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Billys 'Square Affair

Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,
And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’;
’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declare
That he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’
He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise;
The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes;
(And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’
I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’)

He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat;
His girl had earned a quid or two—he wouldn’t part with that;
And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper there
He ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’

Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe,
And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe;
Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care,
And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’

She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Sestina: Altaforte

Loquitur: En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a
stirrer-up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene in at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur.
"The Leopard," the device of Richard (Cúur de Lion).

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

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poem by Ezra Pound
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The Troubadour. Canto 2

THE first, the very first; oh! none
Can feel again as they have done;
In love, in war, in pride, in all
The planets of life's coronal,
However beautiful or bright,--
What can be like their first sweet light?

When will the youth feel as he felt,
When first at beauty's feet he knelt?

As if her least smile could confer
A kingdom on its worshipper;
Or ever care, or ever fear
Had cross'd love's morning hemisphere.
And the young bard, the first time praise
Sheds its spring sunlight o'er his lays,
Though loftier laurel, higher name,
May crown the minstrel's noontide fame,
They will not bring the deep content
Of his lure's first encouragement.

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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Pharsalia - Book VII: The Battle

Ne'er to the summons of the Eternal laws
More slowly Titan rose, nor drave his steeds,
Forced by the sky revolving, up the heaven,
With gloomier presage; wishing to endure
The pangs of ravished light, and dark eclipse;
And drew the mists up, not to feed his flames,
But lest his light upon Thessalian earth
Might fall undimmed.

Pompeius on that morn,
To him the latest day of happy life,
In troubled sleep an empty dream conceived.
For in the watches of the night he heard
Innumerable Romans shout his name
Within his theatre; the benches vied
To raise his fame and place him with the gods;
As once in youth, when victory was won
O'er conquered tribes where swift Iberus flows,
And where Sertorius' armies fought and fled,
The west subdued, with no less majesty

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poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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Crimson Insane

Crimson Love,
who can this be,
Not I,
not you,
nor anybody,

look to crimson so enviously,
smile and grin,
look what you could have been,
Look at crimson now
what do you see?

Falling apart,
a crimson mind shackled yet free,
I'm losing it..... realities touch,
I'm going insane, this life is to much,
Forget all this... but memories remain,
I laugh at the humor, that is crimson insane.

poem by Crimson Love
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Crimson Tide

I wake up in the morning
I see the bright sunshine
O Lord, let be so good
A day to reckon with
I wish the day would speed by
To be with you
O Crimson Tide

O Crimson Tide
I need you my Lady
Come on Crimson Tide
I need you my sweet Lady

Here comes the sunset
Here comes my own sunshine
O Lord let be so good
My day I've reckoned with
I wish the night would slow down
Never to leave you
O Crimson Tide

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poem by Kolabomi Adeko
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In This Tacit Realm of Crimson Sky

In this tacit realm of crimson sky
where the winds inebriate with
a cloyed saturnalia adrift your breaths
I wallowed, wearing my shoes like
a silent stone skipping a pond
and every step, and every ripple
I shatter unbeknownst of the things
that abjures my puppet strings
in this tacit realm of crimson sky

In this tacit realm of crimson sky
the winter would remain sly
tethered to its autumn boudoir
so I muse upon the field of stones
and graves of flightless flesh
amongst its stellar descries
and whilst you blossom without me
I gorge myself in the saccharine cries
in this tacit real of crimson sky

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Zenana

WHAT is there that the world hath not
Gathered in yon enchanted spot?
Where, pale, and with a languid eye,
The fair Sultana listlessly
Leans on her silken couch, and dreams
Of mountain airs, and mountain streams.
Sweet though the music float around,
It wants the old familiar sound;

And fragrant though the flowers are breathing,
From far and near together wreathing,
They are not those she used to wear,
Upon the midnight of her hair.—

She's very young, and childhood's days
With all their old remembered ways,
The empire of her heart contest
With love, that is so new a guest;
When blushing with her Murad near,
Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear,

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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Reunion Of Blood (Acrostic)

Resurrect this corpse with the shade of dying Crimson
Enter each dropp at the will of my own forsaken hand
Undo nothing for blood shall reunite us two
Nothing stands in the way of what Crimson wants
Indefinite screams I hear from the grave, Beckon me
Onto the bloody alter
Never shall this crimson vein close.

Often I shall reminisce on my sacrificial love,
For you my dear, hold what simple Crimson cannot.

Bathe in my words My veins unwillingly leak,
Let all of me course within your body
Ounce by ounce our blood collides
Often messy, watch this bloody tide,
Death shall visit one last time, to join in this reunion of Blood.

poem by Crimson Love
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The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I

S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;

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poem by William Butler Yeats
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