She Walks in Beauty - by Lord Byron

She Walks in Beauty

by

Lord Byron (1788-1824)

====== //~~// ======

She walks in beauty like the night
of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
had half impair'd the nameless grace
which waves in every raven tress,
or softly lightens o'er her face -
where thoughts serenely sweet express
how pure, how dear their dwelling - place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
so soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
the smiles that win, the tints that glow,
but tell of days in goodness spent,
a mind at peace with all below,
a heart whose love is innocent.

Et tu, Camus - by Laurence Overmire

 

Et tu, Camus
by
Laurence Overmire
/// ~~~~ ///

I’m a strange bird
Maybe no stranger than you perhaps but
I sure seem strange to me
I need to love and be loved
And I don’t have much success with either
I want to run up to all these strange folks
And give ‘em a hug and wish ‘em well but
I can’t do that or people would think I’m strange

So all I can do is use these words
Strange words loaded with feeling

But words are easily brushed aside
Without ever making a coherent connection
It’s a strange thing, this strange, strange
Life of mine
But I give it to you nonetheless
In the hopes that someday
What may now seem strange
Will, in the test of time, prove to be

Perfectly normal.

Jacques Prévert - Déjeuner du matin

 

 "Déjeuner du matin"
- Jacques Prévert -
~~~~ // ~~~~
Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré.     

Who Has Need, I Stand with You - by Alberto Rios

 

  Who Has Need, I Stand with You
by
Alberto Ríos *
//// === ////
In this hour, let us grant to each other the grace that is ours
     to give.
In each other, let us see ourselves, and ourselves again,

That all the times we have looked at our faces in a mirror
Should have added up—each face our own, but a reminder as well

We are more than ourselves, that our eyes can see
Into that silver world as far as, and beyond, what we understand.

Looking into a mirror, into a window pane, into the water of a lake,
A photograph—we are here and over there as well. In that moment

All things are more possible. In this hour of ourselves, you and I,
One stronger than the other, let us speak evenly, and make plain

The hope that all this time has held us. Let us extend ourselves
Beyond ourselves into the silver, ourselves bigger and farther,

Ten thousand bodies to choose from suddenly in that mirror, us
Needing only one, so that things seem again so simple.
____________________________________________________
* Source: The Orion Magazine, Poetry, May/June 2010

To See - by William Blake

 








To See
by 

William Blake (1757-1827)

====== ////// ======

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour. 

Home on the Range at X-Mas! - by the Cowboy King

Home on the Range at X-Mas!

 - by -

 the Cowboy King *

//~~//~~//

From the Arden Mountains cabin of St. Paul's Poet Lariat, The Bard of Arden, The Cowboy King: "I was bakin' up a fresh batch o' m' worl' famous Christmas Curmudgeon Biscuits (ingredients is whatever's left in the cupboards an' cabinets what ain't movin' too much, an' ain't too green yet, after m' Unsocial Insecurity check runs out fer the month), an' this here pome popped outa m' mouth, an' smack inta the mixin' bowl:

The snow is blowin' roun' the eaves --
Yer buildin' up the fire --
The wind is chasin' autumn's leaves:
We know what YOU desire!
There ain't no quarrel -- Santa's great
An' Frosty makes us sing,
While Rudolph's nose helped haul the freight --

BUT YOU WANT COWBOY KING!!!

All right -- biscuits is about ready -- don't push now -- who's first?"

...
The Night Before Christmas at M' Home on the Range

...
T'were nigh onto Christmas, an' all 'round m' cabin
Ya c'd hear cactus grow -- warn't a coyote gabbin'.
M' long-johns was propped on a stick by the fire
In hopes that, come mornin', they'd be warmer an' drier.
The Guernseys were dreamin', outside on m' lands,
Nightmares 'bout me milkin' with cold mornin' hands.
M' horse slept indoors, an' the cabin smelled rank. It
Were so cold outside, me an' him shared the blanket!
When above, on the shakes, I heard hoof-beats skedaddle.
I unholstered m' guns -- somethin's scarin' the cattle! --
Threw open the door, stood out on the porch
Barefoot, buck-naked -- jes' m' gun an' a torch.
The moonbeams that marched 'crost m' spread single-file
Showed the snow was nbroken fer mile after mile.
"Some ruckus," I shrugged. "Jes' the wind in the sage" --
When 'crost the night sky comes the overland stage!
(Well, m' seein's no good -- ain't no cause to lodge pity --
Lost m' specs playin' blackjack in Dodge City.)
Overhead the stage twirled like a big wagon wheel,
An' I reckon I felt like a buzzard's next meal.
My eyeballs improvin' as each swoop it nears,
I c'd see the stage pulled by some strange-lookin' steers!
They ambushed m' ranch like a hound'll rout grouse --
Tore a wall off the barn, an' knocked down the outhouse!
Like a tumbleweed skitters which way the wind blows,
Them varmints was loco (an' believe me, I knows!).
An' then, from above me, I heard m' roof groan,
An' I figgered m' ceilin' would drop like a stone.
I yelled m'self raw, over jangles and jingles:
"Git that stage off m' roof! Git them steers off m' shingles!"
When, from somewheres behind me, I hears some galoot
Crack out "Pipe down, son!" as the room filled with soot!
He'd clumb down m' chimney, this greenhorn so rude,
An' one look at his rig said it all: "He's a dude!"
His face was all whiskers -- in a bag was his gear --
His red suit must mean he was huntin' fer deer.
He looked so danged silly, I guffawed through an' through,
But I stopped when he said, "Son, yer skin's turnin' blue."
I'll admit it looked strange -- didn't take much more proof
Than me standin' buck-naked, eight steers on m' roof.
"M' brain must've friz up clean through to the marrow.
'Scuse m' bad manners, sir," an' I doffed m' sombrero.
I asks, "Where ya from, Gramps?" an' the dude says, "Up north."
(Guess them Montana folks don't care how they go forth!)
