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Tale XX

THE BROTHERS.

Than old George Fletcher, on the British coast
Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast:
Kind, simple and sincere--he seldom spoke,
But sometimes sang and chorus'd--'Hearts of Oak:'
In dangers steady, with his lot content,
His days in labour and in love were spent.
He left a Son so like him, that the old
With joy exclaim'd, ''Tis Fletcher we behold;'
But to his Brother, when the kinsmen came
And view'd his form, they grudged the father's

name.
George was a bold, intrepid, careless lad,
With just the failings that his father had;
Isaac was weak, attentive, slow, exact,
With just the virtues that his father lack'd.
George lived at sea: upon the land a guest -
He sought for recreation, not for rest;

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poem by George Crabbe
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The poem's flight

A poet, far from his beloved,
wrote a poem full of meaning
and, calling a carrier-pigeon from his loft,
sent it as a white dove to his beloved

It was a long flight
and by the time his beloved read the poem
under the lamplight in her room
its meaning had changed for her
with the course of time and the human heart

If the pigeon, midway on its flight,
had rested in our loft
to drink a little rain, eat a little grain,
and we had read the poem - would it have
any meaning for us?

Where does meaning go
when it is not here?
How does meaning change,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The House That Built Jack

Scorched white by the lowly hung sun,
Crouched underneath the low ceiling sky.
Could burn his fingerprints right off,
Could be his last underground loft.
There's trick draws and the walls are too dry,
The stairs don't go up, the roof doesn't tilt,
In the house that Jack built.

An architect of soil and ash,
He buried and burned what wouldn't build.
The house strong with mortar and bricks,
The home strong, strong as straw and sticks.
Warm if he's willing, weak as he's willed,
The bell can't ring and the flowers won't wilt,
In the house that Jack built.

There's phantoms in the furniture,
In the company of his own ghost.
Trade family for plastic house plants,
Trade your heart if the clock enchants.

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poem by Ella Veyes
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In the Baggage Room at Greyhound

I

In the depths of the Greyhound Terminal
sitting dumbly on a baggage truck looking at the sky
waiting for the Los Angeles Express to depart
worrying about eternity over the Post Office roof in
the night-time red downtown heaven
staring through my eyeglasses I realized shuddering
these thoughts were not eternity, nor the poverty
of our lives, irritable baggage clerks,
nor the millions of weeping relatives surrounding the
buses waving goodbye,
nor other millions of the poor rushing around from
city to city to see their loved ones,
nor an indian dead with fright talking to a huge cop
by the Coke machine,
nor this trembling old lady with a cane taking the last
trip of her life,
nor the red-capped cynical porter collecting his quar-
ters and smiling over the smashed baggage,

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poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Ive Known No War

Ive known no war
Ive known no war
And if I ever do I wont know for sure
And if I ever do I wont know for sure
Wholl be fighting whom
Wholl be fighting whom
For the soldiers lonely tomb
For the soldiers lonely tomb
Now opens as soon as the referees gun starts to roar
Now opens as soon as the referees gun starts to roar
Ill know no war
Ill know no war
Galbraith took his pen
Galbraith took his pen
To break down the men
To break down the men
Of the german army defeated
Of the german army defeated
On the nineteenth day
On the nineteenth day

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song performed by Who
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The Brus Book XIII

[Douglas's division attacks]

Quhen thir twa fyrst bataillis wer
Assemblyt as I said you er,
The Stewart Walter that than was
And the gud lord als of Douglas
5 In a bataill, quhen that thai saw
The erle foroutyn dred or aw
Assembill with his cumpany
On all that folk sa sturdely
For till help him thai held thar way
10 And thar bataill in gud aray,
And assemblyt sa hardely
Besid the erle a litill by
That thar fayis feld thar cummyn wele,
For with wapynnys stalwart of stele
15 Thai dang apon with all thar mycht.
Thar fayis resavyt weile Ik hycht
With swerdis speris and with mase,
The bataill thar sa feloune was

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poem by John Barbour
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The Court Of Love

With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede,
Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence,
Unto the flour of port in womanhede
I write, as he that non intelligence
Of metres hath, ne floures of sentence;
Sauf that me list my writing to convey,
In that I can to please her hygh nobley.

The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden soote
Present thaim not, my mater for to borne:
Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote,
Ne crafte of Galfrid may not here sojorne:
Why nam I cunning? O well may I morne,
For lak of science that I can-not write
Unto the princes of my life a-right

No termes digne unto her excellence,
So is she sprong of noble stirpe and high:

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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I'm in a loft and the kitchen is in the very center of the apartment. The whole place revolves around it.

quote by Ted Allen
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There's been a big spur in downtown development with new business, restaurants and a lot of loft buying. The buses run, and there's a subway that runs through downtown.

quote by Michael Ritchie
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Ill fated motherhood! -Haikkoo

Stuffed calf
Cow licks with tears
Ill fated motherhood!

Rent arrears
Spider evicted
Cobweb cleaning!

Books in the loft
Stomach is full
Well bloated rat!

poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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