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I've been influenced by poets as diverse as Dylan Thomas, Lewis Carroll, and Edgar Allan Poe.

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Literary Hypocrisy

Truly I say unto you if Keats,
Shelley, William Shakespeare,
William Wordsworth, Walt
Whitman and Edgar Allan Poe;
were having this very day a poetry
reading down at your local Walmart;

you would be running running racing
to hear every precious precise poetic word
with your tongue hanging out in an orgy
of localized literary
emotive appreciative
expectation yet great

rare contemporary
poets of future recognized statute
walk unseen unappreciated ignored
among you while you thumb
your nose failing to understand
all ages have artists transcendent

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St. Jimmy

St. Jimmy's coming down across the alleyway
Upon the blvd, like a zip gon on parade
Light of a silhouette, he's insubordinate
Coming at you on the count of 1, 2, 3, 4
My name is Jimmy and you better not wear it out
Suicide commando that your momma talked about
King of the 40 thieves and I'm here to represent
The needle in the vein of the establishment.
I'm the patron saint of the denial with an angel face
And a taste for suicidal cigarettes and ramen
And a little bag of dope.
I am the son of a bitch and Edgar Allan Poe.
Raised in the city under a halo of lights.
The product of war and fear that we've been victimized.
ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?
My name is St. Jimmy. I'm a son of a gun
I'm the one that's from the way outside
I'm a teenage assassin executing some fun
In the cult of life of crime.
I'd really hate to say it but, I told you so
So shut your mouth before I shoot you down dl'boy
Welcome to the club and give me some blood.
I'm the resident leader of the lost and found
It's comedy and tragedy.
It's St. Jimmy and that's my name don't wear it out.

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Drawing a Purple Blank Verse after Gelett BURGESS Purple Cow

DRAWING A PURPLE BLANK VERSE
Kindly refer to notes

I've never cowed to purple prose
know now I'll never write it,
for anyhow true writer knows
hand stretched finds critics bite it.

I've never wowed, and goodness knows
hacks lack the knack of versing,
won't bow, kowtow to backhand blows,
preferring role reverse_sing.

Ah, yes, I wrote on purple prose,
yet can't regret I penned it,
one far prefers rhyme's timeless flows,
no blush need rush defend it.


10 February 2009
robi03_1856_burg01_0001 PWX_IXX

Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow

Author notes

For original and variations on a theme see bekiw
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THE PURPLE COW

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.


Gelett BURGESS 1866_1951
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CONFESSION

Ah, yes! I wrote the « Purple Cow » -
I’m Sorry, now, I Wrote it,
But I can Tell you Anyhow
I’ll Kill you if you Quote it.

Gelett BURGESS 1866_1951
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A Perfect Woman


She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

William Wordsworth
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THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN

Ive never seen an abominable snowman,
I’m hoping not to see one,
I’m also hoping, if I do,
That it will be a wee one.

Ogden NASH 1902_1971 Parody Gelett BURGESS – The Purple Cow
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PURPLACTIC WHEY

I've never seen a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But from the milk we're getting now
There certainly must be one

Ogden NASH 1902_1971 Parody Gelett BURGESS – The Purple Cow
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PURPLE POINT RAISED

A question 'bout a purple cow
Brings up another matter
What colour, pray, would be the steak
When sitting on the platter?

Author Unknown 0179 Parody Gelett BURGESS – The Purple Cow
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TO A COW

Corniferous wet-nurse of the human race,
Calm, comfortable cow, with placid pride
Yielding your offering at eventide
To the brown goddess who with rustic grace
Bends o’er the shining pail her knees embrace,
Clad in simple smock and apron wide
Whose fickle folds make scant pretense to hide
The lissome lines they lovingly retrace!
Now all alone, with brimming pail, she wends
Her homeward way across the field, and now
The pathway of the meadow slope ascends,
Till gathered in the purple of its brow
Her fading shape into the twilight blends,
Leaving to me the darkness – and the cow.


Oliver HERFORD

Parody Thomas GRAY – Elegy in a Country Churchyard
and Gelett BURGESS – The Purple Cow
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POE'S PURPLE COW

One lonely, gloomy, windswept eve
A mournful sound did I perceive.
I cast my eyes beyond the pane
And to my horror down the lane
Came a sight; I froze inside
A spectral cow with purple hide.

HOLLANDER Susan and David - Parody Edgar Allan POE
and Gelett BURGESS – The Purple Cow
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EMILYDICKINSON'S PURPLE COW

On far off hills
And distant rills,
Sounds a distant moo.
A purple spot
I think I caught,
Yes! I see it, too!

In Bovine majesty she stands,
Her purple tail she swings,
The amethyst cow,
To my heart somehow,
Perfect joy she brings.

And yet the thought of being
Of that race of royal hue,
Though glowing like the violet sweet,
It really would not do.

