Quotes about week, page 10
The Parting Word
I must leave thee, lady sweet
Months shall waste before we meet;
Winds are fair and sails are spread,
Anchors leave their ocean bed;
Ere this shining day grow dark,
Skies shall gird my shoreless bark.
Through thy tears, O lady mine,
Read thy lover’s parting line.
When the first sad sun shall set,
Thou shalt tear thy locks of jet;
When the morning star shall rise,
Thou shalt wake with weeping eyes;
When the second sun goes down,
Thou more tranquil shalt be grown,
Taught too well that wild despair
Dims thine eyes and spoils thy hair.
All the first unquiet week
Thou shalt wear a smileless cheek;
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Death Whispers in My Ear
The doctors said: ‘Take her away,
There's nothing we can do,
The life is seeping from her blood
Her soul is weeping too,
But keep her in a darkened room
And hidden from the light,
Perhaps you'll gain a week or two
Before her soul takes flight! '
I drove her to ‘The Grange' at that,
Post haste, in coach and four,
I veiled her in black crepe and lace,
She fainted at the door.
I carried her, she was so slight
I feared she might be dead,
And laid her on the davenport
A pillow at her head.
I covered her with red damask
And drew the velvet drapes,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Seven Decades
At ten I read Mayakovsky had died,
learned my first word of Russian, lyublyu;
watched my English teacher poke his earwax
with a well-chewed HB and get the class
to join his easy mocking of my essay
where I'd used verdant herbage for green grass.
So he was right? So I hated him!
And he was not really right, the ass.
A writer knows what he needs,
as came to pass.
At twenty I got marching orders, kitbag,
farewell to love, not arms, (though our sole arms
were stretchers), a freezing Glentress winter
where I was coaxing sticks at six to get
a stove hot for the cooks, found myself picked
quartermaster's clerk – 'this one seems a bit
less gormless than the bloody others' – did
gas drill in the stinging tent, met
Tam McSherry who farted at will
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poem by Edwin Morgan
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Kids!
Kids!
Hundreds of 'em for the farmer! Kids of an imported brand;
Thousands of 'em for the country! Lo, the man upon the land
Bids
Loud for England's surplus youngster - five whole bob a week, 'tis said;
And their value to the nation stands at many pounds a head.
But the nation never riz 'em.
That 'would tend to Socialism';
So we have to fetch 'em over from the country where they're bred.
Kids!
Send us kids from good old Britain - sons of men who won't be slaves
From the land where countless paupers seek dishonorable graves
Quids!
We're prepared to offer for them. Ship them out across the deep,
From that dear old Freetrade country where the cost of labor's cheap.
While, of our unmarried workers
(Married men are costly shirkers)
We will take a meagre hundred at a pound a week and keep.
Kids?
We can't raise 'em in Australia, where employers by the score
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Give and Free It Up On The Rough Stuff
When I was hard,
It wasn't enough.
The sensitive and warm nice guy,
I had to give with no hint of the tough stuff.
I was the one who supplied the tenderness,
With touches.
Supplied I did the sweet kisses too!
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
The sensitive and warm nice guy,
I had to be with no hint of the tough stuff.
You want it tough and rough and ready,
Through the weekends.
And all week until we get through too!
You've got to give and free it up on the rough stuff.
I like to get it and receive it with a tender touch.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Incinerate Your Love
For T. Ruthiran (1937-1996)
plots lined with cypresses
silence of respect
pebbles levelled with care
in lined walks
in rectilinear angles
slabs of slate
of marble
fading posy of flowers refreshed
a framed dageurrotype now
the glass cracked by hale stones
dried leaves of pine forsythia rose
drifting in the inturning autumnal gusts
the caretaker sweeps the debris of yesterdays's solemn descent
paper cups spilled soil
cracked flower pots
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poem by T. Wignesan
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Mars
I'm watching the long red sunset
Cross over the tawny sky,
As Phobos tumbles past my head
And Deimos, by and by,
The light's beginning to fracture
As darkness reigns instead,
While Sylvie shakes her long blond hair
As she leaves her fretful bed.
I'm busy at the Astrodome
Checking the roof for leaks,
A tiny meteoric shower,
(The first for seven weeks) :
Has threatened all the oxygen
We'd saved from the garden beds,
For now that Jon has disappeared,
I do his work instead.
The stars begin to glimmer,
Take form in the empty gloom,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Gremlin!
He was posted to Squadron 74
With ten hours flying time,
He knew that he needed a hundred more
Or his life was on the line,
For Biggin Hill was a shambles then,
All craters and UXB's,
As fast as they ferried the Spitfires in
They were beaten down to their knees.
They were hit with Junkers 88's
And Dornier 17's,
They came in high and they came in low,
Like a swarm of angry bees,
They got the workshops, hit the stores,
In an all-out, mass attack,
While Michael Shaw bit his lip, and swore
He was going to get them back.
For a week or so he was on patrol
In a Spitfire group of six,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Week-End
I
The train! The twleve o'clock for paradise.
Hurry, or it will try to creep away.
Out in the country every one is wise:
We can be only wise on Saturday.
There you are waiting, little friendly house:
Those are your chimney-stacks with you between
Surrounded by old trees and strolling cows,
Staring through all your windows at the green.
Your homely floor is creaking for our tread;
The smiling tea-pot with contented spout
Thinks of the boiling water, and the bread
Longs for the butter. All their hands are out
To greet us, and the gentle blankets seem
Purring and crooning: 'Lie in us, and dream.'
II
The key will stammer, and the door reply,
The hall wake, yawn, and smile; the torpid stair
Will grumble at our feet, the table cry:
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poem by Harold Monro
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The Grandmother
I.
And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne?
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
And Willy's wife has written: she never was over-wise,
Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.
II.
For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save,
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.
Eh!--but he would n't hear me--and Willy, you say, is gone.
III.
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock;
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.
`Here's a leg for a babe of a week!' says doctor; and he would be bound,
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.
IV.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!
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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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