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Gebir

FIRST BOOK.

I sing the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt
Among those mountain-caverns which retain
His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells,
Nor have forgotten their old master's name
Though severed from his people here, incensed
By meditating on primeval wrongs,
He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose
Whole nations; here, ten thousand of most might
He called aloud, and soon Charoba saw
His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile,
What should the virgin do? should royal knees
Bend suppliant, or defenceless hands engage
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms?
For 'twas reported that nor sword sufficed,
Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail,
But that upon their towering heads they bore
Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars.
This told she Dalica, then cried aloud:

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poem by Walter Savage Landor
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A Sparrow's Thoughts.... (Number Six)

you can send the lie in the form
of the unemployment check, in the
form of food stamps, in the form
of Medicaid, in the form of new
policies, in the form of charity...
but the truth is you dont give a damn
until you are willing to share all
you have with fairness, until you're
willing to put your shoulders to the
load, until you're willing to get
involved in the work of equality!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Every Life Form

Every life form that lives on this Planet serves Nature in some sort of a way
And no life form in truth is vermin despite what some do think or say
Each life form is there for some purpose whatever that purpose may be
For the worth of each individual species ask one with more knowledge of Nature than me
In a World of over six billion people the pressure on Nature's life forms is great
Pollution and destruction of habitat of many life forms have sealed the fate
Removal of trees for development, pollution of air, sea and land
It surely is at our own peril if Nature we don't try to understand
For human pollution of the environment the price for us all huge to pay
More water-ways are being polluted more trees are removed every day
When we disrespect our natural environment disrespect for ourselves we do show
With a huge rise in carbon emissions so little of Nature we know
Every life form that lives on the Planet serves Nature in some sort of a way
And no life form in truth is vermin despite what some do think or say.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Ceyx And Alcione V

'So, my husband, you are dead, ' she whispered before sleep finally came, 'then, so am I.'

The next day she told her family about the dream. She didn't look well. Her hair was uncharacteristically uncombed, her clothes in disarray. They listened respectfully but glanced at each other meaningfully. Mad, poor girl.

'Mad with grief, ' they nodded.'No surprise, after what she's been through.' They did nothing, but resolved to keep an eye on her.

The next day Alcione went for a long walk. She soon came to the port the boat bearing her husband to Delphi had left from. Staring numbly out to sea, she watched the waves rise and fall, beating a ceaseless path shoreward. Then she spotted a loggy form she first thought was a large fish, then a dolphin. It slid upside the crest of one wave then down into the trough of another, working its way slowly her way. After a bit she recognized the fish-nibbled, blue jello-clad form of Ceyx. Horrified but enchanted, she watched, shielding her eyes from the sun.

'My husband, ' she sobbed, leaping into the waves and covering the form with her form. 'You have kept your promise. You have come back.'

The people (who only saw a log) were mystified, and no less so by what happened next-which proved the existence of the Gods to even the most committed skeptic. Seen by all, the fingers of her hands became long feathers. Likewise, her arms became wings. As her body lightened, she felt it borne up by the breeze. The rolling form of her husband underwent a similar change, sprouting feathers and wings. It, too, livening, was lifted, and together they found themselves coasting over the waves toward the sun, which was still morning low, seabirds together. Forever.

Her voice became a mere, shrill cry, but not before she uttered these ultimate words:

'Winds, be still, and forever be still, these late summer days, in observance of our love.'

And they were. For seven whole days at summer's end. And they still are.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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An Art in Question

What does an artist see in female figure?
Is it lovely figure, beautiful face or natural appearance?
Nothing of that sort influences when he draws in art
It is something extra ordinary that appeals him from start

What nature has to offer to a man kind for surprise?
There are many landscapes and emergence of sun rise
What do bright golden rays play a part on globe?
That is not an imaginary scene or part of any probe

It is al around us and appeal most of the time
It may not be of paramount importance or subject prime
It is how that occupies our mind and we give it a real color
That is an art form and always stays as gift from creator

Nothing changes or alters the course of celestial bodies
Human nature changes with the advent of stories
We adjust the art form to suit our narrow end
It is present scenario and prevailing stand

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A Vision

Night o'er the earth her dusky robe had spread,
With gloom unwonted, moon and stars conceal'd
By dense and murky clouds, denied their light.
I musing lay reclined, involved in thought,
And pondering o'er the various changing scenes
This land had witness'd, until slumbers soft
Succeeded to my reverie, yet stole
So lightly over me, that I was still
Unconscious that I slept; and still my thoughts
Pursued the path, and wander'd o'er the scenes
Where they had waking roved. What! I exclaim'd,
Would be the feelings, or the words of Penn,
Did he now view the fair wide commonwealth,
Whose infancy was foster'd by his care?
I scarce had spoken, when an airy form
Before me stood. Her dark and piercing eye
Was lighted by a smile, that o'er her face,
In female beauty rich, benignant play'd.
Her tresses unadorn'd, save with a wreath
Of dewy wild-flowers, o'er her shoulders flung,

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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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To A Young Lady

In vain, fair Maid, you ask in vain,
My pen should try th' advent'rous strain,
And following truth's unalter'd law,
Attempt your character to draw.
I own indeed, that generous mind
That weeps the woes of human kind,
That heart by friendship's charms inspired,
That soul with sprightly fancy fired,
The air of life, the vivid eye,
The flowing wit, the keen reply--
To paint these beauties as they shine,
Might ask a nobler pen than mine.

Yet what sure strokes can draw the Fair,
Who vary, like the fleeting air,
Like willows bending to the force,
Where'er the gales direct their course,
Opposed to no misfortune's power,
And changing with the changing hour.

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poem by John Trumbull
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Unriled Joy after James Whitcomb RILEY When the Frost is on the Punkin

Unriled Joy

When the current links computer screen to internet online,
when the 'Royal Crown' is fairly set upon fair features fine,
Then her sweetness sempiternal needs no coffee to invent
pure parody from paradise, no syllables misspent.
Far from ice and snow know Florida is haven of the Gods -
It even switched Obama which upset some Harris clods,
and all praise her peerless poems their true laurel leaves assign
When the current links computer screen to internet online.

4 January 2009

after When the Frost is on the Punkin James Whitcomb RILEY 1849_1916
and My Life of Riley Joy BURKI-WATSON 1950_20xx

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Vertumnus and Pomona : Ovid's Metamorphoses, book 14 [v. 623-771]

The fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign;
Of all the Virgins of the sylvan train,
None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,
Or more improv'd the vegetable care.
To her the shady grove, the flow'ry field,
The streams and fountains, no delights could yield;
'Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,
And see the boughs with happy burthens bend.
The hook she bore instead of Cynthia's spear,
To lop the growth of the luxuriant year,
To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,
And teach th' obedient branches where to spring.
Now the cleft rind inserted graffs receives,
And yields an offspring more than nature gives;
Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew,
And feed their fibres with reviving dew.
These cares alone her virgin breast employ,
Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy.
Her private orchards, wall'd on ev'ry side,
To lawless sylvans all access deny'd.

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poem by Alexander Pope
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Ghasta Or, The Avenging Demon!!!

Hark! the owlet flaps her wing,
In the pathless dell beneath,
Hark! night ravens loudly sing,
Tidings of despair and death.--

Horror covers all the sky,
Clouds of darkness blot the moon,
Prepare! for mortal thou must die,
Prepare to yield thy soul up soon--

Fierce the tempest raves around,
Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly,
Crashing thunder shakes the ground,
Fire and tumult fill the sky.—

Hark! the tolling village bell,
Tells the hour of midnight come,
Now can blast the powers of Hell,
Fiend-like goblins now can roam--

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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