"woodbine" poems
By A Foreigner
I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you **** somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says "Thank you."
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.
5.4k
With heavy hearts the lightened feet march up on Whitehall
take a peek,
then down below the trenches go
light up a woodbine,
'dontya know this is the show that we'll be late for', Says Scouse.
'Gor blimey mate' says cockney Joe, 'let's have a look at all them toffs'
and ups the periscope as scouse scoffs bully beef.
Thiefs of body, thiefs of friends,thiefs of time and there is a belief in some older men,
that this is a time when we remember 'them'
No words need be conveyed
no tears for what they gave
just a sober, sombre silence
like when the guns fell silent
one hundred years ago.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
"Under the flag
Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryon atoms." - Milton
WELCOME joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe's **** and Hermes' feather;
Come to-day, and come to-morrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.
Meadows sweet where flames are under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomine;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Cleopatra regal-dress'd
With the aspic at her breast;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright and muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; -
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
Oh the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright, and muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil;
Let me see; and let me write
Of the day, and of the night -
Both together: - let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath'd with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass-tomb.
4.2k
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, 'There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine.'
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
3.2k
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o’ care!
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’ my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love;
And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me.
2.3k
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
She died full long agone!
2.3k
To-night ungather'd let us leave
This laurel, let this holly stand:
We live within the stranger's land,
And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.
Our father's dust is left alone
And silent under other snows:
There in due time the woodbine blows,
The violet comes, but we are gone.
No more shall wayward grief abuse
The genial hour with mask and mime;
For change of place, like growth of time,
Has broke the bond of dying use.
Let cares that petty shadows cast,
By which our lives are chiefly proved,
A little spare the night I loved,
And hold it solemn to the past.
But let no footstep beat the floor,
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;
For who would keep an ancient form
Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?
Be neither song, nor game, nor feast;
Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown;
No dance, no motion, save alone
What lightens in the lucid east
Of rising worlds by yonder wood.
Long sleeps the summer in the seed;
Run out your measured arcs, and lead
The closing cycle rich in good.
1.9k
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
1.6k
Witch-elms that counterchange the floor
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;
And thou, with all thy breadth and height
Of foliage, towering sycamore;
How often, hither wandering down,
My Arthur found your shadows fair,
And shook to all the liberal air
The dust and din and steam of town:
He brought an eye for all he saw;
He mixt in all our simple sports;
They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts
And dusty purlieus of the law.
O joy to him in this retreat,
Immantled in ambrosial dark,
To drink the cooler air, and mark
The landscape winking thro' the heat:
O sound to rout the brood of cares,
The sweep of scythe in morning dew,
The gust that round the garden flew,
And tumbled half the mellowing pears!
O bliss, when all in circle drawn
About him, heart and ear were fed
To hear him, as he lay and read
The Tuscan poets on the lawn:
Or in the all-golden afternoon
A guest, or happy sister, sung,
Or here she brought the harp and flung
A ballad to the brightening moon:
Nor less it pleased in livelier moods,
Beyond the bounding hill to stray,
And break the livelong summer day
With banquet in the distant woods;
Whereat we glanced from theme to theme,
Discuss'd the books to love or hate,
Or touch'd the changes of the state,
Or threaded some Socratic dream;
But if I praised the busy town,
He loved to rail against it still,
For 'ground in yonder social mill
We rub each other's angles down,
'And merge' he said 'in form and gloss
The picturesque of man and man.'
We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran,
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss,
Or cool'd within the glooming wave;
And last, returning from afar,
Before the crimson-circled star
Had fall'n into her father's grave,
And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
We heard behind the woodbine veil
The milk that bubbled in the pail,
And buzzings of the honied hours.
1.1k
To-night ungather'd let us leave
This laurel, let this holly stand:
We live within the stranger's land,
And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.
Our father's dust is left alone
And silent under other snows:
There in due time the woodbine blows,
The violet comes, but we are gone.
No more shall wayward grief abuse
The genial hour with mask and mime;
For change of place, like growth of time,
Has broke the bond of dying use.
Let cares that petty shadows cast,
By which our lives are chiefly proved,
A little spare the night I loved,
And hold it solemn to the past.
But let no footstep beat the floor,
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;
For who would keep an ancient form
Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?
Be neither song, nor game, nor feast;
Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown;
No dance, no motion, save alone
What lightens in the lucid east
Of rising worlds by yonder wood.
Long sleeps the summer in the seed;
Run out your measured arcs, and lead
The closing cycle rich in good.
1.1k
Woodbine spillage
Into overgrown narrows
Butterfly wings unfold to rest,
Raw essence in parallel pattern
Settling on summer's searing breast,
Bare flesh
and forget-me-not promise
Always remembered and kept.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Dried grass under moon
shadow and woodbine walks
hang around hands wandering
the flowing river talks
intrepid, exploring all possibilities
of those three fragile words.
The first to fly the flock
does not always get there first
into September - March
from Summer
The dying warmth without
beauty in crimson, yellow leaves,
and chance of melancholy bout.
A particular dampness to the soul
must exist for the poet to appear
inherently honest.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
-"Old nail, why linger yet so straight for,
All rust, but spirit still unshaken,
When everything around has been forsaken,
And all your brothers wither on the floor?
You last, and there's no point in lasting:
No petty beam, no structure to support,
For once a great design has fallen short.
Yours is just a sad and aimless waiting."
-"It's true, I have long outlived my purpose,
It's true I've been forsaken, I suppose.
Green woodbine is now crawling through this wall,
I know I'll soon be garbage to the tinker.
And yet there's a reason why I linger:
I linger 'cause I'm choosing not to fall."
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
I waited for you -
down by the Woodbine
house on Kendrick Avenue.
I must've told myself
a thousand times
that, when you arrive,
I'd be just fine -
sitting on the stoop
collecting thoughts
like puddles of rain.
Occassionally, a car
would pass, thrashing
through the puddles
slashed interrupting my
hopeful mind with violent
doubt...
I waited for you -
denying every reasonable
thought and holding on
to my childish dreams.
I'm still waiting for you -
Though hope has long
become desperate denial.
I'll wait for you..
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC
There are inmates in outpatients
and
patients in side wards with ingrowing
toenails,
Doctors who mumble
old people who stumble
apple crumble at lunchtime
a woodbine for the smoking room
which doubles as a lead lined tomb
for when the X-ray's run wild.
He has no compunction in
diagnosing dysfunction
I wonder who died and made this
man a God.
When they do an autopsy and
cut bits off of me
I think that It'll shock them
when
they see Blackpool Rock
printed right through me.
I return to the inmates
who've been discharged
from a cannon,
I feel like a man on
a mission
which is wholly unlikely.
The Doctor's tread lightly now
inject me twice nightly now
how I wish I was back
in the outpatients
but
I have patience,
I'll wait,
an unstable inmate
tranquilised and
stabilised.
a hamster on a wheel.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 4:41 PM UTC
MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING
My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn
& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.
My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.
I wiggle each
character’s characteristic
and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,
trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”
I command my paper people.
“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.
“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil
that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.
“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that
is borrowed from
me **** sewing basket.
All is well
in this my make-shift
Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s
Cornflakes packets.
See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!
Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.
Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.
And, so...let the Masque begin!
I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing
as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.
“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out
but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee
can be
to paper theatre.
The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.
My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes
burns to the ground
only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken
crumpled piece of foil.
I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )
the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of
this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!
But wait, is this a football I see
before me?
Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!
We cry ******** and let slip
the dogs we are!
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
To
dream awake in a waking dream
and hear the scream of turbines.
Smoking Woodbine ready rolled
are 'Navy Cut' too strong
move along please
room on top
the night bus makes its final
stop
disgorging worn down
revellers,
the garden
party goers,
night shift workers
with
eyes like guppies
and in this narcoleptic throng
I'm still thinking
are ' Navy Cut' too strong.
If I can exercise
build up the muscle ratio
I'll wake and bear the weight of
being in the waking state
but
the pressure's on me
and sleep's so easy
what if I choose?
make the wrong choice
lose my voice somewhere
in the screaming of the turbines
where
I'm sure bad thing occur
or will occur if I decide to stir.
Half way here and not really there
I share my body with a smoke
a last smoke before
the door opens and when
I
the token totem cast my shadow
on the day
play the tune they like to hear
I wonder as I smoke my woodbine
am I truly here or is this just another's
dream?
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
His will, with all obedient mansions, unluckiest delights,
And heaven-illumined cares, its trembling woodbine-wreaths,
A concourse gloriously to swan, but knowingly to obey,
Is as a mused pasture, whose forbid
Brimstone dormitories, through clarions that dare awfully overwhelm,
Forcing victory! The's saddest distinctions
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 7:36 AM UTC
You are a flower of many names
Woodbine twisting around bright haws
Irish Vine with blarneyed whispers of sweet scent
Honey bind and Goats leaf
and Faerie Trumpets with a call to reassure
that steadfast in love shall admirers be
I shall welcome you into my humble home
that you might bring gold into my coffers
and into my garden to give protection from evil
In my hair shall I wear a wreath of your florets
that I might of my future true love dream
around my doors to cultivate good fortune
your tendrils I will surely wrap
my children to be shall bite off your flower ends
thirsty as they will be for drops of your honeyed nectar
come, let me bind you into ropes for pack ponies
to carry sweet cargoes of you to colonise
all of the fast fading and forsaken hedgerows
my Father and my Mother forbade me
to bring you into my Garrett bedroom fearing that
your heady perfume might young untested passions ignite
but now I will pluck of your sweetness
and will your honeyed sweetness into my home invite
to make an elixir for the rasped throats of Preachers and such
I will seep you in fragrant oil warm and soothe coldness with you
Now I beg of you to bring all that you own to me
Feb 17, 2022
Feb 17, 2022 at 2:49 PM UTC
Side on
he looks like
a crab fisherman.
rolling with the waves
he saves a Woodbine
to smoke another time
and chews instead
on licorice,
I wish I was
more like him
more Jim than John,
and then side on
I'd look like a
crab fisherman
too.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC