The Grocery
'Hullo, Alice!'
'Hullo, Leon!'
'Say, Alice, gi' me a couple
O' them two for five cigars,
Will yer?'
'Where's your nickel?'
'My! Ain't you close!
Can't trust a feller, can yer.'
'Trust you! Why
What you owe this store
Would set you up in business.
I can't think why Father 'lows it.'
'Yer Father's a sight more neighbourly
Than you be. That's a fact.
Besides, he knows I got a vote.'
'A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote!
A lot o' good the Senate'll be to Father
When all his bank account
Has run away in credits.
There's your cigars,
If you can relish smokin'
With all you owe us standin'.'
'I dunno as that makes 'em taste any diff'rent.
You ain't fair to me, Alice, 'deed you ain't.
I work when anythin's doin'.
I'll get a carpenterin' job next Summer sure.
Cleve was tellin' me to-day he'd take me on come Spring.'
'Come Spring, and this December!
I've no patience with you, Leon,
Shilly-shallyin' the way you do.
Here, lift over them crates o' oranges
I wanter fix 'em in the winder.'
'It riles yer, don't it, me not havin' work.
You pepper up about it somethin' good.
You pick an' pick, and that don't help a mite.
Say, Alice, do come in out o' that winder.
Th' oranges c'n wait,
An' I don't like talkin' to yer back.'
'Don't you! Well, you'd better make the best o' what
you can git.
Maybe you won't have my back to talk to soon.
They look good in pyramids with the 'lectric light on 'em,
Don't they?
Now hand me them bananas
An' I'll string 'em right acrost.'
'What do yer mean
'Bout me not havin' you to talk to?
Are yer springin' somethin' on me?'
'I don't know 'bout springin'
When I'm tellin' you right out.
[...] Read more
poem by Amy Lowell
Added by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Z. Comments
CRYSTAL GLOW
Madhur Veena Comment: Who is she? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ....You write good!
Margaret Alice Comment: Beautiful, it stikes as heartfelt words and touches the heart, beautiful sentiments, sorry, I repeat myself, but I am delighted. Your poem is like the trinkets I collect to adorn my personal space, pure joy to read, wonderful! Only a beautiful mind can harbour such sentiments, you have a beautiful mind. I am glad you have found someone that inspires you to such heights and that you share it with us, you make the world a mroe wonderful place.
Margaret Alice Comment: Within the context set by the previous poem, “Cosmic Probe”, the description of a lover’s adoration for his beloved becomes a universal ode sung to the abstract values of love, joy and hope personified by light, colours, fragrance and beauty, qualities the poet assigns to his beloved, thus elevating her to the status of an uplifting force because she brings all these qualities to his attention. The poet recognises that these personified values brings him fulfilment and chose the image of a love relationship to illustrate how this comes about; thus a love poem becomes the vehicle to convey spiritual epiphany.
FRAGRANT JASMINE
Margaret Alice Comment: Your words seem to be directed to a divine entity, you seem to be addressing your adoration to a divinity, and it is wonderful to read of such sublime sentiments kindled in a human soul. Mankind is always lifted up by their vision and awareness of divinity, thank you for such pure, clear diction and sharing your awareness of the sublime with us, you have uplifted me so much by this vision you have created!
Margaret Alice Comment: The poet’s words seem to be directed to a divine entity, express adoration to a divinity who is the personification of wonderful qualities which awakens a sense of the sublime in the human soul. An uplifting vision and awareness of uplifting qualities of innocence represented by a beautiful person.
I WENT THERE TO BID HER ADIEU
Kente Lucy Comment: wow great writing, what a way to bid farewell
Margaret Alice Comment: Sensory experience is elevated by its symbolical meaning, your description of the scene shows two souls becoming one and your awareness of the importance of tempory experience as a symbol of the eternal duration of love and companionship - were temporary experience only valid for one moment in time, it would be a sad world, but once it is seen as a symbol of eternal things, it becomes enchanting.
