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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXI

To Switzerland, the land of lakes and snow,
And ancient freedom of ancestral type,
And modern innkeepers, who cringe and bow,
And venal echoes, and Pans paid to pipe!
See, I am come. And here in vineyards, ripe
With sweet white grapes, I will sit down and read
Once more the loves of Rousseau, till I wipe
My eyes in tenderness for names long dead.
This is the birthplace of all sentiment,
The fount of modern tears. These hills in me
Stir what still lives of fancy reverent
For Mother Nature. Here Time's minstrelsy
Awoke, some century since, one sunny morn,
To find Earth fortunate, and Man forlorn.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Modern Dancing

Modern, modern, modern, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern
I see you acting modernly with the boys and girls
Exposure breeds discovery in the modern world
The 60's hairdos 90's eyes are just flashing lights
A touch of neon hinting class for the modern night
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern
Mono vision tv face and determined eyes
The clothes are perfect the rips in place just the perfect size
Familiarity breeds contempt but it doesn't show
We've heard the music times before but it still makes you go
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, dancing
....variations to fade....

song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXIII

Voltaire and Rousseau, these were thy twin priests,
Proud Mother Nature, on thy opening day.
The first with bitter gibes perplexed the feasts
Of thy high rival, and prepared the way;
The other built thy shrine. 'Twas here, men say,
De Warens lived, whose pleasure was the text
Of the new gospel of the sons of clay,
The latest born of time, by faith unvexed.
Here for a century with reverent feet
Pilgrims, oppressed with barrenness of soul,
Toiled in their tears as to a Paraclete.
On these white hills they heard Earth's thunders roll
In sneers outpreaching the lost voice of God,
And shouted ``Ichabod, ay, Ichabod!''

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Century City

Sometimes I wanna leave you
Sometimes I wanna go
Right back where I came from
Back where I belong
But it never lasts for too long
Always goes away
Well I s till dont look for reasons
Thats much too hard these days
Why worry about the rain?
Why worry about the problem?
Honey century citys got everything covered
Well your mama gave you lovin
Mama held you near
Baby mam a cant do nothin
Honey mama just aint here
And you can pretend all you want to
But that wont work no more
No you cant run back to daddy
Yeah you tried that once before
Why worry about your father?
Why worry about your mother?
Honey century citys got everything covered
Were gonna live in century city
Go ahead and give in, century city
Like modern men, modern girls
Were gonna live in the modern world
Were gonna live in century city
Go ahead and give in, century city
Like modern men, modern girls
Were gonna live in the modern world
Sometimes I get discouraged
Sometimes I feel so down
Sometimes I get so worried
But I dont know what about
But it w orks out in the long run
Always goes away
And Ive come now to accept it
As a reoccurring phase
Dont worry about the rain
Dont worry about the problem
Honey century citys got everything covered
Were gonna live in century city
Were gonna live in century city
Were gonna live in century city
Were gonna live in century city

song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pan

O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?

No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?

And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?

Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.

No nymph of Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!

A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady.

This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!

Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!

poem by Oscar Wilde
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Double Villanelle

I.
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?

No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold
And what remains to us of thee?

And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-loot God of Arcady!

Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?

Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?

II.

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.

No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!

A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!

Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!

poem by Oscar Wilde
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Modern Eyes

She know you bad
You don't sing songs of love
She treats you right, she treats you like a web of love
You know who's of the heart, her notions of societies
You belong to know and just like our sophiaties
[Chorus:]
Modern eyes
Modern eyes, to see what you want to see
Modern eyes
Modern eyes, she'll paint you with the modern eyes
What you look for in people is not hard to recognize
Black man, white man, short man
They're all the same in size
You breath the air, you feel the sea and the sand and the skies
When nighttime comes you blind men with modern eyes
[Repeat chorus]
She'll paint you with the hupskin on
She'll paint you with the fire in your eyes
She'll paint you with the modern eyes
[Repeat chorus]

song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Modern poetry

On the cover
of those old black hymnbooks
in those old dark churches
you can just about read
'Hymns Ancient and Modern'

As time goes by,
'ancient' gets a longer and longer history
and curiously so too
does 'modern'

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Trapper's Christmas Eve

It's mighty lonesome-like and drear.
Above the Wild the moon rides high,
And shows up sharp and needle-clear
The emptiness of earth and sky;
No happy homes with love a-glow;
No Santa Claus to make believe:
Just snow and snow, and then more snow;
It's Christmas Eve, it's Christmas Eve.

