Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young

Our minds are married, but we are too young 

For wedlock by the customs of this age 

When parent homes pen each in seperate cage 

And only supper-earning songs are sung. 

 

Times past, when medieval woods were green, 

Babes were betrothed, and that betrothal brief. 

Remember Romeo in love and grief 

- Those star-crossed lovers - Juliet was fourteen. 

 

Times past, the caveman by his new-found fire 

Rested beside his mate in woodsmoke's scent. 

By our own fireside we shall rest content 

Fifty years hence keep troth with hearts desire. 

 

We shall remember, when our hair is white, 

These clouded days revealed in radiant light.

 

 

George Orwell

Given to Jacintha Buddicom, Christmas 1918

The Pagan

So here are you, and here am I, 

Where we may thank our gods to be; 

Above the earth, beneath the sky, 

Naked souls alive and free. 

The autumn wind goes rustling by 

And stirs the stubble at our feet; 

Out of the west it whispering blows, 

Stops to caress and onward goes, 

Bringing its earthy odours sweet. 

See with what pride the the setting sun 

Kinglike in gold and purple dies, 

And like a robe of rainbow spun 

Tinges the earth with shades divine. 

That mystic light is in your eyes 

And ever in your heart will shine.

 

 

George Orwell

Written autumn 1918 and sent to Jacintha Buddicom

Kitchener

No stone is set to mark his nation's loss, 

No stately tomb enshrines his noble breast; 

Not e'en the tribute of a wooden cross 

Can mark this hero's rest. 

 

He needs them not, his name untarnished stands, 

Remindful of the mighty deeds he worked, 

Footprints of one, upon time's changeful sands, 

Who ne'er his duty shirked. 

 

Who follows in his steps no danger shuns, 

Nor stoops to conquer by a shameful deed, 

An honest and unselfish race he runs, 

From fear and malice freed.

 

 

George Orwell

The Henley and South Oxfordshire Standard, 21 July 1916

Awake! Young Men of England

Awake! Young Men of England 

 

Oh! give me the strength of the Lion, 

The wisdom of reynard the Fox 

And then I'll hurl troops at the Germans 

And give them the hardest of knocks. 

 

Oh! think of the War Lord's mailed fist, 

That is striking at England today: 

And think of the lives that our soldiers 

Are fearlessly throwing away. 

 

Awake! Oh you young men of England, 

For if, when your Country's in need, 

You do not enlist by the thousand, 

You truly are cowards indeed.

 

 

George Orwell

The Henley and South Oxfordshire Standard, 2 October 1914

A Little Poem

A happy vicar I might have been 

Two hundred years ago 

To preach upon eternal doom 

And watch my walnuts grow;

 

But born, alas, in an evil time, 

I missed that pleasant haven, 

For the hair has grown on my upper lip 

And the clergy are all clean-shaven.
 

And later still the times were good, 

We were so easy to please, 

We rocked our troubled thoughts to sleep 

On the bosoms of the trees.
 

All ignorant we dared to own 

The joys we now dissemble; 

The greenfinch on the apple bough 

Could make my enemies tremble.
 

But girl’s bellies and apricots, 

Roach in a shaded stream, 

Horses, ducks in flight at dawn, 

All these are a dream.
 

It is forbidden to dream again; 

We maim our joys or hide them: 

Horses are made of chromium steel 

And little fat men shall ride them.
 

I am the worm who never turned, 

The eunuch without a harem; 

Between the priest and the commissar 

I walk like Eugene Aram;
 

And the commissar is telling my fortune 

While the radio plays,

But the priest has promised an Austin Seven, 

For Duggie always pays.
 

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, 

And woke to find it true; 

I wasn’t born for an age like this; 

Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?

 

 

George Orwell

1936

Men

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pauses,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

Maya Angelou

Türkçesi: Erkekler - Maya Angelou

Ancient Music

A parody of the Anglo-Saxon poem, Cuckoo Song

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

Ezra Pound

Storm

Inner North London, top floor flat
All white walls, white carpet, white cat,
Rice Paper partitions
Modern art and ambition
The host's a physician,
Lovely bloke, has his own practice
His girlfriend's an actress
An old mate from home
And they're always great fun.
So to dinner we've come.

The 5th guest is an unknown,
The hosts have just thrown
Us together for a favour
because this girl's just arrived from Australia
And has moved to North London
And she's the sister of someone
Or has some connection.

As we make introductions
I'm struck by her beauty
She's irrefutably fair
With dark eyes and dark hair
But as she sits
I admit I'm a little bit wary
because I notice the tip of the wing of a fairy
Tattooed on that popular area
Just above the derrière
And when she says “I'm Sagittarien”
I confess a pigeonhole starts to form
And is immediately filled with pigeon
When she says her name is Storm.

Chatter is initially bright and light hearted
But it's not long before Storm gets started:
“You can't know anything,
Knowledge is merely opinion”
She opines, over her Cabernet Sauvignon
Vis a vis
Some unhippily
Empirical comment by me

“Not a good start” I think
We're only on pre-dinner drinks
And across the room, my wife
Widens her eyes
Silently begs me, Be Nice
A matrimonial warning
Not worth ignoring
So I resist the urge to ask Storm
Whether knowledge is so loose-weave
Of a morning
When deciding whether to leave
Her apartment by the front door
Or a window on the second floor.

The food is delicious and Storm,
Whilst avoiding all meat
Happily sits and eats
While the good doctor, slightly pissedly
Holds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical history
When Storm suddenly she insists
“But the human body is a mystery!
Science just falls in a hole
When it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”

My hostess throws me a glance
She, like my wife, knows there's a chance
That I'll be off on one of my rants
But my lips are sealed.
I just want to enjoy my meal
And although Storm is starting to get my goat
I have no intention of rocking the boat,
Although it's becoming a bit of a wrestle
Because - like her meteorological namesake -
Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:

“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemy
They promote drug dependency
At the cost of the natural remedies
That are all our bodies need
They are immoral and driven by greed.
Why take drugs
When herbs can solve it?
Why use chemicals
When homeopathic solvents
Can resolve it?
It's time we all return-to-live
With natural medical alternatives.”

And try as hard as I like,
A small crack appears
In my diplomacy-dike.
“By definition”, I begin
“Alternative Medicine”, I continue
“Has either not been proved to work,
Or been proved not to work.
You know what they call “alternative medicine”
That's been proved to work?
Medicine.”

“So you don't believe
In ANY Natural remedies?”

“On the contrary actually:
Before we came to tea,
I took a natural remedy
Derived from the bark of a willow tree
A painkiller that's virtually side-effect free
It's got a weird name,
Darling, what was it again?
Masprin?
Basprin?
Asprin!
Which I paid about a buck for
Down at my local drugstore.

The debate briefly abates
As our hosts collects plates
but as they return with desserts
Storm pertly asserts,

“Shakespeare said it first:
There are more things in heaven and earth
Than exist in your philosophy…
Science is just how we're trained to look at reality,
It can't explain love or spirituality.
How does science explain psychics?
Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”

I'm becoming aware
That I'm staring,
I'm like a rabbit suddenly trapped
In the blinding headlights of vacuous crap.
Maybe it's the Hamlet she just misquothed
Or the eighth glass of wine I just quaffed
But my diplomacy dike groans
And the arsehole held back by its stones
Can be held back no more:

“Look , Storm, I don't mean to bore you
But there's no such thing as an aura!
Reading Auras is like reading minds
Or star-signs or tea-leaves or meridian lines
These people aren't plying a skill,
They are either lying or mentally ill.
Same goes for those who claim to hear God's demands
And Spiritual healers who think they have magic hands.

By the way,
Why is it OK
For people to pretend they can talk to the dead?
Is it not totally fucked in the head
Lying to some crying woman whose child has died
And telling her you're in touch with the other side?
That's just fundamentally sick
Do we need to clarify that there's no such thing as a psychic?

What, are we fucking 2?
Do we actually think that Horton Heard a Who?
Do we still think that Santa brings us gifts?
That Michael Jackson hasn't had facelifts?
Are we still so stunned by circus tricks
That we think that the dead would
Wanna talk to pricks
Like John Edwards?

