"hearty" poems
your witty remarks
and hearty jokes
aren't very funny
i thought i'd tell you
before things got
out of hand
i don't appreciate you
calling me
*"sweetheart"
"baby"*
or
"darling"
you are no one to me
and those
nicknames are
reserved
for those who
actually know
how to treat me
as a human
not a plaything
just because
i was born a certain gender
does not
give you the right
to feel like
you have the right
to call me
what you want
and treat me
as you please
my ******
(yes, i spoke the forbidden, sue me)
does not
make me
better
or more
than any
other human
with
any other
*** organs
so next time
you're about to
open that
big mouth of yours
or
put your
arm around my shoulders
or
wink at me
you'd better
think
twice
i'm using
my words
nicely
but
i'm not
always going to be
so nice
unlike what you said earlier
i'm not overreacting
this is a natural response
to everyday sexism
and just because
society has become used to it
adapted to it
accepted it
does not mean
i will give in
or give up
or ever conform
to these
downright disgusting norms
i am a woman
that does not make me
inferior
to those of other genders
nor
am i superior
to anyone
well...
except, maybe,
you
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
"This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did ******
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant ****** drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending."
-Marge Piercy
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Colours curdling, water washing every *****
Out of us evil ever going and playing on
Land of character cherished by coloured lawn.
What a scene to see! Gracious glory gone
If you miss this mesmerizing festival upon
A folly. Foolish will be called such a conn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Holy played in school is highly pleasing crayon,
For Kinar, Aayushi, Kunal. Aryan or John.
Monorhyme has one colour, holi many micron.
Mital, Mitesh, Vaikhu, SIddhu, Saurabh are don.
This day even principal thinks to prevent throne
And join joy with teachers - see anxiety thrown.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Songs, screams; dance, D.J.; homage and hymn on;
This day with Holika heavy burdens and sins thrown.
Cruel Hiranyakashyapa was killed; glory was won.
Kunal, Arpita, Sandeep, Amit and Shreyas on lawn
Play water and colours with cool Pari’s scone
In Jalgaon, Agra, Kanpur, Karanja, Surat or Bonn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:22 AM UTC
*Once there stood a Sailor,
Tall and Bold he was,
Upon the waves was his home,
Eye of the storm he was.
Some called him Charming,
Cindrella was in love,
Sindbad wanted a friend
SnowWhite could'nt succumb.
Jasmine searched the seven seas
To bring him back to ground,
And Alladin pushed him underneath
Hoping he'll fall.
But there stood a Mermaid,
Upon a stubborn rock,
Her eyes were like wet sand
Her nose a pebble soft,
She lured the hearty sailor,
Into the sea so dark,
Hoping he would see a world
Where he never had to stop,
Hoping he would call it home,
His home upon the rocks.
He wore his mighty hat aboard,
Underneath he was at flight,
Fought the world of challenges,
With his awe-some sight,
To all he was a Sailor,
A person in disguise,
Wid arms like boulders
And chest fierce
But light..*
*You would ask
What's their story,
Well here goes,
It might be right,
But Sailor met the Mermaid,
Mermaid fell in love,
Love is what sailed along,
Under the waves of lust,
In a world so arid
It turned hearts dry,
He searched for a place to swim
Where he could also fly,
He swam with the mermaid
Into the glassy ****
Glossy waters
And coral reefs,
After years of gliding by
He decided to stop,
Not to make him stop,
the Mermaid cried a lot..
The sailor found a new place,
A place called a 'Road',
She thought their adventure was over,
And the Sailor was lost,
She tried to tell him,
Asked him to stop,
For she was no longer she,
Plural now she was,
She cudnt tell him
For he was in a hurry,
And about everything
He forgot..
But alas!
Was she happy
She saw the Sailor pray,
The prayer wasnt an ordinary one
He wanted for her to stay,
He'd seen Her world
For years together,
He now wanted her to see,
His own world of wonders
Above the choppy sea..
He prayed that She could
Join him
With no other blocks,
The only thing he wanted..*
"If only she could walk",
*She cried and cried
In the sea of course
She knew that wasn't possible,
She knew He was lost..
One morning she woke up
Washed up on the shore,
The sea no longer wanted her
She was thrown.
