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Saturday, January 23, 2016

When Morality Becomes Immoral - by Bob Atkinson


When Morality Becomes Immoral
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson
 
we seem to live in an era
where truth has little sway
end game's all that's thought of
with sneaky little sayings

dogma exceeds sensibilities
precepts bending minds
hate ever on one's lips
a problem for our times

how we do what we do
keeps us with guilt buried
under a blanket's cover
thoughts find words vary

never frankly speaking
what truly starts our mood
we sneak about as if dissolved
by left or rightish attitude

we reject deep authenticity
when trying to persuade
our need's to conquer concepts
when another has their say

we “fix” all that's seen as wrong
adding to life's burden
with every pound of “fix”
creating a life uncertain

they promise us what's personal
benefit for us over the other guy
but think about this carefully
when assigned benefits go awry

when lead weights fill our boat
those “fix's” so arranged
allow no room for our bottoms
as boat sinks anyway

false promises denote an end
to possibilities we can see
for when there's nothing left to give
getting's what they need

Friday, January 22, 2016

The Chance - poemwriter: Arthur Sze



The Chance

-poemwriter: Arthur Sze 


The blue-black mountains are etched

with ice. I drive south in fading light.
The lights of my car set out before
me, and disappear before my very eyes.
And as I approach thirty, the distances
are shorter than I guess? The mind
travels at the speed of light. But for
how many people are the passions
ironwood, ironwood that hardens and hardens?
Take the ex-musician, insurance salesman,
who sells himself a policy on his own life;
or the magician who has himself locked
in a chest and thrown into the sea,
only to discover he is caught in his own chains.
I want a passion that grows and grows.
To feel, think, act, and be defined
by your actions, thoughts, feelings.
As in the bones of a hand in an X-ray,
I want the clear white light to work
against the fuzzy blurred edges of the darkness:
even if the darkness precedes and follows
us, we have a chance, briefly, to shine.
*********
The Chance

-poemwriter: Arthur Sze



THE blue-black mountains ARE etched
with ice. I drive south in fading light.
THE lights of my car set out before
me, and disappear before my very eyes.
And as I approach thirty, THE distances
ARE shorter than I guess? THE mind
travels at THE speed of light. But for
how many people ARE THE passions
ironwood, ironwood that hardens and hardens?
Take THE ex-musician, insurance salesman,
who sells himself a policy on his own life;
or THE magician who has himself locked
in a chest and thrown into THE sea,
only to discover he IS caught in his own chains.
I want a passion that grows and grows.
To feel, think, act, and BE defined
by your actions, thoughts, feelings.
As in THE bones of a hand in an X-ray,
I want THE clear white light to work
against THE fuzzy blurred edges of THE darkness:
even if THE darkness precedes and follows
us, we have a chance, briefly, to shine.
Commentary:
"the" sounds like "huh" and reads like "duh?"
the verb "to be" converts poetry to prose
prose being informative literature
poetry being the emotional content of literature
this writing's merely informative, not emotional
besides, form's lacking
poetry requires rhythm to arrange the brain
no rhythm here
this is prose

Friday, January 15, 2016

Poem of the Month - March 2016

Hello darlin' nice to see you
It's been a long time
You're just as lovely
As you used to be

How's your new love
Are you happy?
Hope you're doin' fine
Just to know means so much to me

What's that darlin'
How am I doin'?  I'm doin' alright
Except I can't sleep
And I cry all night 'til dawn

What I'm tryin' to say is that
I love you and I miss you
And I'm so sorry
That I did you wrong

Look up darlin'  Let me kiss you
Just for old time's sake
Let me hold you in my arms
One more time

Thank you darlin'
May God bless you
And each step brings you closer
To the things you seek to find

Goodbye darlin' I got to go now
I got to try to find a way
To lose these memories
Of a love so warm and true

And if you should ever
Find it in your heart to forgive me
Comeback darlin'
I'll be waiting for you

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Girl Sleuth - By Brenda Hillman


Girl Sleuth  By Brenda Hillman

A brenda is missing—where is she?
Summon the seeds & weeds, the desert whooshes. Phone the finch
with the crowded beak; a little pretenda
is learning to read
in the afternoon near the cactus caves. Near oleander & pulpy
caves with the click-click of the wren & the shkrrrr of the thrasher,
a skinny pretenda is learning
to read till the missing brenda
is found. Drip of syllables like olives near the saguaro.
Nancy Drew will find the secret in raincoats & wednesdays
& sticks. Nancy whose spine is yellow
or blue will find the brenda in 1962,

Nancywho has no mother,
who takes suggestions from her father & ignores them.