"I'll be drivin' all night," he said, "last light t' first.
It's hard on ol' codgers -- but on reindeers it's worst.
So I'm askin' a favor, an' I hopes you agrees:
Lemme borry eight longhorns t'night, if ya please."
"Ya got grit, dude," says I, as my six-guns I cock,
"Bustin' up m' home spread, an' now rustlin' m' stock."
"That's all been repaired," said he, scratchin' his nose.
With a last "Much obliged!" up m' chimney he goes.
I were seein' dang good then as I recollects;
That greenhorn done gimme a new pair o' specs!
I looks out, an' sees a new barn in the fog;
In m' new privy sits a fresh Sears catalog!
But I still was uneasy -- them longhorns was prime,
An' fer reindeers I couldn't git nary a dime.
"I'll be back afore dawn," says he, slappin' the traces,
An' next thing I knowed, they whooshed over the mesas!
But I heard him shout out, as his stage cleared the moon:
"Happy trails t' ya, cowboy, 'til we meet again soon!"
_______________________________________________
 *Source: Bulletin Board, St. Paul Pioneer Press, 12/23/13

"...ton libérateur, ... le livre ..." - Victor Hugo

A qui la faute ?
Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
//==//==//

-Tu viens d'incendier la Bibliothèque ?

- Oui.
J'ai mis le feu là.

- Mais c'est un crime inouï !
Crime commis par toi contre toi-même, infâme !
Mais tu viens de tuer le rayon de ton âme !
C'est ton propre flambeau que tu viens de souffler !
Ce que ta rage impie et folle ose brûler,
C'est ton bien, ton trésor, ta dot, ton héritage
Le livre, hostile au maître, est à ton avantage.
Le livre a toujours pris fait et cause pour toi.
Une bibliothèque est un acte de foi
Des générations ténébreuses encore
Qui rendent dans la nuit témoignage à l'aurore.
Quoi! dans ce vénérable amas des vérités,
Dans ces chefs-d'oeuvre pleins de foudre et de clartés,
Dans ce tombeau des temps devenu répertoire,
Dans les siècles, dans l'homme antique, dans l'histoire,
Dans le passé, leçon qu'épelle l'avenir,
Dans ce qui commença pour ne jamais finir,
Dans les poètes! quoi, dans ce gouffre des bibles,
Dans le divin monceau des Eschyles terribles,
Des Homères, des jobs, debout sur l'horizon,
Dans Molière, Voltaire et Kant, dans la raison,
Tu jettes, misérable, une torche enflammée !
De tout l'esprit humain tu fais de la fumée !
As-tu donc oublié que ton libérateur,
C'est le livre ? Le livre est là sur la hauteur;
Il luit; parce qu'il brille et qu'il les illumine,
Il détruit l'échafaud, la guerre, la famine
Il parle, plus d'esclave et plus de paria.
Ouvre un livre. Platon, Milton, Beccaria.
Lis ces prophètes, Dante, ou Shakespeare, ou Corneille
L'âme immense qu'ils ont en eux, en toi s'éveille ;
Ébloui, tu te sens le même homme qu'eux tous ;
Tu deviens en lisant grave, pensif et doux ;
Tu sens dans ton esprit tous ces grands hommes croître,
Ils t'enseignent ainsi que l'aube éclaire un cloître
À mesure qu'il plonge en ton coeur plus avant,
Leur chaud rayon t'apaise et te fait plus vivant ;
Ton âme interrogée est prête à leur répondre ;
Tu te reconnais bon, puis meilleur; tu sens fondre,
Comme la neige au feu, ton orgueil, tes fureurs,
Le mal, les préjugés, les rois, les empereurs !
Car la science en l'homme arrive la première.
Puis vient la liberté. Toute cette lumière,
C'est à toi comprends donc, et c'est toi qui l'éteins !
Les buts rêvés par toi sont par le livre atteints.
Le livre en ta pensée entre, il défait en elle
Les liens que l'erreur à la vérité mêle,
Car toute conscience est un noeud gordien.
Il est ton médecin, ton guide, ton gardien.
Ta haine, il la guérit ; ta démence, il te l'ôte.
Voilà ce que tu perds, hélas, et par ta faute !
Le livre est ta richesse à toi ! c'est le savoir,
Le droit, la vérité, la vertu, le devoir,
Le progrès, la raison dissipant tout délire.
Et tu détruis cela, toi !

- Je ne sais pas lire.

A Fear of Old Age - by Jack Anderson

A Fear of Old Age
by
Jack Anderson
===== ** =====

The dread, always,
of coming to this:

to sit
day after day
chain smoking
in a soiled undershirt
beside the cracked window
of a fifth-floor walkup
on Railroad Avenue
with stains on the wall, 
dead flies on the sill,
no hot water,
and the cold water rusty;

to sit
smoking and coughing
watching dust settle down,
freights rumble by,
and beyond the tracks
the river flowing
gray and tedious

while on the other,
the opposite, shore
the distant lights
of someplace else 
rise up in a glory
more awesome than Rome
and now unreachable
as anyplace anywhere.

The Telephone - by Louis Jenkins

The Telephone

- by -

Louis Jenkins

----- ~~~ ----- 

In the old days telephones were made of
rhinoceros tusk and were big and heavy enough
to be used to fight off an intruder. The telephone
had a special place in the front hallway, a shrine
built into the wall, a niche previously occupied
by the blessed virgin, and when the phone
rang it was serious business. "Hello." "One if
by land and two if by sea." "What?" "Unto you
a child is born." "What?" "What did he say?"
"Something about the Chalmers' barn." The
voice was carried by a single strand of bare wire
running from coast to coast, wrapped around a
Coke bottle stuck on a tree branch, dipping low
over the swamp, it was the party line, all your
neighbors in a row, out one ear and in another.
"We have a bad connection, I'm having trouble
understanding you."

Nowadays telephones are made of recycled
plastic bags and have multiplied to the point
where they have become a major nuisance.
The point might ring at you from anywhere, the
car, the bathroom, under the couch cushions...
Everyone hates the telephone. No one uses the
telephone anymore so telephones, out of habit
or boredom or loneliness perhaps, call one
another. "Please leave a message at the tone."
"I'm sorry, this is a courtesy call. We'll call back at
a more convenient time. There is no message." 

From a Railway Carriage - by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

From a Railway Carriage
by 

Robert Louis Stevenson
===== *** =====

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!

Follower - by Seamus Heaney

Follower
~~~ ** ~~~
by Seamus Heaney

