ladylinda
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July
Jul 8, 2014 14:55:23 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 8, 2014 14:55:23 GMT -5
No Beer No Work
Ellis Parker Butler
The shades of night was fallin’ slow As through New York a guy did go And nail on ev’ry barroom door A card that this here motter bore: “No beer, no work.”
His brow was sad, his mouth was dry; It was the first day of July, And where, all parched and scorched it hung, These words was stenciled on his tongue: “No beer, no work.”
“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and sup This malted milk from this here cup.” A shudder passed through that there guy, But with a moan he made reply: “No beer, no work.”
At break of day, as through the town The milkman put milk bottles down, Onto one stoop a sort of snore Was heard, and then was heard no more— “No beer, no work.”
The poor old guy plumb dead was found And planted in the buryin’ ground, Still graspin’ in his hand of ice Them placards with this sad device: “No beer, no work.”
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 8, 2014 14:57:15 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 8, 2014 14:57:15 GMT -5
A real rarity - a poem by Jane Austen.
When Winchester races
Jane Austen
When Winchester races first took their beginning It is said the good people forgot their old Saint Not applying at all for the leave of Saint Swithin And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint.
The races however were fixed and determined The company came and the Weather was charming The Lords and the Ladies were satine'd and ermined And nobody saw any future alarming.--
But when the old Saint was informed of these doings He made but one Spring from his Shrine to the Roof Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins And then he addressed them all standing aloof.
'Oh! subjects rebellious! Oh Venta depraved When once we are buried you think we are gone But behold me immortal! By vice you're enslaved You have sinned and must suffer, ten farther he said
These races and revels and dissolute measures With which you're debasing a neighboring Plain Let them stand--You shall meet with your curse in your pleasures Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain.
Ye cannot but know my command o'er July Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry The curse upon Venta is July in showers--'.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 9, 2014 8:11:28 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 9, 2014 8:11:28 GMT -5
Dream Song 106: 28 July
John Berryman
28 July
Calmly, while sat up friendlies & made noise delight fuller than he can ready sing or studiously say, on hearing that the year had swung to pause and culminated in an abundant thing, came his Lady's birthday.
Dogs fill daylight, doing each other ill: my own in love was lugged so many blocks we had to have a vet. Comes unrepentant round the lustful mongrel again today, glaring at her bandages & locks: his bark has grit.
This screen-porch where my puppy suffers and I swarm I hope with heartless love is now towards the close of day the scene of a vision of friendlies who withstand animal nature so far as to allow grace awhile to stay.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 9, 2014 8:12:09 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 9, 2014 8:12:09 GMT -5
Intimates
D H Lawrence
Don't you care for my love? she said bitterly.
I handed her the mirror, and said: Please address these questions to the proper person! Please make all requests to head-quarters! In all matters of emotional importance please approach the supreme authority direct! -
So I handed her the mirror. And she would have broken it over my head, but she caught sight of her own reflection and that held her spellbound for two seconds while I fled.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 9, 2014 8:12:36 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 9, 2014 8:12:36 GMT -5
Summer Stars
Carl Sandburg
BEND low again, night of summer stars. So near you are, sky of summer stars, So near, a long arm man can pick off stars, Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl, So near you are, summer stars, So near, strumming, strumming, So lazy and hum-strumming.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 10, 2014 15:04:54 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 10, 2014 15:04:54 GMT -5
Summer Dawn
William Morris
Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn, Round the lone house in the midst of the corn, Speak but one word to me over the corn, Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 10, 2014 15:06:27 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 10, 2014 15:06:27 GMT -5
London in July
Amy Levy
What ails my senses thus to cheat? What is it ails the place, That all the people in the street Should wear one woman's face?
The London trees are dusty-brown Beneath the summer sky; My love, she dwells in London town, Nor leaves it in July.
O various and intricate maze, Wide waste of square and street; Where, missing through unnumbered days, We twain at last may meet!
And who cries out on crowd and mart? Who prates of stream and sea? The summer in the city's heart-- That is enough for me.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 10, 2014 15:07:04 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 10, 2014 15:07:04 GMT -5
"I loved you..."
Alexander Pushkin
I loved you, and I probably still do, And for a while the feeling may remain... But let my love no longer trouble you, I do not wish to cause you any pain. I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew, The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain - Made up a love so tender and so true As may God grant you to be loved again.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 11, 2014 15:47:58 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 11, 2014 15:47:58 GMT -5
Fishing On The Susquehanna In July
Billy Collins
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna or on any river for that matter to be perfectly honest.
