The Reporter, a Prose Poem by Ivan Turgenev

Two friends were sitting at a table drinking tea.

A sudden hubbub arose in the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious
abuse, bursts of malignant laughter.

'They're beating someone,' observed one of the friends, looking out of
window.

'A criminal? A murderer?' inquired the other. 'I say, whatever he may be,
we can't allow this illegal chastisement. Let's go and take his part.'

'But it's not a murderer they're beating.'

'Not a murderer? Is it a thief then? It makes no difference, let's go and
get him away from the crowd.'

'It's not a thief either.'

'Not a thief? Is it an absconding cashier then, a railway director, an army
contractor, a Russian art patron, a lawyer, a Conservative editor, a social
reformer? … Anyway, let's go and help him!'

'No… it's a newspaper reporter they're beating.'

'A reporter? Oh, I tell you what: we'll finish our glasses of tea first
then.'

On Silver Nights

Ye Idyll of Ye Hippopopotamus

With a Methodist hymn in his musical throat,
The Sun was emitting his ultimate note;
His quivering larynx enwrinkled the sea
Like an Ichthyosaurian blowing his tea;
When sweetly and pensively rattled and rang
This plaint which an Hippopopotamus sang:

“O, Camomile, Calabash, Cartilage-pie,
Spread for my spirit a peppermint fry;
Crown me with doughnuts, and drape me with cheese,
Settle my soul with a codliver sneeze.
Lo, how I stand on my head and repine—
Lollipop Lumpkin can never be mine!”

Down sank the Sun with a kick and a plunge,
Up from the wave rose the head of a Sponge;
Ropes in his ringlets, eggs in his eyes,
Tip—tilted nose in a way to surprise.
These the conundrums he flung to the breeze,
The answers that Echo returned to him these:

“Cobblestone, Cobblestone, why do you sigh—
Why do you turn on the tears?”

“My mother is crazy on strawberry jam,
And my father has petrified ears.”

“Liverwort, Liverwort, why do you droop—
Why do you snuffle and scowl?”

“My brother has cockle—burs into his eyes,
And my sister has married an owl.”

“Simia, Simia, why do you laugh—
Why do you cackle and quake?”

“My son has a pollywog stuck in his throat,
And my daughter has bitten a snake.”

Slow sank the head of the Sponge out of sight,
Soaken with sea—water—then it was night.
The Moon had now risen for dinner to dress,
When sweetly the Pachyderm sang from his nest;
He sang through a pestle of silvery shape,
Encrusted with custard—empurpled with crape;
And this was the burden he bore on his lips,
And blew to the listening Sturgeon that sips
From the fountain of opium under the lobes
Of the mountain whose summit in buffalo robes
The winter envelops, as Venus adorns
An elephant's trunk with a chaplet of thorns:

“Chasing mastodons through marshes upon stilts of light ratan,
Hunting spiders with a shotgun and mosquitoes with an axe,
Plucking peanuts ready roasted from the branches of the oak,
Waking echoes in the forest with our hymns of blessed bosh,

We roamed—my love and I.
By the margin of the fountain spouting thick with clabbered milk,
Under spreading boughs of bass—wood all alive with cooing toads,
Loafing listlessly on bowlders of octagonal design,
Standing gracefully inverted with our toes together knit,

We loved—my love and I.”
Hippopopotamus comforts his heart
Biting half—moons out of strawberry tart.

--Ambrose Bierce (Don Grile)

August

AUGUST

August is hot;
August is sly.
August comes in
And kills July.

August is dry;
August is drear.
August will kick
You in the rear.

August just grinds;
August is slow.
Its heat will beat
And lay you low.

August is fierce;
August is cruel.
Who likes August
Must be a fool.

