Sod Quotes

If I were dead and buried And I heard your voice, Beneath the sod My heart of dust Would still rejoice.

Careful, luv. I might be angry with you, but that doesn't mean I don't still want you. So if you do that again, I'll shag you right here, right now, and sod anyone who wants to watch

Morning, noon & bloody night, Seven sodding days a week, I slave at filthy WORK, that might Be done by any book-drunk freak. This goes on until I kick the bucket. FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT

Mencheres dragged her screaming from me only an hour after our binding!" Gregor said. "I don't give a rot if Mencheres yanked her off your throbbing, rigid cock," Bones snarled. "Go dream a little dream, you sod!

Winston Gallagher!" I said, recognizing the first ghost I'de met. Then my eyes narrowed & I covered my hand in front of my crotch as I saw Winstons gaze fasten there next. "Don't even think about poltergeisting my panties again". "This is the sod? Come here you scurvy little--" "Bones don't!" I interrupted. He stopped, giving a last glare to him while mouthing YOU. ME. EXORCIST. before returning to my side.

Now sod off back to your own world, you motherless scum, and save your threats for those who care.

It’s four o’clock, guys. I’m going up to watch Oprah. Unless the shop catches fire or we’re under massive zombie invasion, I don’t exist for the next hour. On second thought, don’t bother me if it’s zombies – I’ll deal with them later. Today’s a special episode on how to make peace with people who piss you off. And I definitely need to find my Zen. (Bubba) Your Zen’s shooting stuff, Bubba. Embrace your inner violence. (Mark) Fine, then. My inner violence says I’ll cut your throat if you bother me until Oprah ends, so sod off. (Bubba)

People think I'm a miserable sod but it's only because I get asked such bloody miserable questions.

Raindrops blossom brilliantly in the rainbow, and change to flowers in the sod, but snow comes in full flower direct from the dark, frozen sky.

Deryn felt brilliant, rising through the air at the center off everyone's attention, like an acrobat aloft on a swing. She wanted to make a speech: Hey, all you sods, I can fly and you can't! A natural airman, in case you haven't noticed. And in conclusion, I'd like to add that I'm a girl and you can all get stuffed!

Are you quite finished?" Henry says, sounding strangled. "Can you perhaps stop putting your sodding life in danger now?" "Aw, you do care," Alex says. "I'm learning all your hidden depths today, sweetheart." Henry exhales and slumps off him. "I can't believe even mortal peril will not prevent you from being the way you are.

Love? Sodding, bloody, tossing, bloody, sodding, bloody love? Irrelevant, superfluous, bloody, ruddy, rotten, sodding love? What ho? Wherefore? What the f*ck? Love?

Walter's eyes were very wonderful. All the joy and sorrow and laughter and loyalty and aspirations of many generations lying under the sod looked out of their dark-gray depths.

Let’s all forsake, The Land of Wake, And break for the Land of Nod. Where we can try, To touch the sky, Or dance beneath the sod. A toll for the living, A toll for the lost, A toll for the wise ones, Who tally the cost, So let’s escape, Due south of Wake, And make for the Land of Nod.

Thank bloody Christ this is the right bloke. Wicked difficult getting the sod.

SOD YOU, THEN, Death said.

How comes when a man likes an attractive female, is he helping to exploit women around the world, yet the moment he doesn't fancy the female in question, he only hates on her because she's empowering women? Seriously, I don't get it - Rihanna and Nicki do exactly the same thing as far as I can see. They both sing, dance and gyrate their sexy stuff on stage, yet one empowers women, the other is being exploited, depending on which one I fancy the most at the point of being asked the sodding question. How the fuck does any of this make sense?

Warm summer sun, shine brightly here, Warm Southern wind, blow softly here, Green sod above, lie light, lie light, Good night, dear heart; good night, good night.

Kieran will you sod off with that mascara and eyeliner before I end up looking like a bloody panda!

The smell of it. The feel of it." He rubbed one hand up and down the stained sheath of his sword, making a faint swishing sound. "War is honest. There's no lying to it. You don't have to say sorry here. Don't have to hide. You cannot. If you die? So what? You die among friends. Among worthy foes. You die looking the Great Leveller in the eye. If you live? Well, lad that's living, isn't it? A man isn't truly alive until he's facing death." Whirrun stamped his foot into the sod. "I love war!

Sod off, you hopeless prude.

It's not a game if you don't cheat, it's just two sods making a mess with fifty-two pieces of paper.

Tate snorted. “Do I look like a pussy to you?” “No,” Bones replied with a ghost of a smile. “You look like the same stubborn, reckless, devoted sod I’ve almost killed a hundred times over, which is why you’re perfect for the job.

How is having sex with her for real, going to make me feel any less nervous about faking it up in front of ten sodding cameramen later on?

Shut up, sod off, and let me in. (Fury)

Bronze gods, Mikani. You’ve seen death before. Bloody hells, we’ve buried friends together, you and I.” “She’s different, Hu.” “Then tell her that before it’s too late, you sodding imbecile.

I NEVER lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God! Angels, twice descending, Reimbursed my store. Burglar, banker, father, I am poor once more!

There are all kinds of pedants around with more time to read and imitate Lynne Truss and John Humphrys than to write poems, love-letters, novels and stories it seems. They whip out their Sharpies and take away and add apostrophes from public signs, shake their heads at prepositions which end sentences and mutter at split infinitives and misspellings, but do they bubble and froth and slobber and cream with joy at language? Do they ever let the tripping of the tips of their tongues against the tops of their teeth transport them to giddy euphoric bliss? Do they ever yoke impossible words together for the sound-sex of it? Do they use language to seduce, charm, excite, please, affirm and tickle those they talk to? Do they? I doubt it. They’re too farting busy sneering at a greengrocer’s less than perfect use of the apostrophe. Well sod them to Hades. They think they’re guardians of language. They’re no more guardians of language than the Kennel Club is the guardian of dogkind.

