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Red Bull Energy Poetry Drink

Red full
Red pull
Red wool

Red bull.

poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Pull Away

Ohhhh
Pull
Pull away
Away from everyone
Is there some way out?
Somewhere you can go?
Oh no no no
We dont have the answers, sailed a thousand years, thats on your own
Is there one thin resolution?
Are you cold?
Is there everything
I said, is everything they push upon you?
Still I watch you pull away
Away
Away
Away from everything, you pull away
Wont you come on, pull
Pull away
Away from everyone
Is there no way out?
No where left to roam?
Oh no no no
We dont have your answers
Youre a thousand years, still on your own
But theres one thin resolution
Are you cold?
Is there everything?
I said, is everything they push upon you?
Still I watch you pull away
You pull away
You pull away
Away from everyone
You pull
Pull away
You pull away
Oh wont you heal my broken hands, they lay upon you
Wrap my soul around
Still I watch you pull away
Heal my broken hands, they lay upon you
Wrap my soul around you
Still I watch you pull away
Drain your tears
Oh no, drain your tears
But you pull, pull away
Away from everyone
Pull, pull away
Away from everyone
Is there somewhere, somewhere you can go?
No, theres no nowhere
Nowhere left to run

[...] Read more

song performed by Candlebox
Added by Lucian Velea
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 4

For God has given us a language of monosyllables to prevent our clipping.

For a toad enjoys a finer prospect than another creature to compensate his lack.

Tho' toad I am the object of man's hate.
Yet better am I than a reprobate. who has the worst of prospects.
For there are stones, whose constituent particles are little toads.

For the spiritual musick is as follows.

For there is the thunder-stop, which is the voice of God direct.

For the rest of the stops are by their rhimes.

For the trumpet rhimes are sound bound, soar more and the like.

For the Shawm rhimes are lawn fawn moon boon and the like.

For the harp rhimes are sing ring string and the like.

For the cymbal rhimes are bell well toll soul and the like.

For the flute rhimes are tooth youth suit mute and the like.

For the dulcimer rhimes are grace place beat heat and the like.

For the Clarinet rhimes are clean seen and the like.

For the Bassoon rhimes are pass, class and the like. God be gracious to Baumgarden.

For the dulcimer are rather van fan and the like and grace place &c are of the bassoon.

For beat heat, weep peep &c are of the pipe.

For every word has its marrow in the English tongue for order and for delight.

For the dissyllables such as able table &c are the fiddle rhimes.

For all dissyllables and some trissyllables are fiddle rhimes.

For the relations of words are in pairs first.

For the relations of words are sometimes in oppositions.

For the relations of words are according to their distances from the pair.

For there be twelve cardinal virtues the gifts of the twelve sons of Jacob.

For Reuben is Great. God be gracious to Lord Falmouth.

[...] Read more

poem by Christopher Smart
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Pull The Wool

Dear friend you dont have to lie to me
When I ask you whats going on
Are you doin right or ya doing wrong
If you do right will there not be a lifting up
You misbehave
Sin is crouching by your grave
We can begin to make amends
Fill your sails full with wind
I know youre tossed and tempest turned, but make no mistake
Ill never sleep on you faith
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Now your sin, you must mask it
Your face is all riddled with guilt
Cover you like a blanket, but no warmth will it give
Now Im sittin here and cant believe all the measures youve taken
To cheat, lie and decieve me and all your friends
You got a lot a crazy things in life that you want to do in life, thats all right, but
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Lies in the nest enver ever let the birds get to rest
I can forgive, but I never can forget and lies in the nest never
Ever gave the birds no rest
Bricks built without straw were so weak they crumbled
To mud, just as your excuse with truth left you easily undone
Dont you run away

song performed by G. Love & Special Sauce
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Bull

