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The shows at the Hilton are the most exciting shows I've ever done. The stage is huge, but the theater is intimate, so we can have a magnificent production and still connect with the audience.

quote by Barry Manilow
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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It's Mine to Own

Just give me my prize!
For a life lived...
Both bold and wise.

Just give me my prize!
Un-itemized it.
It's mine to own.

Just give me my prize.
I accept it.
Now I can connect.
Inside...
I connect it.
Now I can accept.
Those feelings I cried...
With heartache.
Deep in my chest!

I accept it.
Now I can connect.

I accept it.
Now I can connect.

Just give me my prize!
I accept it.
Now I can connect.
Inside...
I accept it.
Now I can connect.

Those feelings I cried...
With heartache.
Deep in my chest!

I accept it.
Now I can connect.
Just give me my prize!
Un-itemized it.
It's mine to own.

I accept it.
Now I can connect.
It's mine to own.
I accept it.
Now I can connect.
It's mine to own.

Just,
Give me my prize I accept it.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Poet's Tale; Lady Wentworth

One hundred years ago, and something more,
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door,
Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose,
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows,
Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine.
Above her head, resplendent on the sign,
The portrait of the Earl of Halifax,
In scarlet coat and periwig of flax,
Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms,
Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms,
And half resolved, though he was past his prime,
And rather damaged by the lapse of time,
To fall down at her feet and to declare
The passion that had driven him to despair.
For from his lofty station he had seen
Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green,
Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand,
Down the long lane, and out into the land,
And knew that he was far upon the way
To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay!

Just then the meditations of the Earl
Were interrupted by a little girl,
Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair,
Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare,
A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon,
Sure to be rounded into beauty soon,
A creature men would worship and adore,
Though now in mean habiliments she bore
A pail of water, dripping, through the street
And bathing, as she went, her naked feet.

It was a pretty picture, full of grace,--
The slender form, the delicate, thin face;
The swaying motion, as she hurried by;
The shining feet, the laughter in her eye,
That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced,
As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced:
And with uncommon feelings of delight
The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight.
Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say
These words, or thought he did, as plain as day:
'O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you go
About the town half dressed, and looking so!'
At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied:
'No matter how I look; I yet shall ride
In my own chariot, ma'am.' And on the child
The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled,
As with her heavy burden she passed on,
Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Get Off The Stage

Oh, you silly old man
You silly old man
Youre making a fool of yourself
So get off the stage
You silly old man
In your misguided trousers
With your mascara and your fender guitar
And you think you can arouse us ?
But the song that you just sang
It sounds exactly like the last one
And the next one
I bet you it will sound
Like this one
Downstage, and offstage
Dont you feel all run in ?
And do you wonder when they will take it away ?
This is your final fling
But then applause ran high
But for the patience of the ones behind you
As a verse drags on like a month drags on
Its very short, but it seems very long
And the song that you just sang
It sounds exactly like the last one
And the next one
I bet you it will sound
Like this one
So, get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
And when we get down off of the stage
Please stay off the stage - all day !
Get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
And when weve had our money back
Then Id like your back in plaster
Oh, I know that you say
How age has no meaning
Oh, but here is your audience now
And theyre screaming :
Get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
Because Ive given you enough of my time
And the money that wasnt even mine
Have you seen yourself recently ?
Oh, get off the stage
Oh, get off the stage
For whom, oh ...
For whom, oh ...
For whom, oh ...
For whom, oh ...
Get off the stage

[...] Read more

song performed by Morrissey
Added by Lucian Velea
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Theatre Of Dreams

Oh can I lie here, can I whisper; can I tell
you anything that you want to hear,
Is it thoughts, is it feelings, is it what you
need, can I make you feel good,
It's just something that I thought that
you'd like, in a world that's dying,
Oh I can see you smiling. Oh, can I do this
for you?
In the pale and lonely light you feel so
exciting ah,
I fail the words, I need to speak to tell you
how,
You can love who you love, you can be who
you want, in the theater of dreams,
Oh, you can love who you love, you can be
who you want, in the theater of dreams. In
the theater of dreams.
Oh can I touch you, can I hold you, I can
do anything, that you want me to,
Does it hurt, is it OK is it what you need to
make you feel good,
I got something that I think that you'd like,
in a world that's changing,
Oh I can feel you smiling, Oh can I do this
for you?
In a pale and lonely life, you seem so
exciting ah,
I fail the words, I need to speak to tell you
how.
You can love who you love, you can be who
you want, in the theater of dreams.
Oh, you can love who you love, you can be
who you want, in the theater of dreams.
This is where you open up your mind, yeah.
This is where you lose, lose your chains of
time.
In the theater of dreams.

poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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Uncle Ned’s Tales: How The Flag Was Saved

‘TWAS a dismal winter's evening, fast without came down the snow,
But within, the cheerful fire cast a ruddy, genial glow
O'er our pleasant little parlor, that was then my mother's pride.
There she sat beside the glowing grate, my sister by her side;
And beyond, within the shadow, in a cosy little nook
Uncle Ned and I were sitting, and in whispering tones we spoke.
I was asking for a story he had promised me to tell,—
Of his comrade, old Dick Hilton, how he fought and how he fell;
And with eager voice I pressed him, till a mighty final cloud
Blew he slowly, then upon his breast his grisly head he bowed,
And, musing, stroked his gray mustache ere he began to speak,
Then brushed a tear that stole along his bronzed and furrowed cheek.
'Ah, no! I will not speak to-night of that sad tale,' he cried,
'Some other time I'll tell you, boy, about that splendid ride.
Your words have set me thinking of the many careless years
That comrade rode beside me, and have caused these bitter tears;
For I loved him, boy,—for twenty years we galloped rein to rein,—
In peace and war, through all that time, stanch comrades had we been.
As boys we rode together when our soldiering first began.
And in all those years I knew him for a true and trusty man.
One who never swerved from danger,—for he knew not how to fear,—
If grim Death arrayed his legions, Dick would charge him with a cheer.
He was happiest in a struggle or a wild and dangerous ride:
Every inch a trooper was he, and he cared for naught beside.
He was known for many a gallant deed: to-night I'll tell you one,
And no braver feat of arms was by a soldier ever done.
'Twas when we were young and fearless, for 'twas in our first campaign,
When we galloped through the orange groves and fields of sunny Spain.
Our wary old commander was retiring from the foe,
Who came pressing close upon us, with a proud, exulting show.
We could hear their taunting laughter, and within our very sight
Did they ride defiant round us,—ay, and dared us to the fight.
But brave old Picton heeded not, but held his backward track,
And smiling said the day would come to pay the Frenchmen back.
And come it did: one morning, long before the break of day,
We were standing to our arms, all ready for the coming fray.
Soon the sun poured down his glory on the hostile lines arrayed,
And his beams went flashing brightly back from many a burnished blade,
Soon to change its spotless luster for a reeking crimson stain,
In some heart, then throbbing proudly, that will never throb again.
When that sun has reached his zenith, life and pride will then have fled,
And his beams will mock in splendor o'er the ghastly heaps of dead.
Oh, 'tis sad to think how many—but I wander, lad, I fear;
And, though the moral's good, I guess the tale you'd rather hear.
Well, I said that we were ready, and the foe was ready, too;
Soon the fight was raging fiercely,—thick and fast the bullets flew,
With a bitter hiss of malice, as if hungry for the life
To be torn from manly bosoms in the maddening heat of strife.
Distant batteries were thundering, pouring grape and shell like rain,
And the cruel missiles hurtled with their load of death and pain,

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Notes On An Unadorned Night

after Rene Char

Let's agree that the night is a blank canvas, a station
break, a bridge of a song.

Let's agree further that activities at night—movies,
campfires, reading by a lamp—are all
basically an homage to the day.

I have come to regard these two statements as
contradictory. Let me explain.

First, set aside that one could see a movie, torch a fire,
and read with the sun blazing over us.

The in-between aspect of night need not spark a flurry of
activity, is all I'm saying.

You could do nothing at night! Just lay and sleep!

A Cézanne sketch I looked at last night bears
mentioning.

A big Gallic face, reclining upwards, looks up at three
boxcars on train tracks.

The man's eyes are wide open and unfulfilled.

The two disemboweled deer I saw the night before also
bear mentioning.

The torsos of both deer were connected to faces, both
looking up.

I assumed they were struck by trains near the house
where I was sleeping.

Anyway, it occurred to me that as I looked into these
two dead deer's eyes that so much has fallen at
me, rather than simply by me.

I want to be among people. I do.

But I just want the easy parts skipped, for bodies to rub
up against each other, to always feel as new flesh
touches new flesh.

Those deer weren't an emblem of anything. I'm not like that.

I don't need dead animals to mirror my own interior world.

[...] Read more

poem by Daniel Nester
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The Art Of Life

If anyone believes,
The one standing alone...
Taking the heat under spotlight,
Runs the show...
Hasn't met the director or the producer,
The manager, assistant manager.
The script writer, agent, publicist...
And a host of others behind the scenes.

If anyone believes,
The one standing alone...
Taking the heat under spotlight,
Runs the show...
Doesn't know theater.
Or who calls the shots,
To enable any light to shine
And be spotted anywhere.

Theater is staged.
No matter whose name is on the marquee,
To sell the tickets.
Theater is staged.
And the best acts are trained to fill the seats.
If one knew theater,
One would know the art of life.

And the importance of having not only a good director...
But one with the bucks,
Who can keep the production afloat long enough to seduce...
Is the key to selling an audience sold on what they see,
Until the curtain drops to signal the end of the performance.

Taken from its natural habitat to be staged,
The art of life...
Is only theater to delude and to captivate believers.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Child Molester

Note- I wanted to write something something darker and deeper then what I currently have been.

This is what came out.

Dark Rewrite of Britney Spear's Womanizer

Storyline-One woman takes the stand that no one else will to save her street from the unthinkable

Perverted neighbor
I know where you're from
I think it's best you get your twisted... going
Got more then just a clue what you're up to
You can play squeaky clean tp all the others gathered here
But I know what you really are, what you really are sickie

Look at you
Tryin' to act so on the up and up
Sickie, you
Got everyone else here fooled
But not me, oh no, not me
Fakin' like deep down you're a good one
Let's just lay our cards out on the table
Get it all out now
Call 'em like we both know 'em

Child molester, child-child molester
You're a child molester
Oh, child molester, oh you're a child molester, sickie
You-you know-you know you are
You-you know-you know you are
Child molester, child molester, child molester

Sicko, don't try stage that front
Oh no, no, not with me
Cos I know just-just what you are, ah, ah, what you are
Sicko, don't try to stage that front
Oh no, no, not with me
Cos I know just-just what you are, ah, ah, what you are
(Spoken) You got some kind of twisted game goin'
You got them all believin' you're so charmin'
But I won't let you keep on doin' it
You child molester

Sicko, don't try stage that front
Oh no, no, not with me
Cos I know just-just what you are, ah, ah, what you are
Sicko, don't try to stage that front
Oh no, no, not with me
Cos I know just-just what you are, ah, ah, what you are
(Spoken) You say I'm crazy

[...] Read more

poem by Ramona Thompson
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I. The Ring and the Book

Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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You've Got Magic!

'America - You've Got Magic! '
Ran the sign on the Glitzy Floor,
For this was the latest Reality Show
To consume consumers with awe;
Some Boffin, deep in a Think-Tank
Had been racking his brain for weeks,
And this was the format he gave them;
Home Magicians! - with tricks and treats!

The Show was into the knockout stage,
The Advertisers were rapt,
None of your Song and Dancing here,
Nobody shedding Fat,
No-one stuck in a boring House
With brains the size of a pea,
But plenty of age-old magic tricks
For the rest of the world to see.

The Judges sat in their glory
Each equipped with a magic wand,
The first of them, Benjamin Glowery
Played his part, in a deep despond,
He hated the Hatted Rabbits
And the Doves that flew over the stage,
While contestants that showed him a Card Trick
Bore the brunt of his fearful rage.

He'd wave his wand in rejection
Like thumbs down, as they did in Rome,
And depending on Betty Abullbull
He would send them all packing, home,
While Betty paraded her implants
And her elegant, coiffured hair,
She was there for the sex attraction
As there wasn't much intellect there.

The third was a known Magician
Who had fallen on harder times,
He'd taken the job for the money
He was known as 'Impeccable' Grimes,
He spent more time on his fingernails
Than watching the acts begin,
He said that he knew all the magic tricks,
That nothing was new to him!

He waited to see how Glowery went
Then voted the other way,
So often it was up to Abullbull
Whether the act would go, or stay,
The audience cheered and hooted,

[...] Read more

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Homo Erectus

(kinky friedman & panama red)
I left barber college
Searchin for knowledge,
Went to the university.
I must confess, sir
This lady professor
She turned me on to anthropology.
Now Im a homo erectus
Got to connect this
Bone that I discovered yesterday.
Tyrannosaurus
Lived in the forest,
Died because its heart got in the way.
Dear doctor howard
Come down from your tower
And join me for lunch at the y.
Although youre thirty
I still think youre pretty
Lets give it that good ole college try.
cause Im a homo erectus
Got to connect this
Bone that I discovered yesterday.
Tyrannosaurus
Lived in the forest,
Died because its heart got in the way.
Ok!
Hey jomo kenyatta
No, no, youre not a
Australopithecine boogieman.
Its took us a jillion
But were all still here, been
Boogeyin since boogeyin began.
And Im a homo erectus
Got to connect this
Bone that I discovered yesterday.
Tyrannosaurus
Lived in the forest,
Died because its heart got in the way.
You know Im a homo erectus
Got to connect this
Bone that I discovered yesterday.
Tyrannosaurus lived in the forest,
Died because its heart got in the way.
You know that Im a homo erectus
Got to connect this
Bone that I discovered yesterday.
Tyrannosaurus
Lived in the forest,
Died because its heart got in the way.
Im but a homo erectus

[...] Read more

song performed by Kinky Friedman
Added by Lucian Velea
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It's a Feeling Deeper

There is a certain meaning to it.
For people who are born to do this.
It's not on the surface to depict.
With an easy category to assign to it.

It's a feeling deeper.

There is a certain meaning to it.
For people who are born to do this.
It's just not what it appears to exist.
This 'thing' is deeper.
Below a surface reached for 'it'.

It's a feeling deeper.
That's deep.

Deeper,
And from below a surface that must be exposed.
This 'thing' gets deeper,
And those knowing it want it shown not kept unknown.

It's a feeling deeper that's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
It's a feeling deeper.
It's not on the surface to depict.
With an easy category to assign to it.

It's a feeling deeper that's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
It's just not what it appears to exist.
This 'thing' is deeper.
Below a surface reached for 'it'.
It's a feeling deeper that's deep.
Deeper that's deep.

It's a feeling deeper.
That's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
Deeper.
Deeper.

It's a feeling deeper.
That's deep.
Deeper that's deep.
Much deeper.

How can anyone connect it.
Deeper.
How can anyone connect it.
Deeper!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Magnificent

SOME wit, handsome form and gen'rous mind;
A triple engine prove in love we find;
By these the strongest fortresses are gained
E'en rocks 'gainst such can never be sustained.
If you've some talents, with a pleasing face,
Your purse-strings open free, and you've the place.
At times, no doubt, without these things, success
Attends the gay gallant, we must confess;
But then, good sense should o'er his actions rule;
At all events, he must not be a fool.
The stingy, women ever will detest;
Words puppies want;--the lib'ral are the best.

A Florentine, MAGNIFICENT by name,
Was what we've just described, in fact and fame;
The title was bestowed upon the knight,
For noble deeds performed by him in fight.
The honour ev'ry way he well deserved;
His upright conduct (whence he never swerved,)
Expensive equipage, and presents made,
Proclaimed him all around what we've pourtrayed.

WITH handsome person and a pleasing mien,
Gallant, a polished air, and soul serene;
A certain fair of noble birth he sought,
Whose conquest, doubtless, brilliant would be thought;
Which in our lover doubly raised desire;
Renown and pleasure lent his bosom fire.

THE jealous husband of the beauteous fair
Was Aldobrandin, whose suspicious care
Resembled more, what frequently is shown
For fav'rites mistresses, than wives alone.
He watched her every step with all his eyes;
A hundred thousand scarcely would suffice;
Indeed, quite useless Cupid these can make;
And Argus oft is subject to mistake:
Repeatedly they're duped, although our wight,
(Who fancied he in ev'ry thing was right,)
Himself so perfectly secure believed,
By gay gallants he ne'er could be deceived.

TO suitors, howsoe'er, he was not blind;
To covet presents, greatly he inclined.
The lover yet had no occasion found,
To drop a word to charms so much renowned;
He thought his passion was not even seen;
And if it had, would things have better been?
What would have followed? what had been the end?
The reader needs no hint to comprehend.

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poem by La Fontaine
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I Am The Audience

I am the audience
Theres no doubt, no consequence
I could make the morning papers
If I use my capers
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected, as the audience...
Oh I ... am the audience
No doubt, no consequence
Cause Im the audience
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected
I am the audience
Breakdown the pretence
No longer be silent
Lets turn to violence
I am the audience

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Am The Audience

I am the audience
Theres no doubt, no consequence
I could make the morning papers
If I use my capers
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected, as the audience...
Oh I ... am the audience
No doubt, no consequence
Cause Im the audience
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected
I am the audience
Breakdown the pretence
No longer be silent
Lets turn to violence
I am the audience

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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The ten commandments of communication

The ten commandments of communication

Verify your ideas before clarification, as to whether the contents of your
communication will really serve the purpose of your communication. Consult others, where appropriate, the communication plan. This will help you decide the audience-based right content, flow, duration and location.

Make clear to the audience the true purpose of communication. Make it known to the audience as to what you want them to do after receiving the inputs from you. It can be just an act, can be an attitudinal change, can be drawing a strategy or plan of action.

Ensure you are in the right set of environment for the communication.
Communication is not effected just by words and gestures, but also by the quality of place where you communicate.

Take into confidence your audience. Encourage them to come out with their experience in the subject of communication. Accordingly polish your ways.

Be sure where to emphasize and where to dilute. Check yourself the
overtones and emphasis on messages conveyed, as audience may not notice.

Avoid being theoretical all through. Give practical examples. Enthuse
audience to come out with problems, connected with the subject and offer, if possible, practical solutions.

Follow up with what you communicate. Ensure audience is with you through the entire communication. Give no impression that you are evaluating their ability to absorb.

Demonstrate that you practice what you preach. Your past experiences may come handy.

Communicate for tomorrow, based on previous learning, enabling the audience visualize new horizons on the subject of communication.

Last, but not the least, seek not to be understood, but to understand. Be a good listener too.

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Castle Of Indolence

The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.

O mortal man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date:
And, certes, there is for it reason great;
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late;
Withouten that would come a heavier bale,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play.
Was nought around but images of rest:
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime, unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled every where their waters sheen;
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood:
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

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poem by James Thomson
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King Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba

(A Poem Game.)

“And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, . . .
she came to prove him with hard questions.”

[The men’s leader rises as he sees the Queen unveiling
and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.]

Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.
[He bows three times.]
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon.

[She bows three times.]
Women’s Leader: I was the Queen,
I was the Queen,
I was the Queen.

Both Leaders: We will be king and queen,
[They stand together stretching their hands over the land.]
Reigning on mountains green,
Happy and free
For ten thousand years.

[They stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred oxen.

Congregation: We were the oxen.

[Here King and Queen pause at the footlights.]
Both Leaders: You shall feel goads no more.
[They walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.]
Walk dreadful roads no more,
Free from your loads
For ten thousand years.

[The men’s leader goes forward, the women’s leader dances round him.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred sweethearts.

[Here he pauses at the footlights.]
Congregation: We were the sweethearts.

[He walks backward. Both clap their hands to the measure.]
Both Leaders: You shall dance round again,
You shall dance round again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
[The Queen appears to gather wildflowers.]

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Booker Washington Trilogy

I. A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE

(To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)

Legree's big house was white and green.
His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.
He had strong horses and opulent cattle,
And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.
His garret was full of curious things:
Books of magic, bags of gold,
And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.
But he went down to the Devil.

Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.
His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
He had great long teeth, and an appetite.
He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,
And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.

His fist was an enormous size
To mash poor niggers that told him lies:
He was surely a witch-man in disguise.
But he went down to the Devil.

He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day
To capture his slaves that had fled away.
But he went down to the Devil.

He beat poor Uncle Tom to death
Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.
Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,
To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
And Simon Legree stared up beneath,
And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:
And went down to the Devil.

He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
He went into his grand front room.
He said, "I killed him, and I don't care."
He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
Went down cellar to the webs and damp.
There in the middle of the mouldy floor
He heaved up a slab, he found a door —
And went down to the Devil.

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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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