Daffodils The Duel Fire and Ice Vita Lampada

Abou Ben Adhem The Lady of Shalott The Glove and the Lions

The Lake Isle of Innisfree The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

When the gallows "crow" The Walrus and the Carpenter

The Cremation of Sam McGee The Charge of the Light Brigade

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening It's TRUE! Sonam

Sonam, viens Bébé Sonam, MORE! Sonam, coffee?

Sonam, what MORE? In praise of Sonam Sonam, I surrender

Sonam, my STAR! Sonam, mon minou !

Sonam, my Tibetan bird of paradise  Sonam, où es tu ?

Sonam, the Queen of Tibet Sonam, my hand Sonam, meineGöttin

Sonam,il mio sole Sonam, señorita

Sonam, THAT gorgeous GIRL from Tibet Princess Marian

pourquoi toi ? help! Vietnamesebliss  I lQQked...

my Vietnamese refugee Baby Bella CIAO! then, you SMILE!

Marian, do you care? WE LAUGHED! Marian, don't

Santa made me cry  she LAUGHED at me because felt good

beer cans POOR BOY c du JOUAL 2 years later

Jesus, Mary, THE BOSS BANG! BANG! rape fool lips to thighs

come AGAIN! should? begging to McDonald's! Señorita roja

la Virgen, Maria Hey! BRO Kimberly Du sucre à crême, s.v.p.

ZWOOSH!  Daniella  La vie est brève Mon amour that rabbit

maybe WAIL AWAY! THE SNOW WORMS

Une histoire de fée récente I wept TOUT NU

LOOK.THINK.SMELL. mon ti-Christ  Tu m'entends ?

man is DEAD. C le moment.  QUELLE - BELLE - RÉCEPTION !

F★CK you! F★CK me! Rachel :D tomorrow MA RÉCOMPENSE

alone Jérusalem the QUESTION léger  X-rated

les Québécois ? nothing  Matador! sapristi !  

THAT WALL! chirp! chirp! le printemps

good! stupid Mon Next Step  this Lola  

tasty Elizabeth  UNkitten the cotton

caught!                   

The author's poetic sense is reflected in his/her style: in his/her way of making use of the various poetic devices to translate his/her poetic impulse noteably rhyme, but also repetition, alliteration, verse length, choice of words whose syllables

(the iamb: a metrical foot in verse consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable - the iambic pentameter consists of a line with five feet in each of which the iamb is dominant; the trochee: a metrical foot consisting of a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable)

reinforces the rhythm/beat, the musicality (the musical value of the words) of the poem, associated imagery,
understatement accomplished by using as few words: these devices employed in the treatment of poem is intended to heighten its dramatic poetic effect whoseforce is found in its compactness.

Its poetic value is to found in the intelligible reality it 
conveys that resonates with the reader manifested
by the author's method of developing a poem  that
delivers the sense of the poem and its experiential
feel:

- using (a) verse: a line that has a beat (rhythm) (metre)
                 with a rhyming element at the end
- using (b) blank verse: a line that has a beat+
                 no rhyming element (often an iambic
                 pentameter - much used by Milton+Shakespeare)
- using (c) free verse: a line that has no particular
                 beat+no rhyming element

Daffodils
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 sparkiling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such 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 the inward eye
Which is bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
- William Wordsworth

The following is a letter - in French - to my daughter, Maria,
and my son, Jean (John), in which I praise the merits of
the this poem, "Daffodils".

Maria et Jean,

Je veux vous faire part d'un de mes poèmes préférés composé 
par William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850), poète romantique de 
l'Angleterre.

Le poème est sublime dans son ensemble par sa simplicité. Il 
relate des sentiments saissisants d'une scène pastorale qui a 
invoqué chez lui le besoin de les exprimer par écrit.

Il jumelle la scène au mouvement de la dance tellement il la 
trouve exubérante : la danse des vagues juxtaposée à la 
danse des jonquilles qui s'éloignent à perte de vue au bord 
du lac ajoutent à la majesté du moment dans un élan de 
contemplation.

Tellement, il est épris par la scène joyeuse que son âme est 
ranimée et portée d'emblée en extase spirituelle de danse de 
création. Tellement fut forte l'experience que son souvenir 
demeure irrépressible et le rassasie spirituellement de nou-
veau tout comme la première fois. Il expérimente une telle 
joie lorsqu'il s'en souvient que l'exubérance presque débri-
dée provoquée par ces jonquilles dansantes en unison à 
côté des vagues dansantes qu'il se laisse emporter par le 
mouvement des vagues et des jonquilles dansantes. Le 
contraste entre les deux nous laisse avec l'impression que 
les jonquilles dansent en suivant le bord du lac et qu'elles 
ne sont plus plantées, ancrées dans le sol, mais plutôt
véritablement libre et ressemblent aux gens en marche 
jubilante au point que ça nous donne l'envie de se joindre 
à eux et les suivre tout en partageant leur joie débordante.

Le rythme vif et dansant des syllables nous communiquent 
cette joie qui a touché son âme et l'émerveillement qu'il a 
ressenti de façon inattendue soudainement à ce moment-là 
qui donne au poème son pouvoir de claque et fait en sorte 
que nous somme entraînés par la force de son souvenir de 
la scène.

Le souvenir fracassant de la scène nous fait croire que seule-
ment son rappel est capable de le faire perdre le pôle nord 
lorsqu'il y revisite la place dans sa mémoire que le pouvoir 
du rappel de cette rencontre pastorale inusitée est tel qu'il 
va lui donner un second élan d'esprit rempli de créativité 
artistique.

Notez : un poète - comme tout autre véritable artiste -
            est toujours en quête d'inspiration et quelle joie 
            il nous fait partager lorsqu'il la retrouve en se 
            rappelant la beauté mouvementée de la scène 
            bucolique qui lui fait renaître en tant que poète.

Hélas, je ne lasse pas de le dire.

Je vous m.

Salut,

Papa

The Glove
and the Lions
King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court;
The nobles fill'd the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd;
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal hearts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, 'Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there.'

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;
She thought, The Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled;
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild;
The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regain'd his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
'By God!' said Francis, 'rightly done!' and he rose from where he sat;
'No love,' quoth he, 'but vanity, sets love a task like that.'
- Leigh Hunt

At the Cedars
You had two girls-- Baptiste--
One is Virginie--
Hold hard--Baptiste!
Listen to me.

The whole drive was jammed
In that bend at the Cedars,
The rapids were rammed
With the logs tight rammed
And crammed; you might know
The Devil had clinched them below.

We worked three days-- not a budge,
'She's as tight as a wedge, on the ledge,'
Says our foreman;
'Mon Dieu! boys, look here,
We must get this thing clear.'

He cursed at the men
And we went for it then;
With our cant-dogs arow,
We just gave he-yo-ho;
When she gave a big shove
From above.

The gang yelled and tore
For the shore,
The logs gave a grind
Like a wolf's jaws behind,
And as quick as a flash,
With a shove and a crash,
They were down in a mash,
But I and ten more,
All but Isaac Dufour,
Were ashore.

He leaped on a log in the front of the rush,
And shot out from the bind
While the jam roared behind;
As he floated along
He balanced his pole
And tossed us a song.
But just as we cheered,
Up darted a log from the bottom,
Leaped thirty feet square and fair,
And came down on his own.

He went up like a block
With the shock,
And when he was there
In the air,
Kissed his hand to the land;
When he dropped
My heart stopped,
For the first logs had caught him
And crushed him;
When he rose in his place
There was blood on his face.

There were some girls, Baptiste,
Picking berries on the hillside,
Where the river curls, Baptiste
You know -- on the still side.

One was down by the water,
She saw Isaac
Fall back.

She did not scream, Baptiste,
She launched her canoe;
It did seem, Baptiste,
That she wanted to die too,
For before you could think
The birch cracked like a shell
In that rush of hell,
And I saw them both sink--

Baptiste!--
He had two girls,
One is Virginie,
What God calls the other
Is not known to me.
- Duncan Campbell Scott

The Owl
and the Pussy-Cat
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
- Edward Lear 

The Duel
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.

(I wasn't there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "me-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!

(Now mind: I'm only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declared is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
But the gingham dog and calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw--
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

(Don't fancy I exaggerate--
I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!

(The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)
- Eugene Field

 The Walrus
and the Carpenter

this is a DELIGHTFUL! topsy-turvy poem

it begins with the sun intruding on the moon
and with the Walrun+the Carpenter going
4a walk along the beach

they comment on how sandy the beach is
+then invite 4, just 4 "young" (unwary) oysters
2come along 4a walk+a chat

a mile away from shore with the oysters exhausted
they shit on a low rock with the oyster lined up

taking out a loaf of bread, pepper+vinegar
they began 2feed on the oysters
until thr was none

it's a poem
that tells the story
of how THE CRAFTY
treat THE UNWEARY - especially THE YOUNG!

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "It would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hoping through the sandy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low.
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes-- and ships-- and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages-- and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar, besides,
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said;
"Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!"
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
- Lewis Carroll

Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:--
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
'What writest thou?'-- The vision rais'd its head,
And with a look made of sweet accord,
Answer'd, 'The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, 'I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.'
The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
- Leigh Hunt

Stopping by Woods 
on a Snowy Evening
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.
- Robert Frost

Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
- Robert Frost

 The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

And I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
- William Butler Yeats

Vita Lampada

There is a breathless hush in the Close to-night--
Ten to make the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote--
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;--
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

This is the word that, year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind--
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'
- Sir Henry Newbolt

The Charge
of the Light Brigade
(Balaclava, October 25th 1852)

Half a league, half a league
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke,
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of the six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Cremation of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip. I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead-- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows-- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum".

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared-- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but hte hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm--
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
- Robert Service

The Lady of Shalott
Part 1
On either side of the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow,
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part 2
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily;
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Somethimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part 3
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode betweem the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirro cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part 4
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at he closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mounful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent to Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Highwayman
Part 1
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding-- riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-shin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and
barred;
He whistled a tune to the window,and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long back hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Time the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scare could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped
away to the West.

Part 2
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching--
Marching-- marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed:
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with any a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say--
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moolight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours
crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;
For the roadlay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
and the bood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-- with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the Westwrd; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a gostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding--
Riding-- riding--
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
- Alfred Noyes

When the gallows "crow"...
On Hollow's Eve
The owls "crow"
and the crows go "hoot, hoot, hoot"
around the gallows
where the ghosts cackle
laugh, and shriek
in silly bursts of glee
to scare you and me
who go "trick or treat"
on Hollow's Eve.

So the moral
of this poem is
when trick and treating
stay away
from the gallows
if you don't want
to get S-P--O---O----K-----E------D!
- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)

 Sonam
her name is Sonam
she stands STRAIGHT and TALL

she moves THIS WAY
she moves THAT WAY

her long black ponytail waves to me

I MELT AWAY

I'm SONAM HAPPY!
- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)
  May 11th 2013

   Sonam: Tibetan word for "lucky" :o)

Sonam, viens Bébé

Sonam viens
assieds-toi là
sur mes genoux

mets ton bras
autour de mon cou

embrasse-moi vite !
j’ai soif de toi !

tes yeux noirs ... creux
ton nez ... mignon
tes joues ... de pêches
ta queue de cheval ... qui ballotte

au galot ...

LET’S GO!


tes épaules
ton dos
tes fesses
tes cuisses

      resplendissent
      m’éblouissent

.

toi
ton regard m’étoudissent

t’es mon oasis
viens me désaltérer

.

viens Sonam

viens Bébé

- Kenneth A. Joseph Sélin
  le 20 mai 2013

 Sonam, MORE!

.
Sonam,
.what you and I are doing

is helping to FREE Tibet,

but

we NEED to do ...  MORE! (WINK!)

.
- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)
  May 25th 2013

 Sonam, coffee?

Sonam

.

.

.
- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)
  June 3rd 2013

 Sonam, what MORE?

Sonam

- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)
  June 4th 2013

In praise of Sonam,
the Mona Lisa of Tibet

she is so beautiful
          so elegant that she makes
          the goddesses of Antiquity
          squirm with envy

oh, Sonam,
you are SOooo EXQUISITE!

- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)
  June 23rd 2013

Sonam,
I surrender

I surrender
          like the planets to the sun
        like night to day
        like the parched desert to the rain

.

from THE TALLEST MOUNTAIN
         I'm waving A WHITE FLAG for all to see
         I'm at your mercy

.

Sonam,
I only realized after seeing you the 1st time
          I was "awestruck" by you
          when I asked myself (NOT seeing you)
          WHERE is she? 

.

NOT seeing you the 2nd time,
          I thought I would NEVER see you again

.

the 1st time I saw you, I thought I was looking at AN ANGEL
          I could NOT believe my eyes
          I STILL canNOT believe my eyes 

.

IF this is but A DREAM
          I doN'T want to wake up (ha! ha!)

.

when I LQQk at you
          I'm AFRAID of going blind
          2 words come to mind
          THANK YOU!

- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)
  July 13th 2013

I see the stars
         I see you

.

you are SO FAR AWAY from me - on the moon
          but I see you

.

I SMILE lQQking at you
          you SMILE back

.

like THE BUDDHA
          I experience NIRVANA

.

I NOW KNOW "enlightenment" comes from A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
          like you

.

I enjoy THE HEAVENLY BLISS when you lQQk at me
          from above

you make me levitate
          you set me FREE!

.

I can FLY!
         when you SMILE at me from on high

.

Tibet will be set FREE
          because you SMILED at me from above

.

you among the stars
          and me on the moon

.

HAPPY as can be because I can see
          my STAR SHINING BRIGHT in the UNIVERSE

.

twinkle! twinkle!
          WINK! WINK! :o)

- Kenneth A. Joseph Selin (say'leen)
  July 18th 2013