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Wall Street

On the wall of Facebook of uncertainty
your blog is written-
A Street that swirls to Capitalism.
What to occupy?
Anarchy, Crash, War, or a History?
JP Morgan, Daniel Drew, Jay Gould or the WTO?

Prairie farmers, urban workers middle sizes traders
denounced 'Money Trust';
ultimately trusted money.
Progressive Reformers charged the 'Devil Fish'
degrading democracy;
finally joined to loot the other people's money.
Working -class socialists welcomed the money street
as a transit route toward collective ownership;
now distrusted.

It is not a Chinese wall-street
that encircled the capital
It is an American firewall that

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poem by Vidyut Chakraborty
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The Dauntless Three

Chris Watson, of the Parliament,
By his Caucus Gods he swore
That the great Labor Party
Should suffer wrong no more.
By his Caucus Gods he swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade his Socialists ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
To summon his array.
East and west and south and north
The Socialists ride fast,
And every town in New South Wales
Has heard their trumpet's blast.
Shame to the false elector
Who lingers in his hole,
While Watson and his myrmidons
Are riding to the poll.

Then up spake brave Horatius Gould,
And a Liberal proud was he,

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Der Drummer

Who puts oup at der pest hotel,
Und dakes his oysders on der schell,
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell

Der drummer.

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore,
Drows down his pundles on der vloor,
Und nefer schtops to shut der door!

Der drummer.

Who dakes me py der handt, und say,
"Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?"
Und goes for peesness righdt avay?

Der drummer.

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice,
Und dells me, "Look, und see how nice"?

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poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
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Onward Christian Soldiers

Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war,
With the Cross of Jesus
Going on before.
Christ the royal Master
Leads against the foe;
Forward into battle,
See, his banners go!
Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war,
With the Cross of Jesus
Going on before.

At the sign of triumph
Satan's legions flee;
On then, Christian soldiers,
On to victory.
Hell's foundations quiver
At the shout of praise;
Brothers, lift your voices,

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poem by Sabine Baring-Gould
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Mystic Chord

Memory, whose mystic chord
suggests existence of the Lord,
draws some to Gustav's music, Mahler,
many others to Kabbalah,
and even when agnostic, mystics
responsive to Pascal’s statistics,
find Leon’s Moses, sephirotic,
believable, because erotic.
Castilian writings that they dust off
appeal to me far less than Gustav.
Who’s right we may find out in olam
haba, but surely not from Scholem.

Richard Bernstein reviews “American Culture, American Tastes: Social Tastes: Social Changes and the 20th Century, ” by Michael Kammen (Alfred A. Knopf) (“Lowbrow? Highbrow? Culture Raises an Eyebrow, ' the NYT, August 25,1999) . Kammen, the author of 'Mystic Chords of Memory, ” pointing out that since the dominant role of television around 1960 cultural stratification and the existence of distinct brow levels have become blurred where they haven't been overtly blended. He traces the decline of traditional cultural authority and its eclipse by mass culture: “The entrepreneurial power of commerce totally crushed the recommendations of such cultural authorities as John Crosby, Jack Gould and Gilbert Seldes–– prominent television critics who pleaded for diversity.”

8/25/99,1/26/07

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Yawcob Strauss

I Haf von funny leedle poy,
Vot gomes schust to mine knee;
Der queerest schap, der Greatest rogue,
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:
But vot off dot? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Foots schnuff indo mine kraut.

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese,-
Dot vas der roughest chouse:
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der schticks to beat it mit,

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poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
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Daily, Daily, Sing The Praises

Daily, daily, sing the praises
Of the city God hath made;
In the beauteous fields of Eden
Its foundation stones are laid.

Refrain

O that I had wings of angels,
Here to spread and heavenward fly!
I would seek the gates of Zion,
Far beyond the starry sky.

All the walls of that dear city
Are of bright and burnished gold;
It is matchless in its beauty,
And its treasures are untold.

Refrain

In the midst of that dear city

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poem by Sabine Baring-Gould
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Instead of the Griffin Prize* All I Get is the Griffin** or What I Get for Reading Too Much Godd*mned Charles Bukowski - A Poem-in-Cheek

for Karthik gone almost a year now,
'so much for mythology'

Many clips of poets, some known enough,
some not known, at least to me. I live
beneath a rock under a rusted old half-
bridge beneath the only cloud on earth
that doesn't move unless a rare bird,
a big one, flies beneath it. And so I
try them, 'the Winners.' Some I can't
bear to look at. I swear,
THAT'S NOT A POET!

I swiftly move to the others, one by one.
They don't know that they're all being
weighed, I admit it, in unfair balance,
GUILTY AS CHARGED.

But I'm magic.

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Yawcob's Dribdlations

Maybe dot you don'd rememper,
Eighdeen — dwendy years ago, How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob —
Dot young rashkell, don'd you know, Who got schicken-box und measles;
Filled mine bipe mit Limburg scheeze; Cut mine cane up indo dhrum-schticks,
Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese.
Yell! dhose times dhey vas been ofer,
Und dot son off mine, py shings! Now vas taller as hees fader,
Und vas oup to all sooch dhings Like shimnastic dricks und pase-pall;
Und der oder day he say Dot he boxes mit " adthledics,"
Somevheres ofer on Back Bay.
Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you,
As vhen he vas been a lad; Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers
Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad; Dhey vas cut so full und baggy
Dot id dook more as a fool To find oudt eef he vas going,
Or vas coming home vrom school.
Now, dhere vas no making ofer
Off mine clothes to make a suit For dot poy — der times vas exchanged;

"Der leg vas on der oder boot;" For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin,

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poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
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Ode to Liza Minnelli

I spray Paint Your Image on The
Graffiti Mural'd Walls
Between Dundas West & Keele
Subway Stations, As a
'Red Headed Beggar Girl'
Crawling Towards Me on Your Knees,
Against the Backdropp of The
Copper
Metal
Chasm?
With My Black Eye Liner I Draw You
As a Crude Stick Figure on The
Smudged Up Mirror, of a
Filthy Public Washroom,
I Finger Paint You as The
Forbidden Modern Primitive!
Wintering a Tropical Soundscape of My Heart,
I Scribble You In Gold & Silver & Violet Crayon
On a Pink Piece of Construction
Paper,

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poem by Stedmond M. Pardy
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