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There are a lot of them out there. Here's one:
A Considered Reply To a Child
by Jonathan Price
"I love you," you said between two mouthfuls of pudding.
But not funny; I didn't want to laugh at all.
Rolling three years' experience in a ball,
You nudged it friendlily across the table.
A stranger, almost, I was flattered--no kidding.
It's not every day I hear a thing like that;
And when I do my answer's never pat.
I'm about nine times your age, ten times less able
To say--what you said; incapable of unloading
Plonk at someone's feet, like a box of bricks,
A declaration. When I try, it sticks
Like fish-bones in my throat; my eyes tingle.
What's called "passion", you'll learn, may become "overriding".
But not in me it doesn't: I'm that smart,
I can give everything and keep my heart.
Kisses are kisses. No need for souls to mingle.
Bed's bed, what's more, and you'd say it's meant for sleeping;
And, believe me, you'd be absolutely right.
With luck you'll never lie awake all night,
Someone beside you (rather like "crying") weeping.
Over to you, folks. Consider the mike open...
A Considered Reply To a Child
by Jonathan Price
"I love you," you said between two mouthfuls of pudding.
But not funny; I didn't want to laugh at all.
Rolling three years' experience in a ball,
You nudged it friendlily across the table.
A stranger, almost, I was flattered--no kidding.
It's not every day I hear a thing like that;
And when I do my answer's never pat.
I'm about nine times your age, ten times less able
To say--what you said; incapable of unloading
Plonk at someone's feet, like a box of bricks,
A declaration. When I try, it sticks
Like fish-bones in my throat; my eyes tingle.
What's called "passion", you'll learn, may become "overriding".
But not in me it doesn't: I'm that smart,
I can give everything and keep my heart.
Kisses are kisses. No need for souls to mingle.
Bed's bed, what's more, and you'd say it's meant for sleeping;
And, believe me, you'd be absolutely right.
With luck you'll never lie awake all night,
Someone beside you (rather like "crying") weeping.
Over to you, folks. Consider the mike open...
In reply to Tim Chappell:
Appropriate for an audience of climbers, I only came across this thing by Douglas Robertson because it's on the inlay card to the soundtrack for a documentary about the Ness Guga hunt. FWIW, the soundtrack, the documentary, and the book on the same subject are all recommended too...
THE CRAGSMAN’S PRAYER
Let my fingers find
flaws and fissures in the face
of cliff and crag,
allowing feet to edge
along crack and ledge
storm and spume have scarred
for centuries
across the countenance of stacks.
Let me avoid
the gaze of guillemots,
the black-white judgements
of their wings;
foul mouths of fulmars;
cut and slash of razorbills;
gibes of gulls;
and let me keep my balance till
puffins pulse around me
and the glory of gannets
surrounding me like snow-clouds
ascendant in the air
gives me pause for wonder,
grants further cause for prayer.
http://www.douglasrobertson.co.uk/wordpress/?p=774
Appropriate for an audience of climbers, I only came across this thing by Douglas Robertson because it's on the inlay card to the soundtrack for a documentary about the Ness Guga hunt. FWIW, the soundtrack, the documentary, and the book on the same subject are all recommended too...
THE CRAGSMAN’S PRAYER
Let my fingers find
flaws and fissures in the face
of cliff and crag,
allowing feet to edge
along crack and ledge
storm and spume have scarred
for centuries
across the countenance of stacks.
Let me avoid
the gaze of guillemots,
the black-white judgements
of their wings;
foul mouths of fulmars;
cut and slash of razorbills;
gibes of gulls;
and let me keep my balance till
puffins pulse around me
and the glory of gannets
surrounding me like snow-clouds
ascendant in the air
gives me pause for wonder,
grants further cause for prayer.
http://www.douglasrobertson.co.uk/wordpress/?p=774
In reply to Ramblin dave:
Yes, I like that very much.
Is it possible to climb within reach of puffins?
Yes, I like that very much.
Is it possible to climb within reach of puffins?
In reply to BusyLizzie:
It certainly is, in Pembrokeshire, the Hebrides, the west of Ireland, Brittany, Jersey, and other places.
