Second Philosopher's Song

By Aldous Huxley

If, O my Lesbia, I should commit,
Not fornication, dear, but suicide,
My Thames-blown body (Pliny vouches it)
Would drift face upwards on the oily tide
With the other garbage, till it putrefied.

But you, if all your lovers’ frozen hearts
Conspired to send you, desperate, to drown –
Your maiden modesty would float face down,
And men would weep upon your hinder parts.

‘Tis the Lord’s doing. Marvellous is the plan
By which this best of worlds is wisely planned.
One law he made for women, one for man :
We bow the head and do not understand.

Comments : Nose-thumbing undergraduate wit; though ribald, a neat dig at womanly modesty. :-)

Living

By Harold Monro

Slow bleak awakening from the morning dream
Brings me in contact with the sudden day.
I am alive – this I.
I let my fingers move along my body.
Realization warns them, and my nerves
Prepare their rapid messages and signals.
While Memory begins recording, coding,
Repeating; all the time Imagination
Mutters: You'll only die.

Here's a new day. O Pendulum move slowly!
My usual clothes are waiting on their peg.
I am alive – this I.
And in a moment Habit, like a crane,
Will bow its neck and dip its pulleyed cable,
Gathering me, my body, and our garment,
And swing me forth, oblivious of my question,
Into the daylight – why?

I think of all the others who awaken,
And wonder if they go to meet the morning
More valiantly than I;
Nor asking of this Day they will be living:
What have I done that I should be alive?
O, can I not forget that I am living?
How shall I reconcile the two conditions:
Living, and yet – to die?

Between the curtains the autumnal sunlight
With lean and yellow finger points me out;
The clock moans: Why? Why? Why?
But suddenly, as if without a reason,
Heart, Brain, and Body, and Imagination
All gather in tumultuous joy together,
Running like children down the path of morning
To fields where they can play without a quarrel:
A country I'd forgotten, but remember,
And welcome with a cry.

O cool glad pasture; living tree, tall corn,
Great cliff, or languid sloping sand, cold sea,
Waves; rivers curving; you, eternal flowers,
Give me content, while I can think of you:
Give me your living breath!
Back to your rampart, Death.

Comments : I liked this poem for the vivid and imaginative way in which it describes the process of waking up. And the way in which it expresses the (often unconscious) optimism and belief involved in the decision of going on living, ‘Heart, Brain and Body, and Imagination, All gather in tumultuous joy together’. – Zen

p.s. According to Mrs. Monro, this was one of the poet’s favourite poems.

For a more popular poem by the same poet, check this link. (http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/2000/11/overheard-on-salmarsh-harold-monro

Forever Young

By Robert Zimmerman (Bob Dylan)

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.
May you always be courageous,
Stand upright and be strong,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

Comments : Been listening to this song a lot the last few weeks... it has this comforting feeling - like advice your mum would give if she was nearby , a little preachy but touching. Especially liked the lyrics in the last paragraph that speaks of having a strong foundation when the winds of changes shift as well your heart being joyful and your song always be sung. beautiful, simple and rather moving. at some level it reminded me of my school anthem ...invokes a childhood warm fuzzy feeling...
This song was written and sung by Bob Dylan of course (Robert Zimmerman was his name) and many versions by other folk. Have been hearing the Dylan version and Joan Baez one.
- Soma

The Past is such a Curious Creature

By Emily Dickinson

The Past is such a curious creature,
To look her in the face
A transport may reward us,
Or a disgrace.

Unarmed if any meet her,
I charge him, fly!
Her rusty ammunition
Might yet reply!

Comments : Thanks to S for this poem. Isn't it such a nicely stated caution against delving into the past too often ? - Zen

Innocent England

Background : The poem is a delicious satire that celebrates Lawrence’s contempt and indignation at the suppression of his exhibition of paintings in London in 1929; the authorities feared for public morals because he painted accurate anatomical details on his nudes. Read this for more information on the exhibition and the paintings therein.

Innocent England
By D.H.Lawrence

Oh what a pity, Oh! Don’t you agree
that figs aren’t found in the land of the free!

Fig trees don’t grow in my native land;
there’s never a fig-tree near at hand

when you want one; so I did without;
and that is what this row’s all about.

