Eyes Scooped Out and Replaced by Hot Coals

By Thomas Lux

The above, the punishment, the mild
but just punishment, symbolic,
the great advancement our planet
most needs.
The procedure is painless,
using methods currently available
only in cartoons. Polls were taken,
it was voted upon overwhelmingly in favor.
The justness of it,
known in the bone
by each of our nation - is undeniable. Thus, it is proclaimed,
on this day of anno domino, etc, I, the final arbiter
and ultimate enforcer
of such things (appointed by the king!), make official
and binding, this: that the eyes shall be gouged out
and replaced by hot coals
in the head, the blockhead,
of each countryman or woman who,
upon reaching their majority,
has yet to read
Moby Dick, by Mr. Herman Melville (1819-1891), American novelist
and poet.

Comments : One reason I liked this poem and wanted to run it was that it mentions Herman Melville and his famous novel and it has that in common with this poem run a few days ago.
The second reason to run this poem is that it expresses my feelings about those like former Haryana DGP S.P.S. Rathore who misuse positions of power to torment others.
- Zen

About the poet : Thomas Lux was born in Northampton, Massachusetts, in 1946. He is the Bourne Professor of Poetry at the Georgia Institute of Technology. His most recent book is The Cradle Place.

Lux writes, "I think of 'Eyes Scooped Put And Replaced By Hot Coals' as an audience participation poem, i.e. readers may replace the book mentioned in the poem with a beloved book of their choice."

Must be Santa

Who's got a beard
That's long and white?
Santa's got a beard
That's long and white

Who comes around
On a special night?
Santa comes around
On a special night

Special night
Beard that's white

Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Santa Claus

Who wears boots
And a suit of red?
Santa wears boots
And a suit of red

Who wears a long cap
On his head?
Santa wears a long cap
On his head

Cap on head
Suit that's red
Special night
Beard that's white

Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Santa Claus

Who's got a big red
Cherry nose?
Santa's got a big red
Cherry nose

Who laughs this way
Ho, ho, ho?
Santa laughs this way
Ho, ho, ho

Ho, ho, ho
Cherry nose
Cap on head
Suit that's red
Special night
Beard that's white

Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Santa Claus

Who very soon
Will come our way?
Santa very soon
Will come our way

Eight little reindeer
Pull his sleigh
Santa's little reindeer
Pull his sleigh

Reindeer sleigh
Come our way
Ho, ho, ho
Cherry nose
Cap on head
Suit that's red
Special night
Beard that's white

Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Santa Claus

Dasher, Dancer
Prancer, Vixen
Comet, Cupid
Donner
And Blitzen

Reindeer sleigh
Come our way
Ho, ho, ho
Cherry nose
Cap on head
Suit that's red
Special night
Beard that's white

Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Must be Santa
Santa Claus



Links to the youtube video of the song :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVs6X9yIM_k and
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTgqnXae2LQ

Comments :
Yes, I know, it isn’t much of a poem, but it’s the day after Christmas and Bob Dylan has sung the latest version of this song.

The first time I caught this version of the song on vh1 I loved it – it has a lively beat that makes you want to get up and dance immediately, the video shows a rollicking rambunctious Christmas party going on, there’s Santa bobbing about somewhere and it’s everything you’d think a jolly Christmas song should be. Except that it’s been sung by Bob Dylan – which is so unexpected that one gapes at the TV screen in shock as the credits roll.

The first thing I thought of was the movie ‘Love Actually’ and the ageing rockstar singing a mushy Christmas song. But then my faith in Dylan (and his cynicism) made me check the lyrics online, hoping that he had changed the lyrics in some manner. But apparently he has not; however, all of Dylan’s royalties from the album benefit Feeding America and other international charities. So I guess that explains the upbeat all-is-well-with-the-world song.

Anyway, since it is the end of the year, and the time to celebrate, go check out the video on youtube, buy the album, and if you discover a twist in the lyrics, let me know. - Zen

Links for reviews of the song :
http://www.rollingstone.com/rockdaily/index.php/2009/11/16/premiere-bob-dylans-must-be-santa-video-from-christmas-lp/
http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2009/11/18/bob-dylans-must-be-santa-video-the-hairs-fake-but-the-dancings-real/
http://outtheother.typepad.com/blog/2009/12/xmas-radio-bob-dylan-must-be-santa.html

To a Greedy Lover

By Norman Cameron

What is this recompense you’d have from me ?
Melville asked no compassion of the sea.
Roll to and fro, forgotten in my wrack,
Love as you please – I owe you nothing back.

