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Wednesday, 21 May 2014

The most important words ever spoken


The most important words ever spoken were,
To thine own self be true
This above all, my love, to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as night the day,
thou canst not then be false to any man.”
If, we do not believe in ourselves—
until someone reveals—
that deep inside us is something valuable—
something worth listening to—
something worthy of our trust—
and sacred to our touch—
this life's a bally battle but, there’s some advice holds true.
If the future's black as thunder, don't let people see you're blue;
If you're up against it badly, then it's only one on you.
Once you begin to truly believe in yourself, as you are—
these are the words you'll be hearing—
“To thine own self be true.”
You will follow their command, even at the hazard of incurring the ridicule, or scorn of others, rather than be false and incur your own abhorrence.
If you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt;
Though your face is battered to a pulp, let them know your heart is stout.
Just stand upon your pins until the beggars knock you out.
You, must free yourself from the expectations of others
give yourself  back onto yourself—
there lies the great, singular power of  self-respect. No one can make you feel inferior— without you give consent—
 Never give it.
Never think that it may feel good, to join them that's in the parade.
You’ll not be melted— into candle grease--to benefit the tallow trade.
Let them know with every clout, they’ll never see YOU fade.
As we let our OWN light shine—
we, unconsciously== give to others—
permission to do the same
As we are liberated from our fear—
 our presence liberates others.
Whatever we have forgotten—
we can remember—
Whatever we have buried—
 we can unearth.
If we are willing to look deep; into our own nature, into our own  real (not the common fantasies)heritage. If we—
 as lonesome travellers-- are willing to peel away the layers of crap—
the layers we have adopted—
while going through this world of strife.
We will find -- our true respected—
self—
 is not so far removed—
 as we think.
From the expectations of others, free yourself.
Sink to sleep at midnight, and although you're feeling tough,
Rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough,
As we let our OWN light shine—we'll, give to others--  permission to do so too
 You just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through;
They’ll call you "Little Sunshine", wish that THEY'D no troubles, too --
If we, as lonesome travellers, are willing--to peel away the layers of crap—the layers we have adopted—going through this world of strife. We will find -- our true self— is not as far removed—
as we think.  
Of course, I realise this is not really a poem.
 ©Al (Alex-Alexander) D Girvan. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, 26 March 2014

Rotton Row, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)



I hope I'm fond of much that's good,
As well as much that's gay;
I'd like the country if I could;
I love the Park in May:
And when I ride in Rotten Row,
I wonder why they call'd it so.
A lively scene on turf and road;
The crowd is bravely drest:
The Ladies' Mile has overflow'd,
The chairs are in request:
The nimble air, so soft, so clear,
Can hardly stir a ringlet here.

I'll halt beneath those pleasant trees, -
And drop my bridle-rein,
And, quite alone, indulge at ease
The philosophic vein:
I'll moralise on all I see -
Yes, it was all arranged for me!

Forsooth, and on a livelier spot
The sunbeam never shines.
Fair ladies here can talk and trot
With statesmen and divines:
Could I have chosen, I'd have been
A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean.

What grooms! What gallant gentlemen!
What well-appointed hacks!
What glory in their pace, and then
What Beauty on their backs!
My Pegasus would never flag
If weighted as my Lady's nag.

But where is now the courtly troop
That once rode laughing by?
I miss the curls of Cantelupe,
The laugh of Lady Di:
They all could laugh from night to morn,
And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn.

I then could frolic in the van
With dukes and dandy earls;
Then I was thought a nice young man
By rather nice young girls!
I've half a mind to join Miss Browne,
And try one canter up and down.

Ah, no - I'll linger here awhile,
And dream of days of yore;
For me bright eyes have lost the smile,
The sunny smile they wore: -
Perhaps they say, what I'll allow,
That I'm not quite so handsome now.


Tuesday, 25 March 2014

On An Old Muff, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)



