Quotes about forelock
The Olney poems
1
So through the dark
A recalled reality touched
With the unsteady ease
Found in the debris
OF some lost self
Stood there and waiting
A look of accusation
That stroked our conscience
2
The space of slavery
Carried the forelocks acceptance
Dip the guilty finger
in times Holy stoop
Congratulate our present freedom
of these presented blessings
A forelock touched again
The game plays on
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poem by Michael Oliver
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We went out of our minds with the easy life
We went out of our minds with the easy life,
Wine from morning on, hungover by evening,
How can I keep this idle gaiety,
Your blush, O drunken plague?
An agonizing ceremony in a handshake,
Nocturnal kisses on the streets,
While the currents of speech grow heavy,
And lanterns burn like torches.
We wait for death, like the fairytale wolf,
But I'm afraid that the first to die will be
The one with the anxious red mouth
And the forelock covering his eyes.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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Out of Superstition
A box of glazed sour fruit compact,
My narrow room.
And oh the grime of lodging rooms
This side the tomb!
This cubbyhole, out of superstition,
I chose once more.
The walls seem dappled oaks; the door,
A singing door.
You strove to leave; my hand was steady
Upon the latch.
My forelock touched a wondrous forehead;
My lips felt violets.
O Sweet! Your dress as on a day
Not long ago
To April, like a snowdrop, chirps
A gay 'Hello!'
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poem by Boris Pasternak
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Sonnet LXX
FResh spring the herald of loues mighty king,
In whose cote armour richly are displayd,
all sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
in goodly colours gloriously arrayd.
Goe to my loue, where she is carelesse layd,
yet in her winters bowre not well awake:
tell her the ioyous time wil not be staid
vnlesse she doe him by the forelock take.
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
to wayt on loue amongst his louely crew:
where euery one that misseth then her make,
shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast therefore sweet loue, whilest it is prime,
for none can call againe the passed time.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Whilst it is prime
FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd--
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
For none can call againe the passed time.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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All The Moms Aren't Bad
All the Moms aren't Bad
A smart cop Nandhia
heard the cries of an infant
in the hands of a beggar
who tried to move the hearts
of the passers-by for looting alms
to fill her ever-hungry purse
and pay the balance of the baby-price
to the cursed, widowed mother.
Being alerted by the probing
suspicious looks of the cop,
the beggar hardly tried to board a bus
before the woman-cop pulled her back
and told her to feed the wailing baby.
The shabby mom feigned to feed the baby
but the three weeks old infant
was not stopping her cries.
The police grilled the mule to tell
the story of the baby born to a bitch.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Monolith
I stand out on the red ochre plain,
Well removed from city suburban train.
I stand where few pale humans appear,
Where water imperative as the sun does sear.
I give comforting shelter a gecko frantic,
As he runs from crevasse to crevasse manic.
A ragged shrub lives within my cracks,
And tourist climb with sun on their backs.
Daylight appears I am black against the sun,
At midday find me brightest red blazon.
Middy afternoon I wear another cloak,
And a ruby mood with hazed lightening smoke.
Evening comes and I'm many shades,
Blues and purples in many grades.
As sun finally sets and I return to black,
While the locals sleep into starlight night I retreat.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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To Pennsylvania
O STATE prayer-founded! never hung
Such choice upon a people's tongue,
Such power to bless or ban,
As that which makes thy whisper Fate,
For which on thee the centuries wait,
And destinies of man!
Across thy Alleghanian chain,
With groanings from a land in pain,
The west-wind finds its way:
Wild-wailing from Missouri's flood
The crying of thy children's blood
Is in thy ears to-day!
And unto thee in Freedom's hour
Of sorest need God gives the power
To ruin or to save;
To wound or heal, to blight or bless
With fertile field or wilderness,
A free home or a grave!
Then let thy virtue match the crime,
Rise to a level with the time;
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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On the Portrait of Two Beautiful Young People
A Brother and Sister
O I admire and sorrow! The heart’s eye grieves
Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years.
A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves,
And beauty’s dearest veriest vein is tears.
Happy the father, mother of these! Too fast:
Not that, but thus far, all with frailty, blest
In one fair fall; but, for time’s aftercast,
Creatures all heft, hope, hazard, interest.
And are they thus? The fine, the fingering beams
Their young delightful hour do feature down
That fleeted else like day-dissolvèd dreams
Or ringlet-race on burling Barrow brown.
She leans on him with such contentment fond
As well the sister sits, would well the wife;
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poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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John Brown
(To be sung by a leader and chorus, the leader singing
the body of the poem, while the chorus interrupts with
the question.)
I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
I saw the ark of Noah—
It was made of pitch and pine.
I saw old Father Noah
Asleep beneath his vine.
I saw Shem, Ham and Japhet
Standing in a line.
I saw the tower of Babel
In the gorgeous sunrise shine—
By a weeping willow tree
Beside the Dead Sea.
I’ve been to Palestine.
WHAT DID YOU SEE IN PALESTINE?
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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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