Tweet
Re: Poetry Corner
Line-up for Yesterday
A is for Alex
The great Alexander;
More Goose eggs he pitched
Than a popular gander.
B is for Bresnahan
Back of the plate;
The Cubs were his love,
and McGraw his hate.
C is for Cobb,
Who grew spikes and not corn,
And made all the basemen
Wish they weren't born.
D is for Dean,
The grammatical Diz,
When they asked, Who's the tops?
Said correctly, I is.
E is for Evers,
His jaw in advance;
Never afraid
To Tinker with Chance.
F is for Fordham
And Frankie and Frisch;
I wish he were back
With the Giants, I wish.
G is for Gehrig,
The Pride of the Stadium;
His record pure gold,
His courage, pure radium.
H is for Hornsby;
When pitching to Rog,
The pitcher would pitch,
Then the pitcher would dodge.
I is for Me,
Not a hard-hitting man,
But an outstanding all-time
Incurable fan.
J is for Johnson
The Big Train in his prime
Was so fast he could throw
Three strikes at a time.
K is for Keeler,
As fresh as green paint,
The fastest and mostest
To hit where they ain't.
L is for Lajoie
Whom Clevelanders love,
Napolean himself,
With glue in his glove.
M is for Matty,
Who carried a charm
In the form of an extra
brain in his arm.
N is for Newsom,
Bobo's favorite kin.
You ask how he's here,
He talked himself in.
O is for Ott
Of the restless right foot.
When he leaned on the pellet,
The pellet stayed put.
P is for Plank,
The arm of the A's;
When he tangled with Matty
Games lasted for days.
Q is for Don Quixote
Cornelius Mack;
Neither Yankees nor years
Can halt his attack.
R is for Ruth.
To tell you the truth,
There's just no more to be said,
Just R is for Ruth.
S is for Speaker,
Swift center-field tender,
When the ball saw him coming,
It yelled, "I surrender."
T is for Terry
The Giant from Memphis
Whose .400 average
You can't overemphis.
U would be 'Ubell
if Carl were a xxxxney;
We say Hubbell and Baseball
Like Football and Rockne.
V is for Vance
The Dodger's very own Dazzy;
None of his rivals
Could throw as fast as he.
W is for Wagner,
The bowlegged beauty;
Short was closed to all traffic
With Honus on duty.
X is the first
of two x's in Foxx
Who was right behind Ruth
with his powerful soxx.
Y is for Young
The magnificent Cy;
People battled against him,
But I never knew why.
Z is for Zenith
The summit of fame.
These men are up there.
These men are the game.
-- Ogden Nash
The First Green Leaves
Scarce are the clouds' black shadows
Pierced by a gleam of light,
Scarce have our fields grown dark again,
Freed from the snow-drifts white,
When you, with smiles all twinkling,
Bud forth o'er hill and vale.
O first-born leaves of spring-time,
Hail to your beauty, hail!
Not yet to our cold meadows
Had come Spring's guest, the swallow,
Not yet the nightingale's sweet voice
Had echoed from the hollow,
When you, like joy's bright angels,
Came swift to hill and dale.
Fresh-budded leaves of spring-time,
Hail to your beauty, hail!
Your tender verdant colour,
Thin stems and graceful guise,
How sweetly do they quench the thirst
Of eager, longing eyes!
Afflicted souls at sight of you
Take comfort and grow gay.
New-budded leaves of spring-time,
All hail to you to-day!
Come, in the dark breast of our dales
To shine, the hills between!
Come, o'er our bare and shivering trees
To cast a veil of green!
Come, to give sad-faced nature
An aspect blithe and new!
O earliest leaves of spring-time,
All hail, all hail to you!
Come to call up, for new-born Spring,
A dawn of roses fair!
Come, and invite the breezes light
To play with your soft hair!
Say to the fragrant blossoms,
'Oh, haste! men long for you!'
Hail, earliest leaves of spring-time,
Young leaves so fresh and new!
Come, come O leaves, and with sweet wings
Of hope from yonder sky
Cover the sad earth of the graves
Wherein our dear ones lie!
Weave o'er the bones so dear to us
A garland wet with dew,
Ye wings of hope's bright angels,
Young leaves so fresh and new!
