"goldsmith" poems
BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ****** arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-pot of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.
IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.
37k
Dear Poet Friends, I hope you like this slice of Early History presented
below in simple verse. Please do read the short notes at the end, before giving your comments. Thanks, - Raj
ARCHIMEDES : THE PIONEERING
STREAKER OF HISTORY!
There lived in the Third Century BC, in the Sicilian
town of Syracuse, then a Greek colony,
A Greek mathematician named Archimedes.
He was tasked by King Hiero of his town,
To find the purity of gold in his crown;
Suspicious of the goldsmith having mixed
some material of inferior kind,
Which the King wanted Archimedes to find!
So, Archimedes lost in thought one day,
Entered the public bath on his way!
And as his body began to get submerged,
He happened to notice perchance,
Water spilling over from the tub!
The answer suddenly flashed across his
mind,
And he jumped up leaving everything
behind,
Wearing only his birthday suit,
Running through the street of Syracuse,
Exclaiming - “Eureka! Eureka!”
(I have found it! I have found it!)
Perhaps to become the first known streaker
of History!
While establishing the Principles of Buoyancy!
@ (see notes)
Archimedes, son of the astronomer Pheidias,
studied at the great Alexandrian city,
Remembered even to this day for his many
pioneering works, -
In Hydrostatics, Mechanics, and Geometry.
With his ingenious mechanical discoveries,
He held the great Roman galleys of Marcellus
at bay,
For more than three years, as Plutarch the
Roman Historian says! + (see notes)
Later one day, while lost in deep thought,
When some intricate problem of geometry
he was trying to resolve,
Refused to hear Marcellus' bidding,
To be slain by the Roman soldiers who had
come to fetch him!
O those Romans, with lesser brains and more
brawn!
And some hundred and thirty years after
his death in 75 BC,
Cicero, then the Roman Governor of Sicily,
Found the tomb of great Archimedes, near the
Agrigentine Gate, over grown with bushes and
thorns;
Where he lay buried in the scented dust of History!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
NOTES:
@ Principle of Buoyancy = any floating object displaces its own
weight of fluid. So weight displaced by a crown of pure gold and
the one already made could be compared to find the truth!
+ Archimedes designed large stone throwers, & crossbows, and
also grappling hooks using large cranes to grab Roman ships and
capsize them!
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
1.9k
The only thing brighter than hope
is loss
it chews into the goldsmith
that makes the soul
and gnaws me into colors
each part of me flying down
into the wilderness I am fluttering
as the farmer ploughs me into earth
where my intensity can rest.
In full dress once
I left an economy of boughs,
the candle isn't lit, a wick without its crown
I leave the world schooled in lean and lithe, a yogi,
I am here to study my own neglect.
The rest of the world, lion bodied,
glances at my century of rough.
But I robed the ground with my convictions
I couldn’t keep them
seasons burst out of me
even if I wanted to hoard my greedy treasures for myself
I couldn't
thus robbed of my enfranchisement
I mutter in time to the wind
sorrow gave me this reason-flayed second purpose
Which is to feed others, my body now a spilled nut
I am birded by the sowing belly of earth
my bells are rained and pinched
by this tapering
I am being shrunk to get through the door to death
only snow will enter in the end
when I am covered white and immaculate
together we give up color for the season of bones.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 1:34 AM UTC
In the pandemic of trust
what I found was him
he made sense of my mess
all that he cared of was my stress
all I must say to him
was a brother
He uplifted the standards
of brother for me
where I could be a commander
and he being a tree
to provide all that I need
or what I deprive of
Where there is no way
out there
he would not betray
what I choose are devils
And what he pray is
high-level
In the pandemic of love
he taught me something beyond
beyond feelings
beyond security
he gave the safest place
to reside in
he booked it for my entire life
and the irony is
I am not known for its rent
What I am familiar with is
he is a goldsmith
and I being his jewelry
would be in his locker
one more familiar thing
is there
this ornament is nothing
without her goldsmith.....
💕
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 12:03 PM UTC
I enjoy, the subtle shades, connotation of each word,
probe, how dexterously they are put together in an order
like jewels in an ornament for generations to wear.
The way the construct speaks to the brooding solitude
that moves in and out of my soul,as the reading proceeds.
I smell a fragrance, like the scent of fresh ripe fruit,
eager to taste it, sink my teeth deep, draw juice,
now find a memory awaiting to resonate with the
cadence of my heart.
I am such an animal
that can smell poetry's worth from a distance,
a goldsmith who could predict it's weight in gold
my avarice for a poetic diet, never dies, only swells.
Every poem of my kind, to me does something
my lover does, decidedly every imagery, carry forward
a memory, like wind a cloud, reaches a space beyond
touches eternity with it's magic wand, a flash results
Even if the poet leaves me mid way, I'd still see the light.
