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No Fault In Women

No fault in women, to refuse
The offer which they most would chuse.
--No fault: in women, to confess
How tedious they are in their dress;
--No fault in women, to lay on
The tincture of vermilion;
And there to give the cheek a dye
Of white, where Nature doth deny.
--No fault in women, to make show
Of largeness, when they're nothing so;
When, true it is, the outside swells
With inward buckram, little else.
--No fault in women, though they be
But seldom from suspicion free;
--No fault in womankind at all,
If they but slip, and never fall.

poem by Robert Herrick
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Shadow Of A Memory

As darkness crept across the floor,
Slithering up the helix stairwell,
Merging with the darkness cast by my door,
Memory rippled athwart mind groundswell,
For liquid shadows create vivid picture,
Of morello cherry coloured eyes,
Flecked green with envy’s tincture,
Blinking eerily at hinge creaking cries,
Overactive mind left on ponder soak,
Somewhere within the heart of me,
Wrapped in thought billowed sable cloak,
There is still some small part of me,
That yearns for that old forgotten feeling,
Of warm, sweet sunlight oh so revealing.

poem by Dale Mullock
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Rope Swing

over River Ching,
attacked by floating feral shopping trolley.

Farmers` run off,
dead river, industrial open sewer

fizzing and foaming like Jekyll`s Tincture:
canals reborn!

Thames throws up a thousand years
every time the tide recedes;

riding bikes into the Lea,
drowning maggots by the million,

thug fisherman catching
and killing.

Fighting the flow at Dobbs Weir,
streaming green-weed scent

[...] Read more

poem by Bob Dellar
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Cherry-lipped Adonis...

Cherry-lipped Adonis in his snowy shape,
Might not compare with his pure ivory white,
On whose fair front a poet's pen might write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape.
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
Are rarely framed t' intrap poor gazing eyes;
His cheeks, the lily and carnation dyes,
With lovely tincture which Apollo's dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
His mouth a hive, his tongue a honeycomb,
Where muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearl in blushing coral set.
Oh how can such a body sin-procuring,
Be slow to love, and quick to hate, enduring?

poem by Richard Barnfield
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Sonnet 17

Cherry-Lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
Might not compare with his pure Ivorie white,
On whose faire front a Poets pen may write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
Are rarely fram'd fintrap poore gazing eies:
His cheekes, the Lillie and Carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apolloes dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet,
His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure Pearle in blushing Correll set.
Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?

poem by Richard Barnfield
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Sonet LIV

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet 54: O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses;
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.

poem by William Shakespeare
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Celia Beeding, To the Surgeon

Fond man, that canst believe her blood
Will from those purple channels flow;
Or that the pure untainted flood
Can any foul distemper know;
Or that thy weak steel can incise
The crystal case wherein it lies:

Know, her quick blood, proud of his seat,
Runs dancing through her azure veins;
Whose harmony no cold nor heat
Disturbs, whose hue no tincture stains:
And the hard rock wherein it dwells
The keenest darts of love repels.

But thou repli'st, "behold, she bleeds!"
Fool! thou 'rt deceiv'd, and dost not know
The mystic knot whence this proceeds,
How lovers in each other grow:
Thou struck'st her arm, but 'twas my heart
Shed all the blood, felt all the smart.

poem by Thomas Carew
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The Elixir

Teach me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see,
And what I do in anything
To do it as for Thee.

Not rudely, as a beast,
To run into an action;
But still to make Thee prepossest,
And give it his perfection.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye;
Or it he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heav'n espy.

All may of Thee partake:
Nothing can be so mean,
Which with his tincture--"for Thy sake"--
Will not grow bright and clean.

[...] Read more

poem by George Herbert
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Oh Joy Oh Joy (from, Even Though There Are No Reasons)

Oh joy oh joy come here to me
With a morning coming in a song
And set my wings a little free
In rising freedom to cherish among

O love my love let me awake
Where the water is crystal clear
And find the breeze by the lake
With the time of sweetness’s air

Flowers give their blossoms sprung
And bouquets of colors to shade
In living green and seedlings young
Each garden of joy in summers made

Where love is freedom without haste
A living art that gives its pleasure
With every tincture of nature’s paste
In every unfolding we must treasure

[...] Read more

poem by Peter S. Quinn
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