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Ash Wednesday Once

Ash Wednesday. The dab of ash
On the forehead by the old priest.
The way his shaking thumb pushed
It there. Lent begun. What are you
Going to give up? Peggy asked him
Afterwards on the way from church.
I haven’t thought about it Henry replied.
You ought to she said. The feel of the
Priest’s thumb still itched his forehead.
And what to put in its place in case the
Devil creeps in she added giving him a
Sideward glance. He sensed her glance.
Last year I gave up the smokes he said.
For two days she said. It was a try he
Muttered. No point trying if you don’t
Have the will to succeed. He kept quiet.
There was that perfume of hers coming
To him on the wind. The perfume she
Wore that day they had sex in the school
Gym during the lunch hour before double

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poem by Terry Collett
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The Prodigal Son

Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater rest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I'm off to the Yards afresh.

I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother's mind, you see)
But there's no reproach among swine, d'you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I'm off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be! - there's a laugh to it,
Which isn't the case when we dine.

My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A New Year's Gift,sent To Sir Simeon Steward

No news of navies burnt at seas;
No noise of late spawn'd tittyries;
No closet plot or open vent,
That frights men with a Parliament:
No new device or late-found trick,
To read by th' stars the kingdom's sick;
No gin to catch the State, or wring
The free-born nostril of the King,
We send to you; but here a jolly
Verse crown'd with ivy and with holly;
That tells of winter's tales and mirth
That milk-maids make about the hearth;
Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl,
That toss'd up, after Fox-i'-th'-hole;
Of Blind-man-buff, and of the care
That young men have to shoe the Mare;
Of twelf-tide cakes, of pease and beans,
Wherewith ye make those merry scenes,
Whenas ye chuse your king and queen,
And cry out, 'Hey for our town green!'--

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poem by Robert Herrick
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To G. M. W. And G. F. W.

Whenas—(I love that 'whenas' word—
It shows I am a poet, too,)
Q. Horace Flaccus gaily stirred
The welkin with his tra-la-loo,
He little thought one donkey’s back
Would carry thus a double load—
Father and son upon one jack,
Galumphing down the Tibur Road.

II

Old is the tale—Aesop’s, I think—
Of that famed miller and his son
Whose fortunes were so 'on the blink'
They had one donk, and only one;
You know the tale—the critic’s squawk
(As pater that poor ass bestrode)—
'Selfish! To make thy fine son walk!'
Perhaps that was on Tibur Road?

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poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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The Logicians Refuted

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd
As rational, the human kind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
'Homo est ratione praeditum',--
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason-boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
'Deus est anima brutorum'.

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poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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The Norman Baron

et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut
que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de
maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de
posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui
avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de
l'Angleterre.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered
And the castle-turret shook,

In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Rebel Angel, 'Satan

Yes I am rebel angel Iblis
with my invincible code triple six.
Like a robot rebelling against his master
I have revolted against my heavenly pater.
We have unbridgeable difference of opinion,
about, leading the world towards joy, Dionysian.
He maims and kills for Bacchic thrills
without realizing that even a puppet feels.
Like a bloodthirsty spectator in a theater
he applauds mayhem and massacre.
My contempt for his sadistic ways and means
compels me for attempts umpteen.

Now I have to out-maneuver him
and behead his blood claded fancies and whims.
My righteous blitzkriegs will last till my last breath
and I will not cow down by his sinister threats.
Let the whole universe stand against me
but I'll neither bow nor flee.
Unmindful of death, I fight without plan

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poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Le Roi D’Yvetot

Il etait un roi d'Yvetot,
Peu connu dans l'histoire;
Se levant tard, se couchant tot,
Dormant fort bien sans gloire,
Et couronne par Jeanneton
D'un simple bonnet de coton,
Dit-on.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!
Quel bon petit roi c'etait la!
La, la.

Il fesait ses quatre repas
Dans son palais de chaume,
Et sur un ane, pas a pas,
Parcourait son royaume.
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien,
Pour toute garde il n'avait rien
Qu'un chien.
Oh! oh! oh ! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!
Il n'avait de gout onereux

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poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Philistine And The Bohemian

She was a Philistine spick and span,
He was a bold Bohemian.
She had the mode, and the last at that;
He had a cape and a brigand hat.
She was so riant and chic and trim;
He was so shaggy, unkempt and grim.
On the rue de la Paix she was wont to shine;
The rue de la Gaîté was more his line.
She doted on Barclay and Dell and Caine;
He quoted Mallarmé and Paul Verlaine.
She was a triumph at Tango teas;
At Vorticist's suppers he sought to please.
She thought that Franz Lehar was utterly great;
Of Strauss and Stravinsky he'd piously prate.
She loved elegance, he loved art;
They were as wide as the poles apart:
Yet -- Cupid and Caprice are hand and glove --
They met at a dinner, they fell in love.

Home he went to his garret bare,

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poem by Robert William Service
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PARADOX. That it is best for a Young Maid to marry an Old Man

Fair one, why cannot you an old man love?
He may as useful, and more constant prove.
Experience shews you that maturer years
Are a security against those fears
Youth will expose you to; whose wild desire
As it is hot, so 'tis as rash as fire.
Mark how the blaze extinct in ashes lies,
Leaving no brand nor embers when it dies
Which might the flame renew: thus soon consumes
Youths wandring heat, and vanishes in fumes.
When ages riper love unapt to stray
Through loose and giddy change of objects, may
In your warm bosom like a cynder lie,
Quickned and kindled by your sparkling eie.
Tis not deni'd, there are extremes in both
Which may the fancie move to like or loath:
Yet of the two you better shall endure
To marry with the Cramp then Calenture.
Who would in wisdom choose the Torrid Zone
Therein to settle a Plantation?

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poem by Henry King
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