Well Ok if you insist, here is personal favourite. A recital outlining the cold, harsh, misogynistic realities of life on the streets.
Lewis Carroll The Walrus and the Carpenter 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— And 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.
We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free. Touched by an Angel, Maya Angelou
The Sailor Boy Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1861) He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, Shot o’er the seething harbour-bar, And reach’d the ship and caught the rope, And whistled to the morning star. And while he whistled long and loud He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, “O boy, tho' thou are young and proud, I see the place where thou wilt lie. “The sands and yeasty surges mix In caves about the dreary bay, And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.” “Fool,” he answer’d , “death is sure To those that stay and those that roam, But I will nevermore endure To sit with empty hands at home. “My mother clings about my neck, My sisters crying, ‘Stay for shame;’ My father raves of death and wreck,- They are all to blame, they are all to blame. “God help me! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart, Far worse than any death to me.”
Written by: Kelly Deschler & Nature Boy Rolling Thunder And A Gentle Rain The gentle music flows from every drop of rain, as it just lightly taps against my window pane. The wind begins to whistle it's own melodious song, while the wind-chimes dance and play along. The soothing sounds cast open the windows and doors. I close my eyes and breathe. The energy surrounds me as my spirit soars. I hold out my hand and feel the raindrops as if they were at play. My breath now quickened with emotion. I taste the rain on my lips as I embrace the glorious day. The curtains blow inward the breeze itself is warm, my mind is so peaceful in the calm before the storm. The sky's voice trembles from above a darkening cloud, as the rolling thunder speaks it's thoughts aloud. The thunder awakens the flash of light. The part of nature that sends some to flight. I chose to embrace the power of nature in the earth and sky. And bask in the wonder that fills my eyes. The rain seems to be letting up as it puddles on the green grass, and the once powerful winds are now calming down at last. The gray clouds are parting and a bright rainbow forms, proving that something beautiful can come from such dangerous storms. My eyes close and I breathe in the scent of the cleansing rain. The brilliant hues of the rainbow dance in my mind where I feel no pain. The sun peaks from behind the clouds just to say hi. I feel the warmth against my face as I view the beauty with a sigh.
Robert Louis Stevenson Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven with repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays. Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cool, Yet he will find a chink or two To slip his golden fingers through. The dusty attic spider-clad He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles Into the laddered hay-loft smiles. Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy's inmost nook. Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the World, he goes.
It isn't possible to copy-paste entire Pope poems, because they're epic (sometimes literally), but here's an excerpt I love: Alexander Pope - An Essay On Criticism Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things, Attones not for that Envy which it brings. In Youth alone its empty Praise we boast, But soon the Short-liv'd Vanity is lost! Like some fair Flow'r the early Spring supplies, That gaily Blooms, but ev'n in blooming Dies. What is this Wit which must our Cares employ? The Owner's Wife, that other Men enjoy, Then most our Trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd; Whose Fame with Pains we guard, but lose with Ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; 'Tis what the Vicious fear, the Virtuous shun; By Fools 'tis hated, and by Knaves undone! The full thing is huge but fantastic.
Indifference - G. A. Studdert--Kennedy When Jesus came to Golgotha, they hanged Him on a tree, They drove great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary; They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep, For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap. When Jesus came to Birmingham they simply passed Him by, They never hurt a hair of Him, they only let Him die; For men had grown more tender, and they would not give Him pain, They only just passed down the street, and left Him in the rain. Still Jesus cried, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do,” And still it rained the wintry rain that drenched Him through and through; The crowds went home, and left the streets without a soul to see, And Jesus crouched against a wall and cried for Calvary.
by Emily Dickinson | Because I could not stop for Death Because I could not stop for Death-- He kindly stopped for me-- The Carriage held but just Ourselves-- And Immortality. We slowly drove--He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility-- We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess--in the Ring-- We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain-- We passed the Setting Sun-- Or rather--He passed us-- The Dews drew quivering and chill-- For only Gossamer, my Gown-- My Tippet--only Tulle-- We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground-- The Roof was scarcely visible-- The Cornice--in the Ground-- Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity--
If, by Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream — and not make dreams your master; If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!” If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!
Rules And Regulations A short direction To avoid dejection, By variations In occupations, And prolongation Of relaxation, And combinations Of recreations, And disputation On the state of the nation In adaptation To your station, By invitations To friends and relations, By evitation Of amputation, By permutation In conversation, And deep reflection You'll avoid dejection. Learn well your grammar, And never stammer, Write well and neatly, And sing most sweetly, Be enterprising , Love early rising, Go walk of six miles, Have ready quick smiles, With lightsome laughter, Soft flowing after. Drink tea, not coffee; Never eat toffy. Eat bread with butter. Once more, don't stutter. Don't waste your money, Abstain from honey. Shut doors behind you, (Don't slam them, mind you.) Drink beer, not porter. Don't enter the water Till to swim you are able. Sit close to the table. Take care of a candle. Shut a door by the handle, Don't push with your shoulder Until you are older. Lose not a button. Refuse cold mutton. Starve your canaries. Believe in fairies. If you are able, Don't have a stable With any mangers. Be rude to strangers. Moral: Behave
Blow Blow Thou Winter Wind Written by: William Shakespeare Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly. ------------------------------------------------------------ The Philanderer Written by: Robert William Service Oh, have you forgotten those afternoons With riot of roses and amber skies, When we thrilled to the joy of a million Junes, And I sought for your soul in the deeps of your eyes? I would love you, I promised, forever and aye, And I meant it too; yet, oh, isn't it odd? When we met in the Underground to-day I addressed you as Mary instead of as Maude. Oh, don't you remember that moonlit sea, With us on a silver trail afloat, When I gracefully sank on my bended knee At the risk of upsetting our little boat? Oh, I vowed that my life was blighted then, As friendship you proffered with mournful mien; But now as I think of your children ten, I'm glad you refused me, Evangeline. Oh, is that moment eternal still When I breathed my love in your shell-like ear, And you plucked at your fan as a maiden will, And you blushed so charmingly, Guenivere? Like a worshiper at your feet I sat; For a year and a day you made me mad; But now, alas! you are forty, fat, And I think: What a lucky escape I had! Oh, maidens I've set in a sacred shrine, Oh, Rosamond, Molly and Mignonette, I've deemed you in turn the most divine, In turn you've broken my heart . . . and yet It's easily mended. What's past is past. To-day on Lucy I'm going to call; For I'm sure that I know true love at last, And She is the fairest girl of all.
My Wild Irish Heart My wild Irish heart - what could it do that March when into my sweet boyhood blew euphoria to make my heart careen? Oh, heart as fresh as clover - kelly green - when zephyr brought its scent of something new. The breeze caressed me; all was made askew, for what it had been carrying was you! Beneath my tender breast there throbbed, unseen, my wild Irish heart. You bridled it and then you pierced it through. Yet wilder than before and tough it grew. For in your aftermath, I was to glean the lessons that my youth had not foreseen - and evermore would pulse in me - now blue - my wild Irish heart!
Culture of Fools “Surrounded by nice” – ah, what a thought, and a fool thinks it will come by being a fool… There is one word missing from a fool’s vocabulary: “Responsibility.” You see, a fool only sees the end – all those nice things, and is blind to all the innumerable small steps and right decisions that lead to them, and the sad thing is… Media. You see, the media likes to pretend that fools actually do obtain nice things – without ruin for those nice things; why? Simple – fools pay for such media, so the media plays to such fools. I’m not sure if you’ve seen the culture of fools though it surrounds you – if you haven’t, then think. Get rich quick? Sure – but small chance if you are beginning as a fool. Corporate leaders? Depicted as evil rather than responsible. Why? Because there are bad ones – those who have been corrupted by the culture of fools’ mentality (as well as philosophical failures in general), and, though they are a small minority, they are not few, and they get all the press, which makes them appear as the rule rather than the exception. Rap? Culture of fools. Frivolous consumer goods? Culture of fools. Juvenile sports antics? Culture of fools. Pop Idols? Culture of fools. Teen fare? Culture of fools. What do they all lack? Responsibility – the sole prerequisite for nice things. What is the general rule then? The amount of ‘nice’ you have in life is directly proportional to the amount of responsibility you take on. Even the fools know this – deep down, but they are playing the long, and ultimately ruinous to all, odds.
Safe The streets are lit and heaving And the cougars piss and laugh And men meander, desperate To try to push the morning back And a teenager throws a bottle And police cars drive in loops And on pavements streaked with vomit Smokers huddle in small groups I lie in this twitching heart of noise And listen as it slows down And the bassline from an empty club Reverberates in the ground The streetlights glow redundantly And I don't feel safe But I'm not unhappy to be here In this stupid, grimy place I feel warm and quite at peace now As the drunkards howl and moan Because I know you're warm and sleeping In a safer, quieter home. Writing poems is fun when you can't sleep
Bloodbath by Christian Drake It came in like the barking of dogs in your belly, Those lunatic dogs that bark every full moon on the dot. The clock in you unwound, The little room collapsed, And the blood trickled out in a thin red ribbon Licking the white sheets. They call it a period. But it’s really more of a run-on sentence, Babbling on all week. It's the definition of womanhood, Reduced to repetition, To the tedium of tampon commercials, The day-long math test of cramps shooting through you, Like swimmers’ stitches while you’re in the middle of the river And I watch you fight to swim to the other side of the bed Kicking, gasping for air between gulps of chamomile tea. But when the blood is calm, It is beautiful as a bone-handled knife. It dreams, And as it dreams it drools like a baby. It's the drip-drip of a faucet as we go to sleep. It's a bee beating itself against the glass. It’s a presence not like a ghost, But like a memory in your skin Changing the pitch and timbre of your body. As I pull my fingers across your belly, And you find my lips in the dark like a magnet, I slip my fingers through your hair as gently as thought, And you say "Baby, not tonight. I'm on my period." And I say: Baby, I will make love to you until we look like a war zone! Give me the sweet murder of your body, Until they string up crime scene tape across the bedroom, Because period sex is awesome! I will love you like surgery and transplant your heart. I will love you like a horror movie, Because it’s about to be a blood bath in here. I need a heart transfusion of your love: Type A positive Because you can’t B negative When I'm giving you my O, O, O. I want surf your crimson tide, And invite your Aunt Flo in for a threesome. I want to put my submarine in your Red Sea And hunt for Red October, And do not hesitate to ask me to go snorkelling down there; If I order the finest steak I'm going to eat it rare Because I crave the taste of blood And I want your nerves raw Like a bullet-wound Valentine. And whether it’s hard or sweet, We’re going to leave Rorschachs on the sheets, And hand-prints on the walls. So throw that tampon in the air like a cotton Sputnik. Just lob it, because in the end I want to be bloodier than John Wayne Bobbitt. Your time of the month has perfect timing Because you open like the elevator doors in The Shining. I like some ketchup when I'm dining, I want to taste copper like I'm dying. So let the woman in you make a man out of me. Let's get unclean Because this love-making Is no less perfect than the moon rising in you And this love-making Is the gospel music created by the rhythm of flesh and blood, And flesh and blood. And this blood Is the closest I will ever be to making love to your insides, Sailing through your veins and arteries. This blood on my skin Is the photograph I take when I visit your heart.
