Sestina Ahoy!
When I was a high school student
sentenced to two years durance vile
at Saint Ignatius
the author I read most at the time
aside from the assigned reading
was an Anglo-Polish seaman
One tends to adopt the viewpoint
of a more seasoned voice
in a profession much admired
He was born Teodor Josef Konrad
Korzeniowski, son of a nobleman,
Joseph Conrad is noted
for his deep moral consciousness
and his narrative technique -
a writer and a merchant seaman
I thought to emulate him!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Related quotes
Every seaman is not only a navigator, but a merchant and also a soldier.
quote by William Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's extremely difficult to get these jobs because you can't get a job on a ship unless you have seaman's paper's, and you can't get seaman's papers unless you have a job on a ship. There had to be a way to break through the circle, and he was the one who arranged it for me.
quote by Paul Auster
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Im Here, Can You Hear Me, I Made It! (:
Hey there, my name is Sheniqua Lowery. I go to Henry Foss high school, I am currently 18yrs of age, and I was born August,06,1990 in Seattle Washington at Harborview hospital at 6: 00am. I’ve been to several schools in Washington State in my early years. I love school, I try my best at the school work that is given to me.
When I was a little girl I wanted to be a lot of things as a grown up. I thought of being a horse trainer, singer, dancer, writer, author, nurse, game maker. But my dream goal is to be a photographer because it inspires me a lot in what you can find in a photo. Not only is it a picture, it tells a lot about the person or object that’s in the photo.
I want to attend Cornish College of the Arts. I have been interest in the college since I wanted to become a singer. I haven’t been on a tour to see the campus.
I am looking forward to getting good grades and a high GPA so it can be possible for me to attend the four year college in Seattle, WA. My GPA is close to a 4.0. I have been looking into some photography classes in my area in Tacoma, WA.
If I successfully graduate from Cornish with a major in photography, I would like to own my own photography business. I would also want to pursue managing my own photography website so my customers can check their prints online and make orders for which prints they want.
Thank you for reading and taking time out of your busy schedule to read it.
poem by Sheniqua Lowery
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A Canary, And Peanut Butter, And Jelly, Sandwitch.
I once ate a sandwich made of peanut-butter and jelly...
This sandwich, by someone, tasted quite rotten, and smelly.
Into my stomach, uneasily, it went down...
To my face, was sadly, put a frown.
I went to the hospital to have my stomach pumped, where I met a sailor...
Who obviously, had a bad tailor.
You might say, 'that this lad, was a seaman'...
But-for the Navy, he worked, and so-he was no, free man.
This seaman, could not swim...
You might say 'that he joined, on a whim'.
This non-swimming seaman, had a cat...
That was known by all, to eat mice, dogs, or even a bat.
One day this cat, ate a bat, that was owned by a witch...
This witch, got quite angry, at the cat that ate her bat, and
was acting like, a ticked off, bitch.
This witch, turned this cat, into a canary...
How frightening to this canary, this seemed as scary.
Now, this canary, bird...
Got eaten by another cat, and now, was nothing more,
than a rug stained, cat-splattered, turd.
poem by Michael Gale
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Reise Reise (Arise Arise) (Lyrics.)
Even on the waves there is fighting
Where fish and flesh are woven into sea
One stabs the lance while in the army
Another throws it into the ocean
Ahoy
Arise, arise seaman arise
Each does it in his own way
One thrusts the spear into a man
Another then into the fish
Arise, arise seaman arise
And the waves cry softly
In their blood a spear is lodged
They bleed softly into the ocean
The lance must be drowned in flesh
Fish and man sink to the depths
Where the black soul dwells
there is no light on the horizon
Ahoy
Arise, arise seaman arise
Each does it in his own way
One thrusts the spear into a man
Another then into the fish
Arise, arise seaman arise
And the waves cry softly
In their blood a spear is lodged
They bleed softly into the ocean
Arise, arise seaman arise
And the waves cry softly
In their heart a spear is lodged
They bleed themselves dry on the shore
poem by Satan's Sibling
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Barco Blanco
BARCO blanco
is arriving in Pulawan Port today.
My brother from Yugoslavia
a seaman by profession
is inside it.
He asks me to fetch him.
But i won't.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Control Freak
Her father was a control freak.
He had to know what she was
reading and seeing and hearing
and whom she was meeting and
hey he said who was that kid I saw
you talking to outside school today?
