Newspaper Poetry

Author: desperaudio

  • War

    From the Evening Star, August 29, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    Said the man who molds the cannon to the man who builds the ship,
    “I am giving you a cargo for a strange and fearful trip.
    And if you float or if you sink out yonder in the sea
    I’ll keep on molding cannon; and it’s all the same to me.”

    Said the man who builds the ship unto the cannon molder grim,
    “I’ll take your cannon for a sail where lads all smart and trim
    Will aim and fire true. And if your cannon shattered be,
    I’ll keep on with my building; and it’s all the same to me.”

    “For every gun that cracks we’ll mold a bigger, stouter gun.
    For every ship that sinks we’ll put afloat a better one.
    The lads that come and go—the women weep to lose them thus!
    But we make our ships and cannon, and it’s all the same to us.”

  • My Baby

    From The Topeka State Journal, August 28, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    (A poem for every father.)

    I’ve heard a lot of babies squall,
        I’ve heard ‘em east and west,
    But after hearin’ of ‘em all,
        I like my kid’s yell best.

    It doesn’t worry me a bit,
        For every time I hear
    Him tune up to his heart’s content,
        It’s music to my ear.

    Your own kid’s voice is always sweet,
        No matter what the key;
    In all the world no one can sing
        So charmingly as he.

    You think it’s cute when your own child
        Cuts loose with might and main;
    It always is the neighbor’s kid
        That drives you half insane.

  • An Old Battle Field

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 27, 1914. By Frank L. Stanton.

    The softest whisperings of the scented South,
    And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth;
    And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
    The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn;
    With song of larks, low lingering in the loam,
    And blue skies bending over love and home.

    But still the thought; somewhere, upon the hills,
    Or where the vales ring with the whippoorwills,
    Sad, wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
    For the loved sound of unreturning feet,
    And when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
    Dream of a battle and an unmarked grave.

  • Civic Pride

    From the Rock Island Argus, August 26, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    We’ve made gains at Pumpkin Center, as the census figures show;
    We have twice the population that we had ten years ago;
    We have outstripped Cherry Valley and left Podunk in the rear;
    We are catchin’ up with Bingtown and are crowding Rensaleer;
    By annexin’ all our suburbs we have made a mighty stride,
    So you’ll see it ain’t no wonder we are full of civic pride.

    Yes, our grafters keep on graftin’ in the same old busy way;
    There’s another scandal started nearly every other day;
    Can’t somehow persuade the voters that it wouldn’t be a crime
    To quit votin’ the same tickets that their dads did in their time;
    Got a council full of rascals; gettin’ robbed on every side,
    But we’ve gained in population and are full of civic pride.

    There is rubbish in our alleys and the air is full of smoke;
    We’ve a waterworks department, but it’s got to be a joke;
    There is graftin’ in the courthouse, likewise in city hall;
    The streets are full of mudholes and get no repairs at all;
    We’re in debt and gettin’ deeper so the crooks can be supplied,
    But we’ve outstripped Cherry Valley and are full of civic pride.

    We should have another schoolhouse—issued bonds a year ago;
    It appears the grafters somehow gobbled up the money, though;
    We’ve a law forbiddin’ gamblin’, but the gamblers never mind,
    And the town looks like the dickens, but we’ve left Podunk behind;
    We are catchin’ up with Bingtown; we’ve spread out on every side,
    So you’ll see it ain’t no wonder we are full of civic pride.

  • Reflections in a Lunchroom

    From the Evening Star, August 25, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    As imports grow uncertain, various epicures turn pale.
    The truffle crop for us, they say, is almost sure to fail,
    And persons of luxurious thirst in accents sad complain
    That gout must be acquired without assistance from champagne.
    The busy chef gets gloomy as he peels the pomme de terre
    And spoils the consomme with tears of anger and despair
    As we, the Kommonpeeple, gastronomic grief defy
    And merrily meander ‘mongst ham sandwiches and pie.

    Who cares though Wienerwurst may sell at fifty cents an inch
    And caviare may bring two dollars and a half per pinch!
    Although we’ll miss the dainties from a distant foreign shore,
    The good old lunchroom’s handing out its blessings as of yore.
    A restful refuge for the hoi polloi that has to work,
    All free from apprehensions caused by Serbian or Turk.
    Familiar luxuries are ours beneath a placid sky,
    And it’s easy to be happy with ham sandwiches and pie!

  • The Poor Little Guy

    From The Sun, August 24, 1914. By William Samuel Johnson.

    While the legions are locked on the dead line,
        While the dreadnoughts are glooming the seas,
    While horrors and rumor of headline
        Give a tang to an evening of ease,
    Let us kneel in the dust of all faction
        Let us pray to the Peace from on high
    For a small, unspectacular fraction—
        The poor little guy!

    In the fangs of the tangling wire
        He slips in the slime of the dead;
    He blinks at the spume of the fire
        And the scream of the stream of the lead;
    And yet—he knew nought of the plotting,
        And nought can he profit thereby;
    But his is the dying—and rotting—
        The poor little guy!

    Let us pray for his kine in the stable
        For his ox and his ass and his swine
    For his chair and his plate on the table
        For his cornfield and orchard and vine
    For the tilth where the women are plying
        For the bed where he never shall lie
    For the ache that is worse than the dying—
        The poor little guy!

    A pitiful pawn of Vienna,
        Of Kaiser, of King, or of Czar,
    He is pushed to the pit of Gehenna
        To the slide of the Great Abattoir.
    He goes as the wailing denial
        As the infinite, travailing cry
    Of the Peace to be born from his trial—
        The poor little guy!

    The Peace of the pure consummation
        Foretold in the ages before
    When nation shall strive not with nation
        Nor shall they learn war any more.
    But, Jesus!—the carrion faces
        That glare at the pestilent sky
    And the trench at the foot of the glacis—
        The poor little guy!

  • Margaret of New Orleans

    From The Sun, August 23, 1914. By M. E. Buhler.

    (Among the first of the few statues in this country erected to women is that of Margaret Haughery, the baker of New Orleans who befriended orphans. She was born in Ireland about 1814.)

    Above the passers in the street
        Sits Margaret.
    Her dress is old and plain and neat,
    And orphans gather at her feet
    While all the southern airs glow sweet
        Round Margaret.

    Round Margaret, the baker, who
    Worked with her hands that she might strew
    Her charities like summer dew
    Upon the orphans that she knew.

    A hundred years have come and gone,
        Margaret,
    Since first thine eyes beheld the dawn
    Across far waters; but the morn
    Was radiant whereon thou was born.

    O Margaret, throned serenely there
    In that old fashioned kitchen chair
    With placid brow and smooth drawn hair,
    The face of saints is not more fair!

    Look down this day with sweet face bowed,
        Our Margaret,
    On childless women, strident, loud,
    That clamor in a public crowd
    And pray that they may be endowed
        With thy grace, Margaret!

  • Da Fightin’ Irishman

    From the Newark Evening Star, August 22, 1914. by Thomas Daly.

    Irishman he mak’ me seeck!
    He ees gat excite so queeck,
    An’ so queeck for fightin’, too;
    An’, besides, you nevva know
    How you gonna please heem. So
    W’ata deuce you gona do?

    W’en I work een tranch wan day
    Irish boss he com’ an’ say:
    “Evra wan een deesa tranch,
    I no care eef he ees Franch,
    Anglaice, Dago, Dootch or w’at,
    Evra wan’ he musta gat
    Leetla piece green to show
    For da San Patricio.
    Dees ees Irish feasta day.
    Go an’ gat som’ green!” he say,
    “An’ eef you no do eet, too,
    I gon’ poncha head on you!”
    So I gat som’ green to show
    For da San Patricio.

    Bimeby, ‘nudder Irishman
    He ees com’ where I am stan’,
    An’ growl at me an’ say:
    “W’at you wearin’ dat for, eh?
    Mebbe so you theenk you be
    Gooda Irishman like me.
    Green ees jus’ for Irishman,
    No for dumb Eyetalian!
    Tak’ eet off!” he say, an’, my!
    He ees ponch me een da eye!

    Irishman he mak’ me seeck,
    He ees gat excite’ so queeck,
    An’ so queeck for fightin’, too;
    An’, besides, you nevva know
    How you gona please heem. So
    W’ata deuce you gona do?

  • The After-Thought

    From the Evening Star, August 21, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    “I fear I’m not a sportsman true,” said Nimrod McIntyre.
    “Some things that sportsmen have to do I cannot quite admire.
    Amid the joy with which we hail a triumph great or small,
    I can’t help feeling sorry for the creature that must fall.

    “I get the thrill which comes when in the water clear I look
    And see the fish that battles to gain freedom from the hook.
    And yet it’s not the joy unqualified that I would wish,
    For way down in my heart my sympathies are with the fish.

    “When, with my trusty gun in hand, to slay a bird I fail,
    I don’t feel blue at all. My sympathies are with the quail.
    And yet I fish and shoot; but with no genuine desire
    To kill a thing! Why is this so?” said Nimrod McIntyre.

  • The Boy Who Didn’t Pass

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, August 20, 1914.

    It’s getting cooler weather,
        The summer is nearly done.
    I’ve had a lot of pleasure,
        A great big heap of fun.
    But school days soon are coming,
        And nearly here, alas!
    And I’m that little lunk-head,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    I told my daddy about it,
        He only shook his head.
    I showed my card to mother.
        “It’s just a shame,” she said.
    But grandma cried, “Poor laddie,
        You’ll hate to miss your class.”
    Then, teary-eyed, she kissed me,
        The boy who didn’t pass.

    September’s like an ogre
        That’s coming pretty soon.
    I didn’t feel so dreadful
        Last summer when ’twas June.
    But life has lost its roses,
        There’s only rue and grass
    And prickly thistles waiting
        For the boy who didn’t pass.