I’M INCOMPLETE WITHOUT YOU
Margaret Alice Comment: You elevate the humnan experience of longing for love to a striving for sublimity in uniting with a beloved person, and this poem is stirring, your style of writing is effective, everything flows together perfectly.
Margaret Alice Comment:
'To a resplendent glow of celestial flow
And two split halves unite never to part.'
Reading your fluent poems is a delight, I have to tear myself away and return to the life of a drudge, but what a treasure trove of jewels you made for the weary soul who needs to contemplate higher ideals from time to time!
IN CELESTIAL WINGS
Margaret Alice Comment: When you describe how you are strengthened by your loved one, it is clear that your inner flame is so strong that you need not fear growing old, your spirit seems to become stronger, you manage to convey this impression by your striking poetry. It is a privilege to read your work.
Obed Dela Cruz Comment: wow.... i remembered will shakespeare.... nice poem!
Margaret Alice Comment: The poet has transcended the barriers of time and space by becoming an image of his beloved and being able to find peace in the joy he confers to his beloved.
'You transcend my limits, transcend my soul, I forget my distress in your thoughts And discover my peace in your joy, For, I’m mere image of you, my beloved.'
Margaret Alice Comment: You are my peace and solace, I know, I am, yours too; A mere flash of your thoughts Enlivens my tired soul And fills me with light, peace and solace, A giant in new world, I become, I rise to divine heights in celestial wings. How I desire to reciprocate To fill you with light and inner strength raise you to divine heights; I must cross over nd hold you in arms, light up your soul, Fill you with strength from my inner core, Wipe away your tears burst out in pure joy How I yearn to instill hope and confidence in you we never part And we shall wait, till time comes right. the flame in my soul always seeks you, you transcend my limits, transcend my soul, I forget my distress in your thoughts And discover my peace in your joy, For, I’m mere image of you, my beloved.
RAGING FIRE
[...] Read more
poem by Praveen Kumar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie
When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think youre too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin behind an losin yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of lifes busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin up
If the wine dont come to the top of yer cup
If the winds got you sideways with with one hand holdin on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the woods easy findin but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin and the street gets too long
And you start walkin backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrows mornin seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin
And yer rope is a-slidin cause yer hands are a-drippin
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipes a-pourin
And the lightnins a-flashing and the thunders a-crashin
And the windows are rattlin and breakin and the roof tops a-shakin
And yer whole worlds a-slammin and bangin
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didnt they tell me the day I was born
And you start gettin chills and yer jumping from sweat
And youre lookin for somethin you aint quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole worlds a-watchin with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and shes long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when theyre fryin
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bells bangin loudly but you cant hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyesve turned filthy from the sight-blindin dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin three queens
And its makin you mad, its makin you mean
Like in the middle of life magazine
Bouncin around a pinball machine
And theres something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin
But its trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin in bed
And no matter how you try you just cant say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
[...] Read more
song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Cow
Aw, go write yer tinklin' jingle, an' yer pretty phrases mingle,
Fer the mamby-pamby girl, all fluffy frill an' shinin' silk.
Them's the sort ter fetch yer trouble, when yer tries 'em, in the double.
Blow yer beauty! Wot's the matter with the maiden 'oo kin milk?
Them there rhymers uv the wattle! An' the bardlet uv the bottle -
'Im that sings uv sparklin' wine, an' does a perish fer the beer;
An' yer slap-dash 'orsey po-it! Garn! If you blokes only know it,
You 'ave missed the single subjec' fit ter rhyme about down 'ere.
An' although I ain't a bard, with bloomin' bays upon me brow,
I kinsider that it's up ter me ter sing about The Cow.
Cow, Cow
(Though it ain't a pretty row,
It's a word that 'ipnertises me; I couldn't tell yer 'ow.)
Though I ain't a gifted rhymer,
Nor a blamed Parnassus climber,
I'm inspired ter sing a tune er two about the Blessed Cow.
0h, the cow-bells are a-tinklin', and the daisies are a twinklin'
Well, that ain't the style ersackly I intended fer to sing.
'Ark, was over music greater then the buzzin' sepy-rater,
Coinin' gaily money daily fer the - no, that's not the thing!
'Omeward comes the cows a-lowin', an' the butter-cups are blowin';
But there's better butter in the - Blarst ! That ain't the proper way
See the pretty milkmaid walkin' - aw, it ain't no use er talkin'.
Listen 'ere, I want ter tell yer this: A cow's ther thing ter pay!
Sell yer 'orses, sell yer arrers, an' yer reapers, an' yer plough;
If yer want yer land ter pay yer, sacrifice yer life ter Cow
Cow, Cow
Sittin' underneath the bough,
With a bail, an' with a pail, an' with a little stool, an' thou
Kickin' when I pull yer teat there,
Swishin' flies, the pretty creatur.
Ah, there ain't no music sweeter - money squirtin' from the Cow.
Take away the wine-cup; take it. An' the foamin' flagon, break it.
Brimmin' cups uv butter-milk'll set yer glowin' thro' an' thro';
An' the reason I'm teetotal is becos me thrifty throat'll
Jest refuse ter swaller stuff that's costin' me a precious sou.
Once I wus a sinful spender. Used ter go a roarin' bender
Used ter often spend a thruppence when ther' wasn't any need.
An' the many ways I've busted money, when I should er trusted
It ter cattle an' erconomy, 'ud cause yer 'eart ter bleed
But I'm glad, me friends, that godliness 'as made me careful now;
Tho' I lorst the thing wot's next it when I cottoned ter the Cow.
Cow, Cow
Trudin' thro' the sloppy slough.
Ah, I once despised the Jews, but I kin under-stand 'em now
When they needed elevatin',
An' ole Moses kep' 'em waitin'
Fer religi'n, they went straight 'n' sorter substichooted Cow.
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
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A Word to Texas Jack
Texas Jack, you are amusin’. By Lord Harry, how I laughed
When I seen yer rig and saddle with its bulwarks fore-and-aft;
Holy smoke! In such a saddle how the dickens can yer fall?
Why, I seen a gal ride bareback with no bridle on at all!
Gosh! so-help-me! strike-me-balmy! if a bit o’ scenery
Like ter you in all yer rig-out on the earth I ever see!
How I’d like ter see a bushman use yer fixins, Texas Jack;
On the remnant of a saddle he can ride to hell and back.
Why, I heerd a mother screamin’ when her kid went tossin’ by
Ridin’ bareback on a bucker that had murder in his eye.
What? yer come to learn the natives how to squat on horse’s back!
Learn the cornstalk ridin’! Blazes!—w’at yer giv’n’us, Texas Jack?
Learn the cornstalk—what the flamin’, jumptup! where’s my country gone?
Why, the cornstalk’s mother often rides the day afore he’s born!
You may talk about your ridin’ in the city, bold an’ free,
Talk o’ ridin’ in the city, Texas Jack, but where’d yer be
When the stock horse snorts an’ bunches all ’is quarters in a hump,
And the saddle climbs a sapling, an’ the horse-shoes split a stump?
No, before yer teach the native you must ride without a fall
Up a gum or down a gully nigh as steep as any wall—
You must swim the roarin’ Darlin’ when the flood is at its height
Bearin’ down the stock an’ stations to the Great Australian Bight.
You can’t count the bulls an’ bisons that yer copped with your lassoo—
But a stout old myall bullock p’raps ’ud learn yer somethin’ new;
Yer’d better make yer will an’ leave yer papers neat an’ trim
Before yer make arrangements for the lassooin’ of him;
Ere you ’n’ yer horse is catsmeat, fittin’ fate for sich galoots,
And yer saddle’s turned to laces like we put in blucher boots.
