First part of a speach by Benjamin Franklin

I've always been a huge fan of Ben, and here's an example as to why:

Sept 17, 1787, last day of the Constitutional Convention

Mr. President

I confess that there are several parts of this constitution which I do not at present approve, but I am not sure I shall never approve them: For having lived long, I have experienced many instances of being obliged by better information, or fuller consideration, to change opinions even on important subjects, which I once thought right, but found to be otherwise. It is therefore that the older I grow, the more apt I am to doubt my own judgment, and to pay more respect to the judgment of others. Most men indeed as well as most sects in Religion, think themselves in possession of all truth, and that wherever others differ from them it is so far error. Steele a Protestant in a Dedication tells the Pope, that the only difference between our Churches in their opinions of the certainty of their doctrines is, the Church of Rome is infallible and the Church of England is never in the wrong. But though many private persons think almost as highly of their own infallibility as of that of their sect, few express it so naturally as a certain french lady, who in a dispute with her sister, said "I don't know how it happens, Sister but I meet with no body but myself, that's always in the right — Il n'y a que moi qui a toujours raison."

In these sentiments, Sir, I agree to this Constitution with all its faults, if they are such; because I think a general Government necessary for us, and there is no form of Government but what may be a blessing to the people if well administered, and believe farther that this is likely to be well administered for a course of years, and can only end in Despotism, as other forms have done before it, when the people shall become so corrupted as to need despotic Government, being incapable of any other. I doubt too whether any other Convention we can obtain, may be able to make a better Constitution. For when you assemble a number of men to have the advantage of their joint wisdom, you inevitably assemble with those men, all their prejudices, their passions, their errors of opinion, their local interests, and their selfish views. From such an assembly can a perfect production be expected? It therefore astonishes me, Sir, to find this system approaching so near to perfection as it does...

The Cowardice of Husbands

I'm not usually a fan of blank verse, but I have to say this one is quite funny, as well as personally interesting. I can't print it here, the guy's still alive and I'm sure he wants payment for his work, which he deserves:

- The Cowardice of Husbands -

Here we go again

Ok, I've changed my mind again about publishing my own stuff online. I'm going to, but I won't do it here. If you want to see it, go to: http://jeffreyspoems.blogspot.com.

Hi Rich!

Here's one of the first poems that I ever remember liking - I'm a sucker for surprise endings:

Richard Corey
by Edwin Arlington Robinson

"Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favoured, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head."

Back to the basics

Ok, I've decided to pull all my own stuff in case I manage to blackmail someone into publishing anything. Publishers like it they are the first ones to publish a piece, so it'll make things easier for me. I suppose if I'd had a loyal following - I'd even settle for ANY following - I'd probably leave everything up, provided they were interested in my work and not the works of the masters that I mostly reprint here. So, as the title of this post goes, its back to the basics - I'll only be reprinting those pieces from literature that I really enjoy and want to hold on to. Hopefully, I won't be infringing on any copyrights - the deader and older the better anyway, I say. And with that said, here's something to help strike the old tone anew:

Unnamed poem written to please the audience
during a scene change in a stage performance
of Animal Crackers,
by
Julius Henry Marx (aka, Groucho)

Did you ever sit and ponder as you walk along the strand,
That life's a bitter battle at the best,
And if you only knew it and would lend a helping hand,
That every man can meet the final test.
The world is but a stage, my friend,
And life is but a game;
And how you play is all that matters in the end.
For whether a man is right or wrong a woman gets the blame;
And your mother is your dog's best friend.
Then up come mighty Casey and strode up to the bat,
And Sheridan was fifty miles away.
For it takes a heap of loving to make a home like that,
On the road where the flying fishes play.
So be a real-life Pagliacc' and laugh, clown, laugh.

*Self-fulfilling Prophecy Alert*

Regarding my last post - I wrote that while my wife was out of town for 5 days. That very night after I got home, I ordered pizza with extra cheese, sausage, pepperoni and green peppers. I then ate most of it. I then was sick for the next two days with a temperature that hovered somewhere over 100, diarrhea, violent shivering which forced me to sit down while going tinkle, inability to eat anything, etc. I'm guessing it was food poisoning. But hey get this: my wife comes home on Wednesday night to a house that's a mess, dishes piled up, food containers out, litter-box filled up, etc. etc. All I'll say is that she was pretty angry... So there you go: I'm still a sluggard.

The Sluggard - Isaac Watts

Before meeting my wife, I came very close to the subject of this narative poem. I like narative poems - I like a good story, what can I say? Anyway, if not for my wife, I'd spend 24x7 playing Everquest, reading fantasy novels, infrequently showering, eating bad food all the time, living with relatives, etc. So there's one for marriage.

The Sluggard
by Isaac Watts
from Divine Songs for Children

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
"You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again."
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me,"
This man's but a picture of what I might be:
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.

The embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffett - Guy Wetmore Carryl

This Guy's great (heh). I just discovered and read 3 similar poems and they're all great. Apparently he published a book called "Fables for the Frivolous" with a lot of poems like this. Kind of reminds me of the Politically Correct fairy tale books that came out a few years ago. Same sort of humor. He also reminds me of W.S. Gilbert with the little asides and and the rythem.

The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffett
by Guy Wetmore Carryl (1873-1904)

LITTLE Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet,
(Which never occurred to the rest of us)
And, as 'twas a June day, and just about noonday,
She wanted to eat--like the rest of us:
Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say
It is wholesome and people grow fat on it.
The spot being lonely, the lady not only
Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it.

A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled,
As rivulets always are thought to do,
And dragon flies sported around and cavorted,
As poets say dragon flies ought to do;
When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied
A horrible sight that brought fear to her,
A hideous spider was sitting beside her,
And most unavoidably near to her!

Albeit unsightly, this creature politely Said:
"Madam, I earnestly vow to you,
I'm penitent that I did not bring my hat.
I Should otherwise certainly bow to you."
Thought anxious to please, he was so ill at ease
That he lost all his sense of propriety,
And grew so inept that he clumsily stept
In her plate--which is barred in Society.

This curious error completed her terror;
She shuddered, and growing much paler, not
Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet
Which doubled him up in a sailor knot.
It should be explained that at this he was pained:
He cried: "I have vexed you, no doubt of it!
Your fists's like a truncheon." "You're still in my luncheon,"
Was all that she answered. "Get out of it!"

And the Moral is this: Be it madam or miss
To whom you have something to say,
You are only absurd when you get in the curd
But you're rude when you get in the whey.

The Clod and the Pebble - William Blake

Here's a gem of wisdom that applies to everyone from any time in history. I'll let you the reader (are there any readers here?) figure it out, which is more fun and more meaningful in the long run. Enjoy.

The Clod and the Pebble
by William blake, 1794

"Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

Ballad: To Phoebe - W.S. Gilbert

This is an absolutely ridiculous poem by one of my favorites, W.S. Gilbert. Its from a collection of poems called "the Bab Ballads" that he published under the pen-name "Bab" in the magazine "Fun" starting in 1861. These were apart from his partnership with Arthur S. Sullivan, to make a few bucks. I wonder if any of those issues of Fun are still around, and who I'd have to kill to get one.

Ballad: TO PHOEBE,
by William S. Gilbert

"GENTLE, modest little flower,
Sweet epitome of May,
Love me but for half an hour,
Love me, love me, little fay."
Sentences so fiercely flaming
In your tiny shell-like ear,
I should always be exclaiming
If I loved you, PHOEBE dear.

"Smiles that thrill from any distance
Shed upon me while I sing!
Please ecstaticize existence,
Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!"
Words like these, outpouring sadly
You'd perpetually hear,
If I loved you fondly, madly; -
But I do not, PHOEBE dear.

King of The Road - Miller Roger

You know what its like when you're listening to the radio, and a song comes on that you've heard before but always flipped past 5 seconds in and never appreciated? Then, one day, you leave it on and listen to the words and Eureka! You like the song. Here's one I heard today on MX driving into work with my wife. I love the craggy, disheveled image it gives me, of a gentler time when bums were called "hobos". There's something a little magical about a hobo, a drifter. Something completely lacking among the shakey crack-heads that try to grab your attention on seemingly every sidewalk in DC.


King of The Road,
by Miller Roger

Trailer for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but..two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.

Third boxcar, midnight train
Destination...Bangor, Maine.
Old worn out clothes and shoes,
I don't pay no union dues,
I smoke old stogies I have found
Short, but not too big around
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.

I know every engineer on every train
All of their children, and all of their names
And every handout in every town
And every lock that ain't locked
When no one's around.

I sing,
Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let, fifty cents
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but, two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.

If I should die - Ben King

I love this poem. Its funny. And anyone whose ever loaned money to someone before knows how the debt nags at you like something caught between your teeth. You don't want to nag, but you want your money. Or you want the issue resolved and don't want to come out looking like a sucker.

If I Should Die,
by Ben King

IF I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and say,
Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay--
If I should die to-night,
And you should come in deepest grief and woe--
And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"
I might arise in my large white cravat
And say, "What's that?"

If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,
I say, if I should die to-night
And you should come to me, and there and then
Just even hint 'bout payin' me that ten,
I might arise the while,
But I'd drop dead again.

Great poetry site

You'll find tons of collected works - complete and "best of" - as well as originals from folks like you and me. If you love poetry, I highly recommend that you visit The Poetry Lover's Page.

Once by the Pacific

I just read this one today. Wonderful imagery, neet ideas - like the last part, which I won't ruin for you. Its a short read, hang in there.

Once by the Pacific,
Robert Frost

The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.

A fell inscription...

by Sauron

Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,
ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

(translated)
One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them,
one ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.

The City in the Sea

This poem was originally published as "The Doomed City", a title which I like more than "The City in the Sea". However, I like the changes in the final version for the most part. There are a few great lines in the old one, which you can read here.

The City in the Sea
Edgar Allan Poe

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes–up spires–up kingly halls-
Up fanes–up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave–there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

Dear Doctor, I Have Read Your Play

Now here's a rejection letter that I would have loved to have gotten, way back when I was trying to get my short stories published. I can't fully appreciate half of the swipes he's taking at the talent back then (I'd have to be a real scholar), but I can enough to enjoy it.

Dear Doctor, I Have Read Your Play
By Lord Byron, published 1830

Dear Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,
Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.
I like your moral and machinery;
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery!
Your dialogue is apt and smart;
The play's concoction full of art;
Your hero raves, your heroine cries,
All stab, and everybody dies;
In short, your tragedy would be
The very thing to hear and see;
And for a piece of publication,
If I decline on this occasion,
It is not that I am not sensible
To merits in themselves ostensible,
But--and I grieve to speak it--plays
Are drugs--mere drugs, Sir, nowadays.
I had a heavy loss by Manuel --
Too lucky if it prove not annual--
And Sotheby, with his damn'd Orestes
(Which, by the way, the old bore's best is),
Has lain so very long on hand
That I despair of all demand;
I've advertis'd--but see my books,
Or only watch my shopman's looks;
Still Ivan , Ina and such lumber
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.
There's Byron too, who once did better,
Has sent me--folded in a letter--
A sort of--it's no more a drama
Than Darnley , Ivan or Kehama :
So alter'd since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice,
Or drain'd his brains away as stallion
To some dark-eyed and warm Italian;
In short, Sir, what with one and t'other,
I dare not venture on another.
I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
The coaches through the street so thunder!
My room's so full; we've Gifford here
Reading MSS with Hookham Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
Of some of our forthcoming articles,
The Quarterly --ah, Sir, if you
Had but the genius to review!
A smart critique upon St. Helena,
Or if you only would but tell in a
Short compass what--but, to resume;
As I was saying, Sir, the room--
The room's so full of wits and bards,
Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres and Wards,
And others, neither bards nor wits--
My humble tenement admits
All persons in the dress of Gent.,
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.
A party dines with me today,
All clever men who make their way:
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton and Chantrey
Are all partakers of my pantry.
They're at this moment in discussion
On poor De Sta{:e}l's late dissolution.
Her book, they say, was in advance--
Pray Heaven she tell the truth of France!
'Tis said she certainly was married
To Rocca, and had twice miscarried,
No--not miscarried, I opine--
But brought to bed at forty nine.
Some say she died a Papist; some
Are of opinion that's a hum;
I don't know that--the fellow, Schlegel,
Was very likely to inveigle
A dying person in compunction
To try the extremity of unction.
But peace be with her! for a woman
Her talents surely were uncommon.
Her publisher (and public too)
The hour of her demise may rue,
For never more within his shop he--
Pray--was she not interr'd at Coppet?
Thus run our time and tongues away;
But, to return, Sir, to your play;
Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal,
Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill.
My hands are full--my head so busy,
I'm almost dead--and always dizzy;
And so, with endless truth and hurry,
Dear Doctor, I am yours,

