Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

What Is Bounty Without A Beggar?



What is bounty without a beggar? Generosity without a guest?
Be beggar and guest; for beauty is seeking a mirror, water is crying for a thirsty man.
Hopelessness and need are tasteful bezel for that ruby.


Your poverty is a Burak;* don't be a coffin riding on other men's shoulders.
Thank God you hadn't the means or you may have been a Pharaoh.


The prayer of Moses was, "Lord, I am in need of Thee!"
The Way of Moses is all hopelessness and need and it is the only way to God.
From when you were an infant, when has hopelessness ever failed you?


Joseph's path leads into the pit; don't flee across the chessboard of this world, for it is His game and we are checkmate! checkmate!


Hunger makes stale bread more delicious than halvah.
Your spiritual discomfort is spiritual indigestion; seek hunger and passion and need!


A mouse is a nibbler. God gave him mind in proportion to his needs.
Without need God gives nothing.


How will you impress God? You are a hundred thousand dinars in His debt!
A beggar shows his blindness and palsy,
he does not say, "Give me bread, O, people! I am a rich man with granaries and palaces!"


Bring a hundred sacks of gold and God will say, "Bring the heart."
And if you bring a dead heart carried like a coffin on your shoulder,
God will say, "O, cheat! Is this a graveyard? Bring the live heart! Bring the live heart!"


If you haven't any knowledge and opinions,
have good opinions about God. This is the way.
If you can only crawl, crawl to Him.
If you can not pray sincerely, offer your dry, hypocritical, agnostic prayer; for God in His mercy accepts bad coin.
If you have a hundred doubts of God,
make them into ninety doubts. This is the way.


O, Seeker! Though you have broken your vows a hundred times,
come again! Come again!
For God has said, "Though you are on high or in the pit consider me, for I am the Way."


- Jelaluddin Rumi
(Translated By Daniel Liebert)

Second Spring

All day she sweats over griddles
feeding whoever shows up
pies roll from her fingers
birds and fish roast
she goes home and cools off in the shower

at dusk she comes to the other side of the courtyard
vines curl around tables
glass and silver shine like fruit
the fountain gathers her in song
a young man smiles and hands her a menu

she sips ice water and reviews her choices
around her people talk and flirt
their voices float like green tiles in the evening’s design
of savor and candles, kindness and flowers

suffering gave its blessing
sweat turned into wine
she dips her bread in oil and toasts the night
some grace we say alone


- Gwynn O’Gara

I love, love, love this poem. Gwynn, I hope you see/know our appreciation!

Family Reunion


The divorced mother and her divorcing
daughter. The about-to-be ex-son-in-law
and the ex-husband's adopted son.
The divorcing daughter's child, who is


the step-nephew of the ex-husband's
adopted son. Everyone cordial:
the ex-husband's second wife
friendly to the first wife, warm


to the divorcing daughter's child's
great-grandmother, who was herself
long ago divorced. Everyone
grown used to the idea of divorce


Almost everyone has separated
from the landscape of childhood.
Collections of people in cities
are divorced from clean air and stars.


Toddlers in day care are parted
from working parents, schoolchildren
from the assumption of unbloodied
daylong safety. Old people die apart


from all they've gathered over time,
and in strange beds. Adults
grow estranged from a God
evidently divorced from history;


most are cut off from their own
histories, each of which waits
like a child left at day care.
What if you turned back for a moment


and put your arms around yours?
Yes, you might be late for work;
no, your history doesn't smell sweet
like a toddler's head. But look


at those small round wrists,
that short-legged, comical walk.
Caress your history—who else will?
Promise to come back later.


Pay attention when it asks you
simple questions: Where are we going?
Is it scary? What happened? Can
I have more now? Who is that?


