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A Poem Is A Cluster Bomb

A poem assemble ideas,
Concentrates experience
Await its time, place
For its own release
A Poem is a cluster bomb

A Poem explodes
Particle by particle
Projectile by projectile
Piece by piece,
Varying impact on the way
A poem is a cluster bomb

Out of a poem come wails
Out of a poem come hails
Out of a poem comes repair
Out of a poem comes despair
A Poem is a cluster bomb

It spreads in ripples

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poem by Isaac Maliya
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Willaloo

By E. A. P.
In the sad and sodden street,
To and fro,
Flit the fever-stricken feet
Of the freshers as they meet,
Come and go,
Ever buying, buying, buying
Where the shopmen stand supplying,
Vying, vying
All they know,
While the Autumn lies a-dying
Sad and low
As the price of summer suitings when the winter breezes blow,
Of the summer, summer suitings that are standing in a row
On the way to Jericho.
See the freshers as they row
To and fro,
Up and down the Lower River for an afternoon or so—
(For the deft manipulation
Of the never-resting oar,

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poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Farmhouse

Welcome this is a farmhouse
We have cluster flies, alas
And this time of year is bad
We are so very sorry
There is little we can do
But swat them
She didn't beg, oh not enough
She didn't stay when things got tough
I told a lie and she got mad
She wasn't there when things got bad
I never ever saw the Northern Light
I never really heard of cluster flies
I never ever saw the star so bright
In the farmhouse things will be alright
(2x)
Woke this morning to the stinging lash
Every man rise from the ash
Each betrayal begins with trust
Every man returns to dust
I never ever saw the Northern Light

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song performed by Phish
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Bags Of Fun With Buster

Performed by johnny japes and his jesticles. recorded for viz
Comics, written and produced by andy partridge, neville farmer,
And dave gregory, and featuring john otway.
Whos that dragging what looks like a pink sack of spanners down the road?
His swollen folly on a supermarket trolley to alleviate the load
Testicular tomfoolery
To the rescue of humanity
It looks a lot of balls to me
Fun and japes and merry frolics
With buster gonads bulbous bouncing . . .
Bags of fun with buster
And his super scrotal cluster
Whos that lad with his cobblers clad in a disguise of some form?
When the cosmic power of a meteorite shower made them swell beyond the norm
Now here he comes to save mankind
His enormous nuts not far behind
And theyre not the salted kind
He cures mutes and alcoholics
When they first see his bulbous bouncing . . .
Bags of fun with buster

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song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Granny Granny

it must be
from that little
corner of the heart
where pain is most
difficult to contain

that little corner
of the heart where
the world of love
could fit into

that little packet of
groundnuts and tibits
an endearingly cluster
beside the tombstone

granny granny
as promised every year
a packet of your
best loved tidbits

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Dedication

They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less
Of sound than of words,
In lands where bright blossoms are scentless,
And songless bright birds;
Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses,
Insatiable Summer oppresses
Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses,
And faint flocks and herds.
Where in drieariest days, when all dews end,
And all winds are warm,
Wild Winter's large floodgates are loosen'd,
And floods, freed by storm;
From broken-up fountain heads, dash on
Dry deserts with long pent up passion--
Here rhyme was first framed without fashion,
Song shaped without form.
Whence gather'd?--The locust's glad chirrup
May furnish a stave;
The ring os rowel and stirrup,
The wash of a wave.

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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50 Cent

'I will kill you like a snake',
'I will roast you like a chicken',
'I will fry you like a plantain',
So roll, roll, roll your boat when,
You have a killer gun in your pocket.
I was born in the ghetto,
With the status of poverty without a fish;
I was taught in the ghettto,
With much tears than hope;
I was brought up in the ghetto,
Without the Statue of Liberty to salute;
So roll your boat with the gun in your pocket but,
Who is ther to cover up your actions?

I was taught in a mud-house,
Without slippers on my feet;
That's the kind of society i cam from.
I had my education on the streets with,
Fights, Hunger and Starvation to crown the day;
But your killer gun in your pocket will,

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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Macarius The Monk

IN the old days, while yet the Church was young,
And men believed that praise of God was sung
In curbing self as well as singing psalms,
There lived a monk, Macarius by name,
A holy man, to whom the faithful came
With hungry hearts to hear the wondrous Word.
In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms,
He dwelt within the desert: from the marsh
He drank the brackish water, and his food
Was dates and roots,—and all his rule was harsh,
For pampered flesh in' those days warred with good.
From those who came in scores a few there were
Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer,
And these remained and took the hermit's vow.
A dozen saints there grew to be; and now
Macarius, happy, lived in larger care.
He taught his brethren all the lore he knew,
And as they learned, his pious rigors grew.
His whole intent was on the spirit's goal:
He taught them silence—words disturb the soul;

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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Ode To The Moon

I

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!—
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunter never climb'd,—secure from dread?
How many antique fancies have I read
Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!
Wondrous and bright,
Upon the silver light,
Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!

II

What art thou like?—Sometimes I see thee ride
A far-bound galley on its perilous way,

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poem by Thomas Hood
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Vestigia Quinque Retrorsum

AN ACADEMIC POEM

1829-1879

Read at the Commencement Dinner of the Alumni of Harvard
University, June 25, 1879.

WHILE fond, sad memories all around us throng,
Silence were sweeter than the sweetest song;
Yet when the leaves are green and heaven is blue,
The choral tribute of the grove is due,
And when the lengthening nights have chilled the skies,
We fain would hear the song-bird ere be flies,
And greet with kindly welcome, even as now,
The lonely minstrel on his leafless bough.

This is our golden year,--its golden day;
Its bridal memories soon must pass away;
Soon shall its dying music cease to ring,
And every year must loose some silver string,

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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