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"poland" poems
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
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Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
Bucket List? -- Not Me!
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
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Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs hellopoetry Guinea-Bissau needs hellopoetry Guyana needs hellopoetry Haiti needs hellopoetry Honduras needs hellopoetry Hungary needs hellopoetry Iceland needs hellopoetry India needs hellopoetry Indonesia needs hellopoetry Iran needs hellopoetry Iraq needs hellopoetry Ireland needs hellopoetry Israel needs hellopoetry Italy needs hellopoetry Jamaica needs hellopoetry Japan needs hellopoetry Jordan needs hellopoetry Kazakhstan needs hellopoetry Kenya needs hellopoetry Kiribati needs hellopoetry Korea, North needs hellopoetry Korea, South needs hellopoetry Kosovo needs hellopoetry Kuwait needs hellopoetry Kyrgyzstan needs hellopoetry Laos needs hellopoetry Latvia needs hellopoetry Lebanon needs hellopoetry Lesotho needs hellopoetry Liberia needs hellopoetry Libya needs hellopoetry Liechtenstein needs hellopoetry Lithuania needs hellopoetry Luxembourg needs hellopoetry Madagascar needs hellopoetry Malawi needs hellopoetry Malaysia needs hellopoetry Maldives needs hellopoetry Mali needs hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs 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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
The World NEEDS HelloPoetry (Please Make A Contribution.)
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs hellopoetry Guinea-Bissau needs hellopoetry Guyana needs hellopoetry Haiti needs hellopoetry Honduras needs hellopoetry Hungary needs hellopoetry Iceland needs hellopoetry India needs hellopoetry Indonesia needs hellopoetry Iran needs hellopoetry Iraq needs hellopoetry Ireland needs hellopoetry Israel needs hellopoetry Italy needs hellopoetry Jamaica needs hellopoetry Japan needs hellopoetry Jordan needs hellopoetry Kazakhstan needs hellopoetry Kenya needs hellopoetry Kiribati needs hellopoetry Korea, North needs hellopoetry Korea, South needs hellopoetry Kosovo needs hellopoetry Kuwait needs hellopoetry Kyrgyzstan needs hellopoetry Laos needs hellopoetry Latvia needs hellopoetry Lebanon needs hellopoetry Lesotho needs hellopoetry Liberia needs hellopoetry Libya needs hellopoetry Liechtenstein needs hellopoetry Lithuania needs hellopoetry Luxembourg needs hellopoetry Madagascar needs hellopoetry Malawi needs hellopoetry Malaysia needs hellopoetry Maldives needs hellopoetry Mali needs hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs hellopoetry Turkey needs hellopoetry Turkmenistan needs hellopoetry Tuvalu needs hellopoetry Uganda needs hellopoetry Ukraine needs hellopoetry United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry United Kingdom needs hellopoetry United States needs hellopoetry Uruguay needs hellopoetry Uzbekistan needs hellopoetry Vanuatu needs hellopoetry Vatican City needs hellopoetry Venezuela needs hellopoetry Vietnam needs hellopoetry Yemen needs hellopoetry Zambia needs hellopoetry Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry
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196
It was early nineteen thirty four The world was set to change Europe was on fire It was time to rearrange Poland was the first stop The German Army on the move So we left for America I hope you did approve You came with me to Jersey On a trip across the sea You've guarded all my secrets Known by only you and me You used to spin quite gaily Now you just stand there en pointe You're my clipped wing little angel That's the name I shall anoint Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet I sit here and remember All the treasures you once hid You've still some trinkets in there Some from when I was a kid Your tu tu is all tattered The silk lining frayed and torn But, you've held together nicely But, I guess we're both quite worn Your lipstick isn't red now I hear your music in my head It hasn't played for 50 years I just remember it instead The music gave up playing You were slightly over wound But, you still twirled and kept dancing Even though there was no sound Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet I've told you more than anyone Than I have ever known We've been together now forever You're the most precious thing I own You've been with me for two husbands And you've seen my kids pass on There's just me and you,  my dancing girl All the rest of them are gone Your paint is chipped and cracked Your pony tail is broken too If I still can recollect now In the fall of fifty two Your spring is rusted tightly You need a hand to stand up right But, then again, I do as well And most days it's quite the fight Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet Charms and little trinkets Plastic jewellery, real as well Secrets of a child Secrets you would never tell I am now moving to December Of my calendar of years Soon my life will end and There's no one left to shed  me tears I sit here and I wonder What shall become of you My Thumbelina Ballerina In your dancing dress of blue You started as a music box You are not used as that no more But, Thumbelina Ballerina Will you dance for me once more? Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet
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Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
Thumbelina Ballerina