JOHN MURRAY

"Merry Inn" Song

Yep, I'm reading The Lord of the Rings again. Specifically, an edition containing all three books, and recently signed by Alan Lee himself (who illustrated it throughout). Here's a great song that even non-Tolkien fans might find somewhat recognizable.


'Merry Inn' Song
by J.R.R Tolkien

There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill.

The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he runs his bow,
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
now sawing in the middle.

The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.

They also keep a hornéd cow
as proud as any queen;
But music turns her head like ale,
And makes her wave her tufted tail
and dance upon the green.

And O! the rows of silver dishes
and the store of silver spoons!
For Sunday there's a special pair,
And these they polish up with care
on Saturday afternoons.

The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
The cow in the garden madly pranced,
and the little dog chased his tail.

The Man in the Moon took another mug,
and rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
Till in the sky the stars were pale,
and dawn was in the air.

Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:
"The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master's been and drowned his wits,
and the Sun'll be rising soon!"

So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead:
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:
"It's after three!" he said.

They rolled the Man slowly up the hill
and bundled him into the Moon,
While his horses galloped up in rear,
And the cow came capering like a deer,
and a dish ran up with the spoon.

Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor.

With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!
the cow jumped over the Moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run
with the silver Sunday spoon.

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,
as the Sun raised up her head.
She hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her suprise
they all went back to bed.

The Bear

This poem has always seemed to be two poems in one. It begins about a bear, and ends about mankind. The part about the bear seems to stand on its own; likewise the second part. The first is a whimsical, literary snapshot of an amazing character, The Bear. The second exposes Man, out of touch with nature, unappreciative and twisted. I sort of enjoy the part about the bear more.

The Bear
by Robert Frost

THE BEAR
The bear puts both arms around the tree above her
And draws it down as if it were a lover
And its choke cherries lips to kiss good-bye,
Then lets it snap back upright in the sky.
Her next step rocks a boulder on the wall
(She's making her cross-country in the fall).
Her great weight creaks the barbed-wire in its staples
As she flings over and off down through the maples,
Leaving on one wire moth a lock of hair.
Such is the uncaged progress of the bear.
The world has room to make a bear feel free;
The universe seems cramped to you and me.
Man acts more like the poor bear in a cage
That all day fights a nervous inward rage
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
He paces back and forth and never rests
The me-nail click and shuffle of his feet,
The telescope at one end of his beat
And at the other end the microscope,
Two instruments of nearly equal hope,
And in conjunction giving quite a spread.
Or if he rests from scientific tread,
'Tis only to sit back and sway his head
Through ninety odd degrees of arc, it seems,
Between two metaphysical extremes.
He sits back on his fundamental butt
With lifted snout and eyes (if any) shut,
(lie almost looks religious but he's not),
And back and forth he sways from cheek to cheek,
At one extreme agreeing with one Greek
At the other agreeing with another Greek
Which may be thought, but only so to speak.
A baggy figure, equally pathetic
When sedentary and when peripatetic.

The Lama

This poem's short and sweet. It actually came up in conversation today. I was trying to annoy this woman at work: I told her that the people in the movie Alive should have tied llamas to the plane and forced them to tow them out. She said,"If they had llamas they could have eaten them." I took this somewhat witty comeback to mean "eaten them instead of each other", and replied, "Well, it depends on what kind of llamas you're talking about - a 1-l, a 2-l, etc." As she counted on her fingers and crossed her eyes in concentration, I recited the following poem by way of explanation. It was fun, though I'm sure everyone at the table (we were at lunch) thought I was a dork.

