Favorite Poems

You guys are too sophisticated for me...

There once was a man from Kartoom,
Who took a lesbian up to his room.
They fought all thru the night,
Over who had the right,
To do what, with what, and to whom.

 

Alfred Lord Tennyson
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON: "Of Old Sat Freedom On the Heights"
"Of Old Sat Freedom On the Heights"
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet;
Above her shook the starry lights;
She heard the torrent meet.

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

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

Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, Godlike, grasps the triple forks,
And , king-like, wears the crown,

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

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

 

I prefer the haiku.

 

Very nice! My mother gave me this poem when I was about 16 years old; and told me that IF I were to, ever, be the man she hoped I would, someday, become then I should read it often, and do my best to duplicate the ideals.

Unfortunately, my mother was one hell of a Pharisee. I was almost 40 years old before I realized that she was the living epitome - the nonpareil par excellence - of a, 'Do as I say, but not as I do' sort of person. She never hesitated to load upon the shoulders of others: excessive requirements and workloads; or obsessive ideals, social obligations, and weighty mores that she, herself, was totally unwilling to so much as lift up a pinky finger in order to assume.

Then again, parents are largely an inevitable, 'accident of birth'. A natal consequence that can be, simultaneously, both a blessing, and a curse. Don't think that it's your fault, though. It's not! It's just who your parents happen to be.

Consequently you may, or may not, want to be like them; and Kipling's poem, 'If ' quite admirably reflects the intellectual quandary. As a boy I was unable to recognize this reality because, if I had, I would have taken Kipling's noble little poem as the subtle warning my mother had originally intended it to be!

 

The moon is shrouded.
Clouds enrobe her, torn shreds of
fetid finery.
White birch fingers snatch and claw,
envious of her raiment.

WD

Would you believe a Tanka?

 

GREAT..............YES CAN WE HAVE MORE

 

I always liked "the Highwayman" And I wish I knew who chose what we were assigned to read in school. Barely a mention of Kipling. Granted he was a Brit. I worked in maintenance for thirty-seven yeas and "The Sons of Martha" resonate with me.

 

I think that I shall never hear
A poem lovelier than beer.
The stuff that Joe's Bar has on tap,
With golden base and snowy cap.
The stuff that I can drink all day
Until my mem'ry melts away.
Poems are made by fools, I fear
But only Heineken can make a beer.

apologies to Joyce Kilmer

 

THE Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains, " Be ye removèd" They say to the lesser floods " Be dry."
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd - they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit - then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden - under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that !
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd - they know the angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet - they hear the Word - they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and - the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons !

 

1. A canner, exceedingly canny,
   One morning remarked to his granny.
   A canner can can,
   Anything that he can,
   But a canner can't can a can, can he?