Emily Dickinson – The Props assist the House (Poem 729)

The Props assist the House
Until the House is built
And then the Props withdraw
And adequate, erect,
The House support itself
And cease to recollect
The Augur and the Carpenter –
Just such a retrospect
Hath the perfected Life –
A Past of Plank and Nail
And slowness – then the scaffolds drop
Affirming it a Soul –

Charlotte Mew – The Cenotaph

Not yet will those measureless fields be green again

Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;

There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,

Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.

But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,

We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column's head.

And over the stairway, at the foot—oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spread

Violets, roses, and laurel with the small sweet twinkling country things

Speaking so wistfully of other Springs

From the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.

In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothers

     To lovers—to mothers

     Here, too, lies he:

Under the purple, the green, the red,

It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to see

Such a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!

Only, when all is done and said,

God is not mocked and neither are the dead.

For this will stand in our Market-place—

     Who'll sell, who'll buy

     (Will you or I

Lie each to each with the better grace)?

While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's face

As they drive their bargains, is the Face

Of God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.

Charles Bukowski – the crunch

too much too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or
tears

haters
lovers

strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.

an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about
it.

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
"no."

Ella Wheeler Wilcox – An Inspiration

However the battle is ended,

Though proudly the victor comes

With fluttering flags and prancing nags

And echoing roll of drums.

Still truth proclaims this motto,

In letters of living light, -

No Question is ever settled,

Until it is settled right.

Though the heel of the strong oppressor

May grind the weak to dust,

And the voices of fame with one acclaim

May call him great and just,

Let those who applaud take warning,

And keep this motto in sight, -

No question is ever settled

Until it is settled right.

Let those who have failed take courage;

Tho' the enemy seems to have won,

Tho' his ranks are strong, if he be in the wrong

The battle is not yet done;

For, as sure as the morning follows

The darkest hour of the night,

No question is ever settled

Until it is settled right.

O man bowed down with labor!

O woman, young, yet old!

O heart oppressed in the toiler's breast

And crushed by the power of gold!

Keep on with your weary battle

Against triumphant might;

No question is ever settled

Until it is settled right.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox – Change

Changed? Yes, I will confess it – I have changed.

I do not love you in the old fond way.

I am your friend still – time has not estranged

One kindly feeling of that vanished day.

But the bright glamour which made life a dream,

The rapture of that time, its sweet content,

Like visions of a sleeper’s brain they seem –

And yet I cannot tell you how they went.

Why do you gaze with such accusing eyes

Upon me, dear? It is so very strange

That hearts, like all things underneath God’s skies,

Should sometimes feel the influence of change?

The birds, the flowers, the foliage of the trees,

The stars which seem so fixed, and so sublime,

Vast continents, and the eternal seas, -

All these do change, with ever-changing time.

The face our mirror shows us year on year

Is not the same; our dearest aim, or need,

Our lightest thought, or feeling hope, or fear,

All, all the law of alternation heed.

How can we ask the human heart to stay,

Content with fancies of Youth’s earliest hours?

The year outgrows the violets of May,

Although, maybe, there are no fairer flowers.

And life may hold no sweeter love than this,

Which lies so cold, so voiceless, and so dumb,

And will I miss it, dear? Why, yes, we miss

The violets always – till the roses come!