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Pastor Cum

When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sail ;
Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas,
In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales,
That he might sing their future destinies.
A curse to your ancestral home you take
With her, whom Greece, with many a soldier bold,
Shall seek again, in concert sworn to break
Your nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old.
Alas ! what sweat from man and horse must flow,
What devastation to the Trojan realm
You carry, even now doth Pallas show
Her wrath—preparing buckler, car, and helm.
In vain, secure in Aphrodite's care,
You comb your locks, and on the girlish lyre
Select the strains most pleasant to the fair ;
In vain, on couch reclining, you desire
To shun the darts that threaten, and the thrust
Of Cretan lance, the battle's wild turmoil,
And Ajax swift to follow—in the dust
Condemned, though late, your wanton curls to soil.

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Little twinkle star

Had it been in my hands to decide?
I would have never attempted to hide
Made it known well before deciding factor
What all places are spared as good sectors?

Not a single place is left where I can stand and assert
Play the real life role character and declare it as concert
Tell about inability to explore and failure about performing
Remain within ambit unwillingly yet not deploring

At every step I have to take refuge under falsehood
Crate bitterness and show pretence in neighborhood
To wife, children and parent are always kept in dark
As I know it will invite great ignition with spark

Not that I am the only one confused animal
Many may experience same on their arrival
Some may hide and some may survive
Yet it is acceptable and made believe

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Psalm CXLVIII

Come, oh! come, with sacred lays,
Let us sound th' Almighty's praise;
Hither bring in true concent,
Heart, and voice, and instrument.
Let the orpharion sweet,
With the harp and viol meet:
To your voices tune the lute:
Let not tongue nor string be mute;
Nor a creature dumb be found,
That hath cither voice or sound.

Let such things as do not live,
In still music praises give:
Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep
On the earth or in the deep;
Loud aloft your voices strain,
Beasts and monsters of the main,
Birds, your warbling treble sing;
Clouds, your peals of thunder ring;
Sun and moon exalted higher,

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poem by George Wither
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Once Upon A Time In America

It was a cold January morning,
all around looked a bit boring.
In Washington’s subway
was the beginning of the ordinary day.
Everyone was in a hurry,
they didn’t want to worry
and didn’t pay attention
to the man I would like here to mention.
The passer-bys didn’t clap
to the man wearing jeans and baseball cap.
They all looked at the clock,
so that to get in time for their work.
It was not a tradition
to listen to a street musician.
That man played his violin.
He didn’t try to win.
He was in his own skin.
Would you like to know?
It was certainly not a show.
But…he played

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poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The Heart

The heart is attacked by the opponent or enemy,
This heart feels heavy with hurt, it is my heart.

Then this murmuring is felt by the winner of love,
This noise is fond of more for discomfort, it is my heart.

Let no fondness be more exact than the one you hold,
So that more feelings of joy surround the effort from your heart.

Little is done by those in basic life, the life of celebrations,
It is this childhood then in appearance so alert with your heart.

Minds and methods succeed in order to let others perform well,
Like the illness of a century, like those of the expert of your heart.

The intelligent thought so well hidden is offering a line of endurance,
Many have believed in beliefs that stem from the pervert, but My Heart?

So careful is the intellectual place called the university of life and death,
The organs too fearful of more blood are meant to invert the heart.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Many Menopause

At, the many menopause there are MANY PAUSES

men pause

Priests pause

And dogs sometimes wait on corners

Cats pause, sleep, and eat, and scratch their claws,

And the many pauses stops sleep

Mind leaps

limbs squeak then later creak

legs go to sleep

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poem by Yvette Smith
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A Little Language

I know a little language of my cat, though Dante says
that animals have no need of speech and Nature
abhors the superfluous. My cat is fluent. He
converses when he wants with me. To speak

is natural. And whales and wolves I’ve heard
in choral soundings of the sea and air
know harmony and have an eloquence that stirs
my mind and heart—they touch the soul. Here

Dante’s religion that would set Man apart
damns the effluence of our life from us
to build therein its powerhouse.

It’s in his animal communication Man is
true, immediate, and
in immediacy, Man is all animal.

His senses quicken in the thick of the symphony,
old circuits of animal rapture and alarm,

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poem by Robert Duncan
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The Stockmen Of Australia

The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they,
They will curse and swear an hurricane if you come in their way.
They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

By constant feats of horsemanship, they procure for us our grub,
And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in the scrub.
To muster up the cattle they cease not night nor day,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

Just mark him as he jogs along, his stockwhip on his knee,
His white mole pants and polished boots and jaunty cabbage- tree.
His horsey-pattern Crimean shirt of colours bright and gay,
And the stockmen of Australia, what dressy boys are they.

If you should chance to lose yourself and dropp upon his camp,
He's there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
He'll give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea,
For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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On First Looking into Bee Palmer's Shoulders

WITH BOWS TO KEATS AND KEITH'S
["The World's Most Famous Shoulders"]

Then I felt like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent upon a peak in Darien."
"BEE" PALMER has taken the raw human--all too human--stuff of the underworld, with its sighs of sadness and regret, its mad merriment, its swift blaze of passion, its turbulent dances, its outlaw music, its songs of the social bandit, and made a new art product of the theatre. She is to the sources of jazz and the blues what François Villon was to the wild life of Paris. Both have found exquisite blossoms of art in the sector of life most removed from the concert room and the boudoir, and their harvest has the vigour, the resolute life, the stimulating quality, the indelible impress of daredevil, care-free, do-as-you-please lives of the picturesque men and women who defy convention. --From Keith's Press Agent.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of jazz,
And many goodly arms and shoulders seen
Quiver and Quake--if you know what I mean;
I've seen a lot, as everybody has.
Some plaudits got, while others got the razz.
But when I saw Bee Palmer, shimmy queen,
I shook--in sympathy--my troubled bean,

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poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Praise Of Creation

Creation fires my tongue!
Nature thy anthems raise;
And spread the universal song
Of thy Creator's praise!

Heaven's chief delight was Man
Before Creation's birth--
Ordained with joy to lead the van,
And reign the lord of earth.

When Sin was quite unknown,
And all the woes it brought,
He hailed the morn without a groan
Or one corroding thought.

When each revolving wheel
Assumed its sphere sublime,
Submissive Earth then heard the peal,
And struck the march of time.

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poem by George Moses Horton
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