Archie she said he's just a friend who
likes the bands I like oh so he says
her father said you know what he's
really after? I'll tell you shall I? she
hated it when he went on like that.
Hated his presumption of knowing
what other's thought or what their
deep desires were. He wants to get
inside your panties that's what he's
after her father said and she blushed
and said no he's not he's not that kind
of boy oh what you telling me the kid's
batting for his own team? Huh? Huh?
And some other time as she was reading
a Dostoevsky book he said who's he?
some Russian writer? You read the enemy?
What's a matter with good old American
writers? Not good enough? She closed
the book and put it away in her schoolbag
and took out a battered copy of Naked Lunch
by William Burroughs and started to read.
That's better a good old American writer
her father said and smiled and sat back in
his chair by the fire not knowing the book
opened out a different world for her and
a whole new other kind of deeper desire.
poem by Terry Collett
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Moral Individual Decisions
At Teacher’s College in Christchurch New Zealand years ago.
The tutor gave us teacher trainee students a moral lesson.
She said ‘If a student asks you a teacher this moral question.’
‘Is it wrong to steal? ’ You must answer the student thus.
‘There is no right or wrong each person decides by individual right.’
‘No right or wrong? ’ ‘Really? ’ ‘The laws are not written so.’
Stealing is a crime prison is conviction caught punishment.
Crime does not pay ultimately bursting packed prisons say.
‘So is stealing right or wrong? ’ Crime is ticking time bomb.
To break laws a serious state offense prison sentenced penitence.
Moral individual decisions politically correct concept gone astray.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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One Summer Afternoon
A book written by Dalton Trumbo
was assigned as class reading
one summer session
much of it read aloud
by the teacher
sweltering classroom
windows open
summer sun
sharp crack
of bat
high school athletes
in full vigor
running bases
and catching
fly balls
Perhaps it was the teacher's reading
that drew us into the story and involved
us in the narrator's plight - whatever
it was worked
*I can't hear. My left arm. I wonder what
they've done with it!
No legs you see. No more running walking
crawling if you have no legs. He had
no arms and no legs.
He was blind. It wasn't a dream.
He thought Jesus Joe there must
be some other way.*
All the time the teacher read
we could hear the players
outside chattering away
shouts as a run scored
dust motes in the afternoon
sunlight seemed alive
Then the bell rang
and we sat stunned
Our summer was almost over
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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I was a tried seaman when, for the first time, I set foot upon the soil of my country, and took up my residence where my people had lived for over two hundred years.
quote by John Sergeant Wise
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I desire to assist in attracting to this profession young men of character and ability, also to help those already engaged in the profession to acquire the highest moral and intellectual training.
quote by Joseph Pulitzer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the mountain top at a seaside?
I saw the ship near the rocks
Her anchor drops
And on the mast
A segull rests!
It's getting darker the sky
And the lights flickering
On board the Vessel.
A Watch-keeper walks on the deck
And a Seaman sits on a bollard
With a fishing rod.
I shouted; 'Have you got a spare cabin
For an old bard and I could have work voluntarily Captain
If it's possible? '
I threw my tattered Seaman's Book
Which was not endorsed since a long time.
O the painful early morning my dream-ship already sailed
To her destined port and I grabbed my old book with a lament!
*[My deceased poor Mom always says; 'The joy of being an old is nothing but sadness.']
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Thought
Thought, I love thought.
But not the juggling and twisting of already existent ideas
I despise that self-important game.
Thought is the welling up of unknown life into consciousness,
Thought is the testing of statements on the touchstone of consciousness,
Thought is gazing onto the face of life, and reading what can be read,
Thought is pondering over experience, and coming to conclusion.
Thought is not a trick, or an exercise, or a set of dodges,
Thought is a man in his wholeness, wholly attending.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Johnny Came Marching Home
A book written by Dalton Trumbo
was assigned as class reading
one summer session-
much of it read aloud
by the teacher.
A sweltering classroom
windows open
to summer sun
and sharp
crack of bat-
high school athletes
in full vigor,
running bases
and catching
pop flies!
Perhaps it was the teacher's
voice that involved us
as we identified with
the young soldier's
plight.
Whatever it was worked!
*I can't hear. My left arm!
I wonder what they've done with it!
He had no arms and no legs.
He was blind. It wasn't a dream.
Jesus, Joe there must be some other way! *
All the time the teacher read
we could hear the players
outside chattering away
as they ran and scored runs!
