the poetry thread

[mjmooney]

Just now, A'Villan said:

It's classic Muhammad Ali brother.

I know. But it's exactly the sort of style that rappers have adopted. 

[A'Villan]

Just now, mjmooney said:

I know. But it's exactly the sort of style that rappers have adopted. 

Most rappers are f*ckwits for lack of a better expression. Vultures that don't understand the culture.

I'm sorry that your exposure to rap has only left you with the prejudice you have toward it.

It is a form of poetry, but like our society, those representing it don't always live true to and uphold what it means to be.

[mjmooney]

36 minutes ago, A'Villan said:

Most rappers are f*ckwits for lack of a better expression. Vultures that don't understand the culture.

I'm sorry that your exposure to rap has only left you with the prejudice you have toward it.

It is a form of poetry, but like our society, those representing it don't always live true to and uphold what it means to be.

I don't give a toss how they live. I like plenty of rock musicians who are utter shits. It's the sound. It's horrible. 

[A'Villan]

5 minutes ago, mjmooney said:

I don't give a toss how they live. I like plenty of rock musicians who are utter shits. It's the sound. It's horrible. 

I'm talking more about their craft than how they live.

Ironically you said it's rap rather than poetry.

Well, poetry is more about the idea expressed and how that is composed rather than the vocal talent.

[A'Villan]

I think this is poetic at times:

They told me I would never make it, I would never achieve it
Reality is nourishment, but people don't believe it
I guess it's hard to stomach the truth like a bulimic
It's a dirty game and nobody is willin' to clean it
But this is for the paraplegic people dreamin' of runnin'
Ladies married to men who don't please 'em, dreamin' of comin'
Verbally murderous like David Berkowitz when I'm gunnin'
Some cowards on the Internet didn't think I would sell
Scared to talk shit in person 'cause they stuck in a shell
And couldn't understand the pain of bein' stuck in a cell
Hell is not a place you go if you're not a Christian
It's the failure of your life's greatest ambition
It's a bad decision to blindly follow any religion
I don't see the difference in between the wrong and the wrong
Soldiers emptyin' the clips at little kids and they moms
Are just like a desperate really bad person strapped to a bomb
Humanity's gone, smoked up in a gravity bong
By a Democrat-Republican Cheech and Chong
Immortal Technique, you never heard me preach in a song
I'm not controversial, I'm just speakin' the facts
Put your hands in the air like you got the heat to your back
And shake your body like a baby born addicted to crack
And since life's a gamble like the craps tables at Vegas
I freestyle my destiny, it's not written in pages

[mjmooney]

Somebody once pointed out that, almost without exception, all Emily Dickinson poems can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas". Same unvarying metre, every time. 

I think that's one of my problems with rap. Same old rhyming couplet rhythm every time. 

 

I listen to hip hop and it leaves me snoring

Cause every one's the same, it's completely boring

I'd like to appreciate these ghetto mothers

But once you've heard one you've heard all the others 

I could easily give you a hundred examples

They've all got drum machines and too many samples

Every time I hear one I really hate it

I guess I'm too old to appreciate it

(M.C. Spanner is available for weddings, birthdays and bar mitzvahs). 

 

Edited October 21, 2019 by mjmooney

[useless]

Ivan Ivanych Samovar —
A pot-bellied samovar,
A three-bucket samovar.
There inside him boiled water,
Puffed with steam that boiling water,
In the fury boiling water
Into cups pour'd through the tap,
Through the hole, then the tap,
And to cups right through the tap.

Early in the morning came,
To the samovar he came,
Early Uncle Petya came.
Uncle Petya came and says,
"Give me some to drink", he says,
"I'll drink some tea!", he says.

To the samovar then came,
Our auntie Katya came,
With a glassy glass she came.
Auntie Katya came and says,
"I, of course," she came and says,
"Will have some to drink," she says.

Then along grandfather came,
Very very old he came,
In his slippers grandpa came.
He yawned widely and he says,
"I should drink perhaps..." he says,
"Drink perhaps some tea," he says.

Then along grandmother came,
Very very old she came,
Even with a cane she came.
After having thought she says,
"Well, a drink of tea...", she says,
"Well, perhaps some tea..." she says.