My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.  

"... the thing with feathers ..." - Emily Dickinson

 

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

by 
Emily Dickinson

-------- ~~~~ --------

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me. 

Le Chat - Charles Baudelaire

 

Charles BAUDELAIRE   (1821-1867)

Le chat 

~~~ // ~~~

Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux;
Retiens les griffes de ta patte,
Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux,
Mêlés de métal et d'agate.

Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir
Ta tête et ton dos élastique,
Et que ma main s'enivre du plaisir
De palper ton corps électrique,

Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard,
Comme le tien, aimable bête
Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard,

Et, des pieds jusques à la tête,
Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum
Nagent autour de son corps brun.

Hymne à l'égalité - Marie-Joseph Blaise de Chénier

Hymne à l'égalité Marie-Joseph Blaise de Chénier (1764-1811)

Égalité douce et touchante, Sur qui reposent nos destins, C'est aujourd'hui que l'on te chante, Parmi les jeux et les festins. Ce jour est saint pour la patrie ; Il est fameux par tes bienfaits C'est le jour où ta voix chérie Vint rapprocher tous les Français Tu vis tomber l'amas servile Des titres fastueux et vains, Hochets d'un orgueil imbécile Qui foulait aux pieds les humains. Tu brisas des fers sacriléges ; Des peuples tu conquis les droits ; Tu détrônas les priviléges ; Tu fis naître et régner les lois. Seule idole d'un peuple libre, Trésor moins connu qu'adoré, Les bords du Céphise et du Tibre N'ont chéri que ton nom sacré. Des guerriers, des sages rustiques, Conquérant leurs droits immortels, Sur les montagnes, helvétiques Ont posé tes premiers autels. Et Franklin qui, par son génie, Vainquit la foudre et les tyrans, Aux champs de la Pensylvanie T'assure des honneurs plus grands ! Le Rhône, la Loire et la Seine, T'offrent des rivages pompeux Le front ceint d'olive et de chêne Viens y présider à nos yeux. Répands ta lumière infinie, Astre brillant et bienfaiteur ; Des rayons de la tyrannie Tu détruis l'éclat imposteur. Ils rentrent dans la nuit profonde Devant tes rayons souverains ; Par toi la terre est plus féconde ; Et tu rends les cieux plus sereins.