- Jeredith Merrin

Walking the Limantour Spit

Audacious purple lupine bushes block my path,
but who could be angry with bushes so fragrant
I feel as if I am walking through a cloud of scent

Over the dunes to the beach,
rest stop in the warm sand
vest off, long sleeve shirt shed
short-sleeve shirt too
just my tank top and rolled up red pants
I am soaking in sun and wave sound
like a thirsty plant

Later, I walk the beach barefoot
a man walks by, bare chest and shorts
smartphone clutched in his left hand
like some portable umbilicus
with wireless umbilical cord to the mother net
I think of my own insatiable desire for more and more knowledge
what fierce longing does this plastic and the virtual web assuage?
Facebook, twitter, youtube, myspace
our longing to feel a part of everything and everyone
always turned on, always tuned in

my bare feet speak to me of wet, warm sand
the tiny hairs on my face and arms dance with cool wind, warm sun

Is all this electronic connection an attempt to re-enter the womb?
our substitute for tribe and village?
Our new religion:
one part ethers, one part technology,
one part love?

What is the meeting place of mother earth and mother net?
does the net nurture me as wind and sky, and the sand
that collects in my Vibram 5 finger shoes?

as I reach the path back to the parking lot
a woman asks - is it always this cold at the beach?
I tell her of the sheltered bay and a beach named Heart's Desire
and another named Ho'okena - we speak of dolphins
and I remember what its like to meet up with their sleek grey bodies
swimming in and out of view - calling me to a sweet, fierce love that facebook has yet to match

She tells me she is a bodyworker,
recently moved from Connecticut to Fairfax
she tells me she has great hands
that she is so good because she is able to listen to body-speak and follow body flow
I take her card
she writes down directions to Heart's Desire
I feel the vibrancy of our chance meeting and service to one another
if my ear or face had been absorbed in the electronic ethers I would have missed this moment

I love the internet - I have spiritual experiences and re-connect with long lost loves
I love this planet - I have spiritual experiences and chance meetings with lizards and fragrant bushes and sometimes human beings
may I always have the wisdom and heart to know when to be present to life
when to lay down the plastic and take up flesh and breath and being

I believe the emerging unexpected can appear in either world,
let me be open always to its calling -
always aware of the difference between distraction
and interaction -
habit and love

- Monnie Reba Efross

Fighting Words

Long the rich have been protected
By the walls that can’t endure;
By the walls that they erected
To divide them from the poor.
Crumbling now, they should not trust them,
For their end is drawing near;
Walls of Cant and walls of Custom,
Walls of Ignorance and Fear.

Tyrants, grip your weapons firmer,
Grip them firmly by the helves;
For the poor begin to murmur
Loudly now among themselves.
Hear us dare to say that Heaven
Gave us equal rights with you,
Dare to say the world was given
Unto all and not the few.

- Henry Lawson (1902)

Traveling Through the Dark


Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.


By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already; almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.


My fingers touching her side brought me the reason --
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.


The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.


I thought hard for us all -- my only swerving --
then pushed her over the edge into the river.


- William Stafford

The Science of Life


You can in the first place
not be born


failing that
you can be buried
or be cremated
give your body up for bone
skin organ various tissue
transplants
be stuffed
go down in water and never be found
die in the desert and be eaten
by small animals
or failing all these
live forever


- Miller Williams

Moon Over Laguna de Santa Rosa


It is a rueful moon that drifts over
Laguna de Santa Rosa tonight--
River that flows both ways carrying
History heavy on its back. Those who
First recorded what they saw were in awe
Of the wooded plain, ripe with water and
Animal life. But change was drastic. First, the cattle ranchers cleared and burned the Live Oaks
Leaving their ominously blackened bodies girdling the golden tule fields.
Then the Gold Rush increased the price of game--
white and grey geese, ducks, deer antelope, elk
Even the few grizzlies that had survived
Were caught and sold for outrageous prices
on docks of the Petaluma river.
The remaining oaks were split and corded,
or reduced to charcoal. Then channels dug
To drain the cattle farms. Then the sewage ponds
Dug and filled. Today, the moon hangs low in
The sky. Not full, just a thin fingernail
Illuminating a single path back
past the remaining oaks, past forgetting.


- Iris Jamahl Dunkle

Relax


Bad things are going to happen.


Your tomatoes will grow a fungus


and your cat will get run over.


Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream


melting in the car and throw


your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.


Your husband will sleep


with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling


out of her blouse. Or your wife


will remember she’s a lesbian


and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat –


the one you never really liked — will contract a disease


that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth


every four hours for a month.


Your parents will die.


No matter how many vitamins you take,


how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,


your hair and your memory. If your daughter


doesn’t plug her heart


into every live socket she passes,


you’ll come home to find your son has emptied


your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,


and called the used appliance store for a pick up — drug money.


There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.


When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine


and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.


And two mice — one white, one black — scurry out


and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point


she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.


She looks up, down, at the mice.


Then she eats the strawberry.


So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse


in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,


slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel


and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.


Oh taste how sweet and tart


the red juice is, how the tiny seeds


crunch between your teeth.


- Ellen Bass

It Was A Pretty Big Year


It was a pretty big year for predators.
The marketplace was on a roll.
And the land of opportunity,
Spawned a whole new breed of men without souls.
This year, notoriety got all confused with fame.
And the devil is downhearted,
Because there’s nothing left for him to claim.
He said, “it’s just like home,
“It’s so low-down, I can’t stand it,
“I guess my work around here has all been done.”
And the fruit is rotten,
The serpent’s eyes shine,
As he wraps around the vine.
In the Garden of Allah.


- Don Henley
(“The Garden of Allah” - 1995)

Unwritten Note


The news is on everyone's lips
like flies gathering on excrement:
President Roosevelt has ordered


our removal. Will we be
taken from our homes like vermin?
I know it must be a misunderstanding,


gossip spread in these
harsh times. I choke
on acrid laughter.


It is not possible.
After all, I served
my chosen country in the Army,


in the Great War. So I go to see
my longtime friend and sheriff
of Monterey County.


It is no joke, Hideo. You'll have to go.
He can't look me in the eyes.
When he finds my body hung


in this rented room, with
my certificate of honorary citizenship
expressing honor and respect


for your loyal and splendid
service to the country,
he will understand why


I could not allow
this noble country to tarnish
its honor, or mine.


- Jodi Hottel

On Prayer You ask me how to pray to someone who is not. All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge And walking it we are aloft, as on a springboard, Above landscapes the color of ripe gold Transformed by a magic stopping of the sun. That bridge leads to the shore of Reversal Where everything is just the opposite and the word is Unveils a meaning we hardly envisioned. Notice: I say we; there, every one, separately, Feels compassion for those tangled in the flesh And knows that if there is no other shore We will walk that aerial bridge all the same. - Czeslaw Milosz (translated by Robert Hass)

This Ecstasy It’s not paradise I’m looking for but the naming I hardly gave a thought to. Call it the gift I carried in my loneliness among the animals before I started listening to the news. Call it the hint I had about the knowledge that would explode. In the meantime, which is real time plus the past, you’re swishing your skirt and speaking French, which is more than I can take, which I marvel at like a boy from the most distant seat in the Kronos Dome, where I am one of so many now I see the point of falling off. There’s not enough seats for us all to attend the eschaton. This ecstasy that plants beauty on my tongue, so that if it were a wing, I’d be flying with the quickness of a hummingbird and grace of a heron, is so much mercy in light of the darkness that comes. Who would say consolation? Who would say dross? Not that anyone would blame them. All night I hear so many echoes in the forest I’m tempted to look back, to save myself in hindsight, where all I see is the absence of me. Where all I hear is your voice, which couldn’t be more strange. How to go on walking hand in hand without our bodies on the path we made for our feet, talking, talking? - Chard deNiord

Of The Empire


We will be known as the culture that feared death
and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity
for the few and cared little for the penury of the
many. We will be known as a culture that taught
and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke
little if at all about the quality of life for
people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All
commodity. And they will say that this structure
was held together politically, which it was, and
they will say also that our politics was no more
than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of
the heart, and that the heart, in those days,
was small, and hard, and full of meanness.


- Mary Oliver

Before The Men's Retreat




She asks: “What is it?”
And I say: “100 men naked in the woods.”
She wrinkles her nose and says: “No clothes?”
And I say: “Sometimes.”
And she says: “What do you do?”
I say: First we removed the coat of corporate soldier, of worker
bee, of boss, of coach, of business owner.
Then we pull off the jacket of marriage.
Toss aside the shoes of parenthood.
The umbrella of son.
The backpack of friend.
The helmet of hero, savior, tough guy.
We pull from our pockets the mantle of lady’s man, lover,
slayer of the weaker sex.
We check in our charm and toss away the pants of romance.
All the roles and expectations we carry about in our
lives, we leave behind like a pile of clothes on the floor.”
She says: “On the floor? That’s what I thought. Then you’re naked?”
Says I: “Not yet. We promise not to engage in physical violence,
then we strip off unnecessary civilization. Toss it in the
pile with all the rest.”
She: “Then you’re naked.”
I: “No. We still hold onto our tattered dysfunctions and
threadbare beliefs like a 10 year old pair of bikini briefs.
That’s the last thing, but we hold fast, because, you know,
those stinking little lies and truths, that stained and
shredded pair of underwear held our life together for 10,
20, 40 years. And only when we can toss that old thing away
are we truly naked”
She blinks and says: “So it’s 100 men in the woods in tattered
underwear.”
I say: “Yes. But over the course of the week, it washes away in
the realm of ritual. Blown away by the breath of spirit.
Cracked open under the scrutiny and support of men. Pried
off by the power of story.”
She stares at me, silent, and then: “Why? ... Why do you do it?”
I say: “So we can see what’s left. That’s us. Naked. We can
hardly recognize ourselves, but that’s who we are. It’s
blinding. Dazzling. Beautiful. Very painful, but very real.
We walk with it. Work with it. Sing songs to honor and
protect it. Wounds are revealed, healed, become our
strength and our shield. Internal lands are explored.
Monsters are banished. And in the end, we bring some
of all this back into life, even as we put our clothes back on.”
She shifts and settles, ponders and pads about the room, then
smiles and says: “Well have a good time then.”


- Greg Kimura

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young


So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.


But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.


- Wilfred Owen

The Parable of the Old Men and the Young is a poem by Wilfred Owen which compares the ascent of Abraham to Mount Moriah and his near-sacrifice of Isaac there with the start of World War I. It had first been published by Siegfried Sassoon in 1920 with the title The Parable of the Old Man and the Young, without the last line "And half the seed of Europe, one by one".^[1]

The poem is an allusion to a story in the Bible, Genesis 22:1-18.

In the poem, the biblical patriarch Abraham (significantly called by his former name, Abram, in the poem) takes Isaac—his only begotten son by his wife Sarah—with him to make a sacrificial offering to God. The offering, though Isaac does not know this, is to be Isaac himself. "Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps", which suggests imagery relating to a young soldier being sent, possibly against his will, in a uniform to fight. When he makes to sacrifice his son, an angel calls from heaven, and tells Abram not to harm Isaac. Instead, he must offer the "Ram of Pride". Then follow the last two lines of the poem diverges from the Biblical account, set apart for greater effect: "But the old man would not so, but slew his son, / and half the seed of Europe, one by one."

"The Parable of the Old Man and the Young" is written loosely in iambic pentameter. It does not use traditional rhyme; instead, the lines are bound together by assonance, consonance, and alliteration.

As the title mentions, the poem is a parable. It is generally accepted that the old man, Abram, represents the European nations or more probably their governments. Another less common opinion is that he represents Germany or Kaiser Wilhelm II, whom some would claim started the war. However, Owen does not blame any individual nation or person in any of his other poems, so there is no reason to believe that he does so in this one. Rather, he condemns all those in power who took their countries to war.

According to the poem, the rulers of Europe believed that sacrificing their nations' (Ram of) Pride was too high a price, yet the irony is that the real cost of this Pride was millions of dead—the seed of Europe.

The last two lines are the only ones that rhyme, and the image they paint is chilling: an old man methodically killing the seed of Europe. It is mainly the power of this image, set out in the poem and culminating in the last two lines, that makes it haunting.

