The Master of the Dance

A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher.

I

A master deep-eyed
Ere his manhood was ripe,
He sang like a thrush,
He could play any pipe.
So dull in the school
That he scarcely could spell,
He read but a bit,
And he figured not well.
A bare-footed fool,
Shod only with grace;
Long hair streaming down
Round a wind-hardened face;
He smiled like a girl,
Or like clear winter skies,
A virginal light

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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Do Re Mi

DO RE MI FA SO LA TI DO
anagram
DO I FORMALISE, DOAT?

Mind finds through magic interface
enchantment in soft smile whose grace
leaves senses reeling into space.
Form, face, inspires as, in disgrace,
Time disappears, and in its place
all doubts dissolved, we solve life’s chase.
Mingling, jingling, words may trace
cheer and charm which interlace
heart with heart, - no commonplace
encounter doubles pulse rate race.
It sudden seems, in any case,
prismatic colour tones replace
monochrome monochord most embrace

12 June 1997 revised 1 October 2005
robi03_0844_robi03_0000 SXX_LMX

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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One Four Square Sonnet - Parody Shakespeare Sonnet CXVI

ONE FOUR SQUARE SONNET
Let's not into true marriage of two minds
Admit expedience. Love wears no kid glove
Which falters where fits, altercations, finds
Or ends when dumb observer would remove.
For lo! that marks stark feckless leaver, hark!
Tempest cooks cat's books, stands sturdy shaken,
Here, wild oats sown, dog-star to wandering bark,
Its birth unknown although its bow save bacon.
Since Love fools Time, lip-service cheeky rhyme
Within big spending tickle’s compass come,
O'er years piques havoc wreak, strange phantom mime,
Remaining edgy till wan wedge of doom,
Let be, if error writ, and on me proved,
Dumb see my wit, for no man clever loved.

30 October 1991 revised 14 July 2007 and 1 May 2010

robi03_0467_shak01_0022 PAS_LZX
Parody William SHAKESPEARE 1564_1616 Sonnet CXVI

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Up To Me

Everything went from bad to worse, money never changed a thing,
Death kept followin, trackin us down, at least I heard your bluebird sing.
Now somebodys got to show their hand, time is an enemy,
I know youre long gone,
I guess it must be up to me.
If Id thought about it I never wouldve done it, I guess I wouldve let it slide,
If Id lived my life by what others were thinkin, the heart inside me wouldve died.
I was just too stubborn to ever be governed by enforced insanity,
Someone had to reach for the risin star,
I guess it was up to me.
Oh, the union central is pullin out and the orchids are in bloom,
Ive only got me one good shirt left and it smells of stale perfume.
In fourteen months Ive only smiled once and I didnt do it consciously,
Somebodys got to find your trail,
I guess it must be up to me.
It was like a revelation when you betrayed me with your touch,
Id just about convinced myself that nothin had changed that much.
The old rounder in the iron mask slipped me the master key,
Somebody had to unlock your heart,
He said it was up to me.

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song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Leaflet

One hundred ten from acorn cup
my trunk, once slender, up and up
advanced to tickle sun and moon:
I versify. Life's afternoon
slips into eventide to sup
beside the golden buttercup, -
among the joyous saplings strewn
no longer hidden, bounty, boon.

From sunrise smile with dewdropp pearls
whose tears deck leaves as each uncurls,
from breath by photosynthesis
to death without a goodbye kiss,
from sapling which warm zephyr twirls
to gnarled old wood with outgrowth burls,
on how I live, on that and this,
my roots reflect before abyss
recycling swallows branch and twig.
I realize life's whirligig
spins rings concentric marking time

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go

Let it go, let it go, let it go, as if my soul
were sweeping out a season of unleafing,
sodden feelings, sodden hearts, the rose ruined,
cumbrous clouds gusting over the eyelashes
of the treeline like dust at the broom of the treeline.
Cold-blooded, shedding an old sky, half in,
half out, I dream like a snake thickening
in its own coils as the autumn turns soporific
of weaving a flying carpet of the roads I've walked
the whole length of myself alone at night
only to discover that it was me that was flowing
and every step I took burnt like a new beginning
as if I were firewalking a graveyard shift of stars.