Comments : A hilarious poem, I love the way Herman Melville and the sea are woven into this crisp declaration. - Zen

The Twelve Days of Christmas 2009

By Carol Ann Duffy

Link to the poem here

Comments : This news article mentioned the poem by Carol Ann Duffy. The two lines that the article quoted about Obama were interesting enough to have me click on the link for the poem. Found the poem interesting enough to post here, read it if you want contemorary events sent up and critiqued in the format of an old old poem. - Zen

About the poet :
(from the NY Times) Carol Ann Duffy was named poet laureate of Britain on May 1, 2009, the first time in its 341-year history that the post - held by such poets as Dryden, Tennyson, Wordsworth and Ted Hughes - has gone to a woman.

Ms. Duffy, 53, is known for writing accessible, often witty poems on a wide range of topics, many of them to do with the minutiae of everyday life.

Children’s Rhymes

By Langston Hughes

By what sends
the white kids
I ain’t sent:
I know I can’t
be President.

What don’t bug
them white kids
sure bugs me:
We know everybody
ain’t free.

Lies written down
for white folks
ain’t for us a-tall:
Liberty and Justice
Huh! – For All ?

Comments : Found this poem in an anthology titled ‘The Black Poets’. Thought it apt to run at a time when an African American president of the U.S.A has won the Nobel Peace Prize. Some things have changed for the better over time ! - Z.

All Things Dull and Ugly

All things dull and ugly
All creatures short and squat
All things rude and nasty
The Lord God made the lot

Each little snake that poisons
Each little wasp that stings
He made their brutish venom
He made their horrid wings

All things sick and cancerous
All evil great and small
All things foul and dangerous
The Lord God made them all

Each nasty little hornet
Each beastly little squid
Who made the spiky urchin?
Who made the sharks? He did

All things scabbed and ulcerous
All pox both great and small
Putrid, foul and gangrenous
The Lord God made them all.

Amen.

Comments : Thanks JS for the poem. Here are the comments on the poem from J’s blog :
The second poem I came across was in Richard Dawkins' The Greatest Show on Earth. (Who knew, the guy has a sense of humor too.) Dawkins of course is an evolutionary biologist, and by definition, a disbeliever of creationist dogma. He is also an avowed and outspoken atheist. All of which is useful in understanding his quoting of this poem below in his latest book on the evidence for evolution.

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

By Ogden Nash

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.

Comments : This poem by Ogden Nash was forwarded to me by a friend who recently had a baby daughter. I found it quite funny - though a bit lengthy - and decided to post it here. Hope you enjoy it too. - Zen

Sects from A to Z

By R.S.Gwynn

High Anglicans (or C. Of E.)
Are numerous far over the sea.
They ring a small bell a lot.
Read T.S. Eliot,
And burn incense in no small degree.

The Baptists put stock in immersion
And loudly will cast the aspersion
That a ritual that stops
With a few sprinkled drops
Is merely a watered-down version.

The blue-eyed Episcopal ladies
And gentlemen look like the Brady’s.
Their children are blond
And they are all quite fond
Of the Escalade and the Mercedes.

Fundamentalists think it’s apparent
That the Bible is strictly inerrant.
When one asks, once again,
“Well, so who married Cain?”
The claim Yahweh was, singly, her parent.

A.J.W (Jehovah’s Witness)
Should never be asked in to sit. Nes-
tle in, bolt your door
or you’ll let in a bore
Who will point out your soul’s lack of fitness.

The Mormons once had a hegemony
In Utah, allowing polygamy.
With their bearded heads hung,
The men thanked Brigham Young,
Who responded, “Yes, wasn’t that big of me ?”

The Oneidans detected sin’s essence
In all symptoms of manly tumescence,
So their men they unmanned,
Crying, “Take sin in hand!” –
A religiously planned obsolescence.

The Quakers possess inner lightning
And refrain from all feuding and fighting;
They enter their meetings
With “Bless Thee” for greetings,
But the service is hardly exciting.

The Shakers thought sexual activity
Was a wasteful sinful proclivity :
“No more sleeping in pairs !
Go make tables and chairs !
Sublimate and increase productivity !”

Unitarians pray, but they never
Say to whom, and thus claim the endeavour,
While it’s heavenward sent,
More precisely is meant
To address someone known as “Whoever.”