Storm to her credit despite my derision
Keeps firing off clichés with startling precision
Like a sniper using bollocks for ammunition

“You're so sure of your position
But you're just closed-minded
I think you'll find
Your faith in Science and Tests
Is just as blind
As the faith of any fundamentalist”

“Hm that's a good point, let me think for a bit
Oh wait, my mistake, it's absolute bullshit.
Science adjusts it's beliefs based on what's observed
Faith is the denial of observation so that Belief can be preserved.
If you show me
That, say, homeopathy works,
Then I will change my mind
I'll spin on a fucking dime
I'll be embarrassed as hell,
But I will run through the streets yelling
It's a miracle! Take physics and bin it!
Water has memory!
And while it's memory of a long lost drop of onion juice is Infinite
It somehow forgets all the poo it's had in it!

You show me that it works and how it works
And when I've recovered from the shock
I will take a compass and carve Fancy That on the side of my cock.”

Everyones just staring at me now,
But I'm pretty pissed and I've dug this far down,
So I figure, in for penny, in for a pound:

“Life is full of mystery, yeah
But there are answers out there
And they won't be found
By people sitting around
Looking serious
And saying isn't life mysterious?
Let's sit here and hope
Let's call up the fucking Pope
Let's go watch Oprah
Interview Deepak Chopra

If you're going to watch tele, you should watch Scooby Doo.
That show was so cool
because every time there's a church with a ghoul
Or a ghost in a school
They looked beneath the mask and what was inside?
The fucking janitor or the dude who runs the waterslide.
Throughout history
Every mystery
Ever solved has turned out to be
Not Magic.

Does the idea that there might be truth
Frighten you?
Does the idea that one afternoon
On Wiki-fucking-pedia might enlighten you
Frighten you?
Does the notion that there may not be a supernatural
So blow your hippy noodle
That you would rather just stand in the fog
Of your inability to Google?

Isn't this enough?

Just this world?

Just this beautiful, complex
Wonderfully unfathomable, NATURAL world?
How does it so fail to hold our attention
That we have to diminish it with the invention
Of cheap, man-made Myths and Monsters?
If you're so into Shakespeare
Lend me your ear:
“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly”
Or something like that.
Or what about Satchmo?!
I see trees of Green,
Red roses too,
And fine, if you wish to
Glorify Krishna and Vishnu
In a post-colonial, condescending
Bottled-up and labeled kind of way
Then whatever, that's ok.
But here's what gives me a hard-on:
I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant lump of carbon.
I have one life, and it is short
And unimportant…
But thanks to recent scientific advances
I get to live twice as long
As my great great great great uncleses and auntses.
Twice as long to live this life of mine
Twice as long to love this wife of mine
Twice as many years of friends and wine
Of sharing curries and getting shitty
With good-looking hippies
With fairies on their spines
And butterflies on their titties.

And if perchance I have offended
Think but this and all is mended:
We'd as well be 10 minutes back in time,
For all the chance you'll change your mind.

Tim Minchin

Roses And Rue

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long.


Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!


I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;


And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;


And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;


And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.


You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.


I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.


I remember your hair - did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.


I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;


And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.


And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face -
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?


On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,


'You have only wasted your life.'
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.


Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!


Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and hell.


Oscar Wilde

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'T is some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
                                          Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow:--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
                                          Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'T is some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
                                          This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;--
                                          Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
                                          Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
                                          'T is the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
                                          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore,--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                                          With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
                                          Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
                                          Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                                          Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
                                          _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above, us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                                          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                                          Shall be lifted--nevermore!





    "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore."




    "Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor."




    "Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore."




"Sorrow for the lost Lenore."




    "For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
                                      Nameless here for evermore."




    "'T is some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
    Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door."




    "Here I opened wide the door;--
                                      Darkness there, and nothing more."




    "Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."



    "'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.'"




    "Open here I flung the shutter."




    ... "A stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he."




    "Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
                                      Perched, and sat, and nothing more."




    "Wandering from the Nightly shore."




    "Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'Other friends have flown before--
    On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'"




    "Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy."




    "But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
                                      _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!"




    "'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!'"




    "On this home by Horror haunted."




    ... "Tell me truly, I implore--
    Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"




    "Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore."




    "'Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked, upstarting."




    "'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!'"



    "And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                                      Shall be lifted--nevermore!"

Edgar Allan POE