Monday, September 5, 2011
Why We Do This
Hello everyone, Below is a letter I just received from Chris Harmer, an American friend on his second tour in the Peace Corps after a 30+ years hiatus. He was in Thailand the first time and now is working on a hydraulic project in Mali. He is asking people to send a poem or short piece ofyour favorite prose for a friend of his who is studying English and likes to to memorize poetry. Chris explains all in his short letter below. I am sending this on to over 100 people on my mailing list (including teachers, doctors, vagabonds, lawyers, cops, soldiers, right wing, left wing, rich and poor) because I think the poem is a neat and inexpensive gift to give and it gives us all a few minutes to reflect on something besides the oil spill, the wars, the mortgage crisis etc. Instead it offers us a chance to reflect on the things that give us meaning and time to look at some good things in the life around us. If you wish, you can copy your poem to me, and maybe a brief comment. I'll compile the poems and comments and send the collection back to you. This is going out to Argentina, Canada, U.S., Rwanda, England, Germany, Australia, and many other places. Let's see what comes back. All the best to all of you. Hoping you have time to respond. Have fun. George Brose Send your thoughts to Chris Harmer at the address below and backto me.
Friends,
an odd but possibly enjoyable request from your friend in west africa....
I am tutoring a really nice guy who worked his way up to be a diesel mechanic, and then blew that off to come to the country and work as a primary school teacher. He is trying to improve his quite passable english so he can test well enough to prepare to teach english in middle school. He teaches French. English is his 5th language...
The Malian educational system has its roots in the French colonial system, which unfortunately relies much more on memorization, or "recitation" than ours does today. The good side of that is he enjoys memorizing prose and poetry that gives a sense of our dreams and aspirations, of how-- in our best moments--life can and should be lived. He has asked me to ask you (knowing so well I am an uncouth lout with but little regard for such things) to send your favorite, most meaingful poem or prose (I'll add song lyrics), or chunk thereof . I think something in the 20-50 lines would be right, and remember, he's been memorizing French poets, so this is not Doctor Seuss-level stuff (send that for me).
He tests in August. If you have something, please e-mail it before the 1st of July.
My next missive will come later in the summer, but all is busy, hard, and interesting and every day is a surprise.
Love
Chris
Thx
Monday, September 5, 2011
Spirit unknown
Spirit
I know not whether middle age can fight again to win
'Tis possible that youth alone can sand the battle's din,
Perhaps man's courage fades with time and 60 is too late
To have to start a second bout with all the odds of fate.
But this I know: that man islost,
thogh young or old he be.
Who says: I'm sure it's vain to try;
that task is too hard for me.
But long ago was failure known, and in history appears
An endless tales of men who rose
to fame when old in years.
One fact of life is sure and 'tis the weakling soonest dies,
And in the dust that man must stay who will not try to rise.
Too old to start anew? Ah, no!
While health and will remain,
Time locks no door against the man
who wants to start again!
Though some from thinning brows may turn,
By history is it told,
Full many a task has been done
by men the world called old.
'Tis not the years that cut us down,
but fear and failing will,
And who has spirit for the fight may live to conquer still.
I know not whether middle age can fight again to win
'Tis possible that youth alone can sand the battle's din,
Perhaps man's courage fades with time and 60 is too late
To have to start a second bout with all the odds of fate.
But this I know: that man islost,
thogh young or old he be.
Who says: I'm sure it's vain to try;
that task is too hard for me.
But long ago was failure known, and in history appears
An endless tales of men who rose
to fame when old in years.
One fact of life is sure and 'tis the weakling soonest dies,
And in the dust that man must stay who will not try to rise.
Too old to start anew? Ah, no!
While health and will remain,
Time locks no door against the man
who wants to start again!
Though some from thinning brows may turn,
By history is it told,
Full many a task has been done
by men the world called old.
'Tis not the years that cut us down,
but fear and failing will,
And who has spirit for the fight may live to conquer still.
Inside Where I Live by Marie Brose from Marie Brose
INSIDE WHERE I LIVE
Sometimes I feel so alive inside
Like creation has been through six days
And is headed toward the seventh
All inside where I live.
And there has been darkness and is light
And multiplied fits the feeling
As if there are multifarious facets of
Deeper awakenings to all sorts of connections.
All that has been created is alive in me
And I feel awakened to more than I knew
For I am a part of the tiniest creation
And like new.
Sometimes I feel so alive inside
Like creation has been through six days
And is headed toward the seventh
All inside where I live.
And there has been darkness and is light
And multiplied fits the feeling
As if there are multifarious facets of
Deeper awakenings to all sorts of connections.
All that has been created is alive in me
And I feel awakened to more than I knew
For I am a part of the tiniest creation
And like new.
Abou Ben Adhem by James Henry Leigh Hunt from Trudy Abrams
Abou Ben Adhem (James Henry Leigh Hunt, 1784-1859)
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Invictus by William Ernest Henley, The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, Oh Captain, My Captain by Walt Whitman, Unwanted Compensation by Trudy Abrams from Trudy Abrams
Hi George,
Attached are a few poems... three favorites from my childhood that I always thought amazing for the rhythm (meter), rhyme and other poetic devices, and a short original (no match for the others, but with some meter and emotion, and more whimsy).
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to revisit and reread those old favorites! I downloaded them from the Internet and did only minor reformatting; hope they are useful for your purposes.
