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Art and Poems: The Pig by Roald Dahl
After the meal, C Dake 1886, Dutch Poem by Roald Dahl
In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn’t read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn’t puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, ‘By gum, I’ve got the answer! ‘
‘They want my bacon slice by slice
‘To sell at a tremendous price!
‘They want my tender juicy chops
‘To put in all the butcher’s shops!
‘They want my pork to make a roast
‘And that’s the part’ll cost the most!
‘They want my sausages in strings!
‘They even want my chitterlings!
‘The butcher’s shop! The carving knife!
‘That is the reason for my life! ‘
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grisly bit
So let’s not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
‘I had a fairly powerful hunch
‘That he might have me for his lunch.
‘And so, because I feared the worst,
‘I thought I’d better eat him first.’ -
Art and Poems: Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886
Max Nonnenbruch, Heliogravure I cannot live with You –
It would be Life –
And Life is over there –
Behind the ShelfThe Sexton keeps the Key to –
Putting up
Our Life – His Porcelain –
Like a Cup –Discarded of the Housewife –
Quaint – or Broke –
A newer Sevres pleases –
Old Ones crack –I could not die – with You –
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down –
You – could not –And I – could I stand by
And see You – freeze –
Without my Right of Frost –
Death’s privilege?Nor could I rise – with You –
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’ –
That New GraceGlow plain – and foreign
On my homesick Eye –
Except that You than He
Shone closer by –They’d judge Us – How –
For You – served Heaven – You know,
Or sought to –
I could not –Because You saturated Sight –
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As ParadiseAnd were You lost, I would be –
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame –And were You – saved –
And I – condemned to be
Where You were not –
That self – were Hell to Me –So We must meet apart –
You there – I – here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –Emily Dickinson
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Art and Poems: Claude McKay (1922)
Lithograph by Hendrik Haverman, his wife with their sleeping daughter 1896 Reg wished me to go with him to the field,
I paused because I did not want to go;
But in her quiet way she made me yield
Reluctantly, for she was breathing low.
Her hand she slowly lifted from her lap
And, smiling sadly in the old sweet way,
She pointed to the nail where hung my cap.
Her eyes said: I shall last another day.
But scarcely had we reached the distant place,
When o’er the hills we heard a faint bell ringing;
A boy came running up with frightened face;
We knew the fatal news that he was bringing.
I heard him listlessly, without a moan,
Although the only one I loved was gone.The dawn departs, the morning is begun,
The trades come whispering from off the seas,
The fields of corn are golden in the sun,
The dark-brown tassels fluttering in the breeze;
The bell is sounding and the children pass,
Frog-leaping, skipping, shouting, laughing shrill,
Down the red road, over the pasture-grass,
Up to the school-house crumbling on the hill.
The older folk are at their peaceful toil,
Some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn,
And others breaking up the sun-baked soil.
Float, faintly-scented breeze, at early morn
Over the earth where mortals sow and reap—
Beneath its breast my mother lies asleep.About the art & poem: The lithograph, by Hendrik Haverman, 1896.
The poem: About.com education