from The Caudle and The Classical Poetry Collection

August 23, 2009

The Caudle:

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“The CinderellaMan”

.

So here must i

with nothing done

and nothing to do

take leave of you

The movie’s on now

and words being written

write themselves, somehow

The papers they say

Jimmy J. Braddock, just may

give hope for today

With nothing to lose

and poverty abound

Hoover, that clown

dare not hold boxing, down

Designed from begin

it’s fate in the end

with broken a hand

to fight time in sand

.

The Classic:

 

“THE Chimney Sweeper”

by William Blake

from Songs of Experience

 

A little black thing among the snow:

Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!

Where are thy father & mother? say?

They are both gone up to the church to pray.

 

Because I was happy upon the heath

And smil’d among the winters snow:

They clothed me in the clothes of death,

And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

 

And because I am happy & dance & sing,

They think they have done me no injury:

And are gone to praise God & his priest & King

Who make up a heaven of our misery.

---

August 16, 2009

The Caudle:

“Thinking Sesame”

a boy and his dog

a man and his girl

a lumberjacks log

a nut chasing squirel

two, peas in a pod

two, friends forever

two, makes a couple

two, never to be

three, also a crowd

three, known to get loud

three, a set and one

three, two times the fun

four, evening out

four, more talking about

four, sleeping on floors

four, counting the scores

five, counting is fun

five, counting is done

five, don’t read the rest

five, this poem i detest

six, i pick up sticks

six, writing it sticks

six, blah blah and blah

sicks, how i feel about now

seven, all dogs in heaven

seven, years older then men

seven, a movie with Brad

seven, a fucked up dad

8, make up the date

8, promptness not late

8, perpendicular

8, infinity

9 = 8 + 1

9 = 7 + fun

9 = 6 + 3 + none

9 = ( 9) – done

Zero, is here, my hero

Zero, is there, my nero

Zero, is gone, it’s zero

Zero, a constant, still zero

The Classic:

 

“Beyond English”

by Agha Shahid Ali

No language is old – or young-beyond English.

So what of a common tongue beyond English?

I know some words for war, all of them sharp,

but the sharpest one is jung – beyond English!

If you wish to know of a king who loved his slave,

you must learn legends, often-sung, beyond English.

Baghdad is sacked and its citizens must watch

prisoners (now in miniatures) hung beyond English.

Go all the way through jungle from aleph to zenith

to see English, like monkeys, swung beyond English.

So never send to know for whom the bell tolled,

from across the earth it has rung beyond English.

If you want your drugs legal you must leave the States,

not just for hashish but one – bhung – beyond English.

Heartbroken, I tottered out “into windless snow,”

snowflakes on my lips, silence stung beyond English.

When the phrase, “Mother of all Battles,” caught on,

the surprise was indeed not sprung beyond English.

Could a soul crawl away at last unshriveled which

to its “own fusing senses” had clung beyond English?

If someone asks where Shahid has disappeared,

he’s waging a war (no, jung) beyond English.

-2002

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August 9, 2009

.

The Caudle:

.

warring past the hand

.

Life’s not a wasting

Everyone has a chance

To be whom ever

‘Some one hinted at

.

Never is too late

Overwhelmingly that may

The fates guide you

.

Give into it all

Outcome be damned

.

Time is only hastened

Onward forever flowing

.

War is it good

Are we so sure

Reality asks that past

.

Another opinion that matters

Gods supposed helping hand

Always guiding ever slightly

Invitations outgoing from which

No one dares confront

!

.

The Classic:

.

“Waiting Both”

by Thomas Hardy

.

A star looks down at me,

And says: “Here I and you

Stand, each in our own degree:

What do you mean to do,—

Mean to do?”

I say: “For all I know,

Wait, and let Time go by,

Till my change come.”— “Just so,”

The star says: “So mean I:—

So mean I.”

-1925

---

August 2, 2009

.

The Caudle:

.

Latin the dead language

never to die, you see

the basis for what’s here

in part our history

.

Latin the dead language

never to die, you read

it’s basic word is writ

lives eternal in need

.

Latin the dead language

never to die, again

.

The Classic:

.

“The Enemy”
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated from the French by Richard Howard

.

My youth was nothing but a lowering storm
occasionally lanced by sudden suns;
torrential rains have done their work so well
that no fruit ripens in my garden now.

Already the autumn of ideas has come,
and I must dig and rake and dig again
if I am to reclaim the flooded soil
collapsing into holes the size of graves.

I dream of new flowers, but who can tell
if this eroded swamp of mine affords
the mystic nourishment on which they thrive…

Time consumes existence pain by pain,
and the hidden enemy gnaws our heart
feeds on the blood we lose, and flourishes!

---

July 26, 2009

.

 

The Caudle:

.

When time slows down

.

Gifts to be given

Become another

Resemblance of

Wishes to be made

.

Desires unfulfilled

Require hearts aplenty

When young children

Grow old and weary

.

A young boy forgets

Promises he has made

And the past catches up

When time slows down

.

The Classic:

.

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

by Dylan Thomas

.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-1951

.

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July 19, 2009

.

The Caudle:

.

“The Piously Pickled Poet”

1.

-Roses are red

Violets aren’t blue

Give me a drink

May I hit on you?

2.

-A drink in the hand

Means none on the lip

So stop talking

And take a sip.

3.

-Take a look

In a book

A passage to throw

for Reading Rainbow.

4.

-Eating pickles while

Sitting down but

Saying no thanks

To

5.

-we – smell – sweet – smell – not – well - how feet smell

.

The Classic:

.

“Not Waving but Drowning”

by Stevie Smith

.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much farther out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

.

-1957

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