It was early nineteen thirty four The world was set to change Europe was on fire It was time to rearrange Poland was the first stop The German Army on the move So we left for America I hope you did approve You came with me to Jersey On a trip across the sea You've guarded all my secrets Known by only you and me You used to spin quite gaily Now you just stand there en pointe You're my clipped wing little angel That's the name I shall anoint Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet I sit here and remember All the treasures you once hid You've still some trinkets in there Some from when I was a kid Your tu tu is all tattered The silk lining frayed and torn But, you've held together nicely But, I guess we're both quite worn Your lipstick isn't red now I hear your music in my head It hasn't played for 50 years I just remember it instead The music gave up playing You were slightly over wound But, you still twirled and kept dancing Even though there was no sound Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet I've told you more than anyone Than I have ever known We've been together now forever You're the most precious thing I own You've been with me for two husbands And you've seen my kids pass on There's just me and you,  my dancing girl All the rest of them are gone Your paint is chipped and cracked Your pony tail is broken too If I still can recollect now In the fall of fifty two Your spring is rusted tightly You need a hand to stand up right But, then again, I do as well And most days it's quite the fight Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet Charms and little trinkets Plastic jewellery, real as well Secrets of a child Secrets you would never tell I am now moving to December Of my calendar of years Soon my life will end and There's no one left to shed  me tears I sit here and I wonder What shall become of you My Thumbelina Ballerina In your dancing dress of blue You started as a music box You are not used as that no more But, Thumbelina Ballerina Will you dance for me once more? Thumbelina, Ballerina Dance your dance for me We've been together eighty years You are who I want to be Thumbelina, Ballerina Just one more pirouette We've been together all this time Our dancing's not done yet
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96
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity. . . . A window, holy gold. The fire makes it precious, The same fire Melting the tallow heretics, Ousting the Jews. Their thick palls float Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out Germany. They do not die. Grey birds obsess my heart, Mouth-ash, ash of eye. They settle. On the high Precipice That emptied one man into space The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent. It is a heart, This holocaust I walk in, O golden child the world will **** and eat.
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8k
Mary's Song
Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!
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7.8k
The Swarm
Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!
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60
Dear Poet Friends, Here is a poem by a young Canadian poet named Darien, which I found while browsing the Net! I would like to share this with you as a prelude to my poem about the 'Rise of The Third Reich', - which I hope to post on this Site shortly. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi World War II - ADOLF ****** by DARIEN,  Aug 21, 2006 Austria raised a man so vile and vicious His life was dark, callous and malicious Passions of hatred engraved in his mind As he plotted to create his own mankind A soldier for Germany in World War One War to end all wars had only just begun The National Socialist Party appeared fast Their numbers grew rapidly as time passed Charismatic oratory and propaganda his tool False promises made, people he would fool Were Nazis the one to bring hope? Perhaps Without their help Germany would collapse The Reichstag Fire would be a stepping stone Germany's President died, he took the throne He became the fuhrer leader of all Germany And would start the worst war of the century War had been started with a Nazi-Soviet pact Together with Russia, Poland they attacked England and France were not ready for war Marching of Nazis soldiers was not ignored. Mussolini became his ally and supported him For all other countries their chances were slim Many countries were defeated in a few days the Fascist and Nazis would give him praise Blitzkrieg was a strategy that worked most In defeating all his enemies he came close The Nazis would spread all across Europe But it would be at Stalingrad they would stop Communist regimes were one group he did hate Yet it was the Jews he would try to annihilate In all cruelty, bloodshed, war would soon end There was still so much for people to defend On V-Day he saw all his armies demolished ****** and fascism in Europe was abolished World War Two ended the areas were secure From that evil, monstrous beast Adolf ******                                       - By Darien. (Canada)   ..........................................................................
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Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
WORLD WAR II - ADOLF ******
Dear Poet Friends, Here is a poem by a young Canadian poet named Darien, which I found while browsing the Net! I would like to share this with you as a prelude to my poem about the 'Rise of The Third Reich', - which I hope to post on this Site shortly. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi World War II - ADOLF ****** by DARIEN,  Aug 21, 2006 Austria raised a man so vile and vicious His life was dark, callous and malicious Passions of hatred engraved in his mind As he plotted to create his own mankind A soldier for Germany in World War One War to end all wars had only just begun The National Socialist Party appeared fast Their numbers grew rapidly as time passed Charismatic oratory and propaganda his tool False promises made, people he would fool Were Nazis the one to bring hope? Perhaps Without their help Germany would collapse The Reichstag Fire would be a stepping stone Germany's President died, he took the throne He became the fuhrer leader of all Germany And would start the worst war of the century War had been started with a Nazi-Soviet pact Together with Russia, Poland they attacked England and France were not ready for war Marching of Nazis soldiers was not ignored. Mussolini became his ally and supported him For all other countries their chances were slim Many countries were defeated in a few days the Fascist and Nazis would give him praise Blitzkrieg was a strategy that worked most In defeating all his enemies he came close The Nazis would spread all across Europe But it would be at Stalingrad they would stop Communist regimes were one group he did hate Yet it was the Jews he would try to annihilate In all cruelty, bloodshed, war would soon end There was still so much for people to defend On V-Day he saw all his armies demolished ****** and fascism in Europe was abolished World War Two ended the areas were secure From that evil, monstrous beast Adolf ******                                       - By Darien. (Canada)   ..........................................................................
