books away;
"The Latin and Greek I've got in my head
Will do for a duller day."
"Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call
Isn't for lads from school."
D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all:
So I called him a fool, a fool.

Now there's his dog by his empty bed,
And the flute he used to play,
And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead,
Somewhere in France, they say:
Dick with his rapture of song and sun,
Dick of the yellow hair,
Dicky whose life had but begun,
Carrion-cold out there.

Look at his prizes all in a row:
Surely a hint of fame.
Now he's finished with, -- nothing to show:
Doesn't it seem a shame?
Look from the window! All you see
Was to be his one day:
Forest and furrow, lawn and lea,
And he goes and chucks it away.

Chucks it away to die in the dark:
Somebody saw him fall,
Part of him mud, part of him blood,
The rest of him -- not at all.
And yet I'll bet he was never afraid,
And he went as the best of 'em go,
For his hand was clenched on his broken blade,
And his face was turned to the foe.

And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I!
And the cup of my grief's abrim.
Will Glory o' England ever die
So long as we've lads like him?
So long as we've fond and fearless fools,
Who, spurning fortune and fame,
Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools,
Just bent on playing the game.

A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise.
His was the proudest part.
He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,
And the glory of love in his heart.
And though there's never a grave to tell,
Nor a cross to mark his fall,
Thank God! we know that he "batted well"
In the last great Game of all.

poem by Robert William Service
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Pledge Allegiance

I pledge allegiance to this land
Where heroes protect every woman and man
The flag that represents freedom and choice
The flag that gives us all a free voice
And on September 11th, when our nation was attacked
We all came together and we fought back
In the midst of terror, many heroes died
They fought to save others and in the end sacrificed their lives
They didn't think twice as they ran toward the fallen cries
All they could think about was to save those victims' lives
Though they have fallen we can still hear freedom ringing in their voice
From the battlefields to the white house we all had to learn to survive
The tragedies on September 11th left a whole nation to mourn and cry
Now we live on to protect our flag's integrity
From the people who just don't seem to see what our nation sees
Though they attack us, never will we fall
I give a salute to the firefighters and soldiers lost on that day
Together we mourn for the victims who had to lose their lives that way
But in their deaths, our nation finally saw
That no matter how much they try, together we cannot fall
So, I pledge allegiance to this land
Where heroes protect every woman and man

poem by Tamara Moir
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The Ghost Machine

Wittgenstein took a sip from his tea.

"You're wrong Descartes, I can tell you,

because body and mind are one".

"Wittgenstein is right", seconded Ryle.

He looked very angry

and shook his head as he continued:

"In claiming that your thoughts are separated

from your body you created a dogma

of the ghost in the machine."

"Gentlemen", Descartes said, "relax.

Where were you when I talked about these things?

You were not even born then".

"Wait a minute", said Bohm. "You're all wrong."

"What? " snapped out Ryle.

"You heard it correctly. You're all wrong", insisted Bohm.

"You have to explain", Wittgenstein said.

Descartes looked to be perplexed.

"Well", explained Bohm,

"since everything in the universe is information,

the existence of matter is nothing but a myth.

The universe is an enormous thought, a giant computer.

It is the machine, which is the ghost."

poem by Paul Hartal
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Justice

October, 1918

Across a world where all men grieve
And grieving strive the more,
The great days range like tides and leave
Our dead on every shore.
Heavy the load we undergo,
And our own hands prepare,
If we have parley with the foe,
The load our sons must bear.

Before we loose the word
That bids new worlds to birth,
Needs must we loosen first the sword
Of Justice upon earth;
Or else all else is vain
Since life on earth began,
And the spent world sinks back again
Hopeless of God and Man.

A People and their King
Through ancient sin grown strong,
Because they feared no reckoning
Would set no bound to wrong;
But now their hour is past,
And we who bore it find
Evil Incarnate hell at last
To answer to mankind.

For agony and spoil
Of nations beat to dust,
For poisoned air and tortured soil
And cold, commanded lust,
And every secret woe
The shuddering waters saw.
Willed and fulfilled by high and low.
Let them relearn the Low.

That when the dooms are read,
Not high nor low shall say:--
" My haughty or my humble head
Was saved me in this day."
That, till the end of time,
Their remnant shall recall
Their fathers old, confederate crime
Availed them not at all.

That neither schools nor priests,
Nor Kings may build again
A people with the heart of beasts
Made wise concerning men.
Whereby our dead shall sleep
In honour, unbetrayed,
And we in faith and honour keep
That peace for which they paid.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Hymn For a Lasting Peace

The world needs a lasting peace if man is to survive:
Let nation not fight nation,
Let race not conquer race,
Let the strong not commit invasion,
Let all men share Earth's grace.
Ban aggression of any kind,
Ban all arms production,
Ban man's violence against mankind,
Ban all forms of destruction.
It is for a lasting peace that man has got to strive.

The world needs a lasting peace if man is to survive:
To save the snow capped mountains,
To save the depths of the seas,
To save the springs and fountains,
To save the birds and the bees;
That farms and forests flourish,
That rivers and streams flow pure,
That fields give life and nourish,
That Earth's great seasons endure.
It is for a lasting peace that man has got to strive.

The world needs a lasting peace if man is to survive:
That man may walk upon Earth,
That he will find an open door,
That there be the rights of birth,
That man destroys not, be the law;
That each to his faith can hold,
That homes and gardens are safe,
That not a child dies in the cold,
That not a child is a hungry waif.
It is for a lasting peace that man has got to strive.

The world needs a lasting peace if man is to survive:
That Human Rights be for all men,
That every injustice should cease,
That Human Rights protects all men,
That all men can find perfect peace;
That there be but one brotherhood,
That the land, sea and sky be free,
That progress be for the common good,
That peace everlasting will be.
It is for a lasting peace that man has got to strive.

poem by Pauline D'Roza
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Dane-Geld

A.D. 980-1016

It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation
To call upon a neighbour and to say:--
"We invaded you last night--we are quite prepared to fight,
Unless you pay us cash to go away."

And that is called asking for Dane-geld,
And the people who ask it explain
That you've only to pay 'em the Dane-geld
And then you'll get rid of the Dane!

It is always a temptation for a reach and lazy nation,
To puff and look important and to say:--
"Though we know we should defeat you, we have not the
time to meet you.
We will therefore pay you cash to go away."

And that is called paying the Dane-geld;
But we've proved it again and again,
That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
You never get rid of the Dane.

It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
For fear they should succumb and go astray;
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
You will find it better policy to say:--

"We never pay any-one Dane-geld,
No matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
And the nation that plays it is lost!"

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Grieve England

Grieve, England, and hang your head
in utter shame,
as the tale of your inhumanity
rings to this very day.

Grieve about your fallen brave, England,
for no glory did your heroes bring
back from the battlefields of South Africa,
where they killed children
who did not want to betray
the whereabouts of their fathers.

What glory shines
in pillage and rape
and how does lament ring,
with the utter destruction
of farmsteads of a nation?

Grieve about the soulless slaughter, England,
of most of a nation’s women
and children in your cruel concentration camps,
where you fed glass mixed with meal
and let thousands of the innocent die of pestilence.

Cry, England, and hang your head
in utter shame,
as the tale of your inhumanity
rings forever more.

[Reference: => To the Anglo-Boer war where thousands of innocent woman and children died in British concentration camps.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Disarmament

"Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more
Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,
O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped
And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped
With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow
Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe
Down which a groaning diapason runs
From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers, sons
Of desolate women in their far-off homes
Waiting to hear the step that never comes!
O men and brothers! let that voice be heard.
War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword!

Fear not the end. There is a story told
In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,
And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit
With grave responses listening unto it:
Once, on the errands of his mercy bent,
Buddha, the holy and benevolent,
Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look,
Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook,
"O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fate
Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate."
The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace
Of fear and anger, in the monster's face,
In pity said, "Poor fiend, even thee I love."
Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sank
To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank
Into the form and fashion of a dove
And where the thunder of its rage was heard,
Circling above him sweetly sang the bird:
"Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song,
"And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!"

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Book Lover

I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.

poem by Robert William Service
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We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing

230

We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing—
'Tisn't all Hock—with us—
Life has its Ale—
But it's many a lay of the Dim Burgundy—
We chant—for cheer—when the Wines—fail—

Do we "get drunk"?
Ask the jolly Clovers!
Do we "beat" our "Wife"?
I—never wed—
Bee—pledges his—in minute flagons—
Dainty—as the trees—on our deft Head—

While runs the Rhine—
He and I—revel—
First—at the vat—and latest at the Vine—
Noon—our last Cup—
"Found dead"—"of Nectar"—
By a humming Coroner—
In a By-Thyme!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Thomas Winterbottom Hance

IN all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England's broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too -
And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ -
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he'd prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before -
Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France -
He said so, and he ought to know.

