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Boy Breaking Glass

To Marc Crawford
from whom the commission
Whose broken window is a cry of art
(success, that winks aware
as elegance, as a treasonable faith)
is raw: is sonic: is old-eyed première.
Our beautiful flaw and terrible ornament.
Our barbarous and metal little man.

“I shall create! If not a note, a hole.
If not an overture, a desecration.”

Full of pepper and light
and Salt and night and cargoes.

“Don’t go down the plank
if you see there’s no extension.
Each to his grief, each to
his loneliness and fidgety revenge.
Nobody knew where I was and now I am no longer there.”

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poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
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A r k

Such a fine morning sight –
all the species, not lining up
for extinction as they later were
but this time for preservation – a long line
patiently stretching into the distance
as far as mind could see

sometimes shifting quietly
from one leg to the other
or from four legs to three
or stretching a wing
hungry to fly – but where?

and one man blessed
radiant in his duty, awed
as that great ship expanded
a boundless mind of growing wood

and the naming…to what
did he listen, as the moo-moos

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Song of Perfect Propriety

Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
And watch the beggars sink.

I'd like to straddle gory decks,
And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
Among my blackguard crew....
But I am writing little verse,
As little ladies do.

Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
And pose and preen and sway,

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poem by Dorothy Parker
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Undefined Beauty

amazing brilliance transmitted
through her sprouting tombs
guarded by obedient strict straps

never seen such warm built
between pillar and the plank
she stands her gazing grabs a far

waiting to graft any desert
to ratify with solitude where wind
never feathered its cooling thirst

brilliance to be defined when realised
a palate without any color touch
asked her to sit beside fortune

she looked with a variant look
glittering spelled out with splash
to hold the burden she possessed

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poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Long Ago

De ol' time's gone, de new time's hyeah
Wid all hits fuss an' feddahs;
I done fu'got de joy an' cheah
We knowed all kin's o' weddahs,
I done fu'got each ol'-time hymn
We ust to sing in meetin';
I 's leahned de prah's, so neat an' trim,
De preachah keeps us 'peatin'.

Hang a vine by de chimney side,
An' one by de cabin do';
An' sing a song fu' de day dat died,
De day of long ergo.

My youf, hit's gone, yes, long ergo,
An' yit I ain't a-moanin';
Hit 's fu' somet'ings I ust to know
I set to-night a-honin'.
De pallet on de ol' plank flo',
De rain bar'l und' de eaves,

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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Harvest Time

When the cranky German waggon,
With its ten or fifteen bag on
Comes a-jerkin’ and a-joltin’ down the dusty, limestone street,
And the “Norther’s” blowin’ blindin’,
And the rollers are a-grindin’,
And the agent jabs his sampler thro’ the sackin’ to the wheat,
Let ’em slide along the plank! slide along! slide along!
Sixty bushels for the Bank; slide along!

When your back is fairly breakin’
And your very fingers shakin’
With the heavin’, heavin’, heavin’, in the blarsted, blazin’ sun;
And the agent finds the spots out
And takes all his sample lots out
Where its rusty, pinched, or smutty—knockin’ off five pound a ton;
Sling ’em over with a jerk! slide along! slide along!
Sixty days of wasted work! slide along!

Sixty days a-ploughin’ mallee
In the God-forgotten valley

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poem by Charles Henry Souter
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A May Night on the Mountains

’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,
These long ‘small hours’ of night,
When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,
And the stars come close and bright.
The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,
From clouds of a steely grey,
And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale
In the wonderful Milky Way.
There is something wrong with this star of ours,
A mortal plank unsound,
That cannot be charged to the mighty powers
Who guide the stars around.
Though man is higher than bird or beast,
Though wisdom is still his boast,
He surely resembles Nature least,
And the things that vex her most.

Oh, say, some muse of a larger star,
Some muse of the Universe,
If they who people those planets far

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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Princess: A Medley: Our Enemies have Fall'n

Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed,
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark,
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun.
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came;
The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard
A noise of songs they would not understand:
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall,
And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves.

Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came,
The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree!
But we will make it faggots for the hearth,
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor,
And boats and bridges for the use of men.

Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they struck;
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain:

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Mayflower

THUNDER our thanks to her—guns, hearts and lips!
Cheer from the ranks to her,
Shout from the banks to her—
Mayflower! Foremost and best of our ships.
Mayflower! Twice in the national story
Thy dear name in letters of gold—
Woven in texture that never grows old-
Winning a home and winning glory!
Sailing the years to us, welcomed for aye;
Cherished for centuries, dearest to-day.
Every heart throbs for her, every flag dips—
Mayflower! First and last—best of our ships!

White as a seagull, she swept the long passage,
True as the homing-bird flies with its message.
Love her? O, richer than silk every sail of her.
Trust her? More precious than gold every nail of her.
Write we down faithfully every man's part in her;
Greet we all gratefully every true heart in her.
More than a name to us, sailing the fleetest,

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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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A Bored Apple Seed............[Humor, i hope]

While sitting in our screen house I spit out one apple seed.
You'd think it would be grateful since from my mouth it had been freed.
But no, you ungrateful seed. Instead you turned and looked at me,
a frown upon your face, indeed!
You landed upon a white-painted floor plank, a few feet from the ground.
From there you saw trees and grass and bushes all around.
Perhaps you wished you had feet so you could find a spot, to sprout your stuff
instead of sitting idle, a seed without a pot.

[Or maybe you spied my bird feeders, stocked with sunflower and nyjer seed.
To them the titmice and chickadees, and goldfinches come to feed.
Could you possibly wish, if you could not sprout, to be eaten by a bird,
and vanish until the bird poops you out? ]

Where you landed it does not get wet, so you cannot reach the soil.
You look now so unhappy; I think your apple anger is about to boil.
I suppose the least I could do is give you a big kick, and knock
you off the flooring, onto fertile ground to grow into a stick.

[But I DIDN'T and now another week's gone by.]

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poem by Bri Edwards
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