Virginal, pure policemen came
and hid their faces for very shame,

while they carried the shameless things away
to gaol, to be hid from the light of day.

And Mr. Mead, that old, old lily
Said: ‘Gross! coarse! hideous!’ – and I, like a silly

thought he meant the faces of the police-court officials,
and how right he was, and I signed my initials,

to confirm what he said: but alas, he meant
my pictures, and on the proceedings went.

The upshot was, my pictures must burn
that English artists might finally learn

when they painted a nude, to put a cache sexe on,
a cache sexe, a cache sexe, or else begone!

A fig-leaf; or, if you cannot find it
a wreath of mist, with nothing behind it.

A wreath of mist is the usual thing
In the north, to hide where the turtles sing.

Though they never sing, they never sing,
Don’t you dare to suggest such a thing

or Mr. Mead will be after you
- But what a pity I never knew

A wreath of English mist would do
As a cache sexe! I’d have put a whole fog.

But once and forever barks the old dog,
so my pictures are in prison, instead of in the Zoo.

Comments : Apart from the fact that this poem is hilarious, I think it is apt at a time when the moral police and the politically-correct-brigade are flexing their muscles so much – no defaming a living person, or dishonouring the memory of a noble soul, or hurting someone’s sentiments....; or else, 'Ban this movie ! Burn that book ! Slash this painting ! Vandalise this library !'
- By Zen

Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

By A.H.Clough

Say not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!

Comments : Found a lovely poem by A.H.Clough on the wondering minstrels blog and forwarded it to several friends. One of whom wrote back and directed me to this poem (Thanks A).
I really liked the imagery in this poem, especially 'for while the tired waves........in the main.'

On criticism

Comments : Came across two gems on criticism in a book of English translations of Sanskrit poems. Never realised the fuddy-duddy language had so much fun stuff - they only taught us the boring, moralistic poems in school. - Zen

The fire of envious critics’ tongues
Refines the true poetic gold.
Should we not celebrate in cheerful songs
Poor fools who give us benefits untold ?
- By Varahamihira


Strike me, and try me to your heart’s content
With fire and touchstone : I accept my fate.
But oh I bitterly resent
The fact that you should weigh me with a pennyweight.
- By Sudraka

Mr. Rock & Roll

- Amy Macdonald

So-called Mr Rock & Roll,
Is dancing on his own again,
Talking on his phone again,
To someone who tells him that his balance is low.
He's got nowhere to go, he's on his own again.

Rock Chick of the century,
Is acting like she used to be,
Dancing like there's no-one there.
Before she never seemed to care,
Now she wouldn't dare.
It's so Rock & Roll to be alone.

And they'll meet one day far away,
And say, 'I wish I was something more.'
And they'll meet one day far away,
And say, 'I wish I knew you, I wish I knew you before.'

Mrs. Black & White she's never seen a shade of grey,
Always something on her mind,
Every single day.
But now she's lost her way,
And where does she go from here?

Mr. Multicultural sees all that one can see,
He's living proof of someone very different to me.
But now he wants to be free,
Free so he can see.
And they'll meet one day far away,
And say, 'I wish I was something more.'
And they'll meet one day far away,
And say, 'I wish I knew you, I wish I knew you before.'

He'll say, 'I wish I knew you
I wish I met you when time was still on my side.'
She'll say, 'I wish I knew you
I wish I loved you before I was his bride.'

And so they must depart,
Two many more broken hearts.
But I've seen that all before,
In T.V, books, and film and more.
And there's a happy ending,
Every single day.

And they'll meet one day far away,
And say, 'I wish I was something more.'
And they'll meet one day far away
And say, 'I wish I knew you, I wish I knew you before

Comments : A friend introduced me to this song yesterday and I was hooked in the very first minute, both by the lively tune and by Amy’s voice, and then drawn in further by the interesting character names – Mr. Rock & Roll, Mrs. Black and White, Mr. Multicultural. The descriptions say it all, Mr. Rock and Roll speaking on the phone to someone who’s only telling him his balance is low, what better way to describe being alone and having no one to speak to ? Or Mr. Multicultural, who ironically, wants to be free so that he can see.

p.s. If you haven’t heard the song yet, listen to the video here and a live performance here.