Cheers and Regards,
Trudy
Invictus (William Ernest Henley, 1849–1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the Shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
The Highwayman (Alfred Noyes, 1880-1958)
Part One
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
O Captain! My Captain! (Walt Whitman, 1819–1892)
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Unwanted Compensation (TQSA)
Rich died and I became a great poet.
But I went and found Erato and I said
Listen,
Take back your Inspiration or Expiration or Exasperation,
Or whatever it is you give me.
I don't want to be a poet.
I don't even want to be a Great Poet.
I just want Rich.
But The Great Muse said, It's not a trade.
Think of it as side effect, or compensation,
Whatever.
I can't bring Rich back, I can't undo death.
I can't change the way things are and
I don't even care.
And I lay down and sobbed and cried,
And cursed and beat the earth, because
I knew
I could have been a great poet
Without Rich dying.
Attached are a few poems... three favorites from my childhood that I always thought amazing for the rhythm (meter), rhyme and other poetic devices, and a short original (no match for the others, but with some meter and emotion, and more whimsy).
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to revisit and reread those old favorites! I downloaded them from the Internet and did only minor reformatting; hope they are useful for your purposes.
Cheers and Regards,
Trudy
Invictus (William Ernest Henley, 1849–1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the Shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
The Highwayman (Alfred Noyes, 1880-1958)
Part One
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
O Captain! My Captain! (Walt Whitman, 1819–1892)
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Unwanted Compensation (TQSA)
Rich died and I became a great poet.
But I went and found Erato and I said
Listen,
Take back your Inspiration or Expiration or Exasperation,
Or whatever it is you give me.
I don't want to be a poet.
I don't even want to be a Great Poet.
I just want Rich.
But The Great Muse said, It's not a trade.
Think of it as side effect, or compensation,
Whatever.
I can't bring Rich back, I can't undo death.
I can't change the way things are and
I don't even care.
And I lay down and sobbed and cried,
And cursed and beat the earth, because
I knew
I could have been a great poet
Without Rich dying.
Aids Aids by Jared Ouma Jomo age 10 from David Zarembka Turbo, Kenya
Double Joy is an orphanage in Nyanza Province on the shore of Lake Victoria. It was founded and is run by a retired English woman named, Mary Hinde. Her daughter, Crissie Hinde, is a Friend from Sheffield, England. The orphanage is "double" because it means that both parents must have died, many I suspect of AIDS. There are 90 orphans living there. Their latest newsletter included the poem below, written by one of the orphans. I liked it and thought I would send it on to you for your thoughts.
Peace,
Dave
--
Webpage: www.aglifpt.org
Email: dave@aglifpt.org
David Zarembka, Coordinator
African Great Lakes Initiative of the Friends Peace Teams
P. O. Box 189, Kipkarren River 50241 Kenya
Phone in Kenya: 254 (0)726 590 783 in US: 240/543-1172
Office in US:1001 Park Avenue, St Louis, MO 63104 USA 314/647-1287
Poem by Jared Ouma Jomo - age 10 years
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Are you a bird?
Are you an insect?
Are you a big squary animal?
What do you want from us?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Do you have ears and hear us cry?
Do you have a head or a heart?
Where are you coming from?
What colour are you?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone.
Peace,
Dave
--
Webpage: www.aglifpt.org
Email: dave@aglifpt.org
David Zarembka, Coordinator
African Great Lakes Initiative of the Friends Peace Teams
P. O. Box 189, Kipkarren River 50241 Kenya
Phone in Kenya: 254 (0)726 590 783 in US: 240/543-1172
Office in US:1001 Park Avenue, St Louis, MO 63104 USA 314/647-1287
Poem by Jared Ouma Jomo - age 10 years
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Are you a bird?
Are you an insect?
Are you a big squary animal?
What do you want from us?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Do you have ears and hear us cry?
Do you have a head or a heart?
Where are you coming from?
What colour are you?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone.
Bald Is Beautiful from Michelle St. Denis St. Adele, Quebec
Salut George,
Si j ai bien compris, tu veux un poeme en langue anglaise. ]The Doctor is blad
Un medecin chauve porte ce T-Shirt ce matin:
Advice from an eagle ( The Americain bald Eagle)
Let your spirit soar
See the big picture
Cherish freedom
Honor the earth and sky
Keep your goals in sight
Bald is beautiful
ciao
Michelle
Si j ai bien compris, tu veux un poeme en langue anglaise. ]The Doctor is blad
Un medecin chauve porte ce T-Shirt ce matin:
Advice from an eagle ( The Americain bald Eagle)
Let your spirit soar
See the big picture
Cherish freedom
Honor the earth and sky
Keep your goals in sight
Bald is beautiful
ciao
Michelle
Prayer to the Masks by Leopold Senghor from Richard Niemi Liberty , IN
PRAYER TO THE MASKS
Masks! Oh Masks!
Black mask, red mask, you black and white masks,
Rectangular masks through whom the spirit breathes,
I greet you in silence!
And not you the last, lion-headed Ancestor
You guard this place, that is forbidden to all laughter of woman, to any mortal smile.
You purify the air of eternity, here where I breathe the air of my fathers.
Masks of maskless faces, free from dimples and wrinkles.
You have composed this image, this face of mine that bends
over the altar of white paper.
In the name of your image, listen to me!
Behold, Africa of the empires is dying – it is the agony of a pitiable princess,
Just like Europe to whom she is connected through the navel.
Fix your immutable eyes upon your children who have been called
And who sacrifice their lives like the poor man his last garment.
May we answer Present at the rebirth of the world
As the leaven which is necessary to the white flour.
