Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,

Two Random Poems For an Early Sunday Morning

Funny, I was looking for poetry by John Betjeman, ended up reading Blake and then surprise, surprise, ran into one of myfavorite old Jacques Brel songs, favorite because I love to sing it. Someone had posted it in a poetry forum and I thought I'd share it. You kindof need to hear the sweet 3/4 time of this piece to get the feeling of it though. It's sweet and almost pitying. I love Jacques Brel. I memorizedevery single song on Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well when I was a girl alone in my room with a record player.

Timid Frieda

Timid Frieda
Will they greet her
On the street where
Young strangers travel
On magic carpets
Floating lightly
In beaded caravans
Who can know if
They will free her
On the street where
She comes to join them
There she goes
With her valises
Held so tightly in her hands

Timid Frieda
Will life seize her
On the street where
The new dreams gather
Like fearless robins
Joined together
In high-flying bands
She feels taller
Troubles smaller
On the street where
She's lost in wonder
There she goes
With her valises
Held so tightly in her hands

Timid Frieda
Won't return now
To the home where
They do not need her
But always feed her
Little lessons
And platitudes from cans
She is free now
She will be now
On the street where
The beat's electric
There she goes
With her valises
Held so tightly in her hands

Timid Frieda
Who will lead her
On the street where
The cops all perish
For they can't break her
And she can take her
Brave new fuck you stand
Yet she's frightened
Her senses heightened
On the street where
The darkness brightens
There she goes
With her valises
Held so tightly in her hands

Timid Frieda
If you see her
On the street where
The future gathers
Just let her be her
Let her play in
The broken times of sand
There she goes now
Down the sidewalk
On the street where
The world is bursting
There she goes
With her valises
Held so tightly in her hands

--Jacques Brel

And just to get even for last week's House or anyone who can't empathise with a mouse or a rat, here's this immortal poem from Robert Burns that I love so very much because he obviously cares about this tiny field mouse who he accidentally disturbed and frightened. People who can feel for the smallest and least loved living creatures are always going to be the people I love the most. By the way Steinbeck got the title Of Mice and Men from this poem. It's fun to read out loud.

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, With The Plough

Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell ---
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld !

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy !

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

-- Robert Burns

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