By,
Zen

The Wind That Shakes the Barley

Robert Dwyer Joyce

I sat within the valley green, I sat me with my true love
My sad heart strove the two between, the old love and the new love
The old for her, the new that made me think on Ireland dearly
While soft the wind blew down the glen and shook the golden barley

'Twas hard the woeful words to frame to break the ties that bound us
But harder still to bear the shame of foreign chains around us
And so I said, "The mountain glen I'll seek at morning early
And join the bold united men," while soft winds shake the barley

While sad I kissed away her tears, my fond arms round her flinging
A yeoman's shot burst on our ears from out the wildwood ringing
A bullet pierced my true love's side in life's young spring so early
And on my breast in blood she died while soft winds shook the barley

I bore her to some mountain stream, and many's the summer blossom
I placed with branches soft and green about her gore-stained bosom
I wept and kissed her clay-cold corpse then rushed o'er vale and valley
My vengeance on the foe to wreak while soft wind shook the barley

But blood for blood without remorse I've taken at Oulart Hollow
And laid my true love's clay cold corpse where I full soon may follow
As round her grave I wander drear, noon, night and morning early
With breaking heart when e'er I hear the wind that shakes the barley.

Comments : The background to the title of this poem itself justifies running it. Thanks to Nikhil for the poem and the context : It's from a 19th Century poem that tells of a young Irish boy who soon will leave his sweetheart to join others fighting the English in the 1798 rebellion. They would carry barley in their pockets as provisions on the march. When they were slain and their bodies pitched into unmarked mass graves by the English, from their bodies the sprouting barley came to symbolise that Irish resistance to the British would never die.

From wikipedia : 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley' is a 2006 Ken Loach film set during the Irish War of Independence (1919–1921) and the Irish Civil War (1922–1923). Written by long-time Loach collaborator Paul Laverty, this drama tells the story of two County Cork brothers, played by Cillian Murphy and Pádraic Delaney, who join the Irish Republican Army to fight for Irish independence from the United Kingdom. It takes its title from the song "The Wind That Shakes the Barley".

Soap

By Nissim Ezekiel

Some people are not having manners,

this I am always observing,

For example other day I find

I am needing soap

For ordinary washing myself purposes.

So I’m going to one small shop

nearby in my lane and I’m asking

for well-known brand soap.

That shopman he’s giving me soap

but I’m finding it defective version.

So I’m saying very politely — -

though in Hindi I’m saying it,

and my Hindi is not so good as my English,

Please to excuse me

but this is defective version of well-known brand soap.

That shopman is saying

and very rudely he is saying it,

What is wrong with soap?

Still I am keeping my temper

and repeating very smilingly

Please to note this defect in soap,

and still he is denying the truth.

So I’m getting very angry that time

and with loud voice I am saying

YOU ARE BLIND OR WHAT?

Now he is shouting

YOU ARE CALLING ME BLIND OR WHAT?

Come outside and I will show you

Then I am shouting

What you will show me

Which I haven’t got already?

It is vulgar thing to say

but I am saying it.

Now small crowd is collecting

and shopman is much bigger than me,

and I am not caring so much

for small defect in well-known brand soap.

So I’m saying

Alright OK Alright OK

this time I will take

but not next time.

- from Very Indian Poems in Indian English

Comments : Thanks for the poem, S. Will quote your comments from another site here :
'Time for some humour, and the giggling, silly kind of very Indian humour at that. Who better to turn to than Nissim Ezekiel?

Like a series of photographs he presents an incident. One that you have probably seen play out in markets, in street accidents, in railway stations time and time again.'

Black Oaks

By Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

Comments : Thanks to S for pointing me to this site.
Liked this poem for the imagery of the woods, and silent black oaks contrasted with noisy blue jays. But most of all, for these lines, ‘Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don't you get going ? ’ - Zen

An ode to Sorpotel

By Philip Furtado

For the hotchpotch known as haggis
Let Scotchmen yearn or yell;
On the taste of Yorkshire pudding
Let the English fondly dwell
Their famed tandoori chicken
Let Punjabis praise like hell
But for us who hail from Goa
There's naught like SORPOTEL !

