Friday Poetry Corner

[Spodicus]

Ther's mony a badge that's unco braw;
Wi' ribbon, lace and tape on;
Let kings an' princes wear them a' -
Gie me the Master's apron!

The honest craftsman's apron,
The jolly Freemason's apron,
Be he at hame, or roam afar,
Before his touch fa's bolt and bar,
The gates of fortune fly ajar,
`Gin he but wears the apron!

For wealth and honor, pride and power
Are crumbling stanes to base on;
Eternity suld rule the hour,
And ilka worthy Mason!
Each Free Accepted Mason,
Each Ancient Crafted Mason.

Then, brithers, let a halesome sang
Arise your friendly ranks alang!
Guidwives and bairnies blithely sing
To the ancient badge wi' the apron string
That is worn by the Master Mason!

Robert Burns

[voron]

Dance of the Hanged Men

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune !

And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms :
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.

Hurray ! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone !
You can cut capers on such a long stage !
Hop ! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing !
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles !

Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out !
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin ;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat :

The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin :
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.

Hurrah ! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball !
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests :
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...

Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae :
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here !

Oh ! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse :
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,

Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones !

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

-Rimbaud

[Spodicus]

Oh, my fecking Head!
Why did I drink so much last night?
I should've stayed in bed this morning.
At least it's Friday
and I can have a fry-up in't canteen at half nine!
Oh and I can finish at 15:30.

Spodicus.

[darmstadt]

CHEMISTRY AND FANTASY

At fifty-one,
My mate's no beauty now,
Nor, indeed, am I
At sixty-two.
Still, we love each other
Truly, truly love and like,
And sexually match,
A perfect fit.
So why do I have dreams
About Brad Pitt?

Edward Proffitt

[Chico]

Talk in the Dark

We live in history, says one.
We're flies on the hide of Leviathan, says another.

Either way, says one,
fears and losses.

And among losses, says another,
the special places our own roads were to lead to.

Our deaths, says one.
That's right, says another,
Now it's to be a mass death.

Mass graves, says one, are nothing new.
No, says another, but this time there'll be no graves,
all the dead will lie where they fall.

Except, says one, those that burn to ash.
And are blown in the fiery wind, says another.

How can we live in this fear? Says one.
From day to day, says another.

I still want to see, says one,
where my own road's going.

I want to live, says another, but where can I live
if the world is gone?


Denise Levertov