I think of poets as outlaw visionaries in a way.
quote by Jim Jarmusch
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Outlaw
(coverdale/lord/marsden)
When I left my home
I was not much more than a child,
My mother started crying
She knew that I was born to be wild
cos I was looking for the bright lights of the big city,
A red hot town where the girls are pretty
I took to the highway,
Chasing my dream down the line
Heading out for trouble,
Never finding my peace of mind
cos I been run out of town so many times before
An usually kind of places where I cant go back no more
Outlaw - born outside of the law,
Just another outlaw,
Man on the run will always take chances for fun
I never find it easy trying to keep the feeling alive,
Ive always been a dreamer,
Dreamers find it hard to survive
When theyre living in the bright lights of the big city,
A red hot town where the girls are pretty
Outlaw - born outside of the law,
Just another outlaw,
Man on the run will always take chances for fun
Outlaw - born outside of the law,
Just another outlaw,
Man on the run will always take chances for fun
Outlaw - born outside of the law,
Just another outlaw,
Man on the run will always take chances for fun
Born outside of the law,
Just another outlaw,
Man on the run will always take chances for fun
Outlaw, outlaw,
Man on the run will always take chances for fun
song performed by Whitesnake
Added by Lucian Velea
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Ballad Of Jesse James
Well dont you want to climb a mountain
yeah, dont you want to ride the river
drink from a magic fountain
give your woman all the love that you can give her
well dont you want to be an outlaw
dont you want to ride the range
dont you want to be an outlaw children
just like jesse, like jesse james
well now dont you want to swim the ocean
dont you want to climb the highest tree
drink some of momma's lovin' potion
get your woman till she just cant see
dont you want to be an outlaw
just a poor boy out on the skids
dont you want to be an outlaw children
just like billy, just like billy the kid
well now billy he was a bad boy, he won the wild west
by the year of 21, as many notches on his gun
but someone laid him to an early rest
dont you want to climb a mountain
dont you want to ride the river
drink from a magic fountain
give your woman all the love that you can give her
dont you want to be an outlaw
dont you want to ride the range
dont you want to be an outlaw children
just like jesse
guitar solo
Jesse he was a bad boy, he won the wild west
as many notches on his gun as the years of 21
but someone laid him to an early rest
dont you want to climb a mountain
dont you want to ride the river
drink from a magic fountain
give your woman all the love that you can give her
dont you want to be an outlaw
dont you want to ride the range
dont you want to be an outlaw children
just like jesse, like jesse james
well dont you want to be an outlaw
dont you want to be an outlaw
just like jesse, just like jesse, just like jesse james
song performed by Bruce Springsteen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Outlaw
I'm a stranger in town and my guns never cold
I'm a gambler so bet on your life
You'll never live to grow old
I deal in lead I won't step aside
Where trouble's waitin well so am I
I live for the fight the thrill of the kill
Paid in gold for the blood I spill
Outlaw outlaw outlaw ride
Into the West a gun by your side
Hell and glory honor and pride
A gun will decide where the outlaws ride
The law of the West was the law of the gun
Shoot and be fast live on the run
Stay alive be fast on the draw
Live by the gun or die by the law
Outlaw outlaw outlaw ride
Into the West a gun by your side
Hell and glory honor and pride
A gun will decide where the outlaws ride
Shot through the heart in the blink of an eye
Buried up on boot hill
Life is cheap when the bounty is high
So be ready to kill
The law of the West was the law of the gun
Shoot and be fast live on the run
Stay alive be fast on the draw
live by the gun or die by the law
Shot of whisky I'll be on my way
Back in the saddle pull on the reins
Spurs to the beast over the hill
Another town one more kill
Outlaw outlaw outlaw ride
Into the West a gun by your side
Hell and glory honor and pride
A gun will decide where the outlaws ride
song performed by Manowar from Louder Than Hell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Big Syke Interlude
(gunshot)
Thug life (thug life) microphone check (microphone check)
Outlaw (outlaw) microphone check (microphone check)
Where you bitch niggers coming from? (where you bitch niggers coming from)
You dont know (you dont know) look like you a seed (look like you a seed)
From makaveli the don (from makaveli the don)
I can hear your style (I can hear your style)
Sounds like makaveli the don (makaveli the don)
2 pac (2pac) my nigger (my nigger)
So much trouble in the world nigger (trouble in the world nigger)
These niggers cant feel your pain (feel your pain)
Thug life (thug life) outlaw (outlaw) forever (forever)
Oh you bitch niggers (bitch niggers)
The hardest nigger (the hardest nigger)
Ever to touch this microphone (to touch this microphone)
Got you bitch niggers trailin his tail (trailin his tail)
I dont know if you catch up (catch up)
But yet and still (yet and still)
Keep trying nigger (keep tryin nigger) keep trying (keep trying)
Thug life (thug life) outlaw (outlaw) forever nigger (forever nigger)
For eternity (eternity) for infinity (infinity)
So remember (so remember) makaveli the don (makaveli the don)
His thug life (thug life) lives on (lives on)
song performed by 2 Pac
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ballad Of The Self-loading Pistol
Father, I have come.