It certainly is, in Pembrokeshire, the Hebrides, the west of Ireland, Brittany, Jersey, and other places.
In reply to Tim Chappell:
An Atheist's Prayer
Our brains, which art in our heads, treasured be thy names.
Thy reasoning come. The best you can do be done on earth as it is.
Give us this day new insight to resolve conflicts and ease pain.
And lead us not into supernatural explanations,
deliver us from denial of logic. For thine is the kingdom of reason,
and even though thy powers are limited, and you’re not always glorious,
you are the best evolutionary adaptation we have for helping this earth
now and forever and ever. So be it.
An Atheist's Prayer
Our brains, which art in our heads, treasured be thy names.
Thy reasoning come. The best you can do be done on earth as it is.
Give us this day new insight to resolve conflicts and ease pain.
And lead us not into supernatural explanations,
deliver us from denial of logic. For thine is the kingdom of reason,
and even though thy powers are limited, and you’re not always glorious,
you are the best evolutionary adaptation we have for helping this earth
now and forever and ever. So be it.
In reply to Pyreneenemec:
Neither a prayer nor a poem, really. The original is better in every conceivable respect.
Neither a prayer nor a poem, really. The original is better in every conceivable respect.
In reply to Tim Chappell:
Evans
BY R. S. THOMAS
Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle’s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.
It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth appalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured. It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.
Evans
BY R. S. THOMAS
Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle’s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.
It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth appalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured. It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.
This is poetry too, set to (reconstructed ancient Hebrew) music. It's just amazing:
youtube.com/watch?v=mE36r3EFzWg&
youtube.com/watch?v=mE36r3EFzWg&
In reply to Tim Chappell:
Walking slowly, laughing still, downhill.
Soft underfoot, riddled with traps in the dying light.
Past hawthorn and rowan,
bent against the wind, stooped.
Carrying baggage.
Ended but not over, down but not diminished.
Aim for distant cars, vaguely, usually mine.
No rush, no hurry, no need.
A last effort, no burden.
Let this time remain.
This was always the best part for me.
An unspoken sense of “well done”.
Of Peter/Matt/Mark in the late light.
Approval without appraisal.
Though we cursed and fought, it was all in jest.
Leaving no weakness, no untruth, no truth,
no unburdening, unused or important.
But always laughing,
always laughter.
Never cruel, despite the day.
Let this time be observed.
The walk off, give it it’s name.
Pushing, tripping, shoving,.
Rocks, sheep, rabbit, rough ground.
Warm and red in the last light.
Still, downhill, away from the rocks,
and into a soft place.
Towards pubs and bars.
To a lesser celebration,
of the erewhile celebrated day.
Let this time, now, be famed.
The slow winding down, entropy.
Adrenalin burns off, leaving warmth and a glow.
Cut and bruise start to ache, skin is missed.
Fingers sore, forearms solid.
Rolling fags, sharing lights.
Shambling, stumbling out of light,
setting sun in our eyes.
Shadows follow, ours lengthen.
Day’s end.
All days end.
Our days end.
But this time, let it not go unremembered.
Walking slowly, laughing still, downhill.
Soft underfoot, riddled with traps in the dying light.
Past hawthorn and rowan,
bent against the wind, stooped.
Carrying baggage.
Ended but not over, down but not diminished.
Aim for distant cars, vaguely, usually mine.
No rush, no hurry, no need.
A last effort, no burden.
Let this time remain.
This was always the best part for me.
An unspoken sense of “well done”.
Of Peter/Matt/Mark in the late light.
Approval without appraisal.
Though we cursed and fought, it was all in jest.
Leaving no weakness, no untruth, no truth,
no unburdening, unused or important.
But always laughing,
always laughter.
Never cruel, despite the day.
Let this time be observed.
The walk off, give it it’s name.
Pushing, tripping, shoving,.
Rocks, sheep, rabbit, rough ground.
Warm and red in the last light.
Still, downhill, away from the rocks,
and into a soft place.
Towards pubs and bars.
To a lesser celebration,
of the erewhile celebrated day.