And yer say yer death on Injins! We’ve got somethin’in yer line—
If yer think your fitin’s ekal to the likes of Tommy Ryan.
Take yer karkass up to Queensland where the allygators chew
And the carpet-snake is handy with his tail for a lassoo;
Ride across the hazy regins where the lonely emus wail
An’ ye’ll find the black’ll track yer while yer lookin’ for his trail;
He can track yer without stoppin’ for a thousand miles or more—
Come again, and he will show yer where yer spit the year before.
But yer’d best be mighty careful, you’ll be sorry you kem here
When yer skewered to the fakements of yer saddle with a spear—
When the boomerang is sailin’ in the air, may heaven help yer!
It will cut yer head off goin’, an’ come back again and skelp yer.
P.S.—As poet and as Yankee I will greet you, Texas Jack,
For it isn’t no ill-feelin’ that is gettin’ up my back,
But I won’t see this land crowded by each Yank and British cuss
Who takes it in his head to come a-civilisin’ us.
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
Added by Poetry Lover
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You Owe Me
Nas]
Uh, it's real, it's real, it's real
Uh, uh, owe me back, uh shorty
Shorty, what up, huh?
Come on
1 - [ginuwine]
Shorty, say what's your price
Just to back it up
You can hold my ice
Now let's say you owe me something
[nas]
Yeah, owe me back like you owe your tax
Owe me back like forty acres to blacks
Pay me back when you shake it like that girl
2 - [ginuwine]
Shorty, say what's your price
Just to back it up
You can hold my ice
Now let's say you owe, owe, owe
[nas]
Yeah owe me back like you owe your rent
Owe me back like its money i spent
Pay me back when you shake it again
The don, all the time, with all the shine
You small time, i ball with mine
Links, minks, bentley, it's all with mine
My jams bump out to the borderline
Uk hot with it, blew spots with it
Every continent love when i spit it
Corners to blocks, even the cops feel it
Brothas on lockdown on their cock feel it
It's real in the field the last mohegan
Who survived in the streets and did something decent
Now i got plans to buy the whole hood
Legit' now, i ain't gotta lie to no judge
I make hits now, money i flip now
Hood fella every honey wanna kiss now
I lit up my neck, pinkie, and wrist now
So girls everywhere, this is how we get down
Repeat 1
3 - [ginuwine]
Shorty, say what's your price
Just to back it up
You can hold my ice
Now let's say you owe, owe, owe
[nas]
Yeah owe me back like you owe your rent
Owe me back like its money i lent
Pay me back when you shake it again
[nas]
[...] Read more
song performed by Ginuwine
Added by Lucian Velea
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To My Godchild Alice
ALICE, Alice, little Alice,
My new-christened baby Alice,
Can there ever rhymes be found
To express my wishes for thee
In a silvery flowing, worthy
Of that silvery sound?
Bonnie Alice, Lady Alice,
Sure, this sweetest name must be
A true omen to thee, Alice,
Of a life's long melody.
Alice, Alice, little Alice,
Mayst thou prove a golden chalice,
Filled with holiness like wine:
With rich blessings running o'er
Yet replenished evermore
From a fount divine:
Alice, Alice, little Alice,
When this future comes to thee,
In thy young life's brimming chalice
Keep some drops of balm for me!
Alice, Alice, little Alice,
Mayst thou grow a goodly palace,
Fitly framed from roof to floors,
Pure unto the inmost centre,
While high thoughts like angels enter
At the open doors:
Alice, Alice, little Alice,
When this beauteous sight I see,
In thy woman-heart's wide palace
Keep one nook of love for me.
Alice, Alice, little Alice,--
Sure the verse halts out of malice
To the thoughts it feebly bears,
And thy name's soft echoes, ranging
From quaint rhyme to rhyme, are changing
Into silent prayers.
God be with thee, little Alice,
Of His bounteousness may He
Fill the chalice, build the palace,
Here, unto eternity!
