Selected Works of William Barnes: Dorsetshire's Unvictorian Nineteenth Century Poet

Written for VCU ENGL 322: Victorian Poetry

The assignment for this piece was to edit an anthology of works by a neglected Victorian poet.  We were to include a cover letter expressing why we felt the anthology should be published, a table of contents listing the poems we wished to include in the anthology, an introduction to the anthology, and a list of further reading on the poet.  Sorry the footnote links don't seem to work, but the numbers match up.  And in case you want to learn more about him check out the William Barnes Society.  Click the title to see the full text.

Sittin' on the shitter

Sittin' on the shitter
And I wish you could'a' been 'ere
Cause its only now that you can see the glitter
That I had last night for dinner.

I wrote this a while back on a slip of paper that consequently became lost.  This post in turn became lost as a draft that I forgot was here for an even longer period of time, but I'm looking through all my drafts now and found it so it will now become an official post.  I think it was a draft because I felt that at some point I would use it as a starting point for a longer poem, but I don't see that happening anytime in the near future so here it is.

Poem for my body

Last night I was thinking about death and it occurred to me that I have a very specific wish for what will be done with my body after I die, but I have not really told many people what it is. So I decided to compose a poem that I think I will have tattooed somewhere on my body (possibly my back) which explicates my wishes. This way no matter when or where I die and no matter who finds my body (as long as they can read english) it will be known what to do with my body.

Dear Sir or Madame should you find
My body cold and dead,
I hope that you will be so kind
To do as I have said.
Aboard some stout wood barge or boat,
I wish to be sent forth.
A flaming arrow as I float
Shall be my life's resort.

Get Drunk!

Baudelaire may have felt that this worked best in prose form, and maybe it does in the French, but I think at least my translation is better this way.

Get Drunk!

One should always be drunk.
That's all that matters:
it is the only question.
So as not to feel the horrid burden of Time
which breaks your back and
bows you down to the ground,
you must get drunk without ceasing.

But with what?
With wine,
with poetry,
or with virtue
as you please.

But get drunk.

And if at times,
on the steps of a palace,
or in the green grass of a ditch,
or in the dismal solitude of your room,
you are waking up,
with drunkenness diminished and disappeared, ask

of the wind,
of the wave,
of the star,
of the bird,
of the clock,
of all that which flees,
of all that which groans,
of all that which rolls,
of all that which sings,
of all that which speaks,

ask what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the star,
the bird, the clock will reply:

"It is time to get drunk!
So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk;
get drunk without ceasing!
With wine, with poetry, or with virtue as you please."

from the French: Get Drunk!

Get Drunk!

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters: it is the only question. So as not to feel the horrid burden of Time which breaks your back and bows you down to the ground, you must get drunk without ceasing.
But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue as you please. But get drunk.
And if at times, on the steps of a palace, or in the green grass of a ditch, or in the dismal solitude of your room, you are waking up, with drunkenness diminished and disappeared, ask of the wind, of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the clock, of all that which flees, of all that which groans, of all that which rolls, of all that which sings, of all that which speaks, ask what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply: "It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without ceasing! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue as you please."

original:

Enivrez-vous

Il faut etre toujours ivre. Tout est la: c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans treve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, a votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déja diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, a la vague, a l'étoile, a l'oiseau, a l'horloge, a tout ce qui fuit, a tout ce qui gémit, a tout ce qui roule, a tout ce qui chante, a tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est; et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront: "Il est l'heure de s'enivrer! Pour n'etre pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse! De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, a votre guise."

-- Charles Baudelaire Petits poemes en prose

Poem for the Night People

I sit here in my bed, waiting for the sleep
That does not come to take me to the land
Of dreams, and so I write
A poem about the butterflies
I sometimes see as I walk down the street.

They're many colors.
Not a single one that I can
Easily recall. I know
That brown is not the color.
If that was the case they would be moths,
But these are butterflies,
Vibrant in their majesty
Creatures of the day.

If they were moths,
I'd recognize them.
I know my kin.
I see them all the time
As I lie awake at night
Thinking about their cousins,
Vibrant in their majesty
Creatures of the day.

Words, Words, Words

Words are meaningless
If meaning is a less
Than worthy word.
Its heart is full
Of idle tricks and turns.
Nothing is certain.
No word has the power
To stay the same.
No word can hold its meaning
When it feels the test of time.

ultrahightechsupermultiuniversal

Bits in space and time.
Are we finite?
Are we on or off?
Or are we as we are?
We are surely something.
That we are is sure.
But is our being,
Being who we are,
Part of a greater being?
Or being as we are,
Merely our own being.

why?

writing words here now is wrong
jobs told stories of hard lives and short breaths
as the fumes lift you away
and falling the world seems so real
but not the short things
change as the wind varies with caterpillars

that seem to go on forever and
the sentence never ends
the song never ends
the lyric never ends
the word never ends
the sound never ends
the noise never ends
it all goes on before it
stops

the trees are not green
why do they say it
brown water don't drink and eat
the seafood covered in ice cream and a cigar
the whole thing is just fucked up

why
why
why

don't think just think
eating small birds doesn't make sense
so what's the point of it all
is the end near or far in the pink
gummy bears with green ears just eat it

it won't hurt you
there is nothing to fear
ignore the man behind the curtain
ignore the curtain
without a curtain there can be no man behind it

but don't forget the painting
it must have cost at least fifty cents
maybe even a dollar
why didn't you just buy the lighter
you can't torch a bowl with a dumb painting
and it doesn't even look good

but if we put the apple sticker on it
maybe it will look better
no

faces carved in stone change with the weather
radiant smiles turn to blank stares
it all just fades away into nothing
but it never ends
nothing never ends

Weather

It seems as though your plans
to sit outside all day
have washed away.

The drip and drizzle wouldn't be
so bad but wind and cold
have taken hold.

Weather is a fickle thing.

Rain and snow and sleet and sunny days
that hold you in their fist and squeeze.
Until you scream out.
Too cold! Too hot!
Too dry! Too wet!

We cannot end this strife.
It must be won,
else losing we shall lose our life.

The Other Side

Have you ever been to the other side?
Have you ever been the one who died?
I bet you haven't cause you're alive.

Why can't we do it in the road?

Drugs are bad,
And abortion.
But killing people is sanctioned
By the state,
As long as they are bad.
We must have some outlet for aggressive behavior.
Kill the deer and the murderers.
There's too many of them both.
But naked hippies making love in the streets
Is illegal and wrong.
Why can't we do it in the road?

Thoughts don't work

Thoughts don't work
When tired.
Freezer feels nice
On hot night.
Radio
Not too loud.
Music not recognized,
But not bad.
Show called Mercury Falls.
Wall hanging ripples
From fan
On medium.
No knob so very hard
To change setting.
Words come in waves
Or bursts.
Machine guns shooting
Down low flying planes.
And eyes glazed
See nothing
But elephants with pink drivers
And gray riders with pink hats and gray roofs
Rippling.
Music very strange now.
Comes in waves of strange sounds.
Need acid for it to be good.
Need to feel these sounds.
Music
Too
Powerful.
Can't
Think
Anymore.

insight into the mind of a four-legged hippopotomus

how
am i alive
the colors are
just check the door and
the fan blows air but
speakers
do not speak
unless spoken to
in electricity

Existence

When one has reached the edge
of human perception and
delved into the very existence
in which we live, it is possible to
see it all.

There is no more
you,
me,
or it,
the universe is
all as one and it flows through
the perceived me, as
you and I
transcend into the essence
of being.

All is finite,
yet into that finiteness one can see infinitely.

As we approach
the thing we seek it only
expands
to new minuteness that we had not
encountered before.

As the senses interact with
the surroundings the fibers and delicate filaments
that make up the universe are drawn
out into the open
so that we might perceive
the true nature
of that which is.

It is all as a donut,
no matter how far you perceive
in all directions
everything raps back on itself.

We can then realize that
all of the universe is
but one single dot that merely wraps
around itself creating the illusion of
vastness.


This is a rewrite of a short essay On the Nature of Existence that I posted in January, but that originally came from one of my emails from a year prior to that.

20

im twenty now
for a whole twelve hours
i feel a bit older
but it might just be the food coma
the years fly by it seems
only yesterday i stood
and watched the ceiling fall
as rain poured in
to the kitchen
of my daycare
called circle school
i was two

ive learned so much
in my time on earth
the stove is hot
and so is the bulb
used to light the wall
that my mom was painting
ive also learned
that pants are made for
on your legs and not your head
and the integral of x squared
is a cubic function

but the thing i want
to do the most
is to thank my mom
for going to concerts
while she was pregnant

I Know It's There

Many times I've seen
the face up in the air.
They tell me that I'm crazy
when I stare
at nothing, but
I know it's there.

It's there like cold
on a summers day, fair
and warm. The cold is lurking,

waiting like a bear,
hibernating in winter
until the spring day when it will scare
you as it lumbers from its den.

I know it's there.

The Eternal Race

In the East rises the sun,
And in the West the day is done.
But what of North and South.
Are they eternal spectators
To a one man race?
I sometimes watch
The dog chase it tail.
Is that the same?

Paraphrasing

What can I say
That's not been said
Before.
I may use words
Unlike those
Before
Me. But the thoughts
Are the same.
I'm just paraphrasing.

Soaked Bread

Is there a reason
Why
My head feels
Like bread
That's been soaked in beer
All night
To the point of falling apart?