"faber" poems
I’m indebted to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 4th Edition 1996
**Ab Imo Pectore
A**b imo pectore,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
Cadit quaestio,
Desunt cetera.
E*st modus in rebus.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae,
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
Hic finis fandi,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
Jacta interdum est alea,
Labuntur et imputantur.
Magni nominis umbra,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Res ipsa loquitur.
Solvitur ambulando…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
Urbi et orbi,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.*
From The Bottom Of The Heart
From the bottom of the heart, the falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
The question drops, the rest is wanting.
There is a balance in all things, every man is the creator of his own fate.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Let there be an end to talking, for who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
The die is sometimes already cast,
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
No one can claim to know all things,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor and rich men’s houses;
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
It’s so obvious, it speaks for itself.
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
And to all the world,
There’s no turning back.
Ab Imo Pectore / From The Bottom Of The Heart
Ab imo pectore,
From the bottom of the heart,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
The falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
Cadit quaestio,
The question drops,
Desunt cetera.
The rest is found wanting.
Est modus in rebus,
There is a balance in all things,
Faber est quisque fortunae suae.
Every man is the creator of his own fate.
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Hic finis fandi,
Let there be an end to talking,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
For who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
Jacta interdum est alea.
The die is sometimes already cast,
Labuntur et imputantur.
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
Magni nominis umbra,
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
No one can claim to know all things,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor man and rich men’s houses;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
Res ipsa loquitur.
It’s so obvious, that it speaks for itself.
Solvitur ambulando…
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
Urbi et orbi,
And to all the world,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
There’s no turning back.
r10.1
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
The body lay in a mound of hay
That was all piled up by the forge,
He took one look at the butcher’s hook
And the sick rose up in his gorge,
He peered on down at the bloodied face
There was nothing that could be done,
But held his breath when he saw that death
Had taken the blacksmith’s son.
He looked around for a sign of life
But the shop and the forge were cold,
The blacksmith Kirk hadn’t come to work
Though he’d seen him, out in the fold,
And darling Kate would be calling in,
His fate whirled round in his head,
What would she think when she found him there
With the love of her life stone dead?
The villagers knew no love was lost,
They’d fought at the village fete,
All over the hand of the pretty one,
The hand of their darling Kate,
But George was on an apprenticeship
For his father had owned the forge,
While Faber was a farm labourer,
So Kate had gone off with George.
But now George lay in a pile of hay
And he wouldn’t be dating Kate,
So Faber thought that he shouldn’t stay
Though he’d left it a little late.
He didn’t know if they’d seen him come,
He couldn’t be seen to go,
They’d think that he was the only one
To deliver the killer blow.
He heard a rustle within the store
And the sweat broke out on his head,
He knew if somebody found him there
That he’d be better off dead.
He peered silently through the door
And into the corner gloom,
And Kate was sobbing, there on the floor
In the darkest part of the room.
Her bouffant hair was a tangled mess
Her dress was tattered and frayed,
It didn’t take but a single guess
To see the part that she’d played,
For blood was mingling with her tears
Her bodice was stained deep red,
‘He stole my innocence,’ she exclaimed,
‘I hit him just once,’ she said.
Now Faber sits in a darkened cell
To wait for the hangman’s rope,
The Judge had asked, but he wouldn’t tell
So now he’s bereft of hope.
He’d told the court that he’d stumbled in
On the blacksmith’s son, and ****
And hit him once with a butcher’s hook
For the sake of the darling Kate.
But Kate was strolling with someone new
On the day that they pinned his hands,
And led him up to the gallows floor
To pay for the court’s demands,
She never gave him a thought that day
Though the blacksmith thought he knew,
And lay in wait with a butcher’s hook
As Kate was passing through.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
O how the thought of God attracts
And draws the heart from earth,
And sickens it from passing shows
And dissipating mirth!
Tis not enough to save our souls,
To shun the eternal fires;
The thought of God will rouse the heart
To more sublime desires.
God only is the creature's home,
Though rough and strait the road;
Yet nothing less can satisfy
The love that longs for God.
Oh, utter but the Name of God
Down in your heart of hearts,
And see how from the world at once
All tempting light departs.
A trusting heart, a yearning eye
Can win their way above;
If mountains can be moved by faith
Is there less power in love?
How little of that road, my soul,
How little hast thou gone!
Take heart and let the thought of God
Allure thee further on.
