Quotes about sketch, page 17
Prologue To Faulkener
A TRAGEDY BY WILLIAM GODWIN, 1807.
An author who has given you all delight
Furnished the tale our stage presents to-night.
Some of our earliest tears he taught to steal
Down our young cheeks, and forced us first to feel.
To solitary shores whole years confined,
Who has not read how pensive Crusoe pined?
Who, now grown old, that did not once admire
His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire,
The stick, due-notched, that told each tedious day
That in the lonely island wore away?
Who has not shuddered, where he stands aghast
At sight of human footsteps in the waste?
Or joyed not, when his trembling hands unbind
Thee, Friday, gentlest of the savage kind?
The genius who conceived that magic tale
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poem by Charles Lamb
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To The Judge
_A Voice From the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole Township_
Friend of my earliest youth,
Can't you arrange to come down
And visit a fellow out here in the woods--
Out of the dust of the town?
Can't you forget you're a Judge
And put by your dolorous frown
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend--
Can't you arrange to come down?
Can't you forget for a while
The arguments prosy and drear,--
To lean at full-length in indefinite rest
In the lap of the greenery here?
Can't you kick over 'the Bench,'
And 'husk' yourself out of your gown
To dangle your legs where the fishing is good--
Can't you arrange to come down?
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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Those Wild Pink Salmon
Now, this ‘wild pink salmon’ thing…
are they just wild about pink
like that designer with the limp wrist
or wild like you wouldn't want
to share an estuary with them
or wild that they're not so good
at jumping up the waterfalls
or wild that they’re pink
when they’d like to be red
and so, wild that the other salmon are red
is it some muted colour-snobbery
like used to be in the Windies
between chocolate and coffee
and possibly I don’t know
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Welcome To My Hometown
Has anyone ever tried,
To tell you the kind of childhood you had?
Or the environment you spent,
Your yourthful days in...
As if you were on on tour,
And they were explaining it?
Has anyone ever told you,
About those grade schools you attended.
With an embelishment done,
As if you were on the sidelines...
Looking on for fun.
And they attempted to tell you,
About those teachers who taught...
And you seldom saw them in a classroom at all?
Welcome to my hometown.
Where any visitor who comes,
Would think what took place...
Was straight from a portrait painted,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Carcass
Remember that object we saw, dear soul,
In the sweetness of a summer morn:
At a bend of the path a loathsome carrion
On a bed with pebbles strewn,
With legs raised like a lustful woman,
Burning and sweating poisons,
It spread open, nonchalant and scornful,
Its belly, ripe with exhalations.
The sun shone onto the rotting heap,
As if to bring it to the boil,
And tender a hundredfold to vast Nature
All that together she had joined;
And the sky watched that superb carcass
Like a flower blossom out.
The stench was so strong that on the grass
You thought you would pass out.
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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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The Seismic Event of January12,2010 in Haiti
No reporters could accurately describe
The immense damage or disaster
That took place on January 12,2010.
No poets could express the pain
That our people felt that day
When we were rocked so bad.
No artists could precisely sketch
The enormity of this earthquake
Where dark clouds had covered
And sucked the air out of the whole country.
No priests, pastors, imams or rabbis
Had enough words or knowledge
To preach about this event
Without becoming speechless at the end.
Haiti got hit, our poor Haiti
Our ill-prepared Haiti Thomas
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poem by Hebert Logerie (12 January 2012)
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In Bohemia
Ha! My dear! I'm back again--
Vendor of Bohemia's wares!
Lordy! How it pants a man
Climbing up those awful stairs!
Well, I've made the dealer say
Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway!
And I've made a publisher
Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.
In Bohemia, Kate, my dear--
Lodgers in a musty flat
On the top floor--living here
Neighborless, and used to that,--
Like a nest beneath the eaves,
So our little home receives
Only guests of chirping cheer--
We'll be happy, Kate, my dear!
Under your north-light there, you
At your easel, with a stain
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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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You Are Wanted…
You Are Wanted…
They raped your mother
They shot your father
At point blank
They blinded your sister with a pink
Handkerchief, slapped your brother
Kicked the baby’s crib
Sprayed deadly mace
Spat on her face
And broke the left rib
Of the poor maid
All of those victims are innocent
Who committed no crime; they are too decent
To be victimized by this raid
This is normal procedure
Under a police state
Where there is no future
Today is maybe the date
That you take your last breath
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poem by Hebert Logerie (February 2012)
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Ode to Memory
O Memory! Celestial maid!
Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by time;
And, suffering not a leaf to fade,
Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime;
Bring, bring those moments to my mind
When life was new and Lesbia kind.
And bring that garland to my sight,
With which my favour'd crook she bound;
And bring that wreath of roses bright,
Which then my festive temples crown'd;
And to my raptured ear convey
The gentle things she deign'd to say
And sketch with care the Muse's bower,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide
Nor yet omit one reed or flower
That shines on Cherwell's verdant side;
If so thou mayst those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.
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poem by William Shenstone
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The Girl Who Was a Waiter
'We never care for the present moment. We are so foolish that we wander in times that are not ours, and never think of the only time that belongs to us; we are so frivolous that we dream of the days that are not, and thoughtlessly pass over the only one that exists. We never live, but hope to live; and since we are always preparing to be happy it is inevitable that we shall never be so.'
- Blaise Pascal
(1623 - 1662)
French philosopher and mathematician
---------------
Not a waitress; just a waiter.
Though she sees herself as
a planner; a Girl With Plans.
Mid-January; travel brochures
all over the sofa; and not decided yet.
But it’s just such fun – she’s been like that
since she was a little girl – the future’s always
golden, shining, full of possibility…
the present simply doesn’t compare..
She’ll take an early holiday this year; and then,
a whole summer of café tables, clubs;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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