As the U.S. goes about its July 4th celebration, it came at a very dear price. . ."when will we ever learn? . . ."
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
I CAN HEAR THE FIDDLER PLAYING
HIGH UPON THE HILL
HE WATCHES FIRES BURNING
AND HE GETS A SECRET THRILL
HE'LL KEEP ON PLAYING FIDDLE
ALL THE LONG NIGHT LONG
WHILE THE FIRE JUST KEEPS ON BURNING
TO THE FIDDLER'S SONG
WHERE USED TO BE A MANSION
NOW STANDS A PILE OF ASH
ALL THAT ONCE WAS TREASURED
IS NOTHING MORE THAN TRASH
STILL THE FIDDLER KEEPS ON PLAYING
ALL THE LONG NIGHT LONG
WHILE THE FIRE JUST KEEPS ON BURNING
TO THE FIDDLER'S SONG
(bridge)
WHO'S TO BLESS AND WHO'S TO BLAME?
AND DOES IT REALLY MATTER?
TO THE FIDDLER ON THE HILL
IS HE THE ONLY SANE ONE?
OR IS HE MADDER THAN A HATTER?
THE FIRES KEEP ON BURNING
AND THE WORLD JUST KEEPS ON TURNING
WHERE USED TO BE A CITY
IS NOW ENGULFED IN FIRE
THE PEOPLE TRIED TO FIGHT IT
BUT THEY JUST MADE THE FLAMES BURN HIGHER
STILL THE FIDDLER KEEPS ON PLAYING
ALL THE LONG NIGHT LONG
WHILE THE FIRE JUST KEEPS ON BURNING
TO THE FIDDLER'S SONG
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young;
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightaway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--
Guess now who holds thee?--Death, I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang,--Not Death, but Love.
And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
The love I bear thee, finding words enough,
And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,
Between our faces, to cast light upon each?
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach
My hand to hold my spirit so far off
From myself.. me.. that I should bring thee proof,
In words of love hid in me...out of reach.
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood
Commend my woman-love to thy belief,
Seeing that I stand unwon (however wooed)
And rend the garment of my life in brief
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.
Perhaps not on the same plane
)
Perhaps not on the same plane of the poems in this thread......
Spike Milligan Poetry.
As the U.S. goes about its
)
As the U.S. goes about its July 4th celebration, it came at a very dear price. . ."when will we ever learn? . . ."
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
(I wrote this last
)
(I wrote this last night)
THE FIDDLER ON THE HILL
I CAN HEAR THE FIDDLER PLAYING
HIGH UPON THE HILL
HE WATCHES FIRES BURNING
AND HE GETS A SECRET THRILL
HE'LL KEEP ON PLAYING FIDDLE
ALL THE LONG NIGHT LONG
WHILE THE FIRE JUST KEEPS ON BURNING
TO THE FIDDLER'S SONG
WHERE USED TO BE A MANSION
NOW STANDS A PILE OF ASH
ALL THAT ONCE WAS TREASURED
IS NOTHING MORE THAN TRASH
STILL THE FIDDLER KEEPS ON PLAYING
ALL THE LONG NIGHT LONG
WHILE THE FIRE JUST KEEPS ON BURNING
TO THE FIDDLER'S SONG
(bridge)
WHO'S TO BLESS AND WHO'S TO BLAME?
AND DOES IT REALLY MATTER?
TO THE FIDDLER ON THE HILL
IS HE THE ONLY SANE ONE?
OR IS HE MADDER THAN A HATTER?
THE FIRES KEEP ON BURNING
AND THE WORLD JUST KEEPS ON TURNING
WHERE USED TO BE A CITY
IS NOW ENGULFED IN FIRE
THE PEOPLE TRIED TO FIGHT IT
BUT THEY JUST MADE THE FLAMES BURN HIGHER
STILL THE FIDDLER KEEPS ON PLAYING
ALL THE LONG NIGHT LONG
WHILE THE FIRE JUST KEEPS ON BURNING
TO THE FIDDLER'S SONG
Dan (Burr) Michel 7-3-06
____________
I like it. I was going to
)
I like it. I was going to ask you when you were going to write some more poetry for us. Thank you!
Physics is for gurls!
I thought once how Theocritus
)
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young;
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightaway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--
Guess now who holds thee?--Death, I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang,--Not Death, but Love.
Elizabeth Barrett Browing ~ to her love. . .
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
And wilt thou have me fashion
)
And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
The love I bear thee, finding words enough,
And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,
Between our faces, to cast light upon each?
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach
My hand to hold my spirit so far off
From myself.. me.. that I should bring thee proof,
In words of love hid in me...out of reach.
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood
Commend my woman-love to thy belief,
Seeing that I stand unwon (however wooed)
And rend the garment of my life in brief
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.
EBB
Sonnets from the Portuguese, XIII...
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
The Night Dances A
)
The Night Dances
A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!
And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?
Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel
The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift
Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.
Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,
And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.
The comets
Have such a space to cross,
Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----
Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling
Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given
These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes
Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair
Touching and melting.
Nowhere.
Sylvia Plath
Doubt thou the stars are
)
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.
Somnio ergo sum
When I was sick and lay
)
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
"We must be the change we wish to see."
Mahatma Gandhi
The Infinite Shining
)
The Infinite Shining Heavens
The infinite shining heavens
Rose and I saw in the night
Uncountable angel stars
Showering sorrow and light.
I saw them distant as heaven,
Dumb and shining and dead,
And the idle stars of the night
Were dearer to me than bread.
Night after night in my sorrow
The stars stood over the sea,
Till lo! I looked in the dusk
And a star had come down to me.
Robert Louis Stevenson
(From: Songs of Travel).
Verloren ist nur, wer sich selbst aufgibt. - Hans-Ulrich Rudel
