Let the Children Cry Mashup poem from The Cry of The Children by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Do ye hear the children, O my brothers,

      Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers —

      And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

   The young birds are chirping in the nest;

The young cats are meming in the internet;

   The young flowers are blowing toward the west—

But the children, O my brothers,

      They are crying bitterly!

They are crying in the playtime of the others,

      In the country of the free.

Do not tell the poor young children, O my brothers,

      To look up to Him and pray —

So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,

      Will bless them another day.

They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us,

   While the bullets singe the air 

While you take this bitter fear and trap us

    In concrete prisons without cheer?

Would you have us never see the sunshine,

   Or enjoy the light of day?"

Yes, they are worn with tragedy, unrelentingly maligned

But they're not bowing to the greed of the NRA.

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

      And their looks are terrible to see,

For their grief abhorrent, draws and presses

      Down the cheeks of infancy—

"Your guns," they say, "took the life of our dear friends

   How can you justify these means — or defy our ends

We need gun control," their voices ring out clear

   They need to know — this time, will you hear?" 

And for all the little children whose blood is on your hands

   Will you stand up and do the right thing

Words are so very cheap. Now, in this time of tragedy

   We should let the children weep.

      Let them weep! let them weep!

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,

   Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, 

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

   And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,

      And your purple shews your path;

But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence

      Than the strong man in his wrath!"

A.J. Ponder with many apologies to  Elizabeth Barrett Browning  (The Original Poem "The Cry of the Children is here. It was written to protest horrific child labour laws, but it's protesting the same people - people who profit off suffering, or use God's will to justify the unjustifiable)

I've been absolutely blown away by how well the young adults of Parkland Florida have bravely stood up to tell their stories and call for sensible gun control. And I've been absolutely horrified by the abuse they've received online. These young adults should have had time to weep, but knowingly or not, we've been preparing them all their lives for this time.

Let me be very clear, I have family who love their guns - I am not advocating taking their guns away. Nor are those teens. They are calling for sensible gun measures. There's no point blaming the FBI or local law enforcement for these events when their hands have effectively been tied by poor legislation. Gun control is a part of being civilized, just like wearing seat-belts. It's a little something that is regulated, not to undermine freedom, but to recognize the sanctity of life.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” MLK 

A.J. 

Have a great week everybody. Go out and do great things, the world needs you. :)

If by Rudyard Kipling

As a little background, "If" was written in 1895 - two years before the birth of the Kipling's son, John, in 1897. It appears not so much to be a code designed for a son as much as a tribute to Leander Starr Jameson - who at least according to Wikipedia had a rigid code of honour and was much loved by his contemporaries. Anyway, if by radical and reformist, people mean Jameson was seriously anti-slavery then I will forgive Rudyard his all to apparent sexism (he is,after all, a product of his time), and also celebrate the good doctor/politician.

If, by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! 

Tim Minchin's "F- the Poor" with a link to his video

I would be liar
if I pretended to admire...

etc etc...

...with all the usual Tim Minchin charm and determination to shock.

I love the little internal rhyme-scheme he drops in from time to time. (yes, that's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it.)

I think I first saw Tim Minchin playing "a coked-up rock star" and the role strangely suited him. Now, every so often, a song of his pops up on my feed. I thought I'd share this one. Hope you checked it out and enjoyed it - it seemed very important at this time, when we are facing so many disasters, and when people are saying how important their charity is, while turning away from the bigger issue of poverty.

Have a great week, I hope you enjoyed the piece in all it's horror :) 
A.J. Ponder

If you like this, you might also like:

Happy Birthday in a Minor Key by Bill Bailey  (Another great comedic lyricist) 

Or

my poem Ask Me Not

Robin Hood and Alan a Dale - Folk tale

I've been busy writing some pieces for publication, one's in a secret project - and getting around to editing it  (I promise Lee) just as soon as I have my Choose your Own Way FairyTale Adventure in to the publisher. I found this poem while researching my adventure...just because

Come listen to me, you gallants so free,
All you that loves mirth for to hear,
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw,
That lived in Nottinghamshire.

