Author: Jennie

“The Land Of Story-books”

On By JennieIn Poetry

The Land of Story-books

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.

~Robert Louis Stevenson

 

*Posted in Parallel with Words for the Weekend: Read, Read, Read. Read Everything. (Then Write) Vol. 25  

Cherokee Rose

On By JennieIn Art, Quote4 Comments
Two Cherokee Roses on Red Velvet by Martin Johnson Heade
Two Cherokee Roses on Red Velvet by Martin Johnson Heade

“It’s a Cherokee Rose. The story is that when American soldiers were moving Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grieving and crying so much ’cause they were losing their little ones along the way from exposure and disease and starvation. A lot of them just disappeared. So the elders, they said a prayer; asked for a sign to uplift the mothers’ spirits, give them strength and hope. The next day this rose started to grow where the mothers’ tears fell. I’m not fool enough to think there’s any flowers blooming for my brother. But I believe this one bloomed for your little girl.” ~Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead

“Ode To Sadness” ~Pablo Neruda

On By JennieIn Poetry2 Comments

Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch’s skeleton:
No entry here.
Don’t come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent’s teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat’s wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.

~Pablo Neruda

“My Mind is… (XXV)” ~e.e. cummings

On By JennieIn Poetry1 Comment

my mind is

a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal tools

in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and ex

-ecute strides of cobalt

nevertheless i

feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming something a little different, in fact

myself

Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings.

~e.e. cummings

“The Man Who Discovered the Use of a Chair”

On By JennieIn Humor, Poetry

The man who discovered the use of a chair,
_Odds–bobs–
What a wonderful man!_
He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,
Till he thought of a highly original plan.
For years he had sat on his chair, like you,
_Quite–still!
But his looks were grim_
For he wished to be famous (as great men do)
And nobody ever would listen to him.

Now he went one night to a dinner of state
_Hear! hear!
In the proud Guildhall!_
And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;
But nobody heard his opinions at all;

There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech
(_Grouse! Grouse!
What a dreary bird!_)
With five fair minutes allotted to each,
But never a moment for him to be heard.

But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,
_Order! Order!_
They cried, _for the Chair!_
And, much to their wonder, our friend arose
And fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor.

‘We have come,’ he said, ‘to the fourteenth course!
‘_High–time,
for the Chair_,’ he said.
Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force,
He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor’s head.

It missed that head by the width of a hair.
_Gee–whizz!
What a horrible squeak!_
But it crashed through the big bay-window there
And smashed a bus into Wednesday week.

And the very next day, in the decorous Times
(_Great–Guns–
How the headlines ran!_)
In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,
There were five full columns about that man.

 

ENVOI

Oh, if you get dizzy when authors write
(_My stars!
And you very well may!_)
That white is black and that black is white,
You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:

It is easy enough to be famous now,
(_Puff–Puff!
How the trumpets blare!_)
Provided, of course, that you don’t care how,
Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.

~Alfred Noyes