Dole not thy duties out to God,
But let thy hand be free;
Look long at Jesus, His sweet blood-
How was it dealt to thee?
The perfect way is hard to flesh;
It is not hard to love;
If thou wert sick for want of God
How swiftly wouldst thou move!
Be docile to thine unseen Guide;
Love Him as He loves thee;
Time and obedience are enough,
And thou a saint shalt be.
Frederick William Faber
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
I am usually an amnesiac
Which is why there is always
cheap stationery in my pockets
- "An inexpensive set from Faber-Castell"
I look to my scribbles when I'm lost
unless an unexpected shower
has been tasked to ruin them
- "Pages stuck together, smudged and stained"
Three monsoons have come and went
I don't carry an umbrella or run for cover anymore
I stand in the middle of the downpour, drenched
But I guess some inks are just too hard to wash away
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 8:17 AM UTC
THE TEE-SHIRT READS:
I'm with her
And
I love New York
And
My eyes are up here
And
Here we go Steelers
And
Win one for the city
And
Faber College
And
Walk against cancer
And
Mechanics have the best tools
And
Where's the beef
And
All I need to say I can print on a Tee-shirt
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
[inspired by Wendy Cope’s anthology: ‘The Funny Side’ - published by faber and faber]
The sun is nowhere
This summer’s delayed
My throat is like sandpaper
Earth is my head
I read Wendy Cope’s masterpiece and I blabber:
“Will I ever be published by faber and faber?”
The news just announced
Now, at BBC
That people live longer surrounded by sea
******* I say and switch of the TV
“I’d live longer only if ff published me.”
So I close my eyes gently
And drift off to a dream
There’re thousands of people
Is my name that they scream?
Am I finally up on the poetry ladder?
Ms CGP published by faber and faber?
I awake with a smile
(that lasts a second or so)
My poem’s unfinished
I can hear the wind blow
The aches and the pains
Say “hello” once again
I don’t even get why
I’m a Wendy Cope fan
In fact if she’d be here
I swear that I’d grab her:
“How the hell you got published
By faber and faber?”
I’ll try one more stanza
My pain’s getting worse
My fever is up
And i turn and i toss
I have finished my drugs
But food still tastes like rubber
***And I’ll never be published by
faber and faber
***Alternative ending:
And I’ve run out of rhymes
For that ‘faber and faber’
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Did Civilians Write Poetry Back in the Day?
A medical professional, while taking my pulse
Asked me what I was reading
Poetry, I replied
Poetry of suffering in the Second World War
Most of it by civilians who were there
She asked:
Did civilians write poetry back in th’ day?
I changed the topic to my blood pressure
Second World War Poems
Ed. Hugh Haughton
London: Faber and Faber, 2004
This anthology is brilliant, with poems by soldiers, civilians, concentration camp prisoners, and prisoners of war from many nations. Several of the poems are anonymous, written on scraps of paper found on the bodies of the murdered. There is much fashionable babble about my voice / our voices / authentic voices / my people’s voices, and so on, but here is a fine collection by people whose voices were desperate to tell the truth, not indulge in self-pity, and find beauty among the horror
Mar 22, 2025
Mar 22, 2025 at 9:25 AM UTC
I choose paper ****** I am going cellulose.
Even Cinderella knows the tone of Bellow's
Prose is bellicose. Let's smoke some bath salts
Then eat that fella's nose. What up!
To all my jellicles. Looky looky
I got hooky. Put on my robe and wizard
Hat. Speak Wookie to Sookie. If 2 cents
Equals three bucks, Skeletor has acid reflux.
Roll over based god. Don't be hoven
From your umgebung. Chew Ummagumma
To bubblegum. Get slim in your jungle
Jim. Calling all Mongolians.
Those alligators have razor bumps. If they
Publish this bunkum Faber & Faber
Are chumps. Plants have lovely lady lumps,
Trucks like sanitation dumps. Angler
Fish love lamp. El Dorado love Ponyboy.
Caught a full house on the Rio Grande complete
With domovoi. Know how I know you're poor?
The roaches on your toilet can sing Ode to Joy.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber ******* or a rubber crotch,
Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand
To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed
To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit——
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.
Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start
But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.
It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
Sylvia Plath, "The Applicant" from The Collected Poems. Copyright © 2008 by Sylvia Plath. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Source: The Collected Poems (Faber and Faber, 1989)
Related
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC