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A Fable For Critics

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?

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poem by James Russell Lowell
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Americans have a penchant for the future and tend to disregard the past.

quote by Alan Dundes
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React or Respond

A jealous mind reacts with rancor
When threatened penchant for control
‘Stead of responding from compassion
Mind chooses to attack, not console

(ROTMS)

poem by Ray Lucero
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Poem about Poetry - Essence

i do not like writing poetry for the
self professed sophisticated people
they cannot take words for what they are
and have the penchant to take more than
what you wish to say; they gobble up words
like the black hole and expect every new line
to have a word from the thesaurus when all i want
to say is simply I love the world for what it is

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Ode - Promesse De L'Amour

Hier, l'Amour touche du son
Que rendoit ma lire qu'il aime,
Me promit pour une chanson,
Deux baisers de sa mere mesme.

Non, luy dis-je, tu scals mes voeux,
Tu connois quel penchant m'entraine,
Au lieu d'un j'en offre deux,
Pour un seul baiser de Climene.

Il me promit ce deux retour,
Ma lire en eut plus de tendresse;
Mais vous, Climene, de l'amour
Aquiterez-vous la promesse?

poem by Matthew Prior
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In Us The Happy Children

when the flood comes
when the thatched roof of houses
start to drown themselves
the children go on
with their games
on bamboo rafts
they begin a journey
of fun
and fantasy
now they are vikings
tomorrow they are the pirates of Penzange
on their penchant
for charm
their laughter over
the rising waters
like their ancestors who lost
nothing
they are now ready to
move
for another soil

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem That Got Away

Trying to compose a poem!
But Gwen Stefani is singing
Hush hush darling in my sitting room
And my daughter likes her music
The monitor hums patiently
But again the music devours my thoughts
On top of that
My husband who has a penchant for Spanish guitar
Plays along with the song
The music drifts down from our bedroom
And now my forehead forces a frown
Am I being selfish? Having mean thoughts?
So I close my eyes to concentrate
And end up dreaming
Of hot Iberian climes.

poem by Margaret Beil
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The Welcomed Intruder

She flew in from the Countryside,
She flew in through my front door,
She whizzed around my kitchen,
She skimmed across my floor.

She totally took over,
As if she knew the place,
Speed seemed to be of the essence,
To make this room her base.

I felt completely gob-smacked,
She took me by surprise,
This ladybird, there on my plant,
Scoffed my aphids as a prize.

A small and harmless insect,
With a penchant for a 'grand tour',
If she ever calls on me again,
She'll be welcome, that's for sure!

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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A harlot-hound

My penchant for woman and their intimacy
Is unconditional and indiscriminate.
It had blossomed before I blossomed
And hasn’t withered yet in my autumn.
I would instantly fall in love with
Every woman I come in contact with,
Their facial vibes and bosomy waves
Promising a pneumatic bliss,
With which to cuddle my erotic memories.
I would resign and feel myself in the extent
Of indefinitely unconsummated love
By longing, musing, pining and bereavement.
Still I am better than a harlot-hound.
30.04.2006

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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To Dieters

Spread before me is a copious treat,

All begging me to try it,

But I know that if I do,

I will be forgetting my diet.

I desire to enjoy the dance

With the lovely maidens of old,

And delight the valley of vision

With the removal of all burdens to behold.

Like a bear surveying a campsite,

In her piggish penchant for sweets.

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poem by Albert Price
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