A fun poem about drinking, by British poet John Masefield (1878-1967).

Captain Stratton's Fancy

Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight;
But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French,
And some'll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench;
But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose,
But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows;
For it's that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung,
And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue;
But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice,
And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses' eyes;
But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize
To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some that's good and godly ones they hold that it's a sin
To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin;
But I'm for toleration and for drinking at an inn,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits,
And there's a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes;
So I'm for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots,
Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Posted by: annika at 08:36 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 327 words, total size 2 kb.

The following poem, by beat poet Gary Snyder, was posted on the inside of a bus i rode this weekend. (The whole "Poetry in Motion" idea is the best thing to happen to public transportation since Wells Fargo invented the stage coach, in my opinion.) i liked it so much, i decided to make it this week's selection:

Why Log Truck Drivers Rise
Earlier Than Students Of Zen

In the high seat, before-dawn dark,
Polished hubs gleam
And the shiny diesel stack
Warms and flutters
Up the Tyler Road grade
To the logging on Poorman creek.
Thirty miles of dust.

There is no other life.

It's short, it's not cryptic, and it takes me someplace new in the space of a few lines.

i love the way the little details create a scene that's instantly recognizable, though not overly familiar. Did you notice how the visual picture of the the fluttering diesel stack makes you hear the growl of the truck's engine, without the poet even mentioning the sound?

Writing about poetry is like describing wine. It's so hard to find the right words and the end result always seems meaningless, compared to the original.

Posted by: annika at 11:16 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 225 words, total size 1 kb.

How different is this war we are fighting now. Compared to wars of the distant past.

Thomas Hardy (1840-192 writes about a once universal irony among soldiers:

      'Had he and I but met
      By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
      Right many a nipperkin!

      'But ranged as infantry,
      And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
      And killed him in his place.

      'I shot him dead because --
      Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
      That's clear enough; although

      'He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
      Off-hand like -- just as I --
Was out of work -- had sold his traps --
      No other reason why.

      'Yes; quaint and curious war is!
      You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
      Or help to half-a-crown.'

Posted by: annika at 07:44 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 172 words, total size 1 kb.