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The Witch at Arbor Low

Annie Trembles had met the witch
As she sat at Arbor Low,
Her tears were thick and her heart was sick,
She had no place to go,
She'd sought the old Stone Circle out,
And thought to divine the lore
Of the old Brigantes with their Druid chants;
Then she met Susannah Straw.

Susannah Straw was a wily witch
Who lived by her wits, and spells,
She kept the faith of her pagan race
Designing and dressing wells.
She'd conjure the odd love potion,
And she'd make the kine run dry,
If a body was too outspoken
She would give them the evil eye!

Annie had been heartbroken when
She heard that the blacksmith, Tom,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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A Sunsetbonnet Blue

Irving kahal / sammy fain
A sunbonnet blue and a yellow straw hat
Shy little he and she
Were declaring love's old story
In the shade of the old apple tree,,
A sunbonnet blue and a yellow straw hat
Decided to say, "i do"
So they rode to june and glory
On a bicycle built for two
Hear the past. the song is old.
The summer days are through
With silver threads among the gold
They still say, "i love you"
A sunbonnet blue and a yellow straw hat
Are true to this very day
For he loves her in december
As he did in may

song performed by Billie Holiday
Added by Lucian Velea
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Straw-flower Me

Look at me. wont you tell me
What you see behind the tinsel
Flower lady that you made
Me feel I must be.
Dont you know even tinsel flowers
Grow uneasy shining all the time.
Sometimes they find they cant even glow.
Could you love a blue straw-flower
With no mystic magic power?
Would you miss the glitter
Of your fantasy?
You know she isnt really me, baby.
Just to please you maybe
I can be a silver rose, but
Dont you know its only straw-flower me?
Could you love a blue straw-flower
With no mystic magic power?
Would you miss the glitter
Of your fantasy?
You know she isnt really me, baby,

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song performed by Joni Mitchell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Music

I
MUSIC, on the air's edge, rides alone,
Plumed like empastured Caesars of the sky
With a god's helmet; now, in the gold dye
Of sunlight, the iron cloak, the Tuscan stone,
Melt to enchanted flesh—a voice is blown
Down from the windy pit, like a star falling.
Men think it is a lost eagle calling,
But the fool and the lover know it for Music's cry.
He is running with the Valkyrs on a road of manes,
Darkness draws back its fur, the stars course by,
Fighting the windy beaks of hurricanes
To keep their stations in the sky—
Away, away! The little earth-light wanes,
The moon has drowned herself, cold music rings,
The battering of a thousand Vulcanals
Hammers the blood; a thousand horsemen fly
Belly to air, away! Now Music sings
Harshly, like horns of Tartars blown on high.
II

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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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St. Julian's Prayer

TO charms and philters, secret spells and prayers,
How many round attribute all their cares!
In these howe'er I never can believe,
And laugh at follies that so much deceive.
Yet with the beauteous FAIR, 'tis very true,
These WORDS, as SACRED VIRTUES, oft they view;
The spell and philter wonders work in love
Hearts melt with charms supposed from pow'rs above!

MY aim is now to have recourse to these,
And give a story that I trust will please,
In which Saint Julian's prayer, to Reynold D'Ast,
Produced a benefit, good fortune classed.
Had he neglected to repeat the charm,
Believed so thoroughly to guard from harm,
He would have found his cash accounts not right,
And passed assuredly a wretched night.

ONE day, to William's castle as he moved.
Three men, whose looks he very much approved,

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poem by La Fontaine
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Gioconda And Si-Ya-U

to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U,
whose head was cut off in Shanghai

A CLAIM

Renowned Leonardo's
world-famous
"La Gioconda"
has disappeared.
And in the space
vacated by the fugitive
a copy has been placed.

The poet inscribing
the present treatise
knows more than a little
about the fate
of the real Gioconda.
She fell in love
with a seductive

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poem by Nazim Hikmet
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Third Book

'TO-DAY thou girdest up thy loins thyself,
And goest where thou wouldest: presently
Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 'to go
Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to Peter thus,
To signify the death which he should die
When crucified head downwards.
If He spoke
To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;
The word suits many different martyrdoms,
And signifies a multiform of death,
Although we scarcely die apostles, we,
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.

For tis not in mere death that men die most;
And, after our first girding of the loins
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery,
To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
While others gird us with the violent bands
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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If Edison had a needle to find in a haystack, he would proceed at once with the diligence of the bee to examine straw after straw until he found the object of his search... I was a sorry witness of such doings, knowing that a little theory and calculation would have saved him ninety per cent of his labor.

Nikola Tesla in New York Times (19 October 1931)
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mr. Hay

For I am Mr. Hay
My ways are not your ways
And I don't care a jack-straw
For anything you may say.
I've my eye on you
I'm so very grand
That if I were a crow
I wouldn't give a caw
I'd simply fly away
For I am Mr. Hay
Or am I Mr. Straw?

poem by Morgan Michaels
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