I Hear America Singing Poem by Walt Whitman
I Hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics- each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat- the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench- the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song- the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother- or of the young wife at work- or of the girl sewing or washing- Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day- At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
To Be Of Use Poem by Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
Hey Diddle Diddle Poem by Roald Dahl
Hey diddle diddle
We’re all on the fiddle
And never get up until noon.
We only take cash
Which we carefully stash
And we work by the light of the moon.
Grass Poem by Carl Sandburg
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work–
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
Looking At The Grinding Stones – Dohas (Couplets) I Poem by Kabir
Looking at the grinding stones, Kabir laments
In the duel of wheels, nothing stays intact.
searching for the wicked, met not a single one
When searched myself, ‘I’ found the wicked one
Tomorrows work do today, today’s work anon
if the moment is lost, when will the work be done
Speak such words, sans ego’s ploy
Body remains composed, giving the listener joy
Slowly slowly O mind, everything in own pace happens
Gardner may water a hundred buckets, fruit arrives only in its season
Give so much O God, suffice to envelop my clan
I should not suffer cravings, nor the visitor goes unfed
In vain is the eminence, just like a date tree
No shade for travelers, fruit is hard to reach
Like seed contains the oil, fire in flint stone
Your heart seats the Divine, realize if you can
Kabira in the market place, wishes welfare of all
Neither friendship nor enmity with anyone at all
Reading books everyone died, none became any wise
One who reads the words of Love, only becomes wise
In anguish everyone prays to Him, in joy does none
To One who prays in happiness, how sorrow can come
More About People Poem by Ogden Nash
When people aren’t asking questions
They’re making suggestions
And when they’re not doing one of those
They’re either looking over your shoulder or stepping on your toes
And then as if that weren’t enough to annoy you
They employ you.
Anybody at leisure
Incurs everybody’s displeasure.
It seems to be very irking
To people at work to see other people not working,
So they tell you that work is wonderful medicine,
Just look at Firestone and Ford and Edison,
And they lecture you till they’re out of breath or something
And then if you don’t succumb they starve you to death or something.
All of which results in a nasty quirk:
That if you don’t want to work you have to work to earn enough money so that you won’t have to work.
Work Poem by Henry Van Dyke
Let me but do my work from day to day,
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,
In roaring market-place or tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,
“This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;
“Of all who live, I am the one by whom
“This work can best be done in the right way.”
Then shall I see it not too great, nor small,
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;
Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours,
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
At eventide, to play and love and rest,
Because I know for me my work is best.
When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted Poem by Rudyard Kipling
When Earth’s last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
‘Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They’ll sit in a golden chair
They’ll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet’s hair
They’ll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They’ll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!
There’s A Moon Inside My Body Poem by Kabir
THE moon shines in my body, but my blind eyes cannot see it:
The moon is within me, and so is the sun.
The unstruck drum of Eternity is sounded within me; but my deaf ears cannot hear it.
So long as man clamours for the I and the Mine, his works are as naught:
When all love of the I and the Mine is dead, then the work of the Lord is done.
For work has no other aim than the getting of knowledge:
When that comes, then work is put away.
The flower blooms for the fruit: when the fruit comes, the flower withers.
The musk is in the deer, but it seeks it not within itself: it wanders in quest of grass.
She Never Had A Sunday Poem by Unnikrishnan Sivasankara Menon
‘Why Sunday? ‘
My daughter asked.
‘His work done, God rested
on the seventh day
and it was Sunday’,
I concluded.
Sunday,
A week’s work done
I rested in my armchair
A book in my hand.
In her study
She tried to convince
her mother, in vain.
Finally,
Exasperated
She asked me again
‘Why Sunday? ‘
‘Rest, dear,
A week’s work done, ‘ I said.
‘Just tell her that, ‘
She said, ‘and let me play.’
I realised then, she, the mother,
Never had a Sunday!
