tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17997843119555675892024-02-06T18:50:37.395-08:00poemsszRob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-65444071568314553302013-12-05T09:43:00.001-08:002013-12-05T09:43:36.914-08:00Bob Dylan reads TS Eliot's The Waste Land <iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/d3rdpr8kSqQ" width="560"></iframe><br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-88435671510971955822013-06-21T10:07:00.001-07:002013-06-21T10:07:35.741-07:00sarah cynthia sylvia stout would not take the garbage out by shel silverstein<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VRlbll5O0rg" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout<br />
Would not take the garbage out.<br />
She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans<br />
Cook the yams and spice the hams,<br />
And though her parents would scream and shout,<br />
She simply would not take the garbage out.<br />
And so it piled up to the ceiling:<br />
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,<br />
Brown bananas and rotten peas,<br />
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.<br />
It filled the can, it covered the floor,<br />
It cracked the windows and blocked the door,<br />
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,<br />
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,<br />
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,<br />
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,<br />
Pizza crusts and withered greens,<br />
Soggy beans, and tangerines,<br />
Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,<br />
Grisly bits of beefy roast.<br />
The garbage rolled on down the halls,<br />
It raised the roof, it broke the walls,<br />
I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,<br />
Blobs of gooey bubble gum,<br />
Cellophane from old bologna,<br />
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,<br />
Peanut butter, caked and dry,<br />
Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,<br />
Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,<br />
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,<br />
Cold French fries and rancid meat,<br />
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.<br />
At last the garbage reached so high<br />
That finally it touched the sky,<br />
And none of her friends would come to play,<br />
And all of her neighbors moved away;<br />
And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout<br />
Said, "Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"<br />
But then, of course it was too late,<br />
The garbage reached across the state,<br />
From New York to the Golden Gate;<br />
And there in the garbage she did hate<br />
Poor Sarah met an awful fate<br />
That I cannot right now relate<br />
Because the hour is much too late<br />
But children, remember Sarah Stout,<br />
And always take the garbage out.
<br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-5609944533929891022013-04-11T10:05:00.000-07:002013-04-11T10:05:04.053-07:00"Abou Ben Adhem" By James Henry Leigh Hunt<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/d32tg85rYLk" width="560"></iframe><br />
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork">Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)<br />Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,<br />And saw, within the moonlight in his room,<br />Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,<br />An angel writing in a book of gold:— <br />Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,<br />And to the Presence in the room he said<br />"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,<br />And with a look made of all sweet accord,<br />Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."<br />"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"<br />Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,<br />But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,<br />Write me as one that loves his fellow men."<br /><br />The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night<br />It came again with a great wakening light,<br />And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,<br />And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.</span>Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-89745757219103418702013-02-28T09:18:00.002-08:002013-02-28T09:18:57.961-08:00MY ROBOT by Shel SilversteinMY ROBOT<br />I told my robot to do my biddin'.<br />He yawned and said, "You must be kiddin'."<br />I told my robot to cook me a stew.<br />He said, "I got better things to do."<br />I told my robot to sweep my shack.<br />He said, "You want me to strain my back?"<br />I told my robot to answer the phone.<br />He said, "I must make some calls of my own.<br />I told my robot to brew me some tea.<br />He said, "Why don't you make tea for me?"<br />I told my robot to boil me an egg.<br />He said, "First -- lemme hear you beg."<br />I told my robot, "There's a song you can play me.'<br />He said, "How much are you gonna pay me?"<br />So I sold that robot, 'cause I never knew<br />Exactly who belonged to who.<br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-67126074053036536842013-02-28T09:14:00.000-08:002013-02-28T09:14:13.065-08:00Furniture Bash by Shel SilversteinThe hand of the clock<br />Pinched the foot of the bed,<br />So the foot of the bed<br />Kicked the seat of the chair,<br />So the seat of the chair<br />Sat on the head of the table,<br />So the head of the table<br />Bit the leg of the desk,<br />16<br />So the leg of the desk<br />Bumped the arm of the couch,<br />So the arm of the couch<br />Slapped the face of the clock.<br />And they pinched and they punched<br />And they banged and they knocked,<br />And they ripped and they flipped,<br />And they rolled and they rocked,<br />And the poor dresser drawer<br />Got a couple of socks.<br />There was sawdust and springs<br />When I turned on the light<br />After that horrible furniture fight.<br />And that's the truth, no lie -- no joke.<br />That's how your furniture<br />All got broke.<br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-37471495529875463882013-02-28T09:03:00.001-08:002013-02-28T09:03:14.170-08:00No, thank you...... by Shel SilversteinNo I do not want a kitten,<br />No cute, cuddly kitty-poo,<br />No more long hair in my cornflakes,<br />No more midnight meowing mews.<br />No more scratchin, snarlin, spitters,<br />No more sofas clawed to shreds,<br />No more smell of kitty litter,<br />No more mousies in my bed.<br />No I will not take that kitten --<br />I've had lice and I've had fleas,<br />I've been scratched and sprayed and bitten,<br />I've developed allergies.<br />If you've got an ape, I'll take him,<br />If you have a lion, that's fine,<br />If you brought some walking bacon,<br />Leave him here, I'll treat him kind.<br />I have room for mice and gerbils,<br />I have beds for boars and bats,<br />But please, *please* take away that kitten --<br />9<br />Quick -- 'fore it becomes a cat.<br />Well ... it is kind of cute at that.<br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-17888241344822624502013-02-28T08:56:00.001-08:002013-02-28T08:56:39.622-08:00PLUGGING IN by Shel SilversteinPLUGGING IN<br />Peg plugged in her 'lectric toothbrush,<br />Mitch plugged in his steel guitar,<br />Rick plugged in his CD player,<br />Liz plugged in her VCR.<br />Mom plugged in her 'lectric blanket,<br />Pop plugged in the TV fights,<br />I plugged in my blower-dryer --<br />Hey! Who turned out all the lights?Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-72496764022185470092013-02-28T08:54:00.000-08:002013-02-28T08:54:53.866-08:00Snowball by Shel SilversteinSNOWBALL<br />I made myself a snowball<br />As perfect as could be.<br />I thought I'd keep it as a pet<br />4<br />And let it sleep with me.<br />I made it some pajamas<br />And a pillow for its head.<br />Then last night it ran away,<br />But first -- it wet the bed.<br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-23446574795580833112013-02-17T18:57:00.001-08:002013-02-17T18:57:00.152-08:00Ageing Schoolmaster by Vernon Scannell<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/egSzMzr66_w" width="560"></iframe><br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-85059593984414905542013-02-11T06:47:00.000-08:002013-02-11T06:47:14.203-08:00Advice to a Young Man on the Choice of a Mistress by Benjamin Franklin<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TXFF0tn6l5M" width="560"></iframe><br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-5858297038961616802013-02-04T10:59:00.002-08:002013-02-04T10:59:07.661-08:00"Boots" - "Infantry Columns" By Rudyard Kipling<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/cIiwjoPqJZE" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Boots</span> by <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Rudyard Kipling</span>.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">INFANTRY COLUMNS</span><br />
<br />
We're foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin' over Africa -<br />
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin' over Africa -<br />
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)<br />
There's no discharge in the war!<br />
<br />
Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an'-twenty mile to-day -<br />
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before -<br />
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)<br />
There's no discharge in the war!<br />
<br />
Don't-don't-don't-don't-look at what's in front of you.<br />
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again)<br />
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin' em,<br />
An' there's no discharge in the war!<br />
<br />
Try-try-try-try-to think o' something different -<br />
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin' lunatic!<br />
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)<br />
There's no discharge in the war!<br />
<br />
Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.<br />
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o' you!<br />
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again) -<br />
There's no discharge in the war!<br />
<br />
We-can-stick-out-'unger, thirst, an' weariness,<br />
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of 'em -<br />
Boot-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,<br />
An' there's no discharge in the war!<br />
<br />
'Taint-so-bad-by-day because o' company,<br />
But night-brings-long-strings-o' forty thousand million<br />
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again.<br />
There's no discharge in the war!<br />
<br />
I-'ave-marched-six-weeks in 'Ell an' certify<br />
It-is-not-fire-devils, dark, or anything,<br />
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,<br />
An' there's no discharge in the war!Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-87626535581833346752013-01-10T14:22:00.001-08:002013-01-10T14:22:29.979-08:00"Lone Dog" by Irene R. McLeod <iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LCue-NJ9u9w" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<tr><td align="CENTER"><span style="color: #9c9c63;"><span><b>Lone Dog</b></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="CENTER" bgcolor="#ffffff" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
<tbody>
<tr><td>I'<span>M</span> a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="1"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="2"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="3"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="4"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td>I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,</td><td align="right" valign="top"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="5"><i> 5</i></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="6"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="7"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="8"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td>Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="9"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="10"><i> 10</i></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1799784311955567589" name="11"> </a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td>Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-13812428018389856102012-11-23T06:29:00.000-08:002012-11-23T06:29:06.388-08:00Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hfOxdZfo0gs" width="560"></iframe><br />
Whose woods these are I think I know.<br />His house is in the village though;<br />He will not see me stopping here<br />To watch his woods fill up with snow.<br /><br />My little horse must think it queer<br />To stop without a farmhouse near<br />Between the woods and frozen lake<br />The darkest evening of the year.<br /><br />He gives his harness bells a shake<br />To ask if there is some mistake.<br />The only other sound's the sweep<br />Of easy wind and downy flake.<br /><br />The woods are lovely, dark and deep.<br />But I have promises to keep,<br />And miles to go before I sleep,<br />And miles to go before I sleep.Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-10128042238518345322012-11-14T09:32:00.001-08:002012-11-14T09:32:15.038-08:00Television by Roald Dahl<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VsYvHuvX1EE" width="560"></iframe><br />
<h2 class="title" itemprop="name">
Television</h2>
<div style="margin-top: 20px; min-height: 570px;">
<div class="KonaBody">
The most important thing we've learned,<br />So far as children are concerned,<br />Is never, NEVER, NEVER let<br />Them near your television set --<br />Or better still, just don't install<br />The idiotic thing at all.<br />In almost every house we've been,<br />We've watched them gaping at the screen.<br />They loll and slop and lounge about,<br />And stare until their eyes pop out.<br />(Last week in someone's place we saw<br />A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)<br />They sit and stare and stare and sit<br />Until they're hypnotised by it,<br />Until they're absolutely drunk<br />With all that shocking ghastly junk.<br />Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,<br />They don't climb out the window sill,<br />They never fight or kick or punch,<br />They leave you free to cook the lunch<br />And wash the dishes in the sink --<br />But did you ever stop to think,<br />To wonder just exactly what<br />This does to your beloved tot?<br />IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!<br />IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!<br />IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!<br />IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND<br />HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND<br />A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!<br />HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!<br />HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!<br />HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!<br />'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,<br />'But if we take the set away,<br />What shall we do to entertain<br />Our darling children? Please explain!'<br />We'll answer this by asking you,<br />'What used the darling ones to do?<br />'How used they keep themselves contented<br />Before this monster was invented?'<br />Have you forgotten? Don't you know?<br />We'll say it very loud and slow:<br />THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,<br />AND READ and READ, and then proceed<br />To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!<br />One half their lives was reading books!<br />The nursery shelves held books galore!<br />Books cluttered up the nursery floor!<br />And in the bedroom, by the bed,<br />More books were waiting to be read!<br />Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales<br />Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales<br />And treasure isles, and distant shores<br />Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,<br />And pirates wearing purple pants,<br />And sailing ships and elephants,<br />And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,<br />Stirring away at something hot.<br />(It smells so good, what can it be?<br />Good gracious, it's Penelope.)<br />The younger ones had Beatrix Potter<br />With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,<br />And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,<br />And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-<br />Just How The Camel Got His Hump,<br />And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,<br />And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,<br />There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-<br />Oh, books, what books they used to know,<br />Those children living long ago!<br />So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,<br />Go throw your TV set away,<br />And in its place you can install<br />A lovely bookshelf on the wall.<br />Then fill the shelves with lots of books,<br />Ignoring all the dirty looks,<br />The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,<br />And children hitting you with sticks-<br />Fear not, because we promise you<br />That, in about a week or two<br />Of having nothing else to do,<br />They'll now begin to feel the need<br />Of having something to read.<br />And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!<br />You watch the slowly growing joy<br />That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen<br />They'll wonder what they'd ever seen<br />In that ridiculous machine,<br />That nauseating, foul, unclean,<br />Repulsive television screen!<br />And later, each and every kid<br />Will love you more for what you did.
