A boy speaks

Dear God: He was an old-man dog. . . .
 Here is his bowl and his pillow.
We buried him this morning
 Beneath the garden willow. . . .
If terriers go to Heaven
It's raining so tonight,
 Please whistle, God, and pet him
 Until he seems all right. . . .
 God, if he will not eat,
But maybe just stands still
Please pick him up a little
 And talk to him until
 He wags his tail against you,
 Then let him lick your chin.
He was my dog. . . (Old Buddy)
 Please, God. . . please take him in.

 -Queene B. Lister

IF I WERE GOD (Inspired by a very young mother)

I saw her hanging clothes upon a line
 A mother, slim and graceful, but too young.
Her eyes were wistful as she looked away
 From where her baby's sheer white dresses hung.
 She was so much the little girl herself,
 How could she know, so young, the worth of it;
How realize her baby's pricelessness?
 If I were God, I'd wait a little bit.
I'd wait until she learned the emptiness
 Of life, and had more years to play and smile
 And yearn for what she thinks binds her too fast.,
 If I were God, I'd wait a little while.

 -Revah Summersgill

wisdom

Say not you know another entirely until you have divided an inheritance with him.

the 26

q-w-e-r-t-y-u-i-o-p 
a-s-d-f-g-h-j -k-l
 z-x-c-v-b-n-m.
 Here they sit, so still, serene,
On my little type-machine.
What they think of who can say,
 As they wait here, day by day? 
But what service have they seen
 Letters on my type machine!

q-w-e-r-t-y-u-i-o-p
 a-s-d-f-g-h-j-k-l
z-x-c-v-b-n-m.
 See! they're really just a few;
Ah, but think what they can do!
 Think of all the magic hid
If my fingers do not skid.
Think of all the clever tricks
Done with just these twenty-six!

 q-w-e-r-t-y-u-i-o-p
a-s-d-f-g-h-j-k-l
z-x-c-v-b-n-m.
 Shakespeare had no more than these,
 Nor did Milton, if you please.
 Sonnets, ballads, books, may troup
From this silent little group.
 Aye, the Bible-think of it
In these twenty-six is writ.

q-w-e-r-t-y-u-i-o-p
 a-s-d-f-g-h-j-k-l
z-x-c-v-b-n-m.
 Just to think what they can do
Comedies and dramas too.
Ah, but 'tis a magic power
I'm endowed with in this hour.
 Guide, ye gods, my hand and sight!
 May I strike the keys aright!

-Miriam Teichner

A WOMAN'S QUESTION, and a Man's reply

Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing
 Ever made by the Hand above?
A woman's heart and a woman's life,
 And a woman's wonderful love?

 Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing
 As a child might ask for a toy?
Demanding what others have died to win,
 With the reckless dash of a boy?

 You have written my lesson of duty out,
 Manlike, you have questioned me;
Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul
 Until I shall question thee.

 You require your mutton shall always be hot,
 Your socks and your shirt shall be whole;
 I require your heart shall be true as God's stars,
 As pure as heaven your soul.

 You require a cook for your mutton and beef;
 I require a far better thing;
A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirt
 I look for a man and a king.

 A king for a beautiful realm called Home,
 And a man that the maker, God,
Shall look upon as He did the first,
 And say: "It is very good."

 I am fair and young, but the roses will fade
 From my soft young cheek one day;
Will you love me then, 'mid the falling leaves,
 As you did 'mid the bloom of May?

 Is your heart an ocean so wide and deep
 I may launch my all on its tide?
 A loving woman finds heaven or hell
 On the day' she is made a bride.

 I require all things that are grand and true,
 All things that a man should be;
 If you give this all, I would stake my life
 To be all you demand of me.

 If you cannot do this, a laundress and cook
 You may hire with little pay;
 But a woman's heart and a woman's life
 Are not to be won that way.