As Robin Hood in the forest stood,
All under the greenwood tree,
There was he ware of a brave young man,
As fine as fine might be.

The youngster was clothed in scarlet red,
In scarlet fine and gay;
And he did frisk it over the plain,
And chanted a roundelay.

As Robin Hood next morning stood,
Amongst the leaves so gay,
There did he espy the same young man
Come drooping along the way.

The scarlet he wore the day before,
It was clean cast away;
And at every step he fetcht a sigh,
“Alack and a well a day!”

Then stepped forth brave Little John,
And Nick the miller’s son,
Which made the young man bend his bow,
When as he see them come.

“Stand off, stand off,” the young man said,
“What is your will with me?”
“You must come before our master straight,
Under yon greenwood tree.”

And when he came bold Robin before,
Robin askt him courteously,
“O hast thou any money to spare
For my merry men and me?”

“I have no money,” the young man said,
“But five shillings and a ring;
And that I have kept this seven long years,
To have it at my wedding.

“Yesterday I should have married a maid,
But she is now from me tane,
And chosen to be an old knight’s delight,
Whereby my poor heart is slain.”

“What is thy name?” then said Robin Hood,
“Come tell me, without any fail”:
“By the faith of my body,” then said the young man,
“My name it is Allin a Dale.”

“What wilt thou give me,” said Robin Hood,
“In ready gold or fee,
To help thee to thy true-love again,
And deliver her unto thee?”

“I have no money,” then quoth the young man,
“No ready gold nor fee,
But I will swear upon a book
Thy true servant for to be.”

“How many miles is it to thy true-love?
Come tell me without any guile”:
“By the faith of my body,” then said the young man,
“It is but five little mile.”

Then Robin he hasted over the plain,
He did neither stint nor lin,
Until he came unto the church,
Where Allin should keep his wedding.

“What dost thou do here?” the bishop he said,
“I prithee now tell to me”:
“I am a bold harper,” quoth Robin Hood,
“And the best in the north countrey.”

“O welcome, O welcome,” the bishop he said,
“That musick best pleaseth me”:
“You shall have no musick,” quoth Robin Hood,
“Till the bride and the bridegroom I see.”

With that came in a wealthy knight,
Which was both grave and old,
And after him a finikin lass
Did shine like glistering gold.

“This is no fit match,” quoth bold Robin Hood,
“That you do seem to make here;
For since we are come unto the church,
The bride she shall chuse her own dear.”

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
And blew blasts two or three;
When four and twenty bowmen bold
Came leaping over the lee.

And when they came into the church-yard,
Marching all on a row,
The first man was Allin a Dale,
To give bold Robin his bow.

“This is thy true-love,” Robin he said,
“Young Allin, as I hear say:
And you shall be married at this same time,
Before we depart away.”

“That shall not be,” the bishop he said,
“For thy word shall not stand;
They shall be three times askt in the church,
As the law is of our land.”

Robin Hood pulld off the bishop’s coat,
And put it upon Little John;
“By the faith of my body,” then Robin said,
“This cloath doth make thee a man.”

When Little John went into the quire,
The people began for to laugh;
He askt them seven times in the church,
Lest three times should not be enough.

“Who gives me this maid?” then said Little John;
Quoth Robin, “That do I,
And he that doth take her from Allin a Dale
Full dearly he shall her buy.”

And thus having ended this merry wedding,
The bride lookt as fresh as a queen,
And so they returned to the merry greenwood,
Amongst the leaves so green.

Traditional folk ballad, a couple of old collections: Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed (1863–1944). The Oxford Book of Ballads. 1910. & The English and Scottish Popular Ballads by Francis James Child, 1888.





Have a great week everybody, 

A.J. 
and check out more poems at the Tuesday Poem blog.