O sleepless as the river under thee, / Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod, / Onto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend / And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

You should choose your battles if you can, but if the battle chooses you then kick the sod in his fuse box!

Don't you even think of poltergeisting my panties again," I warned him, adding in a louder voice. "That goes for everyone else here, too." "This is the sod?" Bones started down the porch stairs even as Winston began to edge away. "Come back here, you scurvy little--" "Bones, don't!" I interrupted, not wanting him to start using slurs that might offend the other living-inpaireds gathered here. He stopped, giving a last glare to Winston while mouthing, You. Me. Exorcist, before returning to my side.

Then I noticed, in all my pain and sickness,what music it was that like crackled and boomed on the sound-track, and it was Ludwig van, the last movement of the Fifth Symphony, and I creeched like bezoomny at that. "Stop!" I creeched. "Stop, you grahzny disgusting sods. It's a sin, that's what it is, a filthy unforgivable sin, you bratchnies!

Do you know who I am, you sodding barn animal?" he hissed. The publican gurgled. "I'm Jack fucking Winter." Jack said, releasing him with a push that rattled clean glasses on the bar back.

The fact is, when men carry the same ideals in their hearts, nothing can isolate them - neither prison walls nor the sod of cemeteries. For single memory, a single spirit, a single idea, a single conscience, a single dignity will sustain them all.

I don't know why, but people seem to be fascinated to learn how some members of society fall through the cracks. I think it's partly that feeling that... it could happen to anyone. But I think it also makes people feel better about their own lives. It makes them think, 'Well, I may think my life is bad, but it could be worse, I could be that poor sod.

Sod this,’ said Kyle and he swung his axe. Charlotte watched amazed, unable to look away, as the blade sliced clean through the father’s neck and his head flew off.

Warm summer sun, shine friendly here Warm western wind, blow kindly here; Green sod above, rest light, rest light, Good-night, Annette! Sweetheart, good-night!

...Uncle Harry Wentworth's dollar was turned deep under the sod. But though the sun shone on it and the rain fell, nothing ever came from it,—not a green thing nor a singing thing nor a human soul.

A lady once offered me a mat, but as I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare within or without to shake it, I declined it, preferring to wipe my feet on the sod before my door. It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.

The more you didn't want to bump into someone, sod's law dictated that the more often you would.

People think I’m a miserable sod but it’s only because I get asked such bloody miserable questions

Am reading more of Oscar Wilde. What a tiresome, affected sod.

The trouble with Scotland is a bunch of numpties saw Braveheart and now they think if we could only sod about the hills in kilts all day, flashing our arses at the English, somehow everything will be all right.

She looked at Connor. “How old are you?” His jaw shifted. “I doona discuss my private life.” “I can translate that for you,” Phineas offered. “It means he’s embarrassed he was a caveman and ate brontosaurus burgers for lunch.” Connor arched an eyebrow at him. “The correct translation is ‘sod off.’

When I throw back my head and howl People (women mostly) say But you've always done what you want, You always get your way - A perfectly vile and foul Inversion of all that's been. What the old ratbags mean Is I've never done what I don't. So the shit in the shuttered chateau Who does his five hundred words Then parts out the rest of the day Between bathing and booze and birds Is far off as ever, but so Is that spectacled schoolteaching sod (Six kids, and the wife in pod, And her parents coming to stay)... Life is an immobile, locked, Three-handed struggle between Your wants, the world's for you, and (worse) The unbeatable slow machine That brings what you'll get. Blocked, They strain round a hollow stasis Of havings-to, fear, faces. Days sift down it constantly. Years. --The Life with the Hole in It

For most digital-age writers, writing is rewriting. We grope, cut, block, paste, and twitch, panning for gold onscreen by deleting bucketloads of crap. Our analog ancestors had to polish every line mentally before hammering it out mechanically. Rewrites cost them months, meters of ink ribbon, and pints of Tippex. Poor sods.

What's up with you?" "I'm grounded," I say, just to say something real. "I told Mum to fuck off." He whistles. "Why'd you tell her that? Any other 'off' leaves room for parole. 'Sod off,' 'shove off'—even 'sock off' is still pretty satisfying." "You've told your dad to sock off?" "Once. He said, 'What the fuck is "sock off"? Be a man and tell me to fuck off.'" "So did you tell him?" "No. Because that was the trap. There's never time out for good behavior with 'fuck off.

Magic is like any other kind of strength. If you use too much of it, you have to wait for it to replenish. So if a dragon crashes through the library window in the next hour, you’ll have to save us.” “A dragon—” Edwin looked at him. Some of the irony was seeping through the edges. Robin grinned. “You sod. You really got my hopes up.

What would be the best therapy? Punching the evil sod in the knob! [...] It doesn't undo it though. You'd feel good for a second and then there's just emptiness. It's like bingeing. After the chocolate there's the wrappers.

You play the hand you're dealt just like everyone else in this bloody world. You have gifts people would kill for, no matter that you scorn them. You have a mum who loves you and a nice house to go home to. Sod your backwoods neighbors who look down their ignorant noses at you for your lack of a father. This world is a big place and you've got an important role to play in it. Think everyone goes around whistling about the life they lead? Think everyone is given the power to choose the way their fate goes? Sorry, luv, it doesn't work that way. You hold the ones you love close and fight the battles you can win, and that, Kitten, is how it is.

