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When We Two Parted
When We Two Parted
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
The Walrus and the Carpenter
by Lewis Carroll
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
Something to Think About
Something to Think About
“Ah!” sighed the World, as he
turned in bed
With a pillow of cloud for
his poor old head
And lowered the roller
shade of Night
And blew out a star that
shone too bright–
“The year is gone with his
toil and strife,
The storm and surge of the
tide of life.
The crazy brawl of the
human breed,
And I’ll rest at last – for
it’s rest I need!”
Down came an elf through the
moonlight pale
From the Milky Way
on a comet’s tail;1
He turned up the lamps
that were burning low
And prodded the World
with a small pink toe.
“Get up!” he cried, “That’s
enough for you!
There’s a heap of things for
a World to do!
“There are wounds to bind,
there’s a map to fix,
There’s a beautiful tangle
of politics,
There are towns to build
there are wheels to
start
There’s a load of crowns
for the junkman’s cart
There’s an ancient fraud in
a
brand new dress,
There are lovely riddles for
men to guess,
There are dreams to dream
There are heights to climb,
And you can’t lie there and
waste your2
time!”
So the World rose up
with a plaintive groan,
Stubbing his toe on a
tumbled throne,
To round the Sun on his
wonted track -
The deep-grooved trail of the
Zodiac,
That way of sorrows and
joys
and aches,
Of noble efforts and fool
mistakes.
But it’s good for the poor
old World, at that;
For a drowsy Planet gets
much too fat.
-
Arthur Guiterman:
A Ballad-Maker’s Pack
New Year,
1919
by Arthur Guiterman
from A Ballad-Maker’s Pack
1 Gramma
left out this stanza between “comet’s tail” and “He turned up”:
His
traveling-bag, in letters clean
Was
marked, “A.D. Nineteen-nineteen.”
2 Guiterman used “my”.
A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
by John Donne
As virtuous men pass mildly
away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say,
"No."
So let us melt, and make no
noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant
;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth
remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to
miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two
so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth
roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle
just,
And makes me end where I begun.
Sonnet to Sleep
Sonnet to Sleep
John Keats
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the Amen ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes:
Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like the mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.
soothest = softest
curious = scrupulous
wards = the ridges in a lock that correspond to a key
Topography
Topography
Sharon Olds
delicately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, Your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against your Kansas your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my
sun rising swiftly from the left your
moon rising slowly from the left my
moon rising slowly from the right right until
all four bodies of the sky
burn above us, sealing us together,
all our cities twin cities,
all our states united, one
nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
The Clown's Prayer
The Clown’s Prayer
Anonymous
As I stumble through this life,
help me to create more laughter than tears,
dispense more cheer than gloom,
spread more cheer than despair.
Never let me become so indifferent,
that I will fail to see the wonders in the eyes of a child,
or the twinkle in the eyes of the aged.
Never let me forget that my total effort is to cheer people,
make them happy, and forget momentarily,
all the unpleasantness in their lives.
And in my final moment,
may I hear You whisper:
"When you made My people smile,
you made Me smile."
Dick Van Dyke read this at Stan Laurel’s funeral in 1965.
Sonnet 130
Sonnet 130
William Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robert Frost
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
Blue Eyes and Dark Curly Hair
Blue Eyes and Dark Curly Hair
Jonella Allen
Burg is on the phone.
I didn’t mean to answer but the black rotary dial phone was ringing and it hurt my ears so I answered just to make it stop and now I’m stuck because even though I haven’t said anything, not even ‘hello,’ Burg knows it’s me with my snarled hair and snot filled tissues.
He wants me to come over.
I don’t want to go but then I find myself asleep on his couch under a quilt.
Burg is nowhere to be found and the couch isn’t his it’s mine, my orange and green couch and my orange and brown quilt. I fell asleep in the living room and the white cordless phone, the kind with the antenna you have to extend to get any reception, is ringing.
I don’t mean to answer but I do and Burg is on the line and he knows it’s me with my dirty fingernails and a Band-Aid on my shin even though I don’t speak.
He wants me to come over.
I don’t want to go but then I find myself baking cupcakes in his kitchen.
