posted on April 17, 2001 07:48:17 AM new
This was in a book of poems my mother-in-law gave me when our first son was born. I always enjoy reading it.
WHAT IS A BOY?
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere--on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic, jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite--he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket-sized atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a firecracker, and when he makes something he has five thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday School, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, three feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, two gum drops, six cents, a slingshot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature--you can lock him our of your workshop, but you can't lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can't get him out of your mind. Might as well give up--he is your captor, your jailor, your boss, and your master--a freckled-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing, bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them like new with the two magic words, "Hi, Dad!" Alan Beck
posted on April 17, 2001 08:06:22 AM new
*****She Walks in Beauty*****
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
posted on April 17, 2001 08:18:58 AM new
Zilvy - Ohhhh, I like that. Alan Beck did one on What Is A Girl too. We were fortunate to have two sons, but I always had hoped for a girl, just wasn't meant to be.
Wow! '15' poems and remarks by you and Linda_K...that is, if you count one by zoomin.
Then, there was one from me with a few posts
to defend your criticisms of my southern
sensibilities and your groping remark... and of course your crude remark
about the fly again.
I really would like to read the poem, with the phrase or title Sunrise, Sunset that you always post for me.
I have looked through all of my books and
can't find it. Will you please post it
in it's entirety so that I can possibly discover the meaning that you are trying so
hard to convey?
posted on April 17, 2001 11:58:14 AM newNO not until you indicate how your tacky liquor is quicker touched your heart or soul....which was the TOPIC. Touching (means capable of arousing tenderness)in the context of my usage. Grope was directed at the meaning behind your post nothing more....
posted on April 17, 2001 01:30:49 PM newRandall Jarrell The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
posted on April 17, 2001 01:45:26 PM newWowRainyBear...I had just looked up the old thread of Cat lovers and was admiring Kadu and Kazu...came back to find this....have to tell you a shocking difference in mindset. How did you come upon this particular passage?
posted on April 17, 2001 01:54:35 PM new
I don't remember where I first encountered that poem -- probably in class a really long time ago. It had such a powerful impact on me that it has stuck with me all these years.
Some background:
"A ball turret was a Plexiglas sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine-guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the foetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose." -- Jarrell's note.
It was written in 1945.
Although the way it "touches" me is not with tenderness, it brings out strong emotion in the same way. It's the same feeling I get when I see an ambulance speeding down the road with sirens blaring. I always want to cry.
posted on April 17, 2001 02:06:32 PM new
OK, here's a nicer one which I've always liked. There's spacing in the poem which I can't reproduce here, but the words are all there.
e. e. cummings in Just-
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
posted on April 17, 2001 02:10:50 PM new1916 by Lemmy Kilmister
16 years old when I went to the war,
To fight for a land fit for heroes,
God on my side, and a gun in my hand,
Chasing my days down to zero,
And I marched and I fought and I bled and I died,
And I never did get any older,
But I knew at the time that a year in the line,
Is a long enough life for a soldier,
We all volunteered, and we wrote down our names,
And we added two years to our ages,
Eager for life and ahead of the game,
Ready for history's pages,
And we brawled and we fought and we whored 'til we stood,
Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder,
A thirst for the Hun, we were food for the gun,
And that's what you are when you're soldiers,
I heard my friend cry, and he sank to his knees,
Coughing blood as he screamed for his mother,
And I fell by his side, and that's how we died,
Clinging like kids to each other,
And I lay in the mud and the guts and the blood,
And I wept as his body grew colder,
And I called for my mother and she never came,
Though it wasn't my fault and I wasn't to blame,
The day not half over and ten thousand slain,
And now there's nobody remembers our names,
And that's how it is for a soldier.
