Home » Misc » Nursery rhymes about jack

Nursery rhymes about jack


The House That Jack Built: An English Nursery Rhyme

The House That Jack Built: An English Nursery Rhyme
an English nursery rhyme of folktale type 2035
edited by

D. L. Ashliman
© 2009
  1. This is the house that Jack built.
  2. This is the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  3. This is the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  4. This is the cat,
    That kill'd the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  5. This is the dog,
    That worried the cat,
    That kill'd the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  6. This is the cow with the crumpled horn,
    That toss'd the dog,
    That worried the cat,
    That kill'd the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  7. This is the maiden all forlorn,
    That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn,
    That tossed the dog,
    That worried the cat,
    That kill'd the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  8. This is the man all tatter'd and torn,
    That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
    That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn,
    That tossed the dog,
    That worried the cat,
    That kill'd the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  9. This is the priest all shaven and shorn,
    That married the man all tatter'd and torn,
    That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
    That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
    That tossed the dog,
    That worried the cat,
    That kill'd the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  10. This is the cock that crow'd in the morn,
    That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
    That married the man all tatter'd and torn,
    That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
    That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn,
    That tossed the dog,
    That worried the cat,
    That kill'd the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  11. This is the farmer sowing his corn,
    That kept the cock that crow'd in the morn,
    That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
    That married the man all tatter'd and torn,
    That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
    That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn,
    That tossed the dog,
    That worried the cat,
    That killed the rat,
    That ate the malt
    That lay in the house that Jack built.
  • Source: James Orchard Halliwell [Halliwell-Phillipps], The Nursery Rhymes of England: Collected Chiefly from Oral Tradition, 4th edition (London: John Russell Smith, 1846), no. 398, pp. 175-78.
  • Links to additional nineteenth-century versions:
    1. Bentley's Miscellany, vol. 13 (London: Richard Bentley, 1843), p. 481. This is a parody of the traditional rhyme. It was first published in the Morning Chronicle, September 22, 1809.
    2. [William Hone], The Political House That Jack Built, illustrated by George Cruikshank (1819). This is a parody of the traditional rhyme.
    3. "A New House That Jack Built," The Examiner: A Sunday Paper on Politics, Domestic Economy and Theatricals, for the year 1819 (London: John Hunt, 1819), p. 652. This is a parody of the traditional rhyme.
    4. A Treasury of Pleasure Books for Young People (London: Sampson Low and Son, 1856), no. 5, pp. 1-16. Each story in this volume is numbered separately.
    5. Laura Valentine, Games for Family Parties and Children (London: Frederick Warne and Company, 1869), p. 66.
    6. William Alexander Clouston, Popular Tales and Fictions: Their Migrations and Transformations, vol. 1 (Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1887), pp. 289-91.

Return to D. L. Ashliman's folktexts, a library of folktales, folklore, fairy tales, and mythology.

Revised May 1, 2009.

'Jack' nursery rhymes/songs: little_details — LiveJournal

'Jack' nursery rhymes/songs: little_details — LiveJournal ?
I'm looking for nursery rhymes or traditional songs that have a character named Jack in them. * I'm trying to avoid the most obvious candidates (Jack Be Nimble, Jack and Jill, Jack Sprat, Little Jack Horner, The House that Jack Built). Others I've found in my searching and am still considering are Jack-a-Nory, Little Jack Jingle, Jack-a-Dandy, Jack Rowland, Jack Tar, and Black Jack Davy, but I'm looking for other options so I can choose the one that works best. I've googled for combinations of "jack" and "nursery rhyme" and "ballad" and "folk song", but a) the most obvious candidates always come up and swamp the less common results, and b) especially in the folk song searches, I get more results for singers named Jack.

*Not for Graveyard Book fic (though I kind of wish it were). The scenario is that a character (Jayne from Firefly, to be precise) is playing cards while under the inadvertant effect of a mind-altering substance, and can't remember the name of that "guy with the little hat" in his hand, but comes out with a short verse that contains the word 'jack' instead. I'm envisioning this rhyme as one he might have learned as a child and would remember under duress, so something fairly simple and with obvious rhymes would be good.

ETA: Thanks for all the suggestions! I ended up going with the 'futurized' 'House That Jack Built' idea, because I loved it :)

Tags: ~folklore (misc), ~music

Subscribe

  • Wound care in regency England

    Hello! I was just wondering if anyone would happen to know anything about wound care towards the end of the regency period, round about 1820. I have…

  • Facial slashing treatment & outcome in primitive tech setting

    Hi, I've been lurking for a while and really appreciate the work yall do here. My scenario is pretty similar to this post but with the added…

  • Delayed First Aid Following Animal Attack + Misc.

    Hello, fine people at little_details. This is my first post here — usually, I try to BS through the medical miscellany and try to extract what I…

Photo

Hint http://pics. livejournal.com/igrick/pic/000r1edq

  • 37 comments
    • 37 comments
    • Wound care in regency England

      Hello! I was just wondering if anyone would happen to know anything about wound care towards the end of the regency period, round about 1820. I have…

    • Facial slashing treatment & outcome in primitive tech setting

      Hi, I've been lurking for a while and really appreciate the work yall do here. My scenario is pretty similar to this post but with the added…

    • Delayed First Aid Following Animal Attack + Misc.

      Hello, fine people at little_details. This is my first post here — usually, I try to BS through the medical miscellany and try to extract what I…

    Samuil Marshak, The House That Jack Built, read children's poems about Jack's house online

    Read, watch and listen to children's fairy tales

    Russian fairy tale > Children's poems > Samuil Marshak > The house that Jack built, poems, Samuil Marshak

    The house that Jack built, poetry, Samuil Marshak

    About poetry

    The house that Jack built

    Here is the house
    That Jack built.

    And this is wheat,
    Which is stored in a dark closet
    In the house,
    Which Jack built.

    And this is a cheerful tit bird,
    Which often steals wheat,
    Which is stored in a dark closet
    In the house,
    Which Jack built.

    Here is a cat,
    Who scares and catches a chickadee,
    Who often steals wheat,
    Who is kept in a dark closet
    In the house,
    Which Jack built.

    Here is a dog without a tail,
    Who shakes a cat by the collar,
    Who frightens and catches a tit,
    Who often steals wheat,
    Who keeps in a dark closet
    In the house,
    Who built Jack.

    And this is a hornless cow,
    Kicking an old dog without a tail,
    Who pats a cat by the collar,
    Who scares and catches a tit,
    Which often steals wheat,
    Which is stored in a dark closet
    In the house,
    Which was built by Jack.

    And this is an old woman, gray-haired and strict,
    Who milks a hornless cow,
    Who kicked an old dog without a tail,
    Who pats a cat by the collar,
    Who scares and catches a chickadee,
    Who often steals wheat,
    Who is kept in a dark closet
    In the house,
    Who was built by Jack.

    And this is a lazy and fat shepherd,
    Who quarrels with a strict cowshed,
    Who milks a hornless cow,
    Who kicked an old dog without a tail,
    Who shakes a cat by the collar,
    Who frightens and catches a tit,
    Who often steals wheat Which is stored in a dark closet
    In the house
    that Jack built.

    Here are two roosters,
    Who wake that shepherd,
    Who quarrel with a strict barn,
    Who milks a hornless cow,
    Who kicked an old dog without a tail,
    Who shakes a cat by the collar,
    Who often frightens and catches a tit,
    Who steals wheat,
    Which is stored in a dark closet
    In the house,
    Which Jack built.

    Samuel Marshak

    ALL THE POEMS OF SAMUIL MARSHAK

    ALL CHILDREN'S POEMS

    ← Previous

    Next →

    →ALL TALES HERE←

    Tell a fairy tale to friends and acquaintances:

    The Tale of Tsar Saltan

    Sister Alyonushka and Brother Ivanushka

    The Tale of the Dead Princess and the Seven Bogatyrs

    The Tale of the Fisherman and the Fish

    Scarlet Flower

    Stone flower, film fairy tale (1946)

    Cinderella, performance fairy tale (1978)

    The Magic Bottle, fairy tale play (1999)

    New Gulliver, fairy tale film (1935)

    King Thrushbeard, fairy tale film (1965)

    Alice in Wonderland, audio fairy tale (1976)

    Poems for children, Samuil Marshak (1961)

    Kid and Carlson who lives on the roof, audio fairy tale (1975)

    Thank you, sorry and please, audio fairy tale (1979)

    How a boar saved a hare, audio fairy tale (1971)

    Straw goby cartoon (1971)

    Adventures of Munchausen, cartoon, all series

    Leopold the Cat's Treasure, cartoon (1981)

    Let's be friends, cartoon (1979)

    My brother is an ostrich, cartoon (1971)

    ↑ Up

    Jack London.

    Youthful poems (translated from English by M. Lukashkina)

    The poet and translator Masha Lukashkina is already familiar to our site visitors. We are pleased to present to your attention her new work.

    Many young men write poetry. Not passed "poetic fever" and twenty-year-old Jack London. Actually, his writing career began with the composition of poetry. "What kind of verses I did not write , - he later recalled, - for every taste, from triplets and sonnets to blank verse, as well as epic poems" . Carried away, Jack did not leave the room for twelve to fourteen hours a day, interspersing "poetic exercises", as he later called them, with writing philosophical and political articles, as well as stories.
    In addition to his love of poetry, he was inspired to write like this by need. Natural business acumen, combined with a romantic disposition of the soul, suggested to him that it was much more interesting and, it would seem, easier to earn a living not by hard physical labor, but by writing poetry, especially humorous ones. It must be admitted that he was wrong. Of the four triplets written by him, only one was approved and published - in an autobiographical, in fact, novel "Martin Eden" - about a young man who went through a difficult path from a simple sailor to a successful writer.

    IN and OUT
    (Triolet)

    I went out for a minute -
    And he came to me,
    Wanting to get a loan!
    Well, I - went out for a minute ...
    I will never forget,
    That he left with nothing!
    In a happy moment −
    He left, I went in.

    In and Out

    When he came in
    Why, I was out;
    To borrow some tin
    Was why he came in,
    And I had to grin,
    For he went without;
    So I was in
    And he was out.

    "It's not art, but it's a dollar" , said the beginning writer Martin Eden about his creation. "Maybe they'll give you a dollar for that," his fiancee Ruth objected to him, ", but that's a redhead's dollar in the circus" .
    Was Ruth right? Was Mabel Applegart, Jack London's lover, later introduced by him in the novel under the name of Ruth, right? Mabel, after reading Jack's poems, was very critical of them and began to appeal to the mind of her beloved, urging him not to waste time or energy on poetry. Jack, on the other hand, stood his ground, assuring Mabel that by practicing writing poetry, he thereby improves his prose ... And it seems that he achieved his goal. Suffice it to recall the poetry and lyricism that permeated the story "White Silence" and the story "The Call of the Ancestors", created by him at the beginning of his writing career.
    “Many years ago, when I had not yet sold any of my stories, I, as a beginner, dabbled in poetry ,” Jack London later recalled, “, but one fine day I resolutely gave up this occupation. And since then I have not tried to write a single line, despite the conviction that never left me that I could make a good poet.

    Jack London
    (1876-1916)

    GOLD DIGGER'S DREAM

    Gold seeker dreams of food -

    In the Klondike, which is covered with snow up to the chest.
    Hungry Dreams are dragged into a seine −
    And he is immersed in a sweet dream.

    He sees: relatives are sitting by the fire,
    And the servants are serving roast on the table.
    He groans: “Oh, how much food for me!
    How much would a person here eat!”

    Fantasy gently circles over the sleeping man
    And forces him to get up from the damp couch.
    A Hunger weaves and weaves mirages
    And drives to where the edible is a mountain:

    Veal cutlets, pork fillet,
    Steaming coffee, slices of pie ...
    One has only to blink there - and immediately on the table
    Soup and a leg of lamb will appear.

    His hands are trembling… Reading a prayer
    − Oh, is there a happier person on earth! −
    He looks around like a child.
    And finally, he chooses the fillet.

    Saliva fills the sunken mouth.
    And the jaws walk and walk in their sleep.
    And whether he mumbles, or chews ...
    “Merciful Lord! You are good to me!"

    … What does that rustle that cut through the Darkness mean?
    Whose greedy champ aims at the temple?
    The dog... Yes, that's it! Doesn't he imagine? ..
    The dog in the corner is eating up a piece.

    Grabbing his gun, he rushes towards her.
    Oh, cunning creature that lay in wait for the Night!
    The dog, however, is quicker, smarter.
    Carries away with a piece of corned beef.

    A piece is stolen - and the knapsack is empty.
    Oh, how he cries, oh how he wilted!
    The last piece - it's gone forever.
    Dry beans - how much use are they?

    Poor fellow, − alas!.. The Dream deceived you.
    What's the use of crying out to an indifferent Fate!
    Where is that salmon, pate and bacon?
    And where is that Pie you so desired?

    October 1898

    THE KLONDYKER'S DREAM

    In slumbers of midnight the Klondyker lay;

    The snow was fast falling, the cold was intense;
    But weary and hungry, his cares flew away,
    And visions of dinners were calling him hence.

    He dreamed of his home, of the dining-room table,
    And servants that waited his every behest;
    He longed 0 to eat, to eat all he was able,
    For ah! of all dreams he had dreamed 'twas the best.

    Then Fancy her marvelous miracles wrought,
    And bade the thin starved one get out of his bed;
    The Klondyke he left far behind him, he sought
    The place where the hungered could always be fed.

    He came in good season, the table was laid;
    The rich, fragrant coffee was steaming and hot;
    The pastries and puddings were there all arrayed;
    The beefsteak was done, aye was done to a dot.

    His fingers were trembling, so rich was the fare,
    And when Grace was ended he murmured Amen!
    And took, of all dishes, the beefsteak so rare;
    Ah! he was the happiest man of all men.

    The jaws of the sleeper are moving with joy;
    Food quickens his palate, his hardships seem o'er;
    A feeling of plenty steals over the boy—
    "0 God! thou hast fed me, I ask for no more. "

    Ah! whence is that form which now bursts on his eye?
    Ah! what is that sound that now catches his ear?
    "Tis the dog of the Klondyke thieving so sly!
    "Tis a crunching of jaws, a crunching quite near!

    He springs from the blankets, he seizes his gun;
    Gaunt Famine confronts him with images dire;
    But out of the tent goes the dog on the run,
    For well he knows when it's time to retire.

    The last piece of bacon is gone from the sack;
    He weeps, 0 he weeps, for he knows what it means;
    The last piece of bacon - 'twill never come back;
    Henceforth his diet must be sour bread and beans.

    0 'Klondyker, woe to your dreams of good fare!
    In waking they left thee, they left on the fly;
    Where now is that beefsteak so juicy and rare;
    The coffee, the pudding, the pastry and pie?

    HE LEFT HAND
    (My apologies to the Englishman Henry)

    Only the rumor about gold passed −
    He hurried to the Klondike.
    Walked a hundred miles, but did not find
    Gold-bearing veins.
    He was getting cold, he was starving.
    When he returned, he was sad.
    I stopped dreaming about money.
    And − lowered his hands.

    The army trumpet sings −
    And he is already a soldier.
    But discipline and shooting
    He is oppressed like hell.
    Huda soldier food.
    And the rain drizzled.
    The corporal hit him in the neck -
    He lowered his hands.

    Fell in love with a girl in May −
    For a gentle voice!
    She answered his love ardor
    once.
    But flatly refused,
    Only invited to marry.
    And he immediately flew down from heaven
    And − lowered his hands.

    Another try?.. Damn it.
    Those three failed.
    Went to Harlem - and from the bridge
    Stepped without looking down.
    The chest is tight from the cold,
    There is not enough strength to cry.
    He floundered a little...
    And − lowered his hands.

    Spring 1897

    HE NEVER TRIED AGAIN
    (With apologies to Henry of England)

    He heard the wondrous tale and went
    To Klondyke's golden shore;
    A year of trial and toil he spent,
    And found not gold galore.
    And starved and frozen he returned,
    Singing a sad refrain;
    For nuggets he no longer yearned -
    He never tried again.

    The air rang loud with war's alarms,
    And a soldier he became;
    But Romance soon lost all her charms,
    And life in camp was tame.
    The drill was stiff, the grub was bad;
    He slept out in the rain;
    His captain was a beastly cad --
    He never tried again.

    He met a pretty Summer Girl,
    Who stole his heart away;
    She was a precious little pearl
    But when he asked her for her heart,
    She searched and searched in vain;
    For sad to say she had no heart –-
    He never tried again.

    Three times he'd tried, three times he'd failed;
    It could not last always;
    On Harlem Bridge he wept and wailed,
    And leaped into the bay.
    The water cold, he called for aid,
    And struggled might and main;
    He could not swim, so there he stayed –-
    He never tried again.

    TO GEORGE STERLING
    [George Sterling (1869-1926) -
    American poet, friend of Jack London]

    I watched the gardener work.
    He slightly tilted the iris towards him −
    And he tossed the petals, and something
    Corrected in the calyx of the flower.
    Is it blasphemy to call such an action,
    When will it bloom?
    And who, if not the Gardener, knows the remedy?
    The Devil does not lead his hand, - God!

    I remember my friend.
    He stirs everyday life - in order to
    To distinguish a voice that is not audible to the ear
    And to see the shadows hidden from the eyes ...
    He stood on a creeping cliff.
    But God - would not condemn that impulse?!

    GEORGE STERLING

    I saw a man open an iris petal.
    He ran his finger underneath the edge,
    unfolded it, and smoothed it out a little, for a moment he was almost God.
    Alone as we are, growing is so slow.
    I think of one who tried like that to unfold
    the margin of his life where it was curled,
    to see into the shadows shot with gold
    that lie in iris hues about the world.
    Because he dared to touch the sacred rim,
    does God resent this eagerness in him?


    (Triolet)

    I went to look for a treasure once
    In the direction where the rainbow rises.
    Jumped over the fence of the garden,
    Intending to find a treasure someday ...
    But I ask! − there is no need to talk about it
    To my beloved who lives in the garden.
    I managed to find my treasure once
    In the direction where the rainbow rises.

    January 1899

    WHERE THE RAINBOW FELL
    (Triolet)

    Just over the way where the rainbow fell,
    I knew I would find a treasure of gold,
    So I clambered over the fence pell mell,
    Just over the way where the rainbow fell;
    But I promised her I never would tell,
    And I know if I tell you'll tell her I told.
    Just over the way where the rainbow fell,
    I certainly found a treasure of gold.

    MY FORTUNE

    On a golden day, having come to the river,
    We sat in the breeze...
    You told me by the hand, -
    My fortune-teller!

    Oh, those moth shapes!
    Breasts that are slightly outlined!
    Eyes - two bright embers!
    It's not a pity to burn!

    So she told me:
    “Oh, the line of Life is long!
    And so clearly visible, −
    Life will be long.

    And this is an undoubted sign,
    That a happy marriage awaits you.
    And even Time is so! −
    Feelings will not cool.

    You are cheerful... I know it myself.
    And this is the Mind line.
    Eloquent and direct.
    Success prophesies.

    You are quick-tempered and capricious, but
    You are full of friends around you.
    Drink with you at the same time
    Anyone wants to.

    Ring of Venus... Oh-oh-oh,
    Yes, there are intrigues - a succession...
    Your life is pleasant at times.
    Though not sinless!..

    Diseases, troubles, poverty
    You will never be touched.
    Sorrows will be. Sometimes
    You will sigh, of course.

    There is a girl… She is shy −
    And she is silent about love yet.
    The dove lures -
    He flies by.

    The fortune-teller fell silent... Like a needle,
    Sweet pain entered my heart...
    "I told you everything I could,
    To you, my love..." b
    I am in this network!

    O delightful stream!
    O dear, clear light of the eyes!
    A stream of excited speeches
    And those sighs!

    As long as my ardor has not faded,
    I, without taking my eyes off the fortune-teller,
    I was ready right here and now
    Soar into the sky! - Did something happen to her?
    Sad song!

    November 1898

    MY LITTLE PALMIST

    The leaves stirred softly overhead,
    While from my hand a tale was read,
    By laughing lips of rosy red;
    My little Palmist.

    0 that slight form so dainty-fair,
    That pulsing breast, beyond compare,
    That cadenced rise and fall of air! –
    Of breaths the balm'est.

    "This line, unbroken, deep and long,
    Assurance gives of health most strong,
    And truely 'twill your days prolong;
    The line Vitalis.

    While this, so clear and firm and fine,
    Say Cupid's toils about the twine
    And happiest wedlock will be thine −
    'Tis called Mensalis.

    "And here, your disposition gay,
    Is quickly learned from lines which say,
    That where you go or where you stay,
    Your ways are jolly.

    And yet again, these furrows blent,
    One thing alone for thee is meant,
    In Love's fond dalliance you've spent
    Fair hours in folly.
    Thy life shall gladden.

    Nor sudden sorrow, or swift pain,
    Nor misery shall thee enchain;
    Nor blighting curse, or dread murrain,
    Thy heart shall sadden.

    "Yet least among your pleasures great,
    There will a little maiden wait,
    With love, as bird feels for its mate,
    With love sincerest. "

    Ere yet she ceased, I knelt, a thrall,
    As to my heart her last words fall, –-
    "I've held naught back, so this is all,
    For thee, my Dearest."

    0 sweet that rippling flow of sound,
    That fairy speech which wrapped me 'roundl
    Those magic meshes 'bout me bound,
    I would not sever.

    0 sweet those pure, pellucid eyes,
    Whose slightest glance I fondly prize! −
    Ah God! in this, my paradise,
    I'd-stay forever.

    It seems but yesterday that we,
    With hand in hand, and knee to knee,
    Spent one sweet hour in childish glee;
    My little Palmist.

    But yesterday, − Ah well-a-day!
    And where is now my little fay,
    Who scanned my hand and went away?
    O sing thou Psalmist.

    AT DAWN

    The firmament glows at dawn −
    And the stars are no longer visible.
    A barely audible breeze carries
    The smell of honey from the field.

    I'm standing under her window.
    The shutters are firmly closed.
    She fell into a sweet dream.
    Time to wake up. And urgently!

    Throwing stones at the window −
    Two or three minutes in a row.
    To doze, of course, is tricky
    Under this cannonade!

    Will the nymph hear this knock?

    But here she is − Oh, I can't wait! −
    She opened the window.
    Remembering the last night,
    Lightly sighed.

    Like a mountain chamois, slender,
    Her face is like a rose,
    She leans towards me...
    Reproachful in her question:

    − Why, a milk bottle
    Didn't Katie show up?
    So wait until...
    Or pour it into yours!

    DAYBREAK

    The blushing dawn the easy illumes,
    The birds their merry matins sing,
    The buds breath forth their sweet perfumes,
    And butterflies are on the wing.

    I pause beneath the window high,
    The door is locked, the house is guiet;
    ‘Tis there, abed, she sure must lie, −
    To Wake her, -- ah! I'll try it.

    And pebbles hurtling through the air,
    Strike full upon the window-pane,
    Awaking her who slumbers there
    With their insistent hurricane.

    Ye gods! In my imagination,
    The wondrous scene do I behold -
    A nymph's bewildered consternation
    At summons thus so fierce and bold.

    A moment passes, then I see
    The gauzy curtains drawn aside,
    And sweet eyes beaming down on me,
    And then a window upward glide.

    Fair as the morn, with rosy light,
    She blushed with a faint surprise,
    Then thinking of the previous night,
    In dulcet tones she softly cries:

    “It should have been put out by Nan,
    But I'll be down within a minute –
    No, never mind, leave your own can,
    And put two quarts, please, in it.”

    O LOVE

    Whenever golden days,

    What I spent with you,

    Suddenly melted into metal −
    What would I give it for
    With an unwavering hand?
    For the hour - coming - yours!

    O LOVE

    Love, could I but take the hours

    That once I spent with thee,
    And mint them all in coined gold –
    What should I purchase that would hold
    Their worth in joy to me?
    Ah, love, another hour with thee!

    RECOGNITION

    I also like the rustle of wings,
    And these tricks with the wind.
    I loved to fly a kite
    With ivy twined tower.

    Serpent breaks out of hands.
    Below - boiling foliage.
    Rapid flight. And suddenly -
    rays of heaven singing.

    Tight elastic thread
    And the snake that breaks from the roof,
    Will make the wind speak, -
    The phonograph will record everything.
    So I write recently,
    I present events.
    And I feel the pressure of the wind,
    And the flutter of the thread.

    May 1897

    MY CONFESSION
    I love to feel the wind's great power
    On my silken sails on high;
    As I upon my ivied, tower
    My Dragon Kite do fly.

    Each gusty breeze that stirs the trees
    Strikes on my silken kite
    Sending melodies like these
    Down from the living light.

    The silken string (a dainty thing,
    And white and "bright and neat),
    I fasten to a phonograph
    And make the breezes speak.

    That's how I write my stories,
    The wind upon the string
    Makes clear the sun-sky glories
    And tells me everything.

    ember song

    Sun fiery whips, −

    We didn't last long, but we bloomed...
    Who hid us in these
    Cells of the gloomy Earth?

    Not having drunk the desired cup,
    Not recognizing the earthly Spring,
    We, rudely desecrated,
    Removed from the holiday.

    In a cramped stone cellar,
    In the meager damp air
    We haven't stopped dreaming
    About a second birth.

    For a long, long time the agony lasts...
    Will Time flow back?
    God, turning the Page, −
    Will he reveal us to the world again?!

    March 1899

    THE SONG OF THE FLAMES
    We are motes of sunshine stolen
    When the world was fair and young,
    Stolen from our joytime golden,
    Into earth's black bowels flung;
    Kissed of light and born of passion,
    Thrilling with the wine of life,
    Ravished in most cruel fashion,
    We were banished from the strife.

    Pent in prisons dark and loathsome,
    Cells of sorrow, 'reft of mirth,
    In our rocky chamber, lonesome,
    Slept we till our second birth, –
    Slept we through the long, long ages,
    Dreaming of the time to be,
    Till God, turning many pages,
    Deemed it fit to set us free.

    HORS DE SAISON*
    (* - out of season)

    Run after the train?
    I'm running ... But, by the way,
    Why try? My ticket
    Desperately expired!

    My earnings are decent
    (I spin like a squirrel!).
    And I'll bring it home -
    My purchases are crayons.

    I'm in a hurry to get out of town - to relax
    In the circle of old acquaintances.
    They're on their way to the city...
    Another miss!

    My socks are not the right length -
    A sample of bad manners.
    Boots - a bit narrow.
    Cloak - not in that tone.