The Lama,
by Ogden Nash

The one-l lama,
He's a priest.
The two-l llama,
He's a beast.
And I will bet
A silk pajama
There isn't any
Three-l lllama.

Fairies' Song

I like this one because the language is clever and quick.

Fairies' Song
by
James Henry Leigh Hunt
(Translation of a Latin poem by Thomas Randolph)

We the fairies blithe and antic
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter;
Stolen kisses much completer;
Stolen looks are nice in chapels;
Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world are bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling
Were it not for the stealing, stealing.

Playthings - an internet exclusive!

Here's an amazing poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. And get this - as of 12/20/04, this poem does NOT appear in any Google or Yahoo search that I've done, and I searched on every uniquely recognizable line. Which is pretty amazing because, 1) Its a great poem, and 2) Its by a famous writer. So here you go, a world exclusive (sort of):

Playthings,
by Robert Louis Stevenson

The streets are full of human toys,
Wound up for threescore years;
Their springs are hungers, hopes and joys,
And jealousies and fears.

They move their eyes, their lips, their hands;
They are marvelously dressed;
And here my body stirs or stands,
A plaything like the rest.

The toys are played with till they fall,
Worn out and thrown away.
Why were they ever made at all!
Who sits to watch them play!

The Hangman

I read this one in the 7th grade. I think it may have been the first poem that I'd read which I could actually understand - and cared to understand, at that. It was dark and spooky, and thus enjoyable by a weird 7th grader like me. That and the message was very simple - and powerful.

The Hangman,
by Maurice Ogden

Into our town the Hangman came
Smelling of gold and blood and flame
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air
And he built his frame on the courthouse square.

The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide,
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.

And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime,
The Hangman judged with the yellow twist
Of knotted hemp in his busy fist.

And innocent though we were, with dread
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead;
Till one cried, "Hangman,who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?"

And a twinkl grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply;
He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree."

And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land
And we breathed again, for another's grief,
At the Hangman's hand was our relief.

And the gallows frame on the courthouse lawn
By tommow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his hangman's cloak.

The next day's sun looked down
On the roof and street in our quiet town
And, stark and black in the morning air,
The gallows-tree on the courthouse square.

And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and businesslike.

And we cried: "Hangman, have you not done,
Yesterday with the alien one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed;
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised..."

He laughed as he looked at us;
"...Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch the rope when the rope is new."

Then one cried "Murderer!" One cried "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"With him that was meat for the gallows tree?"

And he laid hid hand on that one's arm,
And we shrank back in quick alarm
And we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of fear of his hangman's cloak.

That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute
The gallows-tree had taken root.

Now as wide or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up the courthouse wall.

The third he took - - we had all heard tell - -
Was a userer and infidel,
And: "What," said the Hangman, "have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"

And we cried out: "Is this the one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a cleaver scheme
To try the strength of the gallows-beam."

The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
And: "What concern", he gave us back,
"Have you for the doomed - - the doomed and Black?"

The fith. The sixth. And we cried again:
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said, "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap swings slow."

And so we ceased and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score;
And by sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.

The wings of the scaffold
Till they covered the square from side to side ;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast it's shadow accross the town.

Then through the town the Hangman came
And he called in the empty streets MY NAME - -
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall
And thought: "There is no one left at all,

For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree."
And I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.

He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town,
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.

And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap
And it sprang down with a ready snap - -
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.

"You tricked me Hangman!" I shouted then,
"That your scaffold was built for other men . . .
And I no henchman of yours", I cried.
"You lied to me, Hangman, foully lied!"

Then a twinkle grew in his buckshot eye:
"Lied to you?" "Tricked you?" he said, "Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true:
The scaffold was raised for none but you."

"For who has served more faithfully
Than you with your cowards hope?" said he,
"And where are the others who might have stood
Side by side in the common good?"

"Dead," I whispered: and amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me:
"First the alien, then the Jew . . .
I did no more than you let me do."

Beneath the beam that blocked the sky,
None stood so alone as I - -
And the Hangman strapped me and no voice there
Cried "STAY!" for me in the empty square.

