daisy: (a modern perception)

I took the poem "Daisy" by Francis Thompson and kept every other line. I then modified the poem slightly to read better and came up with this new modified poem. It came out pretty interesting and is on the verge of some deep meaning.

 

daisy: (a modern perception)

(From the original poem “Daisy” By Francis Thompson)

where the thistle lifts a purple crown
& the harebell shakes on the windy hill,
the hills look over on the South
in concert with the sea-breeze hand in hand.

where mid the gorse the raspberry grow
2 children did we stray & talk.
she listened with big-lipped surprise,
her skin like a grape with veins.

she knew not those sweet words she spoke,
but there was never a bird, so sweet a song.
oh, there were flowers in Storrington
but the sweetest flower here on Sussex hill.

her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.
a look, a word of her winsome mouth,
a berry red, a guileless look,
& yet they made my wild, wild heart calm.

for standing artless as the air,
she picked some berries with her hand,
the fairest things have fleetest end,
but the rose's scent is bitterness.

she looked a little wistfully,
the sea's eye had a mist on it,
she went her unremembering way,
the pang of all the partings gone.

she left me marveling at my soul
at all the sadness in the sweet,
still, still I seemed to see her, still
& take the berries from her hand.

nothing begins, & nothing ends,
for we are born in other's pain.

Copied & Modified by Mark David Jordan, 2011

DAISY

By Francis Thompson

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
     Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill--
     O breath of the distant surf!--

The hills look over on the South,
     And southward dreams the sea;
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand
     Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
     Red for the gatherer springs;
Two children did we stray and talk
     Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise,
     Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape whose veins
     Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake,
     Nor knew her own sweet way;
But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
     Thronged in whose throat all day.

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
     On the turf and on the spray;
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
     Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.
     She gave me tokens three:--
A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
     And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,
     A still word,--strings of sand!
And yet they made my wild, wild heart
     Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air,
     And candid as the skies,
She took the berries with her hand,
     And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end,
     Their scent survives their close:
But the rose's scent is bitterness
     To him that loved the rose.

She looked a little wistfully,
     Then went her sunshine way:--
The sea's eye had a mist on it,
     And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
     She went and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone,
     And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul
     Was sad that she was glad;
At all the sadness in the sweet,
     The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
     Look up with soft replies,
And take the berries with her hand,
     And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
     That is not paid with moan,
For we are born in other's pain,
     And perish in our own.

monkeys create money: (pollution matters)

there is happy talk in public

about monkeys,
adapting their behavior,
adapting their physiology
for the business model.

money pollution matters.
when the haze clears temporarily
we can actually see the sun
but avoid celebrating
until our penises
are hidden.

monster companies
are pumping money pollution
as we pump our girlfriends
without any real action taken
like dumping hazardous waste.

volunteers
you must stand up & be counted
& be prepared
for the incipient rebellion
or remain on this
artificial life support.

once the leak was made public
the air cleared
& the monkey trial began,
the top monkey
called in to offer
her personal thanks.

are we prepared
to cope with just
how differently they do think?
we shall know them
by their deeds &
not where the money went.

obscured by a different kind
of clear air
happy talk in public
does what it does
with a twist.
steal your daughters away
to cleaner air
before it’s too late.

Mark David Jordan, 2011

BEFORE

By William Ernest Henley

Behold me waiting--waiting for the knife.
A little while, and at a leap I storm
The thick sweet mystery of chloroform,
The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.
The gods are good to me: I have no wife,
No innocent child, to think of as I near
The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear
Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.

Yet I am tremulous and a trifle sick,
And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:
My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.
Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready
But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:
You carry Caesar and his fortunes--Steady!

it squeezes: (too tired)

i will sit hard

until the end.
outside in back i shot
at a garbage can but missed.

yesterday i practiced
setting my chair on fire.
everything is a sign.

i sit all day in my day pajamas
phone torn from the wall
too tired to kill my friends
ripping them up
i could delete them forever.

before they all found jesus
there was a lot to discuss
now i am pumped with drugs
unable to move.

jesus freaks
it squeezes hard
trying to pull me
but I will fight until the end
not wanting to be alone.

if i don’t get out
i will explode
but i called in sick again
& fell against my green plaid couch
rambling missives from strangers
with a lot to discuss
in my head.

each day in this shrinking self
psych ward seems shorter
but i am so tried
too tired to move
the dresser from in front
of the door.

arming myself against them
all of them
if i don’t get out
i will implode.

Mark David Jordan, 2011

LAUGHING SONG
By William Blake

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, ha he!"

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!"

get your guns: (& mothers)

 

 

get your guns

little children vandals
have shot toy arrows
through our windows
(& open doors)

provoked by an order
(remotely given)
to give out our mothers
telephone numbers
& christian zealots

the paper read:
the bosom of christian america
was roasted alive
in a fiery crash
(along with its deeper soul)

equally reluctant
to take on the issues
the ignored groups
were seized in their locker rooms
(& torn to pieces)
in this war of attrition

in the background could be heard
automatic gun fire
it was absolutely imperative
even though it created
a cruel odyssey
(& front line)

what are you
if you cannot portray
the role
of a suspected terrorist
against the asymmetrical struggle
inconvenient to the majority

imperial power was the only truth
the legions knew
as they were getting their guns
ready for a psychotic demonstration
of that power

messages imprinted
(with coded references)
it was a secret
how they established the

movements
of spiritual multiplication
zealots confined to the streets
the figures are probably higher
(even though denied)

reluctant to take on the issue
we can only hope
they go away one day
unprovoked and confined
to their own
(closet space)

subverting without impunity
there is truth
in imperial power

Mark David Jordan, 2011