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Added by Poetry Lover
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Put Yer Money Where Your Mouth Is
(noel gallagher)
(vocals by liam)
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your momma said that you were real
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your momma said the tune was real
Ready or not
And come what may
You betcha going down for judgement day
So put yer money in yer mouth
And your hands right up on the wheel
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your papa said that you were real
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your paa said that you were real
Ready or not
And come what may
You betcha going down for judgement day
So put yer money in yer mouth
And your hands right up on the wheel
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your papa said that you were real
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your papa said that you were real
Ready or not
And come what may
You betcha going down for judgement day
So put yer money in yer mouth
And your hands right up on the wheel
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Whhhooooooo
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your momma said that you were real
Put yer money where yer mouth is
Your momma said that you were real
Ready or not
And come what may
You betcha going down for judgement day
So put yer money in yer mouth
And your hands right up on the wheel
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Watch out
Hey watch out
W-w-w-w-w-w-watch out
Hey watch out
Hey
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
[...] Read more
song performed by Oasis
Added by Lucian Velea
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Old Spookses' Pass
I.
WE'D camped that night on Yaller Bull Flat,--
Thar was Possum Billy, an' Tom, an' me.
Right smart at throwin' a lariat
Was them two fellers, as ever I see;
An' for ridin' a broncho, or argyin' squar
With the devil roll'd up in the hide of a mule,
Them two fellers that camp'd with me thar
Would hev made an' or'nary feller a fool.
II.
Fur argyfyin' in any way,
Thet hed to be argy'd with sinew an' bone,
I never see'd fellers could argy like them;
But just right har I will hev to own
Thet whar brains come in in the game of life,
They held the poorest keerds in the lot;
An' when hands was shown, some other chap
Rak'd in the hull of the blamed old pot!
III.
We was short of hands, the herd was large,
An' watch an' watch we divided the night;
We could hear the coyotes howl an' whine,
But the darned critters kept out of sight
Of the camp-fire blazin'; an' now an' then
Thar cum a rustle an' sort of rush--
A rattle a-sneakin' away from the blaze,
Thro' the rattlin', cracklin' grey sage bush.
IV.
We'd chanc'd that night on a pootyish lot,
With a tol'ble show of tall, sweet grass--
We was takin' Speredo's drove across
The Rockies, by way of "Old Spookses' Pass"--
An' a mite of a creek went crinklin' down,
Like a "pocket" bust in the rocks overhead,
Consid'able shrunk, by the summer drought,
To a silver streak in its gravelly bed.
V.
'Twas a fairish spot fur to camp a' night;
An' chipper I felt, tho' sort of skeer'd
That them two cowboys with only me,
Couldn't boss three thousand head of a herd.
I took the fust of the watch myself;
An' as the red sun down the mountains sprang,
I roll'd a fresh quid, an' got on the back
Of my peart leetle chunk of a tough mustang.
VI.
An' Possum Billy was sleepin' sound
Es only a cowboy knows how to sleep;
An' Tommy's snores would hev made a old
Buffalo bull feel kind o' cheap.
[...] Read more
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Added by Poetry Lover
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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II. Half-Rome
What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)
Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Alice Deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
I close my eyes
Im music
Im rhythm
Im a dj, I am alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
I close my eyes
Im music
Im rhythm
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
Im a dj, alice deejay
I am alice deejay
song performed by Alice Deejay
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sir Peter Harpdon's End
In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.
John Curzon
Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.
Sir Peter
So-
What are their names?
John Curzon
Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but-
Sir Peter
What colour'd hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?
John Curzon
Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair,
Or Peter's legs to us?
Sir Peter
O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; they're no good,
We shall not build, man.
John Curzon
going.
Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.
[...] Read more
poem by William Morris
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Mind Your Own Business
Mind Your Own Business
(Words and music by Hank Williams, Sr.)
If the wife and I was fussin', brother that's our right
Me and that ole woman bought a license to fight
Why don't you mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Yeah,mind your own business(Mind your own business)
If youmind your own business, you won't be mindin' mine.
