The Cellar - Poems- Not your own.

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- - Poems- Not your own. (http://cellar.org/showthread.php?t=16916)

Quote:

Originally Posted by Carruthers (Post 946249)

This will ring a bell with UK Dwellars.

No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds -
November!

Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

And for those of us on the shore of the Salish Sea.

I didn't send a postcard but I did bring back a couple of photos.

http://s1.postimg.org/s0qu1whgf/img2...5_17541831.jpg

http://s1.postimg.org/emicjm067/img2...5_17554126.jpg

Taken on my last trip to the US in 2004. Seems like yesterday.

So you're the one! I tried to take a picture of that and the camera flashed, "It's been done" on the screen. :eyebrow:

In Iceland children who don't do their chores don't get new clothes for Christmas,
and children without new clothes might be eaten by the Christmas cat.
As with any translated poem, it doesn't flow as smoothly as in the language it's written.
But the last eight lines sold me. ;)

Nothing like a little Christmas pussy to lighten the mood...

You Came, Too

I came to the crowd seeking friends
I came to the crowd seeking love
I came to the crowd for understanding

I found you

I came to the crowd to weep
I came to the crowd to laugh

You dried my tears
You shared my happiness

I went from the crowd seeking you
I went from the crowd seeking me
I went from the crowd forever

You came, too

by Sara Teasdale

The Duel

by Eugene Field

The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
‘T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t’ other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I was n’t there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went “Bow-wow-wow!”
And the calico cat replied “Mee-ow!”
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(Now mind: I’m only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!”
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw—
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(Don’t fancy I exaggerate—
I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
(The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)

A last will and testament in 1732.
To my dear Wife, My Joy and Life, I freely now do give her
My whole Estate, With all my Plate, Being just about to leave her.
A Tub of Soap, a long Cart Rope, A Frying-pan and Kettle,
An Ashes Pail, A threshing Flail, An iron Wedge and Beetle.
Two painted Chairs, Nine warden Pears, A large old dripping-platter,
The Bed of Hay, On which I lay, An old Sauce pan for Butter.
A little Mugg, A Two quart Jugg, A Bottle full of Brandy:
A Looking-Glass To See your Face, You'll find it very handy.
A Musket true As ever flew, A Pound of Shot & Wallet,
A Leather Sash, My Calabash, My Powder-horn & Bullets.
An old Sword blade, A Garden Spade, A Hoe, a Rake, a Ladder,
A wooden Cann, A close-stool Pan, A Clyster-pipe and Bladder.
A greasy Hat, My old Ram-Cat, a Yard and half of Linnen,
A por of Grease, A woollen Fleece, In order for your Spinning.
A small-tooth Comb, An ashen Broom, A Candlestick and Hatchet,
A Coverlid Strip'd down with Red, A Bag of Rags to patch it.
A ragged mat, A Tub of Fat; A Book put out by Bunyan,
Another Book By Robin Rook; A Skain or two of Spunyarn.
An old black Muff, Some Garden Stuff, A Quantity of Burrage,
Some Devils Weed And Burdock Seed, To season well your Porridge.
A Chafing-Dish, With one Salt Fish, If I am not mistaken,
a Leg of Pork, A broken Pork, And half a flitch of bacon.
A Spinning Wheel, One Peck of Meal, A Knife without a Handle,
A rusty Lamp, Two Quarts of Samp, A piece of Tallow-Candle.
My Pouch and Pipes, Two Oxen Tripes, An oaken Dish well carved,
My little Dog, and spotted Hog, With two young Pigs just starved.
This is my Stove, I have no more, I heartily do give it.

WW I pilots drinking song...

A young aviator lay dying
At the end of a bright summer’s day.
His comrades had gathered around him
To carry his fragments away.

The aeroplane was piled on his wishbone,
His Lewis was wrapped round his head,
He wore a spark plug in each elbow,
‘Twas plain he would shortly be dead.

He spat out a valve and a gasket
As he stirred in the sump where he lay,
And then to his wondering comrades
These brave parting words did he say:

“Take the manifold out of my larynx
And the butterfly valve off my neck.
Remove from my kidneys the camrods;
There’s a lot of good parts in this wreck.

“Take the piston rings out of my stomach,
And the cylinders out of my brain.
Extract from my liver the crankshaft,
And assemble the engine again.

“Pull the longeron out of my backbone,
The turnbuckle out of my ear,
From the small of my back take the rudder —
There’s all of your aeroplane here.”

Poetry can be handy. :haha:

Hit 'em with the book?

Today, while doing a little research on Audie Murphy for Popdigr, I discovered that Mr. Murphy was somewhat of a poet. In addition to helping write several country songs (he was country music fan, but not a musician or singer) he wrote dozens of poems. When he was living in close friend Dave McClure's apartment, McClure would often come home to find the floor littered with poems written on scraps of paper. Here are the three that didn't get thrown away:

THE CROSSES GROW ON ANZIO

Oh, gather 'round me, comrades; and
listen while I speak
Of a war, a war, a war where hell is
six feet deep.
Along the shore, the cannons roar. Oh
how can a soldier sleep?
The going's slow on Anzio. And hell is
six feet deep.

Praise be to God for this captured sod that
rich with blood does seep.
With yours and mine, like butchered
swine's; and hell is six feet deep.
That death awaits there's no debate;
no triumph will we reap.
The crosses grow on Anzio, where hell is
six feet deep.

~Audie Murphy, 1948

ALONE AND FAR REMOVED

Alone and far removed from earthly care
The noble ruins of men lie buried here.
You were strong men, good men
Endowed with youth and much the will to live.
I hear no protest from the mute lips of the dead.
They rest: there is no more to give.

So long my comrades,
Sleep ye where you fell upon the field.
But tread softly please
March O'er my heart with ease.
March on and on,
But to God alone we kneel.

~Audie Murphy, late 1940's

FREEDOM FLIES IN YOUR HEART LIKE AN EAGLE

Dusty old helmet, rusty old gun,
They sit in the corner and wait.
Two souvenirs of the Second World War
That have witnessed the time and the hate.

Mute witness to a time of much trouble
Where kill or be killed was the law.
Were these implements used with high honor?
What was the glory they saw?

Many times I've wanted to ask them...
And now that we're here, all alone,
Relics all three of that long ago war. . .
Where has freedom gone?

Freedom flies in your heart like an eagle.
Let it soar with the winds high above
Among the Spirits of soldiers now sleeping.
Guard with care and with love.

I salute my old friends in the corner.
I agree with all they have said . . .
And if the moment of truth comes tomorrow,
I'll be free, or by God, I'll be dead!

~Audie Murphy, 1968

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