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Looking for Eric

Cast: Steve Evets, Eric Cantona, Stephanie Bishop, Gerard Kearns, Stefan Gumbs

trailer for Looking for Eric, directed by Ken Loach (2009)
Added by Maria
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The Tragic Death of the Rev. A.H. Mackonochie

Friends of humanity, of high and low degree,
I pray ye all come listen to me;
And truly I will relate to ye,
The tragic fate of the Rev. Alexander Heriot Mackonochie.

Who was on a visit to the Bishop of Argyle,
For the good of his health, for a short while;
Because for the last three years his memory had been affected,
Which prevented him from getting his thoughts collected.

'Twas on Thursday, the 15th of December, in the year of 1887,
He left the Bishop's house to go and see Loch Leven;
And he was accompanied by a little skye terrier and a deerhound,
Besides the Bishop's two dogs, that knew well the ground.

And as he had taken the same walk the day before,
The Bishop's mind was undisturbed and easy on that score;
Besides the Bishop had been told by some men,
That they saw him making his way up a glen.

From which a river flows down with a mighty roar,
From the great mountains of the Mamore;
And this route led him towards trackless wastes eastward,
And no doubt to save his life he had struggled very hard.

And as Mr Mackonochie had not returned at dinner time,
The Bishop ordered two men to search for him, which they didn't decline;
Then they searched for him along the road he should have returned,
But when they found him not, they sadly mourned.

And when the Bishop heard it, he procured a carriage and pair,
While his heart was full of woe, and in a state of despair;
He organised three search parties without delay,
And headed one of the parties in person without dismay.

And each party searched in a different way,
But to their regret at the end of the day;
Most unfortunately no discovery had been made,
Then they lost hope of finding him, and began to be afraid.

And as a last hope, two night searches were planned,
And each party with well lighted lamps in hand
Started on their perilous mission, Mr Mackonochie to try and find,
In the midst of driving hail, and the howling wind.

One party searched a distant sporting lodge with right good will,
Besides through brier, and bush, and snow, on the hill;
And the Bishop's party explored the Devil's Staircase with hearts full of woe,
A steep pass between the Kinloch hills, and the hills of Glencoe.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Gerard Way your more than just money

Gerard Way your more than just money
Gerard Way your lips taste like honey
Gerard Way you're more than just fame
Gerard Way you'll soon scream my name
Gerard Way you'll always be hot
Gerard way i would love to see you on top
Gerard Way you're so sexy
Gerard Way i would gulp you like pepsi

by Jean Pullman
dedicated to Gerard Way from my chemical romance

poem by Jean Pullman
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Ode To Eric Clapton

Hear Eric Clapton's got the blues
did he pay his dues
have you heard the news
hear Eric Clapton's got the blues.

Nicknamed old slow hand in band
Eric is the master blues guitar hand
always with his back against the wall
yet Eric Clapton stands noble and tall.

Started out over thirty years ago
his guitar style developed blues flow
an second only too late Jimi Hendrix
Eric played with heavy cream mix.

Through the high times and the bad
sometimes feeling crazy and mad
battling wild destructive stardom scene
taking trips both right and wrong dream.

Road to excess leads to wisdom song
although the road is often long
I'm quoting Eric's favourite line
these words that spring to mine.

Having self confessed addictive personality
is Eric's dark blues self analysis key
but today Eric lets his guitar talk
all the way from London to New York.

Doing the prince charity time trust
each and every year is indeed a must
playing regularly London's Albert Hall
Eric stands tall and isn't about to fall.

Admired by every guitar slinger around
Eric's guitar creates the blues sound
with master blues ace calling card
Eric Clapton plays honest and hard.

And the blues is always played real
let's you have honest emotion to feel
singing about love affairs of the heart
blows all our false pretense apart.

Nineties Eric wears his blues mantle proud
playing his guitar notes inspired and loud
with both subtle and heavy born emotion
laying down blues flavour stylish devotion.

[...] Read more

poem by Wayne Falconer
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The Bishop of Rum-Ti-Foo

From east and south the holy clan
Of Bishops gathered to a man;
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,
In flocking crowds they came.
Among them was a Bishop, who
Had lately been appointed to
The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,
And PETER was his name.

His people - twenty-three in sum -
They played the eloquent tum-tum,
And lived on scalps served up, in rum -
The only sauce they knew.
When first good BISHOP PETER came
(For PETER was that Bishop's name),
To humour them, he did the same
As they of Rum-ti-Foo.

His flock, I've often heard him tell,
(His name was PETER) loved him well,
And, summoned by the sound of bell,
In crowds together came.
"Oh, massa, why you go away?
Oh, MASSA PETER, please to stay."
(They called him PETER, people say,
Because it was his name.)

He told them all good boys to be,
And sailed away across the sea,
At London Bridge that Bishop he
Arrived one Tuesday night;
And as that night he homeward strode
To his Pan-Anglican abode,
He passed along the Borough Road,
And saw a gruesome sight.

He saw a crowd assembled round
A person dancing on the ground,
Who straight began to leap and bound
With all his might and main.
To see that dancing man he stopped,
Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,
Then down incontinently dropped,
And then sprang up again.

The Bishop chuckled at the sight.
"This style of dancing would delight
A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.
I'll learn it if I can,
To please the tribe when I get back."

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop

The summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet,
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great Barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all.

"I'faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it in these times forlorn
Of Rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter'd the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look'd there came a man from his farm--
He had a countenance white with alarm;
"My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the Rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,
"Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he,
"Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,...

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Southey
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No Woman, No Cry

[wyclef] - (lauryn in parentheses)
...yo, steve marley throw on your father's old record...(yeah) - lauryn
Ha! classic material...refugee camp, hold tight! yes, yes!
Steve marley, come on! ah-ha! wyclef, ha-ha!
Feel the gong! heh-heh! yes, yes y'all! heh, come on!...yes, yes!
Feel the gong! (echo)
[steve marley - chorus] - {marley sisters background singing in brackets}
No woman, no cry (crowd cheers)
No woman, no cry! {no woman, no cry!}
No woman...
No, no woman!...no woman, no cry! {no woman, no cry!}
[steve marley - verse one] (wyclef in parentheses) {marley sisters in brackets}
You see...
Said i remember! oh, when we used to sit (where at?) - wyclef
In a government yard, in trenchtown {town!} - marley sisters
(and what did you used to see son?)
Well oh, i was observing, them hypocrites!
As they would... mingle with the good people we meet {meet!}
Yeah-yeah!
Good friends we have, and oh well!
Good friends we've lost! yeah-yeah!
Along...the way! {way!} yeah!
In this great future, yeah! you can't forget your past! say-yeah
Oh, dry your tears i say {say!}
[chorus 1x]
[wyclef] - (lauryn singing in parentheses) - {marley sisters in brackets}
Say! say! say! say!
I remember! when we used to sit! [where at son?]
Oh, in a project yard, in brooklyn! {lyn!} [oh, yeah right when i left haiti,
Ha]
And little georgie, would make the fire light! (i tell ya!)
As...stolen cars passed through the night {night!} [newark, new jersey, ah-ha!]
And then we'd hit, the corner store!
For roots, paper, and brew, wooh! {brew! whoo!}
My drinks, my only remedy! i tell ya! (sold out! sold out!)
For pain of losing, family...
But while i'm gone, sure thing...
[steve, lauryn, sharon, and pam singing] - (clef, eric, and ziggy chanting)
Everything's gonna be alright!! (oh! ah! oh-ah!)
Everything's gonna be alright! (oh! ah! oh-ah!)
Everything's gonna be alright!! (oh! ah! oh-ah!) (ho!)
Everything's gonna be alright! (oh! ah! oh-ah!) (ho!)
Everything's gonna be alright!! (oh! ah! oh-ah!) (ho!)
Everything's gonna be alright! (oh! ah! oh-ah!) (ho!)
Everything's gonna be alright!! (oh! ah! oh-ah!) (ho!)
Everything's gonna be alright! (oh! ah! oh-ah!) (ho!)
[steve marley]
...so, woman no cry!
No, no woman!...{no woman, no cry!}
[wyclef]

[...] Read more

song performed by Fugees
Added by Lucian Velea
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King Canute

KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score,
Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more;
And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore.

'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate,
Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great,
Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages,—all the officers of state.

Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause,
If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws;
If to laugh the king was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws.

But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young:
Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleemen sung,
Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue.

'Something ails my gracious master,' cried the Keeper of the Seal.
'Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal?'
'Psha!' exclaimed the angry monarch, 'Keeper, 'tis not that I feel.

''Tis the HEART, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair:
Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care?
Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary.'—Some one cried, 'The King's arm-chair!'

Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded,
Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen able-bodied;
Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded.

'Leading on my fierce companions,' cried he, 'over storm and brine,
I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?'
Loudly all the courtiers echoed: 'Where is glory like to thine?'

'What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now and old;
Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold;
Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!

'Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites;
Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights;
Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights.

'Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires;
Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered sires.—'
Such a tender conscience,' cries the Bishop, 'every one admires.

'But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to search,
They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church;
Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch.

'Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty raised;
Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised:

[...] Read more

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Bishop of Rum-Ti-Foo Again

I often wonder whether you
Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo
Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p'r'aps may bring
Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning
That PETER was his name.

Remember how that holy man
Came with the great Colonial clan
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;
And kindly recollect
How, having crossed the ocean wide,
To please his flock all means he tried
Consistent with a proper pride
And manly self-respect.

He only, of the reverend pack
Who minister to Christians black,
Brought any useful knowledge back
To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim
For "PETER" on the scroll of Fame
(For PETER was that Bishop's name,
As I've already told).

He carried Art, he often said,
To places where that timid maid
(Save by Colonial Bishops' aid)
Could never hope to roam.
The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught
As he had learnt it; for he thought
The choicest fruits of Progress ought
To bless the Negro's home.

And he had other work to do,
For, while he tossed upon the Blue,
The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear -
They learnt to say, "I do not care,"
Though they, of course, were well aware
How folks, who say so, end.

Some sailors, whom he did not know,
Had landed there not long ago,
And taught them "Bother!" also, "Blow!"
(Of wickedness the germs).
No need to use a casuist's pen

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Bishop Blougram's Apology

No more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk.
A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith!
We ought to have our Abbey back, you see.
It's different, preaching in basilicas,
And doing duty in some masterpiece
Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart!
I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes,
Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere;
It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh?
These hot long ceremonies of our church
Cost us a little—oh, they pay the price,
You take me—amply pay it! Now, we'll talk.

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs.
No deprecation—nay, I beg you, sir!
Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know,
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out,
We'd see truth dawn together?—truth that peeps
Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done,
And body gets its sop and holds its noise
And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time:
Truth's break of day! You do despise me then.
And if I say, "despise me"—never fear!
1 know you do not in a certain sense—
Not in my arm-chair, for example: here,
I well imagine you respect my place
(Status, entourage, worldly circumstance)
Quite to its value—very much indeed:
—Are up to the protesting eyes of you
In pride at being seated here for once—
You'll turn it to such capital account!
When somebody, through years and years to come,
Hints of the bishop—names me—that's enough:
"Blougram? I knew him"—(into it you slide)
"Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day,
All alone, we two; he's a clever man:
And after dinner—why, the wine you know—
Oh, there was wine, and good!—what with the wine . . .
'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk!
He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen
Something of mine he relished, some review:
He's quite above their humbug in his heart,
Half-said as much, indeed—the thing's his trade.
I warrant, Blougram's sceptical at times:
How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!"
Che che, my dear sir, as we say at Rome,
Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take;
You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths:
The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Lay of St. Gengulphus

'Non multo post, Gengulphus, in domo sua dormiens, occisus est a quodam clerico qui cum uxore sua adulterare solebat. Cujus corpus dum in fereto in sepulturam portaretur, multi infirmi de tactu sanati sunt.'

'Cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancilla sua, scilicet dominum suum quam martyrem sanctum miracula facere, irridens illa, et subsurrans, ait, 'Ita Gengulphus miracula facitat ut pulvinarium meum cantat,' &c. &c.-- Wolfii Memorab.

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day has he been away,
Yet his Lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day has he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown;
They laugh'd; and they ate, and they drank of the best,
And they turn'd the old Castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
To get rid of what French people call Ennui.

Now the festive board, with viands is stored,
Savoury dishes be there, I ween,
Rich puddings and big, and a barbecued pig,
And oxtail soup in a China tureen.

There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail --
When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking,
Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

'You must be pretty deep to catch weazels asleep,'
Says the proverb: that is, 'take the Fair unawares;'
A maid, o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
Whispers, 'Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming upstairs.'

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
With the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste,
And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
When 'poor dear Gengulphus' at last appear'd!
She kiss'd, and she press'd 'the dear man' to her breast,
In spite of his great, long, frizzly beard.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Harris Barham
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The Reverend Micah Sowls

The REVEREND MICAH SOWLS,
He shouts and yells and howls,
He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
He foams, he rants, he thumps.

His armour he has buckled on, to wage
The regulation war against the Stage;
And warns his congregation all to shun
"The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,"

The subject's sad enough
To make him rant and puff,
And fortunately, too,
His Bishop's in a pew.

So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,
He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.

The Bishop, when it's o'er,
Goes through the vestry door,
Where MICAH, very red,
Is mopping of his head.

"Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS' excessive zeal,
It is a theme on which I strongly feel."
(The sermon somebody had sent him down
From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)

The Bishop bowed his head,
And, acquiescing, said,
"I've heard your well-meant rage
Against the Modern Stage.

"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,
Sows seeds of evil broadcast - well it may;
But let me ask you, my respected son,
Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"

"My Lord," said MICAH, "no!
I never, never go!
What! Go and see a play?
My goodness gracious, nay!"

The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt
The Stage may be the place you make it out;
But if, my REVEREND SOWLS, you never go,
I don't quite understand how you're to know."

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Happiness

(b. anderson jr.)
Lea:
You know some kids ask us what happiness really is.
Well, to me happiness is a hamburger, going to the movies, new clothes.
Well, what's your happiness, gerard?
Gerard:
My happiness is a hotdog sandwich, new rubber shoes, new t-shirts,
New jeans and also my favorite part of happiness is love.
Lea:
Happiness is two kinds of ice cream
Finding your skate key, telling the time
Happiness is learning to whistle
Tying your shoe for the very first time
Happiness is playing the drum in your own school band
And happiness is walking hand in hand
Gerard:
Happiness is five different crayons
Knowing a secret, climbing a tree
Happiness is finding a nickel
Catching a firefly, setting him free
Happiness is being alone every now and then
And happiness is coming home again
Lea:
Happiness is morning and evening
Gerard:
Daytime and nighttime, too
Both:
For happiness is anyone and anything at all
That's loved by you
Gerard:
Happiness is having a sister
Lea:
Sharing a sandwich
Both:
Getting along
Happiness is singing together when day is through
And happiness is those who sing with you
Happiness is morning and evening
Daytime and nighttime, too
For happiness is anyone and anything at all
That's loved by you

song performed by Lea Salonga
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stephanie Says

Stephanie says
(reed)
Stephanie says that she wants to know
Why shes given half her life, to people she hates now
Stephanie says when answering the phone
What country shall I say is calling from across the world
But shes not afraid to die, the people all call her alaska
Between worlds so the people ask her cause its all in her mind
Its all in her mind
Stephanie says that she wants to know
Why it is though shes the door she cant be the room
Stephanie says but doesnt hang up the phone
What sea shell she is calling from across the world
But shes not afraid to die, the people all cal her alaska
Between worlds so the people ask her cause its all in her mind
Its all in her mind
She asks you is it good or bad
Its such an icy feeling its so cold in alaska,
Its so cold in alaska, its so cold in alaska

song performed by Velvet Underground
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Parish Register - Part I: Baptisms

The year revolves, and I again explore
The simple Annals of my Parish poor;
What Infant-members in my flock appear,
What Pairs I bless'd in the departed year;
And who, of Old or Young, or Nymphs or Swains,
Are lost to Life, its pleasures and its pains.
No Muse I ask, before my view to bring
The humble actions of the swains I sing. -
How pass'd the youthful, how the old their days;
Who sank in sloth, and who aspired to praise;
Their tempers, manners, morals, customs, arts,
What parts they had, and how they 'mploy'd their

parts;
By what elated, soothed, seduced, depress'd,
Full well I know-these Records give the rest.
Is there a place, save one the poet sees,
A land of love, of liberty, and ease;
Where labour wearies not, nor cares suppress
Th' eternal flow of rustic happiness;
Where no proud mansion frowns in awful state,
Or keeps the sunshine from the cottage-gate;
Where young and old, intent on pleasure, throng,
And half man's life is holiday and song?
Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,
By sighs unruffled or unstain'd by tears;
Since vice the world subdued and waters drown'd,
Auburn and Eden can no more be found.
Hence good and evil mixed, but man has skill
And power to part them, when he feels the will!
Toil, care, and patience bless th' abstemious few,
Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.
Behold the Cot! where thrives th' industrious

swain,
Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain;
Screen'd from the winter's wind, the sun's last ray
Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;
Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop,
And turn their blossoms to the casement's top:
All need requires is in that cot contain'd,
And much that taste untaught and unrestrain'd
Surveys delighted; there she loves to trace,
In one gay picture, all the royal race;
Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;
The print that shows them and the verse that sings.
Here the last Louis on his throne is seen,
And there he stands imprison'd, and his Queen;
To these the mother takes her child, and shows
What grateful duty to his God he owes;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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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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Jump-To-Glory Jane

I

A revelation came on Jane,
The widow of a labouring swain:
And first her body trembled sharp,
Then all the woman was a harp
With winds along the strings; she heard,
Though there was neither tone nor word.

