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Spirits, Spirit, and Spiritual

alchohol of drink goes in
dormant spirits come out,
other sly spirits enter, stir up
memory of secrets devout,

routed from every corner and furrow,
leak, trickle flow, expand and fill
the wells, run over the brims, to tell of
sordid and grim, prideful and sinful

mundane and inane or of din and import,
in language sad of humorous, full of
simile and metaphor, ambiguity intensional
or unconscious, cognative or unknowing,

once out, starts talking and walking
on the strength of its self,
having a life, splits and gives birth
to some of its own, designed or disowned

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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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God's-Acre

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Passionate Shepherd, The (excerpt)

Who can live in heart so glad
As the merry country lad?
Who upon a fair green balk
May at pleasure sit and walk,
And amid the azure skies
See the morning sun arise;
While he hears in every spring
How the birds do chirp and sing;
Or before the hounds in cry
See the hare go stealing by;
Or along the shallow brook
Angling with a baited hook,
See the fishes leap and play
In a blessed sunny day;
Or to hear the partridge call
Till she have her covey all;
Or to see the subtle fox,
How the villain plies the box,
After feeding on his prey
How he closely sneaks away

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poem by Nicholas Brenton
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The Passionate Shepherd (excerpt)

Who can live in heart so glad
As the merry country lad?
Who upon a fair green balk
May at pleasure sit and walk,
And amid the azure skies
See the morning sun arise;
While he hears in every spring
How the birds do chirp and sing;
Or before the hounds in cry
See the hare go stealing by;
Or along the shallow brook
Angling with a baited hook,
See the fishes leap and play
In a blessed sunny day;
Or to hear the partridge call
Till she have her covey all;
Or to see the subtle fox,
How the villain plies the box,
After feeding on his prey
How he closely sneaks away

[...] Read more

poem by Nicholas Brenton
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The Passionate Shepherd

Who can live in heart so glad
As the merry country lad?
Who upon a fair green balk
May at pleasure sit and walk,
And amid the azure skies
See the morning sun arise;
While he hears in every spring
How the birds do chirp and sing;
Or before the hounds in cry
See the hare go stealing by;
Or along the shallow brook
Angling with a baited hook,
See the fishes leap and play
In a blessed sunny day;
Or to hear the partridge call
Till she have her covey all;
Or to see the subtle fox,
How the villain plies the box,
After feeding on his prey
How he closely sneaks away

[...] Read more

poem by Nicholas Breton
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Confrontation with Baba Yaga

In Angola
I saw Baba Yaga
come out of the wood
and in the blue sky
she hanged dark and hideous
with a canon in her beak
and rockets on her sides
that draws red lines
when she eats soldiers
by wiping them out.

No uglier witch
you could get anywhere
and she hanged bony
in the air
above our heads
while she collected skulls
with a shrilling noise.

Day after day

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poem by Gert Strydom
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The Greatest Lover

When sin ruled my heart and marrow
Your curse and anger you did not throw
Instead, Your only son to me you bestow
At the cross they cruficied
And pierced his side with an arrow
When his precious blood was flow
All my sin are washed away
Though I'm not worthy you set me free.

When I am in great harrow
At the sky, you perfectly draw
The very pretty rainbow
When I saw its radiant hue
No more burden, no more sorrow
Though I'm not worthy now I know
I'm more than a precious stone to you

When I am poor
Teach me not to depend on my neighbour
A special talent to me you endow

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poem by Catherine Agunat
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Sucummbing

Today I lost my allure;

it left me on 42 avenue

where I stood

my two breasts i surmised

had sucummbed another inch to gravity

and this had been noticed by the hard hats

who measure such things.

and the lines that lined my face advanced another millimeter

now visible for them to see

where such sensiitivity exists

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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England

Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom,
Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom,
Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home.

Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver,
Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free,
Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river,
Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?

Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way,
Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves,
Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway,
But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves?
Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you,
Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold,
Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you,
Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold?

poem by Edith Nesbit
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In Springtime

My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,
And the koil sings above it, in the siris by the well,
From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering speech,
And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery sat-bhai dwell.
But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koil's note is strange;
I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.
Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Springtime range --
Give me back one day in England, for it's Spring in England now!

Through the pines the gusts are booming, o'er the brown fields blowing chill,
From the furrow of the ploughshare streams the fragrance of the loam,
And the hawk nests on the cliffside and the jackdaw in the hill,
And my heart is back in England 'mid the sights and sounds of Home.
But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is,
Ah! koil, little koil, singing on the siris bough,
In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell like speech is --
Can you tell me aught of England or of Spring in England now?

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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