She'd seen the seas too much,
Now it was time for her to go,
To Walk with the Sailor
With new legs, aboard.
Happiness got the best of her,Tears would'nt stop,
He caught her arms,
Pulled her up,
And showed her how to walk.*
*She told him he had to love her,
And two other people too,
The Sailor was astonished
He dint know what to do!
A few days later
He did understand,
They were now four,
A bundle of all,
Joy had at last rejoiced!
He gave her a pearl,
From the very sea she came from,
To remind her of That world,
She accepted and
Now they were one mind,
A family,
One of a kind..*
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
Stepping out into the yard,
my curvéd bow strung tight.
Thereupon my driveway,
three blackbirds share the light.
The moment is opportune,
it must be now, do or die.
I've got thoughts of my belly
filled with hearty blackbird pie.
"What did they ever do to you?
They're not a threat in the least."
Yet should I die in my own yard,
they'd pick me for the feast.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
Ye got to Fancy this Hearty Stout, Aye,
Soot-soaked with tub-flavoured Laurels of Gold
Now bloke-haste Juggers tick your nerves on-high
And make ye shout the Trumpet-Football-Fold
Yet so, our Celtic Spirit comes to call
For you to Jig their Post-Victorious Dance
Or, if upset, prefer to keep knees on hold
And hope such Font will get you that Romance
Still, never deny those After-Glugs won't count
In palling the Bet for Arsenal's Wear
Sudden Death Match will cause the Team to Mount
And show those Charbarrels a Reason to Tear.
Raise a Swig, to where there Brave Captains be
I take me Share, and drink the Sailor in me.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
I want to go back, back to my New Orleans
This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana
But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime
The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets,
Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys
Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses
Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter
Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt
In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow
is to be ridiculous.
In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs.
As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in
the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street
And in any semi-deserted street
To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way
The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets.
An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past
A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day
An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well
A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging
A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled
Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small
I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee,
And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
gulls and terns spin in the air
as waves lullaby the sleepy dreamers
with grand tales and rich promise of paradise to be
found just over the horizons edge
sailors eye to the swift wind
sure hand to tackle and line
hearty men of salted liquid soil
grown to giants in the breakwaters thunder
but gentle that hands heart
when the tolling bell calls out the names of the lost
and the sea has swept away all but her witnessed tale
to leave the widows and forlorn child to
carve name to wall and mourn
past midnight now
a dead calm
and cloudless sky reigns
with a majesty of brilliant starlight
upon this sea reflecting the heavens slow march
i lay like a supplicant muted by the spectacle
to souls hunger this moment and place
shows a deeper meaning to thouse souls with eyes to see
a dead calm
and cloudless sky reigns
with a majesty of brilliant starlight
the old salt sailor breaks into deep song
that sooths and lends hardy meal to the heart
hold fast young lad hold fast
the morning rushing forward brings
the breaking wave and unfolds sail with quick wind
and the sailors eye rejoices with
merry songs to measure the hour
and jauntily bring our fair seabird
back to her warm home
sea and sand in the salt sailors blood
and a kind heart guides the way
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Indebted shadows prey on a prayer
They drink up their glories and sins,
While contending for souls so rare
And endow nails upon my skin:
Clever born,
Hearty,
And silver to the bone.
Nevermore,
Sadly,
Now mutely grey in tone.
“Awake!
Arise!
Win our war in Rome!”
They break,
They lie,
And never came home.
Forget
Please never,
This threat
I sever,
Regret?
Too clever
to lie.
Faulty sins hoist a ****** banner
While goodness is only a trend,
And foes are convenient in manner
Convenience: a conclusive friend.
Too clever to lie
What a convenience am I
Am I: your conclusive friend;
Answer as to why
You raise the stakes high
When you have no soul to lend?
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
Can you hear me?
Are you open?
It’s only a cup of water
I can take, that’s all
that would fit on my hand.
The heaven up above us
is hearty, big enough to drip
a generous drop for free.
Drink it, it isn’t salty is sweet, sweet sea!
Heaven is on the wings of the clouds,
flying free for anyone to see.
Swear to God one is keeping an open eye
But is unseen in broad daylight!
Nothing did I hide,
though I said it time and again.
