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Gone Fishing

Sylvia searched the whole house over
Calling out her lover's name...
He was not there, oh no ~ oh no,
He was hooked on the fishing game.

Down to the water he had gone,
Whether the sport was right or wrong!
The river was his hideaway,
So peaceful, on a warm summer's day.

Sweet Sylvia disliked the hobby,
Thought the fish could feel the pain.
She saw them struggle for their freedom
But Sylvia would never complain.

Now to wait three hours, or more.
Until that key turned in the door,
And he would greet his Sylvia dear
All laden down with his fishing gear.

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poem by Joyce Hemsley
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After Reading Sylvia Plath's Riddle In Nine Syllables

sylvia, the elephant is inside your
tummy, you have become a melon growing and crawling in tendrils
a ponderous house
a red fruit
you have eaten a bag of green apples
and rode a train without stopping
to an exit

sylvia, i may not understand the nine syllables
inside you
for i am a man without
these syllables

sylvia i put two syllables somewhere
and it grows into three just three

there was bleeding and i saw it
i took her to the hospital and she was put into a sleep
and she was finally made to appear
clean to me

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sister Songs-An Offering To Two Sisters - The Proem

Shrewd winds and shrill--were these the speech of May?
A ragged, slag-grey sky--invested so,
Mary's spoilt nursling! wert thou wont to go?
Or THOU, Sun-god and song-god, say
Could singer pipe one tiniest linnet-lay,
While Song did turn away his face from song?
Or who could be
In spirit or in body hale for long, -
Old AEsculap's best Master!--lacking thee?
At length, then, thou art here!
On the earth's lethed ear
Thy voice of light rings out exultant, strong;
Through dreams she stirs and murmurs at that summons dear:
From its red leash my heart strains tamelessly,
For Spring leaps in the womb of the young year!
Nay, was it not brought forth before,
And we waited, to behold it,
Till the sun's hand should unfold it,
What the year's young bosom bore?
Even so; it came, nor knew we that it came,

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poem by Francis Thompson
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Portii Licinii

PORTII LICINII.

Si Phoebi soror es, mando tibi, Delia, causam,
Scilicet, ut fratri quae peto verba feras:
Marmore Sicanio struxi tibi, Delphice, templum,
Et levibus calamis candida verba dedi.
Nunc, si nos audis, atque es divinus Apollo,
Dic mihi, qui nummos non habet unde petat.

ENGLISHED.

If you are Phoebus sister, Delia, pray,
This my request unto the Sun convay:
O Delphick god, I built thy marble fane,
And sung thy praises with a gentle cane,
Now, if thou art divine Apollo, tell,
Where he, whose purse is empty, may go fill.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Colyn Cloute

Quis consurget mecum adversus malignantes ?
aut quis stabit mecum adversus operantes iniqui-
tatem ? Nemo, Domine !

W H A T can it auayle
To dryue forth a snayle,
Or to make a sayle
Of an herynges tayle ;
To ryme or to rayle,
To wryte or to indyte,
Eyther for delyte
Or elles for despyte ;
Or bokes to compyle
Of dyuers maner style, 10
Vyce to reuyle
And synne to exyle ;
To teche or to preche,
As reason wyll reche ?
Say this, and say that,
His hed is so fat,

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poem by John Skelton
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Oh Sylvia

Oh Sylvia Sylvia I miss you
Like Van Gogh you felt pain
Wild flowers cry
Scream like England's tides
Howl for a father gone
Betrayed in sovereign agony

I weep like a child left behind
So in need of true love
Untreated loneliness
3am madness
The gas is on
Posthumous poetry

Ashes, dust with divine tears
I will never let you die
Your words bring me love
I just want to hold you
Bring you another blue sky
The Colossus and Ariel sail

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poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Shakespeare And Sylvia

Shakespeare awoke as
the world was sleeping
and wrote a sonnet for
Sylvia, his 'sweeting',
desperately hoping she'd
be his queen, in the beautiful
Isle of evergreen.

Sylvia was a Goddess fair
She captured his mind like
a sacred prayer.
But of her feelings he was
unsure, and could suffer
the doubt no more.

Now Shakespeare was a
sound young man, eager to
know her plan ~ so he posed
the question, asked for her hand:
Would Sylvia always be

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poem by Joyce Hemsley
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First Encounter - Sylvia Chang

twin pity

the way sylvia Chang looks at
the less than pretty journalist
which makes her so conscious of
her less than favourable endowments

a pity for the star for making me
feel she places looks on
so high a pedestal

a pity for the journalist for having
to carry out her work feeling an inadequacy
she has really no control over

That was more than 20 years ago in my first interview with the legendary Taiwanese actress Sylvia Chan at the then Merlin Hotel, now the Concorde. The young female reporter was one of those you would label as 'not pretty'. And that became more obvious when she was right in front of an actress known around half the world. There was so much that went on that made me feel bad more about Sylvia than the poor reporter.

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Sylvia

Sylvia is missing -
Dark stars tattooed
Across her face...
Tiny bruises
Black & blue
The dedication on her arm
Reads love & hate
Yea yea
Passing through the underground
Sylvia is coming down
The queen has lost her crown
Today...
She wants to fall
Into a deep deep sleep
So she can forget herself
Run away to london
Lipstick tainted
Powder painted
Perfume in her hair
Run away to london

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song performed by Eurythmics
Added by Lucian Velea
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From The First Act Of The Aminta Of Tasso

Daphne's Answer to Sylvia, declaring she
should esteem all as Enemies,
who should talk to her of LOVE.

THEN, to the snowy Ewe, in thy esteem,
The Father of the Flock a Foe must seem,
The faithful Turtles to their yielding Mates.
The cheerful Spring, which Love and Joy creates,
That reconciles the World by soft Desires,
And tender Thoughts in ev'ry Breast inspires,
To you a hateful Season must appear,
Whilst Love prevails, and all are Lovers here.
Observe the gentle Murmurs of that Dove,
And see, how billing she confirms her Love!
For this, the Nightingale displays her Throat,
And Love, Love, Love, is all her Ev'ning Note.
The very Tygers have their tender Hours,
And prouder Lyons bow beneath Love's Pow'rs.
Thou, prouder yet than that imperious Beast,
Alone deny'st him Shelter in thy Breast.

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poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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