Poverty And Wealth by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The stork flew over a town one day,
And back of each wing an infant lay;
One to a rich man’s home he brought,
And one he left at a labourer’s cot.
The rich man said, ‘My son shall be
A lordly ruler o’er land and sea.’
The labourer sighed, ‘’Tis the good God’s will
That I have another mouth to fill.’
The rich man’s son grew strong and fair,
And proud with the pride of a millionaire.
His motto in life was, ‘Live while you may, ’
And he crowded years in a single day.
He bought position and name and place,
And he bought him a wife with a handsome face.
He journeyed over the whole wide world,
But discontent his heart lay curled
Like a serpent hidden in leaves and moss,
And life seemed hollow and gold was dross.
He scoffed at woman, and doubted God,
And died like a beast and went back to the sod.
The son of the labourer tilled the soil,
And thanked God daily for health and toil.
He wedded for love in his youthful prime,
And two lives chorded in tune and time.
His wants were simple, and simple his creed,
To trust God fully: it served his need,
And lightened his labour, and helped him to die
With a smile on his lips and a hope in his eye.
When all is over and all is done,
Now which of these men was the richer one?

Catch by Robert Francis

Two boys uncoached are tossing a poem together,
Overhand, underhand, backhand, sleight of hand, everyhand,
Teasing with attitudes, latitudes, interludes, altitudes,
High, make him fly off the ground for it, low, make him stoop,
Make him scoop it up, make him as-almost-as possible miss it,
Fast, let him sting from it, now, now fool him slowly,
Anything, everything tricky, risky, nonchalant,
Anything under the sun to outwit the prosy,
Over the tree and the long sweet cadence down,
Over his head, make him scramble to pick up the meaning,
And now, like a posy, a pretty one plump in his hands.

Glass by Robert Francis

Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.

A glass spun for itself is empty,
Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.
Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.

Words should be looked through, should be windows.
The best word were invisible.
The poem is the thing the poet thinks.

If the impossible were not,
And if the glass, only the glass,
Could be removed, the poem would remain.

The Fist by Derek Walcott

The fist clenched round my heart
loosens a little, and I gasp
brightness; but it tightens
again. When have I ever not loved
the pain of love? But this has moved

past love to mania. This has the strong
clench of the madman, this is
gripping the ledge of unreason, before
plunging howling into the abyss.

Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live.

The Facebook Sonnet - Sherman Alexie

Welcome to the endless high-school
Reunion. Welcome to past friends
And lovers, however kind or cruel.
Let's undervalue and unmend

The present. Why can't we pretend
Every stage of life is the same?
Let's exhume, resume and extend
Childhood. Let's all play the games

That preoccupy the young. Let fame
And shame intertwine. Let one's search
For God become public domain.
Let church.com become our church.

Let's sign up, sign in and confess
Here at the altar of loneliness.

Morning train - Alfian Sa'at

Why do you not look at each other's
Faces? Is the scenery that arresting,
One housing estate giving birth
To yet another copy?
Or the advertisements, read and re-read,
As if behind a slogan's promise lay
Hidden promise? Answer me:
Is that consciousness rising in you,
Dissolving your fatigue like a plastic sheet
Warping in heat, or is that simply
Sleep, draining away from you
Down to your soles, to the invisible tracks
Where the dew is dying? Where electricity
Is what pushes you to the borders
Of your own loneliness, against
The vulgar loneliness of crowds

[Mel] The Last Hero by G. K. Chesterton

See the flying French depart
Like the bees of Bonaparte,
Swarming up with a most venomous vitality.
Over Baden and Bavaria,
And Brighton and Bulgaria,
Thus violating Belgian neutrality.

And the injured Prussian may
Not unreasonably say
"Why, it cannot be so small a nationality
Since Brixton and Batavia,
Bolivia and Belgravia,
Are bursting with the Belgian neutrality."

By pure Alliteration
You may trace this curious nation,
And respect this somewhat scattered Principality;
When you see a B in Both
You may take your Bible oath
You are violating Belgian neutrality.

[Lisah] The Terror Years

Our house is Auschwitz,
So big and black. So black and big.
Petals of skull are hidden,
Strewn amidst the tall grass.
Prayers rise up and fall back
Beneath the ashes, beneath the dream
Searching for a door, a road out.

House so big. House so black.
Lightless house, hopeless house.

As I arrive at our house
My lips turn blue.
These terror years are my path;
Their names are the way-stations.

Our house is Auschwitz,
So big and black. So black and big.
This is where our tears flow,
Destroying our sight.
This is where they crushed our pleas
For no one to hear.
This is where they turned us to ashes
For the winds to scatter.

Listen, Adam! Listen, Simon!
Eve and Mary, too!
The twenty-five thousand shadows
That watch and follow me:
These terror years are our path;
Their names are the way-stations.

House so big. House so black.
House with no street, house with no address.

-Rajko Djuric (Translated by Julie Ebin)

[Lisah] The Schoolboy

I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! What sweet company.

But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning's bower,
Worn thro' with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?

-William Blake

[Lisah] For All The Years

Sometimes I know the words to say,
And thank you for all you've done.
But they seem to fly up and away,
As quickly as they come.

How could I possibly thank you enough?
The one who makes me whole.
To whom I owed my very life,
And the forming of my soul.

The person who tucked me in at night,
Who always stopped me crying.
The only one who was the expert,
At picking up if I was lying.

You always dropped me off to school,
Then spent sad days alone.
Yet magically you always produced a smile,
For the minute that I got home.

You had to make some sacrifices,
To always put me first.
You helped me test my broken wings,
In spite of how much it hurts.

Are there really any words for this?
I find this question tough...
Anything that I choose to say,
Just doesn't seem like its enough.

How ever can I thank you,
For your heart, your sweat, your tears?
For ten thousand little things you've done,
For god knows how many years?

For changing with me as I changed,
Turning a blind eye to all my flaws.
Not loving me because you had to,
But loving me 'just because'.

You never even gave up on me,
On days your wits had reached their end.
You were always oh-so proud of me,
You were always my best friend.
So in time I've come to realize,
The only way to say.
The only way I can thank you enough,
Is possible in just one way.

Look at me standing in front of you,
Look who I have become.
Do you see yourself in me?
The things that I have done?

All your hopes and all your dreams,
The bond that no one sees.
Transferred for over twenty years,
Your best was passed to me.

Thank you for the gifts you give,
And everything that you do.
But thank you mummy, most of all,
Because you helped my dreams come true.

-Sophia Haq

[Lisah] Closure

My heart is breaking,
What have you done?
Isn't falling in love,
Supposed to be fun?
There are a few things,
You will never know.
Like how you take my heart,
Wherever you go.
You're perfect to me,
In every way.
The feelings get stronger,
Day by day.
These things you don't know,
But I feel you should.
As I'd do anything for you,
If you said I could.
However I know,
That you never will.
So patiently I wait,
Sitting so still.
I am down,
I am blue.
I don't think,
I'll get over you.

- Sophia Haq

[Lisah] Mirror Image

Look at my reflection,
     Tell me who you see?
     Do you see Sophia Haq,
     Or do you just see me?
     Do you see the pain inside,
     Through the twinkle in my smile?
     Do you see a stable adult,
     Or see the shattered child?
     Can you see the tears I've cried,
     Through the sparkle in my eyes.
     Those passionate kisses upon my lips,
     You spoke a thousand lies.
     Can you see a depressive adult,
     As the manager of a store?
     Can you see my heartache,
     When laughing with people I adore.
     Can you see straight through me,
     Or just see mirrored glass?
     My face is but a jigsaw,
     Of pieces from my past.
     Can you feel the fear I've felt,
     Through the love within my touch?
     Do you love me, or Sophia Haq?
     Tell me just how much.
     So take a good look at my reflection,
     And tell me who do you see?
     Do you see smiling Sophia Haq?
     Or now do you see me.

- Sophia Haq

[Winifred] The Cradle

Sweet dreams form a shade,

O'er my lovely infants head.

Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,

By happy silent moony beams

Sweet sleep with soft down.

Weave thy brows an infant crown.

Sweet sleep Angel mild,

Hover o'er my happy child.

Sweet smiles in the night,

Hover over my delight.

Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,

All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,

Chase not slumber from thy eyes,

Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,

All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep sleep happy child,

All creation slept and smil'd.

Sleep sleep, happy sleep.

While o'er thee thy mother weep

Sweet babe in thy face,

Holy image I can trace.

Sweet babe once like thee.

Thy maker lay and wept for me

Wept for me for thee for all,

When he was an infant small.

Thou his image ever see.

Heavenly face that smiles on thee,

Smiles on thee on me on all,

Who became an infant small,

Infant smiles are His own smiles,

Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

- William Blake

[Sarah] Chinese Workers on the Evening Train

their tongues are rough, but fluent. They carve

our silence into syllables that explore the crowd,

fingers scouring thick curls in search of roots.

there is disquiet at this intrusion. leave us alone,

our lips say. we are pressed and drained by the office;

you are from a different world.

but they stay, and continue speaking, voices raucous

and very dusty. the safety patches on their vests

 ring loudly against our suits.

we have learnt your words before. Our lips open

in protest. We have no time for them now; they

are so full of bad memories.

still they take no notice, even joking among them

selves. some of us turn to look, but dare not stare

too long. they are an island in our sea.

we lower our eyes. what do you want, our lips ask.

take it, and then leave. we are a generous but tired

people; you are strangers on our way home.

the question passes unanswered, beneath the breathing

of the train. their steady chatter never stops,

and is unnaturally loud.

we censor them with pretended sleep, soon

our lips fall silent. we cannot comprehend them;

they speak only our mother tongue.  

Theophilus Kwek

[Sarah] Tick-Tock

There lived a couple

who lived by a couple

of clocks beside their bed

As newly wed

as two could be,

things soon turned otherwise,

the problem being

splitting hairs between

promise and compromise.

Now being so civil

and servants to time,

naturally they were upset

when, hard as they tried

they couldn’t get

their two clocks synchronized.

No matter how

they altered their rhythm

just before they slept,

she’d go through periods

when she’d still be

two hours in the red.

They re-paired the clocks

and pillow-talked

but still couldn’t agree

whose clock was off

and, on that count,

they figured time was ripe

to call it quits

and leave, let leave,

a match unstruck, unwon.

The sting in this tale

of a vow that failed –

love is more than the feel

of being together

in the same room

but never at the same time

Felix Cheong

[Sarah] Exorcism

Grace Chua

My mother believed (the Lord is my shepherd)

in ghosts (I shall not be in want).

Frangipani and jasmine (your rod and your staff),

the flowers of graves (they comfort me),

terrified her. Every seventh month

in the festival of the Hungry Ghosts,

she would send up burnt offerings

(you prepare a table before me)

to her mother’s mother (in green pastures)

her father and her father’s father (beside still waters)

and the third daughter (in the presence of my enemies)

who was never born

(you anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over.)

And when my grandfather died,

(he leads me in paths of righteousness)

the huge black moth (for his name’s sake)

that flapped at us across the kitchen table

(I will fear no evil)

and clung like wet hair (for thou art with me)

to the walls-

that was him (I will fear no evil)

also.

So when it came time

(yea, though I walk through the valley)

for my mother (the valley of the shadow)

to be a ghost herself

(yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of

death)

she would not go (though I walk) quietly

trailing through the house,

(surely goodness and mercy shall follow me)

haunted by (all the days of my life)

the ghosts of her live children

(and I will dwell)

and the memories of her days

(in the house of the Lord

Forever).

Grace Chua

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

                                                         W.H. Auden

[Sarah] Goliath and David (For D.C.T., killed at Fricourt, March 1916)

Once an earlier David took
Smooth pebbles from a brook:
Out between the lines he went
To that one-sided tournament,
A shepherd boy who stood out fine
And young to fight a Philistine
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears
That he's killed lions, he's killed bears,
And those that scorn the God of Zion
Shall perish so like bear or lion.
But . . . the historian of that fight
Had not the heart to tell it right.

Striding within javelin range
Goliath marvels at this strange
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.
David's clear eye measures the length;
With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,
Poises a moment thoughtfully,
And hurls with a long vengeful swing.
The pebble, humming from the sling
Like a wild bee, flies a sure line
For the forehead of the Philistine;
Then . . . but there comes a brazen clink.
And quicker than a man can think
Goliath's shield parries each cast.
Clang! clang! and clang! was David's last.
Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye,
Towering unhurt six cubit's high.
Says foolish David, 'Damn your shield!
And damn my sling! but I'll not yield.'

He takes his staff of Mamre oak,
A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke
The skull of many a wolf and fox
Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks.
Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh
Can scatter chariots like blown chaff
To rout: but David, calm and brave,
Holds his ground, for God will save.
Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!
Shame for Beauty's overthrow!
(God's eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)
One cruel backhand sabre cut --
'I'm hit! I'm killed!' young David cries,
Throws blindly foward, chokes . . . and dies.
And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,
Goliath straddles over him.

Robert Graves

Little Boy Crying

Your mouth contorting in brief spite and
Hurt, your laughter metamorphosed into howls,
Your frame so recently relaxed now tight
With three-year-old frustration, your bright eyes
Swimming tears, splashing your bare feet,
You stand there angling for a moment’s hint
Of guilt or sorrow for the quick slap struck.

The ogre towers above you, that grim giant,
Empty of feeling, a colossal cruel,
Soon victim of the tale’s conclusion, dead
At last. You hate him, you imagine
Chopping clean the tree he’s scrambling down
Or plotting deeper pits to trap him in.

You cannot understand, not yet,
The hurt your easy tears can scald him with,
Nor guess the wavering hidden behind that mask.
This fierce man longs to lift you, curb your sadness
With piggy-back or bull-fight, anything,
But dare not ruin the lessons you should learn.

You must not make a plaything of the rain.

                                                        Mervyn Morris

[Roxanne} Yeats: The Human Seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto Heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:—

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.