The Conqueror Worm

I became interested in Poe during my "young angst" days.

The Conqueror Worm
by Edgar Allen Poe

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama–oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!–it writhes!–with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out–out are the lights–out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Sea Fever

I dedicate this to a friend who will be sailing in New Zealand next year.

Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

from The Mikado

I forget which one wrote the music and which the words. Either way, their lyrics are inspired works of genius. The following read is a landmine for the tongue to walk through - be careful.

from The Mikado
by Gilbert and Sullivan

To sit in solemn silence in a dull dark dock
In a pestilential prison with a life long lock
Awaiting the sensation of a short sharp shock
From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.

Lydia the Tattooed Lady

Forget Waldo, have you seen Lydia?

Sung by Groucho (Lyrics by E.Y. Harburg)
Lydia the Tattooed lady

Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
and a torso even more so.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is The Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it, The Wreck of the Hesperus too.
And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!

La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.

When her robe is unfurled she will show you the world,
if you step up and tell her where.
For a dime you can see Kankakee or Paree,
or Washington crossing The Delaware.

La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.

Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
When her muscles start relaxin',
up the hill comes Andrew Jackson.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of them all.
For two bits she will do a mazurka in jazz,
with a view of Niagara that nobody has.
And on a clear day you can see Alcatraz.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!

La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.

Come along and see Buffalo Bill with his lasso.
Just a little classic by Mendel Picasso.
Here is Captain Spaulding exploring the Amazon.
Here's Godiva, but with her pajamas on.

La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.

Here is Grover Whelan unveilin' The Trilon.
Over on the west coast we have Treasure Isle-on.
Here's Nijinsky a-doin' the rhumba.
Here's her social security numba.

La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la.

Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Champ of them all.
She once swept an Admiral clear off his feet.
The ships on her hips made his heart skip a beat.
And now the old boy's in command of the fleet,
for he went and married Lydia!

I said Lydia...
(He said Lydia...)
They said Lydia...
We said Lydia, la, la!

Departmental

This one describes how I feel at work, living in a city, among people, etc. I wonder why?

Departmental
by Robert Frost

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn't with such.
He gave it scarcely a touch,
And was off on his duty run.
Yet if he encountered one
Of the hive's enquiry squad
Whose work is to find out God
And the nature of time and space,
He would put him onto the case.
Ants are a curious race;
One crossing with hurried tread
The body of one of their dead
Isn't given a moment's arrest-
Seems not even impressed.
But he no doubt reports to any
With whom he crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report
To the higher-up at court.
Then word goes forth in Formic:
"Death's come to Jerry McCormic,
Our selfless forager Jerry.
Will the special Janizary
Whose office it is to bury
The dead of the commissary
Go bring him home to his people.
Lay him in state on a sepal.
Wrap him for shroud in a petal.
Embalm him with ichor of nettle.
This is the word of your Queen."
And presently on the scene
Appears a solemn mortician;
And taking formal position,
With feelers calmly atwiddle,
Seizes the dead by the middle,
And heaving him high in air,
Carries him out of there.
No one stands round to stare.
It is nobody else's affair
It couldn't be called ungentle
But how thoroughly departmental

Heather Ale: A Galloway Legend

Have I ever mentioned to you my favorite beer? No?! Well, never you fret: its Fraoch Heather Ale - a ancient, Scottish brew once drunk by Vikings and awesome people in general. It uses heather and bog myrtle in place of hops. You can buy it at Total Wine, at least in VA. Also Fresh Fields has been known to carry it. Here's a great poem by Robert Louis Stevenson about this legendary brew:

Heather Ale: A Galloway Legend
by Robert Louis Stevenson

From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father -
Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink -
"I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take HIM, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten; -
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.

"True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale."

The cow in apple time - My favorite Robert Frost poem

The cow in apple time
Robert Frost

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

Incoming!

I'm going to cut/paste all the poems from my other site, drudgeblog.blogspot.com, here as soon as I can. I'm at work, so I might get interrupted along the way. Be prepared for the hottest, wildest poetic action seen on any medium, anywhere on the planet. Its so hot, it'll make you want to beat up your kid sister. You've been warned!