See an old unhappy bull,
Sick in soul and body both,
Slouching in the undergrowth
Of the forest beautiful,
Banished from the herd he led,
Bulls and cows a thousand head.
Cranes and gaudy parrots go
Up and down the burning sky;
Tree-top cats purr drowsily
In the dim-day green below;
And troops of monkeys, nutting, some,
All disputing, go and come;
And things abominable sit
Picking offal buck or swine,
On the mess and over it
Burnished flies and beetles shine,
And spiders big as bladders lie
Under hemlocks ten foot high;
And a dotted serpent curled
Round and round and round a tree,
Yellowing its greenery,
Keeps a watch on all the world,
All the world and this old bull
In the forest beautiful.
Bravely by his fall he came:
One he led, a bull of blood
Newly come to lustihood,
Fought and put his prince to shame,
Snuffed and pawed the prostrate head
Tameless even while it bled.
There they left him, every one,
Left him there without a lick,
Left him for the birds to pick,
Left him there for carrion,
Vilely from their bosom cast
Wisdom, worth and love at last.
When the lion left his lair
And roared his beauty through the hills,
And the vultures pecked their quills
And flew into the middle air,
Then this prince no more to reign
Came to life and lived again.
He snuffed the herd in far retreat,
He saw the blood upon the ground,
And snuffed the burning airs around
Still with beevish odours sweet,
While the blood ran down his head
And his mouth ran slaver red.
Pity him, this fallen chief,
All his spendour, all his strength,

[...] Read more

poem by Ralph Hodgson
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The White Bull

Ev'ry dusk eye in Madrid,
Flash'd blue 'neath its lid;
As the cry and the clamour ran round,
'The king has been crown'd!
And the brow of his bride has been bound
With the crown of a queen!'
And between
Te Deum and salvo, the roar
Of the crowd in the square,
Shook tower and bastion and door,
And the marble of altar and floor;
And high in the air,
The wreaths of the incense were driven
To and fro, as are riven
The leaves of a lily, and cast
By the jubilant shout of the blast
To and fro, to and fro,
And they fell in the chancel and nave,
As the lily falls back on the wave,
And trembl'd and faded and died,
As the white petals tremble and shiver,
And fade in the tide
Of the jewel dark breast of the river.

'Ho, gossips, the wonderful news!
I have worn two holes in my shoes,
With the race I have run;
And, like an old grape in the sun,
I am shrivell'd with drought, for I ran
Like an antelope rather than man.
Our King is a king of Spaniards indeed,
And he loves to see the bold bull bleed;
And the Queen is a queen, by the saints right fit,
In half of the Spanish throne to sit;
Tho' blue her eyes and wanly fair,
Her cheek, and her neck, and her flaxen hair;
For free and full--
She can laugh as she watches the staggering bull;
And tap on the jewels of her fan,
While horse and man,
Reel on in a ruby rain of gore;
And pout her lip at the Toreador;
And fling a jest
If he leave the fight with unsullied vest,
No crack on his skin,
Where the bull's sharp horn has entered in.
Caramba, gossips, I would not be king,
And rule and reign
Over wine-shop, and palace, and all broad Spain,
If under my wing--

[...] Read more

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Whose Country Is This?

Whose country is this?
It is a land full of snakes;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of many waters;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of thieves! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of people;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of oil;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of earthquakes!
Whose country is this?
it is a land full of lovers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of volcanoes!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful flowers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of hansome men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of beautiful women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of roses;
Whose country is this?
it is a land ruled only by men;
Whose country is this?
It is a land without rainfall;
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by a woman;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of corruption!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pirates! !
Whose country is this?
It is a land ruled by law;
Whose country is this?
It is a land controlled by rebels!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of ice;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of pregnant women;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah!
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of singers;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of troubles;
Whose country is this?
It is a land full of war! !

[...] Read more

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Mon Frere Camille

Mon frere Camille he was first class blood
W'en he come off de State las' fall,
Wearin' hees boot a la mode box toe
An' diamon' pin on hees shirt also
Sam' as dem feller on Chi-caw-go;
But now he 's no blood at all,
Camille, mon frere.