The Horrible History of Jones

The Horrible History of Jones
G.K. Chesterton

by G.K.Chesterton


Jones had a dog; it had a chain;
Not often worn, not causing pain;
But, as the I.K.L. had passed
Their 'Unleashed Cousins Act' at last,
Inspectors took the chain away;
Whereat the canine barked 'Hooray!'
At which, of course, the S.P.U.
(Whose Nervous Motorists' Bill was through)
Were forced to give the dog in charge
For being Audibly at Large.
None, you will say, were now annoyed,
Save, haply, Jones - the yard was void.
But something being in the lease
About 'alarms to aid the police,'
The U.S.U. annexed the yard
For having no sufficient guard.
Now if there's one condition
The C.C.P. are strong upon
It is that every house one buys
Must have a yard for exercise;
So Jones, as tenant, was unfit,
His state of health was proof of it.
Two doctors of the T.T.U.'s
Told him his legs, from long disuse,
Were atrophied; and saying 'So
From step to higher step we go
Till everything is New and True.'
They cut his legs off and withdrew.
You know the E.T.S.T.'s views
Are stronger than the T.T.U.'s:
And soon (as one may say) took wing
The Arms, though not the Man, I sing.
To see him sitting limbless there
Was more than the K.K. could bear.
'In mercy silence with all speed
That mouth there are no hands to feed;
What cruel sentimentalist,
O Jones, would doom thee to exist -
Clinging to selfish Selfhood yet?
Weak one! Such reasoning might upset
The Pump Act, and the accumulation
Of all constructive legislation;
Let us construct you up a bit ­­- '
The head fell off when it was hit:
Then words did rise and honest doubt,
And four Commissioners sat about
Whether the slash that left him dead
Cut off his body or his head.

An author in the Isle of Wight
Observed with unconcealed delight
A land of just and old renown
Where Freedom slowly broadened down
From Precedent to Precedent.
And this, I think, was what he meant.

What Tomas An Buile Said In a Pub

What Tomas An Buile Said In a Pub

I saw God. Do you doubt it?
Do you dare to doubt it?
I saw the Almighty Man. His hand
Was resting on a mountain, and
He looked upon the World and all about it:
I saw him plainer than you see me now,
You mustn't doubt it.

He was not satisfied;
His look was all dissatisfied.
His beard swung on a wind far out of sight
Behind the world's curve, and there was light
Most fearful from His forehead, and He sighed,
"That star went always wrong, and from the start
I was dissatisfied."

He lifted up His hand—
I say He heaved a dreadful hand
Over the spinning Earth. Then I said, "Stay,
You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way;
And I will never move from where I stand."
He said, "Dear child, I feared that you were dead,"
And stayed His hand.

by James Stephens

By the Babe Unborn

By the Babe Unborn
by G. K. Chesterton

If trees were tall and grasses short,
As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
Beyond the breaking pale,
If a fixed fire hung in the air
To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
I know what I should do.
In dark I lie; dreaming that there
Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
And living men behind.

Let storm clouds come: better an hour,
And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
The empires of the night.

I think that if they gave me leave
Within the world to stand,
I would be good through all the day
I spent in fairyland.
They should not hear a word from me
Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
If only I were born.

SEASONAL (AFFECTIVE DISORDER) GREETINGS

SEASONAL (AFFECTIVE DISORDER) GREETINGS

When the things that ya owns
Are a pile of dry bones
And yer books are a pile of dead leafs
And alla yer plastic's
A puddle fantastic
And yer memory a box full o griefs
When alla yer food
Just sours yer mood
And won't fill that hole in yer day
And new TV shows
Are suckin and blows
And the old ones are fadin away
When the things that ya did
As a stupid young kid
Come and kick yer sorry old ass
Or worse what ya didn
Or tried to keep hidden
Come and mock ya in front of the class
When dreams and diversions
Just add to the hurtin
And ya make no reason or rhyme
And every damp day
Is grim deep and gray
Ya know that it's holiday time!

12-21-2017

The Scientist's Lament, by John Seymour

Captured from Joseph Pearce's "Literary Converts."

Gold Leaves

Gold Leaves

Lo! I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold;
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out
The year and I are old.
In youth I sought the prince of men,
Captain in cosmic wars,
Our Titan, even the weeds would show
Defiant, to the stars.
But now a great thing in the street
Seems any human nod,
Where shift in strange democracy
The million masks of God.
In youth I sought the golden flower
Hidden in wood or wold,
But I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold.

--G.K. Chesterton: The Wild Knight and Other Poems

Feeling Peake-y

OF PYGMIES, PALM, AND PIRATES

Of pygmies, palms and pirates,
Of islands and lagoons,
Of blood-bespotted frigates,
Of crags and octoroons,
Of whales and broken bottles,
Of quicksands cold and grey,
Of ullages and dottles,
I have no more to say.

Of barley, corn and furrows,
Of farms and turf that heaves
Above such ghostly burrows
As twitch on summer eves
Of fallow-land and pasture,
Of skies both pink and grey,
I made my statement last year
And have no more to say.

--Mervyn Peake

If All The Trees Were Magic Trees

If all the trees were magic trees
And talked among themselves,
If kings could sleep in daffodils
And bishops danced on window-sills,
If all the valleys changed to hills
And all the tens to twelves,
The world would be nonsensical,
And we should all be elves.

If every street in Camden Town
Were paved with precious stones,
If modest souls began to drape
Their table-legs in decent crape,
If every squirrel wore a cape
And had the name of Jones,
I’d weave a robe of beetles’ eyes
And jellyfishes’ bones.

If kingcups blossomed in the sky
And fell like golden rain
In grey half-light shot through and through
With shafts of green and shafts of blue,
If pink and purple chickweed grew
On every window pane,
All truly tidy folk would deem
The universe insane.

If we were sensible enough
To hear the bluebells ring,
Were sight so true and hearts so wise
That we could see with glowing eyes
Enchantment flaming from the skies
And joy in everything,
Then every girl a queen would be,
And every boy a king.

--Gerald Bullett

Richard Cory

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Edwin Arlington Robinson

Twelfth Night, or King and Queen, by Robert Herrick

Now, now the mirth comes
With the cake full of plums,
Where bean's the king of the sport here;
Beside, we must know
The pea also
Must revel as queen in the court here.

Begin then to choose,
This night, as ye use,
Who shall for the present delight here;
Be a king by the lot,
And who shall not
Be Twelve-day queen for the night here!

Which known, let us make
Joy-sops with the cake;
And let not a man then be seen here,
Who unurged will not drink,
To the base from the brink,
A health to the king and the queen here!

Next crown the bowl full
With gentle lamb's wool*,
And sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale, too;
And this ye must do
To make the wassail a swinger.

Give then to the king
And queen, wassailing,
And though with ale ye be wet here,
Yet part ye from hence
As free from offence
As when ye innocent met here.


This evening is the time that Twelfth Night is celebrated these days, the eve of the celebrated but little understood "Twelfth Day of Christmas," or Epiphany, the day the Wise Men finally reached Bethlehem and found Jesus. The tradition in various countries and various times past was to have a big feast with a lot of drinking and eating, especially of a large cake baked with a single bean inside. Whoever found the bean would be declared the King of the celebration (and sometimes, as in this Herrick poem, a pea was included to find the Queen). Excess, pranks, and topsy-turvydom were observed at the time, with the low being exalted and the high debased (as in the Roman Saturnalia), and the King of the Bean was often a Lord of Misrule, presiding over it all. James Frazer in The Golden Bough claims it is connected with the choosing of the Sacrificial King.

*Lamb's Wool: sweet-spiced hot ale (or cider) and roasted apples.

Happy Birthday, J. R. R. Tolkien!

LORD OF DREAMS

Does he still walk with humble grace
Among the blessed immortal race?
Or could it be that, after rest,
He went upon a task unguessed
To once more come to mortal lands
To strengthen hearts with healing hands?
Perhaps he saw the wasted world
Darkened, doomed, to chaos hurled;
Saw blind arrogance ruling king
And the fading of all living things.

Perhaps he walks unknown to men
In different form than he wore then,
To prompt away from black despair,
And spread the word of peace and care
And teach the speech of old anew
When hearts were dear and tongues were true.
Who would not choose to aid his cause
To once more live the ancient laws,
To aid the folks who waste away,
And bring back beauty to their days?

