I CRY
Tupac Shakur 1971-96

Sometimes when I'm alone
I Cry,
Cause I am on my own.
The tears I cry are bitter and warm.
They flow with life but take no form.
I Cry because my heart is torn.
I find it difficult to carry on.

If I had an ear to confiding,
I would cry among my treasured friends,
but who do you know that stops that long
to help another carry on.


The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.
Then to stop and see what makes one cry,
so painful and sad.
And sometimes -
I Cry
and no one cares about why.

-o=0=o-

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

What was he doing, the great god Pan,

       Down in the reeds by the river?

Spreading ruin and scattering ban*,

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,

And breaking the golden lilies afloat

       With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,

       From the deep cool bed of the river:

The limpid water turbidly ran,

And the broken lilies a-dying lay,

And the dragon-fly had fled away,

       Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan

       While turbidly flowed the river;

And hacked and hewed as a great god can,

With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,

Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed

       To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,

       (How tall it stood in the river!)

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,

Steadily from the outside ring,

And notched the poor dry empty thing

       In holes, as he sat by the river.

"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan

       (Laughed while he sat by the river),

"The only way, since gods began

To make sweet music, they could succeed."

Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,

       He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!

       Piercing sweet by the river!

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!

The sun on the hill forgot to die,

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly

       Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,

       To laugh as he sits by the river,

Making a poet out of a man:

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, -

For the reed which grows nevermore again

       As a reed with the reeds in the river.

*ban - an archaic word meaning a curse

-o=0=o-

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

Thomas Moore 1779-1852

'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone,

All her lovely companions are faded and gone,

No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh

To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem

Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them,

Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow when friendships decay

And from love's shining circle the gems drop away,

When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown,

Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone.

JOHN'S SCRAPBLOG

This and that (especially things of the past) from a nonagenarian

returns on Friday 2nd September.

http://johnsscrapblog.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

THE HAIKU PAGE

on the clothes line

feathers fluffed up in the wind

a line of sparrows

in the gutter

a bouquet of flowers

still in wrapping paper

letting the cat out

we welcome a visitor -

a little robin

early morning mist

across the loch trees take shape

the promise of sun

at the refuse dump

an escort of seagulls

for the cleansing truck

JOHN'S SCRAPBLOG

which ran for 6 weeks last year has been given a make-over and returns on Friday 2nd September.

http://johnsscrapblog.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

These are the first 14 lines of an very long poem

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

Oliver Goldsmith 1730-74

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain, 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed, 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene! 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made! 

JOHN'S SCRAPBLOG

which ran for 6 weeks last year has been given a make-over and returns on Friday 2nd September.

http://johnsscrapblog.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

ABOU BEN ADHEM

James Henry Leigh Hunt 1784-1859

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,

And to the Presence in the room he said

"What writest thou?" - The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered "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 vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

-o=0=o-

ONE ART

Elizabeth Bishop 1911-79

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

— Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

-o=0=o-