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Cole Porter wrote Anything Goes and four more hits for me.

quote by Ethel Merman
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Tale of Gamelyn

Fitt 1

Lithes and listneth and harkeneth aright,
And ye shul here of a doughty knyght;
Sire John of Boundes was his name,
He coude of norture and of mochel game.
Thre sones the knyght had and with his body he wan,
The eldest was a moche schrewe and sone bygan.
His brether loved wel her fader and of hym were agast,
The eldest deserved his faders curs and had it atte last.
The good knight his fadere lyved so yore,
That deth was comen hym to and handled hym ful sore.
The good knyght cared sore sik ther he lay,
How his children shuld lyven after his day.
He had bene wide where but non husbonde he was,
Al the londe that he had it was purchas.
Fayn he wold it were dressed amonge hem alle,
That eche of hem had his parte as it myght falle.
Thoo sente he in to contrey after wise knyghtes
To helpen delen his londes and dressen hem to-rightes.
He sent hem word by letters thei shul hie blyve,
If thei wolle speke with hym whilst he was alyve.

Whan the knyghtes harden sik that he lay,
Had thei no rest neither nyght ne day,
Til thei come to hym ther he lay stille
On his dethes bedde to abide goddys wille.
Than seide the good knyght seke ther he lay,
'Lordes, I you warne for soth, without nay,
I may no lenger lyven here in this stounde;
For thorgh goddis wille deth droueth me to grounde.'
Ther nas noon of hem alle that herd hym aright,
That thei ne had routh of that ilk knyght,
And seide, 'Sir, for goddes love dismay you nought;
God may don boote of bale that is now ywrought.'
Than speke the good knyght sik ther he lay,
'Boote of bale God may sende I wote it is no nay;
But I beseche you knyghtes for the love of me,
Goth and dresseth my londes amonge my sones thre.
And for the love of God deleth not amyss,
And forgeteth not Gamelyne my yonge sone that is.
Taketh hede to that oon as wel as to that other;
Seelde ye seen eny hier helpen his brother.'

Thoo lete thei the knyght lyen that was not in hele,
And wenten into counselle his londes for to dele;
For to delen hem alle to on that was her thought.
And for Gamelyn was yongest he shuld have nought.
All the londe that ther was thei dalten it in two,
And lete Gamelyne the yonge without londe goo,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly

Part the First

Mery it was in the grene forest
Amonge the leves grene,
Wheras men hunt east and west,
Wyth bowes and arrowes kene,

To ryse the dere out of theyr denne,
Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene,
As by thre yemen of the north countrey,
By them it is I meane.

The one of them hight Adam Bel,
The other Clym of the Clough,
The thyrd was William of Cloudesly,
An archer good ynough.

They were outlawed for venyson,
These yemen everychone;
They swore them brethren upon a day,
To Englyshe-wood for to gone.

Now lith and lysten, gentylmen,
That of myrthes loveth to here:
Two of them were single men,
The third had a wedded fere.

Wyllyam was the wedded man,
Muche more then was hys care:
He sayde to hys brethren upon a day,
To Carleile he would fare,

For to speke with fayre Alyce his wife,
And with hys chyldren thre.
'By my trouth,' sayde Adam Bel,
'Not by the counsell of me.

'For if ye go to Carleile, brother,
And from thys wylde wode wende,
If the justice may you take,
Your lyfe were at an ende.'

'If that I come not to-morrowe, brother,
By pryme to you agayne,
Truste you then that I am 'taken,'
Or else that I am slayne.'