Not in July or any month have I had the pleasure -- if it is a pleasure -- of fishing on the Susquehanna.
I am more likely to be found in a quiet room like this one -- a painting of a woman on the wall,
a bowl of tangerines on the table -- trying to manufacture the sensation of fishing on the Susquehanna.
There is little doubt that others have been fishing on the Susquehanna,
rowing upstream in a wooden boat, sliding the oars under the water then raising them to drip in the light.
But the nearest I have ever come to fishing on the Susquehanna was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia,
when I balanced a little egg of time in front of a painting in which that river curled around a bend
under a blue cloud-ruffled sky, dense trees along the banks, and a fellow with a red bandana
sitting in a small, green flat-bottom boat holding the thin whip of a pole.
That is something I am unlikely ever to do, I remember saying to myself and the person next to me.
Then I blinked and moved on to other American scenes of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,
even one of a brown hare who seemed so wired with alertness I imagined him springing right out of the frame.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 11, 2014 15:49:16 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 11, 2014 15:49:16 GMT -5
Exhortation: Summer 1919
Claude McKay
Through the pregnant universe rumbles life's terrific thunder, And Earth's bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break, Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder: Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, And its golden glory fills the western skies. O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise, And the foolish, even children, are made wise; For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries, Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day's for working; Sons of the seductive night, for your children's children's sake, From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard's lurking, Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, And its golden glory fills the western skies. O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, Ghosts have turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise, And the foolish, even children, are made wise; For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries, Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 11, 2014 15:49:39 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 11, 2014 15:49:39 GMT -5
Under the Harvest Moon
Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 12, 2014 9:37:35 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 12, 2014 9:37:35 GMT -5
On My Birthday July 21
Matthew Prior
I, MY dear, was born to-day-- So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne'er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say-- 'I, my dear, was born to-day.' I, my dear, was born to-day: Shall I salute the rising ray, Well-spring of all my joy and woe? Clotilda, thou alone dost know. Shall the wreath surround my hair? Or shall the music please my ear? Shall I my comrades' mirth receive, And bless my birth, and wish to live? Then let me see great Venus chase Imperious anger from thy face; Then let me hear thee smiling say-- 'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 12, 2014 9:38:04 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 12, 2014 9:38:04 GMT -5
Before Summer Rain
Rainer Maria Rilke
Suddenly, from all the green around you, something-you don't know what-has disappeared; you feel it creeping closer to the window, in total silence. From the nearby wood
you hear the urgent whistling of a plover, reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome: so much solitude and passion come from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour
will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide away from us, cautiously, as though they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.
And reflected on the faded tapestries now; the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long childhood hours when you were so afraid.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 12, 2014 9:38:35 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 12, 2014 9:38:35 GMT -5
I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart
Edna St. Vincent Millay
I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year; And you must welcome from another part Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; And I have loved you all too long and well To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring. Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes, I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, That you may hail anew the bird and rose When I come back to you, as summer comes. Else will you seek, at some not distant time, Even your summer in another clime.
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ladylinda
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July
Jul 13, 2014 17:06:25 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jul 13, 2014 17:06:25 GMT -5
Attack of the Squash People
Marge Piercy
And thus the people every year in the valley of humid July did sacrifice themselves to the long green phallic god and eat and eat and eat. They're coming, they're on us, the long striped gourds, the silky babies, the hairy adolescents, the lumpy vast adults like the trunks of green elephants. Recite fifty zucchini recipes!
Zucchini tempura; creamed soup; sauté with olive oil and cumin, tomatoes, onion; frittata; casserole of lamb; baked topped with cheese; marinated; stuffed; stewed; driven through the heart like a stake.
Get rid of old friends: they too have gardens and full trunks. Look for newcomers: befriend them in the post office, unload on them and run. Stop tourists in the street. Take truckloads to Boston. Give to your Red Cross. Beg on the highway: please take my zucchini, I have a crippled mother at home with heartburn.
Sneak out before dawn to drop them in other people's gardens, in baby buggies at churchdoors. Shot, smuggling zucchini into mailboxes, a federal offense.
With a suave reptilian glitter you bask among your raspy fronds sudden and huge as alligators. You give and give too much, like summer days limp with heat, thunderstorms bursting their bags on our heads, as we salt and freeze and pickle for the too little to come.
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