From the big wigs in Colaba,
to the small fry in Cavel
From the growing tribes in Bandra,
to the remnants in Parel.
From the lovely girls in Glaxo,
to the boys in Burma Shell
There's no Goan whose mouth won't water,
when you talk of SORPOTEL!

And oh, for Christmas dinner
Don't you think it would be swell
If, thanks, to a freak of fortune
Or by some magic spell,
We could as they can in Goa
Have a bottle of cajel
And toddy-leavened sannam
To go with SORPOTEL !

Comments : I liked the first paragraph of the poem. Also the random place which led me to it - for some reason, this poem is on the official Konkan Railway website.

Note : Cajel refers to a distilled liquor made of cashew and toddy is fermented coconut or palm juice, which is frequently used like yeast to make sannas, a type of rice cakes made in moulds with a batter of ground rice, toddy, coconut and sugar and then steamed.

One Step Backward Taken

By Robert Frost

Not only sands and gravels
Were once more on their travels,
But gulping muddy gallons
Great boulders off their balance
Bumped heads together dully
And started down the gully.
Whole capes caked off in slices.
I felt my standpoint shaken
In the universal crisis.
But with one step backward taken
I saved myself from going.
A world torn loose went by me.
Then the rain stopped and the blowing,
And the sun came out to dry me.

Comments - I loved the imagery in the beginning of the poem, from 'not only...' till '...in slices'; paints a vivid picture. - Zen

The Star Splitter

By Robert Frost

`You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?'
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a lifelong curiosity
About our place among the infinities.

`What do you want with one of those blame things?'
I asked him well beforehand. `Don't you get one!'

`Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight,' he said.
`I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.'
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
`The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it might as well be me.'
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.

Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait---we'd see to him tomorrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one for Christmas gift,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?

Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out, up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.

He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as we spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three, the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one,
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night tonight
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?

Comments - Well, I could say I liked Brad's story - his single-mindedness, his gumption etc, or I could say something intelligent about science and astronomy, or I could be honest. I think that this poem is average, but the following lines are just brilliant :

`You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?'

This image of Orion sneaking up on someone is just so whimsical and delightful. :-)
Zen

Slim in Hell

By Sterling A. Brown

I
Slim Greer went to heaven;
St. Peter said, "Slim,
You been a right good boy."
An' he winked at him.

"You been travelin' rascal
In yo'day.
You kin roam once mo';
Den you come to stay.

"Put dese wings on yo' shoulders,
An' save yo' feet."
Slim grin, and he speak up,
"Thankye, Pete."

Den Peter say, "Go
To Hell an' see,
All dat is doing, and
Report to me.

"Be sure to remember
How everything go."
Slim say, "I be seein' yuh
On de late watch, bo."

Slim got to cavortin'
Swell as you choose,
Like Lindy in de Spirit
Of St. Louis Blues.

He flew an' he flew,
Till at last he hit
A hangar wid de sign readin'
DIS IS IT.

Den he parked his wings,
An' strolled aroun',
Gittin' used to his feet
On de solid ground.

II
Big bloodhound came aroarin'
Like Niagry Falls,
Sicked on by white devils
In overhalls.

Now Slim warn't scared
Cross my heart, it's a fac',
An de dog went on a bayin'
Some po' devil's track.

Den Slim saw a mansion
An' walked right in;
De Devil looked up
Wid a sickly grin.

"Suttinly didn't look
Fo' you, Mr. Greer,
How it happens you comes
To visit here?"

Slim say---"Oh, jes' thought
I'd drop by a spell."
"Feel at home, seh, an' here's
De keys to hell."

Den he took Slim around
An' showed him people
Rasin' hell as high as
De first Church Steeple.

Lots of folks fightin'
At de roulette wheel,
Like old Rampart Street,
Or leastwise Beale.

Showed him bawdy houses
An' cabarets,
Slim thought of New Orleans
An' Memphis days.

Each devil was busy
Wid a devilish broad,
An' Slim cried, "Lawdy,
Lawd, Lawd, Lawd."

Took him in a room
Where Slim see
De preacher wid a brownskin
On each knee.

Showed him giant stills,
Going everywhere,
Wid a passel of devils
Stretched dead drunk there.

Den he took him to de furnace
Dat some devils was firing,
Hot as Hell, an' Slim start
A mean presspirin'.

White devils with pitchforks
Threw black devils on,
Slim thought he'd better
Be gittin' along.

An' he says---"Dis makes
Me think of home---
Vicksburg, Little Rock, Jackson,
Waco and Rome."

Den de devil gave Slim
De big Ha-Ha;
An' turned into a cracker,
Wid a sheriff's star.

Slim ran fo' his wings,
Lit out from de groun'
Hauled it back to St. Peter,
Safety boun'.

III
St. Peter said, "Well,
You got back quick.
How's de devil? An' what's
His latest trick?"

An' Slim Say, "Peter,
I really cain't tell,
The place was Dixie
That I took for hell."

Then Peter say, "you must
Be crazy, I vow,
Where'n hell dja think Hell was,
Anyhow?

"Git on back to de yearth,
Cause I got de fear,
You'se a leetle too dumb,
Fo' to stay up here. . ."


Comments : Found this poem in a delightful anthology of poems by African - American poets that is (in a most politically incorrect manner) titled 'The Black Poets'. The chatty, casual tone and language in the first few verses of this poem had me hooked - imagine someone casually saying, “Thank ye, Pete” or “I be seein’ yuh on de late watch,bo” to St. Peter ! Slim’s experiences in Hell had me chuckling away and I knew this was one poem I wanted to share. What a marvellously humorous and sarcastic way to skewer a region and a way of life !

Also, I felt that since this was on the theme of discrimination based on the colour of one’s skin, there was a somewhat tenuous link to the last poem run on the blog, which was favoured by a president incarcerated for the colour of his skin.
- By Zen

For more information on Sterling Brown, read this article. This site has a brief biography, the text of some of his poems etc.

More information about Slim Greer from this website, some snippets from the same pasted below :
Jean Wagner
Among all his humorous poems, in which he exercises his comic vein at the expense of whites no less than of blacks, the most remarkable are assuredly those which relate the adventures of Slim Greer. By uniting this new hero of the tall tale, Brown provided Paul Bunyan and John Henry with a younger brother fully worthy of them. For Slim shows extraordinary skill in extracting himself from the most unbelievable situations. He brings to naught the vigilance of the most vigilant, and at the same time exposes the oddities of the people he brushes up against.

Thus he succeeds, in Arkansas, in passing as a white man, though his skin color is "no lighter than a dark midnight." The white woman he set up house with thinks he is a Spaniard or a Frenchman. He is found out at last, not because of his color, but through his way of playing the blues:

An' he started a-tinklin'
Some mo’nful blues,
An' a-pattin' the time
With No. Fourteen shoes.
The cracker listened
An' then he spat
An' said, "No white man
Could play like that. . ."
But he is more agile than the whites and makes his getaway, of course without suffering the least hurt.
..........

We meet Slim again in Atlanta, where the whites have passed laws "for to keep all de niggers from laughin' outdoors":
Hope to Gawd I may die
If I ain't speakin’ truth
Make de niggers do deir laughin’
In a telefoam booth.

When told about this rule on his arrival in Atlanta, he feels he is going to explode with laughter. He barely has time to skip past the queue waiting outside the phone booth and to dash inside--after dragging out the Negro who was there already. He laughs for hours on end, and the Negroes waiting in the lengthening queue groan in anguish as they wait their turn. In the end, Slim has to be taken away in an ambulance at the state's expense, so that things may return to normal in Atlanta.

John Edgar Tidwell
Slim Greer is both a literary character created by Sterling A. Brown and the term designating his memorable series of satiric poems. In the cycle are five poems: "Slim Greer," "Slim Hears ‘the Call’," "Slim in Atlanta," "Slim in Hell," and "Slim Lands a Job?," all of which were published between 1930 and 1933. These poems reveal Brown's careful study of oral and written literatures, from Moliére's satire to Mark Twain's humor, and his absorption of less formal teaching from a gallery of African American raconteurs. After graduation from Harvard University (MA, 1923), he immersed himself in the cultural life and lore of Black folk by frequenting barbershops, "jook-joints," and isolated farms. In these places, "master liars" like "Preacher," Duke Diggs, and an actual Slim Greer transformed mundane, prosaic experiences into performances of high art. The results of their informal instruction are readily discerned in Brown's poems.

