Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

The wisdom of Ogden Nash

In honor of our new socialist overlords, I though I would share a poem that was written during another era that has an increasing number of parallels to today; an era known as the Great Depression.

One From One Leaves Two

Higgledy piggledy, my black hen,
She lays eggs for gentlemen.
Gentlemen come every day
To count what my black hen doth lay.
If perchance she lays too many,
They fine my hen a pretty penny;
If perchance she fails to lay,
The gentlemen a bonus pay.

Mumbledy pumbledy, my red cow,
She’s cooperating now.
At first she didn’t understand
That milk production must be planned;
She didn’t understand at first
She either had to plan or burst,
But now the government reports
She’s giving pints instead of quarts.

Fiddle de dee, my next-door neighbors,
They are giggling at their labors.
First they plant the tiny seed,
Then they water, then they weed,
Then they hoe and prune and lop,
They they raise a record crop,
Then they laugh their sides asunder,
And plow the whole caboodle under.

Abracadabra, thus we learn
The more you create, the less you earn.
The less you earn, the more you’re given,
The less you lead, the more you’re driven,
The more destroyed, the more they feed,
The more you pay, the more they need,
The more you earn, the less you keep,
And now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to take
If the tax-collector hasn’t got it before I wake.

Ogden Nash


"History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme."--Mark Twain

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Ray Bradbury, the Poet

I enjoyed reading Ray Bradbury immensely in my younger days. I did not know he was a poet, too.

America
By RAY BRADBURY

We are the dream that other people dream.
The land where other people land
When late at night
They think on flight
And, flying, here arrive
Where we fools dumbly thrive ourselves.

Refuse to see
We be what all the world would like to be.
Because we hive within this scheme
The obvious dream is blind to us.
We do not mind the miracle we are,
So stop our mouths with curses.
While all the world rehearses
Coming here to stay.
We busily make plans to go away.

How dumb! newcomers cry, arrived from Chad.
You're mad! Iraqis shout,
We'd sell our souls if we could be you.
How come you cannot see the way we see you?
You tread a freedom forest as you please.
But, damn! you miss the forest for the trees.
Ten thousand wanderers a week
Engulf your shore,
You wonder what their shouting's for,
And why so glad?

Run warm those souls: America is bad?
Sit down, stare in their faces, see!
You be the hoped-for thing a hopeless world would be.
In tides of immigrants that this year flow
You still remain the beckoning hearth they'd know.
In midnight beds with blueprint, plan and scheme
You are the dream that other people dream.

I thought it was deplorable when Michael Moore appropriated and tweaked--without consent--the title of Mr. Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 as a means to his self-serving ends. In his plea to Mr. Moore to find another title for his movie, Mr. Bradbury said his personal politics were of no matter regarding his objection. He was simply upset that Mr. Moore did not ask permission.

This poem illustrates to me that Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Moore's politics couldn't be further from eachother, thankfully.