And here am I where all things end,
And Undesirables are hurled;
A poor old man without a friend,
Forgot and dead to all the world;
Clean out of sight and out of mind . . .
Well, maybe it is better so;
We all in life our level find,
And mine, I guess, is pretty low.

Yet as I sit with pipe alight
Beside the cabin-fir
take to-night
The backward trail of fifty year.
The school-house and the Christmas tree;
The children with their cheeks a-glow;
Two bright blue eyes that smile on me . . .
Just half a century ago.

Again (it's maybe forty years),
With faith and trust almost divine,
These same blue eyes, abrim with tears,
Through depths of love look into mine.
A parting, tender, soft and low,
With arms that cling and lips that cleave . . .
Ah me! it's all so long ago,
Yet seems so sweet this Christmas Eve.

Just thirty years ago, again . . .
We say a bitter, last good-bye;
Our lips are white with wrath and pain;
Our little children cling and cry.
Whose was the fault? it matters not,
For man and woman both deceive;
It's buried now and all forgot,
Forgiven, too, this Christmas Eve.

And she (God pity me) is dead;
Our children men and women grown.
I like to think that they are wed,
With little children of their own,
That crowd around their Christmas tree . . .
I would not ever have them grieve,
Or shed a single tear for me,
To mar their joy this Christmas Eve.

Stripped to the buff and gaunt and still
Lies all the land in grim distress.
Like lost soul wailing, long and shrill,
A wolf-howl cleaves the emptiness.
Then hushed as Death is everything.
The moon rides haggard and forlorn . . .
"O hark the herald angels sing!"
God bless all men -- it's Christmas morn.

poem by Robert William Service
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Modern Age

Well I found a road and off I sped
I met a man with no little toe and a real big head
Though I did not speak somehow I said
Where are you from? He said the modern age
And where are you from? I said the modern age
On the shore by the sea that was still lathering
I met a man in the business of hunting and gathering
Somehow we understood each other's blathering
And he said where are you from? I said the modern age
And where are you from? He said the modern age
Stopped at a light in my car
I asked the next car how they are
They say that we are fine and how are you?
I say that I am fine and thank you
I'm feeling fine in the modern age
Driving around in the modern age
Driving around in the modern age

song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Avalanche-the White Death

The land is white
The name of the land brings you
to the land of nothing
The name is white
The white is dead
Sun shines pale, the land shades full of pain
Avalea doesn't bloom and fall in this drain
I'm going back alive again
But no one's crying for the dead
The land is still white
Ice and snow are still the same as yesterday
But the wind is stronger in the sorrow
The land is white
The white is dead
They weep wherever they blow
Forever love, cursed land
Forever goodbye, my lovely land
No more tears falling in this land
Even the sand doesn't know
why he doesn't round to anywhere
The land has frozen like stone
The air is blowed dead
The land is white
The name is white
The land called white is dead

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Mother Exultant

Joy! Joy! Joy!
The hills are glad,
The valleys re-echo with merriment,
In my heart is the sound of laughter,
And my feet dance to the time of it;
Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder,
Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days,
For this is the hour of the vintage,
When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

Look, little son, look:
The grapes are translucent and ripe,
They are heavy and fragrant with juice
They wait for the hands of the vintagers;

For a long time the grapes were not,

And were in the womb of the earth,

Then out of the heavens came the rain,

The sun sent down his warmth from the sky,

At the touch of life, life stirred,

And the earth brought forth her fruits in due season.

I was a maid and alone,

When, behold, there came to me a vision;

My heart cried out within me,

And the voice was the voice of God.

