Author Archives: Paul Jacko

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.

Eldorado

…from the quills of the dead white poets Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849) Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old- This knight … Continue reading

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Theodore Roosevelt :- It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out where the strongman stumbles, or where the doer of good deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man in the arena, … Continue reading

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Vlastní podobizna

…from the quills of the dead white poets   Karel Toman (1877 – 1946) Daleko v hlubokém lese vyvěrá zpěvavý pramen. Z tmy k světlu se rodí a třese podsvětní píseň. Život mě křtil vodou živou, chuť hlubin a temnot … Continue reading

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Love And Death

…from the quills of dead white poets Lord Byron (1788 – 1824) I watched thee when the foe was at our side, Ready to strike at him – or thee and me Were safety hopeless – rather than divide Aught … Continue reading

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O heavens, heavens,

…from the quills of the dead white poets Osip Mandelshtam 1891 -1938 O heavens, heavens, see you in my dreams! It is impossible — you had become so blind, And day was burned as if a page — to rims: … Continue reading

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“By the Hoof of the Wild Goat”

…from the quills of the dead white poets Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) By the Hoof of the Wild Goat uptossed From the cliff where she lay in the Sun Fell the Stone To the Tarn where the daylight is … Continue reading

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Poverty

…from the quills of the dead white poets Samuel Johnson (1709 – 1784) Has heaven reserv’d, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste, or undiscover’d shore? No secret island in the boundless main? No peaceful desert yet unclaim’d by … Continue reading

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The Dalliance of the Eagles

…from the quills of the dead white poets Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,) Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles, The rushing amorous contact high in … Continue reading

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Hlas noci

…from the quills of the dead white poets Karel Toman (1877 – 1946) Město tě volá, odbojného syna, ó slyš. Ať kladivo jsi, nebo kovadlina, ty zníš. Odvěká píseň, boj a věčné drama hrá v tmách, a tvoje duše žíti … Continue reading

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I Am He that Aches with Love

…from the quills of the dead white poets Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)   I am he that aches with amorous love; Does the earth gravitate? Does not all matter, aching, attract all matter? So the body of me to … Continue reading

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Beast and Man in India

…from the quills of the dead white poets Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) They killed a Child to please the Gods In Earth’s young penitence, And I have bled in that Babe’s stead Because of innocence. I bear the sins … Continue reading

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No Labor

…from the quills of the dead white poets Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) No Labor-Saving Machine Nor discovery have I made, Nor will I be able to leave behind me any wealthy bequest to found a hospital or library, Nor … Continue reading

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“I Had Not Tried the Wine…”

…from the quills of the dead white poets Osip Mandelshtam 1891 -1938 I had not tried the wine that ancients made, And had not heard of Ossian’s old tune; So why, on earth, I seem to see the glade, And, … Continue reading

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Mým snem jsi prošla

…from the quills of the dead white poets Karel Toman (1877 – 1946) Mým snem jsi prošla, jako zjevení alejí tmavou v půlnoci jde tiše. A skoupý vínek černé zeleni, jehož celovat chtěl čelo tvé i vlas, jež vadne, chřadne, … Continue reading

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Sea Dreams

…from the quills of the dead white poets Alfred Tennyson (1809 – 1892) What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little … Continue reading

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The Fabulists

…from the quills of the dead white poets Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) “The Vortex”–A Diversity of Creatures When all the world would keep a matter hid, Since Truth is seldom Friend to any crowd, Men write in fable, as … Continue reading

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“Oh, Laziness, Come…”

…from the quills of the dead white poets Aleksandr Pushkin (1799 – 1837) (From “A Sleep”, II) 1816 Oh, laziness, come, come to me, alone. You’re called for by soft coolness and good rest; Only in you I see my … Continue reading

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Post Christmas

 

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Zem?

…from the quills of the dead white poets Otokar Březina (1868 -1929) Sen rozkládá se za světem, za hvězdou hvězda, když půlnoc se tmí, a mezi nimi je jeden, krouží kolem bílého slunce, a let jeho hudbou tajemné radosti hřmí, … Continue reading

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The City of Sleep

…from the quills of the dead white poets Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) (“The Brushwood Boy” — The Day’s Work) Over the edge of the purple down, Where the single lamplight gleams, Know ye the road to the Merciful Town … Continue reading

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