II

For past our hearing was the air,
Beyond our speaking what it bare,
And she within herself had sight
Of heaven at work to cleanse outright,
To make of her a mansion fit
For angel hosts inside to sit.

III

They entered, and forthwith entranced,
Her body braced, her members danced;
Surprisingly the woman leapt;
And countenance composed she kept:
As gossip neighbours in the lane
Declared, who saw and pitied Jane.

IV

These knew she had been reading books,
The which was witnessed by her looks
Of late: she had a mania
For mad folk in America,
And said for sure they led the way,
But meat and beer were meant to stay.

V

That she had visited a fair,
Had seen a gauzy lady there,
Alive with tricks on legs alone,
As good as wings, was also known:
And longwhiles in a sullen mood,
Before her jumping, Jane would brood.

VI

A good knee's height, they say, she sprang;
Her arms and feet like those who hang:
As if afire the body sped,

[...] Read more

poem by George Meredith
Added by Poetry Lover
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Our Lady of the Sackcloth

There was a Priest at Philae,
Tongue-tied, feeble, and old;
And the daily prayer to the Virgin
Was all the Office he could.

The others were ill-remembered,
Mumbled and hard to hear;
But to Mary, the two-fold Virgin,
Always his voice rang clear.

And the congregation mocked him,
And the weight of the years he bore,
And they sent word to the Bishop
That he should not serve them more.

(Never again at the Offering
When the Bread and the Body are one:
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him serve her Son!)

Kindly and wise was the Bishop.
Unto the Priest said he: -
“Patience till thou art stronger,
And keep meantime with me.

“Patience a little; it may be
The Lord shall loosen thy tongue
And then thou shalt serve at the Offering
As it was when we were young.”

And the Priest obeyed and was silent,
And the Bishop gave him leave
To walk alone in the desert
Where none should see him grieve.

(Never again at the Offering
When the Wine and the Blood are one!
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him honour her Son!)

Saintly and clean was the Bishop,
Ruling himself aright
With prayer and fast in the daytime
And scourge and vigil at night.

Out of his zeal he was minded
To add one penance the more –
A garment of harshest sackcloth
Under the robes he wore.

[...] Read more

poem by Rudyard Kipling
Added by Poetry Lover
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Fidele's Grassy Tomb

The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.

He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
He looked on the lake, sunny and still:
The last of earth that his eyes could see
Was the island church of Orchardleigh.

The last that his heart could understand
Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
'Bury the dog at my feet,' he said,
And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.

Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
Staunch to love and strong at need:
He had dragged his master safe to shore
When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.

From that day forth, as reason would,
He was named 'Fidele,' and made it good:
When the last of the mourners left the door
Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.

They buried him there at his master's feet,
And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
The story went the round for years,
Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.

Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
That Bishop may write or Parson read.

The sum of it was that a soulless hound
Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
From scandal sore the Church to save
They must take the dog from his masters grave.

The heir was far in a foreign land,
The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.

The Sexton sat by the water's brink
Where he used to sit when he used to think:
He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
And his argument left him free from doubt.

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Crocodile Hunter

When you met him in person,
He would just turn and say,
I'd rather meet animals,
So crikey and g'day.

When his animals saw him,
They would all run and scatter,
For they just couldn't bear,
His fair dinkum patter.

All joking aside,
When he's put to the test,
There was nobody better,
Steve Irwin's the best.

Steve treated all animals,
With the utmost respect,
His efforts to save them,
Will have a lasting effect.

Whether living on land,
Or under the sea,
Steve showed us how,
We could all be set free.

He brought to the world,
An insatiable need,
To understand animals,
His warnings we must heed.

He gave us an insight,
Into animal behaviour,
He taught us how united,
We can be each others saviour.

We must live and let live,
If this doesn't apply,
We'll be in mortal danger,
Our planet will die.

By nurturing all life,
We could then ensure,
A future for all,
Prevention not cure.

Endangered species,
Steve strived to save,
In his quest for knowledge,
His own life he gave.

[...] Read more

poem by Bri Mar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Stephanie Knows Who

Whats on your mind
Dear stephanie?
Whats on your mind
Towards me?
Aches and pains
They claw at your thighs
Your glad you did
You said you did
What can I say dear stephanie?
Who shall I kiss before?
The love and poetry that you bring
Your eyes your hair your everything
What am I now dear stephanie?
Am I you in disguise?
The words they come so naturally
I say them all for stephanie

song performed by Electric Light Orchestra
Added by Lucian Velea
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