Let this time, now, be famed.
The slow winding down, entropy.
Adrenalin burns off, leaving warmth and a glow.
Cut and bruise start to ache, skin is missed.
Fingers sore, forearms solid.
Rolling fags, sharing lights.
Shambling, stumbling out of light,
setting sun in our eyes.
Shadows follow, ours lengthen.
Day’s end.
All days end.
Our days end.
But this time, let it not go unremembered.
In reply to stroppygob:
Rock Music
Sex is a Nazi. The students all knew
this at your school. To it, everyone’s subhuman
for parts of their lives. Some are all their lives.
You’ll be one of those if these things worry you.
The beautiful Nazis, why are they so cruel?
Why, to castrate the aberrant, the original, the wounded
who might change our species and make obsolete
the true race. Which is those who never leave school.
For the truth, we are silent. For the flattering dream,
in massed farting reassurance, we spasm and scream,
but what is a Nazi but sex pitched for crowds?
It’s the Calvin SS: you are what you’ve got
and you’ll wrinkle and fawn and work after you’re shot
though tears pour in secret from the hot indoor clouds.
Les Murray
Rock Music
Sex is a Nazi. The students all knew
this at your school. To it, everyone’s subhuman
for parts of their lives. Some are all their lives.
You’ll be one of those if these things worry you.
The beautiful Nazis, why are they so cruel?
Why, to castrate the aberrant, the original, the wounded
who might change our species and make obsolete
the true race. Which is those who never leave school.
For the truth, we are silent. For the flattering dream,
in massed farting reassurance, we spasm and scream,
but what is a Nazi but sex pitched for crowds?
It’s the Calvin SS: you are what you’ve got
and you’ll wrinkle and fawn and work after you’re shot
though tears pour in secret from the hot indoor clouds.
Les Murray
In reply to Tim Chappell:
Well Tim you got me there. Don't like much poetry, but that skewered me. Direct, honest, playful, expertly plucked the taught string of a dad's heart. And it rhymes!
Well Tim you got me there. Don't like much poetry, but that skewered me. Direct, honest, playful, expertly plucked the taught string of a dad's heart. And it rhymes!
In reply to aln:
I'm glad it got to you
Here's another absolute cracker. Yeats at his almost-self-parodic-yet-eyewateringly-brilliant best.
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing, 5
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame, 10
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran 15
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands; 20
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
I'm glad it got to you
Here's another absolute cracker. Yeats at his almost-self-parodic-yet-eyewateringly-brilliant best.
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing, 5
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame, 10
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran 15
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands; 20
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
In reply to Tim Chappell:
I've known and enjoyed the Yeats for 30 years since discovering it through the Ray Bradbury connection. It's lovely, but not as affecting and relevant as Price was to me personally.
I've known and enjoyed the Yeats for 30 years since discovering it through the Ray Bradbury connection. It's lovely, but not as affecting and relevant as Price was to me personally.
In reply to Tim Chappell:
I first heard this on the radio driving home to Aberdeen. I almost crashed the car.
http://www.lrb.co.uk/v30/n16/robin-robertson/at-roane-head
J
I first heard this on the radio driving home to Aberdeen. I almost crashed the car.
http://www.lrb.co.uk/v30/n16/robin-robertson/at-roane-head
J
The Box
My love met me within a darkened wood
where no light was: I knew her by her hand:
but my grip slipped, her presence vanished, and
till dripping dawn I waited where I stood.
I saw my love upon a city street,
amid a thousand others gave her chase:
I found her longed-for look in many a face,
ten-score half-echoes, but not one complete.
I woke and washed and worried at my error,
a looking-glass behind me and before me;
ninety-nine times repeated there I saw me—
and then her image, in the hundredth mirror.
But my quest and her trail alike turned cold.
I’ve put my memories of her in a box
to hide inside a drawerful of socks
and finger through when all grows stale and old,
and I have lost the living patterns of
her stance, her grace, her glance so once adored;
have settled for sure less not dubious more,
have lived as if I was not made for love.
