ladylinda
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May
May 27, 2014 8:30:16 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 27, 2014 8:30:16 GMT -5
My Cuckoo Clock
Robert Service
I bought a cuckoo clock And glad was I To hear its tick and tock, Its dulcet cry. But Jones, whose wife is young And pretty too, Winced when that bird gave tongue: Cuckoo! Cuckoo! I have a lady friend Whom I would wed, For dalliance should end In bridal bed. Until the thought occurred: Can she be true? And then I heard that bird: Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Though ignorance is bliss And love be blind, Faithless may be the kiss Of womankind. So now sweet echoes mock My wish to woo: Confound that cursed clock! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
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ladylinda
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May
May 27, 2014 8:30:48 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 27, 2014 8:30:48 GMT -5
Cuckoos
Andrew Young
When coltsfoot withers and begins to wear Long silver locks instead of golden hair, And fat red catkins from black poplars fall And on the ground like caterpillars crawl, And bracken lifts up slender arms and wrists And stretches them, unfolding sleepy fists, The cuckoos in a few well-chosen words Tell they give Easter eggs to the small birds.
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Jessiealan
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May
May 27, 2014 15:20:47 GMT -5
Post by Jessiealan on May 27, 2014 15:20:47 GMT -5
Thank you for the Robert Service poem, Lin. He has long been one of my favorites. "The Bard of the Yukon".
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ladylinda
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May 28, 2014 10:23:19 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 28, 2014 10:23:19 GMT -5
Glad you liked the Service poem, Jessie. I've posted another couple of his on this thread!
Today's poems are about goats - here's the first.
By the Hoof of the Wild Goat
Rudyard Kipling
By the Hoof of the Wild Goat uptossed From the cliff where she lay in the Sun Fell the Stone To the Tarn where the daylight is lost, So she fell from the light of the Sun And alone!
Now the fall was ordained from the first With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn, But the Stone Knows only her life is accursed As she sinks from the light of the Sun And alone!
Oh Thou Who hast builded the World, Oh Thou Who hast lighted the Sun, Oh Thou Who hast darkened the Tarn, Judge Thou The sin of the Stone that was hurled By the goat from the light of the Sun, As she sinks in the mire of the Tarn, Even now--even now--even now!
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ladylinda
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May 28, 2014 10:23:43 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 28, 2014 10:23:43 GMT -5
The Wild Goat
Claude McKay
O you would clothe me in silken frocks And house me from the cold, And bind with bright bands my glossy locks, And buy me chains of gold;
And give me--meekly to do my will-- The hapless sons of men:-- But the wild goat bounding on the barren hill Droops in the grassy pen.
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ladylinda
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May 28, 2014 10:24:11 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 28, 2014 10:24:11 GMT -5
An Arab Shepherd Is Searching For His Goat On Mount Zion
Yehuda Amichai
An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy. An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father Both in their temporary failure. Our two voices met above The Sultan's Pool in the valley between us. Neither of us wants the boy or the goat To get caught in the wheels Of the "Had Gadya" machine.
Afterward we found them among the bushes, And our voices came back inside us Laughing and crying.
Searching for a goat or for a child has always been The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.
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ladylinda
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May 29, 2014 4:34:22 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 29, 2014 4:34:22 GMT -5
Bears in the spotlight today. Here's the first bear poem:
The Bear
Robert Frost
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.
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ladylinda
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May 29, 2014 4:34:46 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 29, 2014 4:34:46 GMT -5
Bear In There
Shel Silverstein
There's a Polar Bear In our Frigidaire-- He likes it 'cause it's cold in there. With his seat in the meat And his face in the fish And his big hairy paws In the buttery dish, He's nibbling the noodles, He's munching the rice, He's slurping the soda, He's licking the ice. And he lets out a roar If you open the door. And it gives me a scare To know he's in there-- That Polary Bear In our Fridgitydaire.
