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Poem on your mind 
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
Waking up this morning to the distressing news about the Israeli bombardment of Gaza and the innocent fatalities...did remind me of the very poem you quoted Cattleman. I do think 'The Second Coming' is a wonderful poem, one which is absolutely haunting.

We are not able to do anything about it. We are helpless - watching things fall apart.

We comfort ourselves with this piece by Dylan Thomas - because it is absolutely evocative of our Christmases as children. You can really get lost in this prose poem and I hope you find it as uplifting as do we. I've put a link of Dylan Thomas reading it himself at the end, because his port-wine voice is just so splendid for reminiscing to.

We don't live far from the Welsh border and Norman and I can identify almost completely with this description:-


A Child's Christmas in Wales

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs. "He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

Dylan Thomas


http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xfpf66 ... KpmIoZE_w8


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Cattleman, froglipz, giselle
Mon Nov 19, 2012 12:04 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
DWill wrote:
With older poems in particular, or with poets who used some archaic meanings (like Wordsworth), there can be obstacles, though here they're less than with a lot of Shakespeare.

... Although Truth never changes, all its appearances ("outward forms") are always changing, and even the most seemingly permanent seem nothing more lasting than morning frost, when looked at in within the enormity of time. I love the last five lines, especially, and think the final line of this two-sentence sonnet is one of the best of the poetry I know.

I echo Penny's comment, thanks DWill for shedding some light on this Wordsworth poem. Further to the point about language, I admit to misinterpretation right at the outset, the title, because I linked the word 'mutability' to music (as in dear, would you please 'mute' that) since music is referenced .. pretty easy to get trapped into our own time, place and culture. I particularly like the idea of truth never changing but that its outward forms do change, a thought I will consider more.

I wonder about the historical context of this poem and Wordsworth's writing .. this was the time of the French Revolution and shortly thereafter so we have a British poet writing of change and 'royally did wear his crown of weeds' ... ?



Mon Nov 19, 2012 2:18 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
The poem is about 1820, I think, so well after the French Rev., though that event did affect W. greatly. Another crazy thing about his language is that "his" means "its," referring to the tower. That's another of W's archaisms.



Mon Nov 19, 2012 10:36 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
LoL I had dissolution right but not much else besides the sad tune. Thanks Dwill for the walk through, it makes a big difference, and I agree that last line is awful (in the archaic sense)


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Tue Nov 20, 2012 1:55 am
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
Thanks Penny, I have read that Dylan Thomas one before in out Literature book from one year or another, I always read my entire books even though we never finished them in the school year. I remember wishing we could discuss that one, but our teachers weren't always happy to discuss things that weren't on their plans...


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Post Re: Poem on your mind
Penelope wrote:
A Child's Christmas in Wales
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

Thanks for this great Dylan Thomas piece Penny. Christmas is a wonderful time for homey stories and reflections on childhood. Does it actually snow this much in Wales or is Dylan spinning a yarn?

I've only been to Wales once and it was spring time, beautiful and green ... we had a great time because my kids were young enough to play games of imagination without inhibition and so we terrorized a Welsh castle for an hour or two (a somewhat ruined castle but largely standing) .. our game involved shooting imaginary arrows at each other across the ramparts and among the stone walled rooms and stairs. Not sure what the curator thought but we had fun. Actually, I don't remember anyone else being there, which added to the atmosphere of it. Sort of strange really, this castle sitting out there and no one around and you just walk in. Maybe it was lunch break and they were down at the pub?



Tue Nov 20, 2012 1:26 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
Quote:
Giselle:

Does it actually snow this much in Wales or is Dylan spinning a yarn?


It snows quite a lot in North Wales and around these parts during winter, just not always at Christmas. This time last year we had snow and heavy frost but it had all gone by Christmas. We've had lovely hazy sunshine, very autumnal lately.

Wales has loads of castles, and we have two very close to here; about ten miles away there are two adjacent to one another, Beeston and Peckforton.

Beeston is my grandson's favourite place. Peckforton is used for wedding ceremonies and receptions mostly.

https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=beest ... =0CDIQsAQ&


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Post Re: Poem on your mind
I was 'thumbing through' the poems of Rudyard Kipling, and the following caught my eye. The last verse reminded me of my granddaughters.


I Keep Six Honest Serving-Men

by Rudyard Kipling

I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
I send them out over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.

I lest them rest from nine to five,
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men.
But different folk have different views.
I know a person small-
Who keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!

She sends 'em abroad on her own affairs,
The second she opens her eyes-
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!


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Last edited by Cattleman on Sun Nov 25, 2012 10:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.



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Sun Nov 25, 2012 10:27 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
That one was in our Lippincott readers in elementary school, although I only remember the first verse. I remember trying to reconstruct it from memory for my Mom when I got home from school...never knew that third one, although I relate to it well with my grandchildren too :)


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Post Re: Poem on your mind
I think we often see the little Christmas tree, particularly if it's little and scrawny, as being a bit lacking or even rather pathetic, but here is a poem from ee cummings on how a little Christmas tree can be quite special:


[little tree]

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

ee cummings



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Post Re: Poem on your mind
This might come as a surprise, because there is one poem which is, I believe, unfamiliar to most of the people here. However, I believe in sharing ideas and words, so maybe some of you would find the poem good or interesting. The poem was written by a Serbian contemporary poet Radmila Lazic, and translated into English by the American poet Charles Simic.

AUTUMN ODE

I’ll celebrate October and not May.
The strip-tease of trees in place of blossom time orgasms.
Grass, petal and leaf at the death’s door
Instead of wind-tossed trees and stalks
Decked up like marriage girls on a stroll.

Too many gewgaws, trinkets
Knickknacks and ornaments,
Too much bad taste
On the necks of branches and ears of petals.
The puritan autumn suits me more
Than spring bursting with health Like a young athlete
With his biceps raised to heaven.

I prefer the pacifism of amber;
Yellow, brown, ocher
To green invasion and terror of color.
The anemic sky is dearer to me
Than the menstruation of the sun.

Every bent over rose
Is dearer to me than the erection of buds
Or the whoring bee and flower.
I like the leaf turning yellow and coughing
Like a TB patient.
I match my color and my rhythm with him
Since just yesterday
I felt the lethal bite of spring.



I hope you like it.
Looking forward to hearing some comments...
:)



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Fri Dec 07, 2012 12:26 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
What a lovely and unusual poem.

I agree with the sentiments too. Spring is all wholesome and fresh:

Than spring bursting with health Like a young athlete
With his biceps raised to heaven.


a little bit-world weary and debauched is much more sexy.


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Fri Dec 07, 2012 4:38 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
You always have to wonder with a poem on the spring vs. autumn topic, whether the poet had Keats' "To Autumn" in mind as he wrote it. The poem you posted is far different in tone and diction, of course, but Lazic has the same idea of knocking spring off its pedestal. Lazic's images are really striking (and Simic appears to do a wonderful job casting them into English). I mean, "the whoring bee and flower," "the menstruation of the sun", and others--great stuff.



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Fri Dec 07, 2012 6:36 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
tomrosemasters wrote:
This might come as a surprise, because there is one poem which is, I believe, unfamiliar to most of the people here. However, I believe in sharing ideas and words, so maybe some of you would find the poem good or interesting. The poem was written by a Serbian contemporary poet Radmila Lazic, and translated into English by the American poet Charles Simic.

AUTUMN ODE

Intriguing poem. I think the underlying message is appreciation of the less celebrated and less obvious and even the sick, while pointing to the hazards (shallowness) of celebrating only the obviously beautiful - culminating with the last line, which I think is particularly powerful, the 'lethal bite of spring'.



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Fri Dec 07, 2012 7:16 pm
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Post Re: Poem on your mind
I was ruminating on the state of affairs in the wordl in general, and the United States in particular, :? and this poem came to mind. It was written in 1919, but seem applicable today. :|

Rudyard Kipling:

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place.
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four --
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

* * * * *

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man --
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began --
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire --
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!


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