Friday, November 25, 2016

Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry. - Mary Oliver b.1935

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CASABIANCA
Felicia Hemans 1793-1835

The boy stood on the burning deck
  Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
  Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
  As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
  A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on - he would not go
  Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
  His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud - "Say, Father, say
  If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
  Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
  "If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
  And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
  And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
  In still yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
  "My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,
  They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
  Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound - 
   The boy - oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
  With fragments strewed the sea! -

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
  That well had borne their part -
But the noblest thing which perished there
  Was that young faithful heart.

The poem was inspired by something a number of English sailors saw during the Battle of the Nile on 28th July 1798. Their naval squadron under Nelson had surprised the French fleet which had been at anchor and unprepared. During the battle the French flagship L'Orient was surrounded and set ablaze. The English sailors saw that there was only one person on the deck of the burning ship, a young boy. It transpired later that he was Cassabianca, the 12-year old son of one of the ship's officers.

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Langston Hughes

CROSS
Langston Hughes 1902-67

My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.

If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well.

My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?

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from The Tao Te Ching

Can you coax your mind from its wandering
and keep to the original oneness?

Can you let your body become
supple as a newborn child’s?

Can you cleanse your inner vision
until you see nothing but the light?

Can you love people and lead them
without imposing your will?

Can you deal with the most vital matters
by letting events take their course?

Can you step back from your own mind
and thus understand all things?

Giving birth and nourishing,
having without possessing,
acting with no expectations,
leading and not trying to control:
this is the supreme virtue.

The Tao Te Ching (The Way of the Divine) is a Chinese ŧext whose origins may date from the 6th century BC. Its contents cover a wide variety of topics including politics, society and life in general. The purpose is to provide guidance to help the reader live a life in peaceful harmony with the world and all it contains. It has been claimed that the author was Lao-Tzu (Laozi) 605 BC to 531 BC, but there's also widespread belief that it was the work of many writers.

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THE THIN EDGE
Dorothy Parker 1893-1967

With you, my heart is quiet here,
And all my thoughts are cool as rain.
I sit and let the shifting year
Go by before the windowpane,
And reach my hand to yours, my dear . . .
I wonder what it's like in Spain.

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POETRY TO PLEASE WILL BE UPDATED EVERY FRIDAY

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