The number of folks who use X’s
In spelling out Christmas perplexes.
It’s truly inanity
(Just think, Xianity ! ) –
A small matter, I know, but it vexes.

Most zealots are eager to tell us
That their God is bad-tempered and jealous.
They go on for hours
Describing His powers
With a zeal that’s excessively zealous.

Comment : The limericks made me smile, and I’ve always been partial to an attempt to poke fun at organised religion and zealots, hence I had to run this poem on the blog. - Zen

Lawrence

By Tony Hoagland

On two occasions in the past twelve months
I have failed, when someone at a party
spoke of him with a dismissive scorn,
to stand up for D. H. Lawrence,



a man who burned like an acetylene torch
from one end to the other of his life.
These individuals, whose relationship to literature
is approximately that of a tree shredder



to stands of old-growth forest,
these people leaned back in their chairs,
bellies full of dry white wine and the ovum of some foreign fish,
and casually dropped his name



the way pygmies with their little poison spears
strut around the carcass of a fallen elephant.
“O Elephant,” they say,
“you are not so big and brave today!”



It’s a bad day when people speak of their superiors
with a contempt they haven’t earned,
and it’s a sorry thing when certain other people



don’t defend the great dead ones
who have opened up the world before them.
And though, in the catalogue of my betrayals,
this is a fairly minor entry,



I resolve, if the occasion should recur,
to uncheck my tongue and say, “I love the spectacle
of maggots condescending to a corpse,”
or, “You should be so lucky in your brainy, bloodless life



as to deserve to lift
just one of D. H. Lawrence’s urine samples
to your arid psychobiographic
theory-tainted lips.”



Or maybe I’ll just take the shortcut
between the spirit and the flesh,
and punch someone in the face,
because human beings haven’t come that far



in their effort to subdue the body,
and we still walk around like zombies
in our dying, burning world,
able to do little more



than fight, and fuck, and crow,
something Lawrence wrote about
in such a manner
as to make us seem magnificent.


Comments : I loved the loyal, spirited, sarcastic way Hoagland defends Lawrence in this poem and rips apart his critics – ‘those individuals, whose relationship to literature, is approximately that of a tree shredder to stands of old growth forest’ – now that’s cutting opponents down to size ! – Zen

This poem, incidentally, appeared in the literary journal ‘Ploughshares’ during ’97-’98 (http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmarticleID=4357)

p.s. One of Tony Hoagland’s books of poems is called Donkey Gospel– just the title makes me want to run out and buy it.

About the poet :
Tony Hoagland’s first book, Sweet Ruin, won the Brittingham Prize in Poetry and the Zacharis Award from Ploughshares at Emerson College. Donkey Gospel was the recipient of the 1997 James Laughlin Award of The Academy of American Poets.

He also won the 2005 Mark Twain Award from the Poetry Foundation, for humor in American poetry. His books of poems include What Narcissism Means to Me and Hard Rain, and he’s also the author of Real Sofitikashun, a book of essays on craft (2006).

I Stood Tip-Toe Upon a Little Hill

By John Keats

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still.
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posey
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
That with a score of light green brethen shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
By infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds!
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fulgent catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:
They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings.
How silent comes the water round that bend;
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
So keeping up an interchange of favours,
Like good men in the truth of their behaviours
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown
Fanning away the dandelion's down;
Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
Playing in all her innocence of thought.
O let me lead her gently o'er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her breathing list;
And as she leaves me may she often turn
Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
What next? A tuft of evening primroses,
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
O'er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
So that we feel uplifted from the world,
Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd.
So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
First touch'd; what amorous, and fondling nips
They gave each other's cheeks; with all their sighs,
And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes:
The silver lamp,--the ravishment,--the wonder--
The darkness,--loneliness,--the fearful thunder;
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades
Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph,--poor Pan,--how he did weep to find,
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation--balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble, he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool,
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
Full in the speculation of the stars.
Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
Into some wond'rous region he had gone,
To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian's temple; while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But though her face was clear as infant's eyes,
Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,
And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
And crept through half closed lattices to cure
The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep,
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men, and maidens at each other gaz'd
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd
To see the brightness in each others' eyes;
And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses:
Was there a Poet born?--but now no more,
My wand'ring spirit must no further soar.

Comments : I came across this fragment by chance while browsing through a book-shop, 'Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight : With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white.' Tracked down the poem and decided to post it.

