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The Incantation

Scene: Federal Political Arena
A darkened cave. In the middle, a cauldron, boiling.
Enter the three witches.
1ST WITCH: Thrice hath the Federal Jackass brayed.

2ND WITCH: Once the Bruce-Smith War-horse neighed.

3RD WITCH: So Georgie comes, 'tis time, 'tis time,
Around the cauldron to chant our rhyme.

1ST WITCH: In the cauldron boil and bake
Fillet of a tariff snake,
Home-made flannels -- mostly cotton,
Apples full of moths, and rotten,
Lamb that perished in the drought,
Starving stock from "furthest out",
Drops of sweat from cultivators,
Sweating to feed legislators.
Grime from a white stoker's nob,
Toiling at a nigger's job.

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Second Whip Explains

Now, gatherin' 'ounds is a job I like
W'en the winter day draws in,
W'en shadows are lyin' by every dyke
An' creepin' out o' the whin ;
W'en 'Armony 's missin' an' Houtcast too,
An' the Master 'e says to me-
'Jim, you go back to that gorse we drew,
For it's there them beggars 'll be ! '
Oh, gatherin' 'ounds is the job I love,
W'en the dark comes down on the thorn
An' the moon is 'ung in the sky above
Like a glitterin' 'untin' 'orn
W'en I ride the banks like a glidin' ghost
An' the dips like a witch o' fear-
This is the job wot I loves the most
In the darkest days o' the year.
Though it's me that knows that the cunnin' old rags
Will be 'alfway 'ome by now,
0' course if you're sent for a 'ound wot lags
You must do as you're ordered 'ow;

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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Three yards up the road

When your great-great-Grandmother
sold across the brush of cotton
was singing songs of Africa
and working under lash and lock
and yoke the white man slaver set
the child in England shivered

Silently as Dada died or Mama died
she moved to separation from her own
became a Parish burden picking oakum
was sold to northern mills in groups of slaves
locked inside forbidding winter temples
stocking dross the Parish sent away

When your great-great-Grandmother
sold by stronger tribes in Africa
to make them rich and build their acres
to feed the rich man's people hunger
passing cramped across the ocean
watching daily deaths - or hourly

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poem by Charlotte Peters Rock
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We Are The Good Guys

What lies behind these words thick, heavy, and dark.
A stroll at midnight through the park.
A slasher film gone terribly wrong.
The killer dies before the murders can even start.
As hate turns into love from far above.
A shadow knight gazing upon the sun.
He knows it will mean instance death if he looks yet he still does.
It was not the way it was suppose to be.
And with the supposing their was only one possibility.
A delight of delights, with heaven almost in sight.
Breaking the angel wings, ripping them off, and making them his own.
Cruel and unjust, but how would it be if it was the only way.
That is to say in a world where only one rule rules.
A blatant attempt to try to make everyone eat the same old gruel day after day.
Watch as the taste buds within the tongue decay.
They know of nothing any better so why would they even care.
Oblivious to the world beyond which I let them see,
It is for all our own good.
Let the mind not be tempted by wondering thoughts for who really knows where of this wondering might lead
As if something only of the bad could ever come.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Teapots and Quails

Teapots and Quails,
Snuffers and Snails,
Set him a sailing
and see how he sails!
..
Mitres and Beams,
Thimbles and Creams,
Set him a screaming
and hark! how he screams!
..
Houses and Kings,
Whiskers and Swings,
Set him a stinging
and see how he stings!
..
Ribands and Pigs,
Helmets and Figs,
Set him a jigging
and see how he jigs!
..

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poem by Edward Lear
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The Shore Temple in Mahaballipuram

The mirtangist may never willingly hear
may not want to hear
the multaiyam announcing his cue
nor the melodist aware of the flautist's right
to the change in the raga
the plucking of the yal strings
to the goatskin drummed bleats
and pleas
of mindless fingers
for out there
on the receding promontary's rising granite mounds
of three-tiered edifices
held up
by the Pallava's view
of the Descent into the Ganges:

rishis crosslegged contemplate yakshis or apsaras' unharnessed
thighs
attenuated waists commodious backs buxom breasts
where mantra-chanting brahmins bathe drink and contort themselves

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poem by T. Wignesan
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The Recumbent Posture

The day after Christmas, young Albert
Were what's called, confined to his bed,
With a tight kind of pain in his stummick
And a light feeling up in his head.

His parents were all in a fluster
When they saw little lad were so sick,
They said, 'Put out your tongue!', When they'd seen it
They said, 'Put it back again - quick!'

Ma made him a basin of gruel,
But that were a move for the worse;
Though the little lad tried hard to eat it,
At the finish he did the reverse.

The pain showed no signs of abating,
So at last they got Doctor to call.
He said it were in the ab-domain
And not in the stummick at all.

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poem by Marriott Edgar
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Available Entertainment Here in Animal Land!

There are things we can do here
That we cannot do in the AfterLife.

That is because these are 'animal behaviors'
That are driven, unbeknownst to us
By animal drives.

Let's take a look,
(Discern the drives that we obey) :

There's hunting, for the males,
And fighting the competition:
We are busy 'bringing home the bacon'
And besting our enemies,
Who'd love to take our territory.

To keep our energy high, when no enemy face is seen,
We've sports to do or cheer for
(All those feelings have to go somewhere) .

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poem by Jan Freundschuh
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The Bestiary: or Orpheus’s Procession

(Le Bestiaire ou Cortège d’Orphée)

Orpheus

Admire the vital power
And nobility of line:
It’s the voice that the light made us understand here
That Hermes Trismegistus writes of in Pimander.

The Tortoise

From magic Thrace, O delerium!
My sure fingers sound the strings.
The creatures pass to the sounds
Of my tortoise, and the songs I sing.

The Horse

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poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
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Once I Was A Prince

Once i was a prince in your highbeamed palm-thatched house
timber and stone
of hardened mud and cold green shiny cement
in your village ribbed with drying splintering palmleaf fences
buttressed by ferns
palmyra jackfruit mango trees standing solitary sentinel in compound
corners

then just for a month
i was a prince in your eyes
i hazarded the Bay of Bengal on a lolling steamer
and watched in unbelief naked children dive for coins in the Nagapattinam offshore anchorage
just to be with you
still a teeny dreamy youth
and there you were
afraid that your village ways might irk me
make me want to go back before time

the day i arrived a double murder in the island
a day or two earlier another

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poem by T. Wignesan
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