Suddenly, the girl ran up,
To the samovar ran up,
This granddaughter she ran up.
"Pour me, pour me" then she says,
"A full cup of tea," she says,
"For me, make it sweet," she says.

Then the dog Zhuchka she ran up,
With the cat Murka she ran up,
To the samovar ran up,
For to get some tea with milk,
Boiling water with some milk,
All that with some boiling milk.

Suddenly Seryozha came,
Sleepy and unwashed he came,
After everyone he came.
"Give me, give me" then he says,
"A large cup of tea," he says,
"Largest possible," he says.

And they pushed it, and they pulled it
And they twisted it about,
But in spite of all this effort
Only steam ever came out.
And they tipped it, tipped it, tipped it,
like commode with a spout,
Out of it only came
Little droplets dripping out.

Samovar Ivan Ivanych!
On the table 'Van Ivanych!
Golden shiny 'Van Ivanych
Boiling water he gives not,
To late-sleepers he gives not,
To them slackers he gives not.

The End

Daniil Kharms

[KentVillan]

Uncle Billy had a ten foot willy
And he showed to the girl next door
She thought it was a snake
So she hit it with a rake
And now it's only five foot four

[mjmooney]

These are the hands

These are the hands
That touch us first
Feel your head
Find the pulse
And make your bed.

These are the hands
That tap your back
Test the skin
Hold your arm
Wheel the bin
Change the bulb
Fix the drip
Pour the jug
Replace your hip.

These are the hands
That fill the bath
Mop the floor
Flick the switch
Soothe the sore
Burn the swabs
Give us a jab
Throw out sharps
Design the lab.

And these are the hands
That stop the leaks
Empty the pan
Wipe the pipes
Carry the can
Clamp the veins
Make the cast
Log the dose
And touch us last.

(Michael Rosen - currently in hospital with COVID-19) 

Grauniad

[Troglodyte]

A couple of my favourites:

Quote

Ozymandias - Percy Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Quote

The Card-Players - Philip Larkin

Jan van Hogspeuw staggers to the door
And pisses at the dark. Outside, the rain
Courses in cart-ruts down the deep mud lane.
Inside, Dirk Dogstoerd pours himself some more,
And holds a cinder to his clay with tongs,
Belching out smoke. Old Prijck snores with the gale,
His skull face firelit; someone behind drinks ale,
And opens mussels, and croaks scraps of songs
Towards the ham-hung rafters about love.
Dirk deals the cards. Wet century-wide trees
Clash in surrounding starlessness above
This lamplit cave, where Jan turns back and farts,
Gobs at the grate, and hits the queen of hearts.

Rain, wind and fire! The secret, bestial peace!

 

[useless]

Above the wide expanse of fields.
And the animal, the Dog, sleeps,
And the bird, the Sparrow, slumbers.
Mermaids soar, broad in the beam,
Soar straight up into the heavens,
With their arms as stout as boughs
And their breasts as round as turnips.
A witch, seated on a triangle,
Turns into a puff of smoke,
And a corpse with female goblins
Nimbly dances the cakewalk.
In a group then, after this
Pale magicians chase a Fly,
While the moon’s unmoving face
Gazes down upon the hillside.

The signs of the Zodiac are fading
Above the houses of the village.
And the animal, the Dog, sleeps
And the fish, the Plaice, is slumbering.
The watchman’s clapper goes clack clack,
The animal, the Spider, sleeps.
The Cow sleeps, the Fly is sleeping,
Above the earth the moon is hanging.
Above the earth is a great vessel
Full of water, upside down.
The goblin of the woods has plucked
A small log from his shaggy beard.
Daintily the siren dangles
Her leg from behind a cloud.

The ogre has bitten off
The gentleman’s unmentionable.
All is lost in the confusion
Of this dance, in all directions
Hamadryads fly and Britons,
Fleas and witches and dead men.

Candidate of ages past,
Captain of the years to come,
Oh my reason! All these monsters
Spring from your delirium,
Spring from your imagination,
Spasms of the sleeping mind,
Suffering that has gone uneased —
All that has no real existence.

