The Cellar - Poems- Not your own.

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The Spider and the Fly
by Mary Howitt

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly,
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show you when you are there."
"Oh no, no," said the Fly, "to ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do
To prove that warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;
If you step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say;
And bidding good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again;
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly.
then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are as dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, -
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head - poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den
Within his little parlor - but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er heed;
Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

There once was a little girl
who had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead.

when she was good she was very, very good;
but when she was bad SHE WAS HORRID!

my mom used to say that poem to me all the time when I was a youngster.

Ohhh! My Gran used to say that one to me :)

Quote:

Originally Posted by DanaC (Post 853759)

Ohhh! My Gran used to say that one to me :)

really helps with the self esteem doesn't it ;)

Mom also used to say "You lie like a rug" when she didn't believe me. Which was often. Which was probably fair enough.

I posted this last year, I think. I also had a copy pinned to the shelf at work. I just love this April poem. (I was reminded by Dana's thread about april and foot's poem therein.)

Spring

By Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892–1950

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Ahhh that was lovely :)

Whenever I need to say Millet, we eat it from time to time, I first think in my head that it should be pronounced Millay (like Fillet of fish) so I just refer to it as Edna St. Vincent, as in "Do we have any more Edna St. Vincent or are we out?"

I think my doing things like that has made my kids better at figuring things out. Certainly if they end up doing double acrostics.

Found item no author.

Inside A Toddler's Brain: "Epiphanette"

Quote:

In "Epiphanette," Woodinville poet Dennis Caswell speculates on what happens to the "carefree cognitive tumbleweed" of his baby daughter's mind when it "is struck by the SUV of enlightenment" in the form of a little epiphany.

No transcript available, but it's the best 3:06 of internet audio you'll hear today.

A Man's Poem - by Tony

Attachment 45305

Quote:

Originally Posted by Gravdigr (Post 874592)

A Man's Poem - by Tony

Attachment 45305

reminded me of:

Quote:

"Close But No Cigar"
by WEIRD AL YANKOVIC

Jillian was her name
She was sweeter than aspartame
Her kisses reconfigured my DNA
And after that I never was the same

And I loved her even more
Than Marlon Brando loved souffle
She was gorgeous, she was charming
Yeah, she was perfect in every way

Except she was always using the word "infer"
When she obviously meant "imply"
And I know some guys would put up with that kind of thing
But frankly, I can't imagine why

And I told her, I said
"Hey! Are we playing horseshoes, honey?
No, I don't think we are!
You're close! (Close!)
But no cigar!"

Then I met sweet young Janet
Prettiest thing on the planet
Had a body hotter than a habanero
She had lips like a ripe pomegranate

And I was crazy like Manson about her
She got me all choked up like Momma Cass
She had a smile so incredibly radiant
You had to watch it through a piece of smoked glass

I thought after all these years of searching around
I'd found my soulmate finally
But one day I found OUT she actually owned a copy
Of Joe Dirt on DVD

Oh, no! I said
"Hey! Are we lobbing hand grenades, kiddo?
No I don't think we are!
You're close! (Close!)
Oh, so very close! (Close!)
Yeah, baby, you're close! (Close!)
So close!
But no cigar!"

(Oh, yeah!)
(Oh, no!)
(Oh, yeah!)
(Oh, no!)
(Oh, yeah!)
(Oh, no!)
(ALL RIGHT!)

[Hand claps, trumpet solo]

Julie played water polo
She wore a ribbon on her left manolo
She had me sweating like Nixon every time she was near
My heart was beating like a Buddy Rich solo

And she was everything I've dreamed of
She moved right up to #1 on my list
And did I mention she's a world famous billionaire
Bikini supermodel astrophysicist

Yeah, she was so pretty she made Charlize Theron
Look like a big fat slobbering pig
The only caveat is one of her earlobes
Was just a little tiny bit too big

I said
"Hey! Are we doing government work here?
No I don't think we are!
You're close! (Close!)
So very, very close! (Close!)
Aaw, baby, you're close! (Close!)
So close!
But no cigar!"

Missed it by that much! (No cigar!)
Ah, yeah! Ah, right! (No cigar!)
Really, really, really close! (No cigar!)
But no cigar!

Boys, these do not fit my poetry criteria.
But FSM Grav's poem (by Tony) made me laugh.

Big V as lyrics go those are right up there.
But they are lyrics after all.
You get a pass though, because they made me laugh too.

Now.
No more laughing.
Poetry.

NB - I'm not quite serious.
Not quite.

great thread...big love for the WCW poems...here's an excerpt from City by one of my favourite poets Roy Fisher. From my home town....

I come quite often now upon a sort of ecstasy, a rag of light blowing among the things I know, making me feel I am not the one for whom it was intended, that I have inadvertently been looking through another’s eyes and have seen what I cannot receive.

I want to believe I live in a single world. That is why I am keeping my eyes at home while I can. The light keeps on separating the world like a table knife: it sweeps across what I see and suggests what I do not. The imaginary comes to me with as much force as the real, the remembered with as much force as the immediate. The countries on the map divide and pile up like ice-floes: what is strange is that I feel no stress, no grating discomfort among the confusion, no loss; only a belief that I should not be here. I see the iron fences and the shallow ditches of the countryside the mild wind has travelled over. I cannot enter that countryside; nor can I escape it. I cannot join together the mild wind and the shallow ditches, I cannot lay the light across the world and then watch it slide away. Each thought is at once translucent and icily capricious. A polytheism without gods.