Mary T. Lathrop


A MAN'S REPLY
 Yes, I have asked for a priceless thing,
 For a gem beyond all compare,
With which all the richest mountains of earth
 Nor the ocean can compare.

 But have I come with empty hands?
 In return have I offered aught?
Can a man bring more to the woman he loves
 Than I unto you have brought?

 No seamstress or cook have I sought, 
For they can be hired, I ween;
Naught have I said of mutton or shirt,
 I want and must have a Queen.

 You say that you want a man and a King
 A very Prince of the race;
 I look for a kind and generous heart,
 And not a queenly face.

 You require all things that are good and true,
 All things that a man should be;
I ask for a woman, with all that implies,
 And that is sufficient for me.

 You ask for a man without a fault,
 To live with here on earth;
 I ask for a woman, faults and all,
 For by faults, I may judge of worth.

 I ask for a woman, made as of old,
 A higher form of man;
His comforter, helper, adviser and friend,
 As in the original plan.

 A woman who has an aim in life,
 Who finds life worth the living;
Who makes the world better for being here,
 And for others her life is giving

 To be all that a man should be
 Shall be my aim in life;
To love but me and only me,
 Is all that I ask of my wife.

 For your heart and life and wonderful love
 Are sacred things to me,
And I'll stake my life to be to you
 Whatever I ought to be.

 Thus, at the bar of your woman's soul
 I have stood and answered thee;
And again, I ask for that priceless thing
 Say, what shall the answer be?

 -Unknown

rejection slip

The Chinese editor, with the unfailing courtesy of his race, has endeavored to take the sting out of the rejection slip in the following manner:

 "To Those Whose Divine Manuscripts We Have Rejected:
We have read your manuscript with infinite delight.
By the sacred ashes of our ancestors, we must swear that we have never read such a splendid piece of writing.
But if we printed it, His Majesty the Emperor, our most high and mighty ruler, would order us to take this as a model, and never print anything inferior.
And this would not be I possible in less than a thousand years.
We regret to return your divine manuscript, and ask one thousand pardons."

See also: http://better-than-palgrave.blogspot.com/2014/07/a-chinese-editor-rejects-manuscript.html

THE PASSING OF THE STREET FIGHT

You know, it seems to me the world is growing better, more sane. When, as a boy, I worked in a factory I remember almost every evening after work there would be a fight outside the shop. A couple of fellows with bare fists would go to it, while the crowd of workmen egged them on.

Often these fights lasted an hour or more, and sometimes they were continued like the old-time serial movie picture. If they could not finish the argument in one night, they would go out to the vacant lot the next and start all over. Now that seemed to be the method they had of finding out who was right in an argument.

Nations still use this method. They have a war, and the one that kills most men and starves most women and children wins- and that one is supposed to be right- the other one, wrong.

 I heard a very interesting story about a couple of Chinese. A traveler in Shanghai one day saw two coolies engaged in a heated argument. A big crowd was gathered about, just like the crowds that used to watch the fist fights out in the vacant lot back of the shop. The two Chinese were waving their arms, shaking their fists and stamping their feet, all the time apparently hurling at each other the bitterest epithets their Mongolian brains could devise. But not a blow was struck.

The traveler was surprised at their actions and when he inquired what the trouble was, he was told by one of the bystanders that the two coolies were "fighting." "Fighting?" he asked in astonishment. "What kind of a fight do you call that? They prance around and talk fast and make faces, but not a blow is struck." "That is right," replied the bystander, "the man who strikes first is beaten, because thereby he confesses he has run out of ideas."

And that seems to me to be one of the reasons for men and nations fighting- they run out of ideas.

30 seconds

In the thirty seconds you will give to these lines you might hear
eight bars of Beethoven's Eroica,
 or read Shelley's Ozymandiaz
or cut three hyacinths,
or watch a brown bee among the tulips,
 or breathe the new rain from the grass,
or write something better than this banality ­why didn't you?
 -C1uJ.rlu Ballard

THE GOLDEN RULE

The Christian Golden Rule is an "unwritten" law the world over.

 It bears a varied interpretation, but the principle has never been compromised. Here are a few variations:

 Do as you would be done by.-PeTlian
Do not do that to a neighbor which you would take ill from him.-Grecian
What you would not wish done to yourself, do not do unto others.-Chinese
One should seek for others the happiness one desires for oneself.-Buddhiat
 He sought for others the good he desired for himself. Let him pass on.-Egyptian
Let none of you treat his brother in a way he himself would dislike to be treated.-Mohammedan
The true rule of life is to guard and do by the things of others as they do by their own.-Hindu
The law imprinted on the hearts of all men is to love the members of society as themselves.-Roman
All things whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.-Christian

OVERHEARD IN A RUMBLE SEAT

He: Do you like Kipling?
She: I dunno, how do ya kipple?

Heaven

Something tells me that when we get to Heaven we are going to find the front seats filled with people we never I heard so much about down here.

 -COl.8m.a". Co4:

poetry

Pictures, fancied by my eye,
 Memories, treasured by my heart,
 Grope in vain for words
Their meaning to impart.
I can only borrow
Words of other men
To put in form and measure
 The impotence of my pen.

THE MAGIC MIRROR

A beggar of Shiraz once had a looking-glass
That by its magic power all others did surpass­
Which many dames would wish their mirrors too could I share-­
To show an ugly face as if it were most fair!
 The beggar held this glass in front of everyone
From whom he begged; and copious guerdons thus he won.
 For each with gladness gave who saw himself so fair:
The gay young lord, the foul old hag, both looking there.
At last the beggar, lying sick, gave to his son the glass,
 and said, "Make use of it as I have done."
But with the glass at night all empty came he back,
 For he had made a different use of it, alack!
 He held not up the glass before each passing wight,
 But saw his own face there and lingered on the sight.
The father said, "The foolish fruits of idle pride,
My son, no human heart has ever satisfied.
Who shows the world in Flattery's glass is one shrewd elf;
He is a fool who looks therein to see himself." (Translation of an Oriental Poem)

TEN DEFINITIONS OF POETRY

1 Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

2 Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, want­ing to fly the air.

3 Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for eXplanations.

4 Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

5 Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

6 Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

7 Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.

8 Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

9 Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

10 Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment.

TO THE VICTOR

Man's mind is larger than his brow of tears;

 This hour is not my all of time; this place

My all of earth; nor this obscene disgrace 

My all of life; and thy complacent sneers 

Shall not pronounce my doom to my compeers

 While. the Hereafter lights me in the face, 

And from the Past, as from the mountain's base, 

Rise, as I rise, the long tumultuous cheers. 

And who slays me must overcome a world: 

Heroes at arms, and virgins who became 

Mothers of children, prophecy and song; 

Walls of old cities with their flags unfurled; 

Peaks, headlands, ocean and its isles of fame­

And sun and moon and all that made me strong!

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are 1 think 1 know.

 His house is in the village though;

 He will not see me stopping here

 To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer 

To stop without a farmhouse near 

Between the woods and frozen lake 

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake 

To ask if there is some mistake. 

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

 But 1 have promises to keep,

And miles to go before 1 sleep,

And miles to go before 1 sleep.

THE EGG AND THE MACHINE

He gave the solid rail a hateful kick.

From far away there came an answering tick; 

And then another tick. He knew the code:

His hate had roused an engine up the road.

He wished when he had had the track alone

He had attacked it with a club or stone

And bent some rail wide. open like a switch 

So as to wreck the engine in the ditch.

Too late, though, now to throw it down the bank;

 Its click was rising to a nearer clank.

Here it came breasting like a horse in skirts.

(He stood well back for fear of scalding squirts.)

 Then for a moment there was only size, 

Confusion, and a roar that drowned the cries

He raised against the gods in the machine. 

Then once again the sand-hank lay serene. 