The poem is among those set in the War Requiem of Benjamin Britten.

Quote:

---

Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young


So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.


But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.


- Wilfred Owen

---

Larry,

I rarely, pretty much never, intrude on this thread of yours. And I prefer that others resist the urge as well (with the proximate exception of Attic who provided very informative information!).

But since I shared your referral of Wilfred Owen's poem on my FB today, and have taught, and hope to teach again, his nonpareil poem, "Dulce et decorum est".

Here it is:

Wilfred Owen


Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


_____________________________________________________________________

How do we honor fallen Warriors? Stop fighting wars. Especially ones of choice based on lies and selfish interest. Truly defensive wars? That's a more difficult question. Most wars, are not defensive. Especially, but not exclusively, modern American (U.S.) ones. They're aggressive.

https://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

Point Reyes—wild oats in the wind
for JQ

As if it were the holy spirit
engulfing me,
as if I even knew
the nature of such a thing,
as if I might even be able to tell you
the mystery of a moment that pushed me
to the very edge of . . . of . . . something,
calling loudly without words for me to simply open up—all the way . . .

We stood together in silence,
in the midst of things,
on the headlands, high above the surf,
a dusty trail beneath our feet
crisscrossed from time to time
by slow moving, shinny black beetles,
while stationery, high above our heads
a hawk lay just beneath the cold gray blanket
that covered everything on this tiny slip of land
sliding northward, sliding always northward.
And everywhere it was wind—
the air moved, ruffled clothes and tousled hair,
made soft staccato pops and flutters in our ears
that almost hid from them
an exquisite, near silent song.

Had we not seen the wild oats dancing,
delicately dangling their tiny, hull-covered seeds,
atop straight golden stalks,
that bent down in the wind,
as if to say, namaste, to everything,
lightly touching one another, then,
like bows and strings—
had we not seen them dancing so,
we would have missed their music,
their heavenly music,
the intricacy of which,
the joy of which
went well beyond
what human hand
could make
or these human words
describe.

Oh, the wind and the song of the wild oats!
- Bill Denham

WAVING GOOD-BYE

A new suitcase in one hand,
car keys in the other and finally
off to college for the first time.

Looking back past the walnut tree
a last glance at the old house
his family still waving good-bye
good-bye from behind
the screened-in porch.

Shifting gears on Main Street,
thinking of things left behind
his old room and a medal from track
closet full of memories and old clothes
all still too good
to give away.

Homecoming for the thanksgiving feast
stunned at the bareness of his room
just one change of socks and underwear remaining
in the top right drawer of the otherwise
empty chest.

Staring down the hallway at Christmas,
past the presents and the lighted tree
he saw his room was gone.
the doorway and the door...
across from his little brother's room.

At spring break under the walnut tree
staring again at the screened-in porch
he was certain
the house was gone.

Trying one last time in June
the porch was gone
the tree was gone
Main Street no where
to be found.

Driving away past his disappearing high school
he wondered was there a medal?
Had he ever had a brother?

Clutching the wheel in front
he knew he'd better hurry
his road disappearing,
his town disappearing, and
was that his life
slowly waving good-bye
good-bye
in his rear view mirror?

- Doug von Koss

Healing From Cancer She lay still in the broken water of her tenderness. In every way the Cloud of Unknowing swept about her. With all due haste, waves of wholeness broke over her, blue and softly, Organ notes of roses papering surfaces all around her. Leaves whispered her name. With no fear and all trembling, she fell deep into wellness Coming finally back into her own life polished and fine Much as a babe enters into the bright world blinking from her cave of sustenance. - Kalia Mussetter

Salt

I thought of kneeling. I thought of cold
monastery stone and the red velvet cushions
at the communion rail -- a reverence
history could not contain.

What is history? -- the bones of a dead mouse.
His scarred face was the first mystery. Six
veils to reach the dark pulse of his arm --
Salome dancing for John the Baptist’s head.

I have found God in the least likely places --
the dog sleeping beside my chair
is inhabited by God. I could go into the street
and tell everyone God sleeps in my house

in the body of a dog! Who would believe me?
You have your own moments.
I too have lain in the night
beside my lover and heard God breathing.

Intention was the second mystery.
When my father died
his skin was like Michelangelo’s marble,
his veins the hidden rivers that sustained him

through five children, two wives, deaths, wars
even prison. Under the skin
where the blue vein pulsed, I saw
my grandmother’s heart flutter.

I leaned toward the pale gate
of the scarred stranger’s elbow, my tongue
reverent to the taste of salt.
The impulse to worship is always there.

It is the diamond in the water, the deer
last night, dreamily over the fence in the fog
for the shimmering lick in the field.

- Elizabeth Herron

A Scientist's Acrostic

Scientists are like beetles
Crawling over the earth, antennae twitching,
In tune with the mysteries
Einstein whispered under a star-polished
Night sky. He chose the celestial playground by
Convention-even logic, as beetles know, can be
Enhanced by beauty.

Illumination dawns after years of
Scratching through dark leaves, dirt.

Lying on one's back, legs flailing,
Is temporary, and not, as some imagine
Fundamental failure or
Even such a bad thing.


- Jennifer Gresham

Nice one, Larry (and Ms. Gresham)! For those who don't know what an acrostic is, it means a message "hidden" in a poem (or other writing) such that you read it by reading DOWN the page rather than across. So in the poem above, reading down the first letter of each line says "SCIENCE IS LIFE". Acrostics are fun, and I recommend that those of you who enjoy such things try writing some, but it's difficult to write a good one, especially a poem containing two (or, heathen forbid, even more) acrostics, and more especially if you're making the lines rhyme too. I wrote a double-acrostic sonnet once for the Wergle Flomp poetry contest (a fun contest which gives cash prizes for the poems deemed most wonderfully bad!). My entry was about "vanity" poetry websites--sites that tell everyone their crappy poem is wonderful as a way to get them to buy collections of that crappy poetry and other stuff. My poem contains two acrostics ridiculing the vanity sites. These hidden messages are in the first letter and fourth letter of each line:

Sonnet with Two Acrostics

What drek is this? Who published it, and why?
Hath not the editor performed his task?
And is this not some kind of scam, I ask,
This poet’s purse to open with a lie?

Raise glasses for a toast, or to your eyes,
And imitate the doggerel you’ve heard.
Now there’s another literary turd.
Knee-deep in excrement, we seek a prize.

Diss not the hack the windmills of whose mind,
Rent thus asunder, quest yet for the Muse,
In simple rhymes like Eminem might use,
Vain verses which, like rotten grain, they grind.
Ere kaching! go registers of cash,
Let’s see this website print and sell this trash!

-- Dixon Wragg

That post was enjoyeD
How much...lots, say I
And throw into the miX
No shortage of wry.. humor, and O
Know you’re read daily, maN
So Dixon, dear poet, write on, wragg on!

Quote:

---

Posted in reply to the post by Dixon:

Nice one, Larry (and Ms. Gresham)! For those who don't know what an acrostic is, it means a message "hidden" in a poem (or other writing) such that you read it by reading DOWN the page rather than across. So in the poem above, reading down the first letter of each line says "SCIENCE IS LIFE". Acrostics are fun, and I recommend that those of you who enjoy such things try writing some, but it's difficult to write a good one, especially a poem containing two (or, heathen forbid, even more) acrostics, and more especially if you're making the lines rhyme too. I wrote a double-acrostic sonnet once for the Wergle Flomp poetry contest (a fun contest which gives cash prizes for the poems deemed most wonderfully bad!). My entry was about "vanity" poetry websites--sites that tell everyone their crappy poem is wonderful as a way to get them to buy collections of that crappy poetry and other stuff. My poem contains two acrostics ridiculing the vanity sites. These hidden messages are in the first letter and fourth letter of each line:

Sonnet with Two Acrostics

What drek is this? Who published it, and why?
Hath not the editor performed his task?
And is this not some kind of scam, I ask,
This poet’s purse to open with a lie?