When I began so filled with venturous fire
how comes my world to dust and grit and sweat?
Is real-but-paltry really all we get?
How can we live so wide of heart’s desire?
My love met me within a darkened wood
where no light was: I knew her by her hand:
but my grip slipped, her presence vanished, and
till dripping dawn I waited where I stood.
I saw my love upon a city street,
amid a thousand others gave her chase:
I found her longed-for look in many a face,
ten-score half-echoes, but not one complete.
I woke and washed and worried at my error,
a looking-glass behind me and before me;
ninety-nine times repeated there I saw me—
and then her image, in the hundredth mirror.
But my quest and her trail alike turned cold.
I’ve put my memories of her in a box
to hide inside a drawerful of socks
and finger through when all grows stale and old,
and I have lost the living patterns of
her stance, her grace, her glance so once adored;
have settled for sure less not dubious more,
have lived as if I was not made for love.
When I began so filled with venturous fire
how comes my world to dust and grit and sweat?
Is real-but-paltry really all we get?
How can we live so wide of heart’s desire?
In reply to Tim Chappell:
Ode to a cliff.
Stanage edge is like a hedge
Big and Small
Climbs for all.
Ode to a cliff.
Stanage edge is like a hedge
Big and Small
Climbs for all.
In reply to Aztec Bar:
Prince Madog, or some Welsh-saint oracle,
climbed aboard one wet day on his coracle,
and sailed to the States.
So Welsh history relates,
but I bet you it's all metaphorical.
Prince Madog, or some Welsh-saint oracle,
climbed aboard one wet day on his coracle,
and sailed to the States.
So Welsh history relates,
but I bet you it's all metaphorical.
In reply to Tim Chappell:
Grooved Arête, oh Grooved Arête
Is there anyone out there not climbed you yet?
Your knights move awaits
Made harder of late
By someone doing number two's on pitch three.
Grooved Arête, oh Grooved Arête
Is there anyone out there not climbed you yet?
Your knights move awaits
Made harder of late
By someone doing number two's on pitch three.
In reply to Aztec Bar:
Almost anything by Wordsworth except Daffodils.
WE ARE SEVEN
--------A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad: 10
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea. 20
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we; 30
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side. 40
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay, 50
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side." 60
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
1798.
Almost anything by Wordsworth except Daffodils.
WE ARE SEVEN
--------A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad: 10
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea. 20
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we; 30
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side. 40
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay, 50
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side." 60
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
1798.
In reply to Tim Chappell:
this Poet is very well known already, and this poem one of my favourites.
I read this years ago and thought of Guernica by Piccaso, it was a little time later I realised why.
Pablo Neruda;
I'm Explaining a Few Things.
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
this Poet is very well known already, and this poem one of my favourites.
I read this years ago and thought of Guernica by Piccaso, it was a little time later I realised why.
Pablo Neruda;
I'm Explaining a Few Things.
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
Post edited at 12:44
In reply to Tim Chappell:
This is one that everyone needs to read at the moment.
"They call us now.
Before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think "Do I know any Davids in Gaza?"
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of
war time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run."
- Running Orders, by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
This is one that everyone needs to read at the moment.
"They call us now.
Before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think "Do I know any Davids in Gaza?"
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of
war time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run."
- Running Orders, by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
In reply to Removed User:
Ribh considers Christian Love insufficient
Why should I seek for love or study it?
It is of God and passes human wit.
I study hatred with great diligence,
For that's a passion in my own control,
A sort of besom that can clear the soul
Of everything that is not mind or sense.
Why do I hate man, woman Or event?
That is a light my jealous soul has sent.
From terror and deception freed it can
Discover impurities, can show at last
How soul may walk when all such things are past,
How soul could walk before such things began.
Then my delivered soul herself shall learn
A darker knowledge and in hatred turn
From every thought of God mankind has had.
Thought is a garment and the soul's a bride
That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide:
Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.
At stroke of midnight soul cannot endure
A bodily or mental furniture.
What can she take until her Master give!
Where can she look until He make the show!
What can she know until He bid her know!
How can she live till in her blood He live!