I've an enticing excuse to imagine what I want to see
a poem doesn't produce anything,but what it does to mind,
is pure magic,I am in that flow,far from the illusory reality.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
A little bit of ***
In a canvas bag
And a wallet full of notes
And a piece of rag
A tooth brush and comb
And a letter pack
And a bit of paper
With a number on the back
And a crisp old sheet
From a writing pad
Is a folded memory
And a poem so sad
Yet with joy in the lines
That live on still
While the love they were for
Will no longer thrill
For the cause is lost
Like the canvas bag
Left by the seat
With no name tag
How can I find
That fleeting two?
They won't be in Oxford
They were passing through
I met them in London
By the cold roadside
They wanted a lift
So I gave them a ride
They'll pass on
Down Exeter way
The cost of that lift
Was dear to pay
For now I am left
With a canvas bag
With a leather flap
For a naming tag
All covered with names
That student wrote
So when standing so cold
At a glance he'd note
The words of his subject
Written thereon
And his mind would warm
As he pondered on
The lecture from where
The thought first came
And the hour of the day
When he wrote the name
Nameless he was
And his lady too
Till the old bag
Was sifted through
Then a card
Came to light
With a name upon it
Plain to sight
And I remember
The college hall
Goldsmith's was
The name let fall
So to the English
Scholar then
I may return
The bag again
With a little bit of ***
And a sad love poem
I'll return them all
To their former home.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
When Archimedes jumped out of his bathtub
Shouting ‘Eureka’ naked down the streets,
He had finally found a way to uncover
The deceit on behalf of His Majesty’s goldsmith.
Had he stolen gold replacing it with silver
While carving the divine wreath commissioned by the Tyrant?
The Golden Crown of Syracuse to be placed on the head
Of a goddess to be tested without being disturbed.
It all began with overflow as he dipped his body in water.
It was evident and easy to observe
That some objects floated while others sank,
Occupying more or less, tri-dimensional space.
Fluids rejecting or enveloping the intruder,
Displaced proportionally to the latter’s
Volume, density and mass, led to the revolutionary
Discovery of buoyancy, sparkling new beginnings.
The understanding suggested, that if an object displaced
An amount of water heavier than its weight, it would float.
The opposite being true, an object displacing
An amount of water lighter than its weight, would sink.
Fluid’s volition to reclaim its legitimate space.
Although the system was unable to assess the fraud,
As shape came into account and a kilo of solid gold
Was smaller than the kilo of golden wrath,
Dipped into water discrepancy ignored the math.
Unpredictably, the genius found higher purposes,
Buoyancy to determine whether a steel ship would sink
Or float, make it through the Mediterranean and beyond,
Where the Pillars of Hercules warn sailors to go no further.
Non plus ultra to the realms of the unknown.
The understanding suggesting that if an object displaced
An amount of water heavier than its weight, it would float,
Bigger volumes, lower densities, empty hulls and ballasts,
Succeeded in opening the gates to new oceans and new worlds.
Buoyancy to explain why our bodies float at sea
Apparently rejected by expelling waters claiming back their territory.
Gases being fluids, air acts the same,
With the extraordinary result that a kilo of feathers
Is indeed lighter that a kilo of lead.
By 0,9 grams.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
When each of us, reach another,
a soul can be eternally saved;
the path has been laid out and
you must be courageously brave!
Are you willing to die to self?
Can you access the mind of Christ?
Do others see that you live for Him?
Do you have… His everlasting Life?
Better than a sermon on your lips,
is a contented spirit of humility;
in Life’s brokenness, you can shine
with His Light and vulnerability.
Christianity isn’t for wimpy souls;
many have died, having been martyred.
Become born-again on this very day;
Faith with Christ, can’t be bartered.
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
John 3:7; Matt 28:18-20 and
You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips.
-Oliver Goldsmith
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
i’ve been wondering lately
about the cynical views i hold dear
i identify with them greatly
but i’m not sure if they’re sincere
i don’t want to be sixty
and have not appreciated life while i have it
i never even wanted to live till sixty
but life’s all i have isn’t it
the idea of God always merely humoured me
and while an afterlife still eludes me
does nihilism’s peace really compete
with a serenity birthed purely from belief?
i’m non-committal for a family
but a child to guide and be close with
is a ***** kind of alchemy
that maybe would make me a goldsmith
i’m not one for a spouse
but i'd love someone to know me
maybe i could settle for a real house
enough to quench the wanderlust in me
society is cruel
too, life’s fatal rules
but i'd sooner be cast aside and sixty
than six feet deep at twenty
the selfishness of humanity always disgusted me
and while the blindness still eludes me
does humanity’s grief really compete
with a beauty Earthed like a stampede?
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
ice turns to air, freezing my insides with
every breath intake. the trees seemed as though
they were soldered, engraved by a goldsmith.
yet the grass is still alive without woe.
i sit isolated at a small park.
kicking the stones with many mindless swings.
cars ruin what’s to be silent as bark;
things have changed the old poets’ viewings.
old poets like emerson who said that
nature leads to truth, but how could truth be
found in a place consumed by noise and chat.
worlds transcendentalists would hate to see.
this park may still be calming like before
but only lies are hiding in the core.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
A grand dinner at Park Royale
Mingling with the aristocrats
the celebs and the royals
was introduced to a goldsmith
showing off her 24.4USD
fancy bue grey diamond ring..
she mentioned her name
gave a card written Jacob & Co
i am impressed same time i felt too small
when she asked me what I did for a living..
Unsure whether to be proud or shy...
told her i am simply a wordsmith
i write words of love and of virtues
Astonished.... she looked at me... amused and confused
WORDSMITH? She asked for my business card but i gave her this site
http://hellopoetry.com/write/poem/
she rolled her pretty eyes again
her diamonds shine...
my shy eyes met her questioning eyes...
and I slowly bowed and said...
"if you can't find me anywhere"
you shall meet my words
even if I die today or tomorrow
my poetry remains....
i am a wordsmith forever i shall be
the gold is in my words the carat 30.11
is me.
no profit will it make understand the
written word.
your ring will be forgotten in the years to come
my words will still be read ,the perfect word
will never die
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Lady Folly
He did not kiss me when he said good-bye;
I let him go, not asking why,
Self-reflection
But I knew why, today I am taking a break
To reflect on myself, on this blessed Palm Sunday
What do I really want, what do I really need?
Somedays I think I know,
especially then I fall back into my mode
I see things others don’t,
my ****** muscle contracts each time
he rolled over, and touched, another,
even as he spoke kindly, I always knew
It's not cheating for him. Somehow for me
It's an invasion of one's privacy
As I feud within: I shattered mirror,
Of myself, this can’t be love it's not real:
Even though,
I’ve learned it is far better to lay in an empty bed
Then to lay next to someone who makes me feel empty(quote)
In my case, I am experiencing a folly of a woman
When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom--is to die.
Oliver Goldsmith
URL: https://able2know.org/topic/6894-1
Poetry can be therapy, poetry can be therapeutic,
These past memories, months of longing feelings,
I need the touch of his hand, his voice I can easily retrieve
The path of my writing is a path of truth,
I am the one that contributed to this madness,
I am the one with the poet's keyboard and pen
I am the one that should have just stayed friends,
I am the one that hate all men,
I am the one that loves, hates, and then love again,
Emotions, emotions, keep taking me in the wrong direction,
I want to go back, to my safe place, called loneliness
My heartbreak hotel
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 2:20 PM UTC
I feel a sensation of tingling in my heart.
The fear that was locked in me is leaving.
I breathe the fresh air in.
Will this feeling of change do good to me?
Or will this change make me worse forever?
I don't know how to describe this feeling.
Is it only me ?
Or everybody does feel it?
The change is like a storm,
And it will give me a whole new form.
Which will mark the start of a new begining in my life .
I do believe that the God wants me to face reality,
And live a life full of morality.
The change will either destroy me or create me.
I am like a metal and the god is like a goldsmith.
Moulding me into a beautiful peice of shining gold.
First making me feel cold.
And then making me bold.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
Rarely a winner, the sad lonely long-distance sinner,
A heart of broken rubble, repair not worth the trouble,
In conflict with life’s rabble, their ill-informed babble,
Lacking civilised patina, that saps my spiritual stamina.
I face a blank wall of ignorance, solace is a constant séance,
Lifeless I drift in hyperspace, a freefall from grace,
A bat-squeak whispers what a waste! wake up and chase!
Those youthful hopes and romance, you so readily denounce.
Soar away wordsmith! banish all doubts as myth,
Word by word and line by line, rise up and shine!
Love and valour will align, poetry will become your new divine,
Forge beauty as any talented goldsmith, oh sweet songsmith!
Some will mock and wonder, let courage be your rudder,
Through cruel shoals of torment, that masquerade as comment,
Rip away the tattered cloak of lament, hail poetry’s debutante!
Let soul and passion cast asunder, the years of sorrowed shudder.
Arise Sir Poet! your old world is there to conquer and outwit!
© Robert Porteus
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 6:51 AM UTC
Bleecker Street, a name associated with New York City in the section of Soho
But makes Bleecker Street many don’t know
Just what made Bleecker Street unique?