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="poet" itemprop="author">
Roald Dahl</div>
</div>
Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-78088067344073743382012-11-09T04:30:00.000-08:002012-11-09T04:30:39.487-08:00 September Song by Maxwell Anderson<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/E3mAT-4FdP4" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />When I was a young man courting the girls<br />I played me a waiting game<br />If a maid refused me with tossing curls<br />I'd let the old Earth take a couple of whirls<br />While I plied her with tears in place of pearls<br />And as time came around she came my way<br />As time came around, she came.<br /><br />But it's a long, long while from May to Decemeber<br />And the days grow short when you reach September<br />And the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame<br />And I haven't got time for the waiting game<br />And the wine dwindles down to a precious brew<br />September, November - and these few vintage years<br />I'd share with you. These vintage years I'd share with you.<br /><br />But it's a long, long while from May to December<br />And the days grow short when you reach September<br />And I have lost one tooth and I walk a little lame...
Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-4736086037047884202012-11-07T05:44:00.001-08:002012-11-07T05:44:20.637-08:00Invictus - William Ernest Henley<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/5pJcwnS1c0I" width="420"></iframe><br />
Out of the night that covers me,<br />Black as the pit from pole to pole,<br />I thank whatever gods may be<br />For my unconquerable soul.<br /><br />In the fell clutch of circumstance<br />I have not winced nor cried aloud.<br />Under the bludgeonings of chance<br />My head is bloody, but unbowed.<br /><br />Beyond this place of wrath and tears<br />Looms but the Horror of the shade,<br />And yet the menace of the years<br />Finds and shall find me unafraid.<br /><br />It matters not how strait the gate,<br />How charged with punishments the scroll.<br />I am the master of my fate:<br />I am the captain of my soul.Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-85453837502891088822012-10-31T21:02:00.000-07:002012-10-31T21:02:10.215-07:00"If" by Rudyard Kipling <iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tK4HDCIr_E8" width="560"></iframe><br />
IF you can keep your head when all about you <br />Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,<br />If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,<br />But make allowance for their doubting too;<br />If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,<br />Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,<br />Or being hated, don't give way to hating,<br />And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:<br />If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;<br />If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;<br />If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster<br />And treat those two impostors just the same;<br />If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken<br />Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,<br />Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,<br />And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: <br />If you can make one heap of all your winnings <br />And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,<br />And lose, and start again at your beginnings<br />And never breathe a word about your loss;<br />If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew<br />To serve your turn long after they are gone,<br />And so hold on when there is nothing in you<br />Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'<br />If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,<br />' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,<br />if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,<br />If all men count with you, but none too much;<br />If you can fill the unforgiving minute<br />With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,<br />Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,<br />And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!<br /> <br />
<div>
<wbr></wbr> -- Rudyard Kipling</div>
Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-18944057827854591882012-10-25T02:26:00.001-07:002012-10-25T02:26:05.471-07:00The Tragedy of the Leaves by Charles Bukowski <iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Hu-FTjZs9Mg" width="560"></iframe><br />
The Tragedy of the Leaves
<br />
<br />By Charles Bukowski
<br />
<br />
<br />I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
<br />the potted plants yellow as corn;
<br />my woman was gone
<br />and the empty bottles like bled corpses
<br />surrounded me with their uselessness;
<br />the sun was still good, though,
<br />and my landlady's note cracked in fine and
<br />undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
<br />was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester
<br />with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
<br />because it exists, nothing more;
<br />I shaved carefully with an old razor
<br />the man who had once been young and
<br />said to have genius; but
<br />that's the tragedy of the leaves,
<br />the dead ferns, the dead plants;
<br />and I walked into a dark hall
<br />where the landlady stood
<br />execrating and final,
<br />sending me to hell,
<br />waving her fat, sweaty arms
<br />and screaming
<br />screaming for rent
<br />because the world had failed us
<br />both.
Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-72826966233763290242012-10-17T14:50:00.001-07:002012-10-17T14:50:51.057-07:00"Cool Casey at the Bat" The Beatnik Version by Mikhail Horowitz , Mad Magazine,1960<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3cY5VY2jrYk" width="560"></iframe><br />Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-27072357070643862892012-09-29T07:12:00.001-07:002012-09-29T07:12:20.664-07:00Smugglers' Song by Rudyard Kipling<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/pELNBp6DBh8" width="560"></iframe><br />
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,<br />Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,<br />Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie.<br />
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!<br />
Five and twenty ponies<br />Trotting through the dark –<br />
Brandy for the Parson,<br />’Baccy for the Clerk;<br />
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,<br />
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!<br />
Running round the woodlump if you chance to find<br />
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,<br />Don’t you shout to come and look, nor use ‘em for your play.<br />Put the brushwood back again – and they’ll be gone next day!<br />
If you see the stable-door setting open wide;<br />
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;<br />
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;<br />If the lining’s wet and warm – don’t you ask no more!<br />
If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red,<br />
You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.<br />If they call you ‘pretty maid’, and chuck you ’neath the chin,<br />Don’t you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s been!<br />
Knocks and footsteps round the house – whistles after dark –<br />You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark,<br />
<em>Trusty’s </em>here, and <em>Pincher’s</em> here, and see how dumb they lie,<br />
<em>They</em> don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!<br />
If you do as you’ve been told, ’likely there’s a chance,<br />You’ll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,<br />With a cup of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood –<br />A present from the Gentlemen, along ‘o being good!<br />
Five and twenty ponies<br />Trotting through the dark –<br />
Brandy for the Parson,<br />’Baccy for the Clerk;<br />
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,<br />Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie.<br />Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-56749599055078307322012-09-26T21:08:00.002-07:002012-09-26T21:08:04.765-07:00Common Cold by Ogden Nash<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dWz5KbtrxdY" width="560"></iframe><br />
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/Review-aggregate"></span><br />
<div class="KonaBody">
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.! <br />You shall not sneer at me. <br />Pick up your hat and stethoscope, <br />Go wash your mouth with laundry soap; <br />I contemplate a joy exquisite <br />I'm not paying you for your visit. <br />I did not call you to be told <br />My malady is a common cold. <br /><br />By pounding brow and swollen lip; <br />By fever's hot and scaly grip; <br />By those two red redundant eyes <br />That weep like woeful April skies; <br />By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff; <br />By handkerchief after handkerchief; <br />This cold you wave away as naught <br />Is the damnedest cold man ever caught! <br /><br />Give ear, you scientific fossil! <br />Here is the genuine Cold Colossal; <br />The Cold of which researchers dream, <br />The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme. <br />This honored system humbly holds <br />The Super-cold to end all colds; <br />The Cold Crusading for Democracy; <br />The Führer of the Streptococcracy. <br /><br />Bacilli swarm within my portals <br />Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals, <br />But bred by scientists wise and hoary <br />In some Olympic laboratory; <br />Bacteria as large as mice, <br />With feet of fire and heads of ice <br />Who never interrupt for slumber <br />Their stamping elephantine rumba. <br /><br />A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth! <br />Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth; <br />Don Juan was a budding gallant, <br />And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent; <br />The Arctic winter is fairly coolish, <br />And your diagnosis is fairly foolish. <br />Oh what a derision history holds <br />For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="poet">
Ogden Nash</div>
<div class="date">
Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003</div>
Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-81338480319480774252012-08-23T08:38:00.000-07:002012-08-23T08:39:30.391-07:00Aubade by Philip Larkin <h1 id="watch-headline-title">
<span class="" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" title="Aubade read by Philip Larkin"><iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/IDr_SRhJs80" width="420"></iframe></span></h1>
<h1 id="watch-headline-title">
<span class="" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" title="Aubade read by Philip Larkin">Aubade by Philip Larkin </span></h1>
<h1 class="title">
Aubade</h1>
<div class="poem">
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
<br />
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
<br />
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
<br />
Till then I see what's really always there:
<br />
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
<br />
Making all thought impossible but how
<br />
And where and when I shall myself die.
<br />
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
<br />
Of dying, and being dead,
<br />
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
<br />
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
<br />
- The good not done, the love not given, time
<br />
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
<br />
An only life can take so long to climb
<br />
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
<br />
But at the total emptiness for ever,
<br />
The sure extinction that we travel to
<br />
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
<br />
Not to be anywhere,
<br />
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
<br />
<br />
This is a special way of being afraid
<br />
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
<br />
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
<br />
Created to pretend we never die,
<br />
And specious stuff that says No rational being
<br />
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
<br />
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
<br />
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
<br />
Nothing to love or link with,
<br />
The anasthetic from which none come round.
<br />
<br />
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
<br />
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
<br />
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
<br />
Most things may never happen: this one will,
<br />
And realisation of it rages out
<br />
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
<br />
People or drink. Courage is no good:
<br />
It means not scaring others. Being brave
<br />
Lets no one off the grave.
<br />
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
<br />
<br />
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
<br />
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
<br />
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
<br />
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
<br />
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
<br />
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
<br />
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
<br />
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
<br />
Work has to be done.
<br />
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
</div>
<div class="poet">
Philip Larkin :</div>
<h1 id="watch-headline-title">
<span class="" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" title="Aubade read by Philip Larkin"> </span></h1>
Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-10854451742614498152012-08-09T15:14:00.000-07:002012-08-09T15:14:16.208-07:00"The Policeman" By Clive Sansom<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/H9OMp4ILfbg" width="560"></iframe><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: #f9f9fd; color: #222222; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.666666984558105px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Clive Sansom was born on 21 June 1910 in East Finchley, London and educated at Southgate County School, where he matriculated in 1926.[1] He worked as a clerk until 1934, and then studied speech and drama at the Regent Street Polytechnic and the London Speech Institute under Margaret Gullan. He went on to study phonetics under Daniel Jones at University College London, and joined the London Verse Speaking Choir. He lectured in speech training at Borough Road Training College, Isleworth, and the Speech Fellowship in 1937-9, and edited the Speech Fellowship Bulletin (1934-49). He was also an instructor in the Drama School of the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: #f9f9fd; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.666666984558105px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: #f9f9fd; color: #222222; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.666666984558105px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Sansom married the poet Ruth Large, a Tasmanian, in 1937, at the Quaker Friends Meeting House in Winchmore Hill, and subsequently joined. Sansom was a conscientious objector</span>Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-13771785321880986922012-08-03T05:06:00.003-07:002012-11-07T05:58:03.493-08:00Sexpot by Charles Bukowski<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-5uUZrvNMjI" width="560"></iframe><br />
you know," she said, "you were at <br />
the bar so you didn't see <br />
but I danced with this guy. <br />
we danced and we danced <br />
close. <br />
but I didn't go home with him <br />
because he knew I was with <br />
you." <br />
"thanks a bunch," I <br />
said. <br />
she was always thinking of sex. <br />
she carried it around with her <br />
like something in a paper <br />
bag. <br />
such energy. <br />
she never forgot. <br />
she stared at every man available <br />
in morning cafes <br />
over bacon and eggs <br />
or later <br />
over a noon sandwich or <br />
a steak dinner. <br />
"I've modeled myself after <br />
Marilyn Monroe," she told <br />
me. <br />
"she's always running off <br />
to some local disco to dance <br />
with a baboon," a friend once told <br />
me, "I'm amazed that you've <br />
stood for it as long as you have." <br />
she'd vanish at race tracks <br />
then come back and say, <br />
"three men offered to buy me <br />
a drink." <br />
or I'd lose her in the parking <br />
lot and I'd look up and she'd <br />
be walking along with a strange man. <br />
"well, he came from this direction <br />
and I came from that and we <br />
kind of walked together. I <br />
didn't want to hurt his <br />
feelings." <br />
she said that I was a very <br />
jealous man. <br />
one day she just <br />
fell down <br />
inside of her sexual organs <br />
and vanished. <br />
it was like an alarm clock <br />
dropping into the <br />
Grand Canyon. <br />
it banged and rattled and <br />
rang and rang <br />
but I could no longer <br />
see or hear it. <br />
I'm feeling much better <br />
now. <br />
I've taken up tap-dancing <br />
and I wear a black felt <br />
hat pulled down low <br />
over my right <br />
eye. <br />
<i>Charles Bukowski</i>Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1799784311955567589.post-15865647131923163682012-08-03T05:06:00.001-07:002012-08-03T05:06:03.521-07:00Sexpot by Charles Bukowski<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-5uUZrvNMjI" width="560"></iframe>Rob Hoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02211809421832142963noreply@blogger.com0