------------------------------------------
Technically this is a ballad by the band Motorhead and not a poem but it always gives me goosebumps, especially with the musical accompaniment which is just bagpipes, a marching beat and cello.
posted on April 17, 2001 02:16:27 PM new
This one is from my favorite book of poetry. Again, there are spaces in this poem which can't be reproduced here:
From A Coney Island of the Mind Number 20 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
The pennycandystore beyond the El
is where I first
fell in love
with unreality
Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom
of that september afternoon
A cat upon the counter moved among
the licorice sticks
and tootsie rolls
and Oh Boy Gum
Outside the leaves were falling as they died
A wind had blown away the sun
A girl ran in
Her hair was rainy
Her breasts were breathless in the little room
Outside the leaves were falling
and they cried
Too soon! too soon!
posted on April 17, 2001 03:15:57 PM new
Hellooo Muriel They could have sung the song... I took a little "poetic license" with the words...The song was a pretty little love song. How're you doing today?
posted on April 17, 2001 04:18:01 PM new
I took a piece of plastic clay,
And idly fashioned it one day.
And as my fingers pressed it still,
It moved and yielded to my will.
I came again when the days were passed,
And the bit of clay was hard at last.
The form I gave it still it bore,
But I could change that form no more.
I took a piece of living clay,
And gently formed it day by day;
And molded with my power and art,
A young child's soft and yielding heart.
I came again when the days were gone,
It was a man I looked upon.
He still that early impress wore,
But I could change that form no more.
posted on April 17, 2001 04:59:35 PM new
RainBear,
Neat poems! I like the postmoderns. I remember seeing a very effective reader's theatre type presentation of Coney Island of the Mind. This is one of my favorite of cummings' poems which he wrote while he was teaching at Harvard:
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things-
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
....the Cambridge ladies do not care,above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
posted on April 17, 2001 05:38:42 PM newLinda_K - re: What is a Boy...pass the kleenex! I needed to see that, and I'm gonna print it out and keep it. I don't think I've ever seen that before, and it's something I need reminding of on a regular basis. Thanks!
Here is one of my favorites:
Comes the Dawn
by Veronica Shoffstall
After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead,
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in midflight.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns
if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth.
And you learn and you learn,
with every goodbye you learn...
posted on April 17, 2001 11:05:04 PM new
Very interesting thread. This is a poem that always made me think.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
posted on April 18, 2001 03:57:00 AM new
As usual Zilvy, a great thread! While poetry isn't my favorite, I've enjoyed reading some of it. The only one that I can think of that made a big impression on me was "The Highway Men" (I think that's the right title). I don't have a copy, but if someone could find it for me I'd be eternally grateful! I haven't seen it since about 4th grade.
posted on April 18, 2001 05:05:02 AM new
Hi Zilvy this is a lovely thread to read. I was feeling a bit down in the dumps tonight and reading some of these makes me feel a bit better. I found a little verse that my daughter reads to her kindy/pre school class, and I think it is cute.
Number Nine
by Richard C. Johns
If I could pick a number
that I could call all mine.
I think that number would be
the greatest number nine.
Oh, I like other numbers
like seven, five and three,
but to be completely honest,
they just aren't me.
Now I know some people
Who if asked, might pick
numbers like four, five and three
Yes, nine is my number
I can hardly wait.
It will be good when I am nine
instead of being eight.
posted on April 18, 2001 05:26:49 AM newLinda_K- I think we are alot alike! I love that passage by Gibran- in fact, I've used it in my emails as my signature! And the other one, "What is a Boy"... made me cry too(I've been weepy lately- my oldest graduates from highschool in one month!). I have two sons, like you. Anyway... here's one that touched me, which I will explain at the end.
Silent whispers in the trees,
Carried along
with the hush of a breeze.
Telling the secrets of summers past
Trying to make
each moment last.
The quiet sigh of a falling leaf,
Splashing gently
in a puddle beneath.
A chirp of a bird, faraway,
Saying goodbye
'til a warmer day.
The strength of a sunray, caressing the ground;
Dancing softly
to the silence of sound.
The perfection of this
cannot be hindered.