Lofty is the earth’s dwelling place.
It is late and time to sleep!
Reason, my poor warrior,
You should slumber until dawn.
Why hesitate? Why be anxious?
The day is over, you and I —
Half-animal and half-divine —
Fall asleep upon the threshold
Of a life that’s new and young.

The watchman’s clapper goes clack clack.
The animal, the Spider, sleeps,
The Cow sleeps, the Fly is sleeping,
Above the earth the moon is hanging.
Above the earth is a great vessel
Full of water, upside down.
The potato plant is sleeping.
You had better sleep as well.

Nikolay Zabolotsky - The signs of the Zodiac are fading...

Edited June 6, 2020 by useless

[chrisp65]

FIRST THEY CAME By Martin Niemöller

First they came for the communists

And I did not speak out, because I was not a communist.

Then they came for the socialists

And I did not speak out, because I was not a socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists

And I did not speak out, because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews

And I did not speak out, because I was not a Jew

Then they came for the catholics

And I did not speak out, because I was a protestant

Then they came for me

And there was no one left

To speak for me

 

[Follyfoot]

Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth, 
And spotted the perils beneath,
All the toffees I chewed, 
And the sweet sticky food,
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

I wish I'd been that much more willin' 
When I had more tooth there than fillin'
To pass up gobstoppers, 
From respect to me choppers
And to buy something else with me shillin'.

When I think of the lollies I licked, 
And the liquorice allsorts I picked,
Sherbet dabs, big and little, 
All that hard peanut brittle,
My conscience gets horribly pricked.

My Mother, she told me no end, 
"If you got a tooth, you got a friend"
I was young then, and careless, 
My toothbrush was hairless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right, 
I flashed it about late at night,
But up-and-down brushin' 
And pokin' and fussin'
Didn't seem worth the time... I could bite!

If I'd known I was paving the way,
To cavities, caps and decay,
The murder of fiIlin's 
Injections and drillin's
I'd have thrown all me sherbet away.

So I lay in the old dentist's chair,
And I gaze up his nose in despair,
And his drill it do whine, 
In these molars of mine,
"Two amalgum," he'll say, "for in there."

How I laughed at my Mother's false teeth,
As they foamed in the waters beneath,
But now comes the reckonin' 
It's me they are beckonin'
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

 

 

[blandy]

They came for the palmists, but I wasn’t a palmist so I did nothing
They came for the bungee jumpers, but I wasn’t a bungee jumper so I did nothing
They came for the players’ agents, but I wasn’t a players’ agent so I did nothing
They came for the Charles Manson fans, but I wasn’t a Charles Manson fan so I did nothing
They came for the reflexologists, but I wasn’t a reflexologist so I did nothing
They came for the camp TV chefs, but I wasn’t a camp TV chef so I did nothing
They came for the RoMos, I laughed
They came for the martial arts enthusiasts, but I wasn’t a martial arts enthusiast so I did nothing
They came for Eamonn Holmes and I think I’m right in saying I applauded
They came for the fire-eaters, but I wasn’t a fire-eater so I did nothing
They came for Dani Behr, I said she’s over there, behind the wardrobe

Turn a blind eye, sometimes it’s best to turn a blind eye...

Nigel Blackwell

[A'Villan]

I done wrestled with an alligator, I done tussled with a whale;

handcuffed lightning, thrown thunder in jail;

only last week, I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalised a brick;

I'm so mean I make medicine sick.

- The Greatest, Muhammad Ali

[useless]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

 

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

 

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

 

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

 

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

 

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

 

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

 

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

 

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

 

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

 

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

 

Edgar Allen Poe - The Raven

 

[choffer]

"Today I Saw A Little Worm

Wriggling on his belly
Perhaps he'd like to come inside
And see what's on the telly."

 

Milligan (again). 

[useless]

It rains, it rains,
From gutters and drains
And gargoyles and gables:
It drips from the tables
That tell us the tolls upon grains,
Oxen, asses, sheep, turkeys and fowls
Set into the rain-soaked wall
Of the old Town Hall.

The mountains being so tall
And forcing the town on the river,
The market's so small
That, with the wet cobbles, dark arches and all,
The owls
Well before four), so the owls
In the gloom
Have too little room
And brush by the saint on the fountain
In veering about.