-- Archbishop Khoren Nar Bey de Lusignan
I'm An Armenian
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat;
My shoes were wetted by the waters of the Flood.
Beside these shining peaks where Noah sat
My sword once drew the dread Bel's* evil blood.
These boulders overgrown with moss since time
Beyond remembrance, my hand hewed to lie
In the foundation of an ancient shrine
Which my own blood I shed to sanctify.
One morning here, in Ararat's green valley
My hammer and my pick aside I flung
And lit a fire on the Chaldean altar.
Those days both Ararat and I were young.
Then crimson every valley-flower was dyed;
All we had sown in it through ages past
Grew on the blood of countrymen who died.
Beneath each hillock killed Armenians rest.
With trusty shield I met attacking hordes,
Suffering countless wounds from countless swords.
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
High as the hills I bear my head. My story's sad:
Each century that passed brought grief to me.
My sons throughout the whole wide world were scattered;
With bloody showers Ararat was spattered.
My ploughlands crops of misery would yield.
I lived and breathed among my burned-out fields
On wasteland rubble, ashes steeped in gore.
But now, with my own blood revived once more,
Again the holy altar-lights burn bright,
Warming my heart and gladdening my sight.
New ploughshares out of rusted swords I forged;
Our fathers' heritage to my children I gave back.
Our sorrow fills my verse with hot blood gorged.
A twentieth century Gregory Narek**
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
Beneath my sorrows Ararat itself would bow.
Any ill-omened, blood-thirsty Attila that
Arose in history, would deal me his first blow.
Inured to massacres, I lived in thrall for ages.
An orphan, in the fight for life I'm steeled.
My thousand-year-old grain, preserved by hearts courageous,
Sown in new times, sprouts in my virgin fields.
Blessed be my roots, whose strength is marvelled at!
A homeless outcast once, a motherland have I.
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
I hold my head as high as eagles fly.
-- Gevorg Emin
* Bel - villain who opposed Ike, legendary ancestor of all Armenians.
** Narek (Narekatsi), Grigor (951-1003) - great Armenian poet of Early Renaissance.
Line-up for Yesterday
A is for Alex
The great Alexander;
More Goose eggs he pitched
Than a popular gander.
B is for Bresnahan
Back of the plate;
The Cubs were his love,
and McGraw his hate.
C is for Cobb,
Who grew spikes and not corn,
And made all the basemen
Wish they weren't born.
D is for Dean,
The grammatical Diz,
When they asked, Who's the tops?
Said correctly, I is.
E is for Evers,
His jaw in advance;
Never afraid
To Tinker with Chance.
F is for Fordham
And Frankie and Frisch;
I wish he were back
With the Giants, I wish.
G is for Gehrig,
The Pride of the Stadium;
His record pure gold,
His courage, pure radium.
H is for Hornsby;
When pitching to Rog,
The pitcher would pitch,
Then the pitcher would dodge.
I is for Me,
Not a hard-hitting man,
But an outstanding all-time
Incurable fan.
J is for Johnson
The Big Train in his prime
Was so fast he could throw
Three strikes at a time.
K is for Keeler,
As fresh as green paint,
The fastest and mostest
To hit where they ain't.
L is for Lajoie
Whom Clevelanders love,
Napolean himself,
With glue in his glove.
M is for Matty,
Who carried a charm
In the form of an extra
brain in his arm.
N is for Newsom,
Bobo's favorite kin.
You ask how he's here,
He talked himself in.
O is for Ott
Of the restless right foot.
When he leaned on the pellet,
The pellet stayed put.
P is for Plank,
The arm of the A's;
When he tangled with Matty
Games lasted for days.
Q is for Don Quixote
Cornelius Mack;
Neither Yankees nor years
Can halt his attack.
R is for Ruth.
To tell you the truth,
There's just no more to be said,
Just R is for Ruth.
S is for Speaker,
Swift center-field tender,
When the ball saw him coming,
It yelled, "I surrender."
T is for Terry
The Giant from Memphis
Whose .400 average
You can't overemphis.
U would be 'Ubell
if Carl were a xxxxney;
We say Hubbell and Baseball
Like Football and Rockne.