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41
Diaspora From the Greek When I heard the word I felt it And I looked it up In my old red dictionary I could have used the Internet, I suppose But I like to run my forefinger down pages Of words I read the definition And I felt it Oh Oh We are diaspora. Am I using it correctly? We are a diaspora. Diaspora From the Greek From the green valley of Ottawa From Scotland From Ireland on wooden boats From the French village thirteen children From the mines in the North From Poland and from Germany From the churches and From the Blueberry patches From the Island Manitoulin From the dark lake Kagawong From Kinburn and Arnprior From Markstay and from Sudbury From Waterloo From Kitchener, Michener From the Suburbs Oh From the Suburbs From the red bricks, red currants And geraniums From green island cabins From the desert Oh From the desert From the potholes and pipes From the salty wind Cracked Caspian Sea From the middle of the east of nowhere. From the mountains Oh From the mountains From the crystal water fountains From the tram bells On the cobblestone streets From the torrents of the Rhein From the white cross Oh From the white cross On the green hill From the river Laurence From the French and from the English Plains of Abraham We are diaspora We are a diaspora Diaspora From the Greek How did it end up here on my tongue? It is diaspora. It is a diaspora Diaspora is a diaspora And I wonder if it misses its other pieces The way that I miss mine Ours There is no Roping us back together now There is no Home to go back to There is no Point of meeting Of reunion No White steeple in our old town No Yellow slide in our backyard No Old folks on an old farm No Walled house on a hill No Luzernerring 93 No Familiar riverwater There is no Ancient Greek anymore Diaspora Only fragments of fragments Of roots of stems of words In different dialects There is no Place for you to belong, Diaspora You’ve been sliced to pieces And scattered Into the wind But When people ask you Where you are from You say simply From the Greek Oh From the Greek And When people ask me Where I am from I say simply From the diaspora.
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Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
From the Greek
Diaspora From the Greek When I heard the word I felt it And I looked it up In my old red dictionary I could have used the Internet, I suppose But I like to run my forefinger down pages Of words I read the definition And I felt it Oh Oh We are diaspora. Am I using it correctly? We are a diaspora. Diaspora From the Greek From the green valley of Ottawa From Scotland From Ireland on wooden boats From the French village thirteen children From the mines in the North From Poland and from Germany From the churches and From the Blueberry patches From the Island Manitoulin From the dark lake Kagawong From Kinburn and Arnprior From Markstay and from Sudbury From Waterloo From Kitchener, Michener From the Suburbs Oh From the Suburbs From the red bricks, red currants And geraniums From green island cabins From the desert Oh From the desert From the potholes and pipes From the salty wind Cracked Caspian Sea From the middle of the east of nowhere. From the mountains Oh From the mountains From the crystal water fountains From the tram bells On the cobblestone streets From the torrents of the Rhein From the white cross Oh From the white cross On the green hill From the river Laurence From the French and from the English Plains of Abraham We are diaspora We are a diaspora Diaspora From the Greek How did it end up here on my tongue? It is diaspora. It is a diaspora Diaspora is a diaspora And I wonder if it misses its other pieces The way that I miss mine Ours There is no Roping us back together now There is no Home to go back to There is no Point of meeting Of reunion No White steeple in our old town No Yellow slide in our backyard No Old folks on an old farm No Walled house on a hill No Luzernerring 93 No Familiar riverwater There is no Ancient Greek anymore Diaspora Only fragments of fragments Of roots of stems of words In different dialects There is no Place for you to belong, Diaspora You’ve been sliced to pieces And scattered Into the wind But When people ask you Where you are from You say simply From the Greek Oh From the Greek And When people ask me Where I am from I say simply From the diaspora.
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113
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders everyone to 'dig in, everyone!' Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan. Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either. Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults. In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift. Ahha!
0
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Icarus Inside
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders everyone to 'dig in, everyone!' Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan. Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either. Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults. In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift. Ahha!