Pumpkinification IV: Vintage Pumpkin Illustration

"Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, — our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!"

--from "The Pumpkin," by John Greenleaf Whittier.

A Ballade of a Choice of Ghosts

Ballade of a Choice of Ghosts

Now which are you anxious to see,
A Bogie, a Sprite, or a Gnome?
If a Spectre should drop in to tea,
Would you like him to find us at home?
Or a Mermaid with mirror and comb;
In her have you plenary faith?
Or a lemur of classical Rome
Or a common respectable Wraith?

There’s the Vampire, or a Broukolakî,
From his grave in old Greece hath he clomb
But perhaps he might bite us, and we
Should be forced in his fashion to roam;
Or a djinn from a mussulman dome –
He might work such unlimited scathe
That we’d all turn as yellow as chrome –
Or a common respectable Wraith!

From the Ghost of our youth would you flee,
In his shroud that is dabbled with loam?
Or a faithful ancestral Banshee?
Or a martyr from some catacomb?
Or a Wizard with magical lome,
Whom his cerements becomingly swathe?
Or a Wili as fair as the foam?
Or a common respectable Wraith?

ENVOY
Oh, the gloaming’s beginning to gloam,
And (if Scotch is allowed) I am “laith”
To encounter a Bogie or Gnome,
Or a common respectable Wraith!

--Andrew Lang.

Old Adam, the Carrion Crow

Old Adam, the Carrion Crow

Old Adam, the carrion crow,
The old crow of Cairo;
He sat in the shower, and let it flow
Under his tail and over his crest;
And through every feather
Leak'd the wet weather;
And the bough swung under his nest;
For his beak it was heavy with marrow.
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It's only two devils, that blow,
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.

Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife,
When we have supped on king's marrow,
Where shall we drink and make merry our life?
Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull,
'Tis cloven and crack'd,
And batter'd and hack'd,
But with tears of blue eyes it is full:
Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo!
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

A Fairy Hunt, by Francis Ledwidge

A Fairy Hunt

Who would hear the fairy horn
Calling all the hounds of Finn
Must be in a lark's nest born
When the moon is very thin.

I who have the gift can hear
Hounds and horn and tally ho,
And the tongue of Bran as clear
As Christmas bells across the snow.

And beside my secret place
Hurries by the fairy fox,
With the moonrise on his face,
Up and down the mossy rocks.

Then the music of a horn
And the flash of scarlet men,
Thick as poppies in the corn
All across the dusky glen.

Oh! the mad delight of chase!
Oh ! the shouting and the cheer !
Many an owl doth leave his place
In the dusty tree to hear.

Francis Ledwidge

Nanny's Christmas Cards: Three Kings

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE by Eugene Field

From out Cologne there came three kings

To worship Jesus Christ, their King.

To Him they sought fine herbs they brought,

And many a beauteous golden thing;

They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town,

And in that manger set them down.

Then spake the first king, and he said:

"O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!

I bring this crown to Bethlehem town

For Thee, and only Thee, to wear;

So give a heavenly crown to me

When I shall come at last to Thee!"

The second, then. "I bring Thee here

This royal robe, O Child!" he cried;

"Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one

There is not in the world beside;

So in the day of doom requite

Me with a heavenly robe of white!"

The third king gave his gift, and quoth:

"Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,

And with these twain would I most fain

Anoint the body of my King;

So may their incense sometimes rise

And plead for me in yonder skies!"

Thus spake the three kings of Cologne,

That gave their gifts, and went their way;

And now kneel I in prayer hard by

The cradle of the Child to-day;

Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring

As offering unto Christ, my King.

Yet have I brought a gift the Child

May not despise, however small;

For here I lay my heart to-day,

And it is full of love to all.

Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,

My only tribute, Christ, my King!

Eugene Field (1850-1895) was an American poet and journalist, most famous for his poems about childhood, such as "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod" and "The Duel." Cologne (or Koln) was the cathedral city in Germany where the reputed remains of the Three Kings are said to be housed.