"ischia" poems
You are the Siren song to my ship
You sing in your sleep
Unaware of the pitfall that is your Beauty
Please do not trust me, for I am adrift
It’s been several years since I was grounded
And I am searching for anything to hold my foot steady
We are a lot alike you and I
Except it is you that rises in the East and sets in the West
While I am what follows
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
There was an Old Person of Ischia,
Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier;
He dance hornpipes and jigs,
And ate thousands of figs,
That lively Old Person of Ischia.
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Was he a disciple or just a friend of Jesus
So many to choose from it carries on through the ages
Whether you hail from the sunny realms of Brazil as Juan
Or lead your life on the bus tops of Paris, showboating to the tourists as Jean
you are always just John
Did you see that goal on Sunday in Barnsley from Pedro
crossed in on a sixpence by that guy on loan from Bristol
Parading as the next man to steal the footballing thrown from Beckham
Just a council house kid from the block down in Peckham
again, just John
Kissing the Blarney stone an excuse for his gob
the banter the laughter hiding the rile in his job
that day in Ireland that Sean always dreams of
going back would be heaven, to find the girl he should have once loved
again, just John
The shores of Naples looking out over the sea
Ischia, Procida, Capri, the place he’d rather be
behind lays dormant, Vesuvius once angry
Pompeii, Herculaneum destroyed in its fury
now time to spread his net and look for new shores
only Gino knows it’s time to open new doors
again, just John
No matter where you are from
there is somebody like you just struggling along
troubles brew in every corner of this planet
don’t think it’s just you who really cannot stand it
again, just John
Difficulty is rife no matter where you seem to look
your boss is a grievance and you wish them long gone
but it’s not just you, it’s you and every other John
so I’ll say it again without a look in the mirror
I know your stress my friend because I am that man
yes that is me
I am just John
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Il est doux d'aspirer, en abordant la grève,
Le parfum que la brise apporte à l'étranger,
Et de sentir les fleurs que son haleine enlève
Pleuvoir sur votre front du haut de l'oranger.
Il est doux de poser sur le sable immobile
Un pied lourd, et lassé du mouvement des flots ;
De voir les blonds enfants et les femmes d'une île
Vous tendre les fruits d'or sous leurs treilles éclos.
Il est doux de prêter une oreille ravie
À la langue du ciel, que rien ne peut ternir ;
Qui vous reporte en rêve à l'aube de la vie,
Et dont chaque syllabe est un cher souvenir.
Il est doux, sur la plage où le monarque arrive,
D'entendre aux flancs des forts les salves du canon ;
De l'écho de ses pas faire éclater la rive,
Et rouler jusqu'au ciel les saluts à son nom.
Mais de tous ces accents dont le bord vous salue,
Aucun n'est aussi doux sur la terre ou les mers
Que le son caressant d'une voix inconnue,
Qui récite au poète un refrain de ses vers.
Cette voix va plus **** réveiller son délire
Que l'airain de la guerre ou l'orgue de l'autel.
Mais quand le cœur d'un siècle est devenu sa lyre,
L'écho s'appelle gloire, et devient immortel.
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