An Ode

The Spacious Firmament on high,

with all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.

The unwearied sun from day to day

Does his Creator’s power display,

And publishes to every land

The work of an almighty Hand.

 

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly, to the listening earth,

Repeats the story of her birth;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,

And all the planets in their turn,

Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

 

What though in solemn silence all

Move round the dark terrestrial ball?

What though nor real voice nor sound

Amid their radiant orbs be found?

In reason’s ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice,

Forever singing as they shine,

“The Hand that made us is divine!”

 

Joseph Addison

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright–
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done–
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun!”
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead–
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “it would be grand!”
“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
“O Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head–
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat–
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more–
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed–
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”
“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?
“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf–
I’ve had to ask you twice!”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none–
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

 

Lewis Carroll

The Philospher and the Lover: to a Mistress Dying

Lover

Your Beauty, ripe, and calm, and fresh,

As Eastern Summers are,

Must now, forsaking Time and Flesh,

Add light to some small Star.

Philosopher

Whilst she yet lives, were Stars decay’d,

Their light by hers, relief might find:

But Death will lead her to a shade

Where Love is cold, and Beauty blinde.

Lover

Lovers (whose Priests all Poets are)

Think ev’ry Mistress, when she dies,

Is chang’d at least into a Starr:

And who dares doubt the Poets wise?

Philosopher

But ask not Bodies doom’d to die,

To what abode they go;

Since knowledge is but sorrows Spy,

It is not safe to know.

 

Sir William Davenant

180 poems…

So the Library of Congress thought it would be cute to dish out a poem a day for high school students across the country. I think ’tis an excellent idea. But, the problem is besides Theodore Roethke, Kenneth Koch and Nellie Bly I haven’t heard of any of these poets. Oh the more for you to learn. No dammit! there should be established, dead poets up there on teh website for the kids in high school to read. Why you ask, well because who wants to read some schlock from a bunch of people who are untested or who are dubious?  I for one don’t.  And after perusing the page I am sort of disappointed in almost all selections I have read.  I mean come on there are thousands of dead guys and gals to choose from. Does it make it somehow more relevant that we get a bunch of crappy, no talent hacks to read every single day.  Someone should write the LOC a letter and tell them to look at an anthology or two before they consider breathing life into such a well intentioned program.  But like everything well intentioned, what can one do?

 

here is the link: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/p180-list.html

 

I’m gonna read some Drummond of Hawthornden sonnets now, for pleasure.

Bye,

Mike

To begin again is often said…

To begin again is often said

but not quite often done.

To end of days be not afraid

you’ll see anew the setting sun.

Swirling Time my lovely fren,

will always let you begin again.

 

To the grave we stolidly march

with leaden feet ever looking back.

Fret not fren, nor get starch.

Yours, mine and ours stack

high the fruits of toilsome labor,

Till we return to the mewling vapor.

 

Michael Evan Kerry McCullough

2009

Jonathan Swift

On rainy days alone I dine
Upon a chick and pint of wine,
On rainy days I dine alone,
And pick my chicken to the bone;
But this my servant much enrages,
No scraps remain to save board-wages.
In weather fine I nothing spend,
But often spunge upon a friend;
Yet, where he’s not so rich as I,
I pay my club, and so good b’ye.

– Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

An Argument

You could drink from the

world at once; and it

would make you pay.

 

Or like a miner then; sit

in shade and shadow till

it comes your day.

 

Large or small or none

at all, it doesn’t matter writ.

 

Too clearly,  here learned

it sweet, that one must sit.

 

Michael Evan Kerry McCullough

Advice To An Old Man of Sixty Three About To Marry a Girle of Sixteen

Now fie upon him! what is Man,
Whose life at best is but a span?
When to an inch it dwindles down,
Ice in his bones, snow on his Crown,
That he within his crazy brain,
Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,
That he, when Harvest comes should plow
And when ’tis time to reap, go sowe,
Who in imagination only strong,
Tho’ twice a Child, can never twice grow young

II.

Nature did those design for Fools,
That sue for work, yet have no tools.
What fellow feeling can there be
In such a strange disparity?
Old age mistakes the youthful breast,
Love dwels not there, but interest:
Alas Good Man! take thy repose,
Get ribband for thy thumbs, and toes,
Provide thee flannel, and a sheet of lead,
Think on thy Coffin, not thy bridal bed.

Thomas Flatman

(1637 – 1688)

I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

 

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

The waves beside them danced; but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company;

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

 

William Wordsworth                                                                                                                1804

Doubtful

To be judged of age

when one’s so young,

Is but a trifle 

anymore. Various

are the ways of

existence, pain your

only friend? Life will

go and then so

will I!

 

Michael McCullough                                                                                                 5/26/07