Gleam goes the wren ignoring the thorn. They cannot tell the difference.
Click of the smart dog’s nails on linoleum.
Nancy bends over the clues,
of brenda’s locket & dress. Word by word
between syllables a clue. Where has the summer gone, the autumn—
are they missing too? Maybe Nancy
will parse the secret & read the book report on Nancy Drew:
“neat pretty sly cute.” Syllable by syllable
& still no brenda! Nancy
puts her hand to her forehead; is the missing
girl in the iron bird? is the clue to the girl in the locket?


************************************

Girl Sleuth By Brenda Hillman

A brenda IS missing—where IS she?
Summon THE seeds & weeds, THE desert whooshes. Phone THE finch
with THE crowded beak; a little pretenda
IS learning to read
in THE afternoon near THE cactus caves. Near oleander & pulpy
caves with THE click-click of THE wren & the shkrrrr of THE thrasher,
a skinny pretenda IS learning
to read till THE missing brenda
IS found. Drip of syllables like olives near THE saguaro.
& sticks. Nancy whose spine IS yellow
or blue will find THE brenda in 1962,

Nancy who has no mother,
who takes suggestions from her father & ignores them.
Gleam goes THE wren ignoring THE thorn. They cannot tell THE difference.
Click of THE smart dog’s nails on linoleum.
Nancy bends over THE clues,
of brenda’s locket & dress. Word by word
between syllables a clue. Where has THE summer gone, THE autumn—
ARE they missing too? Maybe Nancy
will parse THE secret & read THE book report on Nancy Drew:
“neat pretty sly cute.” Syllable by syllable
& still no brenda! Nancy
puts her hand to her forehead; IS THE missing
girl in THE iron bird? IS THE clue to THE girl in THE locket?
Commentary:
Sloppy, very sloppy.

Let Thunder Be Action - by Bob Atkinson

Fare Thee Well Enniskillen
Irish Folk Poem
A beautiful damsel
Of fame and renown
A gentleman's daughter
From Monaghan town

As she went through the barracks
This beautiful maid
Stood up in her coach
To see dragoons on parade.

Refrain:
Fare ye well, Enniskillen,
I must leave you for a while
And all thy fair waters
And Erin's green isle

And when the wars are over,
I'll return in full bloom
And they'll all welcome home
Their Enniskillen dragoons.

They were all dressed up
The like of gentleman's sons
With their bright shining rapiers
And carabine guns

Their bayonets fornemst them,
Oh she saw them full soon
Just because that
She loved an Enniskillen dragoon.

She looked to the bright sons
Of Mars on the right
Their armor outshining
The stars of the night

"O Willie, dearest Willie,
You have 'listed full soon
In the royal,
Loyal Enniskillen dragoons."

"Oh Flora, dearest Flora,
Your pardon I crave
Both now and forever,
You know I am your slave

But your parents they have slighted me,
Morning, night, and noon
Just because that you loved
Your Enniskillen dragoon."


"Oh Willie, dearest Willie,
Head not what they say
For children their parents
Must always obey

And when you've left Ireland,
They'll soon change their tune
Sayin' 'The good Lord be wi'
Ye, Enniskillen dragoon'."

Our troop was made ready
at the dawn of the day
From lovely Enniskillen
they were marching us away.

They put us then on board a ship
to cross the raging main,
To fight in bloody battle
in the sunny land of Spain.

Fare thee well Enniskillen,
fare thee well for a while
And all around the borders
of Erin's green isle;

And when the war is over
we'll return in full bloom
And you'll all welcome home
the Enniskillen Dragoons.

Oh Spain it is a gallant land
where wine and ale flow free
There's lots of lovely women
there to dandle on your knee

And often in a tavern there
we'd make the rafters ring
When every soldier in the house
would raise his glass and sing


Well we fought for Ireland's glory there
and many a man did fall
From musket and from bayonet
and from thundering cannon ball

And many a foeman we laid low,
amid the battle throng
And as we prepared for action
you would often hear this song

Well now the fighting's over
and for home we have set sail,
Our flag above this lofty ship
is fluttering in the gale:

They've given us a pension boys
of fourpence each a day
And when we reach Enniskillen
never more.we'll have to say.

