Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp !
And surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
And gies a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie-waught,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

 – Robert Burns

De Camptown ladies sing dis song — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

De Camptown racetrack five miles long — Oh! doo-dah day!

I come down dah wid my hat caved in — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

I go back home wid a pocket full of tin — Oh! doo-dah day!



Chorus



Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day!

I’ll bet my money on de bob-tail nag — Somebody bet on de bay!



De long tail filly and de big black hoss — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

Dey fly de track and dey both cut across — Oh! doo-dah day!

De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

Can’t touch bottom wid a ten foot pole — Oh! doo-dah day!



Chorus



Old muley cow come on to de track — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

De bob-tail fling her ober his back — Oh! doo-dah day!

Den fly along like a rail-road car — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

Runnin’ a race with a shootin’ star — Oh! doo-dah day!



Chorus



Seen dem flyin’ on a ten mile heat — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

Round de race track, den repeat — Oh! doo-dah day!

I win my money on de bob-tail nag — Doo-dah! doo-dah!

I keep my money in an old tow-bag — Oh! doo-dah day!

Chorus

—Stephen C. Foster, (1826-1864)

technorati tags:poem, poetry, stephencfoster, stephen, foster, song

A Typographic Poem from Pia (set by myself, because I found it so lovely).

Dante

Albertina Regular

Pastonchi Regular

@ piaze.com: Ehrhardt, Dante, Albertina, Pastonchi

Nothing from me. Today a poem from Tiff Holland

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006 — One in a series of elegies by New York City poet Catherine Barnett, this poem describes the first gathering after death has shaken a family to its core. The father tries to help his grown daughter forget for a moment that, a year earlier, her own two daughters were killed, that she is now alone. He’s heartsick, realizing that drinking can only momentarily ease her pain, a pain and love that takes hold of the entire family. The children who join her in the field are silent guardians.

Family Reunion

My father scolded us all for refusing his liquor.
He kept buying tequila, and steak for the grill,
until finally we joined him, making margaritas,
cutting the fat off the bone.

When he saw how we drank, my sister
shredding the black labels into her glass
while his remaining grandchildren
dragged their thin bunk bed mattresses

first out to the lawn to play
then farther up the field to sleep next to her,
I think it was then he changed,
something in him died. He’s gentler now,

quiet, losing weight though every night
he eats the same ice cream he always ate
only now he’s not drinking,
he doesn’t fall asleep with the spoon in his hand,

he waits for my mother to come lie down with him.

Reprinted from “Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes Are Pierced,” Alice James Books, 2004, by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 2004 by Catherine Barnett. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Visiting a familiar and once dear place after a long absence can knock the words right out of us, and in this poem, Keith Althaus of Massachusetts observes this happening to someone else. I like the way he suggests, at the end, that it may take days before that silence heals over.

Homecoming

We drove through the gates
into a maze of little roads,
with speed bumps now,
that circled a pavilion,
field house, and ran past
the playing fields and wound
their way up to the cluster
of wood and stone buildings
of the school you went to once.
The green was returning to
the trees and lawn, the lake
was still half-lidded with ice
and blind in the middle.
There was nobody around
except a few cars in front
of the administration. It must
have been spring break.
We left without ever getting out
of the car. You were quiet
that night, the next day,
the way after heavy rain
that the earth cannot absorb,
the water lies in pools
in unexpected places for days
until it disappears.

Reprinted from “Ladder of Hours: Poems 1969-2005,” Ausable Press, Keene, N.Y., 2005, by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 2005 by Keith Althaus. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Storytelling binds the past and present together, and is as essential to community life as are food and shelter. Many of our poets are masters at reshaping family stories as poetry. Here Lola Haskins retells a haunting tale, cast in the voice of an elder. Like the best stories, there are no inessential details. Every word counts toward the effect.

Grandmother Speaks of the Old Country

That year there were many deaths in the village.
Germs flew like angels from one house to the next
and every family gave up its own. Mothers
died at their mending. Children fell at school.
Of three hundred twenty, there were eleven left.
Then, quietly, the sun set on a day when no one
died. And the angels whispered among themselves.
And that evening, as he sat on the stone steps,
your grandfather felt a small wind on his neck
when all the trees were still. And he would tell us
always, how he had felt that night, on the skin
of his own neck, the angels, passing.

Reprinted from “Desire Lines: New and Selected Poems,” BOA Editions, 2004, by permission of the author and the publisher. Copyright (c) 2004 by Lola Haskins. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Wel -co
me to W -ordPr
ess.
Th -is is yo
ur f
ir -st p
ost.
Ed
it or de
le
te it
, then start blo -g
ging!