Here comes some sing-song psychopomp,
Shepherding all those stone-cold souls.
He sings stirring songs all day long,
Dragging the Dead over dark shoals.
Psychopomp Shanties [Lyric Poem]
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Category Archives: Lyric
Forensic Psychologist’s Limerick
There once was a forensic psychologist
Who came across as quite the apologist:
"The arsonist, you see,
Simply yearns to be free --
Hence, burning all the walls - if you get my gist."
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“The Sick Rose” by William Blake [w/ Audio]
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
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Singer’s Limerick
There once was a primadonna singer
Who on a note could forever linger.
Thinking her a showboat
For dragging out one note,
The band took five mid-melisma to share chicken fingers.
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Actress Limerick
There once was a popular actress
Who most found cruel, catty, and tactless,
But the very worst part
Was the state of her art,
She only played herself in a different dress.
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“To One in Paradise” by Edgar Allan Poe [w/ Audio]
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine --
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream to bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from the Future cries,
"On! on!" -- but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more -- no more -- no more --
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams --
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
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“Requiem” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
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My Soul Runs Cold [Lyric Poem]
My soul runs cold, and I
Fear it might be dying.
It rises into the sky --
Horrifyingly flying.
How'd it achieve liftoff,
And race to such a pace?
It started to just drift off...
Now: the cold vacuum of space.
Dare I hope for a snap back
When it reaches tether-end?
Or intergalactic bushwhack,
Stumbling lost with no descent.
Maybe, it'll sprawl on forever
To the universe's edge.
I might not be so clever,
But I'll be a universe full-fledged.
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“I heard a Fly buzz – when I died” (591) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air -
Between the Heaves of Storm -
The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset - when the King
Be witnessed - in the Room -
I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable - and then it was
There interposed a Fly -
With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -
Between the light - and me -
And then the Windows failed - and then
I could not see to see -
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BOOKS: “A Child’s Garden of Verses” by Robert Louis Stevenson
A Child’s Garden Of Verses by Robert Louis StevensonMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Amazon.in Page
Until recently, I was only acquainted with Stevenson as a novelist, but I had a powerful experience with his poem “The Hayloft” (included in this collection.) I was intrigued by how a poem written by a nineteenth century Scot could prove so nostalgia-inducing for me, having been a 20th century American farm-boy. So, I read the collection, and found that “The Hayloft” was only one of many examples that had such an effect. Others include: “Land of Counterpane,” “Block City,” and “Land of Nod.” The nostalgic power of the poems derives from the fact that Stevenson does a phenomenal job of capturing a child’s enthusiasm for play, and in that regard I’m sure the collection will resonate more broadly than just I, or even than just farm kids.
Afterall, there’s a lot of Stevenson’s experience that is dissimilar to mine. Besides his era and his nationality, his mentions of nurses, gardeners, and cooks is surely much different from my own upbringing, being devoid of household staff. But the book only needs to draw upon that love of play and imagination to take one back.
For a work from the nineteenth century, this collection of 50+ lyric poems has aged well. There is the occasional word like “gabies” or “whin” to send one to a dictionary, but those archaic or obsolete terms are rarities. Furthermore, the lyricism of the poems makes them easily read or sung.
I’d highly recommend this collection for poetry readers, particularly children or those looking to reexperience childhood.
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