Well, the woman on the party line's a nosey thing
She picks up her receiver when she knows it's my ring
Why don't you mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Yeah, mind your own business(Mind your own business)
If you mind your own business, you won't be mindin' mine.
--- Instrumental with ad libs ---
Well, I got a little girl that wears her hair up high
The boys all hollar when she walks by
Why don't you mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Yeah, mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Just mind your own business, you wont be mindin' mine.
--- Instrumental with ad libs ---
I may tell a lot of stories that may not be true
But I can get to Heaven just as easy as you
Why don't you mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Yeah, will you mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Mind your business, and you won't be mindin' mine.
--- Instrumental with ad libs ---
Now, If I want to honky tonk 'til around two or three
Darlin' that's my headache, don't you worry 'bout me.
Why don't you mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Go on and mind your own business(Mind your own business)
If you're mindin' your business, you won't be mindin' mine.
--- Instrumental---
Mindin' other people's business seems to be high-toned
Well, I got all that I can do just to mind my own
Mind your own business(Mind your own business)
Yeah, mind your own business(Mind your own business)
If you mind your businessmyou won't be mindin' mine.
Dear Lord, If you mind your business, you'll be busy all the time...
song performed by Alan Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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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
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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus
Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—
Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Possum
Jist 'ere it gripped me, on a sudden, like a red-'ot knife.
I wus diggin' in the garden, talkin' pleasant to me wife,
When it got me good an' solid, an' I fetches out a yell,
An' curses soft down in me neck, an' breathes 'ard fer a spell.
Then, when I tries to straighten up, it stabs me ten times worse.
I thinks per'aps I'm dyin', an' chokes back a reel 'ot curse.
'I've worked too fast,' I tells Doreen. 'Me backbone's runnin' 'ot.
I'm sick! I've got-0o, 'oly wars! I dunno wot I've got!
Jist 'ere - Don't touch! - jist round back 'ere, a blazin' little pain.
Is clawin' up me spinal cord an' slidin' down again.'
'You come inside,' she sez. 'Per'aps it's stoopin' in the sun.
Does it 'urt much?' I sez, 'Oh, no; I'm 'avin' lots o' fun.'
Then, cooin' to me, woman-like, she pilots me inside.
It stabs me every step I takes; I thort I could 'a' died.
'There now,' she sez. 'Men can't stand pain, it's alwus understood.'
'Stand pain?' I owls. Then, Jumpin' Jakes! It gits me reely good!
So I gets to bed in sections, fer it give me beans to bend,
An' shuts me eyes, an' groans again, an' jist waits fer the end.
'Now, you lie still,' she orders me, 'until I think wot's best.
Per'aps 'ot bran, or poultices. You jist lie still, an' rest,'
Rest? 'Oly Gosh! I clinched me teeth, an' clawed the bloomin' bunk;
Fer a red-'ot poker jabbed me ev'ry time I much as wunk.
I couldn't corf, I couldn't move, I couldn't git me breath.
'Look after Bill,' I tells Doreen. 'I feels that… this is… death.'
'Death, fiddlesticks,' she laughs at me. 'You jist turn over now.'
I 'owls, ''Ere! Don't you touch me, or there'll be a blazin' row!
I want to die jist as I am.' She sez, 'Now, Bill, 'ave sense.
This 'as to go on while it's 'ot.' I groans, 'I've no defence.'
An' so she 'as 'er way wiv me. An', tho' I'm suff'rin' bad,
I couldn't 'elp but noticin' the gentle touch she 'ad.
That ev'nin', when the doctor come, sez 'e, 'Ah! 'Urtin' much?
Where is the trouble?' I sez, 'Where you ain't allowed to touch!'
'E mauls an' prods me while I 'owls to beat the bloomin' band.
Gawbli'me! I'd 'a' cracked 'im if I'd strength to lift me 'and.
