Living in slums like leeches,
Wandering about like a bird without shelter.
Area boys, sons of the soil, snail has no blood;
The senior brothers of mendicants,
That is what you call us.
You say we are drinkers, patriotic smokers,
You mean the drunker that speaks mumbo-jumbo
The iron bird, the bird of steel
who after having lacerated the clouds of morning
would want to puncture the stars
beyond the day,
retreats, as if in remorse,
into an artificial cave.
The corporeal bird, the feathered bird,
who forces a tunnel through the wind
to get to the moon he’s seen in a dream
He comes! He comes!
Striding along on camel-rug in triumph.
Yes, stranger, we are making ourselves ready!
Agyei the warrior is drunk–
The green mamba with the fearful eyes.
Yes, Agyei the warrior,
He strides along the camel-rug in triumph,
Make way!
He comes! He comes!
Happy is England! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent:
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian, and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
And half forget what world or
If I were a bird,
I would also use my coarse throat to sing:
This land stricken by storms,
These rivers forever torrential with our indignation,
This wind ceaselessly blowing in rages,
And that incomparably mild dawn coming from the forest…
—Then I die,
Decomposed into the land even with my feathers.
Ukraine’s sovereignty
is
a
right
not
a
privilege
trespassers
will
be
Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow
Lies along the lover’s lane
Where last year we used to go-
Where we shall not go again.
In the hedge the buds are new,
By our wood the violets peer-
Just like last year’s violets too,
But they have no scent this year.
Every bird has heart to sing
Of its nest, warmed by its breast;<br
They put the screens around his bed;
a crumpled heap I saw him lie,
White counterpane and rough dark head,
those screens – they showed that he would die.
The put the screens about his bed;
We might not play the gramophone,
And so we played at cards instead
And left him dying there alone.
The covers on the screens are red,<br
Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
Upon this Primrose hill,
Where, if Heav’n would distil
A shower of rain, each several drop might go
To his own primrose, and grow manna so;
And where their form and their infinity
Make a terrestrial Galaxy,
As the small stars do in the sky:
I walk to find a true Love; and I see
That ’tis not a mere
I begin with the name of the Compassionate,
and pray for the faithful one,
that I may set forth the story of that which happened long ago.
One day, Muhammad, the Friend, and Miqdad, at Mecca,
outside the town were going for a walk.
When they were walking, the rain came down upon them,
and they went to seek shelter and
O Lord my God
I have been too silly on you
Walked away when I need you most
Deceiving myself that I don’t need you
When did I become childish
And bent to remain childish
When you have not created me childish?
O Lord I am very sorry
I have lined up the threshold,
Of my soul with lamps of hope;
From the blossoms of passion,
I have threaded garlands for Him;
The kohl you see in my eyes,
Is the soot of fire in my heart;
My fidgetiness is the expression,
Of my irrepressible madness,
To be held in His arms forever;
I find no reason why
I went into a public-‘ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you,
If I met Charley I probably would have smashed him in his over sized snozz
Like a scene ripped from the reels of Barfly yes indeed we would have bar fought
I would have clobbered that big smug ugly b*st*rd with my big chubby ham club
Solely in an effort to sober him up for a moment
Only because he
“As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
Was unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest I ne wist, for there n’as erthly wight
[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n’ad sickness nor disese.” – Chaucer
What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
What is more soothing than the pretty
Mary of Magdala came to bed;
There were no soft curtains round her head;
She had no mother to hold of worth
The little baby she brought to birth.
Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed:
‘O God, I am very much afraid;
For out of my body, by sin defiled,
Thou biddest me make a little child.
‘O God, I have turned
I witnessed the hardiest crows in the system shattered by
immorality, trembling neurotic wreak,
slogging themselves through welfare cheques at twilight
searching for a sturdy foundation,
fork-tongued politicians yearning for the popular vote
persuasion to sugary elixir in the cogs of time,
whose destitution and disorder and listless gaze and wired up
intaking in the psychological coldness of
sterile sanitoriums
I worked for a woman,
She wasn’t mean–
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.
Had to get breakfast,
Dinner, and supper too–
Then take care of her children
When I got through.
Barely a breath of air tonight,
skies clouded over unmoving,
releasing a torrent of tears
to the clap of thunder
as we gather thoughts
and wrestle with emotions.
A rainbow over Windsor
fades into darkening sky.
The sun has set on
the passing of a Queen.
