
Poetry @ MindSay 
This Whole Damn City
This whole damn city wants me out of it.
The weather wants me out, anxious drivers on St. George want me out,
Long lines at the TTC stations want me out,
Man on the corner on his cell phone wants me out, and all the other pedestrians, too.
My textbooks and homework forgotten at home, want me out.
The other students in my 9:00 class want me out (I talk in my sleep.)
All the goddamn paperwork the bureaucrats can muster wants me out.
My train, late again, wants me out.
My ticket, which I neglected to punch twice, wants me out.
Businessmen and women want me out, more room for them.
Pretty girls who don't talk to me want me out.
Ones that do make it dangerous to stay.
Their boyfriends want my eyeballs gone, want to pull my tongue out.
The skyscrapers want me out.
Rogers Center wants me out, but also wants to be SkyDome again, and to feel the Jays
win one more series.
Michael Lee-Chin's Crystal, hanging precariously over Bloor, wants me out
(of its proud dangerous shadow.)
This city will not stand for my indecision, and will share nobody.
If I cannot live and love here, I must not stay.
If it wanted me forever, I would not return.
KOR-SAW
It's so quiet at night there's not a sound
The silence away from the city
The only thing maybe heard is a train
Coming through this little town
Everyone to their room try a wink or two
Dawn awakens for another day
Then the sounds echo through like a train
Coming through this little town
Love has come and promised it would stay
Tomorrow could be no more
We can stay another day
Hold me tightly whisper me of your love
Tomorrow may be no more
We can stay another day
When I am home resting my bones
Finding Peace and some feeling
Pause in the sound the silence of mood
In this little town
At the end of the day think of the sounds
Oh the songs you could play
All you need to hear
Distance of fears
In this little town
Come on let's stay another day
In case you've never had the pleasure ... Please allow me to introduce to you ...
Paul Revere's Ride
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower, as a signal light, --
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade, --
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, --
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British regulars fired and fled, --
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm, --
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1860.
Maybe all these people love boobs as much as I do. Here are a couple from the notebook, scrawled at some moment or another.
Round Your Finger
I never asked you if you loved me,
I didn't think it mattered much.
What we said was not important
if I melted at your touch.
And you always knew I'd call you
a few times every week,
you knew I could not walk away,
you knew that I was weak.
You had me 'round your finger,
you wore me like a ring.
There's no excuse for your abuse,
the frustration that you bring.
Pure Trouble
Here comes trouble
with bright red lips
stickin' her chest out
and shakin' her hips.
Yeah, she's gorgeous
but what's it do ya?
when her deep blue eyes
cut right through ya.
She doesn't need
the meager thrill
of going in
for the kill
on any schmuck
who's in her path.
She's pretty, yeah,
but do the math.
She knows she's hot
and I'll agree,
her look does certain
things to me,
but when I see through
her shallow game:
That girl is trouble
and that's a shame.
Generally speaking, they stay in the notebook for a reason, but it's a bit deeper than "I love boobs."
(Still do, though.)
KOR-Scotto
i awaken with my mind full of stars,
sunlight through the curtain slit,
still alive.
all remnants of dream,
begin to dissipate,
sauntering into life yet another day,
to place feet on solid ground,
is to commit to it.
to stand unclothed before it,
is to admit,
i am flesh and blood,
with full knowledge of being,
naked.
i dress and become invisible,
like the others,
suited, booted, painted and scented,
like a wildflower,
dressed in the costume of a rose.
i am someone,
posing as me.
night arrives and far from my cares I travel,
closer to truth I become.
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