Sod off! Psych 101. There are five stages of grief and I’m owning that shit. They ARE my bitches.

Murder me with bombs you poor lonely sod I will only build myself again and stronger. I am too stupid to know better I am a woman built on the wreckage of myself.

It’s the absence of all the bodies, she thinks, that allows us to forget. It’s that the sod seals them over.

I'm trying to tell you I love you, you sod.

Then she'd stared at him with those radiant blue eyes and asked him to let her go. And bugger, bugger, bigger, he'd suddenly imagined he was sodding Sir Galahad.

Careful, luv. I might be angry with you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want you. So if you do that again, I’ll shag you right here, right now, and sod anyone who wants to watch.

Maybe,' he said hesitantly, 'maybe there is a beast.' The assembly cried out savagely and Ralph stood up in amazement. 'You, Simon? You believe in this?' 'I don't know,' said Simon. 'But . . .' His heartbeats were choking him. The storm broke. 'Sit down!' 'Shut up!' 'Take the conch!' 'Sod you!' 'Shut up!' Ralph shouted. 'Hear him! He's got the conch!' 'What I mean is. Maybe . . . it's only us.' 'Nuts!' That was Piggy, shocked out of decorum. 'We could be sort of . . .' Simon became inarticulate in his effort to express mankind's essential illness.

He knew very well that some people thought he was nothing but a grumpy old sod without any faith in people. But, to put it bluntly, that was because people had never given him reason to see it another way.

Every country must have it's version of the dairy, where kids go to spend their pocket money. The New Zealand dairy is unique however as the clever sods at Tip Top have managed to brand each one in a way that no one seems to mind

My father was a violent sod, and my mother was a coquette who, as they say, 'had a tile loose.' As for my brother and I, we were a pair of sullen tots who went around trying to pick fights with our cousins. The earl couldn't stand either of us. He caught me by the ear on one occasion, and told me I was a bad, wicked lad, and someday he would see to it that I was placed as a cabin boy on a trading vessel bound for China, which would undoubtedly be captured by pirates." "What did you say?" "I told him I hoped he would do it as soon as possible, because pirates would do a much better job of raising me than my parents.

A ‘discouraged worker’ is someone of legal employment age who has stopped actively seeking employment because he or she has simply given up looking, hence the term ‘discouraged.’ Well I’m fucking discouraged at having to pay for the lazy sod!

Well … things are beginning to stack up a little,” said Gordo. It was the same old sod-hut drawl. He sounded like the airline pilot who, having just slipped two seemingly certain mid-air collisions and finding himself in the midst of a radar fuse-out and control-tower dysarthria, says over the intercom: “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be busy up here in the cockpit making our final approach into Pittsburgh, and so we want to take this opportunity to thank you for flying American and we hope we’ll see you again real soon.” It was second-generation Yeager, now coming from earth orbit. Cooper was having a good time. He knew everybody was in a sweat down below. But this was what he and the boys had wanted all along, wasn’t it?

Poor William!" said he, "dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp! How much more a murderer, that could destroy such radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors.

Why didn't I ask him for his number, address, e-mail — anything? Why? Because I'm in a sodding war zone, that's why. And I'm a soldier. And this wasn't supposed to happen.

Watson is a cheap, efficient little sod of a literary device. Holmes doesn't need him to solve crimes any more than he needs a ten-stone ankle weight. The audience, Arthur. The audience needs Watson as an intermediary, so that Holmes's thoughts might be forever kept just out of reach. If you told stories from Holmes's perspective, everyone would know what the bleeding genius was thinking the whole time. They'd have the culprit fingered on page one.

Why should you and I pay for the lazy sods? They’ve given up looking for a job! Why should we pay for them? While you drag your arse out of bed and put in a shift, they sleep, play video games, watch Jeremy Kyle, eat and shit. And yet you and I have to pay for their very existence!

We’re going over my contract. I don’t have to sign the $50 million NDA like every single other person who’s even remotely involved, but I do have rules. Sodding rules. Everywhere I look, there are do’s, don’ts, musts, and for fuck’s sake nevers. Doesn’t anyone know how to have fun anymore?

We'll come running with you. Every mad sod here will come running with you all summer, if that's what it takes.' He's not joking. Lifa runs u and down along the road beside Amat that night until he collapses, and after Amat has carried his friend home on his back, Zacharias starts running in his place. When he can't run anymore, other kids show up... He had no team. So they gave him an army.

Murder investigations start with the victim, because usually in the first instance that's all you've got. The study of the victim is called victimology because everything sounds better with an 'ology' tacked on the end. To make sure you make a proper fist of this, the police have developed the world's most useless mnemonic - 5 x W H & H - otherwise known as Who? What? Where? When? Why? and How? Next time you watch a real murder investigation on the TV, and you see a group of serious-looking detectives standing around talking, remember that what they're actually doing is trying to work out what sodding order the mnemonic is supposed to go in. Once they've sorted that out, the exhausted officers will retire to the nearest watering hole for a drink and a bit of a breather.

Journalist Sarah Ditum has little time for this argument. 'Come on now,' she chided in a column. 'You've played games as a blue hedgehog. As a cybernetically augmented space marine. As a sodding dragon tager. [...B]ut the idea that women can be protagonists with an inner life and an active nature is somehow beyond your imaginative capacities?

We don't live our lives with this much order and control. To represent them in death like this is a lie. A proper cemetary should have big, gnarled trees among crumbling angel's and weathered tombstones arranged haphazardly. The grass should be littered with clover and worn down to dirt in places. Not like the manicured, rootless sod in this place.

The doctors removed my wasteland exterior by debriding me, scraping away the charred flesh. they brought in tanks of liquid nitrogen containing skin recently harvested from corpses. The sheets were thawed in pans of water, then neatly arranged on my back and stapled into place. Just like that, as if they were laying strips of sod over the problem areas behind their summer cabins, they wrapped me in the skin of the dead. My body was cleaned constantly but I rejected these sheets of necro-flesh anyway; I've never played well with others. So over and over again, I was sheeted with cadaver skin.

The plow of mortality drives through the stubble, turns over rocks and sod and weeds to cover the old, the worn-out, the husks, shells, empty seedpods and sapless roots, clearing the field for the next crop. A ruthless, brutal process—but clean and beautiful.

Of all the bewildering things about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening. The houses on the Divide were small and were usually tucked away in low places; you did not see them until you came directly upon them. Most of them were built of the sod itself, and were only the unescapable ground in another form. The roads were but faint tracks in the grass, and the fields were scarcely noticeable. The record of the plow was insignificant, like the feeble scratches on stone left by prehistoric races, so indeterminate that they may, after all, be only the markings of glaciers, and not a record of human strivings.

The hearth is desolate. The children, the unconscious children, who once sang and danced in her presence, are gone. She gropes her way, in the darkness of age, for a drink of water. Instead of the voices of her children, she hears by day the moans of the dove, and by night the screams of the hideous owl. All is gloom. The grave is at the door. And now, when weighed down by the pains and aches of old age, when the head inclines to the feet, when the beginning and ending of human existence meet, and helpless infancy and painful old age combine together—at this time, this most needful time, the time for the exercise of that tenderness and affection which children only can exercise towards a declining parent—my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother of twelve children, is left all alone, in yonder little hut, before a few dim embers. She stands—she sits—she staggers—she falls—she groans—she dies—and there are none of her children or grandchildren present, to wipe from her wrinkled brow the cold sweat of death, or to place beneath the sod her fallen remains. Will not a righteous God visit for these things?

In the narrow thread of sod between the shaved banks and the toppling fences grow the relics of what once was Illinois — the prairie. No one in the bus sees these relics. A worried farmer, his fertilizer bill projecting from his shirt pocket, looks blankly at the lupines, lespedezas or Baptisias that originally pumped nitrogen out of the prairie air and into his black loamy acres. He does not distinguish them from the parvenu quack-grass in which they grow. Were I to ask him the name of that white spike of pea-like flowers hugging the fence, he would shake his head. A weed, likely.

Told you," said Mick. "Things comin' together. We set off lookin' for the Utz kids an' find a tree full o' everybody. That's magic, too." "It's like a story." "Same thing. The universe don't like plot. Story is magic's way o' telling the universe to sod off." "That's good then, right?" said Scott. After this episode with Emily, he was ready for some optimism. "Magic wants us all to live happily ever after." "Not necessarily," Mick answered. "Magic likes a good tragedy, too.

It's still horrible. The whole thing." "Dreadful," Grace agreed. Amelia turned and looked at her directly. "Sodding bad." Grace gasped, "Amelia!" Amelia's face wrinkled in thought. "Did I use that correctly?" "I wouldn't know." "Oh, come now, don't tell me you haven't thought something just as unladylike." "I wouldn't say it." The look Amelia gave her was clear as a dare. "But you thought it." Grace felt her lips twitch. "It's a dammed shame." "A bloody inconvenience, if you ask me.

I was holding myself together by my fingernails for a very long time, until the most magnificently stubborn sod of a bookseller came into my life. You treated me, against all the evidence, as if I were something resembling the man I ought to be, with such pertinacious obstinacy I have all but started to believe it myself. I spent the last few months thinking about this as I reordered your outrageous mess of a bookshop. How I came to be where I was, what I’d done to bring it on myself. What I need to do differently.

I never did try to make my daddy understand why I left for the army the way I did. I just thought, because he loved me, he should let it go, and if he couldn’t, well then he didn’t love me like I thought. Young folks get love and understandin’ backward, don’t they? Love don’t come galloping across fresh pastures like a fine white horse with understandin’ riding soft and easy on its back. Understandin’ plods in like an old plow mule, breaking sod. It shades the earth with its body, and waters it with sweat. Love grows up in the furrow that’s left behind. It takes some patience. I was an impatient young man. ~Claude Fisher

Usually, if you ask someone on the island where they come from, they say something like Round about Skarmouth or Back side of Thisby, the hard side or Stone's throw from Tholla. But not me. I remember being small, clutching my father's lined hand, and some wind-beaten old farmer who looked like he'd been dug out of the sod asking, "Where you from, girl?" I answered, in a voice too loud for my tiny freckled self, "The Connolly House." He said ,"What's that, now?" And I replied back, "Where we Connollys live. Because I'm one." And then -- I am still a bit embarrassed about this part of it, as it speaks to a black part of my character -- added, "And you're not.

I'm not sure what it means." Grace frowned. "I don't think I do either." "It sounds bad, though." "Sodding bad." Grace said with a smile, and she patted Amelia's hand. Amelia sighed. "A dammed shame." We are repeating ourselves." Grace pointed out. "I know." Amelia said, but with a fair bit of feeling. "But whose fault is ut? Not ours. We've been far too sheltered." "Now that," Grace announced with a flair, "really is a dammed shame!" "A bloody inconvenience, if you ask me.

Did I call them Laurel and Hardy? I meant sodding Romeo and Juliet. This is flirting, á la Gestapo underlings: She: Oh, you are so strong and manly, M'sieur Thibaut. These knots you tie are so secure. He: That is nothing. Look, I pull them so tight you cannot undo them. Try. She: It is true, I cannot! Oh, pull them tighter! He: Chérie, your wish is my command. It is my ankles, not hers, which he is binding so tightly and with such masculine charm. She: I shall have to call you in tomorrow morning as well, to do this task for me. He: You must cross the cords, so, and knot them behind - Me: Squeak! Squeak! She: Shut up and write, ya wee skrikin' Scots piece o' shite. Well, no, she did not use those exact words. But you get the idea.

Redditch: Christ, I hadn't even expected to be here. I was only standing in Redditch 'cause I was told it was a no-hoper. They bloody-well lied. Needles everywhere, you know that? Half the world's needles, made in sodding.. I was holding out for Cheam, or Chester. A 'ch' place, a nice little English 'ch' place. Not 'Redditch', listen to that. It's not a name, it's a fucking noise. What is it, 'Redditch'? Sounds like a frog vomiting. And they told me it was Worcestershire, another lie! Atkins: It is Worcestershire. Redditch: Oh Humphrey, it's Birmingham. Everyone knows it is, listen to the sodding accent. I imagined meadows and steeples and farmyards and haystacks. Well, do you know what, shall I tell you something? You can't find a haystack in Redditch cause of all the fucking needles!

But Nebraska was not always a bed of roses. When the first settlers arrived, they found a harsh, unforgiving place, a vast treeless expanse of barren, drought-parched soil. And so, summoning up the dynamic pioneer spirit of hope and steely determination, they left. But a few of them remained and built sod houses, which are actually made of dirt. Think about that. You can’t clean a sod house, because it would be gone. The early settlers had a hell of a time getting this through to their children. “You kids stop tracking dirt out of the house!” they’d yell.

Jesus Christ graced earth’s guilty sod to offer Himself as the perfect sacrifice and fulfill every requirement of the Law. He shed His blood on an altar constructed of two pieces of wood and fashioned into a cross. Because the fire of holy judgment met with the blood of the spotless Lamb, we need no other act of atonement. But we are desperate for the continuing work of sanctification. Too much power is at stake to continue cultivating an inconsistent and unconsecrated mouth. The challenge of a tamed tongue is so great that we’d be wise to give it daily attention in prayer.

Digging Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.

Kad negaiss pārgāja, es lēnām sataustīju durvis. Viss pagalms bija pilns baltiem krusas graudiem. Un visa mūsu labība, cik nu viņas bija, sasita zemē... - Dieva sods, - teica Kārļa tēvs, iznācis un noņēmis cepuri. Es pacēlu dažas vārpas. Es zināju, ka Dievs mani pārbauda. Viņš gribēja zināt, cik man ir spēka tai dzīvei, ko es labprātīgi jaunības neprātā biju uzņēmusies. Viņš gribēja man dot visas bēdas, lai es redzētu, kā jādzīvo cilvēkam, kas iet pret savu sirdi. Un man tas bija viss jāiztur. Savu dzīvi es biju izvēlējusies pati. Man nebija neviena, kam pārmest, neviena, ko sodīt, kā tikai es pati.

I guess you'll have to be a sodding duke now," I tried-clumsy, tasteless, and he only winced. "Sorry." I covered his hand with mine. "That was dumb." "No, you're right. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been stewing about it. Me and Reggie both. I think it's safe to say that this isn't remotely what either of us wanted." "I'm sure you'll do swimmingly." "Bugger that," he said, tired. "And bugger Aubrey, too. I wish I could say that to his face, even if he did go down a hero in a dogfight. Tell him what an ass he is for dying. For leaving me here like this." "I know." His hand twisted around until it covered mine.

She extends a fingertip. After a moment's hesitation, Manfred extends a fingertip of his own. They touch, exchanging vCards and instant-messaging handles. She stands and stalks from the breakfast room, and Manfred's breath catches at a flash of ankle through the slit in her skirt, which is long enough to comply with workplace sexual harassment codes back home. Her presence conjures up memories of her tethered passion, the red afterglow of a sound thrashing. She's trying to drag him into her orbit again, he thinks dizzily. She knows she can have this effect on him any time she wants: She's got the private keys to his hypothalamus, and sod the metacortex. Three billion years of reproductive determinism have given her twenty-first-century ideology teeth: If she's finally decided to conscript his gametes into the war against impending population crash, he'll find it hard to fight back. The only question: Is it business or pleasure? And does it make any difference, anyway?

IRELAND Spenserian Sonnet abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee What is it about the Kelly velvet hillsides and the hoary avocado sea, The vertical cliffs where the Gulf Stream commences its southern bend, Slashing like a sculptor gone mad or a rancorous God who’s angry, Heaving galaxies of lichen shrouded stones for potato farmers to tend, Where the Famine and the Troubles such haunting aspects lend, Music and verse ring with such eloquence in their whimsical way, Let all, who can hear, rejoice as singers’ intonations mend, Gaelic souls from Sligo and Trinity Green to Cork and Dingle Bay, Where fiddle, bodhran, tin whistle, and even God, indulge to play, Ould sod to Beckett, Wilde and Yeats, Heaney and James Joyce, In this verdant, welcoming land, ‘tis the poet who rules the day. Where else can one hear a republic croon in so magnificent a voice? Primal hearts of Celtic chieftains pulse, setting inspiration free, In genial confines of chic caprice, we’re stirred by synchronicity.

...A great night, yes sir, exclaimed one of them licking his chops and another confirmed, Those seven were worth fourteen, it's true that one of them was no great shakes, but in the middle of all that uproar who noticed, their men are lucky sods, if they're man enough for them. It would be better if they weren't, then they'd be more eager. From the far end of the ward, the doctor's wife said, There are no longer seven of us, Has one of you vamoosed, someone in the group asked, laughing, She didn't vamoose, she died, Oh, hell, then you lot will have to work all the harder next time, It wasn't much of a loss, she was no great shakes, said the doctor's wife. Disconcerted, the messengers did not know how to respond, what they had just heard struck them as indecent, some of them even came round to thinking that when all is said and done all women are bitches, such a lack of respect, to refer to a woman like that, just because her tits weren't in the right place and she had no arse to speak of.

ORGANIC LIFE beneath the shoreless waves Was born and nurs'd in Ocean's pearly caves; First, forms minute, unseen by spheric glass, Move on the mud, or pierce the watery mass; These, as successive generations bloom, New powers acquire, and larger limbs assume; Whence countless groups of vegetation spring, And breathing realms of fin, and feet, and wing. Thus the tall Oak, the giant of the wood, Which bears Britannia's thunders on the flood; The Whale, unmeasured monster of the main, The lordly Lion, monarch of the plain, The Eagle soaring in the realms of air, Whose eye undazzled drinks the solar glare, Imperious man, who rules the bestial crowd, Of language, reason, and reflection proud, With brow erect, who scorns this earthy sod, And styles himself the image of his God; Arose from rudiments of form and sense, An embryon point, or microscopic ens!

Don't misunderstand, but how dare you risk your life? What the devil did you think, to leap over like that? You could have stayed safe on this side and just helped me over." Even to her ears, her tone bordered on the hysterical. Beneath her fingers, the white lawn started to redden. She sucked in a shaky breath. "How could you risk your life-your life, you idiot!" She leaned harder on the pad, dragged in another breath. He coughed weakly, shifted his head. "Don't you dare die on me!" His lips twisted, but his eyes remained closed. "But if I die"-his words were a whisper-"you won't have to marry, me or anyone else. Even the most censorious in the ton will consider my death to be the end of the matter. You'll be free." "Free?" Then his earlier words registered. "If you die? I told you-don't you dare! I won't let you-I forbid you to. How can I marry you if you die? And how the hell will I live if you aren't alive, too?" As the words left her mouth, half hysterical, all emotion, she realized they were the literal truth. Her life wouldn't be worth living if he wasn't there to share it. "What will I do with my life if you die?" He softly snorted, apparently unimpressed by-or was it not registering?-her panic. "Marry some other poor sod, like you were planning to." The words cut. "You are the only poor sod I'm planning to marry." Her waspish response came on a rush of rising fear. She glanced around, but there was no one in sight. Help had yet to come running. She looked back at him, readjusted the pressure on the slowly reddening pad. "I intend not only to marry you but to lead you by the nose for the rest of your days. It's the least I can do to repay you for this-for the shock to my nerves. I'll have you know I'd decided even before this little incident to reverse my decision and become your viscountess, and lead you such a merry dance through the ballrooms and drawing rooms that you'll be gray within two years." He humphed softly, dismissively, but he was listening. Studying his face, she realized her nonsense was distracting him from the pain. She engaged her imagination and let her tongue run free. "I've decided I'll redecorate Baraclough in the French Imperial style-all that white and gilt and spindly legs, with all the chairs so delicate you won't dare sit down. And while we're on the subject of your-our-country home, I've had an idea about my carriage, the one you'll buy me as a wedding gift..." She rambled on, paying scant attention to her words, simply let them and all the images she'd dreamed of come tumbling out, painting a vibrant, fanciful, yet in many ways-all the ways that counted-accurate word pictures of her hopes, her aspirations. Her vision of their life together. When the well started to run dry, when her voice started to thicken with tears at the fear that they might no longer have a chance to enjoy all she'd described, she concluded with, "So you absolutely can't die now." Fear prodded; almost incensed, she blurted, "Not when I was about to back down and agree to return to London with you." He moistened his lips. Whispered, "You were?" "Yes! I was!" His fading voice tipped her toward panic. Her voice rose in reaction. "I can't believe you were so foolish as to risk your life like this! You didn't need to put yourself in danger to save me." "Yes, I did." The words were firmer, bitten off through clenched teeth. She caught his anger. Was anger good. Would temper hold him to the world? A frown drew down his black brows. "You can't be so damned foolish as to think I wouldn't-after protecting you through all this, seeing you safely all this way, watching over you all this time, what else was I going to do?

But there’s never been anyone? Really?” Sarah shrugs. “Penny and I were tutored at home when we were young . . . but in year ten, there was this one boy.” I rub my hands together. “Here we go—tell me everything. I want all the sick, lurid details. Was he a footballer? Big and strong, captain of the team, the most popular boy in school?” I could see it. Sarah’s delicate, long and lithe, but dainty, beautiful—any young man would’ve been desperate to have her on his arm. In his lap. In his bed, on the hood of his car, riding his face . . . all of the above. “He was captain of the chess team.” I cover my eyes with my hand. “His name was Davey. He wore these adorable tweed jackets and bow ties, he had blond hair, and was a bit pale because of the asthma. He had the same glasses as I and he had a different pair of argyle socks for every day of the year.” “You’re messing with me, right?” She shakes her head. “Argyle socks, Sarah? I am so disappointed in you right now.” “He was nice,” she chides. “You leave my Davey alone.” Then she laughs again—delighted and free. My cock reacts hard and fast, emphasis on hard. It’s like sodding granite. “So what happened to old Davey boy?” “I was alone in the library one day and he came up and started to ask me to the spring social. And I was so excited and nervous I could barely breathe.” I picture how she must’ve looked then. But in my mind’s eyes she’s really not any different than she is right now. Innocent, sweet, and so real she couldn’t deceive someone if her life depended on it. “And then before he could finish the question, I . . .” I don’t realize I’m leaning toward her until she stops talking and I almost fall over. “You . . . what?” Sarah hides behind her hands. “I threw up on him.” And I try not to laugh. I swear I try . . . but I’m only human. So I end up laughing so hard the car shakes and I can’t speak for several minutes. “Christ almighty.” “And I’d had fish and chips for lunch.” Sarah’s laughing too. “It was awful.” “Oh you poor thing.” I shake my head, still chuckling. “And poor Davey.” “Yes.” She wipes under her eyes with her finger. “Poor Davey. He never came near me again after that.” “Coward—he didn’t deserve you. I would’ve swam through a whole lake of puke to take a girl like you to the social.” She smiles so brightly at me, her cheeks maroon and round like two shiny apples. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “I’m all about the compliments.

BROADBENT [stiffly]. Devil is rather a strong expression in that connexion, Mr Keegan. KEEGAN. Not from a man who knows that this world is hell. But since the word offends you, let me soften it, and compare you simply to an ass. [Larry whitens with anger]. BROADBENT [reddening]. An ass! KEEGAN [gently]. You may take it without offence from a madman who calls the ass his brother--and a very honest, useful and faithful brother too. The ass, sir, is the most efficient of beasts, matter-of-fact, hardy, friendly when you treat him as a fellow-creature, stubborn when you abuse him, ridiculous only in love, which sets him braying, and in politics, which move him to roll about in the public road and raise a dust about nothing. Can you deny these qualities and habits in yourself, sir? BROADBENT [goodhumoredly]. Well, yes, I'm afraid I do, you know. KEEGAN. Then perhaps you will confess to the ass's one fault. BROADBENT. Perhaps so: what is it? KEEGAN. That he wastes all his virtues--his efficiency, as you call it--in doing the will of his greedy masters instead of doing the will of Heaven that is in himself. He is efficient in the service of Mammon, mighty in mischief, skilful in ruin, heroic in destruction. But he comes to browse here without knowing that the soil his hoof touches is holy ground. Ireland, sir, for good or evil, is like no other place under heaven; and no man can touch its sod or breathe its air without becoming better or worse. It produces two kinds of men in strange perfection: saints and traitors. It is called the island of the saints; but indeed in these later years it might be more fitly called the island of the traitors; for our harvest of these is the fine flower of the world's crop of infamy. But the day may come when these islands shall live by the quality of their men rather than by the abundance of their minerals; and then we shall see. LARRY. Mr Keegan: if you are going to be sentimental about Ireland, I shall bid you good evening. We have had enough of that, and more than enough of cleverly proving that everybody who is not an Irishman is an ass. It is neither good sense nor good manners. It will not stop the syndicate; and it will not interest young Ireland so much as my friend's gospel of efficiency. BROADBENT. Ah, yes, yes: efficiency is the thing. I don't in the least mind your chaff, Mr Keegan; but Larry's right on the main point. The world belongs to the efficient.

Ascent To The Sierras poet Robinson Jeffers #140 on top 500 poets Poet's PagePoemsCommentsStatsE-BooksBiographyQuotationsShare on FacebookShare on Twitter Poems by Robinson Jeffers : 8 / 140 « prev. poem next poem » Ascent To The Sierras Beyond the great valley an odd instinctive rising Begins to possess the ground, the flatness gathers to little humps and barrows, low aimless ridges, A sudden violence of rock crowns them. The crowded orchards end, they have come to a stone knife; The farms are finished; the sudden foot of the slerra. Hill over hill, snow-ridge beyond mountain gather The blue air of their height about them. Here at the foot of the pass The fierce clans of the mountain you'd think for thousands of years, Men with harsh mouths and eyes like the eagles' hunger, Have gathered among these rocks at the dead hour Of the morning star and the stars waning To raid the plain and at moonrise returning driven Their scared booty to the highlands, the tossing horns And glazed eyes in the light of torches. The men have looked back Standing above these rock-heads to bark laughter At the burning granaries and the farms and the town That sow the dark flat land with terrible rubies... lighting the dead... It is not true: from this land The curse was lifted; the highlands have kept peace with the valleys; no blood in the sod; there is no old sword Keeping grim rust, no primal sorrow. The people are all one people, their homes never knew harrying; The tribes before them were acorn-eaters, harmless as deer. Oh, fortunate earth; you must find someone To make you bitter music; how else will you take bonds of the future, against the wolf in men's hearts?

Adelia began to get cross. Why was it women who were to blame for everything—everything, from the Fall of Man to these blasted hedges? “We are not in a labyrinth, my lord,” she said clearly. “Where are we, then?” “It’s a maze.” “Same difference.” Puffing at the horse: “Get back, you great cow.” “No, it isn’t. A labyrinth has only one path and you merely have to follow it. It’s a symbol of life or, rather, of life and death. Labyrinths twist and turn, but they have a beginning and an end, through darkness into light.” Softening, and hoping that he would, too, she added, “Like Ariadne’s. Rather beautiful, really.” “I don’t want mythology, mistress, beautiful or not, I want to get to that sodding tower. What’s a maze when it’s at home?” “It’s a trick. A trick to confuse. To amaze.” “And I suppose Mistress Clever-boots knows how to get us out?” “I do, actually.” God’s rib, he was sneering at her, sneering. She’d a mind to stay where she was and let him sweat. “Then in the name of Christ, do it.” “Stop bellowing at me,” she yelled at him. “You’re bellowing.” She saw his teeth grit in the pretense of a placatory smile; he always had good teeth. Still did. Between them, he said, “The Bishop of Saint Albans presents his compliments to Mistress Adelia and please to escort him out of this hag’s hole, for the love of God. How will you do it?” “My business.” Be damned if she’d tell him. Women were defenseless enough without revealing their secrets. “I’ll have to take the lead.” She stumped along in front, holding Walt’s mount’s reins in her right hand. In the other was her riding crop, which she trailed with apparent casualness so that it brushed against the hedge on her left. As she went, she chuntered to herself. Lord, how disregarded I am in this damned country. How disregarded all women are. ... Ironically, the lower down the social scale women were, the greater freedom they had; the wives of laborers and craftsmen could work alongside their men—even, sometimes, when they were widowed, take over their husband’s trade. Adelia trudged on. Hag’s hole. Grendel’s mother’s entrails. Why was this dreadful place feminine to the men lost in it? Because it was tunneled? Womb-like? Is this woman’s magic? The great womb? Is that why the Church hates me, hates all women? Because we are the source of all true power? Of life? She supposed that by leading them out of it, she was only confirming that a woman knew its secrets and they did not. Great God, she thought, it isn't a question of hatred. It’s fear. They are frightened of us. And Adelia laughed quietly, sending a suggestion of sound reverberating backward along the tunnel, as if a small pebble was skipping on water, making each man start when it passed him. “What in hell was that?” Walt called back stolidly, “Reckon someone’s laughing at us, master.” “Dear God.

You’ve always been so agreeable,” he remarked with something of a rueful tone. “I don’t understand why you haven’t told me to sod off.” She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Other than the simple fact that I would never say those words to anyone?” He glanced at her, eyes sparkling. “Even so. I am humbled by your easy acceptance of me. I behaved abominably toward you years ago and yet you act as though nothing ever happened.” Rose twirled the handle of her parasol. “We cannot change the past, Mr. Maxwell. I reckon I would be a much happier woman if I could. No, all we can do is go forward.” His brow furrowed. “Does that mean you forgive me?” She laughed again. “Yes, it does. I understand why you had to abandon your courtship after my father’s misfortune and I do not blame you for it.” Kellan shook his head. “You are too good.” “No,” she insisted with a sharp shake of her head. “I am not.” Lord, if he but knew just how not good she could be! Of course, if they were married he’d realize that on their wedding night, wouldn’t he? Or could she deceive him and make him believe she was a virgin? It wouldn’t be right, but she would do it to spare his feelings, and keep her secrets. “But, I can be practical when the situation calls for it.” “Is that why you’re here with me now?” he asked with amusement. “Practicality?” Rose’s smile was coy in reply. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I like giving the gossips something to natter about.” Kellan laughed aloud. “I’ve missed your wit, Rose. You always knew how to make me laugh.” “Yes.” She twirled her parasol again. “You as well. I’m glad that we are friends again.” “Friends,” he repeated. “Is that what we are?” It had been a while since she’d flirted with a man without the benefit of a mask, but she thought she remembered how to do it. “For now.” They were smiling at each other as they passed beneath the thick shade of trees that lined the track, and Rose felt a stirring of hope in her breast. Her heart wasn’t totally under Grey’s control, and for that she was extraordinarily happy.

Work" I laid telephone line, then cable when it came along. I pulled T-shirts off a silk-screen press. I cleaned offices in buildings thirty-five floors high. I filed the metal edges of grease fryers hot off a welding line. I humped sod in townhouse complexes, and when it became grass I cut it. I sorted mail. I washed police cars, and then I changed their oil. I installed remotes on gas meters so a truck could simply drive down the street and get the readings. I set posts and put up fences, wood and chain link. Five a.m. at the racetrack, I walked hot horses after their exercise. I bathed them. I mopped and swept aisles in a grocery store. Eventually, I stocked shelves. I corrected errors on mortgage papers for a bank. I racked tables in a pool hall. There’s more I’m not telling you. All of this befell me as an adult. As a kid, I cut neighbors’ lawns and delivered newspapers, and I watched after little kids while their parents worked. I painted houses. I collected frogs from ponds and sold them to pet stores. And so on. At fifteen, I went for a busboy position at an all-night diner, but they told me to come back when I turned sixteen. I did. Sometimes, on top of one, I took a second job. It gave me just enough time to sleep between the two. And eat. My father worked, harder than I did, and then he died. Then I worked harder. My mother said, “You’re the man of the house now.” I was seventeen. She kept an eye on me, to make sure I worked. I did. You've just read about all that. Eventually she died, too. I watched my social security numbers grow. I have a pretty good lump. I could leave it to somebody, a spouse or dependent. But there's no one. I have no plan to spend it, but I’ve paid into it. Today I quit my job, my jobs. I had them all written down, phone numbers too, and I called them. You should have seen me, dialing and dialing, crossing names off the list as I went. Some of them I called sounded angry. Some didn’t remember me, and a few didn’t answer. Others had answering machines, but I told the machines I quit anyway. I think about my father. How he worked. I sit by the phone now, after quitting all my jobs, and wish he could see this. A blank calendar on the wall. A single bulb hanging over my head, from a single cord, like the one he wrapped around his neck just before he died.