"Tommy", by Rudyard Kipling

[kinfae.livejournal.com]

"I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no redcoats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again, an' to myself sez I:
O, it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy go away"
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O, it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theater as sober as could be,'
They give a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! They'll shove me in the stalls.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins," when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, etc.

O, Makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken sodgers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' TOmmy that, an "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll
The drums begin to roll, my boys, etc

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an "Tommy fall be'ind";
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, etc.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all"
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face,,
The Widow's uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "CHuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Savior of 'is country" where the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy aint' a bloomin' fool-you bet that Tommy sees!

for those with holiday melancholy.

[2much-estrogen.livejournal.com]

Having it Out with Melancholy
jane kenyon


1. FROM THE NURSERY


When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.


And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.


You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
"We're here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated."


I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours -- the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.

( 2. BOTTLES )

(no subject)

[writtenbyhand.livejournal.com]

There you are, exhausted from a night of crying, curled up on the couch,
the floor, at the foot of the bed, anywhere you fall you fall down crying,
half amazed at what the body is capable of, not believing you can cry
anymore. And there they are, his socks, his shirt, your underwear
and your winter gloves, all in a loose pile next to the bathroom door,
and you fall down again. Someday, years from now, things will be
different, the house clean for once, everything in its place, windows
shining, sun coming in easily now, sliding across the high shine of wax
on the wood floor. You'll be peeling an orange or watching a bird
spring from the edge of the rooftop next door, noticing how,
for an instant, its body is stopped on the air, only a moment before
gathering the will to fly into the ruff at its wings and then doing it:
flying. You'll be reading, and for a moment there will be a word
you don't understand, a simple word like now or what or is
and you'll ponder over it like a child discovering language.
Is you'll say over and over until it begins to make sense, and that's
when you'll say it, for the first time, out loud: He's dead. He's not
coming back. And it will be the first time you believe it.



How It Will Happen, When
by Dorianne Laux

Falling for Jesus-Enid Shomer

[thewickedtongue.livejournal.com]

For years I wanted to trade
the six-pointed star for the cross,
to enter the cool vault
of cathedrals, to tell the beads
in the dead tongue of saints,
and bear and sins like cut
flowers, fresh
for only a week at a time.

As a girl I longed for Christmas trees,
the dog tracking tinsel
through the house, all six of us kneeling
in pajamas over gift-wrapped
love. I wanted Ivory-Liquid
at the kitchen sink,
not the bar of kosher soap
with its strict blue stripe.

O Easter rabbits and dyed eggs,
the white mantilla knit of snowflakes
that framed the face of my friend
Annie Palm, who entered the convent
at sixteen and stayed
for twenty-one years. With the father
I had to remain a good girl
while with the Son she has a big brother

to take the blame.
When Annie left the Order
she hung a crucifix above her bed.
And I saw in that figure what all
the young Annies must see: the sacred
bleeding pierced flesh, eyes closed
in a slack face-the pose
of a woman in love.