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There are no such things as the Elgin Marbles.

quote by Melina Mercouri
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Marbles I

(HogarthKellyMosleyRotheryTrewavas)
[Marbles I-IV]
Did anyone see my last marble
As it rolled out and over the floor?
It fell through a hole in the corner
Of a room in a town on a tour
It's lonely without your last marble
I miss it not rattling around
As I lie in my bed there's a space in my head
Where there used to be colours and sound..
When I was a child I had marbles
They brought admiration and fame
They were pretty to look at and marbles
Was always my favourite game
We played all the summer days
In the stony alleyways
In the playground after class
We would trade the coloured glass
More valuable than diamonds
More magical than diamonds
Did anyone see..
Did anyone see..
Does anyone see?
There were almost four hundred until the black day
I discovered how high they would fly to the sky
If you used them for tennis instead of a ball..
Zinging glass satellites crueller than fate
Whacked with a racket up into the blue
I'd smashed all the greenhouses on the estate
And a crowd formed a queue at the gate..
That was almost the end of my marbles
Confiscated, I choked back the tears
I hung onto a handful of favourites
That disappeared over the years
Did anyone see my last marble
I swear that I had it before
Sometimes I think I should go see a shrink
In case he can find me some more
Did anyone see my last marble?
I'd saved it to give it away
Since I was a youth
Now I don't have no proof
Only words
Only words
Only words.

song performed by Marillion
Added by Lucian Velea
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Marbles IV

(HogarthKellyMosleyRotheryTrewavas)
[Marbles I-IV]
Did anyone see my last marble
As it rolled out and over the floor?
It fell through a hole in the corner
Of a room in a town on a tour
It's lonely without your last marble
I miss it not rattling around
As I lie in my bed there's a space in my head
Where there used to be colours and sound..
When I was a child I had marbles
They brought admiration and fame
They were pretty to look at and marbles
Was always my favourite game
We played all the summer days
In the stony alleyways
In the playground after class
We would trade the coloured glass
More valuable than diamonds
More magical than diamonds
Did anyone see..
Did anyone see..
Does anyone see?
There were almost four hundred until the black day
I discovered how high they would fly to the sky
If you used them for tennis instead of a ball..
Zinging glass satellites crueller than fate
Whacked with a racket up into the blue
I'd smashed all the greenhouses on the estate
And a crowd formed a queue at the gate..
That was almost the end of my marbles
Confiscated, I choked back the tears
I hung onto a handful of favourites
That disappeared over the years
Did anyone see my last marble
I swear that I had it before
Sometimes I think I should go see a shrink
In case he can find me some more
Did anyone see my last marble?
I'd saved it to give it away
Since I was a youth
Now I don't have no proof
Only words
Only words
Only words.

song performed by Marillion
Added by Lucian Velea
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Pebbles And Marbles

She started a blaze from one tiny spark
I didn't even detect
She loved the light, was dismayed by the dark
The stars, though, she seemed to respect
The faint light that flutters at night to the Earth
Would land in her eyes and collect
Luminous creatures she'd find in the surf
I never thought to inspect
Pebbles and marbles, like things on my mind
Seem to get lost and harder to find
When I am alone, I am inclined
If I find a pebble in the sand
To think that it fell from my hand
She gave me ideas, planted the seed
But she never stopped to reflect
The course that she's on, wherever it leads
I never would redirect
Pebbles and marbles, like words from a friend
Make us hold tight, but are lost in the end
When we're alone, we all seem to tend
If we find a marble in the dust
To wish someone left it for us
Pebbles and marbles, like things on my mind
Seem to get lost and harder to find
When I am alone, I am inclined
If I find a pebble in the sand
To wish that it fell from my hand
Pebbles and marbles, like things on my mind...

song performed by Phish
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Happy Colored Marbles

Most people are not ok, but they're taking their siestas in the sun
Got some ideas on the way it should be
But most of 'em just carrying on
Happy colored marbles that are rolling in my head
I put 'em back in the jacket of the one I love
Carry that velvet sack full of pretty colored marbles
And I'll ask you for 'em back, when I'm ready and done
Most people are not ok, and they're slackin' cause the job ain't done
Fillin' up on the poison nut
And getting down till the dawn
Happy colored marbles that are rolling in my head
I put 'em back in the jacket of the one I love
Carry that velvet sack full of pretty colored marbles
And I'll ask you for 'em back, when I'm ready and done

song performed by Ween
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Who do I think was the greatest? This might shock you: Elgin Baylor. He did so many great things. Nobody could guard him, playing in the forward spot. I'd love to see some of today's greats playing against Elgin. They couldn't guard him. Nobody could.

quote by Oscar Robertson
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Fill your mouth with marbles and make a speech. Every day reduce the number of marbles in your mouth and make a speech. You will soon become an accredited public speaker -- as soon as you have lost all your marbles.

quote by Brooks Hays
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Amours de Voyage, Canto III

Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotunda,
Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,
Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,
Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;
Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;
Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;
Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.--
Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,
Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,
Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,
Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,
Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,
Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,--
Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,
Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!

I. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--on the way to Florence.

Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.--We don't know,
You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;
But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual reason,--
He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.
Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so
Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,--
Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:
I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.
Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly
Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, my
Pen will not write any more;--let us say nothing further about it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;
So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expression
Quite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.
Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?
Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas
That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;
I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.--
When does he make advances?--He thinks that women should woo him;
Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.
She that should love him must look for small love in return,--like the ivy
On the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, and
E'en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.

II. Claude to Eustace,--from Rome

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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The art of alma-tadema

There is no song his colours cannot sing,
For all his art breathes melody, and tunes
The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring
To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.

The music of those marbles you can hear
In every crevice, where the deep green stains
Have sunken when the grey days of the year
Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains

That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge,
But drenched into the seams, amid the hush
Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge
To waken to the wonder of his brush.

And at the Master's touch the marbles leap
To life, the creamy onyx and the skins
Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep,
Cool basins where the whispering water wins

Reflections from the gold and glowing sun,
And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair
And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one--
A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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I sometimes think of all those apparently insignificant people

Who never find place in snobbish minds too busy to notice them
While they are playing with their intellectual marbles
Of concepts polished and syllogisms winding endlessly to no end deductions
Of too much info without a place to really fit but can serve the purpose
Of a metaphor the more unusual the better I guess
I sometimes think that those apparently insignificant people
Live full lives on anonymous addresses and keep and cherish their loves
Their family their children their values that no commercial placing them into
Nostra picolla vita our little life can ever really touch or ring a bell at their door
Behind which they are having a great time playing cards they borrowed
From their neighbours for they have no money to buy ones for themselves
Watching tv reading having coffee and just sitting
I am thinking of so many others who forgot what sitting was all about
I am thinking of those who always fit themselves into -few- category
Which gives them the right to feel above nostra picola vita and
Place mediocrisis labels on ‘little people's' back as some kind of punishment
And complain about being misunderstood or blaming the marbles
For not being the colour they are supposed to be on a given day
They started to academically roll in and down their overburdened brain
Perhaps I'm too harsh on those who dedicated their lives to serve
Some higher purposes and I'm sorry if I sound like that
I am thinking of those whose higher purposes have nothing to do with service
Whose higher issues turned into colourful marbles simile stuck in their throats
As there was no good enough comparison to state how far a metaphor can go
Or how far syllogisms can deduce anything
And I know that among those bestowed with a high intelligence and gift
There are many who really want to serve most benevolently and without any second thoughts resting on any kind of reward but happiness for all the people and themselves
Even they can sometimes be seen as very good doctors when it comes to diagnosis
But equally helpless when it comes to healing those who just want to sit and play cards
Who aren't ill at all who never aspired to anything but happiness

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Spring Day

Bath

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus
in the air.

The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water
in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water
into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance,
and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger
sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light
in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water,
the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost
too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day.
I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.

The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is
a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Breakfast Table

In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white.
It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells,
and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side,
draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot,
hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl - and my eyes
begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts.
Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask.
A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream,
flutter, call: 'Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!' Coffee steam rises in a stream,
clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight,
revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral
up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam.
The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

Walk

Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.

On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles,
with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet
clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates.
The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters
under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air,
but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street,
and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind
flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap,

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Lowell
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Two Sonnets. To Haydon, With A Sonnet Written On Seeing The Elgin Marbles

I.
Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak
Definitively of these mighty things;
Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings,
That what I want I know not where to seek,
And think that I would not be over-meek,
In rolling out upfollowed thunderings,
Even to the steep of Heliconian springs,
Were I of ample strength for such a freak.
Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine;
Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture's hem?
For, when men stared at what was most divine
With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm,
Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine
Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them.

II. On Seeing The Elgin Marbles.

My spirit is too weak - mortality
Weighs heavily upon me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep,
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time -- with a billowy main --
A sun -- a shadow of a magnitude.

poem by John Keats
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A Retrospective Review

I

Oh, when I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!—
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

II

A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;—
But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!

III

My marbles—once my bag was stored,—
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipt his string,
Forgotten all his capering,
And harness'd to the law!

IV

My kite—how fast and far it flew!
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote—my present dreams
Will never soar so high!

V

My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;—
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
And seldom with a call!

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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Ode On A Distant Prospect Of Clapham Academy

I

Ah me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds
My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls?

II

Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turn'd our table-beer!

III

There I was birch'd! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning's woeful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!—
The hopeless leaves I wept upon!—
Most fruitless leaves to me!—

IV

The summon'd class!—the awful bow!—
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!

V

And Mrs. S——?—Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlor) yet
Some favor'd two or three,—
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize—bohea?

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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Down By The Side Of The Road

Her father was a failure
Her mother was a comfort
To a doctor and lawyer and indian chief.
The shirt ran out of buttons
He lost all his marbles at a baseball game
And they went on relief.
The bank took away their diplomas
They locked them up inside of the chest
And she moved away to oklahoma
And got a tattoo on the side of her breast
God-damn, my socks are still hard
From lying on the sofa on the night she was over in my backyard
Yeah, we was shooting the breeze out amongst the trees
When a shot rang low
And left her standing down by the side of the road
Down by the side of the road
Father have mercy, whoo whoo
Get her a nurse please
Shes almost alone
I saw her hand reaching out for the telephone
We rather see her locked up inside a home
Than see her standing down by the side of the road
Down by the side of the road
Headlights flashing on her skirt in the wind.
Yonder comes a truck it drove by two men.
Shotgun man leaned out and said do you want to take a ride?
Out in the pale moonlight light. light light lie lie lie lie
Too long in the hot sun
She couldve be miss wisconsin a long time ago
Spent to much time inside of the early show
Wed bought her a ticket but she didnt want to go
She was standing down by the side of the road
Down by the side of the road
Headlights flashing, caught a skirt in the wind.
Yonder comes a truck it drove by two men.
Shotgun man leaned out and said do you want to take a ride?
Out in through the pale moonlight
Her father was a failure
Her mother was a comfort
To a doctor and lawyer and indian chief.
The shirt made out of buttons
He lost all his marbles at a baseball game
And they went on relief.
The bank took away their diplomas
They locked them up inside of the chest
And she moved away to oklahoma
And got a tattoo on the side of her breast
God-damn, my thoughts are still hard.
From lying on the sofa on the night she was overi n my backyard
Yeah, we was shooting the breeze out amongst the trees

[...] Read more

song performed by John Prine
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Canto the Fourth

I.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

II.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

III.

In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

V.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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First Anniversary

Like the vain curlings of the watery maze,
Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise,
So Man, declining always, disappears
In the weak circles of increasing years;
And his short tumults of themselves compose,
While flowing Time above his head does close.

Cromwell alone with greater vigour runs,
(Sun-like) the stages of succeeding suns:
And still the day which he doth next restore,
Is the just wonder of the day before.
Cromwell alone doth with new lustre spring,
And shines the jewel of the yearly ring.

'Tis he the force of scattered time contracts,
And in one year the work of ages acts:
While heavy monarchs make a wide return,
Longer, and more malignant than Saturn:
And though they all Platonic years should reign,
In the same posture would be found again.
Their earthy projects under ground they lay,
More slow and brittle than the China clay:
Well may they strive to leave them to their son,
For one thing never was by one king done.
Yet some more active for a frontier town,
Taken by proxy, beg a false renown;
Another triumphs at the public cost,
And will have won, if he no more have lost;
They fight by others, but in person wrong,
And only are against their subjects strong;
Their other wars seem but a feigned contèst,
This common enemy is still oppressed;
If conquerors, on them they turn their might;
If conquered, on them they wreak their spite:
They neither build the temple in their days,
Nor matter for succeeding founders raise;
Nor sacred prophecies consult within,
Much less themself to pèfect them begin;
No other care they bear of things above,
But with astrologers divine of Jove
To know how long their planet yet reprieves
From the deservéd fate their guilty lives:
Thus (image-like) an useless time they tell,
And with vain sceptre strike the hourly bell,
Nor more contribute to the state of things,
Than wooden heads unto the viol's strings.

While indefatigable Cromwell hies,
And cuts his way still nearer to the skies,
Learning a music in the region clear,

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Marvell
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The First Anniversary Of The Government Under O.C.

Like the vain Curlings of the Watry maze,
Which in smooth streams a sinking Weight does raise;
So Man, declining alwayes, disappears.
In the Weak Circles of increasing Years;
And his short Tumults of themselves Compose,
While flowing Time above his Head does close.
Cromwell alone with greater Vigour runs,
(Sun-like) the Stages of succeeding Suns:
And still the Day which he doth next restore,
Is the just Wonder of the Day before.
Cromwell alone doth with new Lustre spring,
And shines the Jewel of the yearly Ring.
'Tis he the force of scatter'd Time contracts,
And in one Year the Work of Ages acts:
While heavy Monarchs make a wide Return,
Longer, and more Malignant then Saturn:
And though they all Platonique years should raign,
In the same Posture would be found again.
Their earthly Projects under ground they lay,
More slow and brittle then the China clay:
Well may they strive to leave them to their Son,
For one Thing never was by one King don.
Yet some more active for a Frontier Town
Took in by Proxie, beggs a false Renown;
Another triumphs at the publick Cost,
And will have Wonn, if he no more have Lost;
They fight by Others, but in Person wrong,
And only are against their Subjects strong;
Their other Wars seem but a feign'd contest,
This Common Enemy is still opprest;
If Conquerors, on them they turn their might;
If Conquered, on them they wreak their Spight:
They neither build the Temple in their dayes,
Nor Matter for succeeding Founders raise;
Nor Sacred Prophecies consult within,
Much less themselves to perfect them begin,
No other care they bear of things above,
But with Astrologers divine, and Jove,
To know how long their Planet yet Reprives
From the deserved Fate their guilty lives:
Thus (Image-like) and useless time they tell,
And with vain Scepter strike the hourly Bell;
Nor more contribute to the state of Things,
Then wooden Heads unto the Viols strings,
While indefatigable Cromwell hyes,
And cuts his way still nearer to the Skyes,
Learning a Musique in the Region clear,
To tune this lower to that higher Sphere.
So when Amphion did the Lute command,
Which the God gave him, with his gentle hand,

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Marvell
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Amours de Voyage, Canto V

There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent Arno,
Under Fiesole's heights,--thither are we to return?
There is a city that fringes the curve of the inflowing waters,
Under the perilous hill fringes the beautiful bay,--
Parthenope, do they call thee?--the Siren, Neapolis, seated
Under Vesevus's hill,--are we receding to thee?--
Sicily, Greece, will invite, and the Orient;--or are we turn to
England, which may after all be for its children the best?

I. Mary Trevellyn, at Lucerne, to Miss Roper, at Florence.

So you are really free, and living in quiet at Florence;
That is delightful news; you travelled slowly and safely;
Mr. Claude got you out; took rooms at Florence before you;
Wrote from Milan to say so; had left directly for Milan,
Hoping to find us soon;--if he could, he would, you are certain.--
Dear Miss Roper, your letter has made me exceedingly happy.
You are quite sure, you say, he asked you about our intentions;
You had not heard as yet of Lucerne, but told him of Como.--
Well, perhaps he will come; however, I will not expect it.
Though you say you are sure,--if he can, he will, you are certain.
O my dear, many thanks from your ever affectionate Mary.

II. Claude to Eustace.

Florence.

Action will furnish belief,--but will that belief be the true one?
This is the point, you know. However, it doesn't much matter.
What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action,
So as to make it entail, not a chance belief, but the true one.
Out of the question, you say; if a thing isn't wrong we may do it.
Ah! but this wrong, you see--but I do not know that it matters.
Eustace, the Ropers are gone, and no one can tell me about them.

Pisa.

Pisa, they say they think, and so I follow to Pisa,
Hither and thither inquiring. I weary of making inquiries.
I am ashamed, I declare, of asking people about it.--
Who are your friends? You said you had friends who would certainly know them.

Florence.

But it is idle, moping, and thinking, and trying to fix her
Image once more and more in, to write the whole perfect inscription

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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The Island Of Endless Play

Said Willie to Tom 'Let us hie away
To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.

It lies off the border of 'No School Land'
And abounds with pleasures, I understand.

There boys go swimming whenever they please
In a lovely river right under the trees.

And marbles are free, no one has to buy;
And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.

We sail down the Isthmus of Idle Delight,
We sail and we sail for a day and a night.

And then if favored by billows and breeze
We land in the harbor of Do-as-you-please.

And their lies the Island of Endless Play
With no one to say to us Must or Nay.

Books are not known in that land so fair,
Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.

Hurrah for the Island so glad and free,
That is the country for you and me.'

So away went Willie and Tom together
On a pleasure boat, in the lazy weather,
And they sailed in the teeth of a friendly breeze
Right into the harbor of 'Do-as-you-please!'
Where boats and tackle and marbles and kites
Were waiting them there in this Land of Delights.
They dwelt on the Island of Endless Play
For five long years; then one sad day
A strange dark ship sailed up to the strand,
And 'Ho! for the voyage to Stupid Land.'

The Captain cried with a terrible noise
As he seized the frightened and struggling boys,
And threw them into the dark Ship's hold,
And off and away sailed the Captain bold.

They vainly begged him to let them out,
He answered only with scoff and shout.

'Boys that don't study or work,' said he,
'Must sail one day down the Ignorant Sea

To Stupid Land by the No-Book strait,

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Again and Again

poetry in progress

childhood days are roses and thorns
they comprise memories light as
the roll of one marble as well as
heavy as a bag full of the blue white
gleaming rolly pollies sitting so
quietly in the old store room

childhood is full of schemes
marbles - we made sure the other boys
are emptied of theirs
kites - we made sure the string of
their kites snap, kite flying away
like a helpless chinese princess
pigeons - one was downed by us so that
its mate waited for it one whole day
on the precipice of a roof
one memory i wish to tear to shreds
dragonflies - in my hands they ate
each other up

childhood is festooned with lessons
both inside and outside the classroom
with the two legged, four legged, the hornbills,
doggies, and those with no legs but then
morphed into the best hoppers - frogs, toads
and grasshoppers to teach us never
to underestimate the poorest of anything
arithmetics, music, football or paintballs

childhood lane
a ball floating and sinking
a patch here and there, a lake, a stream,
a river - so many fishes had splashed
their tails and now only concretes
to make the memory jump

a cry, a lane, a walk, a pet, a church,
a school, mother's hand holding so tight,
shaking, and still elucidating her
discomforts, and those yelps of puppies
there, here, here there we had more than
five doggies all those years

winding through there, here
a range of sepia, black and white, chromes,
working themselves into an abstract
marbles rolling onto empty canvas -
light and ever so desirable these bonuses

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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