Yea, a virgin I dreamed of love,

And was troubled and sore afraid,

I wept and was glad,

For the word of my heart named me blesse'd,

My soul exhalted the might of creation.

I was a maid and alone,

When, behold, my lover came to me,

My belove'd held me in his arms.

Joy! Joy! Joy!

Now is the vision fulfilled;

I have conceived,

I have carried in my womb,

I have brought forth

The life of the world;

Out of my joy and my pain,

Out of the fulness of my living

Hath my son gained his life.

Look, little son, look:

The grapes are ripe for gathering;

The fresh, deep earth is in them,

And clean water from the clouds.

And golden, golden sun is in the heart of the grapes.

Look, little son, look:

The earth, your mother,

And the touch of life who is your father,

They have provided food for you

That you also may live.

The vineyards are planted on the hillside,

They are the vineyards of my belove'd,

He chose a favorable spot,

His hands prepared the soil for the planting;

He set out the young vines

And cared for them till the time of their bearing.

Nopw is his labour fulfilled who worked with God.

The fruit of the vineyard is ripe,

The vintagers laugh in the sun,

They sing while they gather the grapes,

For the vintage is a good one,

The wine vats are pressed down and running over.

Joy! Joy! Joy!

Now is the wonder accomplished;

Out of the heat of the living grape

Hath the hand of my belove'd

Wrung the wine of the dream of life.

Belove'd,

My little son's father,

Together we have given life,

And the vision of life;

Shall we not rejoice

Who have made eternal

The days of our living.

Look, little son, look:

The grapes glow with rich juice;

The juice of the grape hath in it

The substance of the earth,

And the air's breath;

It hath in it the soul of the vintage.

Put forth your hand, little son,

And take for yourself the life

That your father and your mother

Have provided for you.

Joy! Joy! Joy!

The halls are glad,

The valleys re-echo with merriment,

In my heart is the sound of laughter,

And my feet dance to the time of it;

Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder,

Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days,

For this is the hour of vintage,

When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

1905

poem by Adelaide Crapsey
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The Modern Day

I stand up for my pride
I dont wanna be just like anyone
In this world I cannot hide
I must finish what I have begun
Thats the way I play
In the modern day
cause I wanna stay
In the modern day
Got a picture in my mind
Of the way that I wanna be
So I search until I find
The power inside of me
Its another phase
Of the modern day
Gotta face up to this life
Cant let it get the best of me
So I make a sacrifice
If thats the way it has to be
Im doin what I feel is right
Im ready if I need to fight
In the modern way
In the modern day
Gotta face up to this life
Cant let it get the best of me
If I make a sacrifice
Thats the way it has to be
Like a motor in overdrive
I feel good and I feel alive
I got no need to beg or borrow
Got a shortcut to tomorrow
And Im on my way
To the modern day
Got a lot to say
In the modern day
cause I need to stay
In the modern day
In the modern day

song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: Modern Poetry

Is modern ultimate in any field?
There’s no music or Rhyme in ‘Vers Libre’,
What could poems without melody yield?
It is a drab, uninteresting tray!

How long could readers read on free verses?
Invariably, it makes not much of sense;
’Tis like Mother Nature, treeless/ bird less!
’Tis like a gardenless house with a fence.

Oh, how good the yester-year poets were!
What beauty they showed by using meter?
Imagism cannot suffice, I fear!
Poems aren’t modern in the ‘vers libre’.

The older poems are the best to read;
The Blank verses for very long can’t lead.

poem by John Celes
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When I want to dissect a modern problem, I actually find many similar problems in ancient days. In fact, without the many outer layers of so-called modern civilization, the themes I find in old stories are more clear-cut. They are so visible and extreme. I am not saying that all historical eras are similar to today. But by using a comprehensible social structure such as we had in the past, it is much easier for me to convey or re-create modern situations.

Kaneto Shindo in Voices from the Japanese Cinema (1975)
Submitted by Simona Enache
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I Smoke My Pipe

I can't extend to every friend
In need a helping hand--
No matter though I wish it so,
'Tis not as Fortune planned;
But haply may I fancy they
Are men of different stripe
Than others think who hint and wink,--
And so--I smoke my pipe!

A golden coal to crown the bowl--
My pipe and I alone,--
I sit and muse with idler views
Perchance than I should own:--
It might be worse to own the purse
Whose glutted bowels gripe
In little qualms of stinted alms;
And so I smoke my pipe.

And if inclined to moor my mind
And cast the anchor Hope,
A puff of breath will put to death
The morbid misanthrope
That lurks inside--as errors hide
In standing forms of type
To mar at birth some line of worth;
And so I smoke my pipe.

The subtle stings misfortune flings
Can give me little pain
When my narcotic spell has wrought
This quiet in my brain:
When I can waste the past in taste
So luscious and so ripe
That like an elf I hug myself;
And so I smoke my pipe.

And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds,
I watch the phantom's flight,
Till alien eyes from Paradise
Smile on me as I write:
And I forgive the wrongs that live,
As lightly as I wipe
Away the tear that rises here;
And so I smoke my pipe.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Mother India

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

In Your Lap live men and women
Of every caste and religion.
You rain your love and affection
On them all without distinction.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

You have got a peculiar trait
Due to which you are very great.
You adopt the foreigners too,
Who like to live and die for you.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

You are beautiful, all perfect;
You are rich in every aspect.
In the ancient times, we have heard,
Aliens called you ‘a golden bird’

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

The mountains guard your honour here;
The ocean washes your feet there.
The rivers contain sweet water
Which for us is just like nectar.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

Our culture is ancient and high,
We are respected that is why.
Culture has bound us by and by,
With a chain of pure love and tie.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We are sorry here live some men
Who are not loyal, but still then,
Pose as lovers of this nation,
Whom we do not like to mention.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We are sorry here live some men;
Fire of hatred they ever fan.
Freedom, we fear, may not be lost,
Which we have got at a great cost.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

Let us be wise not to be tool
Of selfish powers which befool
Those who do not well understand
Their aim which is behind their stand.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We will be lucky, if we die
For you, O Gracious Country High!
We’ll give them a fitting reply,
Who see you with a slanting eye.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

poem by Aziz Ahmad
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Post-Modern Poetry

The post-modern poem is the poet's surprise-
It has no agenda but its own interpretation-
It reads the ‘expressive I' as an infinite longing of the soul
To know and be known-

It writes out of many different places
But finds it difficult to call one its home-
It has many names and voices
But none speaks with an authoritative rhythm -

It is only its own alone home
And so I writing it know
It will not be found in me by those who write it as their own-

Chaos, perhaps, is its signature,
And loss of all the ancient rhythms and forms-
It wants to wander where it will as it does -

But I, I thinking back to what we were
And remembering years of reading others
Know too its voices are many even within the single self-

There is no ‘modern' anymore and no ‘post- modern' either
In the age where everything is accessible
And all is easily found and communicated
The single soul's signature cannot mean a name is real -

Only where all effort is and fails
Only where nobody really is
Only where many write and no one can really read
Perhaps beyond this
Beyond post- modern poetry
This poem too will teach Poetry how to live.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Modern Cinderella

I'm a modern Cinderella.
I wish I was more like Twighlight's Bella.
But i'm locked away.
It's like that everyday.

I'm the modern Cinderella.
I wish I was the Enchanted Ella.
My family wants to get rid of me.
This no one really sees.

I'm the Modern Cinderella.
Never mind Bella.
I'm meeting you for the very first time.
This the day I challenge my self to sing 'The Climb.'

I'm the modern Cinderella
Never mind Ella.
We feel in love at first sight.
Now the clock strikes midnight.

I'm the modern Cinderella.
Never the orginal.
Never mind Bella.
Never mind Ella.
I don't run in flight.
I'm prepared to fight.

I'm the modern Cinderella.
See me as I am.
See the real me.
Not the person I pretened to be.

I'm the modern Cinderella.
Nothing like the original.
Not like Bella.
Not like Ella.
Now i've found my modern Prince.

I am me.
I'm the Modern Cinderella....

poem by Desiree Bradford
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