I really liked some of the imagery, for instance, the way Keats describes the effect the scene had on him,
'I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had played upon my heels:'

Makes me want to take off for the hills right now ! :-) Zen.

Hospital

By Jonathan Richman, of the band ‘Modern Lovers’

When you get out of the hospital
Let me back into your life
I can't stand what you do
I'm in love with your eyes

And when you get out of the dating bar
I'll be here to get back into your life
I can't stand what you do
I'm in love with your eyes

I can't stand what you do
Sometimes I can't stand you
It makes me think about me
That I'm involved with you

...But I'm in love with this power that shows through in your eyes

I go to bakeries all day long
There's a lack of sweetness in my life
And there's pain inside
You can see it in my eyes

There is pain inside
You can see it in my eyes
It makes me think about me
That I've lost my pride

...But I'm in love with this power that resides in your eyes

You live in modern apartments
Well I've even got scared once or twice
Last time I walked down your street
There were tears in my eyes

Well now these streets we all know
They help us cry when we're alone late at night
Don't you love them too?
Is that where you got your eyes?

Oh I can't stand what you do
Sometimes I can't stand you
It makes me think about me
How I'm involved with you

...But I'm in love with this power that shows through in your eyes

Your world---it is beautiful
I'll take the subway to your suburb sometimes
I'll seek out the things that must've been magic to you little girl mind

Now as a little girl you must've been magic
I still get jealous of your old boyfriends in the suburbs sometimes
And when I walk down your street
There'll probably be tears in my eyes

(I knew it would happen)

I can't stand what you do
Sometimes I can't stand you
It makes me think about me
That I'm involved with you

...But I'm in love with this power that shows through in your eyes

So when you get out of the hospital
Let me back into your life
I can't stand what you do
But I'm in love with your eyes

Comments :
A friend’s recent status update on facebook gave the link to the youtube video of this song and mentioned the first few lines – ‘when you get out of the Hospital, let me back into your life’. I just had to listen to a song this weird – was the narrator in love with an insane person ? was he / she implying that the lover was a nutcase – was it a love song or a sarcastic song ? Or is the narrator insane ? Is this a song about domestic abuse - written by a physically violent guy to his injured lover ?
Read the lyrics, watch the video and make up your own mind. – Zen
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Im3g2qHLTXs&feature=related)

Verities

By Kim Addonizio

Into every life a little ax must fall.
Every dog has its choke chain.
Every cloud has a shadow.
Better dead than fed.
He who laughs, will not last.
Sticks and stones will break you,
and then the names of things will be changed.
A stitch in time saves no one.
The darkest hour comes.

Comments : Continuing on the same theme as the poem that was run yesterday. Don't cliches make you just want to scream sometimes with the rainbows-follow- rain- all-good-people view of the world ! No wonder I liked this poem and the twist on cliches. - Zen

The Sharper the Berry

Mark Pawlak

Nose out of joint, City Slicker ?
Blown a gasket, Hot Shot ?
Fit to be tied, Arty Farty ?
Going through the roof, curtain raiser ?

Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you.

Can't put the toothpaste back in the tube, Clever Dick ?
Chewing nails and spitting tacks, Front Runner ?
Got your knickers in a knot, panties in a wad, Sexy Thing ?

Every rose has it's thorn.

Popped a vein, Man-of-the-World ?
Rubbed the wrong way, Lean-and-Mean ?

Worse things happen at sea.

Worked into a lather, Bold-as-Brass ?
Blood at a boil, Dressed-to-the-Nines ?

It's not the end of the world.

Tomorrow is another day, All-Wind-and-Piss.
It's always darkest before the dawn, Bottom-of-the-Heap.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel,Thick-as-a-Brick.
Behind the clouds, the sun is shining, Back-to-the-Wall.
After the rain comes a rainbow, All-Work-and-No-Play.
Midnight is where the day begins, Beats-His-Meat.

Chin up ! With visions of redemption,
walk against the crowd, Down-at-the-Heels.

If you can't enjoy your own company, how can anyone else,
Drama Queen ?

Everyone might hate you, but at least you're still alive,
Button-Pusher.

Comments : Just started dipping into an absolutely delicious anthology of American Poetry - expect a lot more poems to be posted this month. This one was mean, nasty, random, funny, cynical and I loved it.

Note : Brilliant tongue-in-cheek comment by poet follows :
When I happened upon a list of well-worn cliches, I found it to be suggestive of a greeting card, which prompted me to splice and arrange the phrases to make this poem. I hope to interest Hallmark in my handiwork and perhaps, in this way, to supplement my meager income as a poet.

