(Excerpt)
What would you do for me, Love? Would you weave a cloud,
A shroud, like Penelope wove, waiting for Ulysses,
Awaiting his return from exile overseas?
Would you thwart your suitors, grown bolder day by day,
Unravelling fabric of dreams to keep the hungry wolves at bay?
Would you, like Helen of Troy, risk the wrath of Menelaus,
A nation and hearts destroy, all for the love of Paris?
Or would you, struck by Cupid's heart-dart, descend from Olympus
As the huntress Artemis to follow your Adonis
Through hill and vale and forest? And when I lie down wounded
By the barbs of this harsh world, would you sprinkle your nectar
On my blood, before it's cold, to form a bright red flower,
A wind flower or anemone, to bloom and quick be blown away
Lest another hapless lover, beholding, be led astray, also falling prey
To lethal love for your beauty, oh Aphrodite?
Would you be my Selene, showering Endymion's
Eternal-sleeping, youthful body with kisses and caresses
In your moonlight, every night, without restraint
While I dream sweet dreams of love and sylphs and heaven?
Copyright ©2011 by G. Newton V. Chance
What is a song if not poetry dressed in melody to sing along? (© G. Newton V. Chance)
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
APPLES DON'T GROW ON TREES
Dashing through the snow-
Less crowded streets of Christmas
Shoppers and street vendors
In a last minute rush to catch
The commercial Christmas spirit
Of Santa’s pimping ho-ho claws
As Frosty the Snowman peddles
Black cloth and white death on red streets.
Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Baptist ringing bells
Foretells the second coming
Of a Christ, a Shepherd, some say
Was born in a stable,
But not on Christmas day;
A Christ, who fingered the informer
On the Supper table ,
Foretold betrayal
And denial in the garden;
Who died on a Good Black Friday
And rested on the Sabbath day;
The Rose who rose on Sunday,
Raised his nail-pierced hands to bless
Believers and convince
A doubting Thomas
Before ascending into heaven.
Yet there are still unbelievers
And believers who don’t believe
In Virgin Births or Resurrections
And Ascensions or Trinities
Or Talking Serpents selling apples
(And grapes) to believers
And unbelievers in the snow-
Less tropic poverty of hell.
Copyright ©2011 by G. Newton V. Chance
Less crowded streets of Christmas
Shoppers and street vendors
In a last minute rush to catch
The commercial Christmas spirit
Of Santa’s pimping ho-ho claws
As Frosty the Snowman peddles
Black cloth and white death on red streets.
Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Baptist ringing bells
Foretells the second coming
Of a Christ, a Shepherd, some say
Was born in a stable,
But not on Christmas day;
A Christ, who fingered the informer
On the Supper table ,
Foretold betrayal
And denial in the garden;
Who died on a Good Black Friday
And rested on the Sabbath day;
The Rose who rose on Sunday,
Raised his nail-pierced hands to bless
Believers and convince
A doubting Thomas
Before ascending into heaven.
Yet there are still unbelievers
And believers who don’t believe
In Virgin Births or Resurrections
And Ascensions or Trinities
Or Talking Serpents selling apples
(And grapes) to believers
And unbelievers in the snow-
Less tropic poverty of hell.
Copyright ©2011 by G. Newton V. Chance
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
- G. NEWTON V. CHANCE
- George Newton Vivian Chance (Trinidad and Tobago) -- member of the Poet Society of Trinidad and Tobago, http://poetssocietytt.blogspot.com/ and the World Poets Society, http://world-poets.blogspot.com/ -- born in Tobago on 3rd March 1957. While residing at Rio Claro was inspired to write over a hundred poems at the turn of the Millennium. Hobbies include playing wind instruments, building computers, observing nature, reading and writing poetry. Believes that the power of a song is in its ability to evoke emotions by the marriage of lyric and music but that music without lyric can be just as powerful, that lyric without music can also be just as powerful, that there is music in the lyric and that lyric can be simple yet profound. Also, in this the age of computers, would like to model his lines after simple and efficient code and, analogous to Object Oriented Programming, achieve most of his imagery from nouns and verbs, avoiding the bloat and excess of unnecessary adjectives. This is what he aspires to attain in his poetry.
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older
than the flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn
all golden in the sunset.
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
by Langston Hughes
the poet writes the poem;
the reader gives it life
(© G. Newton V. Chance)
the reader gives it life
(© G. Newton V. Chance)
Make somebody happy (© Alexander Ligertwood & Carlos Santana)