The poor saint on the fountain!
Supported by plaques of the giver
To whom we're beholden;
His name was de Sales
And his wife's name von Mangel.
(Now is he a saint or archangel?)
He stands on a dragon
On a ball, on a column
Gazing up at the vines on the mountain:
And his falchion is golden.
And his wings are all golden.
He bears golden scales
And in spite of the coils of his dragon, without hint of alarm or invective
Looks up at the mists on the mountain.

(Now what saint or archangel
Stands winged on a dragon.
Bearing golden scales and a broad bladed sword all golden?
Alas, my knowledge
Of all the saints of the college,
Of all these glimmering, olden
Sacred and misty stories
Of angels and saints and old glories . . .
Is sadly defective.)
The poor saint on the fountain . . .

On top of his column
Gazes up sad and solemn.
But is it towards the top of the mountain
Where the spindrifty haze is
That he gazes?
Or is it into the casement
Where the girl sits sewing?
There's no knowing.

Hear it rain!
And from eight leaden pipes in the ball he stands on,
That has eight leaden and copper bands on,
There gurgle and drain
Eight driblets of water down into the basin.
And he stands on his dragon
And the girl sits sewing
High, very high in her casement
And before her are many geraniums in a parket
All growing and blowing
In box upon box
From the gables right down to the basement
With the frescoes and carvings and paint . . .

The poor saint!
It rains and it rains,
In the market there isn't an ox,
And in all the emplacement
For wagons there isn't a wagon,
Not a stall for a grape or a raisin,
Not a soul in the market
Save the saint on his dragon
With the rain dribbling down in the basin,
And the maiden that sews in the casement.

They are still and alone,
Mutterseelens alone,
And the rain dribbles down from his heels and his crown,
From wet stone to wet stone.
It's as grey as at dawn,
And the owls, grey and fawn,
Call from the little town hall
With its arch in the wall,
Where the fire-hooks are stored.

From behind the flowers of her casement
That's all gay with the carvings and paint,
The maiden gives a great yawn,
But the poor saint —
No doubt he's as bored!
Stands still on his column
Uplifting his sword
With never the ease of a yawn
From wet dawn to wet dawn . . .

Ford Maddox Ford - In the Little Old Market-Place

[mjmooney]

^^^^

I like that. 

 

[useless]

Was going post this one, but it's long and couldn't find a text version that would me copy and past it.

Quote

The House.  I am the House!
I resemble
The drawing of a child
That draws “just a house.” Two windows and two doors,
Two chimney pots;	5
Only two floors.
Three windows on the upper one; a fourth
Looks towards the north.
I am very simple and mild;
I am very gentle and sad and old.	10
I have stood too long.
The Tree.  I am the great Tree over above this House!
I resemble
The drawing of a child. Drawing “just a tree”
The child draws Me!	15
Heavy leaves, old branches, old knots:
I am more old than the house is old.
I have known nights so cold
I used to tremble;
For the sap was frozen in my branches,	20
And the mouse,
That stored her nuts in my knot-holes, died. I am strong
Now … Let a storm come wild
Over the Sussex Wold,
I no longer fear it.	25
I have stood too long!
The Nightingale.  I am the Nightingale. The summer through I sit
In the great tree, watching the house, and throw jewels over it!
There is no one watching but I; no other soul to waken
Echoes in this valley night!	30
The Unborn Son of the House.  You are mistaken!
I am the Son of the House!—
That shall have silver limbs, and clean straight haunches,
Lean hips, clean lips and a tongue of gold;
That shall inherit	35
A golden voice, and waken
A whole world’s wonder!
The Nightingale.  Young blood! You are right,
So you and I only
Listen and watch and waken	40
Under
The stars of the night.
The Dog of the House.  You are mistaken!
This house stands lonely.
Let but a sound sound in the seven acres that surround	45
Their sleeping house,
And I, seeming to sleep, shall awaken.
Let but a mouse
Creep in the bracken,
I seeming to drowse, I shall hearken.	50
Let but a shadow darken
Their threshold; let but a finger
Lie long or linger,
Holding their latch:
I am their Dog. And I watch!	55
I am just Dog. And being His hound
I lie
All night with my head on my paws,
Watchful and whist!
The Nightingale.  So you and I and their Son and I	60
Watch alone, under the stars of the sky.
The Cat of the House.  I am the Cat. And you lie!
I am the Atheist!
All laws
I coldly despise.	65
I have yellow eyes;
I am the Cat on the Mat the child draws
When it first has a pencil to use.
The Milch-goat.  I am the Goat. I give milk!
The Cat of the House.  I muse	70
Over the hearth with my ’minishing eyes
Until after
The last coal dies.
Every tunnel of the mouse,
Every channel of the cricket,	75
I have smelt.
I have felt
The secret shifting of the mouldered rafter,
And heard
Every bird in the thicket.	80
I see
You,
Nightingale up in your tree!
The Nightingale.  The night takes a turn towards coldness; the stars
Waver and shake.	85
Truly more wake,
More thoughts are afloat;
More folk are afoot than I knew!
The Milch-goat.  I, even I, am the Goat!
Cat of the House.  Enough of your stuff of dust and of mud!	90
I, born of a race of strange things,
Of deserts, great temples, great kings,
In the hot sands where the nightingale never sings!
Old he-gods of ingle and hearth,
Young she-gods of fur and of silk—	95
Not the mud of the earth—
Are the things that I dream of!
The Milch-goat.  Tibby-Tab, more than you deem of
I dream of when chewing the cud
For my milk:	100
Who was born
Of a Nan with one horn and a liking for gin
In the backyard of an inn.
A child of Original Sin,
With a fleece of spun-silk	105
And two horns in the bud—
I, made in the image of Pan,
With my corrugate, vicious-cocked horn,
Now make milk for a child yet unborn.
That’s a come-down!	110
And you with your mouse-colored ruff,
Discoursing your stuff-of-a-dream,
Sell your birthright for cream,
And bolt from a cuff or a frown.
That’s a come-down!	115
So let be! That’s enough!
The House.  The top star of the Plough now mounts
Up to his highest place.
The dace
Hang silent in the pool.	120
The night is cool
Before the dawn. Behind the blind
Dies down the one thin candle.
Our harried man,
My lease-of-a-life-long Master,	125
Studies against disaster;
Gropes for some handle
Against too heavy Fate; pores over his accounts,
Studying into the morn
For the sake of his child unborn.	130
The Unborn Son of the House.  The vibrant notes of the spheres,
Thin, sifting sounds of the dew,
I hear. The mist on the meres
Rising I hear … So here’s
To a lad shall be lusty and bold,	135
With a voice and a heart ringing true!
To a house of a livelier hue!
The House.  That is true!
I have stood here too long and grown old.
Himself.  What is the matter with the wicks?	140
What on earth’s the matter with the wax?
The candle wastes in the draught;
The blind’s worn thin!
… Thirty-four and four, ten …
And ten … are forty-nine!	145