The Prime of Life

It was, in truth, an eager youth
Who halted me one day.
He gazed in bliss at me, and this
Is what he had to say :

“Why, mazel tov, it’s Asimov,
A blessing on your head !
For many a year, I’ve lived in fear
That you were long since dead.

Or if alive, one fifty-five
Cold years had passed you by,
And left you weak, with poor physique,
Thin hair and rheumy eye.

For sure enough, I’ve read your stuff
Since I was but a lad
And couldn’t spell nor hardly tell
The good yarns from the bad.

My father too, was reading you
Before he met my Ma,
For you he yearned, once he had learned
About you from his Pa.

Since time began, you wondrous man,
My ancestors did love
That s.f dean and writing machine
The Aged Asimov.”

I’d had my fill. I said, “Be still !
I’ve kept my old-time spark.
My step is light, my eye is bright,
My hair is thick and dark.”

His smile, in brief, spelled disbelief,
So this is what I did;
I scowled, you know, and with one blow,
I killed that rotten kid.


Comments : Read the poem in a collection of stories by Asimov titled ‘ The Bicentennial Man and Other Stories’. Couldn’t stop grinning as I went through the poem. This poem is for all the cheeky young whipper-snappers I know. :-) Zen

Notes : First Published in the Magazine Of Fantasy and Science Fiction, October 1966, the original title was ‘I’m in the prime of life, you rotten kid !’. Edward L. Ferman, editor of F&SF, shortened that to ‘The prime of life’. It is also part of a collection of stories by Asimov titled ‘ The Bicentennial Man and Other Stories’.

The Blue Mountain

By Henry Lawson

Above the ashes straight and tall,
Through ferns with moisture dripping,
I climb beneath the sandstone wall,
My feet on mosses slipping.

Like ramparts round the valley's edge
The tinted cliffs are standing.
With many a broken wall and ledge,
And many a rocky landing.

And round about their rugged feet
Deep ferny dells are hidden
In shadowed depths, whence dust and heat
Are banished and forbidden.

The stream that, crooning to itself,
Comes down a tireless rover,
Flows calmly to the rocky shelf,
And there leaps bravely over.

Now pouring down, now lost in spray
When mountain breezes sally,
The water strikes the rock midway,
And leaps into the valley.

Now in the west the colours change,
The blue with crimson blending;
Behind the far Dividing Range,
The sun is fast descending.

And mellowed day comes o'er the place,
And softens ragged edges;
The rising moon's great placid face
Looks gravely o'er the ledges.

Comment : This article in the Mint today included the last two paragraphs of ‘Blue Mountain’ by Henry Lawson. I read them and was hooked. When I tracked down the poem, I liked the description of the stream even more.
- Zen
Follow this link and this one to read some bleak and cynical poems by Henry Lawson about the difficult life in Australia a hundred years ago.

Come to the Edge

By Guillame Apollinaire

Come to the Edge.
We can't.
We're afraid.

Come to the edge.
We can't.
We will fall !

Come to the edge.
And they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.


Comments : Brief, straightforward and beautiful ! When was the last time you flew ? :-) Zen.

Sea of Faith

By John Brehm

Once when I was teaching "Dover Beach"

to a class of freshmen, a young woman

raised her hand and said, "I'm confused

about this 'Sea of Faith.'" "Well," I said,

"let's talk about it. We probably need

to talk a bit about figurative language.

What confuses you about it?"

"I mean, is it a real sea?" she asked.

"You mean, is it a real body of water

that you could point to on a map

or visit on a vacation?"

"Yes," she said. "Is it a real sea?"

Oh Christ, I thought, is this where we are?

Next year I'll be teaching them the alphabet

and how to sound words out.

I'll have to teach them geography, apparently,

before we can move on to poetry.

I'll have to teach them history, too-

a few weeks on the Dark Ages might be instructive.

"Yes," I wanted to say, "it is.

It is a real sea. In fact it flows

right into the Sea of Ignorance

IN WHICH YOU ARE DROWNING

Let me throw you a Rope of Salvation

before the Sharks of Desire gobble you up.

Let me hoist you back up onto this Ship of Fools

so that we might continue our search

for the Fountain of Youth. Here, take a drink

of this. It's fresh from the River of Forgetfulness."

But of course I didn't say any of that.

I tried to explain in such a way

as to protect her from humiliation,

tried to explain that poets

often speak of things that don't exist.