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7
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars <•> fluids in, fluids out   wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together, it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere, so what if it's spat-past midnight, isn't this one of those soul-criticality's, staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive   make sense to you? the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,   doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of yeah yeah yeah, my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious   tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream, a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson, and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid   is strong transformed into words water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again water is words, words are water,   the difference huge, the difference minuscule, both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids, all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh, staying-hydrated is primate place a new cold bottle in readiness for my 3 o'clock feeding
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Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
staying-hydrated
*i once had a girl from poland over, gave her the tourism of london, a daughter of my mother's friend.* i suffered sun stroke one day out with her, blonde hair and all, i was bound to feel the cold shivers, went to a party with a school-friend of mine and her... i was left in a bed shivering, he later said he didn't want to say it but did, that they kissed... like i didn't know the shorthand for oral *** now i'm drinking a beer, write one poem weeping, another like this one laughing prior, slapping myself in the cheek... two slaps to the face i didn't receive from prostitutes **** your moral relativism, you people only know that theft and ****** and **** are equal in the cauldron of einstein's space-and-time, i accept physical relativism, but i loath moral relativism, it's like giving an umbrella to the man under a champagne waterfall - and an anorak to a man under a waterfall of cow **** - yep, slaps outside the brothel, the kind women became knights' sparring partners for the oath undertaken, it was a practice among knights to get a handkerchief to ease the sting later... but when prostitutes don't slap you for trying to sort your life in order to provide, you sort of become two knights, twin siamese, you slap yourself because all that st. thomas gospel wisdom went into sex-augmentation procedures and cheap cancer victims with pill-for-pill profiteering... leisurely ladies of societies made rich by easy money, watching operas but still preferring to notice what their neighbours were wearing, the peasant snobism who are more distracted by what others wear rather than the music... a herd of wilder-beasts could ease out more tears at an opera than these "precious" ladies of the new post-aristocratic society of easy money... you drink beer, laugh, slap yourself silly on the cheeks for more laughter... your brain becomes a monkey in a cage gone mad rather than turning docile... so she came over and enjoyed my company, spotted a fox in an alley to a surprise... but then i got rudely told that oral *** was a kiss... well **** me there's a cataphract - let's ***** slap him silly so no byzantine philosopher cared to exist.
0
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
the 2nd age of chivalry
*i once had a girl from poland over, gave her the tourism of london, a daughter of my mother's friend.* i suffered sun stroke one day out with her, blonde hair and all, i was bound to feel the cold shivers, went to a party with a school-friend of mine and her... i was left in a bed shivering, he later said he didn't want to say it but did, that they kissed... like i didn't know the shorthand for oral *** now i'm drinking a beer, write one poem weeping, another like this one laughing prior, slapping myself in the cheek... two slaps to the face i didn't receive from prostitutes **** your moral relativism, you people only know that theft and ****** and **** are equal in the cauldron of einstein's space-and-time, i accept physical relativism, but i loath moral relativism, it's like giving an umbrella to the man under a champagne waterfall - and an anorak to a man under a waterfall of cow **** - yep, slaps outside the brothel, the kind women became knights' sparring partners for the oath undertaken, it was a practice among knights to get a handkerchief to ease the sting later... but when prostitutes don't slap you for trying to sort your life in order to provide, you sort of become two knights, twin siamese, you slap yourself because all that st. thomas gospel wisdom went into sex-augmentation procedures and cheap cancer victims with pill-for-pill profiteering... leisurely ladies of societies made rich by easy money, watching operas but still preferring to notice what their neighbours were wearing, the peasant snobism who are more distracted by what others wear rather than the music... a herd of wilder-beasts could ease out more tears at an opera than these "precious" ladies of the new post-aristocratic society of easy money... you drink beer, laugh, slap yourself silly on the cheeks for more laughter... your brain becomes a monkey in a cage gone mad rather than turning docile... so she came over and enjoyed my company, spotted a fox in an alley to a surprise... but then i got rudely told that oral *** was a kiss... well **** me there's a cataphract - let's ***** slap him silly so no byzantine philosopher cared to exist.
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59
Shema (“Listen”) by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable homes, who return each evening to find warm food and a hearty welcome ... Consider: is this a “man” who slogs through mud, who has never known peace, who fights for scraps of bread, who lives at another man's whim, who at his "yes" or "no" lies dead. Consider: is this a “woman” shorn bald and bereft of a name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a winter frog's? Consider that such horrors have indeed been! I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your beds and again when you rise, when you venture outside. Rehearse them to your children, or may your houses softly crumble and disease render you equally as humble so that even your offspring avert their eyes. Primo Michele Levi (1919-1987) was an Italian Jewish chemist, writer and Holocaust survivor. He was the author of two novels and several collections of short stories, essays, and poems, but is best known for If This Is a Man, his account of the year he spent as a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. It has been described as one of the best books by one of the most important writers of the twentieth century. His unique work The Periodic Table was shortlisted as one of the greatest scientific books ever written, by the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Levi's autobiographical book about his liberation from Auschwitz, The Truce, became a movie with the same name in 1997. Keywords: Holocaust, poem, Italian, translation, man, mud, woman, bald, nameless, houses, homes, bread, eyes, womb, empty, void, frigid, lifeless, horror, horrors, hearts, write, etch, engrave, inscribe, children, offspring, disease, avert, reject
0
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
Primo Levi "Shema" translation
Shema (“Listen”) by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable homes, who return each evening to find warm food and a hearty welcome ... Consider: is this a “man” who slogs through mud, who has never known peace, who fights for scraps of bread, who lives at another man's whim, who at his "yes" or "no" lies dead. Consider: is this a “woman” shorn bald and bereft of a name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a winter frog's? Consider that such horrors have indeed been! I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your beds and again when you rise, when you venture outside. Rehearse them to your children, or may your houses softly crumble and disease render you equally as humble so that even your offspring avert their eyes. Primo Michele Levi (1919-1987) was an Italian Jewish chemist, writer and Holocaust survivor. He was the author of two novels and several collections of short stories, essays, and poems, but is best known for If This Is a Man, his account of the year he spent as a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. It has been described as one of the best books by one of the most important writers of the twentieth century. His unique work The Periodic Table was shortlisted as one of the greatest scientific books ever written, by the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Levi's autobiographical book about his liberation from Auschwitz, The Truce, became a movie with the same name in 1997. Keywords: Holocaust, poem, Italian, translation, man, mud, woman, bald, nameless, houses, homes, bread, eyes, womb, empty, void, frigid, lifeless, horror, horrors, hearts, write, etch, engrave, inscribe, children, offspring, disease, avert, reject
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29
From the starting point in Poland To the hedgerows of France High above the English countryside to the depths of the Atlantic In the sand-ridden dunes of Egypt, Libya and Tunisia to the foothills and mountains of Sicily and Italy From the Pacific to Asia minor we fought Storming the beaches of Normandy to taking back France From Guadalcanal to Okinawa from Burma to China We fought
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Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
A Theater of War
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan. Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”) by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch for the refugees The time to weigh anchor has come; a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown, cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts. No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure; the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief, scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring... Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing! There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life! The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile, for they cannot know where the vanished are bound. Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves, since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey. Full Moon by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch You are so lovely the full moon just might delight in your rising, as curious and bright, to vanquish night. But what can a mortal man do, dear, but hope? I’ll ponder your mysteries and (hmmmm) try to cope. We both know you have every right to say no. The Music of the Snow by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years! This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years! Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery, It rises from a choir of a hundred voices! As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly, I share the sufferings of Slavic grief. Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era, To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey. Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear, With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul! Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me; I keep them at bay all night with my dreams! Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
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Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan. Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”) by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch for the refugees The time to weigh anchor has come; a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown, cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts. No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure; the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief, scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring... Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing! There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life! The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile, for they cannot know where the vanished are bound. Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves, since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey. Full Moon by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch You are so lovely the full moon just might delight in your rising, as curious and bright, to vanquish night. But what can a mortal man do, dear, but hope? I’ll ponder your mysteries and (hmmmm) try to cope. We both know you have every right to say no. The Music of the Snow by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years! This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years! Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery, It rises from a choir of a hundred voices! As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly, I share the sufferings of Slavic grief. Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era, To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey. Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear, With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul! Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me; I keep them at bay all night with my dreams! Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
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52
*The man with green hair and green hands. A long long time ago When army’s wore uniforms. We were khaki they were grey. My grandfather was fire warden In WW2 he had seven sons And three daughters . You could say he was a bit of a pacifist. Make love not war Was his mantra. He married my Grandma when she was seventeen. They were to stay married for over sixty five years. And produce tribe of ten children. He had spent his whole life Working as a coppersmith For the same company. His hair and hands tinted green From the metals Verdigris. My father was a baby just born In the middle of the war. We lived in Manchester. Money was always tight. But we were happy. Just as Herr ****** invaded Poland My grandad bought our first house. We always rented until then. It was a large town home. The six older boys All joined the marines At the outbreak of the war. They did one act of preparation That ultimately saved the family. They took down an old barn for a farmer And used the beams to shore up the stone cellar of the house. When the air raids came later. We would all huddle under the stair well Until the all clear sirens sounded. When the bad raid came It was the early hours of the night. Grandad was out on fire watch. Six of the sons were on ships In Europe and the far east. My aunty told me much later. When the war was long over. She heard the bomb falling It screamed as it fell. Exploding just outside our house the house caved in and they were all buried under the rubble in total darkness. She said grandma was breastfeeding the baby my dad. Grandad was busy the raid was a hard one. A friend said Frank your house has been hit It’s bad. He dropped everything and ran and ran Breathless he reached the fallen house. In his heart he thought we were all dead. It took ten neighbors four hours to reach us. They pulled the girls out first Then the baby my dad. And finally the dimutive figure of my grandma. She was weeping. She said Frank we’ve lost everything. There’s nothing left. He held her in his big arms Tears flowing from the eyes of a man Who had had a hard life. Who never cried. He kisses her full on her lips A single sign of public affection That was out of his character. He whispered to grandma. That odd Mary Because I just found Everything I ever wanted or needed.*
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Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
My Grandad with the green hair ..A true story from Judes past.
*The man with green hair and green hands. A long long time ago When army’s wore uniforms. We were khaki they were grey. My grandfather was fire warden In WW2 he had seven sons And three daughters . You could say he was a bit of a pacifist. Make love not war Was his mantra. He married my Grandma when she was seventeen. They were to stay married for over sixty five years. And produce tribe of ten children. He had spent his whole life Working as a coppersmith For the same company. His hair and hands tinted green From the metals Verdigris. My father was a baby just born In the middle of the war. We lived in Manchester. Money was always tight. But we were happy. Just as Herr ****** invaded Poland My grandad bought our first house. We always rented until then. It was a large town home. The six older boys All joined the marines At the outbreak of the war. They did one act of preparation That ultimately saved the family. They took down an old barn for a farmer And used the beams to shore up the stone cellar of the house. When the air raids came later. We would all huddle under the stair well Until the all clear sirens sounded. When the bad raid came It was the early hours of the night. Grandad was out on fire watch. Six of the sons were on ships In Europe and the far east. My aunty told me much later. When the war was long over. She heard the bomb falling It screamed as it fell. Exploding just outside our house the house caved in and they were all buried under the rubble in total darkness. She said grandma was breastfeeding the baby my dad. Grandad was busy the raid was a hard one. A friend said Frank your house has been hit It’s bad. He dropped everything and ran and ran Breathless he reached the fallen house. In his heart he thought we were all dead. It took ten neighbors four hours to reach us. They pulled the girls out first Then the baby my dad. And finally the dimutive figure of my grandma. She was weeping. She said Frank we’ve lost everything. There’s nothing left. He held her in his big arms Tears flowing from the eyes of a man Who had had a hard life. Who never cried. He kisses her full on her lips A single sign of public affection That was out of his character. He whispered to grandma. That odd Mary Because I just found Everything I ever wanted or needed.*
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80
why i am an only child? you have to ask the Polish women who were forced to drink iodine.... 1986...   Chernobyl...       it spread to Poland from the Ukraine...   a "rainbow" effect,#as my great-grandmother recounted... in the local park? streaks... of autumnal trees in their full bloom decay,       and the furthest green in summer... a strange time... why wouldn't my mother have more children? i guess, in fear of breeding a ****** pro-life, what?! you raise them! see how they turn out when you're dead! god's "grace"...                you ever curate the fate of your grandmother? well then!                  now you know! nature is ruthless! man attempting to overcome it?!                         you know what nature does? i know what nature does...   steam-roller and... somehow the most vocal speakers are those daring to question the feathers of a macaw parrot... substituting it with fashion trends... mort in concencus,..    vive in conscissio...          i might have been born with a sibling...   but i wasn't... the Scandinavian countries learned of it, from under, beneath the iron curtain... and who can actually blame Gorbachev? when the U.S.S.R. was made dissolute?       and no war took the  zeitgeist garments of a pope's approval? no cardinal red, with Attila's river...       who is to blame, the scolded transition period of peace? no one unless my grandfather can understand the peaceful transition of the disintegrated U.S.S.R., into a Russian Fed.?                no one?                    but the women of Poland and the Ukraine? still had to drink iodine...                   and i am... i am...                            i am...   i will always be... the long lost cousin of the Chernobyl geblüt; there is not concept of a butterfly effect... when it comes to the query of an, atomic reactor!
0
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
1986
why i am an only child? you have to ask the Polish women who were forced to drink iodine.... 1986...   Chernobyl...       it spread to Poland from the Ukraine...   a "rainbow" effect,#as my great-grandmother recounted... in the local park? streaks... of autumnal trees in their full bloom decay,       and the furthest green in summer... a strange time... why wouldn't my mother have more children? i guess, in fear of breeding a ****** pro-life, what?! you raise them! see how they turn out when you're dead! god's "grace"...                you ever curate the fate of your grandmother? well then!                  now you know! nature is ruthless! man attempting to overcome it?!                         you know what nature does? i know what nature does...   steam-roller and... somehow the most vocal speakers are those daring to question the feathers of a macaw parrot... substituting it with fashion trends... mort in concencus,..    vive in conscissio...          i might have been born with a sibling...   but i wasn't... the Scandinavian countries learned of it, from under, beneath the iron curtain... and who can actually blame Gorbachev? when the U.S.S.R. was made dissolute?       and no war took the  zeitgeist garments of a pope's approval? no cardinal red, with Attila's river...       who is to blame, the scolded transition period of peace? no one unless my grandfather can understand the peaceful transition of the disintegrated U.S.S.R., into a Russian Fed.?                no one?                    but the women of Poland and the Ukraine? still had to drink iodine...                   and i am... i am...                            i am...   i will always be... the long lost cousin of the Chernobyl geblüt; there is not concept of a butterfly effect... when it comes to the query of an, atomic reactor!
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73
16th, 17th, 18th chapel I don't care how many of them you make If there's no gift shop how am I supposed to remember I was ever there? In Germany I got a mug and a spoon In Wales, Austria, and Poland I got a spoon They're small and made of poisonous metal but very heavy for their size I heard from a former classmate that you can't get a spoon in Egypt they only sell forks What do you mean you're "not a very visual person"? May your indictment remain sealed despite the current widespread family tumult
0
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC
The Too Proud Street Vendor Who Never Wears Khaki
*ᚹᚨᛚᛖᛋ - alphabet above the ᚱᚻᛁᚾᛖ... bereft a cleaving for worth of fortitude, or Liverpool: so too the strongman for bow and two finger F; chisel the ******* bracket or ah into stone correctly, or i'll make you stake a thousand men's' worth of dough worthy of death, nation building etc.* above the Rhine, at least that's my Austrian welcoming, playfriends my beehive **** the longship. i said sooth nearing rune toward Sweden of Poland or Germania - ALPHA BETUM, BETUM try a care begotten a coliseum! ** SALVAGE DIE *** STIRRUP! TO A *** RIDE! RIDGE A COLLAPSE OF ROME! salvage it with Bach... or else, the death-man's symphony, you Welsh *****
0
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
Welsh ***** / ᚹᚨᛚᛖᛋ
The Rent-a-Mob loonies, the gangsters and the Racists damaged scums of society and contemporary politics Ignorant arrogant sociopaths who want it all for nothing Indulgent wasters in nation awashed with opportunities In idle union they scream, feed us poor and **** the Rich Strangers come Poland, Bulgaria, India and all over to work in farms, hospitals, hotels and Constructions Building futures and faring in endeavours with sweat Crimson gangs and Renta Mobs states we serve nobody **** the wealth makers, **** the parasites and let's drink Our shyster gangs of Revo-comrades and malcontents See killing fields, whereas strangers toil and find rich pickings Our Revos Distract, confuse, sow seeds of dissent, make strife Blame all others, lie and decieve, fling indulgent political turds Rent brainwashed Mobs,into ***** bridgard to do their ***** work We all know life is unfair and even roses have imperfections Some are born to riches in spades and some born to beggars in dusts Those with time, sit and ask God why, just a fact of life to accept But from dust has risen billionaires, whilst riches have made duds Insane Crimson sits in spurious guise and odious fallacy playing God Yeh, **** the Rich and feed the poor, why hide and use Rent a mob Why not air your case in broad daylight and stand your conviction The coward you are knows it hold no sanity for those with sense Except for thieves, the workshy and wasters who cheat to survive In your city of merits aplenty, Revo-crimson is beneath contempt
0
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
Rent-a-Mob fable of Fallacy..........
The Rent-a-Mob loonies, the gangsters and the Racists damaged scums of society and contemporary politics Ignorant arrogant sociopaths who want it all for nothing Indulgent wasters in nation awashed with opportunities In idle union they scream, feed us poor and **** the Rich Strangers come Poland, Bulgaria, India and all over to work in farms, hospitals, hotels and Constructions Building futures and faring in endeavours with sweat Crimson gangs and Renta Mobs states we serve nobody **** the wealth makers, **** the parasites and let's drink Our shyster gangs of Revo-comrades and malcontents See killing fields, whereas strangers toil and find rich pickings Our Revos Distract, confuse, sow seeds of dissent, make strife Blame all others, lie and decieve, fling indulgent political turds Rent brainwashed Mobs,into ***** bridgard to do their ***** work We all know life is unfair and even roses have imperfections Some are born to riches in spades and some born to beggars in dusts Those with time, sit and ask God why, just a fact of life to accept But from dust has risen billionaires, whilst riches have made duds Insane Crimson sits in spurious guise and odious fallacy playing God Yeh, **** the Rich and feed the poor, why hide and use Rent a mob Why not air your case in broad daylight and stand your conviction The coward you are knows it hold no sanity for those with sense Except for thieves, the workshy and wasters who cheat to survive In your city of merits aplenty, Revo-crimson is beneath contempt
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25
Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From I am from cul-de-sacs From skinned knees and seven speed bikes I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire I am from airplanes and home cooking From Mary and Mark northern accents and southern hospitality I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money" I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain I am from poland from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread and then... years later, forgetting me too. I am from my grandfather's sense of humor and his unwavering stubbornness. I am from too many cousins to count from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!" I am from piles of unfinished photo albums brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.
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Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Where I Am From
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!* a zookeeper,    a warden in a prison... or some obscure,    accolade role    in an asylum... i'm being pushed the role of a chemistry teacher... mind you... i know that the best way to pet cats, is to "ignore" them, let them play their solipsistic hide & seek game with plain view of the target... but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs... horticulture isn't an option... must be the sort of man with a floral pattern rather than a sky-scraper in my underwear to provide gender exclusive role play...   whatever the hell the means... but teaching children chemistry?    d'ah ****     i want to be on the forefront... a gorilla zookeeper, a prison warden,       an accolade for what's the upper tier of nursing, namely, inside an asylum...          but i won't ever get a chance to prospect myself for such roles... hence the poetry...              given that i'm a chronic drunk in England, but a sober sparrow in Poland...          come to think of it... i'm ever only drunk, when i start talking...             alone, drinking?         i can catch a judge play-thing sober...                                    but those are my dream jobs...                 and in all three instances... none, are advertised for potential applicants...         like a safe pass into a business of past, trans-generational funeral homes...    just like they said: it's not what you know,       it's who you know - unless of course there's a merger, and you're thinking about emperor Nero stabbing himself in the neck...           within the confines of a self acknowledgment, "question".
