A poem for strangers

Due to my somewhat unusual height, I tend to see the underside of desks and tables a lot more than most people do. While it is almost invariably an unpleasant experience to turn one's gaze upwards towards the clammy crowded mass of dried chewing gum, I had the luck today to come across a little bit of poetry somewhat had scribbled on the underside of a study table. Since I was already in the job of prying things off the underside of that particular table, I decided to take this one off too, and transfer it to the big wide world that is our internet.

This one was titled: "A poem for strangers."

I walk as I always have; head down, feet in front,
purposefully examining my shoes as I make my way through strangers.
What a tumult they are making, to their friends, to their phones, to the ones whose names have meaning!
Their faces have no names to me.

I walk as I am accustomed to; hands in my jacket, arms clutching objects, maybe a splay of fingers gripping two,
My focus is on the floor, hoping that I may pass unnoticed in this sea of strangers, knowing that I will and feeling small.
There is no ocean spray that lowers my hood as they do, no cold wind that does not turn my face as words between these nameless faces.

Perhaps that are not all happy, perhaps there are some like me; whose eyes are swimming for a shore of open space in all the comradie.
Perhaps they wonder at my jacket, at my hood and parcels, at my hurried furtive feet,
they wonder what my story is and who I hope to meet.

Maybe they are accustomed to pondering, speculating like me,
if all these bywords will make sense, if these faces can be friends, if names uttered, chattered, whispered, will give meaning and direction to my feet.

More poetry from ancient greece

This is some poetry I found while examining what I first thought to be graffiti on the node of a Grecian urn:

The crowds are dark and silent, like the storm that brews above;
There is no call for brotherhood, no laugh or word of love.
They wait in dreadful silence still, they know they are not wise or brave;
in fear we stand in huddled mass,
each small as a single blade of grass;
but one great wave.

This wave is dark and fearful now, the tide has turned against its strand,
each single drop of water flees,  it does not try to make a stand.
The crowd knows an execution waits, they know that there is death for some;
But we are an obstinate wave indeed; and we won't run.

What plotters scheme in secret talks, what mobsters yell to angered crowds;
What tyrants at frail freedom scoff, when fists are shaken at the clouds,
What rings soundless on our stubborn ears, toiling heat from the burning sun;
Oh we have seen these signs before, but we won't run.

The tide has turned a thousand times, countless grains have been ground to dust,
the heavy sand beneath us heaves, it hears the call and seaward leaves,
But to stand firmly in the draining sand,
to raise our stained and grimy hands, for we must stay and we must stand,
Because we won't run.

Let tyrant trumpets about us blare, let new orders brandish spangled flags,
Let the seamless empty oceans stare, let them call our banner rags;
Let their leaders pose and call themselves The One;
What motley fools we are indeed, for we won't run.

Poetry for Mornings without Coffee

After spending last night arguing about life in general with a large group of philosophers, I decided to unwind with a poem. This one comes from a small purple book I keep called "Poetry for Mornings without Coffee":

You Can't Drain the Sea

The golden chalice gleams aloft;
would any man dare fill it with his blood,
The cup that for a thousand lives was lost,
two thousand years of mystery?

Would that the flesh was crumbling bread,
would that your crown not prick with thorns,
how easy 'twould be to drink the sea;
when the serpent lies slumped in your drinking horn.

But no! The rocks don't lie, they keep silent watch,
as stars wheel by and nations hatch,
as kingdoms grow and good men die;
The stones sit still and the rocks don't lie.

Oh the ancient heaving hills beneath us hear,
they listen to every folly we breath beneath the sun.
They watch with craggy eyes and wonder at our fear;
for though our theories multiply; their origins stand as one.

The hills keep guard and the rocks don't lie,
God rebuilt his Word on the blessed morn;
would that giants fall from aching eyes,
But you can't drain the sea with your drinking horn.


And here's a smaller bit from a poem that used to be much longer- until my great aunt spilled coffee on the page. (Thus is the reward of unworthy readers.)

Enoch's bones never feared for rot,
Elijah rides in the pillar of flame;
Would that the fire consumeth not,
when the bush must be pruned for wise men's shame.

From A Monk

While visiting a good friend and viking historian, (a scandinavian nis, to be exact,) I had the rare opportunity to examine some interesting documents found within an excavation site off the coast of juteland. Buried in the turf amongst the various waste products of the Viking culture, (old bowls, sheep bones, select remains of one's enemies, etc...) there was this curious little scrap of vellum dating back to the eighth century, and carried a little poem that we can guess was written by a captive briton.

Since we hold the truth that this particular briton could write to be self-evident, we decided that he must be a monk, and so I call this particular poem "From a Monk".

"From a Monk"


The restless breakers toss and roll,
I think they will not sleep tonight,
the sullen clouds above them pour;
deep water hides my home from sight.

The ocean rain whips her guests with hate;
O tremble beneath my sodden  hood,
I have felt sharper whips of late;
the restless hunger for harmless blood.

Blood on axes, fire in houses,
unshaven men on the holy isle,
they're red with laughing, red with killing,
all golden grins and ruthless smiles.

Three the sacred Godhead rule,
yet our Christ alone cleansed Calvary,
Three of the brothers were bound like mules,
I alone survived for slavery.

I know not what purpose I'll fill for them,
whether altar blood or sweating hands,
but the fire of God has found dry wood;
so I'll light this land with burning brands.

Have You Seen the Things I Saw

Have you seen the things I saw, 

the hope that lights my eyes?

Have you known I the love I know,

the bright and young sunrise?

Hope is not hope that changes, 

Joy not a pool that drains;

I go to find things stronger,

than my passing weakling pains.

Oh give me not words of weariness,

songs of sorrow will change me none,

Let us walk where the joys are many;

and the authors one.

The Beacon of Your Heart

In the darkness swirls the cries: faces, follies, fears beside,
Growing like mold in a cavern deep, where the self-hate wretched sleep,
They spread like venom in a wound, a poison that will quick consume,
Oh wander in the shadow-paths, they never lead up to the sun,
Where the lies are many, the darkness makes them one.

Hold up the torch, boy, let the free wind fight it!
Raise it, the tussling breeze will feed it!
Shine it from your mountaintop, shine it at your door!
If they lie in loathings grip, let them lie in dark no more!
Wave the torch, boy, shake and shine it, signal from the roaring shore!

In the darkness lies the sickness, in the lies grows only gall,
In your hand you have the torch now, see it paint the cavern walls,
Hold aloft that fierce altar: burn the fire pure and bright,
coax alight that blazing beacon: the fire of your heart.

Another song from distant lands

Here is another poem, which I label 'from distant lands'. I discovered it quite by accident when at the international Obscure Librarian's Annual Dinner, I noticed a man in the corner who was scribbling something on his napkin. Since librarians are notorious for what they scribble on their napkins, I made sure to ask him about it, but unfortunately forgot until after the dinner was over the tables had been put away. I had no choice but to do what some humans I have discussed this with refer to as 'dumpster diving'.
I had the bad luck to pull my rope down in with me, and I might have spent the night trapped in such a place, had not a local hobo overheard my screams for help and delivered me. I'm afraid to say certain unnamed agencies liquidated that poor fellow's memory of me, so I could not thank him personally.

This is what was on the napkin:

High praise to the Empire, may her banners fly proud,

In the lands of her founding; fair Skyrim renowned!

May her children have freedom and peace all their days,

from the warfare of Stormcloaks, and all their traitorous ways!

All hail the Empire! She remembers her own,

And saves them from usurpers who covet the throne,

May her soldiers hold stations and guard us from ill,

From the weak-hearted traitors who seek only to kill.

But Skyrim's no land of the meek and the thrall,

we'll have our good freedom from Somerset Isle.

No elf will command us, to worship or serve,

They'll get what's coming, and what Skyrim deserves.

Oh Thalmor beware, of the men you call Nords!

keep watch for their war cries, and bitter sharp swords!

For Talos the man-god, his blood was our own!

And we'll best you in battle and bury your bones!

Long live the Empire, may Skyrim grow tall!

May her fallen meet honor in Shors mighty hall!

For she has been reconquered by Empire men,

May she never be sundered, or divided again!