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A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.

Earl of Kent in The Tragedy of King Lear
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Ad M. T. Ciceronem. Catul Ep. 50.

AD M. T. CICERONEM.
CATUL EP. 50.

Disertissime Romuli nepotum,
Quot sunt, quotque fuere, Marce Tulli,
Quotque post alios erunt in annos,
Gratias tibi maximas Catullus
Agit, pessimus omnium poeta:
Tanto pessimus omnium poeta,
Quanto tu optimus omnium patronus.

TO MARCUS T. CICERO.
IN AN ENGLISH PENTASTICK.

Tully to thee, Rome's eloquent sole heir,
The best of all that are, shall be, and were,
I the worst poet send my best thanks and pray'r:
Ev'n by how much the worst of poets I,
By so much you the best of patrones be.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Song of Saul Before His Last Battle

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king’s in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.

Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!

poem by Byron
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All Men Are Free

‘ALL men are free and equal born
Before the Law!’ So runs the worn
And specious, lying, parrot-cry.
All men are free—to starve or sigh;
But few to feed on Egypt’s corn.

There toils the sweated slave, forlorn;
There weeps the babe with hunger torn;
Dear God! Forgive us for the lie—
‘All men are free!’

That man may laugh while this must mourn;
One’s heir to honour, one to scorn—
Were they born free? Were you? Was I?
No! Not when born, but when they die
And of their robes—or rags—are shorn,
All men are free!

poem by Sydney Elliott Napier
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My Father Is a Great Hunter

In those days they say
Animals live in the bush
I wish my father can travel go West
To see cat and dog
Antelope and elephant
Tiger and lion
Living in man’s house.

They call them pets
But I don’t understand
While in my continent
Mouse hunts for food
Cat hunts for mouse
Dog hunts for cat
Tiger hunts for dog
And my father hunts for tiger and lion.

My father is a great hunter
Our carpet is zebra crossing
Our bed is tiger coat

[...] Read more

poem by Abiodun Adekoya
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I

I descend from prime loins of the Earth,
Heir to sublime perceptions of glory,
Not one creature supersedes my worth,
Though greatness may have been illusory;
Failures and flaws peppered my existence,
As shortcomings became norms of my days,
Regrets hounded me with marked persistence,
Peace and love, rarely in my dwelling stays;
As matters stood, will there be a future,
With no past worthy of retrospection,
Evil had sought my ways to indenture,
A far cry from my goal of perfection;
……Of whose image had emulated, I?
……And to what glory could I aspire by?

poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Sonnet 7

my heart's prophecy foretells your absence
though mind for this no reason can give,
predicting soon removal from my presence
of your form, yet form within must live.

and if within, then by which robber
shall that form be stolen? if i'm the thief
who removes such treasure, spiriting other
self away, inconstant proves my love's belief.

shall it be said that my love is untrue
and be found inconstant, as passing vain?
then justice make unmerciful, law eschew,
wisdom make folly, all my sins retain.

your form, by law, must constant shine,
proving my heart heir to robber mind.

poem by Doug Bentley
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On The Gift Of A Book To A Child

Child! do not throw this book about!
Refrain from the unholy pleasure
Of cutting all the pictures out!
Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.

Child, have you never heard it said
That you are heir to all the ages?
Why, then, your hands were never made
To tear these beautiful thick pages!

Your little hands were made to take
The better things and leave the worse ones:
They also may be used to shake
The Massive Paws of Elder Persons.

And when your prayers complete the day,
Darling, your little tiny hands
Were also made, I think, to pray
For men that lose their fairylands.

poem by Hilaire Belloc
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I passed by the place where you abode

I passed by the place where you abode
Where lofty trees and ivy-beds grow a lot
I left some flowers by the door
And I carved some verses on the wall

The sweet flowers field I plucked and banded
Will wilt and fade away unwedded
It shall not give birth to an heir
Which bears forth its reflection and glare
These lovely cups are doomed to die
While with riotous colors your door sill dye

Their beauty to captive your love serves
As my royal on their mission stand brave
Their soft silken balmy lap is a sacrifice
To entrap a higher beauty and my anguish to pacify

Copy rights 2010

poem by Isaac Ziv
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: LIII

For Esther was a woman most complete
In all her ways of loving. And with me
Dealt as one deals who careless of deceit
And rich in all things is of all things free.
She did not stop with me to feel her way
Into my heart, because she all hearts knew,
But, like some prodigal heir of yesterday
Just in possession, counted not her due
And grandly gave. O brave humility!
O joy that kneels! O pride that stoops to tears!
She spent where others had demanded fee,
Served where all service had of right been hers,
Casting her bread of life upon love's ways,
Content to find it after many days.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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