Burg is nowhere to be found and the kitchen isn’t his it’s mine with my yellow daisy wallpaper and glitter specked linoleum. I’m baking cupcakes for my daughter’s birthday and the avocado green phone, the one mounted to the wall, is ringing.
I don’t mean to answer but I do and Burg is on the line and, even though I’m not breathing, he knows it’s me with my pierced nose and blood soaked loafers.
He wants me to come over.
I don’t want to go but then I find myself stuffing the apron in the oven and grabbing my keys.
The hallway stretches away from my apartment, the blue-grey carpet shifting like the tide under my loafers, and the stone steps lead up to the front of Burg’s building. The doorman is missing but the intercom rings and, even though I say nothing, Burg knows that it’s me with my bad breath and torn jeans and he tells me to come in while the extended tone of the nine key cuts him off and the door begins to buzz.
I don’t step forward.
I teeter on the edge.
I leave everything behind as I back down the steps, shuffle along the hall, turn though the kitchen, and sit down on the couch pulling my cell phone from my pocket and begin to dial.
Originally published by Cyclamens and Swords Publishing April 2012.
The Prejudice of the Egg
The Prejudice of the Egg
Jonella Allen
It is here, between these tapestries and under grey shingles that I play.
Unfurl the bedroll and build a campfire in the closet.
Kiss the girl.
Sinister tales that have no beginning lurk at the edge of my rotting gate.
It creaks and the Devil produces intoxication in a piggy bank.
The shower races along leaves and twigs under the canopy.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.
An organ grinder appears through the curtain. It is not the wizard.
Each crank of the handle forces cheese through the grater.
Kiss the girl.
I close the book and take off his glasses.
My arms stretch across the pool to stamp out the cigarette.
I don’t smoke.
I inhale deeply, fluttering my lids as the cloud wages war over blue and white buoys bobbing in
the chlorine stringing together the past and the future.
The cardboard fireplace in the lifeguard tower is lined with socks, each with an Orange in the toe
and brimming with walnuts that splash into the shallow end.
Pitter patter of little hooves on the roof.
Pitter patter.
Patter pitter.
Pit. Pit. Pat. Scrape.
Hooves scramble losing traction like roller skates on gravel.
Pat. Pat. Pit. Scrape.
Reindeer tumble past the curtain. Santa’s beard catches on a rusty hook.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape the sides of the bowl. Make sure everything is well blended.
Chop the chicken. The whole chicken. No head and not running.
Sitting on the counter I hold my arms and howl.
Mother crunches the bones, pulling them apart into bite size pieces.
Bear and elephant dance with spears around the cauldron.
My bowl is full of cereal and milk. I insist it rests on the floor.
Eating like a dog without benefit of spoon or fingers. Lapping the milk.
Spoons are used for cutting out hearts.
Kiss the girl.
The rug peels back and the table sinks while chairs take up arms.
Crabapples collect in the upturned Frisbee,
the oversized green Frisbee that the day before had carried Indian war paint.
The sun-faded Frisbee, cracked and waiting like a land mine under the fence,
the fence leading to the rotting gate.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.
My bedroom sloshes with water rushing in from the storm. It needs a place to rest.
The killer whale drifts in on a wave, looking with her tiny blue eye for a meal.
If I stay very still, maybe she won’t see me. She flashes a glance at my cereal bowl.
Kiss the girl.
Clothes spin in the washing machine guided by a lighthouse on the cliff.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
The dirty water explodes into the sink, overflowing, spilling onto the floor.
Wall sconces flicker and burn the degree growing dull in its red border.
Kiss the girl.
Frogs pirouette to Romeo and Juliet, leaping over the rotting gate.
Kiss the girl.
The campfire in the closet extinguishes.
Kiss the girl.
The piggy bank is empty.
Kiss the girl.
The Devil takes his due.
Fuck the girl.
Bread ties and candy-coated chocolate still twist the spoon.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.
Originally published by Cyclamens and Swords Publishing April 2012.
Always
Always
Jonella Allen
It has come to my attention that when I read
out loud I read too fast. This is due
completely to a life long fear of standing in
front of a group of people and speaking.
Worse is reading my own words, my own
thoughts, my own deep seeded terrors, my
own triumphs, both large and small. It is a
fear will never leave. It is one of my
true constants. It is an everlasting North Star.