If you want to open the third eye of the needle
in the haystack of your mind, set fire to it.
What's left shining in the ashes is a ticket out of here.
The serpent's gone down the black hole
after a rabbit like Lepus at the heels of Orion,
like a gamma ray burst of annihilative clarity

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poem by Patrick White
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In The Days When The World Was Wide

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side --
And tired of all is the spirit that sings
of the days when the world was wide.

When the North was hale in the march of Time,
and the South and the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change,
and proud in the ranks of pride,
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.

Then a man could fight if his heart were bold,
and win if his faith were true --
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue;
Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride,
Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame
in the days when the world was wide.

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Tract on Attraction 2009 Version

Tract on Attraction: Action sans Reaction, Traction sans Retraction, Contract without Contraction

Which of Fate or Freewill omnipotent
presides over mice, men, their lice?
lets cat out of the bag for man, rodent,
as ‘coincidence' seals in a trice
the links in life's chain hindsight searches
for clues to life answers which slip
through the fingers of those on high perches
who mistake wraith and faith in Time's trip.

Causal links back from brink of disaster
may ignorance lead for fresh chance,
or well-meaning statistics may faster
end heartbeat that longs to advance.
Time and tide on life's ride look with laughter
soul weighed against feather askance,
what of trust, what of comfort, years after
bluster bubble burst, rust busts life's dance.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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My Aviary

THROUGH my north window, in the wintry weather,--
My airy oriel on the river shore,--
I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together
Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen,
Lets the loose water waft him as it will;
The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden,
Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still.

I see the solemn gulls in council sitting
On some broad ice-floe pondering long and late,
While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting,
And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving
Whose deeper meaning science never learns,
Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving,
The speechless senate silently adjourns.

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Silent City

Deserted streets lie draped in dusk and yarns of yesterday,
with silent sounds no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life, abundant once, surceased and slipped away.

Against a sudden sullen burst (unleashing lashing waves
that washed the Silent City clean with radiance that laves) ,
neath soothing suds so soft and mild, the stony structure braves.

Within the walls, whist buildings, tall... outside the City, dunes...
they mime a soon forgotten tale, once written, carved in runes
on broken skies, like halos hung, reflections of the moon's.

Though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise
the City's now a sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews -
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues.

A church's Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below,
and blowing there above the bones, a maiden's blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts and catacombs grace halos still aglow.

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poem by Terry O'Leary
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L'Albatros (The Albatross)

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Angels of the Love Affair

'Angels of the love affair, do you know that other,
the dark one, that other me? '

1. ANGEL OF FIRE AND GENITALS

Angel of fire and genitals, do you know slime,
that green mama who first forced me to sing,
who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime
of brown where I was beggar and she was king?
I said, 'The devil is down that festering hole.'
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
of the Bunsen burner, you of the candle,
you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,
you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,
take some ice, take come snow, take a month of rain
and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.

Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it's terrible weight.

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poem by Anne Sexton
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One Way Ships

Flings and wings and rings rejected
Cupid's arrows fly deflected
'It clearly is too late' she signed, 'to love, adore or pay me mind'

Penciled lines drew cruel conclusions
mocking mirror's cracked illusions
Sometimes, in time, I hang awhile, reflected in her parting smile

Drifting wan, below unheeding
worried, wounded suns a' bleeding
Struck dumb by night, no way to say 'Let's sound the stars another way'

Shaking sands frame distant smokestacks
shanty towns, forsaken oak shacks
Pursuing dusk, collapsed and dyed, the docile dolphin deftly stride
beyond behind the ebbing tide, towards One-Way Ships of sunken pride

Gypsy dreamer in denial
Sleep and slumber standing trial

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poem by Terry O'Leary
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Floretty's Musical Contribution

All seemed delighted, though the elders more,
Of course, than were the children.--Thus, before
Much interchange of mirthful compliment,
The story-teller said _his_ stories 'went'
(Like a bad candle) _best_ when they went _out_,--
And that some sprightly music, dashed about,
Would _wholly_ quench his 'glimmer,' and inspire
Far brighter lights.