For who else would teach rhythm to the dead world of machines and cannons?
Who would raise the cry of joy to awaken the dead and the orphans in a new dawn?
Speak, who could restore the memory of life to men without hope?
They call us the men of cotton, of coffee, of oil.
They call us the men of death.
But we are the men of dance whose feet regain vigor in striking the hard earth.
-- Leopold Sedar Senghor
Masks! Oh Masks!
Black mask, red mask, you black and white masks,
Rectangular masks through whom the spirit breathes,
I greet you in silence!
And not you the last, lion-headed Ancestor
You guard this place, that is forbidden to all laughter of woman, to any mortal smile.
You purify the air of eternity, here where I breathe the air of my fathers.
Masks of maskless faces, free from dimples and wrinkles.
You have composed this image, this face of mine that bends
over the altar of white paper.
In the name of your image, listen to me!
Behold, Africa of the empires is dying – it is the agony of a pitiable princess,
Just like Europe to whom she is connected through the navel.
Fix your immutable eyes upon your children who have been called
And who sacrifice their lives like the poor man his last garment.
May we answer Present at the rebirth of the world
As the leaven which is necessary to the white flour.
For who else would teach rhythm to the dead world of machines and cannons?
Who would raise the cry of joy to awaken the dead and the orphans in a new dawn?
Speak, who could restore the memory of life to men without hope?
They call us the men of cotton, of coffee, of oil.
They call us the men of death.
But we are the men of dance whose feet regain vigor in striking the hard earth.
-- Leopold Sedar Senghor
From the Inaugural Address of John F. Kennedy from Harvey Paige Yellow Springs, OH
Per George's forwarding of your request, I am sending the last lines of JFK's inaugural speech. It seems particularly appropriate for your situation, not least because of the founding and early leadership of the Peace Corps by JFK and his family/administration. I would also suggest parts of Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech.
Good luck with your return engagement with PC. I also tried, but could not get past the medical approval.
Best regards.
Harvey Paige
From the Inaugural Address of John F. Kennedy, January 20, 1961
In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility—I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it—and the glow from that fire can truly light the world. 24
And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country. 25
My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man. 26
Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own.
Good luck with your return engagement with PC. I also tried, but could not get past the medical approval.
Best regards.
Harvey Paige
From the Inaugural Address of John F. Kennedy, January 20, 1961
In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility—I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it—and the glow from that fire can truly light the world. 24
And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country. 25
My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man. 26
Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own.
Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas , Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost , A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes, The Little Boy and the Old Man by Shel Silverstein and Sonnet 116 by Wm. Shalespeare from Richard Niemi Liberty , Indiana
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
The Little Boy and the Old Man
by Shel Silverstein
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
Sonnet 116
by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
The Little Boy and the Old Man
by Shel Silverstein
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
Sonnet 116
by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Eelegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray from Stephen Morelock , Arizona
Among my favorite lines, moreso since we have moved to Arizona, are:
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
From "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard," by Thomas Gray's (1817-1871). The rest of the poem is Googable, but not as memorable.
For those who wish to see the poem a complet
Chris here is the complete Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.
Thomas Gray's Elegy
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care,
No children run to lisp their Sire's return,
Nor climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke,
How jocund did they drive their team afield,
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stoke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th'inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll,
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear,
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The treats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes.
Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined:
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memories still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and epitaph supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralists to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resing'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate:
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn',
'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away',
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn'.
'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech',
'That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high',
'His listless length at noontide would he stretch',
'And pore upon the brook, that babbles by'.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn',
'Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove';
'Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forelorn',
'Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love'.
'One morn I miss'd him from the custom'd hill',
'Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree';
'Another came; nor yet beside the rill',
'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he'.
'The next with dirges due in sad array,'
'Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne',
'Approach and read, for thou cans't read, the lay',
'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn'.
The Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his father, and his God.
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
From "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard," by Thomas Gray's (1817-1871). The rest of the poem is Googable, but not as memorable.
For those who wish to see the poem a complet
Chris here is the complete Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.
Thomas Gray's Elegy
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care,
No children run to lisp their Sire's return,
Nor climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke,
How jocund did they drive their team afield,
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stoke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th'inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll,
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear,
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The treats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes.
Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined:
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memories still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and epitaph supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralists to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resing'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate:
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn',
'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away',
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn'.
'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech',
'That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high',
'His listless length at noontide would he stretch',
'And pore upon the brook, that babbles by'.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn',
'Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove';
'Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forelorn',
'Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love'.
'One morn I miss'd him from the custom'd hill',
'Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree';
'Another came; nor yet beside the rill',
'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he'.
'The next with dirges due in sad array,'
'Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne',
'Approach and read, for thou cans't read, the lay',
'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn'.
The Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his father, and his God.
The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry from Karen Setty
Hi George,
This is a poem I pulled out of a magazine and stuck up in my cubicle.
The Peace of Wild Things - Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
This is a poem I pulled out of a magazine and stuck up in my cubicle.
The Peace of Wild Things - Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
You'll Never Walk Alone by Rogers and Hammerstein aka football anthem of Liverpool from Rita Lookabaugh, Liverpool, England
Liverpool, England.... best city in the World
Soccer History of You'll Never Walk Alone
I've seen the Liverpool supporters sing "You'll Never Walk Alone" countless times, but I never knew the history behind it or even the words to the song. This post tells a little history of the tune.
FACTS:
-- The Rogers & Hammerstein song was originally written for the 1945 musical Carousel.
--Frank Sinatra was the first artist to take this song into the charts (#9 on the Billboard charts in 1945).
--In the original musical Carousel, the song was sung to inspire a pregnant female character after the death of her husband.
--The Pink Floyd song Fearless ends by fading into a recording of Liverpool Football Club fans singing this song.
--In 1985 a version by The Crowd returned the song to #1. Gerry Marsden of Gerry and the Pacemakers was again the lead vocalist. Zack Starkey, Ringo Starr's son, was on drums, making him and Ringo the first father and son to both have UK #1s.
Origins as a Football Anthem:
In the 1960's the DJ at Liverpool's Anfield would play the top ten albums in order, with the number one album of the time being You'll Never Walk Alone playing last, right before game time. The fans took to singing it even after the album dropped from the top ten and the "anthem" has stuck ever since. Celtic, Hibernian, Feyenoord, and FC Twente have also adopted the song.
Lyrics:
When you walk through a storm hold your head up high,
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm is a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone,
You'll never walk alone!
Soccer History of You'll Never Walk Alone
I've seen the Liverpool supporters sing "You'll Never Walk Alone" countless times, but I never knew the history behind it or even the words to the song. This post tells a little history of the tune.
FACTS:
-- The Rogers & Hammerstein song was originally written for the 1945 musical Carousel.
--Frank Sinatra was the first artist to take this song into the charts (#9 on the Billboard charts in 1945).
--In the original musical Carousel, the song was sung to inspire a pregnant female character after the death of her husband.
--The Pink Floyd song Fearless ends by fading into a recording of Liverpool Football Club fans singing this song.
--In 1985 a version by The Crowd returned the song to #1. Gerry Marsden of Gerry and the Pacemakers was again the lead vocalist. Zack Starkey, Ringo Starr's son, was on drums, making him and Ringo the first father and son to both have UK #1s.
Origins as a Football Anthem:
In the 1960's the DJ at Liverpool's Anfield would play the top ten albums in order, with the number one album of the time being You'll Never Walk Alone playing last, right before game time. The fans took to singing it even after the album dropped from the top ten and the "anthem" has stuck ever since. Celtic, Hibernian, Feyenoord, and FC Twente have also adopted the song.
Lyrics:
When you walk through a storm hold your head up high,
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm is a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone,
You'll never walk alone!
Salutation to the Dawn from a friend of Vicki Ruskin Seattle, WA
SALUTATION TO THE DAWN
Look to this day
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course lie
All the verities and realities of our existence –
The glory of action,
The bliss of growth,
The splendor of beauty.
For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision.
But today well spent
Makes every yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day.
Such is the salutation to the dawn
from the Sanskrit
Look to this day
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course lie
All the verities and realities of our existence –
The glory of action,
The bliss of growth,
The splendor of beauty.
For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision.
But today well spent
Makes every yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day.
Such is the salutation to the dawn
from the Sanskrit
Tactics and Strategies by Mario Benedetti from Juan Pablo Bassi Rosario , Argentina
Hi George, how`s everything going ? i just arrived today from Salta, one of the most beautiful states we have in my country. Im reading this email and im wondering if i could send you songs lyrics instead of english poems. I dont know much about english literature therefore i would be sending you something that im not quite sure it represent what im feeling.
Tell me if that its posible and i will send you some of my favorite songs with comments.
greetings
Juan Pablo
The poem that im sending you it was written by Mario Benedetti, he was a writer from Uruguay, he pased away recently. The poem its call Tactics and Strategies and its about the ways a man have to do for a women fall in love fo him. Its really, really nice.
Also im sending you a poem that my girlfriend show me the other day when a told her about your request. Its a poem from Kippling call IF.
I will translate you the Benedetti poem as soon as a can.
greetings
Juan Pablo
Tactica y estrategia - Mario Benedetti
Mi táctica es
mirarte
aprender como sos
quererte como sos
mi táctica es
hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructible
mi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vos
mi táctica es
ser franco
y saber que sos franca
y que no nos vendamos
simulacros
para que entre los dos
no haya telón
ni abismos
mi estrategia es
en cambio
más profunda y más
simple
mi estrategia es
que un dÃa cualquiera
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin me necesites.
IF - Rudyard Kipling
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Tell me if that its posible and i will send you some of my favorite songs with comments.
greetings
Juan Pablo
The poem that im sending you it was written by Mario Benedetti, he was a writer from Uruguay, he pased away recently. The poem its call Tactics and Strategies and its about the ways a man have to do for a women fall in love fo him. Its really, really nice.
Also im sending you a poem that my girlfriend show me the other day when a told her about your request. Its a poem from Kippling call IF.
I will translate you the Benedetti poem as soon as a can.
greetings
Juan Pablo
Tactica y estrategia - Mario Benedetti
Mi táctica es
mirarte
aprender como sos
quererte como sos
mi táctica es
hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructible
mi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vos
mi táctica es
ser franco
y saber que sos franca
y que no nos vendamos
simulacros
para que entre los dos
no haya telón
ni abismos
mi estrategia es
en cambio
más profunda y más
simple
mi estrategia es
que un dÃa cualquiera
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin me necesites.
IF - Rudyard Kipling
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Two Tramps in Mud Time by Robert Frost from Michael Hewitt Vero Beach , FL
Two Tramps in Mud Time
by Robert Frost
Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.
Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose to my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.
The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut's now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don't forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.
The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You'd think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.
Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay
And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man's work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right--agreed.
But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.
by Robert Frost
Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.
Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose to my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.
The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut's now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don't forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.
The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You'd think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.
Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay
And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man's work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right--agreed.
But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.
Haiku and Poem from Jay Heilman Dayton, OH
It's good to know
That diamonds are precious
It is better to know that
Rubies have depth
But best to know that pebbles
are miraculous -
In the end, we will conserve only what we love,
We will love only what we know, and
We will know only what we are taught.
Baba Diom (Senegal)
That diamonds are precious
It is better to know that
Rubies have depth
But best to know that pebbles
are miraculous -
In the end, we will conserve only what we love,
We will love only what we know, and
We will know only what we are taught.
Baba Diom (Senegal)
East to West by Michael Franti & Spearhead from Shelly Knupp
Chris:
I am a friend of George Brose's. I Live in Dayton and am RPCv Zimbabwe '94-'97. Here are lyrics for your friend who is studying for his test. I would be happy to burn a disc with this song on it and mail to you / him - however many copies you want. I find this artist to be very meaningful and inspirational. My husband and I just saw him perform at the house of blues in boston and it was a great show! If you would like me to put the music on a disc, just send me a snail mail address! Good luck to him and I hope you are having a good experience over there!
Sincerely,
Shelly Knupp
Michael Franti & Spearhead - Lyrics to "East to West"
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
One to creation, one to the sun
One to the mornin, one to the one
One to the air and the freshness we breathe an
One to the force of the change in the seasons
One to the mother from which all things come
One to the daughters and one to the sons
One to the Father who helps us believe that
Nothin's ever gonna harm you see an
One to the soldier who walks city streets an
One to the soldier who fights overseas an
One to the man who gets down on his knees an
Prays for god and send protection please an
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
One to the woman one to the man
One to the culture from the time when it began
One to destruction one to birth
One to the people who still fight for the earth
One to the people who suffer for the needs an
One to the rebels who love rockin to the beats an
One to the healer who fights our disease an
One to the Lorax who speaks for the trees
Cause no amount of money and no amount of man
Can bring back to life what's gone when it's done an
One to the people who rise with the sun an
One to the people who sleep when it's down cause
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
Life is too short to make just one decision
Musics to large for just one station
Love is to big for just one nation and
God is to big for just one religion
One to the practice of bein in the flow an
One to the tears of the things we let go an
One to the moment we live in right now an
One to the East West North and South
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
*Sing!*
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
This whole things *Hip-Hoppers* seems upside down
The whole *Punk Rockers* wide world keeps turnin around
This *Woodstockers & loose rockers* whole things seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
I am a friend of George Brose's. I Live in Dayton and am RPCv Zimbabwe '94-'97. Here are lyrics for your friend who is studying for his test. I would be happy to burn a disc with this song on it and mail to you / him - however many copies you want. I find this artist to be very meaningful and inspirational. My husband and I just saw him perform at the house of blues in boston and it was a great show! If you would like me to put the music on a disc, just send me a snail mail address! Good luck to him and I hope you are having a good experience over there!
Sincerely,
Shelly Knupp
Michael Franti & Spearhead - Lyrics to "East to West"
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
One to creation, one to the sun
One to the mornin, one to the one
One to the air and the freshness we breathe an
One to the force of the change in the seasons
One to the mother from which all things come
One to the daughters and one to the sons
One to the Father who helps us believe that
Nothin's ever gonna harm you see an
One to the soldier who walks city streets an
One to the soldier who fights overseas an
One to the man who gets down on his knees an
Prays for god and send protection please an
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
One to the woman one to the man
One to the culture from the time when it began
One to destruction one to birth
One to the people who still fight for the earth
One to the people who suffer for the needs an
One to the rebels who love rockin to the beats an
One to the healer who fights our disease an
One to the Lorax who speaks for the trees
Cause no amount of money and no amount of man
Can bring back to life what's gone when it's done an
One to the people who rise with the sun an
One to the people who sleep when it's down cause
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
Life is too short to make just one decision
Musics to large for just one station
Love is to big for just one nation and
God is to big for just one religion
One to the practice of bein in the flow an
One to the tears of the things we let go an
One to the moment we live in right now an
One to the East West North and South
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
To the East to the West
To the North and South
To the East to the West
One love people never gonna stop
*Sing!*
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
This whole thing seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
This whole things *Hip-Hoppers* seems upside down
The whole *Punk Rockers* wide world keeps turnin around
This *Woodstockers & loose rockers* whole things seems upside down
The whole wide world keeps turnin around
An Affirmation Shakti Gawain? from Angie Herring Newport News,VA
This or something better
now manifests for me
in totally satisfying and harmonious ways
for the highest good of all concerned.
(I think this affirmation is from Shakti Gawain)
it is my favorite
Angie Herring
Sent as an attachment in MS word as well
now manifests for me
in totally satisfying and harmonious ways
for the highest good of all concerned.
(I think this affirmation is from Shakti Gawain)
it is my favorite
Angie Herring
Sent as an attachment in MS word as well
Best Poem in the World anonymous from Sharon Travis-Bell Blue Creek, OH
>BEST POEM IN THE WORLD
>
>I was shocked, confused, bewildered
> As I entered Heaven's door,
>Not by the beauty of it all,
>Nor the lights or its decor.
>
>But it was the folks in Heaven
>Who made me sputter and gasp--
>The thieves, the liars, the sinners,
>The alcoholics and the trash.
>
>There stood the kid from seventh grade
>Who swiped my lunch money twice.
>Next to him was my old neighbor
>Who never said anything nice.
>
>Herb, who I always thought
>Was rotting away in hell,
>Was sitting pretty on cloud nine,
>Looking incredibly well.
>
>I nudged Jesus, 'What's the deal?
>I would love to hear Your take.
>How'd all these sinners get up here?
>God must've made a mistake.
>
>'And why is everyone so quiet,
>So somber - give me a clue.'
>'Hush, child,' He said, 'they're all in shock.
>No one thought they'd be seeing you.'
>
>
>Remember...Just going to church doesn't make you a
>Christian any more than standing in your garage makes you a car.
>
>Every saint has a PAST...
>Every sinner has a FUTURE!
>
>I was shocked, confused, bewildered
> As I entered Heaven's door,
>Not by the beauty of it all,
>Nor the lights or its decor.
>
>But it was the folks in Heaven
>Who made me sputter and gasp--
>The thieves, the liars, the sinners,
>The alcoholics and the trash.
>
>There stood the kid from seventh grade
>Who swiped my lunch money twice.
>Next to him was my old neighbor
>Who never said anything nice.
>
>Herb, who I always thought
>Was rotting away in hell,
>Was sitting pretty on cloud nine,
>Looking incredibly well.
>
>I nudged Jesus, 'What's the deal?
>I would love to hear Your take.
>How'd all these sinners get up here?
>God must've made a mistake.
>
>'And why is everyone so quiet,
>So somber - give me a clue.'
>'Hush, child,' He said, 'they're all in shock.
>No one thought they'd be seeing you.'
>
>
>Remember...Just going to church doesn't make you a
>Christian any more than standing in your garage makes you a car.
>
>Every saint has a PAST...
>Every sinner has a FUTURE!
A Friend by A.A. Milne from Judy Carter, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe
Hello Chris,
I am responding to your request which came to me from my friend George Brose.
I have chosen a poem by A.A. Milne,because I am a great fan of his.My profession was in education and I believe,like many educationalists,that the first 6 years of a person's life are the most formative and the most important. If trust is not secured in this period by the child, for the family and the society into which he or she is born,then follows a lifetime of insecurity.
A.A. Milne understood this,and I am sure that he was not a proponent of "wrote learning". The following poem illustrates this.
THE FRIEND.
There are lots and lots of people who are always asking things,
Like Dates and Pounds-and-ounces and the names of funny Kings,
And the answer's either Sixpence or A Hundred Inches Long.
And I know they'll think me silly if I get the answer wrong.
So Pooh and I go whispering and Pooh looks very bright,
And says," Well, I say sixpence,but I don't suppose I'm right."
And then it doesn't matter what the answer ought to be,
'Cos if he's right,I'm Right,and if he's wrong,it isn't Me.
Good luck to you and your student.
With best wishes,
Judy Carter. ( George and Marie and I were teaching in the same area in Zimbabwe, in the early 80's.)
I am responding to your request which came to me from my friend George Brose.
I have chosen a poem by A.A. Milne,because I am a great fan of his.My profession was in education and I believe,like many educationalists,that the first 6 years of a person's life are the most formative and the most important. If trust is not secured in this period by the child, for the family and the society into which he or she is born,then follows a lifetime of insecurity.
A.A. Milne understood this,and I am sure that he was not a proponent of "wrote learning". The following poem illustrates this.
THE FRIEND.
There are lots and lots of people who are always asking things,
Like Dates and Pounds-and-ounces and the names of funny Kings,
And the answer's either Sixpence or A Hundred Inches Long.
And I know they'll think me silly if I get the answer wrong.
So Pooh and I go whispering and Pooh looks very bright,
And says," Well, I say sixpence,but I don't suppose I'm right."
And then it doesn't matter what the answer ought to be,
'Cos if he's right,I'm Right,and if he's wrong,it isn't Me.
Good luck to you and your student.
With best wishes,
Judy Carter. ( George and Marie and I were teaching in the same area in Zimbabwe, in the early 80's.)
Hogamus, Higamus by Ogden Nash from Paul Sack San Francisco, CA
George,
My favorite poem is too short for his project but follows:
Hogamus, Higamus;
Men are polygamous.
Higamus, Hogamus.
Women monogamous.
--Ogden Nash
Paul
My favorite poem is too short for his project but follows:
Hogamus, Higamus;
Men are polygamous.
Higamus, Hogamus.
Women monogamous.
--Ogden Nash
Paul
The Farmhouse by the River by Paul Lawrence Dunbar from Sharon Travis-Bell Blue Creek , Ohio
Poem by Paul Lawrence Dunbar dunbar@udayton.edu
A young black poet from Dayton, Ohio who was friends with the Wright Brothers
I know a little country place
Where still my heart doth linger,
And o'er its fields is every grace
Lined out by memory's finger.
Back from the lane where poplars grew
And aspens quake and quiver,
There stands all bath'd in summer's glow
A farm house by the river.
Its eaves are touched with golden light
So sweetly, softly shining,
And morning glories full and bright
About the doors are twining.
And there endowed with every grace
That nature's hand could giver her,
There lived the angel of the place
In the farm house by the river.
Her eyes were blue, her hair was gold,
Her face was bright and sunny;
The songs that from her bosom rolled
Were sweet as summer's honey.
And I loved her well, that maid divine,
And I prayed the Gracious Giver,
That I some day might call her mine
In the farm house by the river.
Twas not to be -- but God knows best.