The Slim Greer poems represent the principal concern in nearly all of Brown's work: reclaiming the humanity of African Americans to insure the completion of selfhood. To accomplish this purpose, Brown adapts features of the American tall tale, including Vernacular language, "deadpan" manner of narration, development from plausibility to frantic impossibility, and the snapper climax or exposure at the end. As in the best tall tales, these poems achieve their success by laughing the reader/listener into an awareness of practices that prevent the self from attaining wholeness, such as religious hypocrisy and the absurdity of racial segregation. In so doing, Brown makes his Slim Greer do in poetry what Langston Hughes's Simple does in short fiction.

Invictus

By William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Comments : I watched the movie 'Invictus' yesterday and thought it very good. Had to return, google and read the poem once more. - Zen

Random facts :
The latin word 'Invictus' means 'unconquered'.

The poem was written in 1875 and originally bore no title. Early printings contained only the dedication To R. T. H. B.—a reference to Robert Thomas Hamilton Bruce, a successful Scottish flour merchant and baker who was also a literary patron.The title "Invictus" was added by Arthur Quiller-Couch when he included the poem in The Oxford Book Of English Verse (1900).

In the movie 'Invictus', Mandela gives the "Invictus" poem to his national rugby team's captain Francois Pienaar before the start of the Rugby World Cup. In reality, Mandela provided Pienaar with an extract from Theodore Roosevelt's "The Man in the Arena" speech from 1910.

In Praise of the Sausage

By Ruskin Bond

I like a good sausage, I do;
It's a dish for the chosen and few.
Oh, for sausage and mash,
And of mustard a dash
And an egg nicely fried - maybe two ?
At breakfast and lunch, or at dinner,
The sausage is always a winner;
If you want a good spread
Go for sausage on bread,
And forget all your vows to be slimmer.
(Written for Victor and Maya Bannerjee, who excel at making sausage breakfasts)

Comments - My sentiments exactly ! Especially with a sunday morning with a lazy sunday breakfast soon to follow. - Zen

One Old Oxford Ox

By Anonymous

One old Oxford ox opening oysters;

Two tee-totums totally tired of trying to trot to Tadbury;

Three tall tigers tippling tenpenny tea;

Four fat friars fanning fainting flies;

Five frippy Frenchmen foolishly fishing for flies;

Six sportsmen shooting snipes;

Seven Severn salmons swallowing shrimps;

Eight Englishmen eagerly examining Europe;

Nine nimble noblemen nibbling nonpareils;

Ten tinkers tinkling upon ten tin tinder-boxes with ten tenpenny tacks;

Eleven elephants elegantly equipt;

Twelve typographical typographers typically translating types.

Comments : Alliteration Allowed to run Amok is not Always Awesome ! - Zen

LINES

WRITTEN WHEN SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING
By William Wordsworth

How rich the wave, in front, imprest
With evening twilights summer hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent path pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream!
A little moment past, so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
'Till peace go with him to the tomb.
--And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

Comments - Loved the image the first four lines of this poem conjured up. - Zen.

My True Love Hath My Heart, And I Have His

By Sir Philip Sidney

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driv'n.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight:
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me, on him his hurt did light,
So still me thought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true love hath my heart and I have his.

By Wendy Cope
My true love hath my heart and I have hers
We swapped last Tuesday and felt quite elated
But now whenever one of us refers
To 'my heart' things get rather complicated.

Comments : You did not seriously think I was going to post only the soppy Sir Philip Sidney poem, did you ? Isn't Wendy Cope's wry take on it refreshing ? Not to mention, sensible ! - Zen

Flowers

By Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.
You did. You'd come along
And say you'd nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.


The shop was closed. Or you had doubts -
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.


It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly brought
Have lasted all this while.

Comments - I just like a poem that tells a story through flowers that were 'nearly bought'