It’s straight out history is what makes the street complete
It was a Goldsmith shop
Just a gallop hop
The shop was the most famous on the block
The Goldsmith owner being Manny Strong
He was a man who knew how to get along
Mr. Strong was also a professional strongman
His strength was always in demand
Mr. Strong could bend bars to shape horseshoes
However, he could lift heavy weights and even horses himself
Now Manny Strong was ahead of his time, but not like everybody else
Mr. Strong was a valued Circus strongman being the star of the show
But a good glance of his physique was just follow the flow
He would often lift weights over his head
But he would often break chains instead
Mr. Strong had no trouble in getting a female date
But it always had to be a woman who could relate
It was Mr. Strong’s strength that was his build up
His massive muscles were his character in making female’s feel safe in his arms
Yet it was his confidence in don’t be alarmed
Mr. Strong was all strength in being a sturdy solid man
The call of his trade, a business man in demand
One of the strongest in the land
This was Manny Strong’s life that made Bleecker Street his caravan.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
1.
Sweet Blaisdon, loveliest village of the name,
by chance I come back here to live again.
There smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
while Summer Autumn’s blooms delayed.
Dear lovely haven of innocence and ease,
joy of my youth, where every face did please.
In bygone times I wandered Velde House Lane,
stood by its gates to watch the passing train.
Oft, have I sensed and seen thy every charm:
strolled Nottswood height, gazed on Stud Farm,
loitered by Longhope Brook, aside the water Mill,
heard St. Michael’s bells peal over Cinder’s Hill.
Now in my Winter years The White Hart bench
awaits where often I was wont my thirst to quench.
In mind, above plum tree blossom watching over all,
I clearly see the stately tower of noble Blaisdon Hall.
2.
Remembrance is music whose sweet refrain
echoes as I flee the spheres of peopled pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
in all my griefs, of which I’ve had my share,
I still have hopes, my final years to crown,
here in Blaisdon before I lay me down;
to trim life’s guttering candle to its close,
to fan a gem-like flame from dying. In repose.
I still have hopes, dear Muse attend me still,
to show the curious my life-learned skill,
in open forum a growing group to draw,
to tell in poems of all I felt, and all I saw.
For, as a fox whom hound and horse pursue,
flees to the place from whence at first it flew,
I still fond hopes hold, my long travails past,
here to return, recline, to die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
I find at last all I never thought was mine.
How happy man who crowns, in years like these
a toiling youth of labour with such an age of ease.
Tobias - after Oliver Goldsmith.
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 6:38 AM UTC
THE SEED OF TALENT
.The mustard seed
Fell on the thorny part
It found it death
.The winter marƙed its funeral
The summer
markeɗ it resurrection
Now green has becomes it hue
.The amorphous unrefined pebble
Has wiggled leisurely
To the workroom of the goldsmith
He has made
the iron passed it's aggression on it
And it ***** ***** has turned golden
.The one quarter of the talent
Has found its way
to the care of a productive servant
Riches has he made from a little talent
.Green has it becomes
The mustard seed of talent
Golden has it become
The amorphous pebble Of divine gift
Riches has he made
From the little talent
By
Ayodeji Lawson lawmyk
©2018
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 5:33 AM UTC
The Fable of Jesus
Jesus was skeptical of his tribe, as a trainee carpenter
so lousy couldn't even make a bookshelf, they kidded him
for that and Jesus took umbrage and criticized
the priests who served the Romans.
He took to hanging out with a group of radicals of the day
and since he was good with words, became their leader.
They had groupies too, one of them was Magdalena and
Jesus took a shine to her without saying so, but them all
knew from the way he looked at her.
Being admired by his flock, Jesus thought he could take
on the establishment, like when he chased money lenders
out of the temple; he was wrong.
When the Romans mocked him and crowded him a king,
he thought the people would come to save him, no such
a thing happened, he was strung up (Crucified).
The women came to his rescue, healed his wounds and
sent him to France where he took the name of Pierre,
married Magdalena had seven children and was
a much-respected Goldsmith
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 2:31 AM UTC
Little beautiful white girl
Your eyes like brown pearl
Beauty of your Iris
Remember for centuries my wish
Timid pupil is very sensitive
Those pearl are too executive
Peeping out from rose petal eyelid cleft
Looks delicated when you uplift
Suddenly when your eyes enlarge
It create a Corona discharge
Your eyebrow is made up of silk
Sclera is white as a milk
Your willpower is too strong
Stops you in doing wrong
Oozing out of a hot tear drop
While they are full of hope
On your Hurt When You blink
All those tears they immediately drink
Redness in eyes while you anger
It looks very danger
Like a brave Lion in a cage
It's Lethal when you gaze
Deep as ocean
Powering out your emotion
Those glittering eyes Speaks alot
People will understand not
It's like an illuminating whorl
Only a goldsmith values a pearl
No one knows the path of Heaven or hell
You are owner protect them well
Little beautiful white girl
Your eyes like brown pearl
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC