Crisis Chronicles Online Library

A Villonaud: Ballad of the Gibbet (by Ezra Pound)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-02-06T12:53:22Z

A Villonaud: Ballad of the Gibbet
by Ezra Pound
from A Lume Spento (1908)

Or the Song of the Sixth Companion

Scene: "En ce bourdeau où tenons nostre estat"

It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when
that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know:

"Frères humains qui après nous vivez."

Drink ye a skoal for the gallows tree!

François and Margot and thee and me,

Drink we the comrades merrily

That said us, "Till then" for the gallows tree!

Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,

Thomas Larron "Ear-the-less,"

Tybalde and that armouress

Who gave this poignard its premier stain,

Pinning the Guise that had been fain

To make him a mate of the "Haulte Noblesse"

And bade her be out with ill address

As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.

Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree!

François and Margot and thee and me,

Drink we to Marienne Ydole,

That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.

Drink we the lusty robbers twain,

Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress,*

Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress

As lips shrink back when we feel the strain

Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign,

And sense the teeth through the lips that press

'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress

That striveth to ours across the pain.

Drink we skoal for the gallows tree!

François and Margot and thee and me,

For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie

Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee.

Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain,

Culdou lacking a coat to bless

One lean moiety of his nakedness

That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane:

Aie! the lean bare tree is widowed again

For Michault le Borgne that would confess

In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,

"Which of his brothers had he slain?"

But drink we skoal to the gallows tree!

François and Margot and thee and me:

These that we loved shall God love less

And smite alway at their faibleness?

Skoal!! to the gallows! and then pray we:

God damn his hell out speedily

And bring their souls to his "Haulte Citee."

* Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative; thus
one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo L'Homme qui Rit.

* * * * *

Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand (by Walt Whitman)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-31T11:47:17Z

Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand
by Walt Whitman
from "Calamus" in Leaves of Grass, 1881

Whoever you are holding me now in hand,
Without one thing all will be useless,
I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,
You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd,
Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down and depart on your way.

Or else by stealth in some wood for trial,
Or back of a rock in the open air,
(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss,
For I am the new husband and I am the comrade.
Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus merely touching you is enough, is best,
And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.

But these leaves conning you con at peril,
For these leaves and me you will not understand,
They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will certainly elude you.
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.

For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more,
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which I hinted at;
Therefore release me and depart on your way.

* * *

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

The Crows (by Natalie Webster)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-29T21:16:07Z

The Crows

They call me into night
　
A flurry of obsidian,
dark shine inside a shapeless moon…
　
They stay where words end.
　
Call of an empty November
that seals the marrow of my bones
in bitter morning.
Creak upon my movements
The tinman holds herself
　
away.
　
Still, before the winter comes: soft
warnings in the graying in the tides.
This haven of the crows,
the closing of the skies.
　
And snow white, upon the pavement,
The warmth that was my blood falls
from lips and tongues that cried out
　
in silence.
　
The crows come
　
and sweep away the dead.

"The Crows" ©November 2011 by Natalie Webster, all rights reserved by the poet

Natalie Webster’s poetry has been published in Take It to the Street Poetry’s Force Fed as well as on the on-line blog Infloressence. She received her B.A. in Language Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Counseling Psychology from John F. Kennedy University. Her spare time is spent working creatively with children’s art classes on painting, creating and writing who, for better or for worse, are her muses. Natalie keeps a web scrapbook of inspirations and writing sketches at Ice and Coffee.

Introductory Rhymes (by W.B Yeats)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-21T14:47:19Z

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

From Responsibilities [1914]

'In dreams begin responsibility.'
--Old Play

'How am I fallen from myself, for a long time now
I have not seen the Prince of Chang in my dreams.'
--Khoung-Fou-Tseu

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant 'free of ten and four'
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
And country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Traders or soldiers who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's loin,
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast,
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay,
You most of all, silent and fierce old man
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say
'Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun';
Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,
Although I have come close on forty-nine
I have no child, I have nothing but a book,
Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine.

January 1914

* * * * *

To read more Yeats in the Online Library, please click here.

Poisonous Apples (by Natalie Webster)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-20T11:49:30Z

Poisonous Apples

I know nothing.
　
A dull gnawing
and throbbing ambivalence
of dreams:
　
You take my hands
　
and feed me poisonous apples.
　
I lie limp and languid
in your charms.
　
Train song echoing, two A.M.
A peahen’s cry: the coyote tears her
From her young:
　
Sounds of night, far below
　
a country’s harvest moon.
　
Wind’s blow turns to rain.
　
A sun’s shadows dissipated:
gray shortened days.
　
I know nothing except
　
the absence of a path
　
leading home.

"Poisonous Apples" ©October 2011 by Natalie Webster, all rights reserved by the poet

Natalie Webster’s poetry has been published in Take It to the Street Poetry’s Force Fed as well as on the on-line blog Infloressence. She received her B.A. in Language Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Counseling Psychology from John F. Kennedy University. Her spare time is spent working creatively with children’s art classes on painting, creating and writing who, for better or for worse, are her muses. Natalie keeps a web scrapbook of inspirations and writing sketches at Ice and Coffee.

I have a Bird in spring (by Emily Dickinson)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-18T12:18:03Z

Emily Dickinson

[1854]

I have a Bird in spring
Which for myself doth sing—
The spring decoys.
And as the summer nears—
And as the Rose appears,
Robin is gone.

Yet do I not repine
Knowing that Bird of mine
Though flown—
Learneth beyond the sea
Melody new for me
And will return.

Fast is a safer hand
Held in a truer Land
Are mine—
And though they now depart,
Tell I my doubting heart
They're thine.

In a serener Bright,
In a more golden light
I see
Each little doubt and fear,
Each little discord here
Removed.

Then will I not repine,
Knowing that Bird of mine
Though flown
Shall in a distant tree
Bright melody for me
Return.

-*-

Tom Mahl Reminds Me (by Alex Gildzen) - video

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-17T16:52:52Z

Alex Gildzen reads his poem "Tom Mahl Reminds Me" in Elyria, Ohio.

"Tom Mahl Reminds Me" comes from Gildzen's chapbook Elyria: Point A in Ohio Triangle, published in 2009 by Crisis Chronicles Press.

Other recommended Gildzen books include The Arrow That Is Hollywood Pierces The Soul That Is Me (2011, Otoliths), Outlaw Dreams (2008, Green Panda Press) and The Avalanche of Time: Selected Poems 1964-1984 (1986, North Atlantic Books)

You may also visit Gildzen's blog: http://arroyochamisa.blogspot.com
read his biography: http://internet.cybermesa.com/~takis/AGBio.htm
peruse his papers: http://speccoll.library.kent.edu/faculty/gildzen.html
and view several more of his videos: http://youtube.com/user/gildzen

Scented Herbage of My Breast (by Walt Whitman)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-15T18:32:33Z

Scented Herbage of My Breast
by Walt Whitman
from "Calamus" in Leaves of Grass, 1881

Scented herbage of my breast,
Leaves from you I glean, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
Tomb-leaves, body-leaves growing up above me above death,
Perennial roots, tall leaves, O the winter shall not freeze you delicate leaves,
Every year shall you bloom again, out from where you retired you shall emerge again;
O I do not know whether many passing by will discover you or inhale your faint odor,
     but I believe a few will;
O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell in your own way of the
     heart that is under you,
O I do not know what you mean there underneath yourselves, you are not happiness,
You are often more bitter than I can bear, you burn and sting me,
Yet you are beautiful to me you faint tinged roots, you make me think of death,
Death is beautiful from you, (what indeed is finally beautiful except death and love?)
O I think it is not for life I am chanting here my chant of lovers,
I think it must be for death,
For how calm, how solemn it grows to ascend to the atmosphere of lovers,
Death or life I am then indifferent, my soul declines to prefer,
(I am not sure but the high soul of lovers welcomes death most,)
Indeed O death, I think now these leaves mean precisely the same as you mean,
Grow up taller sweet leaves that I may see! grow up out of my breast!
Spring away from the conceal'd heart there!
Do not fold yourself so in your pink-tinged roots timid leaves!
Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast!
Come I am determin'd to unbare this broad breast of mine, I have long enough stifled and choked;
Emblematic and capricious blades I leave you, now you serve me not,
I will say what I have to say by itself,
I will sound myself and comrades only, I will never again utter a call only their call,
I will raise with it immortal reverberations through the States,
I will give an example to lovers to take permanent shape and will through the States,
Through me shall the words be said to make death exhilarating,
Give me your tone therefore O death, that I may accord with it,
Give me yourself, for I see that you belong to me now above all, and are folded inseparably together,
     you love and death are,
Nor will I allow you to balk me any more with what I was calling life,
For now it is convey'd to me that you are the purports essential,
That you hide in these shifting forms of life, for reasons, and that they are mainly for you,
That you beyond them come forth to remain, the real reality,
That behind the mask of materials you patiently wait, no matter how long,
That you will one day perhaps take control of all,
That you will perhaps dissipate this entire show of appearance,
That may-be you are what it is all for, but it does not last so very long,
But you will last very long.

* * *

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

The Quiet (by Natalie Webster)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-14T18:26:04Z

The Quiet

Is it the solemn adoration of what has been
built slowly over time, detail upon meticulous detail,
forged upon the once barren framework of this: my frail structure.
　
Or the deafening pang of exhaustion, before
a long and desperately desired reprieve into sleep.
The inability to grasp, obtain and hold on to the Calm.
　
The slow unwind of my mind leaves behind
the sour rind of fruits taken too late from branches
bent over under the burden of their weight.
Stretched and pulling downwards to the fertile expanses
of my skin, from far below my navel up beyond the barely visible
landscape of what was my ribcage, uneven
and contorted from ancient ravaging harvests.　
　
Now, there are no hands here to console,
no whispers and no kind glances between the arching limbs
and the leaves of this, our plentiful fruit tree
dropping its rot along paths once pristine and precious.
　
Or are they there even still, as water washes over.
　
The ticking of the clock sears into the silence as if to count
time that has gone over.　 A chime for each movement
towards the edge of this precipice: the unpayable debt.

"The Quiet" ©July 2011 by Natalie Webster, all rights reserved by the poet

Natalie Webster’s poetry has been published in Take It to the Street Poetry’s Force Fed as well as on the on-line blog Infloressence. She received her B.A. in Language Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Counseling Psychology from John F. Kennedy University. Her spare time is spent working creatively with children’s art classes on painting, creating and writing who, for better or for worse, are her muses. Natalie keeps a web scrapbook of inspirations and writing sketches at Ice and Coffee.

Into My Own (by Robert Frost)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-09T03:12:30Z

Into My Own
by Robert Frost
[from A Boy's Will (1913)]

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.

- * -

On this wondrous sea (by Emily Dickinson)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-07T21:52:28Z

Emily Dickinson

[1853]

On this wondrous sea — sailing silently —
Ho! Pilot! Ho!
Knowest thou the shore
Where no breakers roar —
Where the storm is o'er?

In the silent West
Many — the sails at rest —
The anchors fast.
Thither I pilot thee —
Land! Ho! Eternity!
Ashore at last.

-*-

No TV for Me (by Steven B. Smith)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2012-01-04T13:53:47Z

Back cover of Unruly by Steven B. Smith
published 8/20/2011 by Crisis Chronicles Press
(foto by Smith, text added by JC)

No TV for Me
by Steven B. Smith, from Unruly

News depresses me
with its shallow anger and hate
but what gets me more
is doing our laundry
at the Soap Opera Laundromat
having to hear Drew Carey
call contestants down
to The Price is Right stage
where they bounce
and jiggle
and squeal
and wiggle and squirt
in greed of need
and want to flaunt
something for nothing
in quarter hour fame
before the shame
of being same
returns
all small and normal

Front cover of Unruly by Steven B. Smith
(foto by Smith, text added by JC)

Steven B. Smith's poetry chapbook Unruly is available for $5 US from Crisis Chronicles Press,
420 Cleveland Street, Elyria, Ohio 44035. Please add $2 for postage. Or use PayPal:

More Smith:
http://reverbnation.com/mutantsmith = music
http://walkingthinice.com = blog of Smith & Lady life love art adventures
http://agentofchaos.com = Smith & friends art / poetry journal

In Paths Untrodden (by Walt Whitman)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-26T21:53:23Z

In Paths Untrodden
by Walt Whitman
from "Calamus" in Leaves of Grass, 1867

In paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures, profits, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul,
Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me that my soul,
That the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades,
Here by myself away from the clank of the world,
Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,
No longer abash'd, (for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere,)
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest,
Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,
Projecting them along that substantial life,
Bequeathing hence types of athletic love,
Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first year,
I proceed for all who are or have been young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.

* * *

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

Foresight (by William Wordsworth)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-22T14:54:46Z

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

Foresight
by William Wordsworth
[composed in 28 April 1802, published in 1807]

That is work of waste and ruin--
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them--here are many:
Look at it--the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.
--Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil
Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them--
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, do what they will,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the flower!

* * * * *

The Sparrow's Nest (by William Wordsworth)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-21T12:13:33Z

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

The Sparrow's Nest
by William Wordsworth
[composed in 1801, published in 1807]

Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started--seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father's house, in wet or dry,
My Sister Emmeline and I
     Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it:
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble care, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
     And love, and thought, and joy.

* * * * *

To a Butterfly (by William Wordsworth)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-20T12:15:10Z

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

To a Butterfly
by William Wordsworth
[composed 14 March 1802, published in 1807]

Stay near me--do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey;--with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

* * * * *

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold (by William Wordsworth)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-20T01:24:14Z

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold
by William Wordsworth
[composed 26 March 1802, published in 1807]

My heart leaps up when I behold
     A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
     Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

* * * * *

The Pied Piper of Hamelin (by Robert Browning)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-18T14:11:22Z

Robert Browning, 1812-1883

The Pied Piper of Hamelin
by Robert Browning
from Dramatic Lyrics (1842)

A Child's Story
(Written to, and inscribed for, W.M. the Younger)

I.

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
     By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
     But when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
     From vermin, was a pity.

II.

     Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
     And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
     And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats
     By drowning their speaking
     With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

III.

At last the people in a body
To the town hall came flocking:
"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

IV.

An hour they sat in council;
At length the Mayor broke silence:
"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—
I'm sure my poor head aches again,
I've scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"
(With the Corporation as he sat
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

V.

"Come in!"—the mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red,
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin:
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

VI.

He advanced to the council table:
And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
     All creatures living beneath the sun,
     That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper."
(And here they noticed round his neck
     A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame check;
     And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
     Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
     Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders,
     If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?"
"One? fifty thousand!"—was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

VII

Into the street the Piper stepped
     Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
     In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
     Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
     Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
     Wherein all plunged and perished!
—Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
     (As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
And it seemed as if a voice
     (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!
     The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'
—I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

VIII

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
"Go, cried the Mayor, "and get long poles,
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market place,
With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

IX

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
"Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
"Our business was done at the river's brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

X

The Piper's face fell, and he cried
"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!
I've promised to visit by dinnertime
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:
With him I proved no bargain driver,
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion."

XI

"How?" cried the mayor, "d'ye think I brook
Being worse treated than a cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

XII

Once more he stepped into the street
     And to his lips again
     Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
     Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering.
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by,
—Could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
"He never can cross that mighty top!
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!"
When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,
A wonderous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,—
"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can't forget that I'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me.
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outrun our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles' wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!"

XIV.

Alas, alas, for Hamelin!
     There came into many a burgher's pate
     A text which says that heaven's gate
     Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in!
The mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
     Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
     And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,
And piper and dancers were gone forever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
     Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
"And so long after what happened here
     On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it the Pied Piper's Street,—
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labor.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
     To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
     They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away,
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people who ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbors lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don't understand.

XV

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers!
And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

* * * * *

Porphyria's Lover (by Robert Browning)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-16T11:58:57Z

Robert Browning, 1812-1883

Porphyria's Lover
by Robert Browning
from Dramatic Lyrics (1842)

The rain set early in to-night,
     The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
     And did its worst to vex the lake:
     I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
     She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
     Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
     Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
     And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
     And, last, she sat down by my side
     And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
     And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
     And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
     And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
     Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
     From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
     And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
     Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
     For love of her, and all in vain:
     So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
     Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
     Made my heart swell, and still it grew
     While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
     Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
     In one long yellow string I wound
     Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
     I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
     I warily oped her lids: again
     Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
     About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
     I propped her head up as before,
     Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
     The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
     That all it scorned at once is fled,
     And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
     Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
     And all night long we have not stirred,
     And yet God has not said a word!

* * * * *

Johannes Agricola in Meditation (by Robert Browning)

jc@crisischronicles.com (Jesus Crisis) — 2011-12-15T14:56:19Z

Robert Browning, 1812-1883

Johannes Agricola in Meditation
by Robert Browning
from Dramatic Lyrics (1842)

There's heaven above, and night by night
     I look right through its gorgeous roof;
No suns and moons though e'er so bright
     Avail to stop me; splendour-proof
     I keep the broods of stars aloof:
For I intend to get to God,
     For 'tis to God I speed so fast,
For in God's breast, my own abode,
     Those shoals of dazzling glory, passed,
     I lay my spirit down at last.
I lie where I have always lain,
     God smiles as he has always smiled;
Ere suns and moons could wax and wane,
     Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled
     The heavens, God thought on me his child;
Ordained a life for me, arrayed
     Its circumstances every one
To the minutest; ay, God said
     This head this had should rest upon
     Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun.
And having thus created me,
     Thus rooted me, he bade me grow,
Guiltless for ever, like a tree
     That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know
     The law by which it prospers so:
But sure that thought and word and deed
     All go to swell his love for me,
Me, made because that love had need
     Of something irreversibly
     Pledged soley its content to be.
Yes, yes, a tree which much ascend,
     No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop!
I have God's warrant, could I blend
     All hideous sins, as in a cup,
     To drink the mingled venoms up;
Secure my nature will convert
     The draught to blossoming gladness fast:
While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt,
     And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast,
     As from the first its lot was cast.
For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed
     By unexhausted power to bless,
I gaze below on hell's fierce bed,
     And those its waves of flame oppress,
     Swarming in ghastly wretchedness;
Whose life on earth aspired to be
     One altar-smoke, so pure!--to win
If not love like God's love for me,
     At least to keep his anger in;
     And all their striving turned to sin.
Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white
     With prayer, the broken-hearted nun,
The martyr, the wan acolyte,
     The incense-swinging child,--undone
     Before God fashioned star or sun!
God, whom I praise; how could I praise,
     If such as I might understand,
Make out and reckon on his ways,
     And bargain for his love, and stand,
     Paying a price at his right hand?