Fare thee well Enniskillen,
fare thee well for a while
And all around the borders
of Erin's green isle;

And when the war is over
we'll return in full bloom
And you'll all welcome home
the Enniskillen Dragoons.

*********
Let Thunder Be Action
(c)2016 Bob Atkinson

before, you never saw in your heart
that open convention of which you were part
seems in your past life some disarray
solved here on parade ground today

yes, this uniform so tailored
as if you were king
gives feeling, belonging
your heart on display

so further you can go
to death's large black door
a trip worth the effort
no question of mores

your weapon's not loaded
matters not in this march
they'll give you large bullets
when battle's a part

of your duty hereafter
your body's a target
in struggle of nations
to mangle their art

to force will on others
for purpose or not
or rejecting an action
of satan's forward march

you feel in your duty
a force so arrayed
that you can go to heaven
if only for days

then on to a hot place
where all who have sinned
find solace in heartbeats
and their friend's grins

where fires surround you
for ever again
while you break rocks
with a mallet of sin

back then when you marched
you thought good forced your way
was only a thought
you fast put away

then forward you struggled
to find victory's parade
which left you so saddened
no crowds to display

your finest of step
and weakness of heartbeat
a trip through a grotto
of nervous departure

a bright light above you
to guide your parade
let thunder be action
here on death's day

so, here's to brave soldiers
who never will fall
give meaning to country
and all they can call

purpose for efforts
both large and quite small
to sadden hereafter
all who'd not fallen

those with good memories
of pride on display
those who march bravely
into disarray

those who gained feeling
of gentleness of heart
killing those who felt misery
a normal world part

Monday, January 11, 2016

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud - by William Wordsworth


I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

- by William Wordsworth
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth 

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.




I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

- by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside THE lake, beneath THE trees,
Fluttering and dancing in THE breeze.
Continuous as THE stars that shine
And twinkle on THE milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along THE margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
THE waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did THE sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not BE but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth THE show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which IS THE bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with THE daffodils.
Commentary:
Even the best falter from time to time
(easy to do)
a good exercise would be to
re-write without “the's, izzes, beez”

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening - by Robert Frost


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Frost
Whose woods these are I think I 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 I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these ARE I think I 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 I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Commentary:
degree of laziness shown by
the number of “the's” in a poem
it's, the's, is'zes, are's, wazzes, werez
to be avoided.
One cannot “own” property
one can only occupy property
with more force (violence or law)
than another
Bob Atkinson

Saturday, January 9, 2016

There is Another Sky - poemwriter - Emily Dickinson


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Emily_Dickinson_poems

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

***************************
There is another sky
- poemwriter - Emily Dickinson

There IS another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there IS another sunshine,
Though IT BE darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here IS a little forest,
Whose leaf IS ever green;
Here IS a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In ITS unfading flowers
I hear THE bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
Commentary:
sky, forest, garden?
trite, banal, off the cuff
not much reason to read
nonsense like this
wispy, mindless and useless
a terrible combination
which demeans the potential
of the poetic format to inform and excite
further research into the subject.
After reading this will you grab
an encyclopedia and research:
sky, green, garden?
I think not!

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Lion in the Winter - poemwriter – Hoyt Axton



Like a lion in the winter I can hear the summer call
Like a ship out on the ocean made of stone
And sometimes when I get lonely I can swear I hear you call
Oh, the nights are cold when you don't keep me warm.

And when I first saw you I first loved you
With a song that I sang to the fire in your eyes
But somebody told you that it wouldn't be easy
And you carried that lie for the devil to sing.

Some sail rivers deep and muddy some sail rivers clear and cold
But the river that I'm sailin' goes to sea
And sometimes I do grow weary sometimes I feel old
And sometimes I wonder if you think of me.

And when I first saw you I first loved you
With a song that I sang to the fire in your eyes
But somebody told you that it wouldn't be easy
And you carried that lie for the devil to sing.

Like a lion in the winter I can hear the summer call
Like a ship out on the ocean made of stone
And sometimes when I get lonely I can swear I hear you call
Oh, the nights are cold when you don't keep me warm.

And when I first saw you I first loved you
With a song that I sang to the fire in your eyes
But somebody told you that it wouldn't be easy
And you carried that lie for the devil to sing...

Revised as a poem
- by Bob Atkinson***********



Like a lion in winter I can hear summer call
Like a ship out on an ocean made of stone
sometimes when I get lonely I can swear I hear you call
Oh, nights are cold when you don't keep me warm.

when I first saw you I first loved you
With a song I sang to fire in your eyes
But somebody told you wouldn't be easy
you carried that lie for devil to sing.

Some sail rivers deep and muddy,

some sail rivers clear and cold
But this river I'm sailin' goes to sea

sometimes I do grow weary, sometimes I feel old
sometimes I wonder if you think of me.


Rented But Not Bought
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson


Throttle back my memories

where I can surely attest
to simple undulations rising
upon that hill just crested

before I carry sense of life
must know what life's about
as youth gives little feeling
when one scurries here abouts

sense of duty to one prearranged
over hills so far and tall
my future sensed as unknown
into some murky fog I crawl

take me toward a city there
where lights can be seen from far
where people sleep after hard work
good efforts small and tall

my wheels beyond them roll away
chased by some monster cloud
oh, take me to a better place
where my name's not screamed so loud

roll out toward a destination
not firm in form just yet
while I understand so little
of that story here I jest

for laughter covers fear so well
seems a blanket on this all
I just can't believe my life
has not a story good to tell

someday, if I work it well
might find my name in lights
but this guitar's out of tune
my mind's not sharp and bright

I will find a way to see me through
even if to stand my ground
for if ever I can feel the pain
will reach for that which sounds

sounds like life amazing which
can show purpose in my thoughts
while I find a little corner which
can be rented but not bought

Monday, January 4, 2016

Changing Everything - poemwriter - Jane Hirshfield



Changing Everything

   poemwriter - Jane Hirshfield


I was walking again
in the woods,
a yellow light
was sifting all I saw.

Willfully,
with a cold heart,
I took a stick,
lifted it to the opposite side
of the path.

There, I said to myself,
that's done now.
Brushing one hand against the other,
to clean them
of the tiny fragments of bark.

Commentary:
Yes, I would change everything
about this poem that is
first, would delete it
best way to improve it
no purpose, nothing that wasn't
written before
a waste of time to read


Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Poem of the Month - February 2016 - I've Never Been to Me poemwriters: Ron Miller and Kenneth Hirsch


I've Never Been to Me

poemwriters: Ron Miller and Kenneth Hirsch
http://www.bing.com/search?q=i%27ve+never+been+to+me+
Hey lady, you lady
Cursing at your life
You're a discontented mother
And a regimented wife


 
I've no doubt you dream about
The things you'll never do
But, I wish someone had talked to me
Like I wanna talk to you


 
Oh, I've been to Georgia and California
And, anywhere I could run
I took the hand of a preacher man
And we made love in the sun


 
But I ran out of places and friendly faces
Because I had to be free
I've been to paradise
But I've never been to me


 
Please lady, please
Lady don't just walk away
'Cause I have this need to tell you
Why I'm all alone today


 
I can see so much of me
Still living in your eyes
Won't you share a part of a weary heart
That has lived million lies


 
Oh, I've been to Nice and the Isles of Greece

While I've sipped champagne on a yacht
I've moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo
And showed 'em what I've got


 
I've been undressed by kings
And I've seen some things
That a woman ain't supposed to see
I've been to paradise but I've never been to me


 
Hey, you know what paradise is?
It's a lie, a fantasy we create about
People and places as we'd like them to be
But you know what truth is?


 
It's that little baby you're holding
It's that man you fought with this morning
The same one you're going to make love with tonight
That's truth, that's love


 
Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children
That might have made me complete
But I, I took the sweet life, I never knew
I'd be bitter from the sweet


 
I've spent my life exploring, the subtle whoring
That costs too much to be free
Hey lady, I've been to paradise
But I've never been to me


 
Overflowing Life
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson

she sat up on a wonder bar
of goals made creating scars
moving softly over gentle sounds
of perfected voice, lovely grounds

overhead she soared toward heights
but never quite touched blue sky
reaching levels hoped for now
just below what anoints thorned crowns

those fickle fingers in wild stores
who bought records because they're bored
loved her music as she sang
but refrained from purchase just the same

which gave her want of satisfaction
undoing drama of her wildest dreams
songs to tell life incomplete
or subtle suggestion of bad seed

stories told, vibrations bold
sadness bent down upon her knees
this lady of great sounded waves
left this scene for other dreams

then came a knock on her door
behind which happiness prevailed
come back to MoTown's circus
we've got nose here not long tail

so there again, without false hope
she settled for a fate
which set her again in front
on that very first good page

page of life which touches souls
gives pleasure to us all
a song of heart and maturity
without which we could fall

fall from grace or proper tone
or simply toward an end
stunning fireworks of timely stages
toward which we all must bend

