"ludlow" poems
When I came last to Ludlow
Amidst the moonlight pale,
Two friends kept step beside me,
Two honest friends and hale.
Now **** lies long in the churchyard,
And Ned lies long in jail,
And I come home to Ludlow
Amidst the moonlight pale.
3.6k
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
Against the morning beam
I strode beside my team,
The blackbird in the coppice
Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
The trampling team beside,
And fluted and replied:
"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
Yet down at last he lies,
And then the man is wise."
I heard the tune he sang me,
And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it
And threw it with a will:
Then the bird was still.
Then my soul within me
Took up the blackbird's strain,
And still beside the horses
Along the dewy lane
It sang the song again:
"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
The sun moves always west;
The road one treads to labour
Will lead one home to rest,
And that will be the best."
2.5k
The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.
There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.
I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.
But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan;
And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
1.9k
The rain always comes from Wales
and the river tern flows fast,
we're told 1066 started it all
the Castle and promulgated plantation design
the rise and fall
time and time again.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
Tabloid, describes every speck of ****
that seeks a global audience
from your kid's kindergarten blog
to the Rockefeller save face
Yet, these big players are the worst tools
Richest person, never spending
except when it comes to public relations
Nowadays it's damage control before it even started
So just in case there's another Ludlow Massacre
26 men, women, and children, all dead
the people are trained to believe the trusted news sources
fake an eyewitness report using your wife
like the ambassador's daughter posing as a princess
to spark the Gulf War
There was no evidence of killing babies in a hospital
Just sensational
We've been molded for over a hundred years
to have global views
and distance keeps us from our like minded dissenters
We're dancing to the same undulating dissonance
We're losing our local centers and rhythms
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.
There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.
I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.
But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan;
And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
1.4k
Leave your home behind, lad,
And reach your friends your hand,
And go, and luck go with you
While Ludlow tower shall stand.
Oh, come you home of Sunday
When Ludlow streets are still
And Ludlow bells are calling
To farm and lane and mill,
Or come you home of Monday
When Ludlow market hums
And Ludlow chimes are playing
"The conquering hero comes,"
Come you home a hero,
Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
Till Ludlow tower shall fall.
And you will list the bugle
That blows in lands of morn,
And make the foes of England
Be sorry you were born.
And you till trump of doomsday
On lands of morn may lie,
And make the hearts of comrades
Be heavy where you die.
Leave your home behind you,
Your friends by field and town:
Oh, town and field will mind you
Till Ludlow tower is down.
1.4k
‘TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’
Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter ***
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
There won't be many holidays to Europe for sometime.
Calais the gateway is the folly of despair
it's effectively the death knell for a Europe good feel factor
thats why United Kingdom holidays are adequate,
there's enough time to start as soon as possible,
sans health insurance,
We've got our National Health service at the ready,
good hygiene for restaurants and hotels
with enough burgeoning coffee venues
to blow a trumpet.
Love the clouds and the greenery,
longing to return to Ludlow
their restaurants are renowned.
Otherwise, Hampshire, Derbyshire you name it
history, tradition, local accents
Who needs Europe ?
We're free in our own paradise.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
top 5 things I miss about you:
1) the sunburn on the back of your legs
the
way you flinched at the touch of aloe;
peeling off your skin
layer by layer
2) dancing high in your room to Pulp Fiction;
trying desperately not to wake your parents,
standing in your
driveway as minutes feel like hours
3) our horrific inability to take
a single good photobooth picture
4) driving
driving home from the beach,
sand
coating your mats
sitting in cars writing poems,
while you wrench tires underneath me
pulling into parking garages to photograph
torn stockings against the car’s blue
exterior
your hand on my thigh driving back from Ludlow,
as I am fast asleep
breaking your backseat as I ****** myself into you
you naming it after me
5) your drunken texts;
your colloquial musings at 3 a.m.
your
professions,
your proclamations
waking up your grounded words,
despite your swaying body.
I long for your surprise pronouncements
while I sleep alone 551 kilometers away.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
It was the night of the thundersnow,
Meteorological harpie normally reserved for our northern brethren.
She stood grimly at the window,
In wait for a dawn which would not come
Save for the odd light, the incongruous rumbling,
Mock forbearer of those easy languid evenings of August.
She'd made some noise approximating a sigh,
Then returned to undress,
I hurriedly unlacing my boots, removing my pants,
(My feigned nonchalance a foolish, pitiable thing)
And I remember her ******* as oddly demure,
Her ******* bewitching gumdrops,
The triangle below her waist downy, almost kittenish.
I'd broken her maiden clumsily, eagerly, all unheeding haste.
We'd lain next to each other for a short while afterwards
(The schools already closed for the next day,
Her father recently gone to the boneyard on Ludlow Hill,
She soon to be shuttled off to some spinster aunt in Dillsboro.)
I'd nattered on about summer vacations and thens and laters;
She'd said little, simply studying me with the bemused half-smile
One saves for sad dreamers not intimate with the knowledge
That notions of tomorrow and forever are strictly for suckers,
And as I strolled home come mid-morning,
The sun implacably straddled the sky,
Leaving the sidewalks and shoulders of the road
Completely dry, as if the night before had been a thing
Of perhaps-only, of dreams and tales for a later time.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
2/17/2015
last Thursday, the snow came
down on Nassau street
and the ludlow alley
by the record shop
It came down in flurries
goosedown down on streets
where, in the spring,
students balance 12 packs
help us out!
And in the fall
they're not to be seen.
"Sir," I ask
stepping out from where
my friends drink flat whites
and chocolate lattes.
"Can I *** off you?"
i grab the Marlboro and walk away
It's funny how people suddenly
notice how cold it is outside
when you're out there alone.
**** little lady
it is cold outside isn't it?"
and "aren't ya cold, girl?"
a David Bowie leaks out of the record
store when someone opens the door
to leave or go in ? I don't remember.
"yes, it is cold," I reply, ashing.
"aren't you outside too?"
"Well.." The men
have no business talking to me
of course.
"Do you have a ride home?"
"Goodbye," I twirl on the stomped cigarette
go back into the café
say hello to my friends
and watch the pedestrians
scurry out like weevils
in the goosedown, which
I can only see because of the
Orange lamplight.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
soles hung by the window,
smooth leather shone, despite
light lost, despite the rain.
did you make these soles,
did you stitch and polish them.
did you make your mark there,
hang for all to see?
do many come in on the street,
after looking for housman, lost.
do many say, they would not do,
where we live, slipping the slate.
those are london shoes, not country shoes,
yet the soles are admirable, sir.
sbm.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC