Showing posts from April, 2016

Testament by Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967

I give the undertakers permission to haul my body to the graveyard and to lay away all, the head, the feet, the hands, all: I know there is something left over they can not put away. Let the nanny goats and the billy goats of the shanty people eat the clover over my grave and if any yellow hair or any blue smoke of flowers is good enough to grow over me let the dirty-fisted children of the shanty people pick these flowers. I have had my chance to live with the people who have too much and the people who have too little and I chose one of the two and I have told no man why.

Follies by Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967

Shaken, The blossoms of lilac, And shattered, The atoms of purple. Green dip the leaves, Darker the bark, Longer the shadows. Sheer lines of poplar Shimmer with masses of silver And down in a garden old with years And broken walls of ruin and story, Roses rise with red rain-memories. May! In the open world The sun comes and finds your face, Remembering all.

Song: “Come away, come away, death” BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Twelfth Night) Come away, come away, death,      And in sad cypress let me be laid.  Fly away, fly away, breath;      I am slain by a fair cruel maid.  My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,               O, prepare it!  My part of death, no one so true           Did share it. 
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,      On my black coffin let there be strown.  Not a friend, not a friend greet      My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.  A thousand thousand sighs to save,               Lay me, O, where  Sad true lover never fi


The cherry trees bend over and are shedding On the old road where all that passed are dead, Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding This early May morn when there is none to wed.



Articles by this author: Dave Park

Drunk Cop Crashes into 51 Parked Cars in Prague
Petřín Funicular Now Re-Opened Prague Buskers Get Silenced
Become a Prague Hobo in New Video Game Breathtaking Video Captures Hidden Czech Gem
Czech Republic to Become Czechia? Czech Republic Reports First Cases of Zika
Tofuj: Prague Police Bust Illegal Garage Tofu Factory New-look Little Mole Premieres on Chinese TV
Czech Customs get Stricter Prague zoo makes Elephant Poo Paper Prague Streets Say No to UrinationPrague Named World’s 6th-Best Travel Destination
Seoul Metro Transports Riders to Prague
---found poem by Sara Tusek

William Butler Yeats: “Where My Books Go”

ALL the words that I utter,
   And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
   And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
   And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
   Storm-darken’d or starry bright.


All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming, A few stars glimmered through the morn, And down the thorn the dews were streaming. And every dead king had a story Of ancient glory, sweetly told. It was too early for the lark, But the starry dark had tints of gold. I listened to the sorrows three Of that Eire passed into song. A cock crowed near a hazel croft, And up aloft dim larks winged strong. And I, too, told the kings a story Of later glory, her fourth sorrow: There was a sound like moving shields In high green fields and the lowland furrow. And one said: ‘We who yet are kings Have heard these things lamenting inly.’ Sweet music flowed from many a bill And on the hill the morn stood queenly. And one said: ‘Over is the singing, And bell bough ringing, whence we come; With heavy hearts we’ll tread the shadows, In honey meadows birds are dumb.’ And one said: ‘Since the poets perished And all they cherished in the way, Their thoughts unsung, like petal showers Infl…

The Hangman at Home by Carl Sandburg (1878 - 1967)

WHAT does the hangman think about
When he goes home at night from work?
When he sits down with his wife and
Children for a cup of coffee and a
Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask
Him if it was a good day's work
And everything went well or do they
Stay off some topics and talk about
The weather, base ball, politics
And the comic strips in the papers
And the movies? Do they look at his
Hands when he reaches for the coffee
Or the ham and eggs? If the little
Ones say, Daddy, play horse, here's
A rope-does he answer like a joke:
I seen enough rope for today?
Or does his face light up like a
Bonfire of joy and does he say:
It's a good and dandy world we live
In. And if a white face moon looks
In through a window where a baby girl
Sleeps and the moon gleams mix with
Baby ears and baby hair-the hangman-
How does he act then? It must be easy
For him. Anything is easy for a hangman,
I guess.

Leda by H. D.

Where the slow river    meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down of his soft breast uncurls his coral feet.
Through the deep purple of the dying heat of sun and mist, the level ray of sun-beam has caressed the lily with dark breast, and flecked with richer gold its golden crest.
Where the slow lifting    of the tide,    floats into the river    and slowly drifts    among the reeds,    and lifts the yellow flags,    he floats    where tide and river meet.   
Ah kingly kiss— no more regret    nor old deep memories    to mar the bliss;    where the low sedge is thick,    the gold day-lily    outspreads and rests    beneath soft fluttering    of red swan wings and the warm quivering of the red swan's breast.


Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered to the air. (A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect learning to suck milk.)
Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and wild. (All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon in the hills with their lovers.)

Do Frogs Exist There, Too? By Jan Neruda

Frogs sat around a puddle
And gazed at heavens high
Frog teacher pounding into skulls
The science of the sky.

He spoke about the heavens
Bright dots we see there burning
And men watch them, "astronomers"
Like moles they dig for learning.

When these moles start to map the stars
The large becomes quite small
What's twenty million miles to us
They call one foot, that's all.

So, as those moles did figure out
(If you believe their plan)
Neptune is thirty feet away
Venus, less than one.

If we chopped up the Sun, he said
(Awed frogs could only stare)
We'd get three hundred thousand Earth's
With still a few to spare

The Sun helps us make use of time,
It rolls round heaven's sphere
And cuts a workday into shifts
"Forever" to a year

What comets are is hard to say
A strange manifestation
Though this is not a reason for
Some idle speculation

They are no evil sign, we hope
No reason for great fright
As in a story we got from
Lubyenyetsky, great knight

A comet there appeared, and when
It ray…