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Post Posted:: July 29th, 2017, 3:41 pm 

Joined: December 20th, 2013, 1:14 am
Posts: 866
Location: Sydney, Australia
I'd like to pitch Henry Lawson's "When Your Pants Begin To Go" for the Fortnightly Poetry, particularly this version wherein he appended the additional verse to the end of the poem.

https://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/lawson-henry/when-your-pants-begin-to-go-0108035

We must therefore assume that a number of Victorian-era maiden aunts, of both genders, must've clutched their pearls and reached for the smelling-salts upon the poem's original release.

Personally, I'm glad they did, because I think the poem benefits immensely from that appended final verse.

"Now the lady of refinement, in the lap of comfort rocked,
Chancing on these rugged verses, will pretend that she is shocked.
Leave her to her smelling-bottle; 'tis the wealthy who decide
That the world should hide its patches 'neath the cruel look of pride;
And I think there's something noble, and I swear there's nothing low,
In the pride of Human Nature when its pants begin to go."


Cheers,
Chris

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Post Posted:: July 31st, 2017, 2:40 am 
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this might be an option :)

https://archive.org/details/soldiersrecessio00finl
The soldiers' recessional
by Finley, John H. (John Huston), 1863-1940

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Post Posted:: August 2nd, 2017, 9:17 am 
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Carolin wrote:
this might be an option :)

https://archive.org/details/soldiersrecessio00finl
The soldiers' recessional
by Finley, John H. (John Huston), 1863-1940

Now that would be ideal for November Remembrance time.

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Post Posted:: August 12th, 2017, 9:49 pm 

Joined: December 20th, 2013, 1:14 am
Posts: 866
Location: Sydney, Australia
A suggestion for sometime in 2017. It is the centenary of this 1917 poem. Its sentiments, I think, are universal. I've already recorded it myself for Librivox, perhaps it might interest others.

https://m.poemhunter.com/poem/scots-of-the-riverina/

Scots of the Riverina
by Henry Lawson

The boy cleared out to the city from his home at harvest time --
They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime.
The old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned,
And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife's back was turned.

A year went past and another. There were calls from the firing-line;
They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no sign.
His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai --
They were Scots of the Riverina with ever the kirk hard by.

The boy came home on his "final", and the township's bonfire burned.
His mother's arms were about him; but the old man's back was turned.
The daughters begged for pardon till the old man raised his hand --
A Scot of the Riverina who was hard to understand.

The boy was killed in Flanders, where the best and bravest die.
There were tears at the Grahame homestead and grief in Gundagai;
But the old man ploughed at daybreak and the old man ploughed till the mirk --
There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his housefolk went to the kirk.

The hurricane lamp in the rafters dimly and dimly burned;
And the old man died at the table when the old wife's back was turned.
Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey hair
Outspread o'er the open Bible and a name re-written there.

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Post Posted:: August 13th, 2017, 10:42 am 

Joined: June 4th, 2013, 9:09 am
Posts: 3576
Location: Baton Rouge, Louisiana
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep, written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye, is according to Wikipedia is apparently PD. I would love to hear various people read it, and would love to coordinate it as a poetry weekly, but not sure which site I could use as a PD source or how to proceed. Please advise.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Elizabeth_Frye

Here is the poem:

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

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Post Posted:: August 14th, 2017, 6:38 am 
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Good choice Michelle. But I think the fact that this was written in 1932 and the author died in 2007 make this poem non-PD as far as LibriVox is concerned.
Our choir sang this at our spring concert this year.

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Post Posted:: August 14th, 2017, 1:14 pm 

Joined: December 20th, 2013, 1:14 am
Posts: 866
Location: Sydney, Australia
"There Is No Death!" was a poem before it was a song, and is PD.

THERE IS NO DEATH!

I tell you they have not died,
They live and breathe with you;
They walk here at your side,
They tell you things are true.

Why dream of poppied sod
When you can feel their breath,
When flow'r and soul and God
Knows there is no death!

Death's but an open door,
We move from room to room,
There is one life, no more;
No dying and no tomb.

Why seek ye them above,
Those that ye love dear ?
The All of God is Love,
The All of God is Here.

I tell you they have not died,
Their hands clasp yours and mine;
They are but glorified,
They have become divine.

They live! they know! they see!
They shout with every breath:
"Life is eternity!
There is no death!"

GORDON JOHNSTONE.

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Post Posted:: August 20th, 2017, 6:55 am 

Joined: June 11th, 2015, 6:14 am
Posts: 428
may if read:

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

206. A Ballad of the French Fleet

mlee

edit: http://www.bartleby.com/297/570.html


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Post Posted:: August 20th, 2017, 7:08 am 

Joined: June 11th, 2015, 6:14 am
Posts: 428
great site


Last edited by mlee on August 23rd, 2017, 8:27 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Post Posted:: August 21st, 2017, 10:49 am 

Joined: April 5th, 2013, 8:28 pm
Posts: 940
Location: Coastal Alaska Rainforest
David-

With all the to do, seems like something should be done like this-

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/solar-eclipse

A Solar Eclipse
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

In that great journey of the stars through space
About the mighty, all-directing Sun,
The pallid, faithful Moon, has been the one
Companion of the Earth. Her tender face,
Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race,
Which at Time’s natal hour was first begun,
Shines ever on her lover as they run
And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.

Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise,
Down from her beaten path she softly slips,
And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes,
Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips.
While far and near the men our world call wise
See only that the Sun is in eclipse.

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"A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules."

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Post Posted:: August 21st, 2017, 1:41 pm 

Joined: June 4th, 2013, 9:09 am
Posts: 3576
Location: Baton Rouge, Louisiana
Ah, brilliant. I was just looking for something to record to commemorate this day. A short story. Something! You found a poem.

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Post Posted:: August 22nd, 2017, 11:53 am 
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Location: the Netherlands
Id like to suggest triumph of bacchus and ariadne by michael field
https://archive.org/details/underneathboughb00fielrich
Page 72-74 :)

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Post Posted:: August 29th, 2017, 10:34 am 

Joined: April 5th, 2013, 8:28 pm
Posts: 940
Location: Coastal Alaska Rainforest
My dog died last week on the day after the eclipse. Here's a selection for possible inclusion as a fortnightly poem in memory of Bren -

THE POWER OF THE DOG By Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
But when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it’s your own affair
But... you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will
When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ‘em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long
So why in Heaven (before we are there!)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2381/2381-h/2381-h.htm#link2H_4_0005

He left a lot of good memories behind him, but an awful big hole in our hearts. :(

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"A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules."

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Post Posted:: August 31st, 2017, 3:25 am 

Joined: February 17th, 2015, 7:22 am
Posts: 1805
Fritz, I'm so sorry. It doesn't help at all, but you have my condolences.
Erin


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Post Posted:: August 31st, 2017, 3:31 pm 

Joined: April 5th, 2013, 8:28 pm
Posts: 940
Location: Coastal Alaska Rainforest
Thank you, Erin. It's funny what brings on damp eyes. Today it was a seal. He was curious about seals. If they stayed near he'd swim out to try to get closer to them, but they'd zip away if he got too close. They must have thought he was a terrible swimmer, so clumsy in the water compared to them. They were curious about him too, watching him run along the shore. One was watching the beach today, maybe just looking at us. Do you think they could remember the odd looking creature on the beach that swam so poorly? Sigh.

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"A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules."

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