To tell you about somethin I done.
Well as the night reared its light head
Into a babys sun,
We rolled down into the town
From where the black throats come.
And you know there was a robbry.
There was a holdup.
Ooh, there was a shootout.
And there was a killin.
And theres blood on my hands.
Today I killed a man.
Well now, sister, you know me well.
And you ask me well, how it was I felt.
Well, she had an appetite for lovin
Only a fadin beauty could posses.
She knew just what she wanted
And she wouldnt take less.
I figured it was a small town.
It was at sundown.
It was just a small crowd of people around.
Oh! but he wouldnt put his guns down.
No, he wouldnt put his guns down.
Oh, he wouldnt put his guns down.
Now his bloods on my hands.
Today I killed a man.
And, papa, you showed me the beauty of buckshot.
Well, that song a bullet sings as she whistles.
And showed me the story of the self-loading pistol.
Well now, father. I have come.
To tell you about somethin I done.
He had a widow, runnin through town screamin.
He had a brother, and his tears were streamin.
Now Im movin on the border
With a rifle on my shoulder.
cuz, daddy, you showed me the beauty of buckshot.
The love song a bullet sings as she whistles.
And showed me the glory of the self-loading pistol.
And I just come to tell ya,
That it dont hurt no more.
No, it dont hurt no more,
cuz your son, hes an outlaw.
Oh, your son, hes an outlaw.
Yes, your son, hes an outlaw.
Oh, your son, hes an outlaw.
Now, your son, hes an outlaw.
Oh, your son, hes an outlaw.
And this blood feels good on my hands.
Today I killed a man.
song performed by Bruce Springsteen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ballad Of A Self-Loading Pistol
Father, i have come.
To tell you about somethin' i done.
Well as the night reared its light head
Into a baby's sun,
We rolled down into the town
From where the black throats come.
And you know there was a robb'ry.
There was a holdup.
Ooh, there was a shootout.
And there was a killin'.
And there's blood on my hands.
Today i killed a man.
Well now, sister, you know me well.
And you ask me well, how it was i felt.
Well, she had an appetite for lovin'
Only a fadin' beauty could posses.
She knew just what she wanted
And she wouldn't take less.
I figured it was a small town.
It was at sundown.
It was just a small crowd of people around.
Oh! but he wouldn't put his guns down.
No, he wouldn't put his guns down.
Oh, he wouldn't put his guns down.
Now his blood's on my hands.
Today i killed a man.
And, papa, you showed me the beauty of buckshot.
Well, that song a bullet sings as she whistles.
And showed me the story of the self-loading pistol.
Well now, father. i have come.
To tell you about somethin' i done.
He had a widow, runnin' through town screamin'.
He had a brother, and his tears were streamin'.
Now i'm movin' on the border
With a rifle on my shoulder.
'cuz, daddy, you showed me the beauty of buckshot.
The love song a bullet sings as she whistles.
And showed me the glory of the self-loading pistol.
And i just come to tell ya,
That it don't hurt no more.
No, it don't hurt no more,
'cuz your son, he's an outlaw.
Oh, your son, he's an outlaw.
Yes, your son, he's an outlaw.
Oh, your son, he's an outlaw.
Now, your son, he's an outlaw.
Oh, your son, he's an outlaw.
And this blood feels good on my hands.
Today i killed a man.
song performed by Bruce Springsteen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Outlaw Man
I am an outlaw, I was born an outlaws son
The highway is my legacy
On the highway I will run
In one hand Ive a bible
In the other Ive got a gun
Well, don you know me
Im the man who won
Woman dont try to love me
Dont try to understand
A life upon the road is the life of an outlaw man
First left my woman, it was down in santa fe
Headed for oklahoma, I was ridin night and day
All of my friends are strangers,
They quickly come and go
And all my loves in danger,
cause I steal hearts and souls
Woman, dont try to love me
Dont try to understand a life upon the road is the life of an outlaw man
Oo....