The traveler's eye picked up a turtle trail, 

Between the dotted feet a streak of tail,

And followed it to where he made out vague, 

But certain signs of buried turtle egg;

And probing with one finger not too rough, 

He found suspicious sand, and sure enough

The pocket of a little turtle mine.      

If there was one egg in it, there were nine,

 Torpedo-like, with shell of gritty leather

All packed in sand to wait the trump together. 

"You'd "better not disturb me any more,"

He told the distance. "I am armed for war.

 The next machine that has the power to pass 

Will get this plasm in its goggle glass."

SAND DUNES

Sea waves are green and wet, 

But up from where they die 

Rise others vaster yet,

And those are brown and dry.

They are the sea made land 

To come at the fisher town, 

And bury in solid sand

The men she could not drown.

She may know cove and cape, 

But she does not know mankind 

If by any change of shape

She hopes to cut off mind.

Men left her a ship to sink; 

They can leave her a hut as well,

 And be but more free to think 

For the one more cast-off shell.

ONCE BY THE PACIFIC

the shattered water made a misty din,

great waves looked over others coming in, 

and thought of doing something to the shore 

that water never did to land before.

the clouds were low and hairy in the skies

 like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.

You could not tell, and yet it looked as if 

The sand was lucky in being backed by cliff, 

The cliff in being backed by continent.

It looked as if a night of dark intent

Was coming, and not only a night, an age.

 Some one had better be prepared for rage.

 There would be more than ocean water broken

before God's last "Put out the light" was spoken.

FIRE AND ICE

Some say the world will end in fire, 

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

 I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

 I think I know enough of hate

 To say that for destruction ice Is also great

And would suffice.

A DECADE

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,

And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

Now you are like morning bread,

Smooth and pleasant.

I hardly taste you at all, for I know your savor;

But I am completely nourished.

TO A DOG

If there is no God for thee

Then there is no God for me

If He sees not when you share

 With the poor your frugal fare,

 Does not see you at a grave,

Every instinct bred to save;

As if you were the only one 

Believing in a resurrection;

When you wait, as lovers do, 

Watching till your friend comes true;

Does not reverence when you take

 Angry words for love's sweet sake;

If his eye does not approve

All your faith and pain and love;

If the heart of justice fail 

And is for you of no avail;

If there is no heaven for thee

 Then there is no heaven for me.

II

If the Lord they tell us of

Died for men yet loves not love,

If from out His Paradise

He shuts the innocent and wise,

The gay, obedient, simple, good, 

The docile ones, of friendly mood,

Those who die to save a friend 

Heavenly faithful to the end;

If there is no cross for thee. 

Then there is no cross for me.

III

If its boughs reach not so high

That they bowed star and sky,

If its roots are not so sound

That they cleave the heavy ground,

If it thrills not through all Nature

 Plunged through every living creature,

If its leaves do not enmesh

 Every bit of groaning flesh,

If it strike no mighty spur

Through fang and claw and tooth and fur

Piercing tree and earth and stone,

 Then indeed I stand alone.

Nothing less than this can save

 Me, from out my fleshly grave,

Me, in whom such jungles are 

Where the beasts go out to war.

If there is no God for thee

 Then there is no God for me.

ROLL A ROCK DOWN

Oh, out in the West where the riders are ready,

            They sing an old song and they tell an old tale,

And its moral is plain: Take it easy, go steady,

            While riding a horse on the Malibu Trail.

It's a high, rocky trail with its switch-backs and doubles,

            It has no beginning and never an end:

It's risky and rough and it's plumb full of troubles,

            From Shifty-that's shale-up to Powder Cut Bend.

  

Old.timers will tell you the rangers who made it,

            Sang "Roll A Rock Down," with a stiff upper lip,

And cussed all creation, but managed to grade it;

            With a thousand.foot drop if a pony should slip.

Oh, the day it was wet and the sky it was cloudy,

            The trail was as slick as an oil.rigger's pants,

When Ranger McCabe on his pony, Old Rowdy,

            Came ridin' where walkin' was takin' a chance.

"Oh, Roll A Rock Down!" picks and shovels was clangin',

            And Rowdy a-steppin' that careful and light,

When the edge it gave way and McCabe was left hangin'

            Clean over the rim-with no bottom in sight.

I shook out a loop-bein' crowded for throwin';

            I flipped a fair noose for a rope that was wet:

It caught just as Mac lost his holt and was go in',

            And burned through my fingers: it's burnin' them yet.

For Ranger McCabe never knuckled to danger;

            My pardner in camp, on the trail, or in town:

And he slid. into glory, a true forest-ranger,

            With: "Hell! I'm a.goin'! Just roll a rock down."

So, roll a rock down where a ranger is sleepin'

            Aside of his horse below Powder Cut Bend:

I ride and I look where the shadows are creep in',

            And roll a rock down-for McCabe was my friend.

I've sung you my song and I've told you my story,

            And all that I ask when I'm done with the show,

Is, roll a rock down when I slide into glory,

            And say that I went like a ranger should go.

Alone on Lykaion

Alone on Lykaion since man hath been

Stand on the height two columns, 

where' at rest

 Two eagles hewn of gold sit looking East 

Forever; and the sun goes up between.

Far down around the mountain's oval green

 An order keeps the falling stones abreast. 

Below within the chaos last and least

A river like a curl of light is seen.

Beyond the river lies the even sea,

Beyond the sea another ghost of sky,­

0 God, support the sickness of my eye

Lest the far space and long antiquity

Suck out my heart, and on this awful ground 

The great wind kill my little shell with sound.

HOW A CAT WAS ANNOYED AND A POET WAS BOOTED

A poet had a cat.

There is nothing odd in that­

(I might make a little pun about the Mews!)

But what is really more

Remarkable, she wore

A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes.

            And 1 doubt me greatly whether

            You have heard the like of that:

            Pointed shoes of patent-leather

            On a cat!

His time he used to pass

Writing sonnets, on the grass­

(I might say something good on pen and sward!) 

While the cat sat near at hand,

Trying hard to understand

The poems he occasionally roared.

            (I myself possess a feline,

            But when poetry 1 roar

            He is sure to make a bee-line

            For the door.)

The poet, cent by cent, .All his patrimony spent­

(I might tell how he went from verse to worse!)

 Till the cat was sure she could, ~ By advising, do him good.

            So addressed him in a manner that was terse:

            "We are bound toward the scuppers,

            And the time has come to act,

            Or we'll both be on our uppers

            For a fact!"

On her boot she fixed her eye, But the boot made no reply­

(I might say: "Couldn't speak to save its sole!")

 And the foolish bard, instead

Of responding, only read

A verse that wasn't bad upon the whole.

            And it pleased the cat so greatly,

            Though she knew not what it meant,

            That I'll quote approximately

            How it went:­

"If I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree"­

(I might put in: "I think I'd just as leaf!") 

"Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough"­

Well, he'd plagiarized it bodily, in brief!

            But that cat of simple breeding

            Couldn't read the lines between,

            So she took it to a leading Magazine.

She was jarred and very sore

When they showed her to the door.

(I might hit off the door that was a jar!)

 To the spot she swift returned

Where the poet sighed and yearned,

And she told him that he'd gone a little far. 

"Your performance with this rhyme has

            Made me absolutely sick,"

            She remarked. "I think the time has

            Come to kick!"

I could fill up half the page

With descriptions of her rage­

(I might say that she went a bit too fur!)

 When he smiled and murmured: "Shoo!" "There is one thing I can do!"

She answered with a wrathful kind of purr.

            "Y ou may shoe me, an it suit you,

            But I feel my conscience bid

            Me, as tit for tat, to boot you!"

            (Which she did.)

The Moral of the plot (Though I say it, as should not!)

Is: An editor is difficult to suit. But again there're other times When the man who fashions rhymes

            Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot!