Tiger Siberian And Riga Balterian - And Other Parodies William Blake - The Tyger Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Riga, Riga, brave despite
Russian army's aimless might,
what eternal summer sky
could liberate thy people's sigh?

Though the hammer, sickle, chain
sickly are, they still remain
a present threat, their might and main
must from within be toppled! - Plain?

Fifty years the Russian reign
ignomious has spread red stain,
fifty years too much! - again
freedom comes, no dumb refrain.

Riga, Riga, free from fright
soon, before the New Year's Night,
independence will attain,
light and laughter come again.
[1 October 1991]

The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes!
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire!

And what shoulder, and what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand! and what dread feet!

What the hammer! what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain
What the anvil, what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spear
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see
Did he who made the Lamb make thee!

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry!
William Blake

The Tiger
Tigre! Tigre! L'étincelle
du fond des forêts de la nuit,
quel oeil, quelle main immortelle
firent ta terrible symétrie?

Dans quelles lointaines cimes, abîmes,
prit feu la puissance en tes yeux?
quelles ailes osèrent le sublime?
quel Promothée osa ce feu?

Quelle force et savoir-faire
pliaient les muscles de ton coeur
quand ce coeur fit son tonnerre,
quelle main forte et quelle ardeur?

Quelle chaîne et quel marteau,
de quel four sort ta cervelle?
quelle enclume? Quelle poignée
défia ces terreurs mortelles?

Quand les étoiles envoient leurs dards,
versant leurs larmes au Paradis,
a-t-il souri voyant son art?
qui fit l'agneau fit toi aussi?

Tigre, Tigre! L'étincelle
du fond des forêts de la nuit,
quel oeil, quelle main immortelle,
firent ta terrible symétrie?
[26 January 1993]

Tyger's Rumour
Rumour rushing rampant right
round faithless forests of wraith night,
what immoral hand or eye
could frame fly tearless symmetry?

In what deep and dark disguise
spread irking libel, lurking lies?
on what wasp wings dare they aspire -
e'er slander sting tongues air fame liar?

What woeful infamous black art
wrung toxic sinews, tocsin heart
rung when sin heart broke cheating beat,
what sleight of hand to greet deceit!

What wrong's hammer, what strong chain?
in what furnace forged? What brain
fed wily worms sly envy's grasp,
bred spiteful deadly [t]errors' [g]asp?
[18 September 2009]

Likable Wilma
Wilma, Wilma, in thy blouse,
Red-haired prehistoric spouse,
What immortal animator
Was thy slender waist's creator?

When the Rubble clan moved in,
Was Betty jealous of thy skin,
Thy noble nose, thy dimpled knee?
Did he who penciled Fred draw thee?

Wilma, Wilma, burning bright, ye
Cartoon goddess Aphrodite,
Was it Hanna or Barbera
Made thee hot as some caldera?
Francis Heaney

Nazi! Nazi!
Nazi culture burning bright
With its nordic-Grecian light,
What sub-human dare defy
Its full totemic majesty?

Greek to speceies who are not
Aryan to the fina l clot,
Its ethnic-ethic-technic dwells
In nordic livestock's sacred cells.

Stainless Aryan youth-bands now
Teach the tourist Herr and Frau,
That all folk-stems may in turn
Kraft duch Schadenfreude learn.

Arts of blood by bloodbaths purged,
In pan-Germanic sunburst merged,
Will their rays as they aspire
Come to set the Thames on fire?

Nazi! Nazi! burning brihgt
In Europe's deep degenerate night,
Who but Nazi's can descry
Thy primitive sublimity?
Olga Katzin Miller 1936

Reductio ad Absurdam
[The vision unfolded by Professor Schäfer of the production of life by chemical means has been declared by other scientists to be the same discovery made long since by Darwin and Huxley. The absurdity of any such pretensions in the past is, of course, easily proved by the following reference to the case of Thomas.]

Thomas, Thomas, going large
Down the Mall's majestic marge,
What mad scientist is he
Would claim to have concocted thee?

In what oxyhydrotherm
Dwelt thy protoplasmic germ?
In what subtle chemic spasm?
What the hand dare seize the plasm?

To what end, ‘neath what pretence
Arose thy utter lack of sense?
And, bringing such a thing to pass,
What blind fool, what silly ass?

What the formule? What the fault?
In what test-tube was thy salt?
What the bunsen? What the flame
Fused the fluid of thy frame?

When the spars thrown down in spate
Formed thy weak precipitate,
Did he look on it with glee,
He who, to take a case, made me?

Thomas, Thomis going large
Down the Mall's majestic marge,
What mad scientist is he
Dare claim to have concocted thee?
Wilfrid Blair Sa Muse s'amuse 1914