Woman, dont try to love me
Dont try to understand
A life upon the road is the life of an outlaw man
Some me call me abel,
Some men call me cain,
Some men call me sinner, lord
Some men call me saint
Some say theres a jesus
Some men say there aint
When you got no life to lose
Then theres nothin left to gain
Outlaw man
Outlaw man
song performed by Eagles
Added by Lucian Velea
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Populist Manifesto No. 1
Poets, come out of your closets,
Open your windows, open your doors,
You have been holed-up too long
in your closed worlds.
Come down, come down
from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills,
your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,
your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses,
down from your foothills and mountains,
out of your teepees and domes.
The trees are still falling
and we’ll to the woods no more.
No time now for sitting in them
As man burns down his own house
to roast his pig
No more chanting Hare Krishna
while Rome burns.
San Francisco’s burning,
Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning
the fossil-fuels of life.
Night & the Horse approaches
eating light, heat & power,
and the clouds have trousers.
No time now for the artist to hide
above, beyond, behind the scenes,
indifferent, paring his fingernails,
refining himself out of existence.
No time now for our little literary games,
no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias,
no time now for fear & loathing,
time now only for light & love.
We have seen the best minds of our generation
destroyed by boredom at poetry readings.
Poetry isn’t a secret society,
It isn’t a temple either.
Secret words & chants won’t do any longer.
The hour of oming is over,
the time of keening come,
a time for keening & rejoicing
over the coming end
of industrial civilization
which is bad for earth & Man.
Time now to face outward
in the full lotus position
with eyes wide open,
Time now to open your mouths
with a new open speech,
time now to communicate with all sentient beings,
All you ‘Poets of the Cities’
hung in museums including myself,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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Outlaw Man
I came out of the fifties
now that's when men were men
I am like the red red rooster,
always couping hens
I guess that I'm a rarity
some call a dying breed
I am a macho bronco stallion
call me Mr Seed
I'm a rocker
I'm a rocker
I'm a rolling stone
I'm a rocker
I'm a rocker
I'm one big bone
I'm a rocker
I'm a rocker
Motorcycle man
love don't fit in a can
When you're talking Elvis,
well I saw him yesterday
He touched me on the shoulder
asked me if he could play
I buttered up my ducktail,
put on my long black drape
I polished up my Boneville
to make those girlies gape
I'm a rocker
I'm a rocker
I'm a rolling stone
I'm a rocker
I'm a rocker
I'm one big bone
I'm a rocker
I'm a rocker
Motorcycle man
love don't fit in a can
I am one of lifes miracles
I have my fate in my hands
I see my colours before me
I am the outlaw man
the outlaw man
Solo
Jimmy Dean was riding next to me and Steve McQueen
And we're burning up the street now
And we're looking pretty mean
I'm not living in the past
and I'm not history
I'm here to set the records straight,
unlock this mystery
I'm a rocker
[...] Read more
song performed by Ufo
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Riding of the Rebel
He was the Red Creek overseer, a trusted man and true,
Whose shoulder never left the wheel when there was work to do;
Through all the day he rode the run, and when the lights grew dim
The sweetest wife that ever loved would wait and watch for him.
She brought him dower of golden hair and eyes of laughing blue,
Stout heart and cunning bridle-hand to guide the mulga through;
And when the mob was mustered from the box flats far and wide
She loved to mount the wildest colts that no one else would ride.
And once it chanced a wayward steed, half-mouthed and roughly broke,
Denied the touch of gentle hand and gentler words she spoke,
And, plunging forward like the ship that feels the autumn gales,
He reared and lost his footing and fell backwards on the rails.
Her husband bent above her with cold terror at his heart --
The form was still he loved so well, the wan lips would not part;
And all the day in trance she lay, but when the stars smiled down
He heard his name low-whispered and he claimed her still his own.
And afterwards he spoke his fear: 'Heart's love, if you should die! . . .
Unless you take our orders from some other man than I,
You shall never finger bridle, never mount on horse's back,
Till the outlaw on Glenidol is a broken lady's hack!'
There's an outlaw on Glenidol that is known through all the West,
And three men's lives are on his head, bold riders of the best;
The station lads have heard the sneer that travelled far and wide,
And flung the answering challenge: 'Come and teach us how to ride!'
Roll up, ye merry riders all, whose honour is to guard!
We've mustered up the ranges and the Rebel's in the yard,
His open mouth and stamping foot and keen eye flashing fire
Repeat the temper of his dam, the mettle of his sire.
Roll up, ye merry riders all, from hut and camp and town!
You'll have to stick like plaster when the stockyard rails go down.