And twenty pun twelve and six was all
I made by the clover.
It’s a month since I laughed:
I have given up wine.
And then …	150
The Income Tax!
The Dog of the House.  The mare’s got out of the stable!
The Cat of the House.  She’s able, over and over,
To push up the stable latch …
Over and over again. You would say she’s a witch,	155
With a spite on our Man!
The Milch-goat.  Heu! Did you see how she ran!
She’s after the clover; she’s over the ditch,
Doing more harm than a dozen of goats
When there’s no one to watch.	160
Yet she is the sober old mare with her skin full of oats,
Whereas we get dry bracken and heather;
Snatching now and then a scrap of old leather,
Or half an old tin,
As the price of original sin!	165
Himself.  I shall live to sell
The clock from the hall;
I shall have to pawn my old Dad’s watch,
Or fell
The last old oak; or sell half the stock …	170
Or all!
Or the oak chest out of the hall.
One or the other—or all.
God, it is hell to be poor
For ever and ever, keeping the Wolf from the door!	175
The Cat of the House.  Wouldn’t you say
That Something, heavy and furry and grey,
Was sniffing round the door?
Wouldn’t you say
Skinny fingers, stretching from the thicket,	180
Felt for the latch of the wicket?
Himself.  You would almost say
These blows were repercussions
Of an avenging Fate!
But how have we earned them …	185
The sparks that fell on the cornricks and burned them
Still in the ear;
And all the set-backs of the year—
Frost, drought and demurrage,
The tiles blown half off the roof?	190
What is it, what is it all for?
Chastisement of pride? I swear we have no pride!
We ride
Behind an old mare with a flea-bitten hide!
Or over-much love for a year-old bride?	195
But it’s your duty to love your bride!… But still,
All the sows that died,
And the cows all going off milk;
The cream coming out under proof;
The hens giving over laying;	200
The bullocks straying,
Getting pounded over the hill!
It used to be something—cold feet going over
The front of a trench after Stand-to at four!
But these other things—God, how they make you blench!	205
Aye, these are the pip-squeaks that call for
Four-in-the-morning courage …
May you never know, my wench,
That’s asleep up the stair!
Herself  [in her sleep].  I’ll have a kitchen all white tiles;	210
And a dairy, all marble the shelves and the floor;
And a larder, cream-white and full of air.
I’ll have whitewood kegs for the flour,
And blackwood kegs for the rice and barley,
And silvery jugs for the milk and cream …	215
O glorious Me!
And hour by hour by hour by hour,
On piles of cushions from hearth to door,
I’ll sit sewing my silken seams,
I’ll sit dreaming my silver dreams;	220
With a little, mettlesome, brown-legged Charley,
To leave his ploys and come to my knee,
And question how God can be Three-in-One
And One-in-Three.
And all the day and all the day	225
Nothing but hoys for my dearest one;
And no care at all but to kiss and twine;
And nought to contrive for but ploys and play
For my son, my son, my son, my son!
Only at nine,	230
With the dinner finished, the men at their wine;
And the girls in the parlor at forfeits for toffee,
I’ll make such after-dinner coffee …
But it’s all like a dream!
Himself.  If Dixon could pay!… But he never will.	235
He promised to do it yesterday … But poor old Dicky’s been through the mill.
And it’s late—it’s too late to sit railing at Fate!
He’d pay if he could; but he’s got his fix on …
Yet … If he could pay—
God!—It would carry us over the day	240
Of Herself!
The Clock in the Room.  I am the Clock on the Shelf!
Is … Was … Is … Was!
Too late … Because … Too late … Because …
One!… Two!… Three!… Four!	245
Himself.  Just over The Day and a week or two more!
And we’d maybe get through.
Not with a hell of a lot
Of margin to spare … But just through!
The Clock in the Hall.  One!… Two!… One!… Two!	250
As … your … hours … pass
I re … cord them
Though you … waste them
Or have … stored them
ALL …	255
One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
Begun!	260
Half through!
Let be!
No more at all!
I am the Great Clock in the Hall!
Himself.  It is four by the clock:	265
The creak of the stair
Might waken Herself;
It would give her a shock
If I went up the stair.
I will doze in the chair.	270
The House.  Sad! Sad!
Poor lad!
I am getting to talk like the clock!
Year after year! Shock after shock!
Sunlight and starlight; moonlight and shadows!	275
I’ve seen him sit on his three-legged stool,
And heard him whimper, going to school.
But he’s paid all the debts that a proper lad owes
Stoutly enough … You might call me a clock
With a face of old brick-work instead of the brass	280
Of a dial.
For I mark the generations as they pass:
Generation on generation,
Passing like shadows over the dial
To triumph or trial;	285
Over the grass, round the paths till they lie all
Silent under the grass.
Himself.  And it isn’t as if we courted the slap-up people …
The House.  Now does he remember the night when he came from the station
In Flood-year December?	290
Himself.  Or kicked our slippers over the steeple,
Or leaving the whites ate only the yolk.
We’re such simple folk!
With an old house … Just any old house!
Only she’s clean: you won’t find a flea or a louse!	295
We’ve a few old cows—
Just any old cows!—
No champion short-horns with fabulous yields …
Two or three good fields;
And the old mare, going blinder and blinder …	300
And too much Care to ride behind her!
The House.  I’d like him to remember …
There were floods out far and wide;
And that was my last night of pride,
With all my windows blazing across the tide …	305
I wish he would remember …
Himself.  Just to get through; keeping a stiff upper lip!
Just … through!… With my lamb unshorn;
So that she mayn’t like me be torn by care!
It’s not	310
Such a hell of a lot!
Just till the child is born …
You’d think: God, you’d think
They could let us little people … creep
Past in the shadows …	315
But the sea’s … too … deep!
Not to sink … Not … sink!
Just to get through …
Christ, I can’t keep … It’s too … deep …
The Cat of the House.  He has fallen asleep. Up onto his knee!	320
I shall sleep in the pink.
The House.  You see!
His mind turns to me
As soon as he sleeps. For he called me a ship
On my last day of pride,	325
And he dreams of me now as a ship
As I looked in the days of my pride.
Then, he was driving his guests from the station,
And the floods were wide
All over the countryside …	330
All my windows lit up and wide,
And blazing like torches down a tide,
Over the waters …
The Mare  [From the cloverfield].  That wouldn’t be me!
When I was young I lived in Dover,	335
In Kent, by the sea. So he didn’t drive me.
When I was young I went much faster
Over the sticks as slick as a hare,
With a gunner officer for a master.
And I took officers out to lunch	340
With their doxies to Folkestone. It wouldn’t be me!
The Milch-goat.  Munch; munch … Munch; munch!
In the Master’s clover … But poor old Me!
The Unborn Son of the House.  Malodorous Image-of-Sin-with-a-Beard,
It is time I was heard.	345
The House.  That Christmas night …
Son of the House.  It would have to be Christmas
With floods so they missed Mass …
The House.  Your Dad’s never missed Mass
At Christmas!…	350
So all my windows, blazing with light
Called out Welcome across the night.
And the Master’s voice came over to me:
“The poor old shanty looks just like a ship,
Lit up and sailing across the sea!”	355
That was my lad …
And another, just as young and as glad,
As they used to be, all, before the war,
Said: “And all of her lamps have all their wicks on!”
That would be Dickson …	360
Son of the House.  My mother, when her pains have loosed her
And I am grown to man’s estate,
Shall go in gold and filagree;
And I’ll be king and have a king’s glory …
The Rooster.  Kickeriko! Kickerikee!	365
I am the Rooster!
Son of the House.  The Dad, with no hair on his pate,
Reading my story …
The Rooster.  I am the Bird of the Dawn, calling the world to arouse.
I, even I, am the cock of the house!	370
The Skylark.  Time I was up in the sky!
It is time for the dew to dry.
I am the Bird of the Dawn!
The Nightingale.  Time I was down on my nest.
The moon has gone down in the west:	375
Day-folk, goodbye!
The House-dog.  Here’s our young maid! What a yawn!
The Milch-goat.  The houseboy is crossing the lawn
Under the fir.
Will he give me a Swede?	380
That’s the thing I most need!
The House.  What a stir! What a stir!
Did you ever?
All of a sudden it’s day
With its tumult and fever!	385
I must have nodded away!
The Drake.  I am the Drake! I’m the Drake.
We too have been all night awake;
But making no fuss, not one of the seven of us.
For our heads were far under our legs	390
Drinking the dregs of the lake.
Therefore my ladies lay eggs,
Ducksegg green!
The Maid.  Where have you hid
The copper-lid?	395
Where on earth have you been?
Where on earth is it hidden?
Houseboy.  I didn’t!
Maid.  You did!
Houseboy.  I didn’t … I never …	400
Maid.  I see you …
Houseboy.  You never!
Maid.  How on earth can I ever
Cook the pigs’ food if I can’t find the lid
Of the copper?	405
Houseboy.  You whopper! I never
Touched the old lid of your copper!
Maid.  The lid’s lying out in the midden.
