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Holy Sonnet XI: Spit In My Face You Jewes

Spit in my face you Jewes, and pierce my side,
Buffet, and scoffe, scourge, and crucifie mee,
For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd, and onely hee,
Who could do no iniquitie, hath dyed:
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sinnes, which passe the Jewes impiety:
They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I
Crucifie him daily, being now glorified.
Oh let mee then, his strange love still admire:
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment.
And Jacob came cloth'd in vile harsh attire
But to supplant, and with gainfull intent:
God cloth'd himselfe in vile mans flesh, that so
Hee might be weake enough to suffer woe.

poem by John Donne
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Summum Bonum

Waiting on Him who knows us and our need,
Most need have we to dare not, nor desire,
But as He giveth, softly to suspire
Against His gift, with no inglorious greed,
For this is joy, tho' still our joys recede;
And, as in octaves of a noble lyre,
To move our minds with His, and clearer, higher,
Sound forth our fate; for this is strength indeed.

Thanks to His love let earth and man dispense
In smoke of worship when the heart is stillest,
A praying more than prayer: "Great good have I,
Till it be greater good to lay it by;
Nor can I lose peace, power, permanence,
For these smile on me from the thing Thou willest!"

poem by Louise Imogen Guiney
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Guns Of Peace

GHOSTS of dead soldiers in the battle slain,
Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far,
In the long patience of inglorious war,
Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence, and pain,--
All ye whose loss makes our victorious gain--
This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's tongue,
Do ye look down the trembling stars among
Viewing our peace and war with like disdain?
Or wiser grown since reaching those new spheres,
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sowed as seed
For this our harvest, nor regret the deed?--
Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears--
'Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurled,
And make all wars to cease throughout the world.'

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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About The Nightingale

From a letter from STC to Wordsworth after writing The Nightingale:

In stale blank verse a subject stale
I send per post my Nightingale;
And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth,
You'll tell me what you think, my Bird's worth.
My own opinion's briefly this--
His bill he opens not amiss;
And when he has sung a stave or so,
His breast, & some small space below,
So throbs & swells, that you might swear
No vulgar music's working there.
So far, so good; but then, 'od rot him!
There's something falls off at his bottom.
Yet, sure, no wonder it should breed,
That my Bird's Tail's a tail indeed
And makes it's own inglorious harmony
Æolio crepitû, non carmine.

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Unremebering dream

Welcome ingrate malignancy into the cruel world
For silent words inside the frozen mouth to keep,
Unsearchable ideas to be used like a sword,
For sending meaningless reveries in our anxious sleep.

Your palaces of suffering, crowning the head of woe,
With sightless, hopeless human beings in icy, rayless lands,
Your dark, where the flowers and green grass cannot grow,
And people duty is to demand and receive your commands.

Inglorious, your never coming spring, your valley glittering in cold,
Your values, gorged in somberness, waiting to be destroyed,
And proud, a close friend of you, graven image of gold,
Will be your sad reality, when He will come and He will be annoyed.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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A Reality, Asked To Bide, As Aspiration

I fancy not, a respite for my long-embattled heart-
Though, same would remove need for my faith to impart
Encouragement that a reward awaits me, that I may ne'er measure;
Should I seek refuge from all which I treasure,
Causation would find the contrary rendered-
As, the hope it inspires would no longer be tendered;
Cower not shall I, from that which I most ardently admire,
E'en whence consummatedbut when I aspire:
This is the very reason why time seems to have ceased-
An inglorious reality is forced, whilst a beauteous one, is fleeced.

Naught may dispel an ardor so closely guarded;
No matter of time, nor of space,
May make less-nor surely, erase-
That which hath been so blessedly imparted!

poem by Maurice Harris
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The Thinker

Of all the men I ever knew
The tinkingest was Uncle Jim;
If there were any chores to do
We couldn't figure much on him.
He'd have a thinking job on hand,
And on the rocking-chair he'd sit,
And think and think to beat the band,
And snap his galusus and spit.

We kids regarded him with awe -
His beard browned by tobacco stains,
His hayseed had of faded straw
The covered such a bunch of brains.
When some big problem claimed his mind
He'd wrestle with it for a fall;
But some solution he would find,
To be on hand for supper call.

A mute, inglorious Einstein he,
A rocking-chair philosopher;

[...] Read more

poem by Robert William Service
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Rap-sody in Blue

All these rappers be laconically commensurate
Prosaic, characterized primarily by barbarity
Permeating vulgarity, it ceaselessly proliferates
Rhyming inconsequentially with no deference to sincerity

Enter now, a young sesquipedalian
Whose lyrics substantiate an act so vaudevillian
Relinquished to denial of aspirations of fruition,
Contrived to combat by inglorious juxtaposition.

With no prospected pervasion of passive placation,
Persistence is paramount to sovereignly surmount
The rancorous prejudice, emulated by convention
Perceivable as vociferous self-gratification

My antipathy towards this ostentatious trumpery
Is equivalent to the art form's possible potency
Because those who are cognizant of its profound potential
Must too envision that to rap, savagery is all but quintessential.

poem by Bill Marcy
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Solemn Promise

A Father, relieved of his duty, by the appalling ignorance of men;
Due to obvious deceit, my rights were absconded, again and again!
All the ideals I had come to believe in and covet, as absolute,
Were ignored-I wonder, how can so many be so terribly dilute?

Forced to respond, in a manner not befitting an honorable man;
Yet, so as to not abandon her, I must do all that I am able, all that I can!
Where justice is denied, though it is your inalienable right,
You must take it-through all your actions and with all your might!

Soon, surely, you will be called to task;
Remove I shall, your shameful mask,
Exposing you and your deeds to all;
Inglorious indeed, shall be your fall!

Long since ago, I made a tacit, yet solemn promise-
My actions hence forth, assumed from this premise!

Maurice Harris,9 April 2010

poem by Maurice Harris
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Part Of A Prologue Written And Spoken By The POet Laberius A Roman Knight, Whom Caesar Forced Upon The Stage

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.

WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more.
For ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once, I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;

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poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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