HOLLANDER Susan and David - Parody Emily Dickinson
and Gelett BURGESS – The Purple Cow
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DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB

It is with pleasure that we announce our ability to offer to the public the papers of the Re-Echo Club. This club, somewhat after the order of the Echo Club, late of Boston, takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess

'I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.'

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I Mr. J. Milton

Hence, vain deluding cows.
The herd of folly, without colour bright,
How little you delight,
Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!
But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!
Hail, divinest purple creature!
Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight.
And though I'd like, just once, to see thee,
I never, never, never'd be thee!

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
and John Milton
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II Mr. P. Bysshe Shelley

Jai to thee, blithe spirit!
Cow thou never wert;
But in life to cheer it
Playest thy full part
In purple lines of unpremeditated art.
The pale purple colour
Melts around thy sight
Like a star, but duller,
In the broad daylight.
I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.
We look before and after
At cattle as they browse;
Our most hearty laughter
Something sad must rouse.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
and Percy Bysshe SHELLEY – Ode to a Skylark
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III Mr. W. Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dee;
A Cow whom there were few to praise
And very few to see.
A violet by a mossy stone
Greeting the smiling East
Is not so purple, I must own,
As that erratic beast.
She lived unknown, that Cow, and so
I never chanced to see;
But if I had to be one, oh,
The difference to me!

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
and William Wordsworth LUCY
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IV Mr. T. Gray

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
I watched them slowly wend their weary way,
But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see.
Full many a cow of purplest ray serene
Is haply grazing where I may not see;
Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween,
But neither of these creatures would I be


Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Thomas GRAY – Elegy written in a Country Churchyard
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V Mr. J. W. Riley

There, little Cow, don't cry!
You are brindle and brown, I know.
And with wild, glad hues
Of reds and blues,
You will never gleam and glow.
But though not pleasing to the eye,
There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And John RILEY
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VI: Lord A. Tennyson

Ask me no more. A cow I fain would see
Of purple tint, like a sun-soaked grape -
Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape -
But such a creature I would never be -
Ask me no more.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Alfred TENNYSON
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VII Mr. R. Browning

All that I know
Of a certain Cow
Is it can throw,
Somewhere, somehow,
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue
(That makes purple, 'tis said) .
I would fain see, too.
The Cow that darkles the red and the blue!

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Robert BROWNING
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VIII Mr. J. Keats

A cow of purple is a joy forever.
Its loveliness increases. I have never
Seen this phenomenon. Yet ever keep
A brave lookout; lest I should be alseep
When she comes by. For, though I would not be one,
I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.


Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And John KEATS – Endymion
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IX Mr. D. G. Rossetti

The Purple Cow strayed in the glade;
(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!) .
I've never seen her - nay, not I;
(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
Yet were I that Cow I should want to die.
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!) ,
But in vain my tears I strew.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Dante Gabriel ROSSETTI
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X Mr. T. Aldrich

Somewhere in some faked nature place,
In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land,
Two darkling shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.
'And who are you! ' said each to each;
'Tell me your title, anyhow.'
One said, 'I am the Papal Bull.'


Parody Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Thomas Aldrich
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XI Mr. E. Allan Poe

Open then I flung a shutter,
And, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor. Not the least obeisance made she,
Not a moment stopped or stayed she,
But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door.
On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.

And that Purple Cow unflitting
Still is sitting - still is sitting
On that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door,
And her horns have all the seeming
Of a demon's that is screaming
And the arc-light o'er her streaming
Cast her shadow on the floor.
And my soul from out that pool of Purple shadow on the floor,
Shall be lifted Nevermore!

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Edgar Allan POE - The Raven

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XII Mr. H. Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wing of night
As ballast is wafted downward
From an airship in its flight.
I dream of a purple creature
Which is not as kine are now;
And resembles cattle only
As Cowper resembles a cow.
Such cows have power to quiet
Our restless thoughts and rude;
They come like the Benedictine
That follows after food.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW – The Day is Done
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XIII Mr. A. Swinburne

Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision,
Oh, purple, impalpable Cow,
Do you browse in the Dream Field Elysian,
Are you purpling pleasantly now?
By the the side of wan waves do you languish?
Or in the lithe lush of the grove?
While vainly I search in my anguish,
O Bovine of mauve!

Despair in my bosom is sighing,
Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest;
Though cows of rare sorts I am buying,
Not one breathes a balm to my breast.
Oh, rapturous, rose-crowned occasion,
When I such a glory might see!
But a cow of a purple persuasion
I never would be.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Algernon Charles SWINBURNE Dolores
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XIV Mr. A. Dobson

I'd love to see
A Purple Cow,
Oh, Goodness me!
I'd love to see
But not to be
One. Anyhow,
I'd love to see
A Purple Cow.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Austin DOBSON
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XV Mr. O. Herford

Children, observe the Purple Cow,
You cannot see her, anyhow;
And, little ones, you need not hope
Your eyes will e'er attain such scope.
But if you ever have a choice
To be, or see, lift up your voice
And choose to see. For surely you
Don't want to browse around and moo.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Oliver HERFORD
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XVI Mr. H. C. Bunner

Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the cows are purple?
Ah, woe is me! I never hope
On such a sight my eyes to ope:
But as I sing in merry glee
Along the road to Arcady,
Perchance full soon I may espy
A Purple Cow come dancing by.
Heigho! I then shall see one.
Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay,
And garlanded with rosy may, -
A tricksy sight. Still I must say
I'd rather see than be one.

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And H.C. BUNNER
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XVII Mr. A. Swinburne

(Who was so enthused that he made a second attempt)

Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously dreaming
Cows there may be of a passionate purple, - cows of a violent violet hue;
Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a demi-delirious dreaming -
Ne'er may I happily harbour a hesitant hope in my heart that my dream my come true.
Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one.
Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily wearily watching I wait;
Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling and throbbing; to see is a glorious gain - but to be one!
That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller, frightfuller fate!

Carolyn WELLS 1869_1942 Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
And Algernon Charles SWINBURNE - Nepthelidia
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Spirited Reflections on a Purple Cow - after Gelett BURGESS and William Wordsworth

Kind kin[e] we see through ultra-violet light
seem now to be cowed phantoms of de-light -
but let well be, our ghosts are seen unsought,
yet set them free, pot roast has been unwrought.


23 May 1982
Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
robi03_0205_robi03_0000 PWX_MXX
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My Favorite Poets

It could have been a John Doe
but it was Edgar Allan Poe
who wrote 'The Raven' and 'Annabel Lee'

It could have been a de-service
to Mr. Robert Service
for not acknowledging
'The cremation of Sam Mcgee'

And then there's 'Renescance'
with its unique elegance
by Edna st. Vincent Millay

Who joined the very few
writing their hearts out to you
becoming immortals, here today.


(Charlie Vergara/06.20.2009/1469)

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My father has been dyeing on me for years even though he is healthy and alive.

My father has been dyeing on me for years even though he is healthy and alive. The more I see him, realizes him, the less he is. The past of what was, what was once the sun, is now smaller than a seed, not a muster seed, but poison ivory. I whish it was not but for my sake, I must face this truth. If we came from a place where there was more rage coming to you than love, more frustration than love, more ridicule than love, more lack of boundaries than love, more manipulation then love, more intimidation than love, more hitting than hugs, then you are better off by facing this terrible, this tearful reality go on in to love, to really love, not use fake public displays of love to cover your abuse. Face it, wrestle with it, change it, so as not to past this destructives hell to our children.

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A Tribute To My Great Poets (Revised)

I forget who it was that invented the first electrode.
Let me praise the guy who invented the commode.
Love is all that matters in the solar system and universe
Some poets and writers like to compose using free verse.
I like to write my poems using ending rhymes.
Some poems I like to read over one hundred times.
The inspiration for some of my poems are from the divine.
The writings and poems of Jane Austen can make me pine.
A moving poem by Robert Frost can inspire my mind.
Let me mention another great poet name Edgar Allan Poe.
He wrote a poem called ‘The Raven’ about someone in woe.
So ode to the electrode, commode, the solar system, and the universe.
Hooray for poems that rhyme, things that are divine, and even free verse.
Bravo to poets who make me pine and all those who inspire my mind.
Let me pay a final tribute to the poets; Austen, Frost, and Poe.
I love to read a moving poem about loss and great human woe?


My favorite Frost poem is Road Less Taken; My favorite Poe poem is The Raven; And my favorite Austen poem is Ode to Pity.

*Definitions of pine: noun: have a desire for something or someone who is not present
Definitions of woe: noun: intense mournfulness, or misery resulting from affliction.

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Traditions and Specifics

This journey I began,
Started for me many years ago.
So save your pretense and flattery.
They do nothing for my ego.

So regard my expressions,
Not poetry at all.
And by use of academic standards,
What I do does not fit a mold they can recall.

And I wonder if Shakespeare,
Or Maya Angelou or Langston would approve...
If Nikki Giovanni,
Said it differently than Sonia Sanchez.
Or if Harriet Beecher Stowe,
Thought Mark Twain...
Or Edgar Allan Poe were shallow poets?
And if she did...
What makes her or the others,
Authorities to know?
How talents such as these are bestowed.

Especially when times move on!
And mentalities 'should' grow!
Beyond the halls of formal education.
Where some still seek to teach and be taught.

Like those who are of conceptual talents.

And few of those have not been shown.
Or at least in some places,
Not yet exposed...
To innovative thinking.
With a dose of creativity imposed.

So many are threatened,
By the unknown!

This journey I began,
Started for me many years ago.
So save your pretense and flattery.
They do nothing for my ego.

In fact...
Egos seem to be attached,
To those limited to academics.
And intellectually gifted...
To analyze and dissect,
What has already been depicted.
And devoid of the 'what ifs' of life...
Those who are 'curious' enjoy.

Those who are annoyed by others!
The ones intellectualizing,
Traditions and specifics.

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The Poetry Course

I was stumbling through the college grounds
On a day, eight months ago,
It was wintertime, in a fading light
And the ground was covered with snow,
I was there for a course of literature
Set up by Professor Burke,
They said that he had all the answers, then,
To the Poets, and all of their work!

I'd never read too much poetry
What I had went over my head,
I thought there was too much imagery
To understand what they said,
The class was small, I sat by the wall
And tried to avoid his frown,
Whenever he asked a question
I was afraid that he'd put me down.

I didn't know anyone else in there
I was feeling bereft, alone,
But one of the students that sat by me
Had a face that was set in stone,
He was shrunk right down in his overcoat,
And he sat there, stroking his mo,
So after the class, I followed him
And he gave me a brief: ‘Hello! '

I can't ever say that we were chums,
He was far too quiet for that,
We'd wander together, lost in thought
And I was the one to chat,
He'd answer me with a short ‘Hurrumph',
Occasionally answer: ‘Hah! '
And often he'd sound almost profound
With a short and considered: ‘Bah! '

The only time that he came to life
Was when Burke was discussing Rhyme,
Burke curled his lip at the thought of it,
And said: ‘It's a waste of time! '
My friend sank down in his overcoat
And he gave out a funny sigh,
With Burke extolling the free-form art
Of the moderns, and told us why.

He tore up Coleridge: ‘Christabel,
Is just an unfinished dream,
And Wordsworth, him and his leeches - Well!
It seems to me quite obscene! '
He massacred Noyes and his ‘Highwayman',
And Kipling he threw in the bin;
‘‘The Raven' is boring, it's much too long
And the rest of his stuff, just spin! '

Exams were held on a frosty night
With a hell of a fog outside,
My friend was down and dispirited,
But he wrote with a quiet pride,
The final question on rhyme was set
On ‘The Raven' - give a critique! '
I think he would still have been writing there
If we'd had ‘til the end of the week!

The marks came back in a day or two,
I'd scrambled through with a pass,
My friend walked off on his own that night
His shoulders were hunched at the last,
I never ran into him after that,
He'd said, ‘I'd better just go! '
The marks for ‘The Raven' had let him down,
They'd flunked Edgar Allan Poe!

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Great Poets Missed Never Met

Great poets missed
never met
never engaged
artistic in conversation

we missed William Shakespeare
John Milton, Edmund Spenser
who wrote 'The Faerie Queene';
John Done long gone but not forgotten

we missed Francois Marie Arouet
better known as pen name Voltaire
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
and macabre master Edgar Allan Poe

we missed the romantic poets
Shelley, Keats, Lord Byron
all dead within three years
of each others tragic deaths

we missed William Blake
“Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye”

we missed the lake poets
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
William Wordsworth who
quarrelled irrevocably parted

we missed Robert Browning
wife Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Henry Wadsworth-Longfellow
Italian Dante Gabriel Rossetti

sister Christina Georgina Rossetti
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman
Lewis Carroll who took us in concepts
‘Through the Looking-Glass’ allusions

we also missed Wilfred Owen pacifist
T.S. Eliot walking ‘The Waste Land’
Siegfried Sassoon slaughter survived
Wystan Hugh Auden a man of a lit wit

William Carlos Williams upon ‘a red
wheel barrow’ so much depends spins
Sylvia Plath into ‘The Bell Jar’ while
Allen Ginsberg stalks Walt Whitman

through ‘A Supermarket in California’
as he asks ‘Who killed the pork chops?
What price bananas? Are You my Angel? ’
‘We strode down the open corridors in

our solitary fancy tasting artichokes,
possessing every frozen delicacy, and
never passing the cashier. Where are
we going, ’ Terence Craddock they asked

me, but already I have passed on into
future flights of fancy, as I blaze past
Space Shuttle Challenger 73 seconds
into its flight; before NASA knew it needed

another seven astronauts, as silver molten
teardrops fall gravity defeated earth bound
while I stealth fly Iraqi skies dropping golden
phoenix liquid fire searching out peace signs.

Great poets missed
never met
never engaged
artistic in conversation

you missed William Shakespeare
you missed Edgar Allan Poe
you missed Allen Ginsberg
don’t miss Terence Craddock

smile on the face of the Tyger
disappears entirely leaving only
wide grin suspended in air memory
leaves stir whisper passing words

Camera Obscura vaulted dark room
collecting plate of poems bright sunlight
travelling through pinhole wickerwork
interlaced fingers creates circular patches

light cast upon the ground captures images
inner eye views Pyramidal rays thought
forms while Charon poles our poet friends
past black waters of death to alight in dreams.


Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Allen Ginsberg quotations are from his poem ‘A Supermarket in California’.

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Lenexa Baptist Church Poet Tom Zart, s = BELL RINGERS of THE SOUL!

POETS ARE THE BELL RINGERS of THE HEART & SOUL!


Poets as a rule are high on adventure
Like wondering bards or prophets today.
Embracing hearts and minds with wisdom
Casting through verse their visions at play.

Poets have their dreams and their nightmares
Of love, life, death, faith and war.
They feel the pain and tragedy of others
Even those they’ve never met before.

They fan the flames of human compassion
With their stories of the failings of man.
Professing to follow a higher power
As they recruit whomever they can.

Poets are the bell ringers of the soul
As they depict the past, the present and beyond.
They sound their alarm of what lies ahead
As the missteps of man live on.


POETS AND POEMS


Poetry blossomed long before Shakespeare, Milton or Poe.
It thrived prior to Solomon and the languages of old.
Poetry today offers itself more often in the form of music
Then in sonnets and poems as the legends of life unfold.

Man has his fear of loneliness, death and the hereafter
As authors compose his doom, desperation and glory.
All hear the words of both good and evil
With too many that fall for the wrong story.

The falsehoods of life find it hard to hide
From the word of God’s poets and poems.
Sharing their joy, frustration and sorrow
By voice, Internet, radio, or books, in our homes.

Poets and poems help man become more human
As the storms of life proliferate their toll.
Poets and poems were put here for a reason
To help tame the savage that dwells in our soul.


Tom Zart

GOD’S MOST HUMBLE POET


I’m God’s most humble poet
Whose poems have meter and rhyme.
Stories of love, faith, hate, honor and duty,
Obedience, war, heroes, history and crime.

Ive performed my gift on T.V. and radio
Before millions Ive never met.
Preached my praise of God and country
With 410 poems on the net.

Satan’s soldiers, shepherds and bards
Spew forth their foulness and grief.
They attack the joy and goodness of man
Dishonoring life, family, country and belief.

Prospering through work, love and conviction
Enables us to remain whole and how we should be.
Fortifying our soul with fulfillment of faith
Lets our worst tribulations be shouldered by Thee.

Moses, Samson, David, Solomon and Jonah
All failed God in their own human way.
He chose to forgive them and bless their powers
So they might dwell in hearts of man today.

Without God’s grace, wisdom and glorious domain
There’s no doubt all would soon cease to survive.
Through purpose, morals and Christian conviction
We are able to transform and keep hope alive.


EDGAR ALLAN POE


One of America’s most famous writers
Was born in Boston, January of 1809.
Both his parents were failing actors
And his father was drunk most the time.

In 1810 Edgar’s dad disappeared
His mother died soon after.
A childless couple took him in
Raising him with love and laughter.

Edgar had a Negro nurse
Who brought him to her quarters.
There he listened to ghost stories
Far beyond earthly borders.

The strange tales he later wrote
May have come from her inspiration.
The words she used to describe death
Gave Poe his taste for sensation.

The Allans moved to England
Where Poe attended boarding schools.
There’s no doubt his time spent there
Sharpened his skills as tools.

Returning to Richmond and back in school
He began to compose new verse.
Heavy debts forced him to leave college
As his life took a turn for the worse.

Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston
Where he was unable to find employment.
A young printer agreed to publish his poems
Giving him hope and enjoyment.

Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army
And was accepted to West Point in 29.
Poe couldn’t stand not being a writer
Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.

Afterward he became an editor and critic
And married his cousin who was thirteen.
Six years latter he discovered she was dying
Suffering once more the unforeseen.

He went through periods of insanity
Caused by grieving and functional fall.
He smoked opium and drank too much
Till at his doorstep death would call.

Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse
Still lives in our hearts today
Famous for The Raven and other great works
May his soul rest in peace we pray.


GOD’S POETS


The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal
For it’s God who makes them so smart.

Most poets tell the truth of life
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose
To compose is but their duty.

Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.

One merit of a poet's work
Which most cannot deny.
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.

God sent his poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth.
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.


A GOOD POEM


A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.

A good poem is like the flower
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.

A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song
You can’t help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.

A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for
It makes us want to love someone
Till death comes knocking at our door.


POETRY


God has always had his poets
Who He watches with love from space.
But Satan has his poets too
Who try to lead us from our grace.

King Solomon was a poet
Who spoke of love, life, death and war.
That lips were like threads of scarlet
And that breasts were roses and more.

The wild birds sing and flowers bloom
As clouds form figures in the sky.
But only humans will write poems
That shall last long after they die.

The eldest sister of all arts
Which some have called the devils wine.
Poetry is but pure passion
To stimulate the heart and mind.


POET'S WIFE


My reciting seemed to delight her
Though for me it was love at first sight.
When she found out I was a poet
She asked, what kind do you write?

Love poems, mostly, I told her
While we walked alone in the park
Love's fever became even warmer
As two shadows embraced in the dark

I'll always remember when first we met
I whispered a poem in her ear.
Ever since then how happy I've been
And other women I've no need to be near.

They say that poets are divine
Though my wife would argue, that’s not true!
For, whenever I lose my direction
It’s she who tells me what to do.

Where the city ends and the suburbs begin
We've built our home beneath the sky.
We’ll raise our babies with truth and love
Till one or both of us die.

A verse a day, I always say
Helps keep lawyers from my door
For when I'm paid for what I write
My wife loves me a little more.


ALL POETS SERVE A MASTER


Most poets have a bit of Solomon
Shakespeare and Poe within.
Constantly eager to share their visions
Of love, life, joy and sin.

Some guzzle whiskey
Some sip wine
Some prefer cola
And feel just fine.

Some smoke pot
Or suck cigarettes
Some abuse drugs
With lifetime regrets.

Some attend church
And sing of God
While others make fun
And call them odd.

All have a purpose
Which drives them to compose.
All serve a master
Who by free will, they chose.


DIVINE INTERVENTION


I never write a poem
That doesn’t write itself.
I catch a buzz and come alive
Like a puppet off it’s shelf.

Hearing many voices
Whose words are never mine.
My pen becomes a painter’s brush
Forming visions on a line.

I seem to be a better person
When it’s time to sit down and write.
A higher power guides my hand
Sharing wisdom by day and night.

People born to create
Have no choice but to perform.
It’s the rush of sharing their gift
That elevates them from the norm.

What would our world become
Without intervention from above?
Angry beings in a revolving cage
With no sense of passion or love.


THE POWER of POETRY


Poetry is the lighthouse of life
Guiding the lost from a stormy sea.
Without it’s presence darkness prevails
Keeping us from all we can be.

Poems are used to convey passion
By poets of both good and evil mood.
Some are hateful others loving
Sharing thoughts to be consumed as food.

Verse can lead us to glory or doom
As we partake with others within.
Depicting our past, present and future
With words of man’s grace or sin.

People write poetry because they have no choice
Answering to the call of their gift.
Where some tend to pull their readers down
Others compose to give them a lift.

Always remember the power of poetry
Is used by both heaven and hell.
It’s up to us to choose our pleasure
As poetry remains alive and well.


WHISPERS


Poetry consumed is where wisdom begins
As we heed to the whispers of the heart.
It’s easy to blame others for our dismay
When from ignorance we refuse to part.

Verse is a beacon of hope in the darkness
To help us navigate the pitfalls of life.
Far more tend to write it, than read it
That’s why there’s endless conflict and strife.

I write poems to help fuel the light
By sharing what God has given me.
With stories of love, life, war and more
Where heroes pray on bended knee.


MASTERS of VERSE


Poetry is one of man’s oldest arts
Practiced long before words of print.
Every race had its masters of verse
In caves, huts, cabins or tent.

Stories in verse were handed down
From one generation to another.
The first told of love, war and more
And how to survive each other.

As man became more civilized
He could not help but wonder within.
Verse then took on a deeper meaning
With stories of faith, superstition and sin.

The act of reciting became in demand
As verse began to advance
Every tribe, city, town and village
Had someone who gave words romance.

Today’s poets are on the World Wide Web
Though many seem spiritually ill.
Thank Heaven for all who still have God’s gift
To compose, teach, comfort and fulfill.


MY FAVORITE POET


My favorite poet is “God”
Who gives Earth its rhythm and rhyme.
Not pied pipers of misguided souls
Who promote distrust, hatred and crime.

Poetry is nature serenading in song
The peaceful roar of the oceans waves.
The wind through the trees and over the hills
And the flowers in the fields by the graves.

The sound of rain as it waters the thirsty
The songs of children at play in the park.
The far off rumble of trains or thunder
As they pass through the night in the dark.

The joy of our babies first words and steps
The passion of life with its heroes and clowns.
The on going struggle to survive our sins
As we proliferate in hamlets and towns.

My favorite poet is our Father of above
Who was first to know us before birth.
His poetry prolongs every thing we love
As His deliverance gives life its worth.


THE POWER of WORDS


Words are the most powerful tools used by man
As hearts and souls reach for one another.
Sharing feelings of fear, wisdom and joy
Or our love for a significant other.

Where would we be without words
Which inspire, unite and motivate.
Songs, poems, stories, blogs, books
Wars, religion, love, lust and hate.

Jesus preached words to the multitudes
And nourish their hunger within.
The stories we tell portray our spirit
As examples of weakness, triumph or sin.

When we fail to control the rage of our thoughts
What is easy to say becomes hard to forgive.
Words are visions which portray our intent
The better we communicate, the better we live.


AMERICAN SOLDIER


It’s not a priest that gives us our freedom of religion
And it’s not a reporter that gives us our freedom of voice.
It’s not any judge, lawyer, politician, or teacher
But the blood of a soldier that has sacrificed by choice.

Our soldiers line up to be remembered
As the best of the best at their job.
They wish to be needed and depended on
To save all we love from the mob.

They risk their life and limb for liberty
Standing firm against evil unwilling to break.
To be part of something greater than themselves
They are willing to sacrifice whatever it will take.


Tom Zart’s Poems Are Free To Post To Teach Or Show Love And Support!

By Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web

To Listen To Tom Zart’s Poems Go To =

http: //new.pivtr.com/en/schedule/tom-zart/
http: //www.veteranstodayforum.com/viewforum.php? f=38

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The New World

The gift and the curse
With this I'm spreading all my messages to the world.
One then the next
Another new pretext.
A systematic absorption through what I read.
Ideas all my own
A conversation with whole world at the same time.
Intriguing this must be to great minds
Imagine Edgar Allan Poe was living today
What would he write about?
Who would he talk too?
Would it be you?
Would it me?
Are you starting to see?
The great minds of the time stand before you.
People all over the world sharing in intellect.
Conversation with people twenty messages long.
This is the new world of the great poets, writers, and authors all rolled into one.

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Sonny I Guess I'm Crazy

Dad why do people go crazy?
Well son what do you mean?
They do commit odd acts of such
Slaughter thievery and perjury

Well son what do you think they need
Someone to talk to like a therapist
Son now now they could also use other sorts
Think of art poetry painting crying

You see people do crazy things
So much hypocrisy as poets we try to change that
The son tries to speak but the dad keeps going
DAD! I'm only in 1st grade remember

Plus dad that doesn't seem like enough
Oh boy you got a lot to learn
Did Edgar Allan Poe need therapy boy?
Didn't he die a alcoholic dad?

Well that was a bad example
Sonny I guess I could use someone to talk to
Dad you got me
I forgot silly me but you still got a ways ahead

I'll get Uncle Einstein
Relaxing away my thoughts gaze around
Boy my son is a clever kid
Probably gets it from Joan o sigh

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Not Being Supportive

The more I subject myself to listen to you...
The more inclined I find I should,
Hear your words in my head.
Instead of in my heart.
Where at times you have taken my happiness...
And anchored it with burdens.
Feeling weighted down with a ton of lead!
That awaits for you to quickly depart!

You bring more misery around,
Than anything I have read by Edgar Allan Poe.
Your gloom would chase away Vincent Price,
From the attraction of sparkling Christmas lights,
And a welcome mat at someone's front door.

Pain and grief seems to be your first and last names.
There has not been a time,
You have not been complaining or found time to whine.
And then you accuse me of not being supportive of your needs?

'Where are you going?
Why do you leave? '

I've decided you are right!
I have not been supportive of your needs.
And since we do agree I have neglected yours...
I am going to make sure my own are going to be taken care of,
Immediately!
That's where I am going.
And I don't expect or seek your assistance at all!

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Alone

my feeling runs in the world
like the notes on your piano
hit it and you'll hear me
talk to me and you get to know me
talk to me the way you play your favourite piece
and you get that side of me
that will correspond to your favour
love me, hate me, just dont dont talk to me
the notes in me would go awry
like the piano that has not been tuned for ages
my sensitivity is a red hot iron bar dipped into water
it hisses and fumes
my joy, hurt, happiness
the way lilies edge little by little
in their bloom ensemble
under the soft morn light

inspired by

Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Edgar Allan Poe

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I Am The Walrus

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly.
Im crying.
Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.
Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody tuesday.
Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo gjoob.
Mister city policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like lucy in the sky, see how they run.
Im crying, Im crying.
Im crying, Im crying.
Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dogs eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,
Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo gjoob.
Sitting in an english garden waiting for the sun.
If the sun dont come, you get a tan
From standing in the english rain.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo gjoob ggoo goo gjoob.
Expert textpert choking smokers,
Dont you thing the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty,
See how they snied.
Im crying.
Semolina pilchard, climbing up the eiffel tower.
Elementary penguin singing hari krishna.
Man, you should have seen them kicking edgar allan poe.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo gjoob ggoo goo gjoob.
Goo goo gjoob ggoo goo gjoob ggoo.

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I Am The The Walrus (live)

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together
See how they run like pigs from a gun
See how they fly
I'm crying
Sitting on a cornflake
Waiting for the van to come
Corporation tee-shirt
Stupid bloody Tuesday
Man, you been a naughty boy
You let your face grow long
I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus
Goo goo g'joob
Mister City
Policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky
See how they run
I'm crying
I'm crying
I'm crying
I'm crying
Yellow matter custard
Dripping from a dead dog's eye
Crabalocker fishwife
Pornographic priestess
Boy, you been a naughty girl
You let your knickers down
I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus
Goo goo g'joob
Sitting in an English garden
Waiting for the sun
If the sun don't come
You get a tan from
Standing in the English rain
I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob
Expert textpert
Choking smokers
Don't you thing the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile
Like pigs in a sty
See how they snied
I'm crying
Semolina pilchard
Climbing up the Eiffel Tower
Elementary penguin
Singing Hari Krishna
Man, you should have seen them
Kicking Edgar Allan Poe
I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus
goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob
Goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob g'goo
(Written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

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Here I write about myself

Here I write about myself
and at times my personality is far too strong
my leadership wants to take control
wants to cut into conversations,
wants to teach people,
wants to get involved,
to make a better place out of the world
and all the time I am learning
how other poets brew their words

and maybe my spirit
is just too bold
and I am looking right through the enchantment
of beautiful ladies

and marsh right through
until I get my target
as if determination
locks her claws around me

and to one I stay true
as if I am a saint
and her soul is driving me deeper.

I know no fear
as war has changed
my humanity

and when I write poems,
I am myself,
at other times a spectator
who measures out time and space,
keeps book of the pain,
tear through rottenness
and illustrate beauty

and in vain I try
to walk in the steps
of the big word master,
as a true follower

but with my own talent
and the whole time
my feet comes down
like military boots in the right pace
but following a different march
as if I do not know
how to parade my poems

l’Envoi
and here I write about myself,
about how my life is

and when I get home
I listen to the voices
of Dylan Thomas,
Douglas Livingstone
and every great poet
that I can lay my hands on,
see what are written in their works

before I grab a glowing hammer
and hit words into forms
as if I can melt
thunder and fire together
to words that stays crackling.

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I Am The Walrus

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together
See how we run like pigs from a gun, see how we fly, Im cryin
Sitting on a cornflake, Im waiting for the van to come
Corporation t-shirts, stupid bloody tuesday, man youve been a naughty boy
You let your face grow long
I am the egg man
We are the egg men
I am the walrus
Coo coo ca choo
Mister city, policemen city, pretty little policemen in a row
See how they fly like lucy in the sky, see how we run, Im cryin
Im cry, Im cryin, Im cry
Yellow mound of custard, dripping from a dead dogs eye
Grab a locker fish-wife, pornographic priestess, man youve been a
Naughty girl you let your knickers down
I am the egg man
We are the egg men
I am the walrus
Coo coo ca choo, coo coo coo ca choo
Sitting in an english garden waiting for the sun
If the sun dont come you get your tan from standing in the english rain
I am the egg man
We are the egg men
And I am the walrus
Coo coo ca choo, ca coo coo ca choo
Experts sexperts, choking smokers, dont you think the joker laughs at you?
See how they spy like pigs in the sky, see how they snide, Im cryin
Semelena pilchards, climbing up the eiffel tower
Elementary penguins singing hare krishna, man you should have seen him
Kicking edgar allan poe
I am the egg man
We are the egg men
I am the walrus
Coo coo ca choo, ca coo coo ca choo
Coo coo ca choo, ca coo coo ca choo coo coo
A tu-tu-tu baw, a tu-tu-tu baw, a tu-tu-tu baw, a tu-tu-tu baw, a tu-tu-tu baw

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Spirit of Love - The Little Crustacean

transparent, white
but the lines distinct
the little crustacean
the little prawn
so little it touches
the softest spot of my heart
throw it back
throw it back
the world screams to me
in each successive wave
the breeze soothes
my ruffled feeling
halcyon day
everything peaceful, calm
the little prawn
waves to me
as i take a look
at it again
wanting to be my friend?
its life and death
in my hand
in my hold
i let it lose
into the vast sea
this time feeling myself
tiny as it is
in this wheel of life
trillion, zillion
like the lines
of the shimmering waves
buddha sits in infinity
teaches about the hereafter
each of us in this realm
taking turns to be each other
the good, the bad and the ugly
the role cast by love and hate in the hearts
the wave heralds my spirit of love
as the little prawn swims free
out of my sight
the wind carresses my face
the waves gently lap onto my hands and off
the ebb and tide of life
i know too that someday
somewhere, somebody would
let me lose too from predicardments,
tribulations


INSPIRED FROM

Dream Within A Dream
==================
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Edgar Allan Poe

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Ulalume

(e.a.poe)
Jeff performed a reading of this poem by edgar allan poe for the tribute compilation closed on account of rabies, produced by hal willner.
The skies were ashen and sober,
The leaves they were crisped and sere,
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome october
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of auber,
In the misty mid region of weir,
It was down by the dank tarn of auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of weir.
Here once, through an alley, titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my soul,
Of cypress, with psyche, my soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down yaaneck
In the ultimate climes of the pole,
That groan as they roll down mount yaaneck
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,
Our memories were treacherous and sere,
For we knew not the month was october,
And we marked not the night of the year
(ah, night of all nights in the year!);
We noted not the dim lake of auber
(though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of weir.
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn,
As the star-dials hinted of morn,
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn
Astartes bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said: she is warmer than dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs,
She reveals in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the lion,
To point us the path to the skies,
To the lethean peace of the skies;
Come up, in despite of the lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes,
Come up through the lair of the lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.
But psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: sadly this star I mistrust,
Her pallor I strangely mistrust;
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust;
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied: this is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright;
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to heaven through the night.
Thus I pacified psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb,
And I said:what is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?
She replied: ulalume! ulalume!
tis the vault of thy lost ulalume!
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere,
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried: it was surely october
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed, I journeyed down here,
That I brought a dread burden down here,
Of this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of auber,
This misty mid region of weir,
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of weir.
Said we, then--the two, then--ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the hell of the planetary souls?

song performed by Jeff BuckleyReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
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