It was only much later that I wished

I could have answered differently,

only after I'd betrayed myself

and been betrayed that I wished

it was true, wished there really was a Sea of Faith

that you could wade out into,

dive under its blue and magic waters,

hold your breath, swim like a fish

down to the bottom, and then emerge again

able to believe in everything, faithful

and unafraid to ask even the simplest of questions,

happy to have them simply answered.


Comments : Two things I liked about this poem. One, the sarcasm in the lines,' a few weeks on the dark ages might be instructive' and the whole imaginary construct in the dialogue 'yes, it is. it is a real sea.................... forgetfulness.' Second, the description of the sea of faith in the end, the longing to go back to more innocent time, to be able to believe in everything etc. - Zen

Longing and Wonder

By Myra Shapiro

“Talk to Myra you talk to the wall,”
Mama announced when I lived

so long in my head. Behind
my lids was where I fit.

O world, be small enough to hold me,
slow enough to let me swallow.

Maybe I belonged back inside her. Or
beneath the spine of a book. Maybe

among tall buildings to incubate
between their legs. The warm kitchen

was never for me though I wanted
to shine. Passion I called

the pressure wrestling underneath.
Yesterday, in an audience listening to

my first book of poems,
a full professor asked me : “Longing,

how is it different from wonder?”
Astonished, jack-lit as a robber

caught with the goods, I felt my eyes
struggle to withdraw - and then

in longing you close your eyes,
but in wonder you open them.

When those words went
ZINGing through the lovely room
You bet your sweet ass they opened.

Comments : Not only did I enjoy the story in this poem, I just loved the line 'in longing you .....open them'. :-)
Zen.

In the words of the poet :"I wrote 'Longing and Wonder' to hold on to a gift, to convey my happiness at receiving it : the words of the penultimate stanza. When they surfaced, I felt as wise as I'm ever likely to become. School situations have a way of tongue-tying us - what does the teacher want? - and there I was, a sixty four year old poet with a first book, being questioned by a University Department Chairman. When the answer came out of my mouth at the instruction of my eyes, book and body were one!.....The sensation was so good I, who love cities, had to shape it into something concrete."

Flare

By Mary Oliver

1.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

2.

You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn't.
Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

3.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.

I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

4.

Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.

Not in this world.

5.

My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!

I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.

6.

I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

7.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

Did you know that?

8.

The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

9.

The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.

10.

Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?

11.

Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

Comments : A friend recently gave me an anthology of the best American Poetry from 1999. Idly flicking through the pages, the line ‘Welcome to the silly, comforting poem’ leapt out at me – I had to follow to the next line and then the next to check whether the first was meant to be self-deprecatory, sarcastic or plain statement of fact.
Thoroughly enjoyed the images of nature ‘ the red rinse flaring out of the sky, the feisty moth flaring one last time as he burns in the flame, of the mother bearing the burden of a life heavier than iron.
Loved the imagery of a poem as a flower and as something cool and refreshing. This part of the poem reminded me of ‘Ars Poetica’
- Zen.

About the poet : A celebrated American poet, she won the Pulitzer in '84. Her book, 'New and Selected Poems', earned her the National Book Award for poetry. Her most quoted poem is 'Wild Geese'. Love her descriptions of nature and the natural world - ‘Peonies’ and ‘Summer’ are very close being a series of haiku.

I love my dog

By Cat Stevens

I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

All he asks from me is the food to give him strength
All he ever needs is love and that he knows he'll get

So, I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

All the pay I need comes shining through his eyes
I don't need no cold water to make me realize that

I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...

I love my dog as much as I love you
But you may fade, my dog will always come through.

Na, na, na, na, na, na, nana...

I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na...
I love my dog, baby, I love my dog. na, na, na

Comments : since we are on dogs. Here's one reason dogs are preferable to the opposite sex - Anonymous

Sam's Ghazals

By Elise Paschen

You’re out. The house is dead. With me:
You’re safe. Why not stay home, instead, with me ?

That Ur prince whisked you off past four.
At my leash-end, you’re not misled by me.

He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.

My needs are few: a bowl, a lead, some love.
You won’t get in the red with me.

You never have to cook, just pop a Mighty Dog:
a snap to have breakfasted with me.

He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.

Maybe I have my quirks (stairs scare, streets clank),
But you’ve always kept your head with me.

He is six foot one. I am one foot high.
Don’t ever let him tread on me.