The time wouldn’t stop.
It never did screening is on.
As if it says, “How can you tell
You can’t see yourself?”
The sky is open down the horizon
Yet one can’t be seen
Because someone is not showing.
What is behind is me.
The same is true for you.
One can’t see one’s self
through the other
The discovery is made together!
The show is destined for a duo.
.
That one is her mirror
Through the very one
One matchless nature see
Who is she?
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
Into a place far away but too familiar,
I push open the rusty purple gates,
Inhale a lungful of the province air,
Kick away blue pebbles on the dusty ground,
And then
Mano my lolo, my tito
Beso my lola, my tita
And give my cousins a nudge on the arm,
A pinch on the cheeks.
I squeeze between four people
In a rickety wooden bench and
Pass around plate after heavy plate.
I fill my banana leaf
With spaghetti too soft too sweet,
Almost like pudding,
With crispy chicken dripping with oil.
I wash it off with a cool glass of gulaman,
Chewy beads and gems in sugary water.
Fathers talk about basketball, boxing, billiards;
Mothers browse through photo albums and magazines;
While we children argue about Superman or Batman.
Our laughter fills the humid air
And goes up, up, up to the ears of the neighbors.
In celebration of the time we have together
And a nice sunny day
We devour our meals
And go ahead and
Climb trees and
Get our faces sticky with sweet fruits,
Lick chocolate ice popsicles,
Chase each other in the weedy playground,
Bike around town,
Pick colorful flowers,
Wrestle with each other,
Play badminton on a windy day,
Scare around chickens and guinea pigs,
And play patintero under the dull orange street lamps.
We nervously creep inside the back door,
All sweaty, bearing bruises and scratches
But still with wide smiles on our faces.
All is futile though.
An angry grandmother awaits,
Scolding us for
Coming home past sunset.
More and more stars glitter the sky
As the night gets deeper and deeper.
The gentle evening breeze whistles a note
As it enters through the window.
The karaoke blasts grating voices
Interrupted by hearty laughter.
Playing cards and corn chips litter the table.
We children exchange jokes and ghost stories.
And then,
We bid our goodbyes,
Sharing hugs and kisses
Stained with discontent and sadness.
Our hearts about to burst
In excitement for the next
Reunion.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
champion they whisper as he struts down the hallway
head held high
shoulders back, chest pumped out
his two best friends flanking his sides like guard dogs
hero the voices surround him
fawning, falling over their feet
to be the first to praise him
to get a minute to bask in the glow of his attention
but they don't see him when he's alone
************ to the very picture of masculinity
washing his hands in a daze
trying not to cry when he can't sleep at 4 am
thinking thinking thinking
they don't see his parents
not technically fighting nor abusing
but they don't speak to each other
his father sleeps on the couch
his mother cooks a hearty dinner
then eats a salad, no dressing please
they call him a champion
but he isn't all that different
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
How doth thou wake with an aching need?
For femmes and games and **** loads of ****
To he who dost appreciate the weight of a lass
As spindly and petite with one hell of an ***
Dost thou think for a mo...
That the only love felt tis that of a ***
Thou wast the only one left in the bar
With an overdose of E and a fool hearty scar
Nay my dear boy as one could only believe
A fuckboi thou art, and a fuckboi thou'll be
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
I look up from my book
to find beams of warm sunlight
touching my face,
the chugging of the train
accompanied by its whistling,
become my aural companions
for the journey,
as I look at scenes that
unfold before my eyes :
I pass by hawkers
trying to sell their wares,
their calls mingled with
joyous voices,
of children
excited about their
first train journey,
of families
on their way,
perhaps, to attend a wedding,
or to celebrate the birth
of a much awaited child.
I see :
village belles toiling away
on fields;
shabby looking buildings
speaking of years of neglect;
temples ringing with the sounds of
bhajans being sung with religious fervour,
bells being tolled, pleading
the gods to look down
from their divine abodes;
roadside stalls filling the air
with aromas of food,
promising hearty meals.
They are all ephemeral sights, and yet,
they have become a part of me -
the smells, the sights -
they shall bring back memories
that will become my companions
in solitude.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
While they noticed the stretch of kohl in her eyes,
I could see a pacific of emotions trapped.
While they admired her blushing cheeks,
I could read the paleness she painted red.
While they were going gaga over her smirk,
I could fathom the depth of pain that debarred a hearty gale.
While they were lured by the cascade of her hair when she unscrewed the bun,
I could feel the onus of the tantrums she wanted to turf out.
While they were hypnotized by her mesmeric curves,
I was stunned by the withstanding efficacy of such a fragile body.
While they adored her attire and scarves,
I could trace the bruises she carried with poise.
While they were hung up by the glory of her face,
I could do no help but ride out at the scars she concealed with sprightliness which was the most beautiful thing my eyes could ever have a view of and it left me dazed...
And my mouth wide opened.
-Aparajita Tripathi
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
.
Each morning I rise unto hours,
Wheeling in sun, with wee wild flowers.
An hearty wish, on hills by the sea
Each day I skip about live stones,
In winds I run, deep dancing my bones.
I am made of each, cairn on hillocky
Each sweep of air a breathy kiss,
On skyline by the sea, one mighty bliss.
Dancing my bones, in winds I run
Each hour a new turning of page,
Each heap on hill, of these I am made.
Wild wee flowers, wheeling in the sun
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
Sitting past the reeds
upon a willow tree
the kingfisher surveys
his watery larder
With keen polaroid eyes
a victim he spies
and measuring distance
he makes his next move
A flicker in thought
his blue metallic wings
now do go into action
such a beautiful thing
Down from the branches
wings folded back
he darts into the stream
by the banks waters edge
The minnow that was hunting
has now become the hunted
and out of crystal waters
the kingfisher is victorious
Out of the stream
with feathers to preen
after a hearty fill
of minnow and bream
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Because the thirst wouldn’t simmer; it ruptured cities into boils,
turned cultures into armies, an armageddon of cheeky stubborn Irish Catholics and thick veined Germans couldn’t imagine a world without their stout hearty headed pint.
Because white dry protestant angels thought crime existed in a vacuum, in a filthy saw-dusted saloon, the hub spawn of evil.
Because twice as many of those saloons were ******* by unlicensed blind pigs, not through free swinging doors on the streets, but in the domestic sphere; in the dark crept crevices of household sanctuaries.
Because bootlegging capitalist princes turned the industry into a stenchy liability with their home brewed distilled poisons. Alky cookers wrapped the commodity fetish and dubbed it moonshine.
Moonshine – spirits for the poor and blind.
Because this social reform was a moral reform lost in the oblivion of politics, lost in the timeliness of progressive spring-cleaning referenda’s.
Because the ragged, toothless class had to be scold, striped clean of their traditional barings,
because wisdom is everything and they’re spirits ran vilely wild.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
Well before the commencement of the spring
The British cuckoo or the Indian koel starts singing
With its sweet and natural melody
Some fools and children try to make a parody
It does not care somebody is listening
Or some others enjoying its singing
Or some fools and children start mocking
It goes on singing and singing in response to the mocking
Some fools think the koel suffer from some mania
but the fools suffer from xenophobia
They don’t like any thing new or sweet
And are not ready to give their hearty treat
They suffer from their foolish pride
and which they can never hide
You can’t become great by mocking at a cuckoo
It betrays your inner sick view
Among the seasons undoubtedly spring is the king
The melodious cuckoo or koel invariably does sing
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 12:32 AM UTC
The rainy season is at
The door once again,
And loneliness has
Brought me a new pillow,
But who is to defend
My repugnant soul?
Can it be the Gods?
Hear this! The rain has
Began knocking at my
Slammer door gradually,
Oh no, it is knocking
And wailing so heavily,
With his icy voice
Of storm and cold
Arresting my hearty dreams,
But I will retch at his smell
And hurry for my handkerchief,
Where is my lantern?
May be, the native doctor
Has the answer to the
Cylindrical jar containing
Her eternal juniper organs,
Indeed, it is my misfortune
To go about with the priest,
For even the child of
The priest even dies at noon,
Ah, I thought she was
Vigilant and ever-ready
To make the debtors
Chew the palm kernels,
But she became the
Portion of the exterior of
The *** that skin can cover,
I have lost my heaven,
Oh no, I have lost the
One whose neck is like a
Bunch of small-fingered plantain,
I have lost the whetstone
On which I sharpen
My thirsty sword to
Perform deeds of valour,
Let the Gods weep!
Let the ancestors wail!
Let the people of Africa,
Give me condolence of
The talking drums,
For their child is gone,
The wise woman who cut
Her thumb in order to get
A wise husband is dead,
Mother, the Okro full of
Seeds of children and literature,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
The toad likes water, but not
When the water is boiling,
Send me something
When someone is coming,
Efua Sutherland, the queen,
You and I exchange gift.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:58 AM UTC
The third moon brought forth from the shadow dark.
Gentle breeze freewheeled across the lakeshore.
Windswept was the air, in peace night was marked-
Unyielding stillness, blooming fairness more.
Silky pastel cloth, gushing curtain soft.
The window let in hushed waft soothing cool.
Fixed firmly on shore with poles planted stiff,
A pavilion meek light heartened the pool.
By the portico was a tree bent down
Whose white flowers bloomed lovely as a nymph.
Its jagged branches, lumped of golden-brown,
Delicately grown each emerald leaf.
Underneath its shades were cheery plantlets;
Pebbles hard and cold; red earth spongy ground;
Flying whirly bugs, glittering bead lets.
Fair maiden deferred, there then can be found.
Pleasing to the eye, that dignified dress
In white noble silk with fine needlecraft.
Regal as she stood, just for a mistress.
Mystic was her eyes, a soul was grafted.
Filled with potent life in her burning stare.
Profound as the deep, tranquil as it surge.
One may glimpse straight to, utmost one can't bare.
To its mysteries, one gave in and urged.
Verdant her hair was, hearty as it shone.
Longer than she was, white as the moonlight.
In her neck are chains, beads and shells she owned.
Varies in sizes, things that make her bright.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
How do you say, "Thank you," to someone who saved your life?
No, no, no..........let's get it right!
I was dead and gone.
I was 2 seconds from being burried deeper than most while life carried on.
I was about to decompose and be a feast for the worms.
I was a walking corpse in no other terms.
And then, she spoke to me and raised me from the dead.
I saw the light in her and followed it instead.
I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote, "Confessions of Him".
Suddenly, life surged! And I could stay afloat and swim.
If not for her this place would have made me a zombie in tomb .
No way to express myself, but, with her light my body was exhumed.
I could hardly sleep placing pen to paper.
The flood gates were opened and the words made me feel safer.
Medora had stolen all my energy and light.
I didn't know a place could make you give up your will to fight.
You'll know her when you see her.
Her beauty will never fade.
She glows in the distance like a lighthouse in a storm.
And up close she is blinding, but, its comforting and warm.
Her voice is like music and her smile makes you think of ****
Yea! She's that GREAT and fills you with delight.
Her laugh is free and hearty.
Her skin is rosey with flecks of white.
Her hair is a flame.
I have to say, "Thank You," and share her name.
Kayla, you were the fresh drink I needed.
Without you knowing I heard your words and heeded.
I am alive again!
Writing feels too good to be true!
The only way I know to say, "Thank You," is to immortalize you.
I wrote you this poem so I will never forget.
I want the world to know I owe you a debt.
You reminded me that words were a natural part of my soul.
And, to deny that I would always be half and never whole.
So, I ask the world to join me at my imaginary gala.
Hold up your glasses in a toast to the AMAZING Kayla!
Keep letting your fire burn because your flames ignited my oil well.
"Thank you," for saving me! From loneliness. From hate.
From Medora. From HELL.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
You are so beautiful,
As if right from my dream.
I'm very lucky that you are in my life,
To my thoughts, you give positivity.
Now soon be my wedded wife,
You are a blessing in disguise.
You are so mindful,
As if here to stay forever.
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 6:57 PM UTC
To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.
You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.
My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!
I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?
Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!
O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!
One Sunday while sitting behind a young lady in church, Robert Burns noticed a louse roaming through the bows and ribbons of her bonnet. The poem "To a Louse" resulted from his observations. The poor woman had no idea that she would be the subject of one of Burns' best poems about how we see ourselves, compared to how other people see us at our worst moments. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, louse, church, bonnet, lace, Scotland, Scots, dialect, translation
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 5:26 AM UTC