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Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
work fetish of a drunk
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!* a zookeeper,    a warden in a prison... or some obscure,    accolade role    in an asylum... i'm being pushed the role of a chemistry teacher... mind you... i know that the best way to pet cats, is to "ignore" them, let them play their solipsistic hide & seek game with plain view of the target... but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs... horticulture isn't an option... must be the sort of man with a floral pattern rather than a sky-scraper in my underwear to provide gender exclusive role play...   whatever the hell the means... but teaching children chemistry?    d'ah ****     i want to be on the forefront... a gorilla zookeeper, a prison warden,       an accolade for what's the upper tier of nursing, namely, inside an asylum...          but i won't ever get a chance to prospect myself for such roles... hence the poetry...              given that i'm a chronic drunk in England, but a sober sparrow in Poland...          come to think of it... i'm ever only drunk, when i start talking...             alone, drinking?         i can catch a judge play-thing sober...                                    but those are my dream jobs...                 and in all three instances... none, are advertised for potential applicants...         like a safe pass into a business of past, trans-generational funeral homes...    just like they said: it's not what you know,       it's who you know - unless of course there's a merger, and you're thinking about emperor Nero stabbing himself in the neck...           within the confines of a self acknowledgment, "question".
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61
there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it. a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon? i'll be cooking a turkey curry later, a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon?! rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter in Dante's trinity of rhymes - poetry of the near-illiterate, who never read as much as could have been - thinking it out as origin and originals - a man without influence is not worth reciting -                                    he'll still have to borrow the life of a Henry VIII somehow, whether he has or hasn't read a book concerning the man - while the Vatican emerges as the gossip library of all the European royal families, and indeed Henry VIII dubbed Anne Boleyn's cow dangler ******* duckies - i think it's due to the fact he quacked while he suckled the ******* like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** - seriously, no milk; and as honesty goes, ********** literature does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth - self-education moulds the self into a pristine sequence of surprises - there the pop of a balloon, there the weeping clown... there the giraffe on stilts! indeed even at university entry point where i deposited my self i came back with debts! idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised version of language, as language per se simply called grammatically sound, in politics simply versed "correct"; two satans from Syria while Solomon had his harem,                           a third from Poland, they say the holocaust, 6 million if not more citizens of the world with polish passports - mind you they took the Diogenes quote into left and right parallel readied for a march - Apollo listened then laughed at the failures counting to 13 - laughing while the words 'too the moon!' were eased out from his helium filled lungs.
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Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
if i can't strut like a peacock, i'll croak like a crow
there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it. a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon? i'll be cooking a turkey curry later, a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon?! rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter in Dante's trinity of rhymes - poetry of the near-illiterate, who never read as much as could have been - thinking it out as origin and originals - a man without influence is not worth reciting -                                    he'll still have to borrow the life of a Henry VIII somehow, whether he has or hasn't read a book concerning the man - while the Vatican emerges as the gossip library of all the European royal families, and indeed Henry VIII dubbed Anne Boleyn's cow dangler ******* duckies - i think it's due to the fact he quacked while he suckled the ******* like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** - seriously, no milk; and as honesty goes, ********** literature does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth - self-education moulds the self into a pristine sequence of surprises - there the pop of a balloon, there the weeping clown... there the giraffe on stilts! indeed even at university entry point where i deposited my self i came back with debts! idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised version of language, as language per se simply called grammatically sound, in politics simply versed "correct"; two satans from Syria while Solomon had his harem,                           a third from Poland, they say the holocaust, 6 million if not more citizens of the world with polish passports - mind you they took the Diogenes quote into left and right parallel readied for a march - Apollo listened then laughed at the failures counting to 13 - laughing while the words 'too the moon!' were eased out from his helium filled lungs.
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54
POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins, Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork. "Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave." "Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays. Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked. Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name. Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ... Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France. A voice, a shape, gone. A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy. The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark. She belonged to somebody, nobody. No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song. Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.
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2k
An Electric Sign Goes Dark
POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins, Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork. "Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave." "Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays. Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked. Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name. Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ... Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France. A voice, a shape, gone. A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy. The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark. She belonged to somebody, nobody. No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song. Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.
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24
Adolf ****** was really quite a chap He made those Froggies eat a lot of crap; And he made all those Norwegians Look like a load of paraplegians. He marched into Poland with his troops Into their pants those Poles did poops. He made short work of the poor old Greeks: And in their pants they did big keeks. Killing the Jews was oh so bad and cruel: Burning them up for harsh winter fuel. But invading Russia was a bad place to go And the Nazis froze in the cold and snow. The Yanks were frightened to join in the war: They were **** scared of what they saw; (they only got involved when the Japanese brought the Pearl Harbour fleet to its knees). Only the Brits stood resolute and brave For Churchill was an inspiring knave; He fought Adolf on the shores and beaches And the Germans crapped their leder-britches. So what is the lesson of these facts from history? Not ****** much - what a ******* mystery.
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Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
A lesson from history