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Preparatory Meditations - First Series: 29

(John. 20:17. My Father, and your Father, to my God, and your God)

My shattered fancy stole away from me
(Wits run a-wooling over Eden's park)
And in God's garden saw a golden tree,
Whose heart was all divine, and gold its bark.
Whose glorious limbs and fruitful branches strong
With saints and angels bright are richly hung.

Thou! Thou! my dear dear Lord, art this rich tree,
The tree of life within God's Paradise.
I am a withered twig, dried fit to be
A chat cast in Thy fire, writh off by vice.
Yet if Thy milk-white gracious hand will take me
And graft me in this golden stock, Thou'lt make me.

Thou'lt make me then its fruit, and branch to spring,
And though a nipping east wind blow, and all
Hell's nymphs with spite their dog's sticks therat ding
To dash the graft off, and its fruits to fall,

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poem by Edward Taylor
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The Disillusioned Fuse

Beneath a lamp in Spring-street, on a recent calm spring night,
I came unwittingly upon a most pathetic sight;
A sorry spectacle of woe - a limp, despondent Bloke
Who leaned against a post and sobbed and said his heart was broke!
'I've lorst me trust in 'uman men; I've done me dash ter-day;
Fer my own cobber's done me in, and guv me game away!'

'Nay, nay,' said I, 'cheer up, good Bloke. The prospect may look blue;
But Fate is wont to deal hard knocks to folk like me and you.
Remember, men have fought and won an uphill fight before,
Pray, tell me what's befallen you that you should grieve so sore.
Say, has your wife deserted you, or have you lost your tin?'
But still the Bloke said bitterly: 'Me cobber's done me in!'

'Me moniker's Deakook,' he said, 'but blokes calls me 'The Fuse.'
(Oh, 'struth! I nearly dropped me bundle when I 'eard the noos!)
I gets a job o' work to do - a real soft cop it wus,
With no foreman over me ter see 'ow much I does,
Excep' some coves they calls the Press - a noisy sorter crew
Thet allus nags an' growls at yer no matter watcher do.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Ballad of the Elder Son

A son of elder sons I am,
Whose boyhood days were cramped and scant,
Through ages of domestic sham
And family lies and family cant.
Come, elder brothers mine, and bring
Dull loads of care that you have won,
And gather round me while I sing
The ballad of the elder son.

’Twas Christ who spake in parables—
To picture man was his intent;
A simple tale He simply tells,
And He Himself makes no comment.
A morbid sympathy is felt
For prodigals—the selfish ones—
The crooked world has ever dealt
Unjustly by the elder sons.

The elder son on barren soil,
Where life is crude and lands are new,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Tattoo

Me and my brother were talking to each other
Me and my brother were talking to each other
bout what makes a man a man
bout what makes a man a man
Was it brain or brawn, or the month you were born
Was it brain or brawn, or the month you were born
We just couldnt understand
We just couldnt understand
Our old man didnt like our appearance
Our old man didnt like our appearance
He said that only women wear long hair
He said that only women wear long hair
So me and my brother borrowed money from mother
So me and my brother borrowed money from mother
We knew what we had to do
We knew what we had to do
We went downstairs, past the barber and gymnasium
We went downstairs, past the barber and gymnasium
And got our arms tattooed
And got our arms tattooed

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song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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Made in Sheffield

Its Early Morning, a mist descends into the valley.
Not a Mist, from some love poem, but a fog forged in graft.
No sun shines here, for there is no welcome.
For here lies the Crucible of the World,
No bird song, only furnace dust,
And a dead river.
For this is Sheffield Steel.

The grime covered buses arrive for Morning shift,
Windows grey with smoke,
For breakfast, Woodbines and Senior Service,
A dripping crust and a flask of tea or two
One by one, they descend,
A goliath of manhood,
Raw Power, Natures finest creation
An elephant gun would not bring these men down.

A pot of tea, another cig, then into the mill
Into the Heat, Dante’s Inferno,
Armed only with Leather Aprons and tongs,

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poem by Steven Cooke
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Black Rain: From Hiroshima To Nagasaki

We dropped the Bomb
though we apologized.
Said we’re sorry
in solid cold cash.
Couldn’t do better
radiant improvised.
Skin-graft surgery.
Medical emergency aid.
Is ground funded in cash.

Memory dedication burns
racial inflamed scorch scar.
Black ash devastation falls
assassinated civil public facts.
Japanese superb marshal arts
somatic sate skilled disciples.
Mystic mind merge mystify.
Discipline defensive army warriors
can’t demoralize kamikaze deny.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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`For'ard

It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep,
For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, --
They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path;
But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath --
Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft.
But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft;
In the cushioned cabins, aft,
With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft --
There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft.

Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide,
And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside;
But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft,
An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft --
Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft,
Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft,
Juicy grills an' toast 'n' cutlets -- tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft.

They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss,
Just as if they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us!

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poem by Henry Lawson
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For'ard

It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep,
For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, --
They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path;
But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath --
Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft.
But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft;
In the cushioned cabins, aft,
With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft --
There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft.

Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide,
And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside;
But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft,
An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft --
Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft,
Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft,
Juicy grills an' toast 'n' cutlets -- tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft.

They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss,
Just as if they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us!

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Arbor Amoris

I have a tree, a graft of Love,
That in my heart has taken root;
Sad are the buds and blooms thereof,
And bitter sorrow is its fruit;
Yet, since it was a tender shoot,
So greatly hath its shadow spread,
That underneath all joy is dead,
And all my pleasant days are flown,
Nor can I slay it, nor instead
Plant any tree, save this alone.

Ah, yet, for long and long enough
My tears were rain about its root,
And though the fruit be harsh thereof,
I scarcely looked for better fruit
Than this, that carefully I put
In garner, for the bitter bread
Whereon my weary life is fed:
Ah, better were the soil unsown
That bears such growths; but Love instead

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poem by François Villon
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Work or Reflection

Now, I always have preserved a certain attitude
Quite definite in reference to Work
('Tis futility concealing
That I have the Weary Feeling
And tendency perennial to shirk)
Still, I always strive to recognise the principle
That earnest, steady toil is ever best;
So that, having recognised it,
Not to say idealised it,
I would fain lay down my pen and take a rest.

For, you understand, to recognise a principle
Is patently a virtue in itself.
After that you have the option,
Of its strenuous adoption,'
Or the placing of it gently on a shelf.
For myself, I'm forced to own that though my theory's
A thing of beauty, even in the rough,
Dearth of cash supplies good reasons,
With the Passing of the seasons,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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