Time poems

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Carry me back to old Virginny,There's where the cotton and the corn and tatoes grow,There's where the birds warble sweet in the spring-time,There's where the old darkey's heart am long'd to go,There's where I labored so hard for old massa,Day after day in the field of yellow corn,No place on earth do I love more sincerelyThan old Virginny, the state where I was born

The Four Zoas

© William Blake

Stonehenge

© Binyon Heward Laurence

Gaunt on the cloudy plainStand the great Stones,Dwarfed in the vast reachOf a sky that owns

The Reformer

© Binyon Heward Laurence

August from a vault of hollow brassSteep upon the sullen city glares.Yellower burns the sick and parching grass,Shivering in the breath of furnace airs.

For the Fallen

© Binyon Heward Laurence

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,England mourns for her dead across the sea.Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,Fallen in the cause of the free.

Fatigued

© Hilaire Belloc

I'm tired of Love: I'm still more tired of Rhyme.But Money gives me pleasure all the time.

Visualization of Marxism

© Bell Julian Heward

Expose the world, anatomize,Strip clothes from skin, strip skin, then flesh, from bone

London II

© Bell Julian Heward

Emptiness unsatisfiedThe hollow wind shifts inside.So life is this? well, I shall tryA little longer: take my share;And then resume more native airAnd let this world of things go by.

London I

© Bell Julian Heward

The melancholy verse Sings to the waterfall; Wring writing harsh and worse, The jarring beauties fall.

Catullus

© Bell Julian Heward

Kiss before we sleepA thousand times again,And love close-guarded keep:Though this night we wakeWith the grey sun's light,Returning dawns will breakWhile we in our long night,Past pleasure or pain,Nor turn nor kiss again

The Jackaw of Rheims

© Richard Harris Barham

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire,With a great many more of lesser degree,--In sooth a goodly company;And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee

To Mr. Barbauld, November 14, 1778

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

Come, clear thy studious looks awhile, 'T is arrant treason now To wear that moping brow, When I, thy empress, bid thee smile.

A Sestina of Memories

© Ball J. E.

When you were nine, and I was six years old,Do you remember how we wandered forth,Two small explorers, through the summer fields,With apple turnovers provisioned well,And trampled down the farmer's mowing grass,In haste to pluck the little red-stemmed rose?

And how the farmer in his fury roseWith hot red face, as ogres wore of old,And eyeing angrily his battered grass,With wingèd words he drove the culprits forth,And swore a whipping would be theirs as wellThe next time they profaned his sacred fields?

Regretfully we left those sunny fields(For there alone it grew, our longed-for rose),And sate us down beside a little wellThat bubbled up 'midst stonework grey and old,And watched the slow soft runlets spouting forth,To lose themselves amidst the spongy grass