Himself must have took it!
Houseboy.  So there then! Give over! .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .	410
Maid.  Did you ever! What next!
Our Master’s asleep in his chair!
I’ll wager you never a leg he’s stirred
Since four of the clock, with the cat on his knee!
Postman.  This letter’s registered!	415
Maid  [To Himself].  Ned Postman wants a receipt in ink …
Himself  [Opening letter].  To sink … No, not to sink!
Maid.  It’s a registered letter
The postman wants a receipt in ink for.
Herself  [Calling from upper window].  Charley!	420
The mare’s in the clover,
Making for the barley.
She’s knocking down the sticks …
Himself.  It’s over—
We’re over this terrible fix	425
For a quarter or so!
Herself.  And we were in such a terrible fix!—
And you never let me know!
Himself.  Not quite enough to take to drink for …
[To Houseboy.]  Fetch the mare from the barley,	430
You’d better …
Herself.  Oh, Charley!
Himself.  I said: Not quite enough to take to drink for!
It was like being master of a ship,
Watching a grey torpedo slip	435
Through waves all green.
It would have been …
And all one’s folk aboard …
Herself.  Yourself! Yourself! You’ll surely now afford
Yourself a new coat …	440
And a proper chain and collar for the goat!
Himself.  Good Lord!
Yourself! Yourself! You may go to town
And see a show: there are five or six on,
And you can have the little new gown	445
You said you’d fix on …
Herself.  But, O Yourself, we can’t afford it!
Himself.  You’ve not had a jaunt since the honeymoon …
Thirteen months and a day. And very soon …
The Unborn Son of the House.  I shall so pronk it and king it and lord it—	450
Over the sunshine and under the moon …
Himself.  If Fate be kind and do not frown,
And do not smite us knee and hip,
This poor old patched-up thing of a ship
May take us yet over fields all green,	455
And you be a little dimity queen …
Son of the House.  As the years roll on and the days go by,
I shall grow and grow in majesty …
Herself.  You always say I’ve no majesty!—
Not even enough for a cobbler’s queen!	460
The House.  By and by
They’ll be talking of copper roofs for the stye!
The Pigs.  We were wondering when you would come to the Pigs!
Yet they say it’s we that pay the rent!
Himself.  Great golden ships in ancient rigs	465
Went sailing under the firmament,
And still sail under the sky and away—
Tall ships and small …
And great ships sink and no soul to say.
But, God being good, in the last resort	470
I will bring our cockle-shell into port
In a land-locked bay,
And no more go sailing at all!
Herself.  Kind God! We are safe for a year and a day!
And he is so skilful, my lord and my master,	475
So skilled to keep us all from disaster;
Such a clever, kindly, Working One!
That I’ll yet have my dairy with slabs of marble,
A sweet-briar thicket where sweet birds warble,
And an ordered life in a household whereof he	480
Most shall praise the nine-o’clock coffee;
And a little, mettlesome, brown-kneed One
To lie on my heart when the long day’s done …
Rooster.  Pullets, go in; run out of the sun!
He’s climbing high and the hayseed’s dun.	485
I am the Rooster with marvelous legs!
Pullets, run nestwards and lay your eggs!
Herself.  For my son; my son; my son; my son!
EPILOGUE The House Itself.  I am their House! I resemble
The drawing of a child.	490
Drawing, “just a house,” a child draws one like me,
With a stye beside it maybe, or a willow-tree,
Or aspens that tremble.
That’s as may be …
But all the other houses of all nations	495
Grand or simple, in country or town,
All, all the houses standing beneath the sky
Shall have very much the same fate as I!
They shall see the pressing of generations
On the heels of generations;	500
Shall bear with folly; shall house melancholy;
At seasons dark and holy shall be hung with holly;
On given days they shall have the blinds drawn down,
And so pass into the hands—
Houses and lands into the hands	505
Of new generations.
These shall remain
For a short space or a long,
Masterful, cautious or strong;
Confident or overbold.	510
But at last all strong hands falter;
Frosts come; great winds and drought;
The tiles blow loose; the steps wear out;
The rain
Percolates down by the rafter.	515
Their youths wear out;
Until, maybe, they become very gentle and mild.
For certain they shall become very gentle and old,
Having stood too long.
And so, all over again,	520
The circle comes round:
Over and over again.
And …
If You rise on this earth a thousand years after
I have fallen to the ground,	525
Your fate shall be the same:
Only the name
Shall alter!