James Whitcomb Riley, 1913 ________________________________________________________________
Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon, -----"My! ----------Sakes! ---------------What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon! But people that's been up to see him like Me, And calls on him frequent and intimutly, Might drop a few hints that would interest you -----Clean! ----------Through! ---------------If you wanted 'em to-- Some actual facts that might interest you!"
"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; -----Whee! ----------Whimm! ---------------Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun,-- So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise-- -----My! ----------Eyes! ---------------But isn't he wise-- To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?"
"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-- -----Whee! ----------Whing! ---------------What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,-- There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,-- He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in,-- Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! -----Whang! ----------Ho! ---------------Why certainly so!-- It might be a dimple turned over, you know!"
"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee, -----Gee! ----------Whizz! ---------------What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan, -----Whing! ----------Whann! ---------------What a marvellous man! What a very remarkably marvellous man!"
"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man, -----"Gits! ----------So! ---------------Sullonesome, you know! Up there by himself since creation began!-- That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,-- Till--well, if it wasn't for Jimmy-cum-Jim, -----Dadd! ----------Limb! ---------------I'd go pardners with him! Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"
Robin Redbreast _______________________________________________________________
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! --For Summer’s nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, --Cool breezes in the sun! Our thrushes now are silent,— --Our swallows flown away,— But Robin’s here in coat of brown, --And scarlet breast-knot gay. ----Robin, Robin Redbreast, ------O Robin dear! ----Robin sings so sweetly ------In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange, --The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes, --But soon they’ll turn to ghosts; The scanty pears and apples --Hang russet on the bough; It’s autumn, autumn, autumn late, --’Twill soon be winter now. ----Robin, Robin Redbreast, ------O Robin dear! ----And what will this poor Robin do? ------For pinching days are near.
The fireside for the cricket, --The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle --And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron, --The branches plumed with snow,— Alas! in winter dead and dark, --Where can poor Robin go? ----Robin, Robin Redbreast, ------O Robin dear! ----And a crumb of bread for Robin, ------His little heart to cheer.
--From Flower Pieces and other poems (London: Reeves and Turner, 1888).
von Ralph Vaughan Williams Text: 1. Strophe W. Shakespeare 2. Strophe Th. Bremser Arrangement für Laute und Altus von Thomas Bocklenberg Thomas B Duo Live am 30. November 2007 OaR4.6 Thomas Bremser, Altus Thomas Bocklenberg, Laute
From the hag and hungry goblin, That into rags would rend ye, ------The spirit that stands ------By the naked man In the Book of Moons, defend ye,
That of your five sound senses, You never be forsaken, ------Nor wander from ------Yourselves with Tom, Abroad to beg your bacon.
------ While I do sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ Be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
Of thirty bare years have I, Twice twenty been enraged, ------ And of forty been ------ Three times fifteen, in durance soundly caged,
In the lordly lofts of Bedlam, With the stubble soft and dainty, ------ Brave bracelets strong, ------ Sweet whips ding-dong, With wholesome hunger plenty.
------And now I sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
With a thought I took for Maudlin, And a cruse of cockle pottage. ------ With a thing thus tall, ------ Sky bless you all, I befell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I never waked. ------ Till the roguish boy ------ Of love where I lay Me found and stripped me naked.
------ While I do sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
When short I have shorn my sow's face, And swigged my horny barrel, ------ In an oaken inn, ------ I pound my skin As a suit of gilt apparel.
The Moon's my constant mistress, And the lonely owl my marrow. ------The flaming drake ------and the night crow make Me music to my sorrow.
------ While I do sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
The palsy plagues my pulses, When I prig your pigs or pullen. ------ Your culvers take, ------ or matchless make Your Chanticleer or Sullen.
When I want provant, with Humphry I sup, and when benighted, ------ I repose in Paul's ------ with waking souls, Yet never am affrighted.
------ But I do sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping ------ I see the stars ------ at mortal wars In the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd, And the Queen of Love her warrior, ------ While the first doth horn ------ the star of morn, and the next the heavenly Farrier.
------ While I do sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
The Gypsies, Snap and Pedro, Are none of Tom's comradoes, ------ The punk I scorn, ------ and the cutpurse sworn And the roaring boy's bravadoes.
The meek, the white, the gentle, Me handle not nor spare not; ------ But those that cross ------ Tom Rynosseross Do what the panther dare not.
------ Although I sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
With an host of furious fancies, Whereof I am commander. ------ With a burning spear ------ And a horse of Air, To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney ------ Ten leagues beyond ------ The wild world's end-- Methinks it is no journey.
------ Yet I do sing "Any food, any feeding? ------ Money, drink, or clothing? ------ Come dame or maid, ------ be not afraid-- ------ Poor Tom will injure nothing."
It was almost 7 pm in Mexico City, October 1968. One hour earlier the winners of the 26 mile Olympic marathon had crossed the finish line. It had been a grueling hot day as the high altitude affected all the athletes. The sky was beginning to darken and most of the stadium was empty. As the last few spectators were preparing to leave, police sirens and flashing lights caught their attention. A lone runner, wearing the colours of Tanzania had just emerged through the stadium gate. Limping, with his leg bandaged he found the last of his endurance to step up his pace and finish the race. His name was John Stephen Akhwari." Give everything, and then find a little more to finish the race.
Hilda Conkling as pictured in Poems by a Little Girl _____________________________________________________________________
Snowflakes come in fleets
Like ships over the sea.
The moon shines down on the crusty snow:
The stars make the sky sparkle like gold-fish
In a glassy bowl.
Bluebirds are gone now,
But they left their song behind them.
The moon seems to say:
It is time for summer when the birds come back
To pick up their lonesome songs.
____________________________________________
Hilda Conkling was a child poet; between the ages of 4-10, she would often recite her poems to her mother, who would then write them down. Eventually, Hilda's mother stopped writing the poems down.
Most of Conkling poems were written when she was a child and have to do with the natural world.
John Keats ___________________________________________________
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!
Edgar Allan Poe ________________________________________________________
(First Published in 1845)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;--- Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before, "Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice. Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. " 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
1884 illustration by Gustave Dore. ________________________________________________________
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
1858 Illustration by John Tennial ________________________________________________________
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered; Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before; On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,-- Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never--nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore: Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore--- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore? Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted---nevermore! _______________________________________________________
"The Raven" as Performance
MasterMagi, performed by Vincent Price, directed by Johnny Thompson _______________________________________________________
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats 5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. --So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? --And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] It is perfume from a dress 65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. --And should I then presume? --And how should I begin?
*****
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
*****
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head, --Should say: “That is not what I meant at all. --That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: --“That is not it at all, --That is not what I meant, at all.”
*****
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. ___________________________________________
