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If not for June, My memories of Winter in December… With a wish to witness, The freshness of Spring March would bring… Would not still remain so vivid. As if only yesterday visited. If not for June.
If not for June, My eyesight would not be teased… By the freedom felt in Summer, With hopes that linger of those things I could do, Under clear skies showing bright Sun. And seeing the fun shared by nearly everyone, If not for June.
And if not for June I would not be able to reminisce, From so many experiences I could pick. June seems to be the month I can do this. With a thankfulness I am still in the midst, Of a year that appears to have just begun. With so much left to offer before it is done. And for me this happens only when June comes.
En liten moralkaka från Hilaire Belloc, kanske? Fast en väldigt rolig sådan 😉 Hilaire Belloc flyttade från Frankrike till Storbritannien vid 32 års ålder och var extremt produktiv som författare och journalist.
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George
Who played with a Dangerous Toy, and suffered a Catastrophe of considerable Dimensions
When George’s Grandmamma was told That George had been as good as gold, She promised in the afternoon To buy him an Immense BALLOON. And so she did; but when it came, It got into the candle flame, And being of a dangerous sort Exploded with a loud report!
The lights went out! The windows broke!
The room was filled with reeking smoke. And in the darkness shrieks and yells Were mingled with electric bells, And falling masonry and groans, And crunching, as of broken bones, And dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all, The house itself began to fall! It tottered, shuddering to and fro, Then crashed into the street below- Which happened to be Savile Row.
When help arrived, among the dead Were Cousin Mary, Little Fred, The Footmen (both of them), the Groom, The man that cleaned the Billiard-Room, The Chaplain, and the Still-Room Maid. And I am dreadfully afraid That Monsieur Champignon, the Chef, Will now be permanently deaf- And both his aides are much the same; While George, who was in part to blame, Received, you will regret to hear, A nasty lump behind the ear.
Moral: The moral is that little boys Should not be given dangerous toys.
Housman producerade inte så mycket, men allt han alstrade är fantastiskt bra.
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Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. Think rather,– call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.
Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.
Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation– Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
En lite annorlunda vers. Jag tycker att den är fin.
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Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution’s power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would.
En verkligt fenomenal kvinna, Maya Angelou, har gått ur tiden vid 86 års ålder. Hon var inte bara en fantastisk skribent, författare och poet utan även spelade även en oerhört stor och viktig roll i civilrättskampen. Hon deklamerade till och med på Bill Clintons installationsceremoni.
Som hyllning tar vi en extra dikt idag, en favorit i repris från 19 november förra året som heter just – Phenomenal woman.
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Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size But when I start to tell them, They think I’m telling lies. I say, It’s in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It’s the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can’t touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can’t see. I say, It’s in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I’m a woman
Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
Now you understand Just why my head’s not bowed. I don’t shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It’s in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, ‘Cause I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
Alexander Pope var inte bara bästis med Isaac Newton – han var bara 137 cm lång också.
Texten nedan ser väldigt tung ut, men det är den verkligen inte så ge den en chans! 🙂
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See what delights in sylvan scenes appear! Descending Gods have found Elysium here. In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray’d, And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade. Come lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow’rs; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, And crown’d with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield. This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, But in my breast the serpent Love abides. Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, But your Alexis knows no sweets but you. Oh deign to visit our forsaken seats, The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! Where-e’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade, Where-e’er you tread, the blushing flow’rs shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes. Oh! How I long with you to pass my days, Invoke the muses, and resound your praise; Your praise the birds shall chant in ev’ry grove, And winds shall waft it to the pow’rs above. But wou’d you sing, and rival Orpheus’ strain, The wond’ring forests soon shou’d dance again, The moving mountains hear the pow’rful call, And headlong streams hang list’ning in their fall! But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat, The lowing herds to murm’ring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove, Ye Gods! And is there no relief for Love? But soon the sun with milder rays descends To the cool ocean, where his journey ends; On me Love’s fiercer flames for ever prey, By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones, When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them; Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one: The shapes a bright container can contain! Of her choice virtues only gods should speak, Or English poets who grew up on Greek (I’d have them sing in a chorus, cheek to cheek).
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin, She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand; She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin; I nibbled meekly from her proferred hand; She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake, Coming behind her for her pretty sake (But what prodigious mowing we did make).
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose: Her full lips pursed, the errant notes to sieze; She played it quick, she played it light and loose; My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees; Her several parts could keep a pure repose, Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose (She moved in circles, and those circles moved).
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay: I’m martyr to a motion not my own; What’s freedom for? To know eternity. I swear she cast a shadow white as stone. But who would count eternity in days? These old bones live to learn her wanton ways: (I measure time by how a body sways).
Ex-sambon Andy var, eller är förmodligen, metodist. Jag hade ingen aning om vad det kunde tänkas innebära, men hängde med på en… det heter inte gudstjänst så jag vet inte vad jag ska kalla det, lovsångsmorgon kanske morning praise har jag för mig att det kallades, när vi rätt nyss hade träffats. (Obs: Jag vet fortfarande inte om de förstod hur roligt det var att de kallade sig Meth Soc.) Jag väntade mig inte så mycket och tyckte att det kändes lite happy clappy – men så kom första sången. Och jag tycker att den är så fin. Hade ingen aning om att det var en svensk som skrivit den förrän senare på dagen.
Jag skrev en lång bit här som jag raderade, om religiosisitet och Svenska Kyrkan och sånt. Sedan tänkte jag att nä, det kan vi ta i ett annat inlägg och så gör vi.
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O Lord my God, When I in awesome wonder, Consider all the worlds Thy Hands have made; I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, Thy power throughout the universe displayed.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art. Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art!
When through the woods, and forest glades I wander, And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees. When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur And see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art. Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art!
And when I think of God, His Son not sparing; Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in; That on the Cross, my burden gladly bearing, He bled and died to take away my sin.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art. Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art!
When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation, And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart. Then I shall bow, in humble adoration, And then proclaim: ”My God, how great Thou art!”
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art. Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee, How great Thou art, How great Thou art!
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O store Gud, när jag den värld beskådar,
Som du har skapat med ditt allmaktsord, Hur där din visdom leder livets trådar, Och alla väsen mättas vid ditt bord.
Då brister själen ut i lovsångsljud:
O store Gud! O store Gud! Då brister själen ut i lovsångsljud: O store Gud! O store Gud!
När sommarvinden susar över fälten, När blommor dofta invid källans rand, När trastar drilla i de gröna tälten, Vid furuskogens tysta, dunkla rand;
När jag i bibeln skådar alla under, Som Herren gjort se’n förste Adams tid, Hur nådefull Han varit alla stunder, Och hjälpt sitt folk ur livets synd och strid;
När slutligt alla tidens höljen falla, Uti åskådning byter sig min tro, Och evighetens klara klockor kalla, Min frälsta ande till dess sabbatsro;
Då brister själen ut i lovsångsljud: Tack store Gud! Tack store Gud! Då brister själen ut i lovsångsljud: Tack store Gud! Tack store Gud!
Stories from the city, stories from the sea 