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ladylinda
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May 29, 2014 4:35:27 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 29, 2014 4:35:27 GMT -5
Teddy Bear
A.A. Milne
A bear, however hard he tries, Grows tubby without exercise. Our Teddy Bear is short and fat, Which is not to be wondered at; He gets what exercise he can By falling off the ottoman, But generally seems to lack The energy to clamber back.
Now tubbiness is just the thing Which gets a fellow wondering; And Teddy worried lots about The fact that he was rather stout. He thought: "If only I were thin! But how does anyone begin?" He thought: "It really isn't fair To grudge me exercise and air."
For many weeks he pressed in vain His nose against the window-pane, And envied those who walked about Reducing their unwanted stout. None of the people he could see "Is quite" (he said) "as fat as me!" Then with a still more moving sigh, "I mean" (he said) "as fat as I!"
Now Teddy, as was only right, Slept in the ottoman at night, And with him crowded in as well More animals than I can tell; Not only these, but books and things, Such as a kind relation brings - Old tales of "Once upon a time", And history retold in rhyme.
One night it happened that he took A peep at an old picture-book, Wherein he came across by chance The picture of a King of France (A stoutish man) and, down below, These words: "King Louis So and So, Nicknamed 'The Handsome!' " There he sat, And (think of it) the man was fat!
Our bear rejoiced like anything To read about this famous King, Nicknamed the "Handsome." Not a doubt The man was definitely stout. Why then, a bear (for all his tub) Might yet be named "The Handsome Cub!"
"Might yet be named." Or did he mean That years ago he "might have been"? For now he felt a slight misgiving: "Is Louis So and So still living? Fashions in beauty have a way Of altering from day to day. Is 'Handsome Louis' with us yet? Unfortunately I forget."
Next morning (nose to window-pane) The doubt occurred to him again. One question hammered in his head: "Is he alive or is he dead?" Thus, nose to pane, he pondered; but The lattice window, loosely shut, Swung open. With one startled "Oh!" Our Teddy disappeared below.
There happened to be passing by A plump man with a twinkling eye, Who, seeing Teddy in the street, Raised him politely on his feet, And murmured kindly in his ear Soft words of comfort and of cheer: "Well, well!" "Allow me!" "Not at all." "Tut-tut!" A very nasty fall."
Our Teddy answered not a word; It's doubtful if he even heard. Our bear could only look and look: The stout man in the picture-book! That "handsome" King - could this be he, This man of adiposity? "Impossible," he thought. "But still, No harm in asking. Yes, I will!"
"Are you," he said, "by any chance His Majesty the King of France?" The other answered, "I am that," Bowed stiffly, and removed his hat; Then said, "Excuse me," with an air "But is it Mr. Edward Bear?" And Teddy, bending very low, Replied politely, "Even so!"
They stood beneath the window there, The King and Mr. Edward Bear, And, handsome, if a trifle fat, Talked carelessly of this and that ... Then said His Majesty, "Well, well, I must get on," and rang the bell. "Your bear, I think," he smiled. "Good-day!" And turned, and went upon his way.
A bear, however hard he tries, Grows tubby without exercise. Our Teddy Bear is short and fat, Which is not to be wondered at. But do you think it worries him To know that he is far from slim? No, just the other way about - He's proud of being short and stout.
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ladylinda
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May 30, 2014 9:14:16 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 30, 2014 9:14:16 GMT -5
Today it's the turn of swallows - lovely birds and symbols of freedom among the Roma people (and if the Yiddish theatre song 'Donna, Donna' is right among the Jews too).
Here's the first swallow poem:
The Swallow
John Clare
Pretty swallow, once again Come and pass me in the rain. Pretty swallow, why so shy? Pass again my window by.
The horsepond where he dips his wings, The wet day prints it full of rings. The raindrops on his track Lodge like pearls upon his back.
Then again he dips his wing In the wrinkles of the spring, Then o’er the rushes flies again, And pearls roll off his back like rain.
