Professional Documents
Culture Documents
A Few Selections of Favorite Poems (In English, Mostly)
A Few Selections of Favorite Poems (In English, Mostly)
Selections of
Favorite
Poems
(in English,
mostly)
Willie S.
Blake
Walt
Twain
Banjo
Frost
Kahlil
Gwen
Langston
Jacques
Jack
Lawrence
Allen
R. Hayden
M. Harper
Shel
&
Maya
SONNET XVIII
by William Shakespeare
SONNET LXV
by Willam Shakespeare
SONNET CXVI
by Willam Shakespeare
PLATE 14
The ancient tradition that the world will be consumed in fire at the
end of six thousand years is true. as I have heard from Hell.
For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to
leave his guard at the tree of life, and when he does, the whole crea-
tion will be consumed, and appear infinite. and holy whereas it now
appears finite & corrupt.
This will come to pass by an improvement of sensual enjoyment.
But first the notion that man has a body distinct from his soul, is to
be expunged; this I shall do, by printing in the infernal method, by
corrosives, which in Hell are salutary and medicinal, melting apparent
surfaces away, and displaying the infinite which was hid.
If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear
to man as it is: infinite.
For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow
chinks of his cavern.
-----
PLATE 15
A Memorable Fancy
by Walt Whitman
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
* * *
O Captain! My Captain!
by Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack,
the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for
you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores
a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
The_War_Prayer
by Mark Twain
It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in
every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy
pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and sputtering; on every hand and far down the
receding and fading spreads of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the
sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new
uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices
choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened,
panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts and which they
interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the
while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country and invoked the God of
Battles, beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpouring of fervid eloquence which moved
every listener.
It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to
disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and
angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended
no more in that way.
Sunday morning came - next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled;
the volunteers were there, their faces alight with material dreams - visions of a stern advance, the
gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the
enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! - then home from the war, bronzed heros,
welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones,
proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth
to the field of honor, there to win for the flag or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The
service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it
was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose,
with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation -- "God the all-
terrible! Thou who ordainest, Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!"
Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and
moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was that an ever-merciful and
benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers and aid, comfort, and
encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in His mighty hand, make them
strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and
to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory --
An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes
fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his
white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale
even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without
pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there, waiting.
With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at
last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal,"Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O
Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"
The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside - which the startled minister did - and
took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes in
which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said
"I come from the Throne - bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the
house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of
His servant your shepherd and grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall
have explained to you its import - that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the
prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of - except he pause and
think.
"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one
prayer? No, it is two - one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of His Who heareth
all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this - keep it in mind. If you beseech a
blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the
same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are
possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be
injured by it.
"You have heard your servant's prayer - the uttered part of it. I am commissioned by God to put
into words the other part of it - that part which the pastor, and also you in your hearts, fervently
prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these
words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer
is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed
for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory - must follow it,
cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God the Father fell also the unspoken part of
the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words.
Listen!
"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle –
be Thou near them! With them, in spirit, we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved
firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God,
help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells;
help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead;
help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain;
help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire;
help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief;
help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their
desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds
of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and
denied it -
for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord,
blast their hopes,
blight their lives,
protract their bitter pilgrimage,
make heavy their steps,
water their way with their tears,
stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!
We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is ever - faithful
refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts.
Amen."
(After a pause)
"Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits."
It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.
Clancy of the Overflow
by A. B. "Banjo" Patterson
*********
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
*********
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal --
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
Song of the Artesian Water
by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson
Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought;
But we're sick of prayers and Providence -- we're going to do without;
With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below,
We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we'll sink it deeper down:
As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level,
If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil;
Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down.
But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow,
And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below,
And the tubes are always jamming, and they can't be made to shift
Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down:
Though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming,
Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming --
While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down.
But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet,
And the contract price is growing, and the boss is nearly beat.
But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go,
Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down:
And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin';
But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in --
Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down.
But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast,
And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last;
And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below,
Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow.
And it's down, deeper down --
Oh, it comes from deeper down;
It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure
From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure --
Where the old earth hides her treasures deeper down.
And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run:
How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun!
By the silent bells of timber, by the miles of blazing plain
It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again.
Flowing down, further down;
It is flowing deeper down
To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going;
Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing --
It is flowing, ever flowing, further down.
"Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"
by Robert Frost
-- from _A_Tear_&_A_Smile_
by Kahlil Gibran
We Real Cool
by Gwendolyn Brooks
We real cool. We
Left School. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
And remembering...
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room
that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and
cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
by Langston Hughes
Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
-------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------
“Family Life”
-- trans. by J.Tharsen
"Déjeuner du Matin"
by Jacques Prévert “Breakfast”
-- trans. by J.Tharsen
“Charlie Parker”
by Jack Kerouac
And moreover
he adds
Its all writ down
on some scroll-type parchments
which some henchmen
leave lying around the Dead Sea somewheres
a long time ago
and which you won't even find
for a coupla thousand years or so
or at least for
nineteen hundred and fortyseven
of them
to be exact
and even then
nobody really believes them
or me
for that matter
You're hot
they tell him
And they cool him
by Michael S. Harper
in Charleston harbor
can you?
Dear John, Dear Coltrane
by Michael S. Harper
A Rock, A River, A Tree Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Hosts to species long since departed, Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Mark the mastodon. Traveller, has been paid for.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens You, who gave me my first name,
Of their sojourn here You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
On our planet floor, You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom Then forced on bloody feet,
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. Left me to the employment of other seekers--
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
Come, you may stand upon my You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
Back and face your distant destiny, You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
But seek no haven in my shadow. Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
I will give you no hiding place down here. Praying for a dream.
You, created only a little lower than Here, root yourselves beside me.
The angels, have crouched too long in I am the tree planted by the river,
The bruising darkness, Which will not be moved.
Have lain too long I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
Face down in ignorance. I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Your mouths spelling words Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
Armed for slaughter. For this bright morning dawning for you.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, History, despite its wrenching pain,
But do not hide your face. Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Across the wall of the world, Need not be lived again.
A river sings a beautiful song, Lift up your eyes upon
Come rest here by my side. The day breaking for you.
Each of you a bordered country, Give birth again
Delicate and strangely made proud, To the dream.
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Women, children, men,
Your armed struggles for profit Take it into the palms of your hands.
Have left collars of waste upon Mold it into the shape of your most
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Private need. Sculpt it into
Yet, today I call you to my riverside, The image of your most public self.
If you will study war no more. Lift up your hearts.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs Each new hour holds new chances
The Creator gave to me when I For new beginnings.
And the tree and stone were one. Do not be wedded forever
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow To fear, yoked eternally
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. To brutishness.
The river sings and sings on. The horizon leans forward,
There is a true yearning to respond to Offering you space to place new steps of change.
The singing river and the wise rock. Here, on the pulse of this fine day
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, You may have the courage
The African and Native American, the Sioux, To look up and out upon me,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, No less to Midas than the mendicant.
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, No less to you now than the mastodon then.
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher. Here on the pulse of this new day
They hear. They all hear You may have the grace to look up and out
The speaking of the tree. And into your sister's eyes,
Today, the first and last of every tree Into your brother's face, your country
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river. And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
“Listen to the mustn'ts”
by Shel Silverstein
“The Bridge”
by Shel Silverstein