Ever read a poem and felt like going somewhere?

QUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir,

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

With a cargo of ivory,

And apes and peacocks,

Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,

Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,

With a cargo of diamonds,

Emeralds, amythysts,

Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rails, pig-lead,

Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Cargoes, John Masefield

We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage

And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die,

We Poets of the proud old lineage

Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why, -

What shall we tell you? Tales, marvellous tales

Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest,

Where nevermore the rose of sunset pales,

And winds and shadows fall towards the West:

And there the world's first huge white-bearded kings

In dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep,

And closer round their breasts the ivy clings,

Cutting its pathway slow and red and deep.

The Golden Journey to Samarkand, James Flecker Elroy.

Simon Danz has come home again,

From cruising about with his buccaneers;

He has singed the beard of the King of Spain,

And carried away the Dean of Jaen

And sold him in Algiers.

In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles,

And weathercocks flying aloft in air,

There are silver tankards of antique styles,

Plunder of convent and castle, and piles

Of carpets rich and rare.

But when the winter rains begin,

He sits and smokes by the blazing brands,

And old seafaring men come in,

Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin,

And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine

Of the flickering fire of the winter night;

Figures in color and design

Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine,

Half darkness and half light.

Voices mysterious far and near,

Sound of the wind and sound of the sea,

Are calling and whispering in his ear,

"Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here?

Come forth and follow me!"

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again

For one more cruise with his buccaneers,

To singe the beard of the King of Spain,

And capture another Dean of Jaen

And sell him in Algiers.

A Dutch Picture, Longfellow.

Nice to see you in these parts again.

Banjo Patterson's Clancy of the Overflow always made me nostalgic for Oz outback when I was in Fiji.

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better

Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,

He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,

Just `on spec', addressed as follows, `Clancy, of The Overflow'.And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,

(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)

'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:

`Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.'

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy

Gone a-droving `down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go;

As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,

For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him

In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,

And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,

And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy

Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,

And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city

Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle

Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,

And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,

Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me

As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,

With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,

For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,

Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,

While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal --

But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of `The Overflow'.

Love old poetry.

Rudyard Kipling a favourie.

Loved his stories, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi etc from Jungle Book.

......

The River's Tale

Prehistoric

Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew--

(Twenty bridges or twenty-two)--

Wanted to know what the River knew,

For they were young, and the Thames was old

And this is the tale that River told:--

"I walk my beat before London Town,

Five hours up and seven down.

Up I go till I end my run

At Tide-end-town, which is Teddington.

Down I come with the mud in my hands

And plaster it over the Maplin Sands.

But I'd have you know that these waters of mine

Were once a branch of the River Rhine,

When hundreds of miles to the East I went

And England was joined to the Continent.

"I remember the bat-winged lizard-birds,

The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds,

And the giant tigers that stalked them down

Through Regent's Park into Camden Town.

And I remember like yesterday

The earliest Cockney who came my way,

When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand,

With paint on his face and a club in his hand.

He was death to feather and fin and fur.

He trapped my beavers at Westminster.

He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,

He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier.

He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,

Flint or bronze, at my upper fords,

While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin,

The tall Phoenician ships stole in,

And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay,

Flashed like dragon-flies, Erith way;

And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek

Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek,

And life was gay, and the world was new,

And I was a mile across at Kew!

But the Roman came with a heavy hand,

And bridged and roaded and ruled the land,

And the Roman left and the Danes blew in--

And that's where history begins!"

• That piece has been my alltime favourite.
  

I must go down to the sea again,

to the lonely sea and sky.

I left my vest and socks there,

I wonder if they're still dry.

Sorry, can't remember long pomes.

Oh little Mo I love you so

specially in your nightie'

When the moonlight flits across your tits

Oh Jesus Christ almighty

You have to travel a long way to find better.

Leisure

by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stop and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

Not time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

Having Bedlamized a very worthy thread I saw it upon myself to seek redemption and I found this.

The road is now your pearl

Looking down that open road

the paths within your mind

the worries of the world around

nevermore to find

the boss at work you cannot stand

the fight with your ex-girl

the nothingness of sheltered time

the road is now your pearl

riches do not bother you

belongings fade away

the only thing you know for sure

your freedom's here to stay

If the open road is cruel

it never seems to last

for every mile can change its way

leaving in the past

so listen friend to what I say

put your cares to rest

join me now to find yourself

to find out what is best

Attributed to one Mrone, Jul 23, 2004.