TIME has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, moldy, and
Covered with fluff?
Faded, and stiff, and scant;
Can it be? No, it can't--
Yes, I declare, it's Aunt
Prudence's muff!
Years ago, twenty-three,
Old Uncle Doubledee
Gave it to Aunty P.
Laughing and teasing:
'Prue of the breezy curls,
Whisper those solemn churls,
What holds a pretty girl's
Hand without squeezing?'
Uncle was then a lad
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful, if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice;
Glossy was then this mink
Muff, lined with pretty pink
Satin, which maidens think
'Awfully nice.'
I seem to see again
Aunt in her hood and train
Glide, with a sweet disdain,
Gravely to Meeting;
Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
Peeped from the Muff of Prue;
Young men, and pious too,
Giving her greeting.
Sweetly her Sabbath sped
Then; from this Muff, it's said,
Tracts she distributed;
Converts (till Monday!)
Lured by the grace they lacked,
Followed her. One, in fact,
Asked for -- and got -- his tract
Twice of a Sunday!
Love has a potent spell;
Soon this bold ne'er-do-well,
Aunt's too susceptible
Heart undermining,
Slipped, so the scandal runs,
Notes in the pretty nun's
Muff -- triple-cornered ones,
Pink as its lining.
Worse followed: soon the jade
Fled (to oblige her blade!)
Whilst her friends thought they'd
Locked her up tightly,
After such shocking games
Aunt is of wedded dames
Gayest, and now her name's
Mrs. Golightly.
In female conduct, flaw
Sadder I never saw.
Faith still I've in the law
Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray,
Smoked, joked, and swore away;
Sworn by he's now, by a
Large congregation.
Changed is the Child of Sin;
Now he's (he once was thin)
Grave, with a double chin--
Blessed be his fat form!
Changed is the garb he wore,
Preacher was never more
Prized than is Uncle for
Pulpit or platform.
If all's as best befits
Mortals of slender wits,
Then beg this Muff and its
Fair Owner pardon.
All's for the best, indeed --
Such is my simple creed;
Still I must go and weed
Hard in my garden.


A Word That Makes Us Linger, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)


(Written in the visitor's book at Gopsall)
KIND hostess mine, who raised the latch
And welcomed me beneath your thatch,
Who makes me here forget the pain,
And all the pleasures of Cockaigne,
Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe,
I write one word before I go --
A word that dies upon my lips
While thus you kiss your finger-tips.
When Black-eyed Sue was rowed to land
That word she cried, and waved her hand --
Her lily hand!
It seems absurd,

But I can't write that dreadful word.

The Unrealised Ideal, Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895)


My only Love is always near,
In country or in town
I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.

She foots it ever fair and young,
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.

She ran before me in the meads;
And down this world-worn track
She leads me on; but while she leads
She never gazes back.

And yet her voice is in my dreams,
To witch me more and more;
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.

Lightly I sped when hope was high
And youth beguiled the chase,--
I follow, follow still: But I

Shall never see her face. 

Monday, 21 October 2013

.The Son, Watching Over Me.


I sit here and I ponder, how very much
I’d like to talk with you today;
There are just too many things,
That we didn't get to say.
Oh, I know how much I care for you.
And each time I think of you;
How much you care for me.
For you said and you wrote it too.
That was before the calling you clearly heard said;
Your place was now ready, somewhere far above.
What or why the calling; only the creator knew.
You had so much to live for; so much yet to do.
It still seems impossible that Nature was taking you.
But though one short life here is past,
 The real calling starts anew.
You will live for all eternity, just as the Creator promised you.
We are never really far apart; you are always in my heart
Any time I need to talk, I know;
YOU are there;
The Son, watching over ME.
©Al (Alex-Alexander) D Girvan. All rights reserved

Monday, 30 September 2013

John Barleycorn: A Ballad-Robert Burns 1759-1796

There was three kings into the east,
     Three kings both great and high,
     And they hae sworn a solemn oath
     John Barleycorn should die.

     They took a plough and plough'd him down,
     Put clods upon his head,
     And they hae sworn a solemn oath
     John Barleycorn was dead.

     But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
     And show'rs began to fall;
     John Barleycorn got up again,
     And sore surpris'd them all.

     The sultry suns of Summer came,
     And he grew thick and strong;
     His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
     That no one should him wrong.

     The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
     When he grew wan and pale;
     His bending joints and drooping head
     Show'd he began to fail.

     His colour sicken'd more and more,
     He faded into age;
     And then his enemies began
     To show their deadly rage.

     They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
     And cut him by the knee;
     Then tied him fast upon a cart,
     Like a rogue for forgerie.

     They laid him down upon his back,
     And cudgell'd him full sore;
     They hung him up before the storm,
     And turned him o'er and o'er.

     They filled up a darksome pit
     With water to the brim;
     They heaved in John Barleycorn,
     There let him sink or swim.

     They laid him out upon the floor,
     To work him farther woe;
     And still, as signs of life appear'd,
     They toss'd him to and fro.

     They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
     The marrow of his bones;
     But a miller us'd him worst of all,
     For he crush'd him between two stones.

     And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
     And drank it round and round;
     And still the more and more they drank,
     Their joy did more abound.

     John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
     Of noble enterprise;
     For if you do but taste his blood,
     'Twill make your courage rise.

     'Twill make a man forget his woe;
     'Twill heighten all his joy;
     'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
     Tho' the tear were in her eye.

     Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
     Each man a glass in hand;
     And may his great posterity

     Ne'er fail in old Scotland!