Freedom - by Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

Freedom
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
///===///

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face -

Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-alter gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!

Bird on the Wire - by Leonard Cohen

 

 Bird On The Wire

by Leonard Cohen

// === // === //
Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you. 

The Oak - by Alfred Lord Tennyson

(click image to enlarge)

 The Oak
by 

Alfred Lord Tennyson
== // ==
Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;

Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed
Soberer-hued
Gold again.

All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough
Naked strength.   

 

" Le pont Mirabeau " - Guillaume Apollinaire

Le pont Mirabeau

Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)

 ===== 

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Et nos amours

Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne

La joie venait toujours après la peine

Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure

Les jours s’en vont je demeure

(Cliquez l'image pour agrandir)

Let Love Go, If Go She Will - by Robert Louis Stevenson

Let Love Go, If Go She Will
---------------------------
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Let love go, if go she will.
Seek not, O fool, her wanton flight to stay.
Of all she gives and takes away
The best remains behind her still.

The best remains behind; in vain
Joy she may give and take again,
Joy she may take and leave us pain,
If yet she leave behind
The constant mind
To meet all fortunes nobly, to endure
All things with a good heart, and still be pure,
Still to be foremost in the foremost cause,
And still be worthy of the love that was.
Love coming is omnipotent indeed,
But not Love going. Let her go. The seed
Springs in the favouring Summer air, and grows,
And waxes strong; and when the Summer goes,
Remains, a perfect tree.

Joy she may give and take again,
Joy she may take and leave us pain.
O Love, and what care we?
For one thing thou hast given, O Love, one thing
Is ours that nothing can remove;
And as the King discrowned is still a King.

L'Amour et la Folie - Jean de La Fontaine

L'Amour et la Folie
Poème de Jean de La Fontaine
~~~~~~~~~ //// ~~~~~~~~~

Tout est mystère dans l'Amour,
Ses flèches, son Carquois, son Flambeau, son Enfance.
Ce n'est pas l'ouvrage d'un jour
Que d'épuiser cette Science.
Je ne prétends donc point tout expliquer ici.
Mon but est seulement de dire, à ma manière,
Comment l'Aveugle que voici
(C'est un Dieu), comment, dis-je, il perdit la lumière ;
Quelle suite eut ce mal, qui peut-être est un bien ;
J'en fais juge un Amant, et ne décide rien.
La Folie et l'Amour jouaient un jour ensemble.
Celuici n'était pas encor privé des yeux.
Une dispute vint : l'Amour veut qu'on assemble
Là-dessus le Conseil des Dieux.
L'autre n'eut pas la patience ;
Elle lui donne un coup si furieux,
Qu'il en perd la clarté des Cieux.
Vénus en demande vengeance.
Femme et mère, il suffit pour juger de ses cris :
Les Dieux en furent étourdis,
Et Jupiter, et Némésis,
Et les Juges d'Enfer, enfin toute la bande.
Elle représenta l'énormité du cas.
Son fils, sans un bâton, ne pouvait faire un pas :
Nulle peine n'était pour ce crime assez grande.
Le dommage devait être aussi réparé.
Quand on eut bien considéré
L'intérêt du Public, celui de la Partie,
Le résultat enfin de la suprême Cour
Fut de condamner la Folie
A servir de guide à l'Amour.

When You Are Old - by W. B. Yeats

When You are Old
~~~~ /// ~~~~
by W. B. Yeats  


  

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Tësh-lok-lâki-wotch [The Slitherers!] - by Dr. Fikré Tolossa

(click on image to enlarge)
 
[The Slitherers!]

 

Tësh-lok-lâki-wotch 
by Dr. Fikré Tolossa *

=== ~~ === ~~ ===

Engulfed by Terror's raging flames,
As we slither  and glibly side-wind,
No blaze or flicker ever touches us.
We pay no mind to revolution's lightening,
While senseless chaos scatters
And displaces the innocent
We continue to slumber in our own silence.
We are camped inside the flames,
And we know how to feint, how to deceive
Until the burning blaze is cooled.
And when the soot breaks down
And the sound and the fury subside;
When the sky and the air are clear and safe,
We raise our heads and announce our presence:
"Here we are! We're tested. We are ready to serve!"
And all the while we care not a whit
whether we are summoned or not.

The fools, and the guileless
They've fallen by the wayside
Or else have gone to nothingness
Or ended up in exile
Or slaughtered under Terror's rule.
The few survivors still clamor: "Conscience, oh Conscience!"
They beg and cry out: "Justice! Truth! Liberty!"
Yet they loath power, they find it too dirty,
They'd rather watch from the sidelines.
But we're smart and quick on our feet
And we climb and take hold of the reins
Paying lip service to absence of chains.

Lying in wait for our victims
We're scheming and plotting
The best ways to stir up the naif
Dooming them to death or misery.
No sympathy or conscience have we
As we step heavily o'er the blood-stained ground.
We monitor society's vital signs,
We take its temperature, its pulse.
We herd and prod the fools to the fire,
We use them as torches
To illumine our paths and freshen our lives.

The guileless are our shield.
And sitting astride our horse of power,
We ride fast as the wind.
The virtuous and the truthful are trampled as dust.

We usurp the voice of the masses
When it damn well suits us;
But we know when to shout out in our own
And when to come out of our caves.

We will prattle till our neck veins stick out
We'll talk non-stop till our mouths are frothy.
Talk and talk is all we do all day
And we only know how to naysay!

Woe to the whistle-blowers
Woe to honest public servants
Should they attempt to uncover us
Should we be bravely denounced.
We've got the temperament, skill, and speed
To deal with these finger-pointers.
They won't know what hit them.

We have ... special ... merchandising talents
We know how to mine public outrage
How to exploit the masses' sentiments.
It is our occupation ... squelching the weak
But we take smart care with the strong.

While havoc-n-melee rules mankind,
We make sure to stay spared.
But even more, we stay focused
Whoever or whatever is in power.
We will more than survive
We'll prosper and flourish.

The heroic farmer will slave and toil at his farm
But at harvest time ... will he then profit?
Nay, not he. It is we who prosper
Without fear, without batting an eye.

All comforts of life are given to us
The world is indeed at our feet!
No place here for the virtuous,
For he who burns for "truth, justice, and liberty!"

_____________________________________

* Free verse translation by  Hénock Gugsa

Afterword by HG - 
The above poem by Dr. Tolossa is obviously of great significance and meaning to the people of Ethiopia ... especially those who directly suffered fifteen plus years of misery under Mengistu and his minions. What struck me keenly was the intensity of the cynicism, the irony, and the sociopathic glee of the ruling class. Yes, they were there even under communism, and they are still around us even here in the land of the free! 

It is a bitter and dismally universal reality:   
Negativity and selfishness are the bane of humanity!

Thank you, Dr. Tolossa, for forever opening our eyes and showing us some of humanity's unpleasant natures. Through your poem, you've given voice and immortality to our tragedy. And, in my opinion, you have done it as effectively as the old masters, Orwell and Solzhenitsyn.

The Mask Of Evil - by Bertolt Brecht

The Mask Of Evil
by
Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
----- /// -----

On my wall hangs a Japanese carving,
The mask of an evil demon, decorated with gold lacquer.
Sympathetically I observe
The swollen veins of the forehead, indicating
What a strain it is to be evil.

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."