    I'm used to dancing with a jump,
    And everyone dances smoothly.
    A friend makes me stick,
    A foe - and even more so!

    I'm happy to talk about duties
    And other realism.
    And they tell me about silver
    And biometallism.

    I have been smoking makhorka since then,
    How I began to work in the wheelhouse.
    Land world, reproach me,
    Switched to pipes at once.

    In matters of the heart - mayata.
    Marry - me?! Where to!
    I fall in love with a girl when
    She gets married.

    I decide to part with my life?! Well,
    The devil will say something like:
    "Weird! You're falling behind again,
    Because suicide is not in fashion!

    Run after fashion?
    Try? No reason!
    No matter how hard I try, I'm dressed
    Alas! - out of season.

    July 1897

    HORS DE SAISON

    Nothing but comes too late with me,
    No matter how I reason;
    The fashions swiftly from me flee;
    I'm always out of season.

    My slim income with care I eke,
    To gratify some passion;
    But when I do it is antique,
    Having gone out of fashion.

    I struggle 'mid temptations great,
    To take a brief vacation;
    But upward climbs the railroad rate,
    'Yond all anticipation,

    When at the seaside I arrive,
    The crowd is in the city;
    No matter how I do contrive,
    I miss them–more's the pity.

    I never bought the latest hat,
    Nor other 'bomination;
    But that my friends said "Look at that,
    It's older than creation."

    And thus it is with all my clothes;
    My neckties, trousers, waistcoats;
    My cuffs, my studs, my shoes, my hose;
    My summer suits and great coats.

    I learned to waltz with hop and jump;
    And then the dancers glided;
    My friends thought me the biggest chump,
    And all my 'tempts derided,

    The cigarette I learned to smoke
    With nausea most horrible;
    But custom changed with one fell stroke
    To briarwood pipes intolerable.

    In. politics it is the same;
    When tariff-struck, hilaric,
    'Gainst free trade's evils I disclaim,
    The crowd's gone bimetallic,

    I never loved but that too late
    I plead my adoration:
    Another man had been there first,
    To my great consternation.

    At last one day, cursing my fate,
    In dark despair to 'scape her,
    'Twas told me on the brink, "Too late,
    Suicide's no more the caper."

    Nothing but comes too late with me,
    No matter how I reason;
    The fashions swiftly from me flee;
    I'm always out of season.

    FEARED HELL
    (Triolet)

    Probably afraid of Hell,
    Jack returned my shirt today.
    I laugh. I'm laughing until I drop...
    “You understand, I don't need someone else's!
    You stole this one from your older brother!
    And mine, right, he drank away, gave a blunder!
    Probably afraid of Hell,
    Jack returned my shirt today.

    OVER THE EDGE

    I live a long time... Over the edge.
    When Death comes for me, -
    Be quiet!.. Let's agree:
    Drive away this crafty rabble, -
    Jackals that will howl around
    The spirit of the emitting lion ...
    Only you ... You will understand, my friend,
    My last the words.

    TOO LATE

    Too late' Even Is death too late'
    Had it but come - silence' Put out
    These sniffling fools that wait,
    With hungry jowl and, slobbered snout,
    My end − foregathered, at the feast

    Like jackals when the lion is dead.
    But you, who were among the least
    Of all my friends, stay by my bed.

    MAN OF THE FUTURE

    What is he like - can anyone describe him?

    It will split the globe into pieces −

    In the heat of unprecedented wars?

    Will Death drive away?

    Or maybe it will wave to the stars,
    Driving a team of comets −
    In the interplanetary spaces of the Universe?

    OF MAN OF THE FUTURE

    Of man of the future! Who is able to describe him?

    Perhaps he breaks our globe into fragments
    In a time of warlike games.

    Learn more


    Wave

    North Coast Community Services
    710 Fraser Street, Prince Rupert, BC V8J 1P9
    Ph: 250.627.7166 | Fx: 250.627.7482

    © All Rights Reserved | powered by ExpressionEngine