Though small, I claim my space and like you snug.
(It’s tough sharing a bed with me.)

My name is Samson. Yours is Paschen.
So keep your name and stay unwed with me.

- Sam

Comments : And after last week’s poem from a she-dog to her master, here is one from a he-dog to his mistress. I love the reasons given by the dog to convince his mistress that he is better than a human boyfriend.
Notice the brilliant contrast the dog brings out in
‘He’s like a tide. He comes. He goes.
I’m always here. Life’s anchored with me.’
Also,
‘He paws, he yaps, he barely listens.
I’m all ears. Much is left unsaid with me.’
:-) Awesome, isn’t it ?
- Zen

Doggerel

By Abigail Thomas

I’m quintessential female
I have a jealous heart
and that last girl he brought up here
was nothing but a tart

she ate up all his ice-cream
she drank up all his schnapps
and then she made a noisy fuss
when I climbed on their laps

he took me off the sofa
he put me in the chair
she said,”My god, your furniture
is nothing but dog - hair”

(my master is an idiot
how freely I admit it
he used to have a thinking – cap
but someone must have hid it)

she laughed at all his silly jokes
(which most girls find a chore)
and then she took off all her clothes
and dropped them on the floor

it’s not that I’m small-minded
he’s had some other lovers
but this one didn’t understand
I sleep under the covers

I don’t like to be pushed around
I do not care for scowls
she told him that I snapped at her
when all I did was growl

I’m certainly no prude
(I’d prove it if he’d let me)
but I saw no reason why she shouldn’t
rue the day she met me

her clothes I chewed to pieces
her silly boots I bit up
some of this mess I swallowed
but most of it I spit up

“how could you keep a dog like him?”
she cried,”this filthy cur?”
my master looked at me and smiled,
“No, not a him, a her.”
- Suzy

Comments : I found this poem about a possessive pet dog quite cute. Rather true to human emotions too, but being expressed by a dog with rhyme and metre makes it adorable. It's from a book titled 'Unleashed. Poems by Writers Dogs'.
- Zen

Everybody Knows

By Leonard Cohen

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows that the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died

Everybody talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you’ve been faithful
Ah give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you’ve been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

And everybody knows that it’s now or never
Everybody knows that it’s me or you
And everybody knows that you live forever
Ah when you’ve done a line or two
Everybody knows the deal is rotten
Old black joes still pickin’ cotton
For your ribbons and bows
And everybody knows

And everybody knows that the plague is coming
Everybody knows that its moving fast
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman
Are just a shining artifact of the past
Everybody knows the scene is dead
But there’s gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose
What everybody knows

And everybody knows that you’re in trouble
Everybody knows what you’ve been through
From the bloody cross on top of calvary
To the beach of malibu
Everybody knows it’s coming apart
Take one last look at this sacred heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Oh everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes
Everybody knows

Comments : This is the first Leonard Cohen song I heard years ago and it still remains one of my favourite Cohen songs / poems. The cynicism, the sardonic wit, the imagery – all are just amazing. While I cannot read /hear too many Cohen song-poems at a stretch, I think they are just the thing in ones and twos when one is in the right mood to appreciate them. Cohen’s poetry puts words to stark despair and disillusionment – looking into the dark crater and back again – like no one else can. - Zen

Links to information about Leonard Cohen :
Wikipedia, of course. Interestingly, Wikipedia reveals that he underwent five years of seclusion at a Buddhist centre and has been ordained as a Buddhist monk.

This article discloses that Cohen's maternal grandfather was a rabbi who wrote a 700-page thesaurus of Talmudic interpretations. Now we know exactly where the understanding for the poem ‘Who, By Fire’ comes from. The same article also discloses that Cohen has been labelled "the poet laureate of pessimism", "the grocer of despair", "the godfather of gloom" and "the prince of bummers", in addition to 68 other facts about him.

And this is where all the information about Cohen is to be found.

Links to more poems by Leonard Cohen : http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/624.html
http://www.lyricsfreak.com/l/leonard+cohen/bird+on+the+wire_20082816.html
(Who could but love these lines – ‘Like a bird on a wire/ Like a drunk in a midnight choir/ I have tried, in my way, to be free’)
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/744.html
http://www.lyricsfreak.com/l/leonard+cohen/im+your+man_20082812.html
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/744.html
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/339.html

Learning to Live with Islam

(This post is reprinted from this blog, with due permission of course.)

The veil is not the same as the suicide belt. We can better pursue our values if we recognize the local and cultural context, and appreciate that people want to find their own balance between freedom and order, liberty and license.
--- Fareed Zakaria. Learning to Live With Radical Islam. Newsweek: February 28, 2009.

Sharia demands death for the adulteress
I am not an adulteress
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Sharia demands death for the gays
I am not a gay
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Sharia demands death for the blasphemer
I am not a blasphemer
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Sharia demands death for the apostate
I am not a Muslim
I can learn to live with Sharia.

Islam demands Sharia for everyone
I am no one
I learned to live with Islam.

An adaptation of "First they came...", a poem attributed to Pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984).
By, The Rational Fool

Comments : One of the reasons I like Desipundit is that it regularly introduces me to posts such as this. Something about the poem grabbed my attention when I read it. The wikipedia entry on Pastor Martin Niemoller and his poem was rivetting too. Am copying below the 1976 version of his poem.
- Zen

First They Came (1976 version)

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I was not a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

French Horn

By Jane Hirshfield


For a few days only,

the plum tree outside the window

shoulders perfection.

No matter the plums will be small,

eaten only by squirrels and jays.

I feast on the one thing, they on another,

the shoaling bees on a third.

What in this unpleated world isn't someone's seduction?


The boy playing his intricate horn in Mahler's Fifth,

in the gaps between playing,

turns it and turns it, dismantles a section,

shakes from it the condensation

of human passage. He is perhaps twenty.



Later he takes his four bows, his face deepening red,

while a girl holds a viola's spruce wood and maple

in one half-opened hand and looks at him hard.

Let others clap.

These two, their ears still ringing, hear nothing.

Not the shouts of bravo, bravo,

not the timpanic clamor inside their bodies.

As the plum's blossoms do not hear the bee

nor taste themselves turned into storable honey

by that sumptuous disturbance.


Comments : A friend forwarded this poem to me a few days ago and I knew I would post in on the blog over the weekend. The beginning of the poem grabbed me and drew me in - 'for a few days only, the plum tree outside the window shoulders perfection'. Lovely image !
For more poems by Jane Hirshfield, check this.
Zen

Still I Rise

By Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


Comments : The backdrop to this poem is Federer’s defeat at the Oz Open yesterday at the hands of his nemesis Nadal. Fed wept yesterday as this is the third Grand Slam final where Rafael has thrashed him in one year, and he is very close and yet so far at equaling Pete Sampras’ record.
A poem to console fedex…. he shall rise from the ashes yet again …. :-) the poem is not v appropriate but it captures the spirit rather well..
- Sachin

Julie Andrews on Maturity

To commemorate her birthday , actress/vocalist, Julie Andrews made a special appearance at Manhattan 's Radio City Music Hall for the benefit of the AARP.

One of the musical numbers she performed was 'My Favourite Things' from the legendary movie 'Sound Of Music'.

Here are the lyrics she used:

Botox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts, hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favourite things.

When the pipes leak, When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favourite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Back pain, confused brains and no need for sinnin',
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',
And we won't mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favourite things.

When the joints ache, When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I've had,
And then I don't feel so bad.

Comments : A friend forwarded this to me as it fitted the theme for the month (thanks N). I had to run it on the blog - it was funny, plus I loved the movie as a kid and still do.
- Zen

When I'm 64

The Beatles

When I get older losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?

You'll be older too
And if you say the word
I could stay with you

I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight
If it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck & Dave

Send me a postcard, drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?


Comments : Have liked this song for many years - it is just too cute. And a very different kind of lovesong too - soppy though it is. The minute Anita submitted a poem on 'turning 30', I knew ageing and the various aspects of it would be the theme for the month and that I would post 'When I'm 64'.
- Zen

A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty

Ogden Nash

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman'?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Comments : Turning thirty was a frightening experience. Very much like Miranda, I woke up and checked the mirror next morning fully expecting to find an old, shrivelled woman. Friends all around me who have turned thirty have displayed similar reluctance to crossover into the threshold of 'old and greying'. Which is why I loved this poem of Nash, which displays none of his trademark sarcasm, just plain sweet kindness which the newly minted thirty-year old requires. And just as Nash says, is age really that relevant?
- By Anita

Reflection on a Wicked World

Ogden Nash

Purity.
Is Obscurity.

Comments : Loved this for being concise, tongue-in-cheek and such a deliciously wicked observation itself.
- Zen