Storm – William Gay

I love not when the oily seas
Heave huge and slow beneath the sun,
When decks are hot, and dead the breeze,
And wits are dropping one by one.
But when the South wind fiercely breaks
His frozen bonds and rushes forth
Across the roaring sea and shakes
His icy spear against the North;
When breakers thunder on the lee,
When timbers crash and sails are rent,
When wild and louder grows the sea,
And black the reeling firmament;
O then at last my soul awakes,
A thousand joys within her rise,
And all the bounds of sense she breaks
To soar exulting through the skies.
I love not when my ship of Fate
Glides on before some fragrant breeze,
And slowly tracks with costly freight
The sapphire deeps of prosperous seas.
But when beneath the sky of death
She staggers through the seas of pain,
When passion’s hot tempestuous breath
Through shroud and tackle shrieks amain,
When deepening glooms the day o’erwhelm,
And all is one wild wreck of form,
O then resolved I grasp the helm
And proudly guide her through the storm.

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The Singer – William Gay

Nay! sing no more thy wild delusive strain
(I heard them say, while I my song pursued),
‘Tis but the rage of thy delirious brain
(I heard them say, yet still my song renewed):
Nay! sing no more with reckless, idle breath
Of man immortal and of life to come,
For one brief moment scan the face of death,
Then be thy foolish song for ever dumb;
Behold the dusty ash that once was fire,
And mark the summer leaf in autumn fall,
Watch thou the wavering breath of man expire,
And know that Death hath lordship over all
(I heard them say with many a scornful word,
Yet still sang on as one who nothing heard).

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The Crazy World – William Gay

THE WORLD did say to me,
‘My bread thou shalt not eat,
I have no place for thee
In house nor field nor street.

‘I have on land nor sea
For thee nor home nor bread,
I scarce can give to thee
A grave when thou art dead.’

‘O crazy World,’ said I,
‘What is it thou canst give,
Which wanting, I must die,
Or having, I shall live?

‘When thou thy all hast spent,
And all thy harvests cease,
I still have nutriment
That groweth by decrease.

‘Thy streets will pass away,
Thy towers of steel be rust,
Thy heights to plains decay,
Thyself be wandering dust;

‘But I go ever on
From prime to endless prime,
I sit on Being’s throne,
A lord o’er space and time.

‘Then, crazy World,’ said I,
‘What is it thou canst give,
Which wanting, I must die,
Or having, I shall live?’

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Hunting Memory – Barry Middleton

In my youth I was a hunter.
As age advances, I hunt for memory.
I remember planting flowers by the front steps,
just old enough to dig with a spoon.
I planted nasturtiums and was amazed at the riot of color as that grew.
I knew then I wanted to grow things.
I remember the garden gate I built at seven and how
my mother bragged on its durability all her life.
I knew then I wanted to build things.
I remember painting the kitchen and the smell of the glossy oil paint.
I remember the dogwood in bloom in an upper valley.
I remember roaming, searching; I remember beech trees, and the stillness of the woods before my eye caught the movement of a squirrel.
I remember the jeweled rocks in our rippling creek.
I remember home, the garden patch, apple picking,
the cool fall air, the first frost, cedar Christmas trees
and priceless winters when southern snow blew in from the west.
I remember the first daffodils of spring.
All childhood is intact, all of my life stored in memory.
I remember love and love lost,
and found and lost again.
I remember joy and pain, grief and new hope.
For now the monster of forgetting is at bay.
I can remember.
I can hunt, I can find, all time not yet lost.

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Hunting Horns – Guillaume Apollinaire

Our story’s noble as its tragic
like the grimace of a tyrant
no drama’s chance or magic
no detail that’s indifferent
makes our great love pathetic
And Thomas de Quincey drinking
Opiate poison sweet and chaste
Of his poor Anne went dreaming
We pass we pass since all must pass
Often I’ll be returning
Memories are hunting horns alas
whose note along the wind is dying

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Louse Hunting – Isaac Rosenberg

Nudes — stark and glistening,
Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning faces
And raging limbs
Whirl over the floor one fire.
For a shirt verminously busy
Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths
Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.
And soon the shirt was aflare
Over the candle he’d lit while we lay.

Then we all sprang up and stript
To hunt the verminous brood.
Soon like a demons’ pantomine
The place was raging.
See the silhouettes agape,
See the glibbering shadows
Mixed with the battled arms on the wall.
See gargantuan hooked fingers
Pluck in supreme flesh
To smutch supreme littleness.
See the merry limbs in hot Highland fling
Because some wizard vermin
Charmed from the quiet this revel
When our ears were half lulled
By the dark music
Blown from Sleep’s trumpet.

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Na American Bhayen Na Nepali Bhayen – Rakesh Karki

कुर्सीको मोह हुनेहरु अध्यक्ष भए
बचेका खुचेका सबै उपाध्यक्ष भए
पैसा पैसा भन्ने कोषाध्यक्ष भए
कुनै न कुनै पदका दक्ष भए
न अमेरिकन भए न नेपाली भए
एउटा न एउटा संस्था खोली भए

घुमाउन जान्ने महासचिव भए
समाएर तान्ने सचिव भए
छाती फुलाउन मन लाग्ने सल्लाहकार भए
पद नभेट्नेहरु सबै हल्लाकार भए
न अमेरिकन भए न नेपाली भए
सकेसम्म दाउपेच चाली भए

चेसका गोटीजस्ता सदस्य भए
संघसंस्था नओड्ने अदृश्य भए
जताततै मुन्टो घुसाउने पदेन भए
जसरी पनि घुस्न खोज्ने जेनतेन भए
न अमेरिकन भए न नेपाली भए
पहिले नभेट्ने बल्ल यसपाली भए

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