Soliloquy on an Empty Purse by Mary Jones

Alas, my Purse! how lean and low!

My silken Purse! what art thou now!

One I beheld—but stocks will fall—

When both thy ends had wherewithal.

When I within thy slender fence

My fortune placed, and confidence;

A poet’s fortune!—not immense:

Yet, mixed with keys, and coins among,

Chinked to the melody of song.

Canst thou forget, when, high in air,

I saw thee fluttering at a fair?

And took thee, destined to be sold,

My lawful Purse, to have and hold?

Yet used so oft to disembogue,

No prudence could thy fate prorogue.

Like wax thy silver melted down,

Touch but the brass, and lo! ’twas gone:

And gold would never with thee stay,

For gold had wings, and flew away.

Alas, my Purse! yet still be proud,

For see the Virtues round thee crowd!

See, in the room of paltry wealth,

Calm Temperance rise, the nurse of health;

And Self-Denial, slim and spare,

And Fortitude, with look severe;

And Abstinence, to leanness prone,

And Patience, worn to skin and bone:

Prudence and Foresight on thee wait,

And Poverty lies here in state!

Hopeless her spirits to recruit,

For every Virtue is a mute.

Well then, my Purse, thy Sabbaths keep;

Now thou art empty, I shall sleep.

No silver sounds shall thee molest,

Nor golden dreams disturb my breast.

Safe shall I walk with thee along,

Amidst temptations thick and strong;

Catched by the eye, no more shall stop

At Wildey’s toys, or Pinchbeck’s shop;

Nor cheapening Payne’s ungodly books,

Be drawn aside by pastry-cooks:

But fearless now we both may go

Where Ludgate’s mercers bow so low;

Beholding all with equal eye,

Nor moved at—“Madam, what d’ye buy?”

Away, far hence each worldly care!

Nor dun nor pick-purse shalt thou fear,

Nor flatterer base annoy my ear.

Snug shalt thou travel through the mob,

For who a poet’s purse will rob?

And softly sweet in garret high

Will I thy virtues magnify;

Outsoaring flatterers’ stinking breath,

And gently rhyming rats to death.

Mary Jones, 1707-1778

It seems that the mystery of the self-emptying purse is one that has been with us for some time now, but I am not so sure it is an affliction that is entirely the province of poets.

PS very few rats were harmed in the posting of this blog - so have a great week everybody.

A.J. Ponder 

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

 

An extract from Verdigris Deep by Frances Hardinger

"It was a strange wood, stranger still now the light was fading.  Ryan loved it for its litter.  Yellowing newspapers nestled in branch nooks, like a crop of dead leaves strangely patterned with print.  A sprawling throne of rotten oak trailed dark ivy and coddled a treasure trove of crushed cans.  The twigs of one wavering branch had been carefully threaded through the fingers of a red woollen mitten, so that the little tree looked as if it was waiting to grow another hand and start applauding."



Everyone knows I'm a big fan of Frances Hardinger - mostly on the merits of this one book, Verdigris Deep (Review here).  The prose was just so gorgeous, creating an atmosphere designed to enhance character and plot - but this was one of the images that has stuck with me. 

So all is quiet this way on the Western front except that I'm head down bum up trying to get some work done... so let's see how that goes, shall we?  And for the poetic souls out there The Tuesday Poem blog is bristling with talented poets from all around the world, so don't forget to drop by.


NB. Apologies to Frances for not being able to find her and get explicit permission, although obviously the extract is well within fair use parameters. Her amazing work is available in all good bookshops, and of course, online.

A.J. Ponder 

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

Firefly

Wings melted
feathers flown
Icarus,
you promised me the sun
and then you
                  fell
burning from the sky
in flames and smoke
into a boiling sea.

Icarus,
you promised me the sun

I'd like to give it back

 
A.J. Ponder 

(After a different sort of Firefly? try here at Eulogies for Battles Lost)

 Picture: Pieter Brueghel's, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus (circa1558)

 I'm the editor of the Tuesday poem this week and so of course I'd love for you to drop by and visit the poem I've chosen, Helen Lowe's, Fey -

"your door 
stands open still
at dusk...

 it's quite delicious, especially if you like just a touch of Other in your poetry.  And of course there's the whole Tuesday poem community in the sidebar with so many other accomplished poets and writers.  Well worth checking out. Have fun people and enjoy your week.

A.J. Ponder 

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

Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson 1850–1894

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me;
"Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."


I've been waiting a long time to post this poem - but because it's so morbid (kind of) I thought I'd better be pretty happy when I posted it just so that people wouldn't get the wrong idea.  It's just... heck read the poem - I have dozens of times, and it never seems to get old.

An exciting week or so and I've been nominated for a Vogel award - which is absolutely awesome.  My children's story "Frankie and the Netball Clone" somehow made the list.  And I'm hoping to be able to release some more exciting news soon, I'm just not sure when....  

Have a great week everybody and don't forget to check out the Tuesday Poem where a certain Zireaux has injected his own brand of humour into the main post - and of course there are so many fantastic poems and more (such as such as Catty Rox's Nuts and Bolts entry about the realities of professional writing) - right here.

Cheers,

A.J.

 A.J. Ponder's work is available through Rona Gallery, Arty Bees, The Children's Bookshop and good Wellington bookstores

Father William by Lewis Carroll

'You are old, father William,' the young man said,
'And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head -
Do you think, at your age, it is right?'

'In my youth,' father William replied to his son,
'I feared it would injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.'

'You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door -
Pray, what is the reason of that?'

'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
'I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment - one shilling the box -
Allow me to sell you a couple.'

'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak -
Pray, how did you manage to do it?'

'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.'

'You are old,' said the youth; one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose -
What made you so awfully clever?'

'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'
Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!'


Such a  fun - stupid - and feckless poem - so Lewis Carroll - and I'm sorry this wasn't up earlier folks, had a bit of a sore throat turn yesterday - but feeling so much better today, probably just been burning the candle a bit heavily at both ends so spending the day in bed settled things down a bit.

A.J. Ponder 

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

.

And so for the Realisation of Dreams 2

F#@k poetry is a wastrel

to sit and stare

at a mere morsel,

until horses are wishes

and castles made of air.

Surely,

somewhere,

beggars will ride the wind,

dashing out to dine

on castles

of concrete

A.J. Ponder

Quite late this week - but it is still Tuesday it's not all bad.  Fortunately I've been keeping this little number up my sleeve for a while - emergencies you know.  Anyway - I'm hoping everyone has a fantastic week and is enjoying the slowly developing poem up on the Tuesday blog with all the fantastic poets who contribute every Tuesday down the side :)

The pics are kind of relevant, but not especially I would have loved a picture of an awesome castle with a beggar riding a horse in front - but as they say beggars can't be choosers and besides - "Castle in the Air" is an awesome story, by one of my favourite authors and I kept the ice one because, well that's a slant to the poem I didn't quite intend, but it's kind of sad and cool at the same time - apologies for the pun.

 

A.J. Ponder 

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

The Owl and the Pussy Cat, by Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
    In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
    Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
    And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
      What a beautiful Pussy you are,
          You are,
          You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
    How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
    But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
    To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
    With a ring at the end of his nose,
          His nose,
          His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
    Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
    By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
    Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
    They danced by the light of the moon,
          The moon,
          The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

 No surprises this week, except perhaps the rather seventies cover - and ok fine, my memory might well be playing tricks on me but I swear we had a battered copy of this exact book when we were kids.   So awesome to see it again.

Anyway, once again have a fantastic week, and for more literary and poetic stimulation don't forget to visit the other fantastic people that make up the Tuesday hub here where for the next two weeks a poem will unfold - my sub is happening late on Good Friday - hopefully.
Yes, it is, and I've added my line "...Demeter's heart strung low against the blue note sky." in an attempt to marry the themes of music and harvest.  Tim Jones' line is next.  I'm absolutely fascinated to see where he'll go with it.

A.J. Ponder 

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