'Discribe yer symtims now,' sez 'e. I fills meself wiv wind,
An' slung 'im out a catalog while 'e jist stood an' grinned.
'Ar, bar!' 'e sez. 'Sciatiker! Oh, we'll soon 'ave yeh well.'
'Sciatiker?' sez I. 'Yer sure yeh don't mean Jumpin' 'Ell?
It ain't no privit devil wiv a little jagged knife?'
'Tut, rut,' 'e grins. 'You'll soon be right. I leaves yeh to yer wife.'
I looks at 'er, she smiles at me, an' when I seen that smile:
'Aw, poultices!' I groans. An' she injoys it all the while!
But I'm marri'd to a woman; an', I gives yeh my straight tip,
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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First Book
OF writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,–
Will write my story for my better self,
As when you paint your portrait for a friend,
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it
Long after he has ceased to love you, just
To hold together what he was and is.
I, writing thus, am still what men call young;
I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling; not so far,
But still I catch my mother at her post
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up,
'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes
Leap forward, taking part against her word
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel
My father's slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets. O my father's hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee!
I'm still too young, too young to sit alone.
I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life–
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,–
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children, (to be just,)
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Possum A Lay of New Chumland
SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?
An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess
You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,
’Bout the “blunders an’ advenchers ov a new chum in the west?”
An’ you would be very thankful an’ acknowledge any hint?
Well, I karn’t say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;
But I know a little story an’ I’ll tell it out ov hand
If yer’ll put it down in writin’ that the swells kin understand—
(It’s a story ov a new chum, and—a story ov the land.)
He had lately kum from Ingland—you cud tell it by ’s cap—
Fur “kerlonial exper’ence” (an’ he got it, too, poor chap).
’Twas in town he met the squatter, an’ he asked, as if in fun,
“If the boss ’ud want a flunkey or a coachy on the run?”
Well, it riz the boss’s dander, an’ he jumps clean orf ’is ’oss—
“Now, me fresh, sweet-scented beauty, watyer giv’nus?” sez the boss;
“I hev met yer kidney often, an’ yer mighty fresh an’ free,
But yer needn’t think yer gorn ter come a-lardin’ over me!”
But the new chum sed that ’onest he was lookin’ for a job,
An’ in spite of his appearance he had blued ’is bottom bob.
An’ as beggars karn’t be choosers same as people wot are rich,
Said he’d go as stoo’rd or gard’ner, but he warn’t partickler which.
Well, the joker seemed in earnest, so the boss began ter cool,
An’ he only blanked the new chum for a thund’rin’ jumpt-up fool.
Then he sed, “Well, there’s the fencin’, if yer’ll tramp it up from Perth,
The boys ’ll find yer su’thin p’r’aps, an’ giv’ yer wat yer worth.”
Ov course the squatter never thort ter see ’im any more,
But he wa’n’t the kind ov new chum that the squatter tuk ’im for;
No, he wa’n’t the kind er cockeroach that on’y kums ter shirk,
That wants ter git the sugar, but is fri’tened ov the work;
For he sold ’is watch ’n’ jool’ry, ’n’ lardi-dardy suits,
Stuck a swag upon his shoulder, ’n’ ’is feet in blucher boots;
An’ I dunno how he did it, he was anythin’ but strong,
But he ’umped his bluey ninety mile an’ kum to Bunglelong.
He earnt ’is pound and tucker borin’ holes an’ runnin’ wire,
An’ he’d work from dawn to sunset, an’ he never seemed to tire;
But he must have suffered orful from the tucker an’ the heat,
An’ the everlastin’ trampin’ made ’im tender in the feet,
An’ he must hev thort ov England w’en the everlastin’ flies
Ware a-worrit, worrit, worrit, an’ a-knawin’ at ’is eyes;
An’ he used to swear like thunder w’en the yaller sergeant ants
Took a mornin’ stroll, promiscus, on the inside ov ’is pants.
He uster make ’is damper six or seven inches thick—
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
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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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