"Regardez donc, ce cochon gros -
Ce polisson! Oh, sacre bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack -
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi -
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day poor PIERRE, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

HANCE had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play;"
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.

PIERRE had a doating mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage;
HIS Ma was nearly ninety-two,
And rather dressy for her age.

At HANCE'S doings every morn,
With sheer delight HIS mother cried;
And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn
Filled HIS mamma with proper pride.

But HANCE'S powers began to fail -
His constitution was not strong -
And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale,
Grew thin from shouting all day long.

Their mothers saw them pale and wan,
Maternal anguish tore each breast,
And so they met to find a plan
To set their offsprings' minds at rest.

Said MRS. HANCE, "Of course I shrinks
From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware,
But still they'd better meet, I thinks."
"Assurement!" said MADAME PIERRE.

A sunny spot in sunny France
Was hit upon for this affair;
The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE,
The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE.

Said MRS. H., "Your work you see -
Go in, my noble boy, and win."
"En garde, mon fils!" said MADAME P.
"Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"

(The mothers were of decent size,
Though not particularly tall;
But in the sketch that meets your eyes
I've been obliged to draw them small.)

Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!
"The French for 'Pish'" said THOMAS HANCE.
Said PIERRE, "L'Anglais, Monsieur, pour 'Bah.'"

Said MRS. H., "Come, one! two! three! -
We're sittin' here to see all fair."
"C'est magnifique!" said MADAME P.,
"Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"

"Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,"
Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France.
"I fight not coward foe like you!"
Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE.

"The French for 'Pooh!'" our TOMMY cried.
"L'Anglais pour 'Va!'" the Frenchman crowed.
And so, with undiminished pride,
Each went on his respective road.

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Pressure

There was a kind of pressure, in the room,
I mean, it wasn't anything tangible but it was there
and he looked about him to try to spot the culprit.

A suspicious character was drinking brandy,
he could certainly be the one, but wait,
there she was, a tall red head with hawk like eyes.

They looked at each other and then she crooked her finger,
"yes… you" she mouthed! "Come here, talk to me"
He slowly walked towards her, settling at her side.

"It's cold for the time of year", he whispered.
"Not cold enough" was the coded reply.
Then she took out a yellow glove from her bag.

"When are you going to introduce me? " she asked
"That's right, " she said, "I'm from the ministry"
and I want you to act as though we're old friends.

"O.K." he replied, "slip me the key first and I'll
take you over. The stooge is that small,
rather portly man in the black bow tie."

"But can he lead us to Nightingales, " she asked
They've killed two of our spies already.
At that she dropped the yellow glove on the floor.

The lights went out and as they fumbled in the dark
the pressure grew……….do you feel it?
Nah, its just that dodgy guy sitting next to you.

************************************* ************

Footnote:

No spies were killed or yellow gloves
dropped during the making
of this episode.
However, some fumbling
did take place.

*********************************** ***************
Next episode:

Dazed and sore, Montague came round,
feeling pressure on his head
which seemed to be warm and comforting.
It was Marjorie's soft hand.

"Are you alright, my dear" she said,
looking concerned and worried.
Blood dripped down Montague's cheek,
he'd been hit on the head with a sharp object!

"Where is she? " he stammered, "She still has the key"
"Leave her to us" said the man in the black bow tie
"We've got it all under control,
Just tell us who sent you! "

Monty's eyes rolled back in his head.
The pressure was all too hard to take
and Marjorie's perfume had
triggered off his allergy.

Or was this a counter plot to extract the truth?
Did they know he was allergic to Channel no 5?
Too late! A sharp pain in Montague's chest
saw the end of him…….

poem by Ruth Walters
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A Child's Nightmare

Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land,
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

Morphia drowsed, again I lay
In a crater by High Wood:
He was there with straddling legs,
Staring eyes as big as eggs,
Purring as he lapped my blood,
His black bulk darkening the day,
With a voice cruel and flat,
"Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..." he said, "Cat! ... Cat!..."

When I'm shot through heart and head,
And there's no choice but to die,
The last word I'll hear, no doubt,
Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!"
Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry,
"Let that body be, he's dead!"
But a voice cruel and flat
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!"

poem by Robert Graves
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally

so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."

"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."

I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be
wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me
anyway.

"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.

Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.

If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.

And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.

Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"

Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

poem by Frank O'Hara
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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