Pretty little swallow, fly Village doors and windows by, Whisking o’er the garden pales Where the blackbird finds the snails;
Whewing by the ladslove tree For something only seen by thee; Pearls that on the red rose hing Fall off shaken by thy wing.
On that low thatched cottage stop, In the sooty chimney pop, Where thy wife and family Every evening wait for thee.
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ladylinda
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May 30, 2014 9:14:48 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 30, 2014 9:14:48 GMT -5
The Swallow
Thomas Aird
The swallow, bonny birdie, comes sharp twittering o’er the sea, And gladly is her carol heard for the sunny days to be; She shares not with us wintry glooms, but yet, no faithless thing, She hunts the summer o’er the earth with wearied little wing. The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon the ferny hills; Light winds are in the leafy woods, and birds, and bubbling rills; Then welcome, little swallow, by our morning lattice heard, Because thou com’st when Nature bids bright days be thy reward! Thine be sweet mornings with the bee that’s out for honey-dew; And glowing be the noontide for the grass-hopper and you; And mellow shine, o’er day’s decline, the sun to light thee home: What can molest thy airy nest? sleep till the day-spring come! The river blue that rushes through the valley hears thee sing, And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing. The thunder-cloud, over us bowed, in deeper gloom is seen, When quick reliev’d it glances to thy bosom’s silvery sheen. The silent Power, that brought thee back with leading-strings of love To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.
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ladylinda
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May 30, 2014 9:15:19 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 30, 2014 9:15:19 GMT -5
The Swallow
Andrew Young
All day – when early morning shone With every dewdrop its own dawn And when cockchafers were abroad Hurtling like missiles that had lost their road –
The Swallows twisting here and there Round unseen corners of the air Upstream and down so quickly passed I wondered that their shadows flew so fast.
They steeple-chased over the bridge And dropped down to a drowning midge Sharing the river with the fish, Although the air itself was their chief dish.
Blue-winged snowballs! until they turned And then with ruddy breasts they burned; All in one instant everywhere, Jugglers with their own bodies in the air.
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ladylinda
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May
May 31, 2014 6:21:29 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2014 6:21:29 GMT -5
For the final day in May I'm posting poems about butterflies.
Here's the first:
Blue Butterfly: Outside the Station
Margaret Willy
Among wet scabious, the beaded grassblades, And harebells weeping from the early rain, This scrap of shining dust - the washed sky’s colour – Poised like a petal, delicately spreading Ecstatic wings to drink the sun again,
Speaks a known language to the heart, returning Bleakly and blindly now, through snows and seas To the slow monotone of wheels receding For ever down time’s iron track – and bearing Joy into worlds beyond the Pleiades.
O innocent symbol of the clay’s condition – Flame-beckoned; like our loves, as brief as breath: Burn there (so frail, to cage this ache of living, Bright, quivering dust!), engraving on the vision, Steel-deep, one moment final as a death.
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ladylinda
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May 31, 2014 6:22:04 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2014 6:22:04 GMT -5
The Butterfly
Louise Gluck
Look, a butterfly. Did you make a wish?
You don't wish on butterflies.
You do so. Did you make one?
Yes.
It doesn't count.
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ladylinda
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May 31, 2014 6:22:32 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2014 6:22:32 GMT -5
Butterfly
D H Lawrence
Butterfly, the wind blows sea-ward, strong beyond the garden-wall! Butterfly, why do you settle on my shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe, Lifting your veined wings, lifting them? big white butterfly!
Already it is October, and the wind blows strong to the sea from the hills where snow must have fallen, the wind is polished with snow. Here in the garden, with red geraniums, it is warm, it is warm but the wind blows strong to sea-ward, white butterfly, content on my shoe!
Will you go, will you go from my warm house? Will you climb on your big soft wings, black-dotted, as up an invisible rainbow, an arch till the wind slides you sheer from the arch-crest and in a strange level fluttering you go out to sea-ward, white speck!
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