Ribh considers Christian Love insufficient
Why should I seek for love or study it?
It is of God and passes human wit.
I study hatred with great diligence,
For that's a passion in my own control,
A sort of besom that can clear the soul
Of everything that is not mind or sense.
Why do I hate man, woman Or event?
That is a light my jealous soul has sent.
From terror and deception freed it can
Discover impurities, can show at last
How soul may walk when all such things are past,
How soul could walk before such things began.
Then my delivered soul herself shall learn
A darker knowledge and in hatred turn
From every thought of God mankind has had.
Thought is a garment and the soul's a bride
That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide:
Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.
At stroke of midnight soul cannot endure
A bodily or mental furniture.
What can she take until her Master give!
Where can she look until He make the show!
What can she know until He bid her know!
How can she live till in her blood He live!
In reply to Tim Chappell:
"So you're off to France, young fellow my lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright".
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I' m doing right".
"God bless you and keep you, young fellow my lad,
You're all of my life, you know".
Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go."
"Why don't you write, young fellow my lad?
I'll watch for the post each day;
And what is the matter, young fellow my lad?
No letter again today.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,
But a terrible price we've paid:
God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;
But oh I'm afraid, afraid."
"They've told me the truth, young fellow my lad:
You'll never come back again:
(Oh God! The dreams and dreams I've had,
And the hopes I've nursed in vain!)
For you passed in the night, young fellow my lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and battle hell
That my boy was one of the bast.
"So you'll live, you'll live, young fellow my lad,
In the gleam of an evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all the sweet things that are.
And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all the beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you".
Miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,
And it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I'm keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night.
"So you're off to France, young fellow my lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright".
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I' m doing right".
"God bless you and keep you, young fellow my lad,
You're all of my life, you know".
Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go."
"Why don't you write, young fellow my lad?
I'll watch for the post each day;
And what is the matter, young fellow my lad?
No letter again today.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,
But a terrible price we've paid:
God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;
But oh I'm afraid, afraid."
"They've told me the truth, young fellow my lad:
You'll never come back again:
(Oh God! The dreams and dreams I've had,
And the hopes I've nursed in vain!)
For you passed in the night, young fellow my lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and battle hell
That my boy was one of the bast.
"So you'll live, you'll live, young fellow my lad,
In the gleam of an evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all the sweet things that are.
And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all the beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you".
Miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,
And it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I'm keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night.
Post edited at 10:02
In reply to Tim Chappell:
Tom leonard - 'Unrelated Incidents' - No.3
[the 6 o'clock news]
this is thi
six a clock
news thi
man said n
thi reason
a talk wia
BBC accent
iz coz yi
widny wahnt
mi ti talk
aboot thi
trooth wia
voice lik
wanna yoo
scruff. if
a toktaboot
thi trooth
lik wanna yoo
scruff yi
widny thingk
it wuz troo.
jist wanna yoo
scruff tokn.
thirza right
way ti spell
ana right way
to tok it. this
is me tokn yir
right way a
spellin. this
is ma trooth.
yooz doant no
thi trooth
yirsellz cawz
yi canny talk
right. this is
the six a clock
nyooz. belt up.
Tom leonard - 'Unrelated Incidents' - No.3
[the 6 o'clock news]
this is thi
six a clock
news thi
man said n
thi reason
a talk wia
BBC accent
iz coz yi
widny wahnt
mi ti talk
aboot thi
trooth wia
voice lik
wanna yoo
scruff. if
a toktaboot
thi trooth
lik wanna yoo
scruff yi
widny thingk
it wuz troo.
jist wanna yoo
scruff tokn.
thirza right
way ti spell
ana right way
to tok it. this
is me tokn yir
right way a
spellin. this
is ma trooth.
yooz doant no
thi trooth
yirsellz cawz
yi canny talk
right. this is
the six a clock
nyooz. belt up.
In reply to Tim Chappell:
O freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me
As plured gabbleblochits on a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes.
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurlecruncheon, see if I don’t.
O freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me
As plured gabbleblochits on a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes.
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurlecruncheon, see if I don’t.
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