Vachel Lindsay

 

There's machinery in the butterfly;  There's a mainspring to the bee;  There's hydraulics to a daisy,  And contraptions to a tree.  If we could see the birdie  That makes the chirping sound  With x-ray, scientific eyes,  We could see the wheels go round.  And I hope all men  Who think like this  Will soon lie Underground. 

*** Piano

D.H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

*** Do Not Believe the Flatterers

Abai Kunanbaev

Do not believe the flatterers, for they

Are certain to betray you one fine day.

Trust only in yourself. A sober mind and toil

Will happiness and weal for your purvey.

Do not believe in sweetly flowing prise

Lest it should make you blind and leave you dazed,

And vainly proud of your ostensible success.

Your worth you should be able to apprise.

If trouble comes, stand up to it, be strong,

If happiness-then welcome it with song.

Look deep into your heart, you will discover pearls,

To you alone these precious gems belong.

*** Mr. Depp

Celestial Wolven

You’ve been a captain on the high seas Bumbling about on deck and wisecracking your way out of everything You’ve been the author of a classic children’s novel Posing as the father figure to a few kids who have none You’ve been the comical owner of a magical chocolate factory Leading me to ask only “Why?” every step of the way You’ve been a skilled but vengeful barber who had no problem Serving up his victims on a silver platter You’ve been a timeless character from tales of old Who fought for his life against a headless fiend on horseback You’ve been a gentle yet misunderstood man With appendages so sharp they could cut through solid metal

*** A Brook In The City Robert Frost The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed. The meadow grass could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town; The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.

Is water wood to serve a brook the same? How else dispose of an immortal force No longer needed? Staunch it at its source With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone In fetid darkness still to live and run -- And all for nothing it had ever done Except forget to go in fear perhaps. No one would know except for ancient maps That such a brook ran water. But I wonder If from its being kept forever under, The thoughts may not have risen that so keep This new-built city from both work and sleep

*** A Night Thought

Lo! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny; Oft is she hid from mortal eye Or dimly seen, But when the clouds asunder fly How bright her mien! Far different we--a froward race, Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace With cherished sullenness of pace Their way pursue,  Ingrates who wear a smileless face The whole year through. If kindred humours e'er would make My spirit droop for drooping's sake, From Fancy following in thy wake, Bright ship of heaven! A counter impulse let me take And be forgiven. 

William Wordsworth

*** The Himalayas The Himalayas Abodes of snow Truly the ranges Where gods reside. Sun keeps crawling Across the peaks Gorgeous beauty Beckons the climbers. Hillary and Norgay Took no rest Until they reached Mount Everest. There were others Who scaled the peaks And there were many Who could never reach.

Nanga Parbat Kanchenjunga Mount Kailash... Just a few peaks. Ganges and Indus Mekong and Yangtze... Perennial rivers start And civilization flows. Himalaya mountains Panoramic views Invite us all To behold and rejoice.

*** She is Far from the Land

Thomas Moore She is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps,  And lovers are round her, sighing;  But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,  For her heart in his grave is lying!  She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,  Every note which he lov'd awaking Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,  How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!  He had lov'd for his love, for his country he died,  They were all that to life had entwin'd him, Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,  Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,  When they promise a glorious morrow;  They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,  From her own lov'd Island of sorrow! 

*** Stufferatiori

Adrian Mitchell

Man-made fibres and raw materials

Old rolled gold and breakfast cereals

Platinum linoleum

I like that stuff

Skin on my hands

Hair on my head

Toenails on my feet

And linen on the bed

Well I like that stuff Yes I like that stuff

The earth

Is made of earth

And I like that stuff

*** The Apple of His Parents` Eye

Abai Kunanbayev

The apple of his parents` eye,

He was their only son and heir.

His every wish they gratified

And cherished him with loving care.

But infancy soon over, the darling boy was growing, as spoiled as he could be.

They took him to the mullah then,

Great things they hoped to come.

The teacher proved an ignorant

The boy learned nothing from.

He did show promise as a child, the parents could not be so blind, but that`s love is said to be.

*** Time is Like Whisps of Fog on the Hill

Abai Kunanbaev

Time is like whisps of fog on the hills

You watch them and boredom your spirit fills.

You look at the chain of featureless days,

And a sense of fatigue their flow instills.

Days as twins and days gloomy and grey,

Like birds they arrive and they fly away.

Some one among them conceals your death,

Yet which will be last, only Allah can say.

*** The ivy green

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death hath been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant, in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.