He toke hys leave of hys brethren two,
And to Carleile he is gon;

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Hey Porter

(johnny cash)
(c) - (g) - (f)
(c) hey, porter, hey porter! would you tell me the (f) time?
(c) how much longer will it be til we cross that (g) mason dixon line? (c)
At daylight would you tell the engineer to slow it (f) down;
Or better still, just stop the train cause I (g) wanna look a (c) round.
Hey, porter! hey porter! what time did you say ?
How much longer will it be till I can see the light of day ?
When we hit dixie would ya tell the engineer to ring his bell;
And tell everybody that aint asleep to stand right up and yell.
Hey, porter! hey, porter! please, go on and get my bags for me,
I dont need nobody to tell me now that Im in tennessee.
Were not so far from home, you know, and its a-getting light outside
This old train is a-puffin smoke and I have to strain in my eyes
Hey porter! hey porter! please open up the door.
When they stop this train Im gonna get off first cause I cant wait no more.
Tell the engineer I say, thanks a lot. and I didnt mind the fare.
Im gonna set my feet on southern soil, Im gonna breathe the southern air.

song performed by Ry Cooder
Added by Lucian Velea
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At The Gate

THE monastery towers, as pure and fair
As virgin vows, reached up white hands to Heaven;
The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer,
Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven;
And there came holy men, by world's woe driven;
And all about the gold-green meadows lay
Flower-decked, like children dear that keep May-holiday.

'Here,' said the Abbot, 'let us spend our days,
Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer,
Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise;
And, lest the World should enter with her snare--
Enter and laugh and take us unaware
With her red rose, her purple and her gold--
Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold.'

They chose a beggar from the world outside
To keep their worldward door for them, and he,
Filled with a humble and adoring pride,
Built up a wall of proud humility
Between the monastery's sanctity
And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came
To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name.

For when the poor crept to the guarded gate
To ask for succour, when the tired asked rest,
When weary souls, bereft and desolate,
Craved comfort, when the murmur of the oppressed
Surged round the grove where prayer had made her nest,
The porter bade such take their griefs away,
And at some other door their bane and burden lay.

'For this,' he said, 'is the white house of prayer,
Where day and night the holy voices rise
Through the chill trouble of our earthly air,
And enter at the gate of Paradise.
Trample no more our flower-fields in such wise,
Nor crave the alms of our deep-laden bough;
The prayers of holy men are alms enough, I trow.'

So, seeing that no sick or sorrowing folk
Came ever to be healed or comforted,
The Abbot to his brothers gladly spoke:
'God has accepted our poor prayers,' he said;
'Over our land His answering smile is spread.
He has put forth His strong and loving hand,
And sorrow and sin and pain have ceased in all the land.

'So make we yet more rich our hymns of praise,
Warm we our prayers against our happy heart.

[...] Read more

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Game Don't Wait (feat. Nate Dogg And Snoop Dogg)

I come to find out though, all these years
the game wont wait no matter who you are
where you are or how you are
the game wont wait
its a cold thang, but its a cold game
you know how it is
(Chorus) x3
Game dont wait
The hits dont stop because the game dont wait
Game dont wait
The hits dont stop because the game dont wait
[Snoop]
Now all I, see is we
the LBC, its 213s
cheese and please and the reason the season
the click's off the heezy, Mr. Warren G Z
gots to make it easy, wit Snoop D Z
they come back, and drop raps and make snaps so easy
the most hunted, and most wanted
with a pocket full of hundreds, you know how we run it
[Warren G]
Snoop de woop pass the M-I-C
anticipation 213
we contemplate, and regulate
now we got the game tight, its money to make (money, money, money)
the game dont wait but you can wait for the game
worldwide tours, with skirts screamin our name
[Snoop]
The hits dont stop because the game wont change
all we goin to do is maintain, maintain
[Nate Dogg]
The hits dont stop because the game dont wait
I got no time for no payin much rate
I gotta go out and buy some brand new clothes
change my signs so they reveal my foes
The hits dont stop because the game dont wait
girls dont stop because the dick is straight
let me teach you what I already know
the hits dont stop so its time to go
(Chorus) x3
Game dont wait
The hits dont stop because the game dont wait
Game dont wait
The hits dont stop because the game dont wait
[Warren G]
Now its the second time around ain't no phonies any fakes
Let me holla at cha tryin to snake my stakes
you older than me, you say OG, you almost 40
tryin to stay young as 40
sport you roll me those so stay in ya place

[...] Read more

song performed by Warren G
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Sweetness Of Sin

“We suddenly know what heaven we’re in”
is a line first conceived by Cole Porter;
it’s based on a line that he chose to down-water,
“We suddenly know the sweetness of sin.”

Don’t know why Cole Porter decided to alter
a line antinomially apt in its neatness,
foreswearing all heaven for sin and its sweetness
as sure as my middle name warns you I’m Walter.

One more for the road, as once sang Johnnie Mercer,
is great, and you’ll find that the road is much shorter
to sin than to heaven, a meter maid’s quarter
provides enough time if you are not averse, sir.

Beginning beguines is the first step to take
for heaven on earth, not by pouring cold water
on sin as on lyrics was done by Cole Porter
while betting on heaven–a dreadful mistake.

5/9/06

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Johnny Porter

(bobby ray appleberry/william cuomo)
Johnny porter was the oldest in his family
And I remember he was almost twenty one
Yknow I cant quite explain the situation
But he broke into his fathers truck and stole a gun
Mother running down the highway screaming
Johnny its too bad, oh its too and its bad
And its too bad
Well, his father wonders where he got the money
And he wonders if he got it right or wrong
Then johnny killed a man in pensacola, florida
And he caught a freight train and and took off on the run
Well, run, johnny, run
Theyre rolling right behind you
Run, johnny, run
You know theyre gonna find you
You come out late at night, cause youre running for your life
Hum, johnny porter
Johnny porter
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Well, its a shame the way you make your mother worry
And its hurts inside to sit and watch her cry
And it will be a long time before she knows the answer
But it wont be long before she will see ya die
Well, I was standing in my front door early this morning
So sad, when I heard my name was said
Johnny porter was no good than anybody
But I hate to see him throw his life away
Now, run, johnny, run
Theyre rolling right behind you
Run, johnny, run
You know theyre gonna find you
You come out late at night, cause youre running for your life
Well, johnny porter, johnny porter
Found him holed up in some dark and dirty building
Heard his mother begging, please, let johnny go!
Thats when john fired his pistol
As a warning and he said,
I was born to die by the gun
I was born to die by the gun
I was born to die by the gun

song performed by Ry Cooder
Added by Lucian Velea
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Maria Elena

(Bobby Ray Appleberry, William Cuomo)
Johnny Porter was the oldest in his family
And I remember he was almost twenty one
Y'know I can't quite explain the situation
But he broke into his father's truck and stole a gun
Mother running down the highway screaming
Johnny it's too bad, oh it's too and it's bad
And it's too bad
Well, his father wonders where he got the money
And he wonders if he got it right or wrong
Then Johnny killed a man in Pensacola, Florida
And he caught a freight train and and took off on the run
Well, run, Johnny, run
They're rolling right behind you
Run, Johnny, run
You know they're gonna find you
You come out late at night, 'cause you're running for your life
Hum, Johnny Porter
Johnny Porter
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Well, it's a shame the way you make your mother worry
And it's hurts inside to sit and watch her cry
And it will be a long time before she knows the answer
But it won't be long before she will see ya die
Well, I was standing in my front door early this morning
So sad, when I heard my name was said
Johnny Porter was no good than anybody
But I hate to see him throw his life away
Now, run, Johnny, run
They're rolling right behind you
Run, Johnny, run
You know they're gonna find you
You come out late at night, 'cause you're running for your life
Well, Johnny Porter, Johnny Porter
Found him holed up in some dark and dirty building
Heard his mother begging,

song performed by Ry Cooder
Added by Lucian Velea
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Malmaison

I

How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there,
beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings,
over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like ships
of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the sky,
over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving river.
A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison.
Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne Beauharnais
wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered with dust,
she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses with
smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves . . . Roses . . .
They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders
and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would be back
in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely.

The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles
in the sun.

II

Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good people,
and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs,
and your children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come
in a `caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates,
you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your master,
the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle
and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It is for joy
at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman here
for two months? Fie! Fie, then! Since when have you taken to gossiping.
Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That -- all green, and red,
and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony -- that is a slave; a bloodthirsty,
stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to cure your tongue
of idle whispering.

A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees.

'Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I pinned
to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember her prophecy!
My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them away,
and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb -- Imperial, but . . .
My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No, no,
Bonaparte, not that -- spare me that -- did we not bury that last night!
You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not long, Dear,
no, thank God, not long.'

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Lowell
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Write in Sand and Stone

Today, my friend yelled at me.
I wrote in sand my friend yelled at me.
Today, my friend punched me.
I wrote in sand my friend punched me.
Today, my friend cursed me.
I wrote in sand my friend cursed me.
Today, my friend abandoned me.
I wrote in sand my friend abandoned me.
Today, my friend insulted me.
I wrote in sand my friend insulted me.

Today, my friend asked me for forgiveness.
I wrote in stone my friend asked for forgiveness.
Today, my friend saved my life.
I wrote in stone my friend saved my life.
Today, my friend made me smile.
I wrote in stone my friend made me smile.
Today, my friend told me she cares for me.
I wrote in stone my friend cares for me.
Today, my friend was grateful for me.
I wrote in stone my friend was grateful for me.

I wrote in sand the bad things my friend did to me.
I wrote in stone the nice things did to me.

Winds will erase the bad things written in sand.
Nothing can erase the nice things written in stone.
Forgive and Forget

poem by Natalie Vail
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Old King Cole

In Tilbury Town did Old King Cole
A wise old age anticipate,
Desiring, with his pipe and bowl,
No Khan’s extravagant estate.
No crown annoyed his honest head,
No fiddlers three were called or needed;
For two disastrous heirs instead
Made music more than ever three did.

Bereft of her with whom his life
Was harmony without a flaw,
He took no other for a wife,
Nor sighed for any that he saw;
And if he doubted his two sons,
And heirs, Alexis and Evander,
He might have been as doubtful once
Of Robert Burns and Alexander.

Alexis, in his early youth,
Began to steal—from old and young.
Likewise Evander, and the truth
Was like a bad taste on his tongue.
Born thieves and liars, their affair
Seemed only to be tarred with evil—
The most insufferable pair
Of scamps that ever cheered the devil.

The world went on, their fame went on,
And they went on—from bad to worse;
Till, goaded hot with nothing done,
And each accoutred with a curse,
The friends of Old King Cole, by twos,
And fours, and sevens, and elevens,
Pronounced unalterable views
Of doings that were not of heaven’s.

And having learned again whereby
Their baleful zeal had come about,
King Cole met many a wrathful eye
So kindly that its wrath went out—
Or partly out. Say what they would,
He seemed the more to court their candor;
But never told what kind of good
Was in Alexis and Evander.

And Old King Cole, with many a puff
That haloed his urbanity,
Would smoke till he had smoked enough,
And listen most attentively.
He beamed as with an inward light

[...] Read more

poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Pelang

Pelang! Pelang! Mon cher garçon,
I t'ink of you--t'ink of you night and day--
Don't mak' no difference, seems to me
De long long tam you're gone away.

* * * * *

De snow is deep on de Grande Montagne--
Lak tonder de rapide roar below--
De sam' kin' night, ma boy get los'
On beeg, beeg storm forty year ago.

An' I never was hear de win' blow hard,
An' de snow come sweesh on de window pane--
But ev'ryt'ing 'pear lak' it's yesterday
An' whole of ma troub' is come back again.

Ah me! I was foolish young girl den
It's only ma own plaisir I care,
An' w'en some dance or soirée come off
Dat's very sure t'ing you will see me dere.

Don't got too moche sense at all dat tam,
Run ev'ry place on de whole contree--
But I change beeg lot w'en Pelang come 'long
For I love him so well, kin' o' steady me.

An' he was de bes' boy on Coteau,
An' t'ink I am de bes' girl too for sure--
He's tole me dat, geev de ring also
Was say on de inside 'Je t'aime toujours.'

I geev heem some hair dat come off ma head,
I mak' de nice stocking for warm hees feet,
So ev'ryt'ing's feex, w'en de spring is come
For mak' mariée on de church toute suite.

'W'en de spring is come!' Ah I don't see dat,
Dough de year is pass as dey pass before,
An' de season come, an' de season go,
But our spring never was come no more.

* * * * *

It's on de fête of de jour de l'an,
An' de worl' outside is cole an' w'ite,
As I sit an' watch for mon cher Pelang
For he's promise come see me dis very night.

Bonhomme Peloquin dat is leev near us--

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry Drummond
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Researcher of poetry

‘Researcher of poetry’

To be or not to be that is the question
Am I a word junkie or a poetry equestrian?
Riding a rhyme changing the line
To make it look like it was mine

The good Lawrence Durrell was a wordy man
Little about poetry he did understand
Till a woman led him to the Promised Land
Now he’s one of the best in the land

Barrington had a duck-billed Platypus at trinity
With whom he shared a remarkable affinity
The Platypus made Barrington nervous
When he suggested they join the Diplomatic Service

John’s padre was an old sky pilot
Until they clipped his wings
He sits in his garden: writing poetry
Playing guitar, composing songs which he sings

Noel proved he was no coward
He proved he was the brave one
With mad dogs and Englishmen
He went out in the midday sun

Cole Porter said let’s do it let’s fall in love
I said Cole you have had to much porter
I really don’t fancy you, but, if you can wait
To get drunk: I might like a little porter

I did do some research to come up with this prose
I know you’re not happy, and what’s getting up your nose
I am not a researcher I will tell you for free
I may just be a thief of other people’s poetry

MICMAC

poem by Michael Micmac Mccrory
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Dear Michael

She wrote dear michael
Youll probably never get this letter
Michael, I wrote you a hundred times before
Knowing how I feel
Ill write a hundred more
Dear michael, every time your records on
(michael michael)
Michael, I close my eyes and sing along
Dreaming youre singing to me.
(ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh)
And then she wrote:
(ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh)
Michael, I love you
I held the tears back long as I can
(ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh)
Im sealing my feelings in this envelope
(ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh)
cause I wanna be more than just your number one fan
Im gonna answer your letter
(michael michael)
Ill start beginning with the abcs of loving you
(I love ya)
(she wrote)
(michael michael)
(I love ya)
Your letter really touched my heart
(she wrote)
Ive been dreaming of meeting the picture
That you send along, signed with all your love
(michael michael)
(I wrote ya)
(she wrote)
Im gonna write you back, ouuh, I promess you that
(wont you write me back? , please write me back)
Girl, I think I love you
(michael michael)
Hurry, hurry mister postman, take my letter, tell her I love her
(she wrote)
(wont you write me back, please write me back)
(michael michael)
(she wrote)
Hurry, hurry mister postman, take my letter tell her I love her
(wont you write me back, please write me back)
(michael michael)
Yeah,
(I wrote you)
(she wrote)
Im gonna write you back
I promess you that...

song performed by Michael Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Circus

I remember when I wrote The Circus
I was living in Paris, or rather we were living in Paris
Janice, Frank was alive, the Whitney Museum
Was still on 8th Street, or was it still something else?
Fernand Léger lived in our building
Well it wasn’t really our building it was the building we lived in
Next to a Grand Guignol troupe who made a lot of noise
So that one day I yelled through a hole in the wall
Of our apartment I don’t know why there was a hole there
Shut up! And the voice came back to me saying something
I don’t know what. Once I saw Léger walk out of the building
I think. Stanley Kunitz came to dinner. I wrote The Circus
In two tries, the first getting most of the first stanza;
That fall I also wrote an opera libretto called Louisa or Matilda.
Jean-Claude came to dinner. He said (about “cocktail sauce”)
It should be good on something but not on these (oysters).
By that time I think I had already written The Circus
When I came back, having been annoyed to have to go
I forget what I went there about
You were back in the apartment what a dump actually we liked it
I think with your hair and your writing and the pans
Moving strummingly about the kitchen and I wrote The Circus
It was a summer night no it was an autumn one summer when
I remember it but actually no autumn that black dusk toward the post office
And I wrote many other poems then but The Circus was the best
Maybe not by far the best Geography was also wonderful
And the Airplane Betty poems (inspired by you) but The Circus was the best.

Sometimes I feel I actually am the person
Who did this, who wrote that, including that poem The Circus
But sometimes on the other hand I don’t.
There are so many factors engaging our attention!
At every moment the happiness of others, the health of those we know and our own!
And the millions upon millions of people we don’t know and their well-being to think about
So it seems strange I found time to write The Circus
And even spent two evenings on it, and that I have also the time
To remember that I did it, and remember you and me then, and write this poem about it
At the beginning of The Circus
The Circus girls are rushing through the night
In the circus wagons and tulips and other flowers will be picked
A long time from now this poem wants to get off on its own
Someplace like a painting not held to a depiction of composing The Circus.

Noel Lee was in Paris then but usually out of it
In Germany or Denmark giving a concert
As part of an endless activity
Which was either his career or his happiness or a combination of both
Or neither I remember his dark eyes looking he was nervous
With me perhaps because of our days at Harvard.

[...] Read more

poem by Kenneth Koch
Added by Poetry Lover
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Rossa Mela Della Sera

rosso il sole
una mela
E sbuccia laria della sera
Che sei sola come me
Lo so dagli occhi
Li porter con me sai
Quando vado via
Lamore che
Disfi e fai
Con le tue mani su di me
Quando vieni e quando vai
Lo so dagli occhi
Li porter con me sai
Quando vado via
Li porter con me sai
x farmi compagnia ye ye ye
Uh uh uh uh con me
Nel cuore e nellanima mia
Uh uh uh uh con me
Rossa mela della sera
Se fossi un lago dilagherei
E se potessi pioverei
Fino in fondo agli occhi tuoi
Come un cielo
Ti porter con me sai
Quando vado via
Ti porter con me sai
x farmi compagnia ye ye ye
Uh uh uh uh con me
Nel cuore e nellanima mia
Uh uh uh uh con me
Ovunque sei
Uh uh uh uh con me
Miele per lanima mia
Uh uh uh uh s con me
Rossa mela della sera
Tu tu tu tu tu
Tu tu tu tu tu
Tu tu tu tu tu
Tu tu tu tu tu
Rossa mela della sera

song performed by Zucchero
Added by Lucian Velea
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Young Bicham

In London city was Bicham born,
He longd strange countries for to see,
But he was taen by a savage Moor,
Who handld him right cruely.

For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
And he's gard him draw the carts o wine,
Where horse and oxen had wont to be.

He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
Where he coud neither hear nor see;
He's shut him up in a prison strong,
An he's handld him right cruely.

O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
She's doen her to the prison-house,
And she's calld young Bicham one word by.

'O hae ye ony lands or rents,
Or citys in your ain country,
Coud free you out of prison strong,
An coud maintain a lady free?'

O London city is my own,
An other citys twa or three,
Coud loose me out o prison strong,
An could maintain a lady free.'

O she has bribed her father's men
Wi meikle goud and white money,
She's gotten the key o the prison doors,
And she has set Young Bicham free.

She's gi'n him a loaf o good white bread,
But an a flask o Spanish wine,
An she bad him mind on the ladie's love
That sae kindly freed him out o pine.

'Go set your foot on good ship-board,
An haste you back to your ain country,
An before that seven years has an end,
Come back again, love, and marry me.'

It was long or seven years had an end
She longd fu sair her love to see;
She's set her foot on good ship-board,
An turnd her back on her ain country.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
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Long Way To Go

We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
Her/His skin wasn't the same color as mine
But she/he was fine, she/he was fine
If all men are made equal
Then she/he was fine, she/he was fine
Up until the time we went out on a date
I was fine, I was fine
Now I'm getting dirty looks, I wonder what they'd say
If we were blind, we were blind people
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
Beauty is beauty, whether it's black or white
Yellow or green baby, you know what I mean
What if Picasso only used one color
There shouldn't be a rule, how to choose your lover
Lovers in love is such a wonderful thing
Maybe in time, we'll get together and sing
I really hope so, there's nothing wrong with this picture
We got a long way to go, we gotta get there quicker
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
What color is love [3x]
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
We've got a long way to go
When snow hits the asphalt, cold looks and bad talk come
We've got a long way to go
It's beyond Martin Luther, upgrade computer
...that all men are created equal...
...children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by...
...by the color of their skin...
...but by the content of their character...
...this will be the day when all of God's children...

[...] Read more

song performed by Gwen Stefani
Added by Lucian Velea
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