(Poem #52)God Is In The House We've laid the cables and the wires We've split the wood and stoked the fires We've lit our town so there is no Place for crime to hide Our little church is painted white And in the safety of the night We all go quiet as a mouse For the word is out God is in the house God is in the house God is in the house No cause for worry now God is in the house Moral sneaks in the White House Computer geeks in the school house Drug freaks in the crack house We don't have that stuff here We have a tiny little Force But we need them of course For the kittens in the trees And at night we are on our knees As quiet as a mouse For God is in the house God is in the house God is in the house And no one's left in doubt God is in the house Homos roaming the streets in packs Queer bashers with tyre-jacks Lesbian counter-attacks That stuff is for the big cities Our town is very pretty We have a pretty little square We have a woman for a mayor Our policy is firm but fair Now that God is in the house God is in the house God is in the house Any day now He'll come out God is in the house Well-meaning little therapists Goose-stepping twelve-stepping Tetotalitarianists The tipsy, the reeling and the drop down pissed We got no time for that stuff here Zero crime and no fear We've bred all our kittens white So you can see them in the night And at night we're on our knees As quiet as a mouse Since the word got out From the North down to the South For no-one's left in doubt There's no fear about If we all hold hands and very quietly shout Hallelujah God is in the house God is in the house Oh I wish He would come out God is in the house |
God Is In The House -- Nick Cave
All You who Sleep Tonight -- Vikram Seth
(Poem #51)All You who Sleep Tonight All you who sleep tonight Far from the ones you love, No hand to left or right And emptiness above - Know that you aren't alone The whole world shares your tears, Some for two nights or one, And some for all their years. |
The Unknown Citizen -- W H Auden
(Poem #50)The Unknown Citizen (To JS/07/M/378 This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State) He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured. Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for he time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace; when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation. And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard. |
Five Ways to Kill a Man -- Edwin Brock
(Poem #49)Five Ways to Kill a Man There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man. You can make him carry a plank of wood to the top of a hill and nail him to it. To do this properly you require a crowd of people wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one man to hammer the nails home. Or you can take a length of steel, shaped and chased in a traditional way, and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears. But for this you need white horses, English trees, men with bows and arrows, at least two flags, a prince, and a castle to hold your banquet in. Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind allows, blow gas at him. But then you need a mile of mud sliced through with ditches, not to mention black boots, bomb craters, more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs and some round hats made of steel. In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly miles above your victim and dispose of him by pressing one small switch. All you then require is an ocean to separate you, two systems of government, a nation's scientists, several factories, a psychopath and land that no-one needs for several years. These are, as I began, cumbersome ways to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat is to see that he is living somewhere in the middle of the twentieth century, and leave him there. |
We Real Cool -- Gwendolyn Brooks
(Poem #48)We Real Cool THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
|
The Blues -- Billy Collins
(Poem #47)The Blues Much of what is said here must be said twice, a reminder that no one takes an immediate interest in the pain of others. Nobody will listen, it would seem, if you simply admit your baby left you early this morning she didn’t even stop to say good-bye. But if you sing it again with the help of the band which will now lift you to a higher, more ardent and beseeching key, people will not only listen; they will shift to the sympathetic edges of their chairs, moved to such acute anticipation by that chord and the delay that follows, they will not be able to sleep unless you release with one finger a scream from the throat of your guitar and turn your head back to the microphone to let them know you’re a hard-hearted man but that woman’s sure going to make you cry. |
"Hope" Is The Thing With Feathers -- Emily Dickinson
(Poem #46)"Hope" Is The Thing With Feathers "Hope" is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. |
The God Who Loves You -- Carl Dennis
(Poem #45)The God Who Loves You It must be troubling for the god who loves you To ponder how much happier you'd be today Had you been able to glimpse your many futures. It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings Driving home from the office, content with your week— Three fine houses sold to deserving families— Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened Had you gone to your second choice for college, Knowing the roommate you'd have been allotted Whose ardent opinions on painting and music Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion. A life thirty points above the life you're living On any scale of satisfaction. And every point A thorn in the side of the god who loves you. You don't want that, a large-souled man like you Who tries to withhold from your wife the day's disappointments So she can save her empathy for the children. And would you want this god to compare your wife With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus? It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation You'd have enjoyed over there higher in insight Than the conversation you're used to. And think how this loving god would feel Knowing that the man next in line for your wife Would have pleased her more than you ever will Even on your best days, when you really try. Can you sleep at night believing a god like that Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives You're spared by ignorance? The difference between what is And what could have been will remain alive for him Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill Running out in the snow for the morning paper, Losing eleven years that the god who loves you Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend No closer than the actual friend you made at college, The one you haven't written in months. Sit down tonight And write him about the life you can talk about With a claim to authority, the life you've witnessed, Which for all you know is the life you've chosen. |
Apology to the Wasps -- Sara Littlecrow-Russell
(Poem #44)Apology to the Wasps Terrorized by your stings, I took out biochemical weapons And blasted your nest Like it was a third world country. I was the United States Air Force. It felt good to be so powerful Until I saw your family Trailing shredded wings, Staggering on disintegrating legs, Trying desperately to save the eggs You had stung to protect. |