Some Poems.

New Zealand Times, Volume L, Issue 11685, 24 November 1923, Page 12

Some Poems.

Original and Selected.

LUNCHEON To entertain one’s friends at lunch— Singly or in a solid bunch— This is indeed « daily joy. A pastime that can never cloy! The restaurant that you select, If you would win tho world’s respect, Must be some centre of renown, Ibe mo:,t expensive place in town. Where guests in admiration lost Delight to think how much they cost, And he is deemed the nicest host. Who manages to spend the most. On such occasions ’t is as well To tip the smiling Maitre I)’Hotel And he will choose for you with care A table in the window where You can observe the multitudo Of lesser mortals munch their food, Watch profiteers in noisy groups Inhaling melon cantaloupes And gulping varied viands down With sounds the band can scarcely drown. A waiter at your elbow stands, Tho bill-of-far© politely hands. And in low, melodious voice, Urbanely bids you make your choice. Address him in the Gallic tongue (If you were taught the stuff when young), For though the man, who is indeed A Jugo-Swis« of Czecho-Si^ede, Speaks English just as well as you (Whose grandfather was a Chinese Jew), He’ll 1 nderstand you when you say: (iareon.,. hors doovons, seel voo play!" And know- exactly what you mean When asked' in French for a "sardine." See that your orders now are placed To suit each individual taste; For instance, if your guest’s a Prince, Don't offer him poached eggs on minoo! With, as a “fellow," prunes and rice, And cheese —the kind one hands to mice. This form of food may well be pressed On cousins from the Middle. West Or leaders of the Simple Life, Who eat their gravy with a knife, Who’ve never heard of caviare And hardly know what poussins are, Whom ’twould be vain, to entertain With Homard a L’Americaiue! My brother Fritz, one summer’s day, Was lunching with his Fiancee. But must, I think, have lost his wits, For when he got her to the Rita He ordered Irish stew for two (A thing no gentleman could do), And then, instead of quails or snipe, A mayonnaise of tepid l tripe. And finished up this ghastly meal With vol au vent of jellied eel! You can imagine what ensued — With what disgust poor Mabel viewed Tho offal helped upon her plate, And how her love was turned to hate! The lovclight faded.from her eyes. As sunshine pales in wintry skies; The tears she was too proud to wipe Went trickling down into the tripe: The scorn that she could not conceal Was mirrored in each jellied eel! Passion lay dead; Romance took wing; She gave her lover hack his ring; » To-day, at some hotel unknown, He eats pigs’ trotters, all alone. While with his Mabel at tho Ritz Some more fastidious lover sits! ' —HARRY GRAHAM, in the "Graphic." THE HIGHBROW It shames me that a common little tune, Heard in a cabaret, should 'hurt me so. The plaint of banjoes and the. languorous croon Of saxophones still haunt me, and I . know If ’twere some nocturne by a master famed, A Bach sonata, Chopin masterpiece, It still might hurt, but I’d not be ashamed, And shame would not the bitter hurt increase. Bnt this cheap tune makes all my being throb. And I resent it: in my pain a snob!

THE HUMAN HEART Galen, Vesalius and Aristotle The human heart exhaustively di» cussed; And now it's knovrn to beat within a bottle Even when its owner's dust. I doubt the Fleming, doubt the Pergaminian. More modern dicta render little light. I doubt the forcibly expressed opinion Of the ancient Stagirite. Anatomists, I hold, are frightful cynics. I never shall be found attending clinics. Biologists I sweepingly reject. Whatever they dissect. Though conscious of their laudable endeavour Toward scientific truth, I much misdoubt, As to the heart, if anyone can ever Ferret its secret out. That muscular organ seated in «h* thorax. Known from before the days of th« Ephesians, Susceptible to hat-pin as to war-axe, Subject to cardiac lesions, With TPntricles and auricles confound* me. All that I know of physiologic fact Is: whPTi I look at you, it quite astounds me The way I feel it act! POTENTIALITIES And if my hand should touch you, well, what then? Could finger-tips disclose what thought has missed, Or wake the sleeping sorceries that twist Tour mouth almost to smiling? In all men I doubt not there is something kept apart. Not meant to be disturbed. (As in my breast Darkly, I cherish the small seed of rest.) What curious thing is hidden in your heart ? I will not ask. I shall not wonder much, Save at the peace that broods upon your face. As if you dwelt secure in a far land Kemote from thoughts of me and from my touch; And this I know is your desired safe place, And so I will not reach to you my hand. —Bernice Lesbia Kenyon, in the "Outlook." PLAYMATES We p*ayed together in the old green garden, Two children almost mad with merry play, Or, cradled in the swaying summer grasses. Built fairy castles in the waning day. Sweet, how we sailed o’er magic seas together! How fought and conquered dragons ws had made I ' . How dreamed bright dreams of some thing in the future, To cast all present glories in the shade! Tour little feet have left my side for ever; Tour eyes have seen what none may see and live; But just to be again with you at sunset, A bairn like you, the wealth of kings I'd give! ; —BESSIE HEIGHTON. ;