Raise glasses for a toast, or to your eyes,
And imitate the doggerel you’ve heard.
Now there’s another literary turd.
Knee-deep in excrement, we seek a prize.

Diss not the hack the windmills of whose mind,
Rent thus asunder, quest yet for the Muse,
In simple rhymes like Eminem might use,
Vain verses which, like rotten grain, they grind.
Ere kaching! go registers of cash,
Let’s see this website print and sell this trash!

-- Dixon Wragg

---

Very nice indeed, Christine--but I might be biased ;^D

Quote:

---

Posted in reply to the post by [email protected]:

That post was enjoyeD
How much...lots, say I
And throw into the miX
No shortage of wry.. humor, and O
Know you’re read daily, maN
So Dixon, dear poet, write on, wragg on!

---

Greed


Hope is the deaf man who has often heard of our dying,
but hasn't heard of his own death or contemplated his own end.

The blind man is Greed: he sees the faults of others,
hair by hair, and broadcasts them from street to street,


but of his own faults his blind eyes perceive nothing.
The naked man fears his cloak will be pulled off,


but how could anyone take the cloak of one who is naked?
The worldly man is destitute and terrified:


he possesses nothing, yet he dreads thieves.
When death comes, everyone around him is lamenting,


while his own spirit begins to laugh at his fear.
At that moment the rich man knows he has no gold,
and the keen-witted man sees that talent does not belong to him.


- Jellaludin Rumi


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Kar Amal-râ dân keh marg-e mâ shenid
marg-e khvod na-shenid va naql-e khvod na-did
Hers nâ-biyânast binad mu be-mu
`ayb-e khalqân va be-guyad ku be-ku
`Ayb-e khvod yek zarreh cheshm-e kur-e u
mi na-binad garcheh hast u `ayb ju
`Ur mi tarsad keh dâmânesh be-ranad
dâman-e mard-e barahneh kay darand
Mard-e donyâ mofles ast va tars-nâk
hich u-râ nist az dozdânesh bâk
Vaqt-e margesh keh bovad sad nawheh pish
khandeh âyad jânesh-râ zin tars-e khvish
n zamân dânad ghani kesh nist zar
ham zaki dânad keh bod u bi honar


-- Mathnawi III:2628-2635
Version by Camille and Kabir Helminski
"Rumi: Jewels of Remembrance"
Threshold Books, 1996
(Persian transliteration courtesy of Yahyá Monastra)

Falcon Moon



From the glow of dawn a moon appeared
It swept from the sky—speared me with its eyes

With me in its talons, to the sky it soared--
Like a hawk which snatches a songbird by force

I glanced at myself--no me to be seen
The moon of mercy pared my body to a soul

Formless I flew, just seeing the moon--
The moon, and the world lit in its gleam

In the soul I traveled, with the moon as my beacon
Lay bare the secret of the time before time

Sky, and then sky, all merged with the moon
The raft that is me was drowned in the sea

Without the force of that Sunburst of Shams
Neither the moon nor the sea can be seen.


- Jelalludin Rumi
Ghazal 19
(Translation by Shantanu Phukan)






Falcon Moon

Dar Charkh-e sahargah yaki mah ayan shud
Vaz charkh bazer amad o bar ma nigran shud

Chun baz ke birbayad murghi ba-gahe said
Birbud mara an mah o bar charkh ravan shud

Dar khud chun nazar kardam, khud ra banadidam
Zeera ke dar an mah tanamaz lutf chun jan shud

Dar jan chun safar kardam juz mah nadidam
Ta sirr-e tajalliye azal jumle bayan shud

Na charkh-e falakjumle dar an mah firo shud
Kashtiyye vujudam hame dar bahr-e nihan shud

An bahr bazad mauj o khirad baz bar amad
V-avaz dar afgand, chunin gasht o chunan shud

An bahr kafi kard ba har pareh az an kaf
Naqshi zi falan amad o jismi zi fulan shud

Be daulate makhdumiye shams al haqi tabrez
Nai mah tavan didan, o nai bahr tavan shud

Fern Hill

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and
barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green
and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to
awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high
hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.


- Dylan Thomas