Poetry
(Not mine... for that you need to contact me directly!)
This is just work of brilliance that I feel no intelligent or feeling human being should live without having read at least once!
(To be taken to the Rupert Brooke Society Homepage, please click on his image above.)
Rupert Brooke, 1887-1915
HEAVEN
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud!—Death eddies near—
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.
George Gordon, Lord Byron; 1788-1824
TITLELESS - FROM A LETTER TO THOMAS MOORE - 28 FEBRUARY, 1819
[based on The Jolly Beggar, a Scottish song, whose refrain is: 'And we'll gang nae mair a roving/ Sae late into the nicht' (The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Romantic Period)]
So we'll go no more a- roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a- roving
By the light of the moon.
Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849
ANNABEL LEE
IT was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Langston Hughes, 1902-1967
DREAM DEFERRED
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Christopher Marlowe, 1564-1593
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
Michael Easton, born 1967
(Both of the following poems are taken from his book of poetry: Eighteen
Straight Whiskeys. Click on the title to be taken to Amazon.com for further
publishing and purchasing information....)
INFLUENCES
People like us
we're not supposed
to step upon a stage
write a book
or play a note.
We get threatened
because we have a thought.
Fear of moving off track,
being out of the balance
or falling in love.
We're meant to believe
we should go through life
only to cause
the least possible damage.
Keepers of the pond,
simply wading
in waters of mediocrity.
Afraid to vision or swim.
Drowning,
splashing about
without hope of resurfacing.
Well. Fuck That--
Never be stale, man. Or subtle.
Let go of reason, cause
the rules you've cherished
have passed with the night.
Lose your mind, waste a little time.
Fish at midnight.
Let the worm eat at your heart awhile
and don't worry about your purpose--
Ghandi had a purpose. MLK the same.
We have none.
Only chariots need a guide.
So look beyond the dark
see through the truth
and when you do
let the poet make the gesture on his own
because sometimes laughter
is better than crying.
Just sit back, in the beauty of the words
and wait for good dreams,
for only in the listless drift
will you find the secret value
of swinging with the angels.
afternoons
Drunk.
And Stoned.
Takin' Blues
and playing checkers.
Just thinking that someday
I may want to live forever.
(And while I'm on Easton's work: Let me quote from Easton, who quotes Kerouac
from his "Skid Row Wine:"
To know that nothing matters after all.
To know there's no real difference
between the rich and the poor.
To know that eternity is neither drunk
nor sober, to know it young and be a poet.
Thanks Jack for the words and Michael for the exposure. If the rest of your book hadn't been as good as it is - this quote would have made the investment worth it. Write on....)
Frederic Edward Weatherly, 1848-1929
(An English lawyer who had never set foot in Ireland! See http://www.standingstones.com/dannyboy.html)
DANNY BOY
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen
And down the mountainside
The summer’s gone
And all the roses falling
It’s you, it’s you must go and I must bide
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!
But when ye come, and all the flow’rs are dying
If I am dead, as dead I well may be
Ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an Ave there for me
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me...
Dorothy Parker, 1893-1967
RESUME
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Robert Herrick, 1591-1674
TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.
E. M. (Edward Morgan) Forster, 1879-1970
From: A ROOM WITH A VIEW (okay - not poetry per se, but it might as well be!)
It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.
She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of
pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her
age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so
tragically on a summer's evening with the window open. Passion was there,
but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred and
jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she was tragical
only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the side of
Victory. Victory of what and over what-- that is more than the words of daily
life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no
one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and
Lucy had decided that they should triumph.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1845-1889
SPRING AND FALL: TO A YOUNG CHILD
MÁRGARÉT, are you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's spríngs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
And finally - what I believe to be the most perfect writing in English -
(You didn't really think I wouldn't have something from him here, did you?)
William Shakespeare, 1564-1616
HAMLET, II ii 305-320
....I have of late--but
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me....
And since my specialization is based on his Sonnets... here's one of my most favorite:
XLIII
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blesséd made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
And finally - here's Sonnet XXX - another personal fave... whenever I read it, it makes me think of my extra-familial brother, Jarred - my second artistic soul. Dude - this one's for you!
XXX.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Pardonez moi, Monsieur Marcel, mais "à la recherche du temps perdu," mon cul!
The song playing is by Lifehouse, and is called "you and me," from their new album, called Lifehouse. My Links page has a couple ways to get to their website, or you can go there directly from this link for more information....