Stephen Crane, 'The Successful Man Has Thrust Himself'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

The Successful Man Has Thrust Himself

The successful man has thrust himself
Through the water of the years,
Reeking wet with mistakes —
Bloody mistakes;
Slimed with victories over the lesser,
A figure thankful on the shore of money.
Then, with the bones of fools
He buys silken banners
Limned with his triumphant face;
With the skins of wise men
He buys the trivial bows of all.
Flesh painted with marrow
Contributes a coverlet,
A coverlet for his contented slumber.
In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt,
He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.
"Thus I defended: Thus I wrought."
Complacent, smiling,
He stands heavily on the dead.
Erect on a pillar of skulls
He declaims his trampling of babes;
Smirking, fat, dripping,
He makes speech in guiltless ignorance,
Innocence.

by Stephen Maria Crane

"The Lay of Eärendil" by J.R.R. Tolkien

[elenbarathi.livejournal.com]

The Lay of Eärendil

Eärendil was a mariner
that tarried in Arvernien;
he built a boat of timber felled
in Nimbrethil to journey in;
her sails he wove of silver fair,
of silver were her lanterns made,
her prow was fashioned like a swan,
and light upon her banners laid.

In panoply of ancient kings,
in chained rings he armoured him;
his shining shield was scored with runes
to ward all wounds and harm from him;
his bow was made of dragon-horn,
his arrows shorn of ebony;
of silver was his habergeon,
his scabbard of chalcedony;
his sword of steel was valiant,
of adamant his helmet tall,
an eagle-plume upon his crest,
upon his breast an emerald.

( Beneath the Moon and under star )

"The Cold Within", by James Patrick Kinney

[med_cat]

I'd posted this back in 2012, but I think it merits reposting...

~~
by an American poet James Patrick Kinney, written in the 1960s:

The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance
In bleak and bitter cold.

Each one possessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story’s told.

Their dying fire in need of logs,
The first man held his back;
For of the faces round the fire
He noticed one was black.

The next man looking ‘cross the way
Saw one not of his church,
And couldn’t bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.

( Read the rest of the poem and see the film: )