Saturday, December 26, 2015

Sonnet 18 - poemwriter- William Shakespeare


Sonnet 18

poemwriter- William Shakespeare

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft’ is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


Commentary:
notice there's a minimum of bad words
"the's, it's, is's, are, was, were"
there, but hard to find
semi-great form

REWRITTEN by Bob Atkinson


I shall compare you to a Summer’s day
more lovely, more temperate than warm stages
rough winds do shake darling buds of May,
summer stays not long, then drifts away

sometimes too hot this eye of heaven shines
often his gold complexion dimmed with clouds
a moment's brightness tamped right down
as rain showers saturate unpacked ground

nature changes demeanor often
but your brightness never fades
nor do you lose control
of a willingness to engage

engage in luster of reflection
upon those loved, permanent direction
no callous thoughts do you possess
a lovely wonder with love expressed

you, my everlasting marvel of beauty thundered
with a passion brought by whirlwind's gusto
a shining life beyond a dream
set here upon our tranquil scene

so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
so long lives this, and this gives life supreme
my devotion stands for one fine of favor
whose purpose sends me love enabled

Eros - poemwriter: Ralph Waldo Emerson

Eros

poemwriter: Ralph Waldo Emerson


The sense of the world is short, -
Long and various the report, -
To love and be beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned it;
And, how oft soe'er they've turned it,
'Tis not to be improved.


 Commentary:


(the essence of poor form)



THE sense of THE world IS short, -
Long and various THE report, -
To love and BE beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned IT;
And, how oft soe'er they've turned IT,
'Tis not to BE improved.

"The's" degrade a poem in short order
the verb "to be" is, are, was, were
shouldn't be used but rarely
"It" should never be used
this poem's in very poor form

also, this is a good example
of a "winging" poem
off the cuff, subject of little value
makes a statement
yet does little to try to prove
that statement true
or, give background to the origin
of the statement

Thursday, November 26, 2015

The Bard. A Pindaric Ode - by Thomas Gray - The Barderer - by Bob Atkinson


The Bard. A Pindaric Ode


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bard_%28poem%29
'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait,
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
'Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breath;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoßl's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main:
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your country's cries--
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands, the tissue of thy line.'

'Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-eccho with affright
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!
She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable Warriour fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.
The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising Morn.
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.

Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare,
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long Years of havock urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
And spare the meek Usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled Boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave the woof. The thread is spun)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)'
'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowden's height
Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Brittania's Issue, hail!

Girt with many a Baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a Form divine!
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: With joy I see
The different doom our Fates assign.
Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,
To triumph, and to die, are mine.'
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bard_%28poem%29
Commentary:
when a written poem becomes catalytic
and influences future writings
it has a more central place in literature
than contemporary writings
here, we find one that did just that

The Barderer
(c)2015 Bob Atkinson
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bard_%28poem%29
she wasn't sure to do this
was not a twist of fate
purely inspiration
of a thought she had made


her family had provided
all to her she'd need
yet, to foster innovation
she with this man agreed


agreed to allow him insight
into their world of lifetime events
a poet of distinction writing
a poem to document accomplishments


from aunt Millie's flings
to Aaron's success on stage
and grandpa's infatuation
with a red head's wandering ways


she saw an opportunity
to document these lives
which held so much meaning
for a family's lengthly pride


he didn't fuss or bother with
profusion of fanfare or pretense
as she asked him to write some
experiences of success via excess


made her nervous in her thoughts
a feeling of disarray
yet, on she wrote these paragraphs
to set him on his way


so, here he furnished her with words
that showed fallibility on display
and said of this family
we're gone, but from where we came


the book lived on for hundred years
provided smiles on those who read
about a family who lived a life
years before, but live again


every time one reads lines
the poet wrote about
daily events of this family
who cast descendent's here abouts

we find we're not the first
to lay claim on leveled tracks
just first to know where feelings came from
and where to send them back

as history's not just read in books
in school for learned fare
sometimes history's personal
about those for whom we care