For the time is here-
It is now winter.
by- Me
I wrote that as a teenager and when I won a first place award for it in a contest- it made me realize I was capable of anything I put my mind to.
posted on April 18, 2001 08:05:00 AM new
One of my favorites... thanks for starting this thread.
Song by William Blake
How sweet I roamed from field to field
And tasted all the summers pride
Till I the prince of love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide
He showed me lilies for my hair
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And phoebus fired my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net
And shut me in his golden cage
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then laughing sports and plays with me;
then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
posted on April 18, 2001 09:21:24 AM newMaddie - I LOVE THAT POEM!! It makes me choke up because it is SO true. I've lived that poem.
And Zil, this is for you.
The Morning Side Of the Mountain
Artist: Tommy Edwards
Peak Billboard position # 24 by itself in 1951 and # 27 in 1959 when reissued as the flip side of "Please Mr. Sun"
There was a girl, there was a boy
If they had met they might have found a world of joy
But she lived on the morning side of the mountain
And he lived on the twilight side of the hill
They never met, they never kissed
And they will never know what happiness they missed
For she lived on the morning side of the mountain
And he lived on the twilight side of the hill
For love's a rose that never grows
Without the kiss of the morning dew
And every Jack must have a Jill
To know the thrill of a dream that comes true
And you and I are just like they
For all we know our love is just a kiss away
But you are on the morning side of the mountain
And I am on the twilight side of the hill
For love's a rose that never grows
Without the kiss of the morning dew
And every Jack must have a Jill
To know the thrill of a dream that comes true
And you and I are just like they
For all we know our love is just a kiss away
But you are on the morning side of the mountain
And I am on the twilight side of the hill
posted on April 18, 2001 11:17:57 AM newMaddieNicks - Kris - Here's a box of tissue for both you and roxw. Glad you both enjoyed it. Kris, I'm going to email you the one written for girls too. Think you'll like it for Maddie.
roxw What a beautiful poem you wrote. Have you continued writing. With such talent, I hope you have.
I can identify with how you're feeling about your eldest graduating soon. Your post made me remember how I felt, when our youngest graduated. As I watched his graduation ceremony, it seemed like just yesterday I had glued this poem (below) into is school book when he started school. I don't know the authors name.
~~~~~Baby Started School Today~~~~
Somehow, the sunlit world is gray
A small boy went to school today.
So often in these few years
Of healing hurts and mending tears
Of picking playthings off the floor
Of running often to the door
To see if he were safe at play,
The awful fear that he might stray
On eager, fearless baby feet
Into the crowded city street.
One thought has been a placid pool,
He'll soon be old enough for school.
And he was old enough today
Yet all the sunlit world is gray
So soon my rooms grow orderly
With no small boy to bother me.
posted on April 18, 2001 12:05:18 PM newLindaK - you're killing me here. Good thing you passed the tissues before posting that one! I remember the day Nick got on the school bus for kindergarten - weird feeling. Yes, please do email the other one...I'm just getting online for the first time today, and haven't checked email yet. If you sent it already, THANKS!
Muriel - I lived it too. That's why it's so special to me.
mouseslayer mentioned The Highwayman....I love that one too. Here ya go:
The Highwayman
Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding -
Riding - riding -
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace
at his chin,
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to
the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark
inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was
locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable wicket creaked
Where Tim the hostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlords daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say -
"One kiss, my bonnie sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red coat troop came marching -
Marching - marching -
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of then knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say -
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;
For the road laid bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her lovers refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her beast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter
The landlords black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winters night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding - riding -
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlords black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
posted on April 18, 2001 01:11:16 PM new
One of mine hope no one minds
Inside this simple book I hide my deepest inner self.
My silent fears,
My angry tears,
The scars that do not show.
My need for love
My heart thats crushed,A pain you could never know
Behind poetic words I hide the things you cannot see,
My desperate hopes,
My shattered dreams,
My need to just be me,
My unheard cries,
My secret tries, to be something I'm not.
Inside this simple book,Behind poetic words, I hide to afraid to face the world.
Hippy wannabe 
~^~