The SEP

Look!
Can't you see?
We're sitting in the middle of an SEP

We only look like we're breathing
from the outside

In here
the atmosphere's
twenty K's
of
freezing
and group think
has you believing,
hydrogen is water
and air
is simply there

It's a diffusion of responsibility
that cuts at the frozen heart
of a problem
nobody
wanted

A.J.
with thanks to Douglas Adams (An SEP is from Douglas Adam's Life, the Universe and Everything. It's earned a place on Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somebody_else%27s_problem as well as having a wiki page: http://hitchhikers.wikia.com/wiki/Somebody_Else%27s_Problem_field)

This is a fractured piece of something I began a few weeks ago. It began with Count your Spoons, and may or may not finish on a piece called Soloman's Wisdom.

If you're unfamiliar with the terms, Group Think and Diffusion of Responsibility, also have their own Wikipedia pages. (And Frozen Heart is also apparently the name of a song from Frozen, which is probably quite apt, although I'll admit, a complete accident.)

Have a great week, I'm planning to have a bit of down time myself, and check out some great Tuesday Poem blogs, I know there are a few sites I need to catch up on, including Helen Lowe's and Helen McKinlay's, because they are always so inspirational, not to mention fantastically supportive of NZ poetry and fiction :)

A.J. 

Find my stories and support my writing on ko-fi 

And tell me which poems you'd like to see in my upcoming poetry book—2024? https://ko-fi.com/ajponder

  

 

 

Tuesday Poem: Caput Lupinum

Down the highway
through the forest
there's this signpost
to this cabin
in the woods


Turn back

There's a scarecrow
by the signpost
to the
cabin
in the woods

Turn back

Down the highway
through the forest
there's a scarecrow
by the signpost,
warning you
about the
cabin
in the woods

Turn Back Now

So you didn't turn back
and now you're in
the cabin
in the woods
where a wolf's head's
weighing hearts

Close the door

And do not touch
the vaults may be lined with gold
but there are monsters
lurking near the cabin
in the woods
and they eat
highway robbers
with heavy hearts
for breakfast

A.J. Ponder

Obviously, for those that know it, this poem was a little inspired by Joss Whedon's Cabin in the Woods. 

Have a happy Tuesday, and stay on the grid


A.J. 
Author of Quest, Prophecy, Omens, Miss Lionheart and the Laboratory of Death, Wizard's Guide to Wellington, Attack of the Giant Bugs - a You Choose Science Adventure, and The Frankie Files

Find my stories and support my writing on ko-fi   And tell me which poems you'd like to see in my upcoming poetry book—2024: https://ko-fi.com/ajponder

 

 

Tuesday Poem: Frozen

There were Turkish Delights,
I remember that much 
smothered in icing

Once tasted
Almost all else is forgot

There was Hide and Seek
I remember counting
doling out time in delicious seconds

Each heart beat a sliver of
icy anticipation

and lakes to skate across
I remember flying,
and falling

the icy shell easily pierced
unlike a heart frozen through
and through

Tears that never fell
Rim glassy eyes

Do you remember?
I think there was a time
called Green.
And everything was Spring

A.J. Ponder

Hey people, only a little late, and I dare say might come back with a couple of tweeks in a week or so. But here it is - my little Frozen poem, borrowing a little nostalgia from a few places, but mostly Hans Christian Andersen's Snow Queen and C.S. Lewis' White Witch of Narnia.


Hope you all have a great week and enjoy the Tuesday Poem Hub
The poem I enjoyed most this week was Touch, by Michelle Elvy, up here on Helen McKinlay's blog (another of my favourite poets - it's too hard to pick just one)

cheers,
A.J.

P.S This poem got the seal of approval from a huge Elsa / Frozen fan - even though it mostly references earlier versions of the fairytale - so I'm very happy :)

Stop Thief

Tomorrow will be here

any moment.

Tiptoeing

inchwise

into your life

A thief,

murderous

in the night.

Intent on nothing more

than the perishables

The fruit in the bowl

the paint on the 
walls,

the beds,

and the hearts

that lie sleeping within.

It's been a busy week for poetry, lovely meet-ups in places with lots of books, and many wonderful poets, you know who you are - and quite a few of you can be found here at the wonderful Tuesday Poem blog.  So of course, I've spent all night scrounging through all my work, and decided it needs, well more work - but I did find this little piece which is - I don't know what it is, but it's not completely terrible, at least I hope not.  Enjoy your week, people.  

A.J. Ponder's work is available through Rona Gallery, Amazon, and good Wellington bookstores

Dancer

Dancer

Once there was a dancing girl

She ran among the beggars, oh.

Sang among the beggars, oh.

And danced on the street

Some would throw her coins, oh.

Some would throw her silver, oh.

Some would watch the coins

As they scattered at her feet

She danced among the coins, oh.

Spinning to the jingling, oh.

And jangling

At her feet.

Beggars threw their kisses, oh.

Ladies threw their glances, oh.

But suitors threw their hearts, oh.

And laid them at her feet.

Yet she cared nought for suitors, oh.

Never heard their sighs, oh.

Didn’t see the hearts,

That lay trampled on the street.

Don’t cry for the girl, oh.

The suitors as they sigh, oh.

The rags as they fly, oh.

Just listen to the song as they dance on down the street.

A..J. Ponder

Ok so it's Valentines day, or so close to it you're still sneezing from the flower pollen, so here it is - probably my most romantic poem :) 

Originally it was a shape poem - I've  focussed more on the sound since then - but you can still just see the slim waist and a skirt that flies out as the girl spins around with abandon as she dances.  

P.S. I found it particularly hard to find a decent uncopyrighted picture of dancing feet that looked right, and not all pigeon toed or ballet dancery - and then I tried to find a dancer that looked even vaguely right without infringing copyright and had to give up - but I did find this lovely painting of Cherie Knott's, and I know she won't mind that I'm using it.

A..J. Ponder 

 

PS this poem has been updated. It was never meant to be insensitive, but more a love of dancing for dancing's sake.

 

Murdering Poetry

I would kill

for a voice that could read poetry

as finely honed as a boning knife

Plunged into the heart.

Incisive as fangs

sliced across arteries

spilling blood in fountains

onto the slavering faces

of howling wolves

 

My cheerful brogue slipping

into dark nightmares

and flourishing

as a bone deep canker

eating you away

from the inside

and slipping

the noose

tight 
around your neck

until the air

kicking under your heels 
is still.

See, the powdered words

no longer dry upon the page
arise

a poisoned ink

that flows

within your veins

and through your soul

until your heart

no longer pains

and your death is wholly 
entertain'd.

A..J. Ponder - 

It always amazes me just where and how inspiration strikes.  This poem has been brewing dormant for the best part of a year but it wasn't until Harvey commented on Rudyard Kipling that it hurried out faster than a smuggler with the redcoats after him. 

Click here for more poetry, back at the Tuesday Poem hub: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com/

A Sonnet to the Muse

Shall I compare thee, or shall I just write

Oh my demon, summer died as you drove

A plague of words

As black and dark as night

Through my heart and through my head.  Words you wove -

Yes you did - with a tongue so slick and sweet

My world held neither shadows nor delight

Nought but bloody threads

Spilling your own neat

Hell upon darkened pages of my life

But my torment is not your tapestry of text

Nor ink-smudged tears dried long upon my face

Tis but the fear that

You will set me free -

So let dead summers sink without a trace

Let words plague every corner, every part

My demon stitch the small world of my heart.



Much as I adore simplicity, there is no way I could compete with Helen's poem, Truths, so I thought why not go to the other extreme!  Everyone should have a go at writing a sonnet, with the reversal et al. at some stage of their life. One could say this sonnet is a little more textured than a traditional sonnet, but only a little, and it was great fun to write. 

A..J. Ponder 

Also, if you love sonnets and want to read some more "This Year of Fire"  and "Running Away with a Christmas Sonnet" are fun, and if you want to learn how to write a sonnet The The Poetically Incorrect English Sonnet is there to help (watch out for the bad language though!