And, answering this desire,
The flutist opened, in a rapturous strain
Of rippling notes--a perfect April-rain
Of melody that drenched the senses through;--
Then--gentler--gentler--as the dusk sheds dew,
It fell, by velvety, staccatoed halts,
Swooning away in old 'Von Weber's Waltz.'
Then the young ladies sang 'Isle of the Sea'--
In ebb and flow and wave so billowy,--
Only with quavering breath and folded eyes
The listeners heard, buoyed on the fall and rise

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Wanderer’s Return

An old heart's mourning is a hideous thing,
And weeds upon an aged weeper cling
Like night upon a grave. The city there,
Gaunt as a woman who has once been fair,
Lay black with winter, and the silent rain
Fell thro' the heavens darkly, like a stain
Upon her face. The dusky houses rose,
Unlovely shapes laid naked on the ooze,
Grimed with long sooty tears. The night fell down,
And gathered all the highways in its frown.
This was my home. I saw men pass and pass
Nor stop to look into a neighbour's face.
I dared not look in their's because my eyes
Were faint and travel--jarred and would not rise
From the dull earth, and hunger made them dim,
The hunger of a seven years' angry dream
Of love and peace and home unsatisfied.
And now my heart thus grievously denied
Rose, like a caged bird in the nesting time
Who beats against the bars that prison him,

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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Old Play

I
IN an old play-house, in an old play,
In an old piece that has been done to death,
We dance, kind ladies, noble friends.
Observe our modishness, I pray,
What dignity the music lends.
Our sighs, no doubt, are only a doll's breath,
But gravely done—indeed, we're all devotion,
All pride and fury and pitiful elegance.
The importance of these antics, who may doubt?
Do you deny us the honour of emotion
Because another has danced this, our dance?
Let us jump it out.
II
IN the old play-house, in the watery flare
Of gilt and candlesticks, in a dim pit
Furred with a powder of corroded plush,
Paint fallen from angels floating in mid-air,
The gods in languor sit.
Their talk they hush,

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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Don Juan: Canto the First

I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan,
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the Devil somewhat ere his time.II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And filled their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.III

Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Pétion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette

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poem by Byron
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An Ode In Time of Inauguration

(March 4, 1913)

Thine aid, O Muse, I consciously beseech;
I crave thy succour, ask for thine assistance
That men may cry: "Some little ode! A peach!"
O Muse, grant me the strength to go the distance!
For odes, I learn, are dithyrambs, and long;
Exalted feeling, dignity of theme
And complicated structure guide the song.
(All this from Webster's book of high esteem.)

Let complicated structures not becloud
My lucid lines, nor weight with overloading.
To Shelley, Keats, and Wordsworth and that crowd
I yield the bays for grand and lofty oding.
Mine but the task to trace a country's growth,
As evidenced by each innauguration
From Washington's to Wilson's primal oath--
In these U.S., the celebrated nation.

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poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Infatuation's All Hands On Stations Gig Antic_ipations

What's love? above all hand in glove,
with statement missionary,
twinned turtle dove, no pressure, shove,
precisions scission scary.

Infatuate calls bluff, seals fate,
romantic airy-fairy
from single state anticipate?
semantic se[a]men hairy?

Is limerence mind's self-defence
'gainst harsh realities,
as urge intense to merge makes sense,
what's real? weal’s wheel? reel tease!

With no offence from off the fence
analysis essential
of present tense, or past, immense
gap trap zaps existential.

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poem by Jonathan Robin (29 August 2009)
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The Old Player

THE curtain rose; in thunders long and loud
The galleries rung; the veteran actor bowed.
In flaming line the telltales of the stage
Showed on his brow the autograph of age;
Pale, hueless waves amid his clustered hair,
And umbered shadows, prints of toil and care;
Round the wide circle glanced his vacant eye,--
He strove to speak,--his voice was but a sigh.

Year after year had seen its short-lived race
Flit past the scenes and others take their place;
Yet the old prompter watched his accents still,
His name still flaunted on the evening's bill.
Heroes, the monarchs of the scenic floor,
Had died in earnest and were heard no more;
Beauties, whose cheeks such roseate bloom o'er-spread
They faced the footlights in unborrowed red,
Had faded slowly through successive shades
To gray duennas, foils of younger maids;
Sweet voices lost the melting tones that start

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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