W'at 's makin' dat change on mon frere
Camille?
Wall! lissen for minute or two,
An' I 'll try feex it up on de leetle song
Dat 's geevin' some chance kin' o' help it
along
So wedder I'm right or wedder I'm wrong
You 'll know all about heem w'en I get
t'roo,
Mon frere Camille.

He never sen' leter for t' orteen year
So of course he mus' be all right
Till telegraph 's comin' from Kan-Ka-Kee
'I 'm leffin' dis place on de half pas't'ree
W'at you want to bring is de beg' buggee
An' double team sure for me t' orsday night
Ton frere Camille.'

I wish you be dere w'en Camille arrive
I bet you will say 'W'at 's dat?'
For he 's got leetle cap very lak tuque bleu
Ole habitant 's wearin' in bed, dat's true,
An' w'at do you t'ink he carry too?
Geev it up? Wall! small valise wit' de fine
plug hat.
Mon frere Camille.

'Very strange.' I know you will say right off,
For dere 's not'ing wrong wit' hees clothes,
An' he put on style all de bes' he can
Wit' diamon' shinin' across hees han'
An' de way he's talkin' lak Yankee man
Mus' be purty hard on hees nose,
Mon frere Camille.

But he 's splain all dat about funny cap,
An' tole us de reason w'y,
It seem no feller can travel far,
An' specially too on de Pullman car,
'Less dey wear leetle cap only 'cos dollarre,
Dat 's true if he never die,

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry Drummond
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Jeans On

When I wake up in the mornin light
I pull on my jeans and I feel all right
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on
Its the weekend, and I know that youre free
So pull on your jeans and come on out with me
Oh cause I need to have you near me,
I need to feel you close to me
I need to have you near me, I need to feel you close to me
You and me, well go motorbike ridin in the sun
And the wind and the rain
I got money in my pocket, I got a tiger in my tank
And Im king of the road again
Ill meet ya in the usual place
You dont need a thing except your pretty face, alright
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on
Aw, here we go mama
You and me, well go motorbike ridin in the sun
And the wind and the rain
I got money in my pocket, I got a tiger in my tank
And Im king of the road again
When I wake up in the mornin light
I pull on my jeans and I feel all right
Hey I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on

song performed by Keith Urban
Added by Lucian Velea
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Pull It Up From Deep In Your Gut

Pull it up from deep in your gut,
What's possible.
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
To leave doubts.
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Ambition,
To lift...
A determined initiative.

Pull it up from deep in your gut,
What's possible.
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
To leave doubts.
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Ambition,
To lift...
A determined initiative.

So...
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Doubts to drop.
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Fears to stop.
And,
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
With a doing...
To want to arrive on top.

Now...
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Do it.
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Now...
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Don't be foolish...
Like those fooled,
That nobody can do what they choose.

So...
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Doubts to drop.
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Fears to stop.
And,
Pull it up from deep in your gut,
Don't be foolish...
Like those fooled,
That nobody can do what they choose.

Pull it up from deep in your gut.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

1. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.

[...] Read more

poem by Federico García Lorca
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The Maori's Wool

The Maoris are a mighty race -- the finest ever known;
Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone;
They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done
They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one.
But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk,
Prepared to smoke or drink or talk -- or anything but work.
The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow,
Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au.

'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came,
A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name --
(The word Rerenga means a "snag" -- but until he was gone
This didn't strike the folk he met -- it struck them later on).
He stalked into the Bank they call the "Great Financial Hell",
And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell.
The Bold Bank Manager looked grave -- the price of wool was high.
He said, "We'll lend you what you need -- we're not disposed to buy.

"You ship the wool to England, Chief! -- You'll find it's good advice,
And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price."
The Chief he thanked them courteously and said he wished to state
In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be freat,
But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand
This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand.
So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow,
To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au.

They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan,
With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man.
They called themselves poetic names -- "lost children in a wood";
They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai -- extra good!
And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped,
To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped;
And wedged into a "Cargo Tank", full up from stern to bow,
A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au.

It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque;
Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck;
A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark --
You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark --
But still it showed his gratitude; and, as he pouched the pelf,
"I'll haka for you, sir," he said, "in honour of yourself!"
The haka is a striking dance -- the sort they don't allow
In any place more civilized than Rooti-iti-au.

He "haka'd" most effectively -- then, with an airy grace,
Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space.
But when the wool return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans!
For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones!
Yes -- thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found;

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Push and Pull

It is hard to keep it clean,
When you push and pull.
Or acting happy when feeling mean,
When you push and pull.
And people stand around just to see one weep.
When you push and pull.
And when you say 'hello' they don't even speak.
When you push and pull.

You might see Bo Peep having some trouble with her sheep,
When you push and pull.
You might see Mary and her lambs giving Bo Peep creeps.
When you push and pull.
You might see Humpty Dumpty crawling up a wall.
When you push and pull.
You might see Perter and The Wolf eating chips at a local mall.
When you push and pull.

Ain't nothing easy,
When you try to keep your feet from sinking...
Deep!
And with no sleep.

It is hard to keep it clean,
When you push and pull.
Or acting happy when feeling mean,
When you push and pull.
And people stand around just to see one weep.
When you push and pull.
And when you say 'hello' they don't even speak.
When you push and pull.

And they push bull,
When you push and pull.
And they push bull,
When you push and pull.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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From Violence to Peace

Twenty-eight shotgun pellets
crater my thighs, belly and groin.
I gently thumb each burnt bead,
fingering scabbed stubs with ointment.

Could have neutered me, made extinct
the volatile, romantic man I am.
“He’s dead,”
doctor at emergency room
could’ve easily told my wife that night.
Instead, “Soak him in a bath twice a day. Apply
this ointment to the sores. Here’s a month’s supply
of pain killers.” I remember the deep guttural groan
I gave, when the doctor pressed my groin.
Assured
I could still make love, morphine drowsed me
and in a dull stupor I don’t remember
police visiting my bed, or laughing so hard,
they scowled for a serious answer.
I howled a U.F.O. shot me along the Río Grande,
and they cursed and left.

In the summer of ’88
I’d traded alfalfa for a bull calf.
Still smelling of milk udders,
I tied it to the truck rack and drove off.
Its hooves teethed
at pink roots
’til the whole lush field went bare dirt.
A magnificent bull.
Glowing wheel of heart
breathed brimming stream of white flame at dawn.
He wrangled his black brawn
like a battleshield to challenge the sun,
reared thick neck down and sideways,
lunged at me with dart and snort,
hoof-stamped and nostrilled dirt,
’til I growled him back
whipping air
with a limber willow branch,
poured grain in trough
and spread alfalfa.
I respected his horns
and he the whistling
menace of willow.

One afternoon my cousin Patricio
helped me band the bull’s scrotum,
usurp swollen sap
in his testicle sack. It withered

[...] Read more

poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
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The Court Of Love

With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede,
Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence,
Unto the flour of port in womanhede
I write, as he that non intelligence
Of metres hath, ne floures of sentence;
Sauf that me list my writing to convey,
In that I can to please her hygh nobley.

The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden soote
Present thaim not, my mater for to borne:
Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote,
Ne crafte of Galfrid may not here sojorne:
Why nam I cunning? O well may I morne,
For lak of science that I can-not write
Unto the princes of my life a-right

No termes digne unto her excellence,
So is she sprong of noble stirpe and high:
A world of honour and of reverence
There is in her, this wil I testifie.
Calliope, thou sister wise and sly,
And thou, Minerva, guyde me with thy grace,
That langage rude my mater not deface.

Thy suger-dropes swete of Elicon
Distill in me, thou gentle Muse, I pray;
And thee, Melpomene, I calle anon,
Of ignoraunce the mist to chace away;
And give me grace so for to write and sey,
That she, my lady, of her worthinesse,
Accepte in gree this litel short tretesse,

That is entitled thus, 'The Court of Love.'
And ye that ben metriciens me excuse,
I you besech, for Venus sake above;
For what I mene in this ye need not muse:
And if so be my lady it refuse
For lak of ornat speche, I wold be wo,
That I presume to her to writen so.

But myn entent and all my besy cure
Is for to write this tretesse, as I can,
Unto my lady, stable, true, and sure,
Feithfull and kind, sith first that she began
Me to accept in service as her man:

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Ballad of Bill's Breeches

Once on a time, a party by the name of Mr. BULL
Discovered that with many schemes his hands were pretty full.
His cares of family were great. Four fine young sons he'd got;
They were, indeed, of goodly breed, a strong and hefty lot.
But Mr. BULL's domestic cares (as shortly will be seen)
Were not with them, but with his wife, whose name was JINGOPHINE.
A foolish fad this lady had that all the boys were ninnies;
And, though they grew,
As children do,
She dressed them all in pinnies.

Now, while her boys were young, JOHN BULL engaged in business strife
Took little heed of their affairs, and left them to his wife;
And JINGOPHINE, who loved her lord, impressed them, noon and night.
With tales of his magnificence, his wisdom, wealth and might.
But when they talked of growing up, and 'helping pa' some day,
She shook her finger at them in her stern, maternal way.
'Your pa's a great, big man,' she said. 'You never, never, NEVER
Can hope to be
As big as he,
Or half so wise and clever.

Now, JINGOPHINE, like other dames of fussy, frilly kind,
Delighted to have round her folk of weak and narrow mind.
Pet persons were her weakness. also aldermen and those
Who held the very strictest views, and wore the nicest clothes.
They cheered her when she praised her lord, and listened, with a frown.
To tales of BILL; and all agreed he'd have to be 'kept down.'
'He is a naughty child,' they said, 'a mostprecocious brat.
To think good Mr. BULL should have an offspring such as that!'
But BILL despite the stern rebukes of aldermen and Wowsers,
Defied the crowd.
And shouted loud:
'Shut up! I want my trousers!'

Now, in the course of time, JOHN BULL awakened to the fact
That, in the interests of his sons, 'twas time for him to act.
'My dear,' he said, 'these sons of ours are growing quite immense;
We ought to have a business talk - I'11 call a conference.
They're nearly men; and they must learn, each one, to stand alone.
Each with responsibilities, and a household of his own.
They can't always be at our skirts, like great, big, awkward gabies.'
'Why, Mr. BULL!'
She cried. 'You fool!
Those boys are only babies!'

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Bull For Me

I think, Sirs, and most inimitable Ladies
I think I prefer to look at a bull
The sketch of a bull, the head of a bull perhaps
even if but a study by an artist
rather than some fancy prophet in glorious paint
or in grand chapel or some miracle recounted
in paint and colors and with consummate skill
or even God descending
ah, all these do not take my fancy
they smack too much of the Elevated;
there’s too much
of the grandstanding in these
Grand Divine Themes
but the face of a bull, ah give me a sketch
of the face of a bull
just the bull, all marks of nature in it
and just itself
no symbolism, no conceit, no artifice
no High sounding theology, no Revelation
but just animal nature in its nudity
being a bull
just animal, its eyes and mouth and horns
just all coming together to form one creature
a portrait of a bull anytime for me
Sirs and most inimitable Ladies
none of the Holy Ones and the Great Prophets
and the Mighty and the Divine
and the Grand-Looking:
no bull for me, please;
just the plain head of a bull, as it is

poem by Raj Arumugam
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Custer

BOOK FIRST.

I.

ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy.
Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy
To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave
As e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave.
Sing of that noble soldier, nobler man,
Dear to the heart of each American.
Sound forth his praise from sea to listening sea-
Greece her Achilles claimed, immortal Custer, we.

II.

Intrepid are earth's heroes now as when
The gods came down to measure strength with men.
Let danger threaten or let duty call,
And self surrenders to the needs of all;
Incurs vast perils, or, to save those dear,
Embraces death without one sigh or tear.
Life's martyrs still the endless drama play
Though no great Homer lives to chant their worth to-day.

III.

And if he chanted, who would list his songs,
So hurried now the world's gold-seeking throngs?
And yet shall silence mantle mighty deeds?
Awake, dear Muse, and sing though no ear heeds!
Extol the triumphs, and bemoan the end
Of that true hero, lover, son and friend
Whose faithful heart in his last choice was shown-
Death with the comrades dear, refusing flight alone.

IV.

He who was born for battle and for strife
Like some caged eagle frets in peaceful life;
So Custer fretted when detained afar
From scenes of stirring action and of war.
And as the captive eagle in delight,
When freedom offers, plumes himself for flight
And soars away to thunder clouds on high,
With palpitating wings and wild exultant cry,

V.

So lion-hearted Custer sprang to arms,
And gloried in the conflict's loud alarms.

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Cōforte of Louers

The prohemye.

The gentyll poetes/vnder cloudy fygures
Do touche a trouth/and clokeit subtylly
Harde is to cōstrue poetycall scryptures
They are so fayned/& made sētēcyously
For som do wryte of loue by fables pryuely
Some do endyte/vpon good moralyte
Of chyualrous actes/done in antyquyte
Whose fables and storyes ben pastymes pleasaunt
To lordes and ladyes/as is theyr lykynge
Dyuers to moralyte/ben oft attendaunt
And many delyte to rede of louynge
Youth loueth aduenture/pleasure and lykynge
Aege foloweth polycy/sadnesse and prudence
Thus they do dyffre/eche in experyence
I lytell or nought/experte in this scyence
Compyle suche bokes/to deuoyde ydlenes
Besechynge the reders/with all my delygence
Where as I offende/for to correct doubtles
Submyttynge me to theyr grete gentylnes
As none hystoryagraffe/nor poete laureate
But gladly wolde folowe/the makynge of Lydgate
Fyrst noble Gower/moralytees dyde endyte
And after hym Cauncers/grete bokes delectable
Lyke a good phylozophre/meruaylously dyde wryte
After them Lydgate/the monke commendable
Made many wonderfull bokes moche profytable
But syth the are deed/& theyr bodyes layde in chest
I pray to god to gyue theyr soules good rest

Finis prohemii.

Whan fayre was phebus/w&supere; his bemes bryght
Amyddes of gemyny/aloft the fyrmament
Without blacke cloudes/castynge his pured lyght
With sorowe opprest/and grete incombrement
Remembrynge well/my lady excellent
Saynge o fortune helpe me to preuayle
For thou knowest all my paynfull trauayle
I went than musynge/in a medowe grene
Myselfe alone/amonge the floures in dede
With god aboue/the futertens is sene
To god I sayd/thou mayst my mater spede
And me rewarde/accordynge to my mede
Thou knowest the trouthe/I am to the true
Whan that thou lyst/thou mayst them all subdue
Who dyde preserue the yonge edyppus
Whiche sholde haue be slayne by calculacyon
To deuoyde grete thynges/the story sheweth vs

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poem by Stephen Hawes
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0271 The Covering

It was not bright enough, not bright enough
to show itself to them, to all; to tempt
the world to bring it gifts; the coloured wool
would say to them look here, look here

it was not strong enough, not strong enough
to meet the heat, the cold; to venture
in the world’s bright gifts; the coloured wool
would warm it in the cold, the cold

it was not safe enough, not safe enough
to shield itself from hurt; to live its life
amid the strong, the weak; the coloured wool
would hide it from the hurt, the hurt

there was not care enough, not care enough;
the wool was knotted; slipped and slid
around its centre there; the coloured wool
is knotted here and here and here

there is not time enough, not time enough
to free the wool; the wool it would cast off
from off its centre there; the coloured wool
that never was the need, the need

there were not words enough, not words enough
to free itself; itself which never had the need
to bind itself in coloured wools; it did not trust
the bright, the strong, the safe, the care, the time.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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