V is for Vance
The Dodger's very own Dazzy;
None of his rivals
Could throw as fast as he.
W is for Wagner,
The bowlegged beauty;
Short was closed to all traffic
With Honus on duty.
X is the first
of two x's in Foxx
Who was right behind Ruth
with his powerful soxx.
Y is for Young
The magnificent Cy;
People battled against him,
But I never knew why.
Z is for Zenith
The summit of fame.
These men are up there.
These men are the game.
-- Ogden Nash
The First Green Leaves
Scarce are the clouds' black shadows
Pierced by a gleam of light,
Scarce have our fields grown dark again,
Freed from the snow-drifts white,
When you, with smiles all twinkling,
Bud forth o'er hill and vale.
O first-born leaves of spring-time,
Hail to your beauty, hail!
Not yet to our cold meadows
Had come Spring's guest, the swallow,
Not yet the nightingale's sweet voice
Had echoed from the hollow,
When you, like joy's bright angels,
Came swift to hill and dale.
Fresh-budded leaves of spring-time,
Hail to your beauty, hail!
Your tender verdant colour,
Thin stems and graceful guise,
How sweetly do they quench the thirst
Of eager, longing eyes!
Afflicted souls at sight of you
Take comfort and grow gay.
New-budded leaves of spring-time,
All hail to you to-day!
Come, in the dark breast of our dales
To shine, the hills between!
Come, o'er our bare and shivering trees
To cast a veil of green!
Come, to give sad-faced nature
An aspect blithe and new!
O earliest leaves of spring-time,
All hail, all hail to you!
Come to call up, for new-born Spring,
A dawn of roses fair!
Come, and invite the breezes light
To play with your soft hair!
Say to the fragrant blossoms,
'Oh, haste! men long for you!'
Hail, earliest leaves of spring-time,
Young leaves so fresh and new!
Come, come O leaves, and with sweet wings
Of hope from yonder sky
Cover the sad earth of the graves
Wherein our dear ones lie!
Weave o'er the bones so dear to us
A garland wet with dew,
Ye wings of hope's bright angels,
Young leaves so fresh and new!
-- Archbishop Khoren Nar Bey de Lusignan
I'm An Armenian
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat;
My shoes were wetted by the waters of the Flood.
Beside these shining peaks where Noah sat
My sword once drew the dread Bel's* evil blood.
These boulders overgrown with moss since time
Beyond remembrance, my hand hewed to lie
In the foundation of an ancient shrine
Which my own blood I shed to sanctify.
One morning here, in Ararat's green valley
My hammer and my pick aside I flung
And lit a fire on the Chaldean altar.
Those days both Ararat and I were young.
Then crimson every valley-flower was dyed;
All we had sown in it through ages past
Grew on the blood of countrymen who died.
Beneath each hillock killed Armenians rest.
With trusty shield I met attacking hordes,
Suffering countless wounds from countless swords.
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
High as the hills I bear my head. My story's sad:
Each century that passed brought grief to me.
My sons throughout the whole wide world were scattered;
With bloody showers Ararat was spattered.
My ploughlands crops of misery would yield.
I lived and breathed among my burned-out fields
On wasteland rubble, ashes steeped in gore.
But now, with my own blood revived once more,
Again the holy altar-lights burn bright,
Warming my heart and gladdening my sight.
New ploughshares out of rusted swords I forged;
Our fathers' heritage to my children I gave back.
Our sorrow fills my verse with hot blood gorged.
A twentieth century Gregory Narek**
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
Beneath my sorrows Ararat itself would bow.
Any ill-omened, blood-thirsty Attila that
Arose in history, would deal me his first blow.
Inured to massacres, I lived in thrall for ages.
An orphan, in the fight for life I'm steeled.
My thousand-year-old grain, preserved by hearts courageous,
Sown in new times, sprouts in my virgin fields.
Blessed be my roots, whose strength is marvelled at!
A homeless outcast once, a motherland have I.
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
I hold my head as high as eagles fly.
-- Gevorg Emin
* Bel - villain who opposed Ike, legendary ancestor of all Armenians.
** Narek (Narekatsi), Grigor (951-1003) - great Armenian poet of Early Renaissance.
Comment