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What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before her shrine;
And that’s because I’m seventeen
And She is forty-nine.I cannot check my girlish blush,
My color comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.I wish I had Her constant cheek;
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I’m very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren’t in my line;
And, worst of all, I’m seventeen
While She is forty-nine.The young men come, the young men go
Each pink and white and neat,
She’s older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her ‘rickshaw wheels —
None ever walk by mine;
And that’s because I’m seventeen
And She is foty-nine.She rides with half a dozen men,
(She calls them “boys” and “mashers”)
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don’t help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine!She calls me “darling,” “pet,” and “dear,”
And “sweet retiring maid.”
I’m always at the back, I know,
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
“Cast” lovers, I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to foty-nine.But even She must older grow
And end Her dancing days,
She can’t go on forever so
At concerts, balls and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine;
Just think, that She’ll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine. Rudyard Kipling —-My RivalDear Lord, it’s such a hectic day
With little time to stop and pray
For life’s been anything but calm
Since You called on me to be a mom
Running errands, matching socks
Building dreams with building blocks
Cooking, cleaning, and finding shoes
And other stuff that children lose
Fitting lids on bottled bugs
Wiping tears and giving hugs
A stack of last weeks mail to read
So where’s the quiet time I need?
Yet when I steal a minute, Lord
Just at the sink or ironing board
To ask the blessings of Your grace
I see then, in my small one’s face
That you have blessed me
All the while
And I stop to kiss
That precious smilePizza pizza
I love thee
But you fill me so much
There’s no room for teaYou came for a bargain
And when you arrived
You knocked a fiver off
The hubby nearly died!Cheesy, peppery, tunary and full
The flavours, you couldnt fool a fool
But you always stay so
Honest to yourself
You basic simple
Flavory BreadI love you so
You big round munch
In your carboard house
With a delicate crunchSo user friendly
Bio-grady to the end
But dont let people
Abuse your innocenceStay to true your self
Dont fall for shallow dust
Who tell you that you
Taste better with stuffed crustAll hail the pizza 8) im stuffed
Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.’[Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to be erected upon the site of the Jacobin Club House at Paris.]
I was sick—sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sentence—the dread sentence of death—was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of revolution—perhaps from its association in fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. This only for a brief period; for presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw; but with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed judges. They appeared to me white—whiter than the sheet upon which I trace these words—and thin even to grotesqueness; thin with the intensity of their expression of firmness—of immovable resolution—of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees of what to me was Fate, were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels who would save me; but then, all at once, there came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help. And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. The thought came gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained full appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length properly to feel and entertain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if magically, from before me; the tall candles sank into nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the blackness of darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, and night were the universe.
From THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM by EDGAR ALLAN POE
deep stuff esme , some powerful writing tho:
‘I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels who would save me;
wonderful!!!
@cath 55 wrote:
deep stuff esme , some powerful writing tho:
‘I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels who would save me;
wonderful!!!
Yer I’ll give you that cath, but it aint a patch on all hail the pizza…. lol :wink:
@sharongooner wrote:
@cath 55 wrote:
deep stuff esme , some powerful writing tho:
‘I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels who would save me;
wonderful!!!
Yer I’ll give you that cath, but it aint a patch on all hail the pizza…. lol :wink:
lol sharon xxx
:wink: :lol:
soz lol, I shouldnt keep interrupting the flow of this thread… on ya go clevererones 8)
@sharongooner wrote:
:wink: :lol:
soz lol, I shouldnt keep interrupting the flow of this thread… on ya go clevererones 8)
sharon, nothing clever bout quoting our favourite poems by other writers hunnie lol, i have to admit to liking this thread tho cos i just love poetry and its great to see poems I may not have even read if it hadnt been for this lot sharing lol , and i love your poems too sharon lol xxxx
She sits in the tawny vapour
That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled,
Behind whose webby fold on fold
Like a waning taper
The street-lamp glimmers cold.A messenger’s knock cracks smartly,
Flashed news is in her hand
Of meaning it dazes to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
‘He – has fallen – in the far South land. . . ‘‘Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,
The postman nears and goes:
A letter is brought whose lines disclose
By the firelight flicker
His hand, whom the worm now knows:Fresh – firm – penned in highest feather –
Page – full of his hoped return,
And of home-planned jaunts by brake and burn
In the summer weather,
And of new love that they would learn.A Wife in London
Thomas Hardy
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