But the boss will come down handsome, as the boss is wont to come,
To the first who brings The Rebel under spurs and greenhide home.
And the stockmen heard the challenge from the Cooper to the Bree,
And rode from hut and cattle-camp by one and two and three
To keep their horseman's honour clean and play a hero's part,
To best the bold Glenidol boys and break The Rebel's heart.
And Ruddy Neil, the breaker, from the Riverine came through
With all the latest breaking-gear and all the wiles he knew,
But ere the saddle was secured, before a girth was drawn,
The Rebel's forefoot split his skull -- they buried him at dawn!
Marora Mick, the half-caste, from the Flinders River came
To give the South-the-Border boys a lesson at the game;
But he got a roguish welcome when he entered New South Wales,
For The Rebel used his blood and brains to paint the stockyard rails!
And Mulga Jack came over from the Yuinburra side --
[...] Read more
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Fresh Air
I
At the Poem Society a black-haired man stands up to say
“You make me sick with all your talk about restraint and mature talent!
Haven’t you ever looked out the window at a painting by Matisse,
Or did you always stay in hotels where there were too many spiders crawling on your visages?
Did you ever glance inside a bottle of sparkling pop,
Or see a citizen split in two by the lightning?
I am afraid you have never smiled at the hibernation
Of bear cubs except that you saw in it some deep relation
To human suffering and wishes, oh what a bunch of crackpots!”
The black-haired man sits down, and the others shoot arrows at him.
A blond man stands up and says,
“He is right! Why should we be organized to defend the kingdom
Of dullness? There are so many slimy people connected with poetry,
Too, and people who know nothing about it!
I am not recommending that poets like each other and organize to fight them,
But simply that lightning should strike them.”
Then the assembled mediocrities shot arrows at the blond-haired man.
The chairman stood up on the platform, oh he was physically ugly!
He was small-limbed and –boned and thought he was quite seductive,
But he was bald with certain hideous black hairs,
And his voice had the sound of water leaving a vaseline bathtub,
And he said, “The subject for this evening’s discussion is poetry
On the subject of love between swans.” And everyone threw candy hearts
At the disgusting man, and they stuck to his bib and tucker,
And he danced up and down on the platform in terrific glee
And recited the poetry of his little friends—but the blond man stuck his head
Out of a cloud and recited poems about the east and thunder,
And the black-haired man moved through the stratosphere chanting
Poems of the relationships between terrific prehistoric charcoal whales,
And the slimy man with candy hearts sticking all over him
Wilted away like a cigarette paper on which the bumblebees have urinated,
And all the professors left the room to go back to their duty,
And all that were left in the room were five or six poets
And together they sang the new poem of the twentieth century
Which, though influenced by Mallarmé, Shelley, Byron, and Whitman,
Plus a million other poets, is still entirely original
And is so exciting that it cannot be here repeated.
You must go to the Poem Society and wait for it to happen.
Once you have heard this poem you will not love any other,
Once you have dreamed this dream you will be inconsolable,
Once you have loved this dream you will be as one dead,
Once you have visited the passages of this time’s great art!
2
“Oh to be seventeen years old
Once again,” sang the red-haired man, “and not know that poetry
[...] Read more
poem by Kenneth Koch
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Fifth Book
AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Essay on Criticism
Part I
INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.
'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
[...] Read more
poem by Alexander Pope
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The First Poets
The First Poets hunted game in the forest and on the plains-
inventing signs and gestures; guttural sounds and mime-
and ultimately Words.
The First Poets wrote words and drew pictures
on the walls of caves
stamping their feet to drum-beats;
learning to dance.
The First Poets invented music for their words
religion, books and counting-conjuring up
in each instance-new things.
The First Poets imagined names for plants,
animals, birds and creatures of the sea;
sang songs about them-wrote poems and hymns.
creating sentiment, vows and promises-
marriage ceremonies.
Poets invented the idea of the Idea, of kindness, and visions.
Poets invented hope and the future, love of the past, community.
Poets invented the rhythm of our lives.
Poets re-invent themselves and civilization each generation.
They peer into the gauzy dream and dream what is not yet;
they peer inside themselves
reaching in
with-drawing something new
from that which had not been
there
before.
The First Poets invent and re-invent civilization each generation.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Nut-Brown Maid
He. BE it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complain;
Affirming this, how that it is
A labour spent in vain
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man again:
For let a man do what he can
Their favour to attain,
Yet if a new to them pursue,
Their first true lover than
Laboureth for naught; for from her thought
He is a banished man.
She. I say not nay, but that all day
It is both written and said
That woman's faith is, as who saith,
All utterly decayd:
But nevertheless, right good witness
In this case might be laid
That they love true and continue:
Record the Nut-brown Maid,
Which, when her love came her to prove,
To her to make his moan,
Would not depart; for in her heart
She loved but him alone.
He. Then between us let us discuss
What was all the manere
Between them two: we will also
Tell all the pain in fere
That she was in. Now I begin,
So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye that present be,
I pray you, give an ear.
I am the Knight. I come by night,
As secret as I can,
Saying, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banished man.
She. And I your will for to fulfil
In this will not refuse;
Trusting to show, in wordes few,
That men have an ill use--
To their own shame--women to blame,
And causeless them accuse.
Therefore to you I answer now,
All women to excuse--
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?
I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Nut-Brown Maid
He.BE it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complain;
Affirming this, how that it is
A labour spent in vain
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man again:
For let a man do what he can
Their favour to attain,
Yet if a new to them pursue,
Their first true lover than
Laboureth for naught; for from her thought
He is a banished man.
She.I say not nay, but that all day
It is both written and said
That woman's faith is, as who saith,
All utterly decayd:
But nevertheless, right good witnèss
In this case might be laid
That they love true and continue:
Record the Nut-brown Maid,
Which, when her love came her to prove,
To her to make his moan,
Would not depart; for in her heart
She loved but him alone.
He.Then between us let us discuss
What was all the manere
Between them two: we will also
Tell all the pain in fere
That she was in. Now I begin,
So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye that present be,
I pray you, give an ear.
I am the Knight. I come by night,
As secret as I can,
Saying, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banished man.
She.And I your will for to fulfil
In this will not refuse;
Trusting to show, in wordes few,
That men have an ill use—
To their own shame—women to blame,
And causeless them accuse.
Therefore to you I answer now,
All women to excuse—
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?
I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
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Mogg Megone - Part I.
Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone,
Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky,
Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high,
Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone?
Close to the verge of the rock is he,
While beneath him the Saco its work is doing,
Hurrying down to its grave, the sea,
And slow through the rock its pathway hewing!
Far down, through the mist of the falling river,
Which rises up like an incense ever,
The splintered points of the crags are seen,
With water howling and vexed between,
While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath
Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth!
But Mogg Megone never trembled yet
Wherever his eye or his foot was set.
He is watchful: each form in the moonlight dim,
Of rock or of tree, is seen of him:
He listens; each sound from afar is caught,
The faintest shiver of leaf and limb:
But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret,
Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, -
And the roar of their rushing, he bears it not.
The moonlight, through the open bough
Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked root
Coils like a serpent at his foot,
Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow.
His head is bare, save only where
Waves in the wind one lock of hair,
Reserved for him, whoe'er he be,
More mighty than Megone in strife,
When breast to breast and knee to knee,
Above the fallen warrior's life
Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife.
Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun,
And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on:
His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,
And magic words on its polished blade, -
'Twas the gift of Castine to Mogg Megone,
For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn:
His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine,
And Modocawando's wives had strung
The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine
On the polished breach, and broad bright line
Of beaded wampum around it hung.
What seeks Megone? His foes are near, -
Grey Jocelyn's eye is never sleeping,
[...] Read more
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Indian Outlaw
(tommy barnes/gene simmons/john d. loudermilk)
(track 6 - time 3:02)
Im an indian outlaw
Half cherokee and choctaw
My baby shes a chippewa
Shes one of a kind
All my friends call me bear claw
The village cheaftin is my paw-paw
He gets his orders from my maw-maw
She makes him walk the line
You can find me in my wigwam
Ill be beatin on my tom-tom
Pull out the pipe and smoke you some
Hey and pass it around
cause Im an indian outlaw
Half cherokee and choctaw
My baby shes a chippewa
Shes one of a kind
I aint lookin for trouble
We can ride my pony double
Make your little heart bubble
Lord like a glass of wine
I remember the medicine man
He caught runnin water in my hands
Drug me around by my headband
Said I wasnt her kind
cause Im an indian outlaw
Half cherokee and choctaw
My baby shes a chippewa
Shes one of a kind
I can kill a deer or buffalo
With just my arrow and my hickory bow
From a hundred yards dont you know
I do it all the time
They all gather round my teepee
Late at night tryin to catch a peek at me
In nothin but my buffalo briefs
I got em standin in line
cause Im an indian outlaw
Half cherokee and choctaw
My baby shes a chippewa
Shes one of a kind
Cherokee people
Cherokee tribe
So proud to live
So proud to die
song performed by Tim McGraw
Added by Lucian Velea
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