Dust motes in afternoon sunlight
seemed alive.
Then the bell rang
and we sat stunned
Our summer was almost over!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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The New Enoch
Enoch Arden was an able
Seaman; hear of his mishap
Not in wild mendacious fable,
As 't was told by t' other chap;
For I hold it is a youthful
Indiscretion to tell lies,
And the writer that is truthful
Has the reader that is wise.
Enoch Arden, able seaman,
On an isle was cast away,
And before he was a freeman
Time had touched him up with gray.
Long he searched the fair horizon,
Seated on a mountain top;
Vessel ne'er he set his eyes on
That would undertake to stop.
Seeing that his sight was growing
Dim and dimmer, day by day,
Enoch said he must be going.
So he rose and went away-
Went away and so continued
Till he lost his lonely isle:
Mr. Arden was so sinewed
He could row for many a mile.
Compass he had not, nor sextant,
To direct him o'er the sea:
Ere 't was known that he was extant,
At his widow's home was he.
When he saw the hills and hollows
And the streets he could but know,
He gave utterance as follows
To the sentiments below:
'Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver,
Too, my timbers!) but, I say,
W'at a larruk to diskiver,
I have lost me blessid way!
'W'at, alas, would be my bloomin'
Fate if Philip now I see,
Which I lammed?-or my old 'oman,
Which has frequent basted _me_?'
Scenes of childhood swam around him
At the thought of such a lot:
In a swoon his Annie found him
And conveyed him to her cot.
'T was the very house, the garden,
Where their honeymoon was passed:
'T was the place where Mrs. Arden
Would have mourned him to the last.
Ah, what grief she'd known without him!
Now what tears of joy she shed!
Enoch Arden looked about him:
'Shanghaied!'-that was all he said.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Paperback Writer
(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To call something an 'enhanced interrogation technique' doesn't alter the fact that we thought it was torture when the Japanese used it on American prisoners, we thought it was torture when the North Koreans used it, we thought it was torture when the Soviets used it. You know, it's almost the moral equivalent of saying that rape is an enhanced seduction technique.
quote by Ted Koppel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I felt slightly superior to student politics, for instance. I had no reason to think this, but I thought of myself as slightly more seasoned. I became quite cynical talking to my student friends.
quote by Kazuo Ishiguro
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The End Of May
'Our governess is not in school,
So we may talk a bit;
Sit down upon this little stool,
Come, little Mary, sit:
'And, my dear playmate, tell me why
In dismal black you're drest?
Why does the tear stand in your eye?
With sobs why heaves your breast?
'When we're in grief, it gives relief
Our sorrows to impart;
When you've told why, my dear, you cry,
'Twill ease your little heart.'
'O, it is trouble very bad
Which causes me to weep;
All last night long we were so sad,
Not one of us could sleep.
'Beyond the seas my father went,
'Twas very long ago;
And he last week a letter sent
(I told you so, you know)
'That he was safe in Portsmouth bay,
And we should see him soon,
Either the latter end of May,
Or by the first of June.
'The end of May was yesterday,
We all expected him;
And in our best clothes we were dressed,
Susan, and I, and Jim.
'O how my poor dear mother smiled,
And clapped her hands for joy;
She said to me, 'Come here, my child,
And Susan, and my boy.
''Come all, and let us think,' said she,
'What we can do to please
Your father, for to-day will he
Come home from off the seas.
''That you have won, my dear young son,
A prize at school, we'll tell,
Because you can, my little man,
In writing all excel:
''And you have made a poem, nearly
All of your own invention:
Will not your father love you dearly
When this to him I mention?
''Your sister Mary, she can say
Your poetry by heart;
And to repeat your verses may
Be little Mary's part.
''Susan, for you, I'll say you do
Your needlework with care,
And stitch so true the wristbands new
Dear father's soon to wear!'
''O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak;
'Tis like a seaman's voice.'-
Our mother gave a joyful shriek;
How did we all rejoice!
''My husband's come!' 'My father's here!'
But O, alas, it was not so;
It was not as we said:
A stranger seaman did appear,
On his rough cheek there stood a tear,
For he brought to us a tale of woe,-
Our father dear was dead.'
poem by Charles Lamb
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The good author is he who contemplates without marked joy or excessive sorrow the adventures of his soul amongst criticisms.
quote by Joseph Conrad
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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