No.47

My Aches and Pains
Anon

Thought I'd let my doctor check me,

'Cause I didn't feel quite right. . .

All those aches and pains annoyed me

And I couldn't sleep at night.

He could find no real disorder

But he wouldn't let it rest.

What with Medicare and Blue Cross,

We would do a couple of tests.

To the hospital he sent me

Though I didn't feel that bad.

He arranged for them to give me

Every test that could be had.

I was fluoroscoped and cystoscoped,

My aging frame displayed.

Stripped, on an ice-cold table,

While my gizzards were x-rayed.

I was checked for worms and parasites,

For fungus and the crud,

While they pierced me with long needles

Taking samples of my blood.

Doctors came to check me over,

Probed and pushed and poked around,

And to make sure I was living

They then wired me for sound.

They have finally concluded,

Their results have filled a page.

What I have will someday kill me;

My affliction is old age. 

-o0o-

No.46

Autumn Song

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-82

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the heart feels a languid grief 

Laid on it for a covering, 

And how sleep seems a goodly thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 

And how the swift beat of the brain 

Falters because it is in vain, 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf 

Knowest thou not? and how the chief 

Of joys seems - not to suffer pain? 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf 

Bound up at length for harvesting, 

And how death seems a comely thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 

-o0o-

No.45

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

Langston Hughes

1902-67

I've known rivers:

I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the

      flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln

     went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy

     bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers

My soul has grown deep with rivers.

-o0o-

No.44

Message

Wendy Cope

Pick up the phone before it is too late

And dial my number. There's no time to spare

Love is already turning into hate

And very soon I'll start to look elsewhere.

Good, old-fashioned men like you are rare

You want to get to know me at a rate

That's guaranteed to drive me to despair.

Pick up the phone before it is too late.

Well, wouldn't it be nice to consummate

Our friendship while we've still got teeth and hair?

Just bear in mind that you are forty-eight

And dial my number. There's no time to spare.

Another kamikaze love affair?

No chance. This time I'll have to learn to wait

But one more day is more than I can bear

Love is already turning into hate.

Of course, my friends say I exaggerate

And dramatize a lot. That may be fair

But it is no fun being in this state

And very soon I'll start to look elsewhere.

I know you like me but I wouldn't dare

Ring you again. Instead I'll concentrate

On sending thought-waves through the London air

And, if they reach you, please don't hesitate.

Pick up the phone.

-o0o-

No.43

Ill Fares the Land

(from the Deserted Village) 

Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroyed can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,

When every rood of ground maintained its man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no more:

His best companions, innocence and health;

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlet's rose,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,

And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,

Those calm desires that asked but little room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.

-o0o-

No.42

Across the Hills

Leon Rosselson

Across the hills black clouds are sweeping,

Carry poison far and wide,

And the grass has blackened underfoot,

And the rose has withered and died.

But the rose is still as red, love, and the grass is still as green,

And it must have been a shadow in the distance you have seen,

Yes, it must have been a shadow you have seen.

But can't you hear the children weeping?

Can't you hear the mournful sound?

And no birds sing in the twisted trees

In the silent streets around.

I can hear the children laughing in the streets as they play,

And you must have caught the dying of an acho far away,

Yes, it must have been an echo far away.

But can't you see the white ash falling

From the hollow of the skies?

And the blood runs red down the blackened walls

Where a ruined city lies.

I can see the red sun shining in the park on the stream,

And you must have felt a shiver from the darkness of a dream,

Yes, it must have been the darkness of a dream.

But the rose is still as red, love, and the grass is still as green,

And death shall reap a hellish harvest,

Yes, the rose is still as red, love, and the grass is still as green,

Make a desert of this land.

And it must have been a shadow you have seen.

-o0o-

No.41

Is My Team Ploughing

A. E. Housman 1859-1936

“Is my team ploughing, 

   That I was used to drive 

And hear the harness jingle 

   When I was man alive?” 

Ay, the horses trample, 

   The harness jingles now; 

No change though you lie under 

   The land you used to plough. 

“Is football playing 

   Along the river shore, 

With lads to chase the leather, 

   Now I stand up no more?” 

Ay the ball is flying, 

   The lads play heart and soul; 

The goal stands up, the keeper 

   Stands up to keep the goal. 

“Is my girl happy, 

   That I thought hard to leave, 

And has she tired of weeping 

   As she lies down at eve?” 

Ay, she lies down lightly, 

   She lies not down to weep: 

Your girl is well contented. 

   Be still, my lad, and sleep. 

“Is my friend hearty, 

   Now I am thin and pine, 

And has he found to sleep in 

   A better bed than mine?” 

Yes, lad, I lie easy, 

   I lie as lads would choose; 

I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart, 

   Never ask me whose.

-o0o-