His will for aye be heeded!
Perhaps amid the angels' bliss,
My little love was needed.
Her spirit from its thralldom torn
Went singing o'er the river,
And that sweet life my heart shall mourn
Forever and forever.
She dies one morn at early light
When all the birds are singing,
And Heaven itself in pure delight
Its bells of joy seemed ringing.
They laid her dust where soon and late
The solemn grasses quiver,
And left alone and desolate
The farm house by the river.
>My Wish for You in all your years
>
>May peace break into your home and may thieves
>come to steal your debts.
>May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet
>for $100 bills.
>May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may
>laughter assault your lips!
>May happiness slap you across the face and may
>your tears be that of joy.
>May the problems you had, forget your home
>address!
>In simple words ............
>
>May this be the best year
>Of your life!!!
A young black poet from Dayton, Ohio who was friends with the Wright Brothers
I know a little country place
Where still my heart doth linger,
And o'er its fields is every grace
Lined out by memory's finger.
Back from the lane where poplars grew
And aspens quake and quiver,
There stands all bath'd in summer's glow
A farm house by the river.
Its eaves are touched with golden light
So sweetly, softly shining,
And morning glories full and bright
About the doors are twining.
And there endowed with every grace
That nature's hand could giver her,
There lived the angel of the place
In the farm house by the river.
Her eyes were blue, her hair was gold,
Her face was bright and sunny;
The songs that from her bosom rolled
Were sweet as summer's honey.
And I loved her well, that maid divine,
And I prayed the Gracious Giver,
That I some day might call her mine
In the farm house by the river.
Twas not to be -- but God knows best.
His will for aye be heeded!
Perhaps amid the angels' bliss,
My little love was needed.
Her spirit from its thralldom torn
Went singing o'er the river,
And that sweet life my heart shall mourn
Forever and forever.
She dies one morn at early light
When all the birds are singing,
And Heaven itself in pure delight
Its bells of joy seemed ringing.
They laid her dust where soon and late
The solemn grasses quiver,
And left alone and desolate
The farm house by the river.
>My Wish for You in all your years
>
>May peace break into your home and may thieves
>come to steal your debts.
>May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet
>for $100 bills.
>May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may
>laughter assault your lips!
>May happiness slap you across the face and may
>your tears be that of joy.
>May the problems you had, forget your home
>address!
>In simple words ............
>
>May this be the best year
>Of your life!!!
If by Rudyard Kipling from Walt Mizell Austin, Texas
IF.....
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
----Rudyard Kipling
>>> Goerge Brose
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
----Rudyard Kipling
>>> Goerge Brose
On Marriage by Kahlil Gibran from Julianne Weinzimmer
We just read this at our wedding. Perhaps you already have it, but it's beautiful. Best of luck with your project!
Julianne
On Marriage
Kahlil Gibran
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
Julianne
On Marriage
Kahlil Gibran
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
Mares Eat Oats from Diane Williams
mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy
a kid will eat ivy too
wouldn't you
a kid will eat ivy too
wouldn't you
Lyics by Neko Case from John Comesky
Here are some of my favorite lyrics from Neko Case.
"Favorite":
Oh lie
I thought you were golden
I thought you were wise
Caught you returning
To the house you caught fire
But I know that I was your favorite
And I said Amen
Wise, found favorin' heaven
And I at your side
But I never felt sorry
For those shimmering lies
When I laid down and cried
I was faking
And I said Amen
Last night I dreamt
That I hit a deer with my car
Blood from his heart
Spilled out onto my dress and was warm
He begged me to follow
But legions of sorrow defied me
Oh lie
I thought you were golden
I thought you were wise
When I caught you returning
To the house you caught fire
But I know that I'm your favorite
And I said 'Amen'
Oh favorite
And I said Amen
"Margaret Vs. Pauline":
Everything's so easy for Pauline
Everything's so easy for Pauline
Ancient strings set feet a light to speed to her such mild grace
No monument of tacky gold
They smoothed her hair with cinnamon waves
And they placed an ingot in her breast to burn cool and collected
Fate holds her firm in its cradle and then rolls her for a tender pause to
savor
Everything's so easy for Pauline
Girl with the parking lot eyes
Margaret is the fragments of a name
Her bravery is mistaken for the thrashing in the lake
Of the make-believe monster whose picture was faked
Margaret is the fragments of a name
Her love pours like a fountain
Her love steams like rage
Her jaw aches from wanting and she's sick from chlorine
But she'll never be as clean
As the cool side of satin, Pauline
Two girls ride the blue line
Two girls walk down the same street
One left her sweater sittin' on the train
The other lost three fingers at the cannery
Everything's so easy for Pauline
"Maybe Sparrow":
Maybe sparrow you should wait
The hawks alight till morning
You'll never pass beyond the gate
If you don't hear my warning
Notes are hung so effortless
With the rise and fall of sparrow's breast
It's a drowning dive and back to the chorus
La di da di da di da
La di da di da di da
Oh my sparrow it's too late
Your body limp beneath my feet
Your dusty eyes cold as clay
You didn't hear my warning
Maybe sparrow it's too late
Moonlight glanced off metal wings
In a thunderstorm above the clouds
The engine hums a sparrow's phrase
For those who cannot hear the words
For those who will not hear the words
For those who will not hear the words
La di da di da di da
La di da di da di da
Maybe sparrow
Maybe sparrow
Maybe sparrow
John Comeskey
Co-Founder and Lead CMS Architect
SpringHill Interactive Media
john@springhillim.com
http://www.springhillim.com
"Favorite":
Oh lie
I thought you were golden
I thought you were wise
Caught you returning
To the house you caught fire
But I know that I was your favorite
And I said Amen
Wise, found favorin' heaven
And I at your side
But I never felt sorry
For those shimmering lies
When I laid down and cried
I was faking
And I said Amen
Last night I dreamt
That I hit a deer with my car
Blood from his heart
Spilled out onto my dress and was warm
He begged me to follow
But legions of sorrow defied me
Oh lie
I thought you were golden
I thought you were wise
When I caught you returning
To the house you caught fire
But I know that I'm your favorite
And I said 'Amen'
Oh favorite
And I said Amen
"Margaret Vs. Pauline":
Everything's so easy for Pauline
Everything's so easy for Pauline
Ancient strings set feet a light to speed to her such mild grace
No monument of tacky gold
They smoothed her hair with cinnamon waves
And they placed an ingot in her breast to burn cool and collected
Fate holds her firm in its cradle and then rolls her for a tender pause to
savor
Everything's so easy for Pauline
Girl with the parking lot eyes
Margaret is the fragments of a name
Her bravery is mistaken for the thrashing in the lake
Of the make-believe monster whose picture was faked
Margaret is the fragments of a name
Her love pours like a fountain
Her love steams like rage
Her jaw aches from wanting and she's sick from chlorine
But she'll never be as clean
As the cool side of satin, Pauline
Two girls ride the blue line
Two girls walk down the same street
One left her sweater sittin' on the train
The other lost three fingers at the cannery
Everything's so easy for Pauline
"Maybe Sparrow":
Maybe sparrow you should wait
The hawks alight till morning
You'll never pass beyond the gate
If you don't hear my warning
Notes are hung so effortless
With the rise and fall of sparrow's breast
It's a drowning dive and back to the chorus
La di da di da di da
La di da di da di da
Oh my sparrow it's too late
Your body limp beneath my feet
Your dusty eyes cold as clay
You didn't hear my warning
Maybe sparrow it's too late
Moonlight glanced off metal wings
In a thunderstorm above the clouds
The engine hums a sparrow's phrase
For those who cannot hear the words
For those who will not hear the words
For those who will not hear the words
La di da di da di da
La di da di da di da
Maybe sparrow
Maybe sparrow
Maybe sparrow
John Comeskey
Co-Founder and Lead CMS Architect
SpringHill Interactive Media
john@springhillim.com
http://www.springhillim.com
My Sweet Crushed Angel by Shams-ud-din Muhammad Hafiz from Steve Fryburg
Hi George,
I know it isn’t 25-50 lines, but it is one of my favorite poems.
The mystery and beauty of life is the thread that weaves us together.
Peace & Best Wishes,
Steve
Steve Fryburg
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.
You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God's Heart at all.
Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy to hear.
So what if the music has stopped for a while.
So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight.
So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.
The mind and the body are famous
For holding the heart ransom,
But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits.
Have patience,
For He will not be able to resist your longing
For long.
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
O my sweet, crushed angel.
"My Sweet, Crushed Angel",
Shams-ud-din Muhammad Hafiz
c. 1320-1389
Rendered by Daniel Ladinsky
I know it isn’t 25-50 lines, but it is one of my favorite poems.
The mystery and beauty of life is the thread that weaves us together.
Peace & Best Wishes,
Steve
Steve Fryburg
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.
You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God's Heart at all.
Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy to hear.
So what if the music has stopped for a while.
So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight.
So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.
The mind and the body are famous
For holding the heart ransom,
But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits.
Have patience,
For He will not be able to resist your longing
For long.
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
O my sweet, crushed angel.
"My Sweet, Crushed Angel",
Shams-ud-din Muhammad Hafiz
c. 1320-1389
Rendered by Daniel Ladinsky
A Pair of Shoes unknown author from Christie
A woman from my support group sent this poem in an email today.
I don't send it to depress anyone. I just like it. I thought I would share.
Love ya,
Me
"A Pair of Shoes"
I am wearing a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many p airs in this world.
Some woman are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
No woman deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.
These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.
They have made me who I am.
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.
Author unknown
I don't send it to depress anyone. I just like it. I thought I would share.
Love ya,
Me
"A Pair of Shoes"
I am wearing a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many p airs in this world.
Some woman are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
No woman deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.
These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.
They have made me who I am.
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.
Author unknown
Red Brocade- Naomi Shihab Nye from Judy Friesem
Red Brocade
Naomi Shihab Nye
The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is,
where he's come from,
where he's headed.
That way, he'll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you'll be
such good friends
you don't care.
Let's go back to that.
Rice? Pine nuts?
Here, take the red brocade pillow.
My child will serve water
to your horse.
No, I was not busy when you came!
I was not preparing to be busy.
That's the armor everyone put on
to pretend they had a purpose
in the world.
I refuse to be claimed.
Your plate is waiting.
We will snip fresh mint
Into your tea.
into your tea.
Naomi Shihab Nye
The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is,
where he's come from,
where he's headed.
That way, he'll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you'll be
such good friends
you don't care.
Let's go back to that.
Rice? Pine nuts?
Here, take the red brocade pillow.
My child will serve water
to your horse.
No, I was not busy when you came!
I was not preparing to be busy.
That's the armor everyone put on
to pretend they had a purpose
in the world.
I refuse to be claimed.
Your plate is waiting.
We will snip fresh mint
Into your tea.
into your tea.
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