Everyone has the impulse to be elite.
quote by Alfre Woodard
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poem by Caasder Fronds
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Adrienne Vittadini
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[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
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The Pleasures of Imagination: Book The First
With what attractive charms this goodly frame
Of nature touches the consenting hearts
Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores
Which beauteous imitation thence derives
To deck the poet's, or the painter's toil;
My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers
Of musical delight! and while i sing
Your gifts, your honours, dance around my strain.
Thou, smiling queen of every tuneful breast,
Indulgent Fancy! from the fruitful banks
Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull
Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf
Where Shakespeare lies, be present: and with thee
Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings
Wafting ten thousand colours through the air,
Which, by the glances of her magic eye,
She blends and shifts at will, through countless forms,
Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre,
Which rules the accents of the moving sphere,
Wilt thou, eternal Harmony! descend
And join this festive train? for with thee comes
The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports,
Majestic Truth; and where Truth deigns to come,
Her sister Liberty will not be far.
Be present all ye Genii, who conduct
The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard,
New to your springs and shades: who touch his ear
With finer sounds: who heighten to his eye
The bloom of nature, and before him turn
The gayest, happiest attitude of things.
Oft have the laws of each poetic strain
The critic-verse imploy'd; yet still unsung
Lay this prime subject, though importing most
A poet's name: for fruitless is the attempt,
By dull obedience and by creeping toil
Obscure to conquer the severe ascent
Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath
Must fire the chosen genius; nature's hand
Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings
Impatient of the painful steep, to soar
High as the summit; there to breathe at large
Æthereal air: with bards and sages old,
Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes
To this neglected labour court my song;
Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task
To paint the finest features of the mind,
And to most subtile and mysterious things
Give colour, strength, and motion. But the love
Of nature and the muses bids explore,
[...] Read more
poem by Mark Akenside
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The Pleasures of Imagination: Book The Third
What wonder therefore, since the indearing ties
Of passion link the universal kind
Of man so close, what wonder if to search
This common nature through the various change
Of sex, and age, and fortune, and the frame
Of each peculiar, draw the busy mind
With unresisted charms? The spacious west,
And all the teeming regions of the south
Hold not a quarry, to the curious flight
Of knowledge, half so tempting or so fair,
As man to man. Nor only where the smiles
Of love invite; nor only where the applause
Of cordial honour turns the attentive eye
On virtue's graceful deeds. For since the course
Of things external acts in different ways
On human apprehensions, as the hand
Of nature temper'd to a different frame.
Peculiar minds; so haply where the powers
Of fancy neither lessen nor enlarge
The images of things, but paint in all
Their genuine hues, the features which they wore
In nature; there opinion will be true,
And action right. For action treads the path
In which opinion says he follows good,
Or flies from evil; and opinion gives
Report of good or evil, as the scene
Was drawn by fancy, lovely or deform'd:
Thus her report can never there be true
Where fancy cheats the intellectual eye,
With glaring colours and distorted lines.
Is there a man, who at the sound of death
Sees ghastly shapes of terror conjur'd up,
And black before him; nought but death-bed groans
And fearful prayers, and plunging from the brink
Of light and being, down the gloomy air,
An unknown depth? Alas! in such a mind,
If no bright forms of excellence attend
The image of his country; nor the pomp
Of sacred senates, nor the guardian voice
Of justice on her throne, nor aught that wakes
The conscious bosom with a patriot's flame;
Will not opinion tell him, that to die,
Or stand the hazard, is a greater ill
Than to betray his country? And in act
Will he not chuse to be a wretch and live?
Here vice begins then. From the inchanting cup
Which fancy holds to all, the unwary thirst
Of youth oft swallows a Circæan draught,
That sheds a baleful tincture o'er the eye
Of reason, till no longer he discerns,
[...] Read more
poem by Mark Akenside
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Alastor: or, the Spirit of Solitude
Earth, Ocean, Air, belovèd brotherhood!
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs;
If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses,--have been dear to me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherished these my kindred; then forgive
This boast, belovèd brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favor now!
Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmèd night
To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Captivated Is The Audience
Something occurs,
And from minds can not be excused.
Comments made by those thought elite...
Seem very disconnected from humanity.
'We're concerned about the little people.'
Says one sent to speak and represents sleaze.
'Those people' who initiate wickedness...
To leave it and deceive.
Those who use treachery to bleed the Earth.
And yacht about with venom dripping,
From privileged mouths.
Are about to be themselves seized with grief.
Something occurs,
And from minds can not be excused.
Comments made by those thought elite...
Seem very disconnected from humanity.
And this has been made clear,
To every aspect that makes life a possibility.
When leechers perceive and believe,
They are more powerful than that which has created them...
Captivated is the audience that witnesses their demise.
Something occurs,
And from minds can not be excused.
Comments made by those thought elite...
Seem very disconnected from humanity.
And captivated is the audience,
That witnesses their demise.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dispensed
They have been feasting with a feeding.
Even at the expense,
Of watching their own young...
Being eaten as if dispensed.
Just to keep themselves 'elite'.
'Can't they see,
The future ahead from them...
They themselves delete? '
They believe that this feasting done,
Will keep them at the peak.
'Without an eating of all that is done...
What they believe,
Is an impossibility.'
They believe that this feasting done,
Will keep them at the peak.
They have been feasting with a feeding.
Even at the expense,
Of watching their own young...
Being eaten as if dispensed.
Just to keep themselves 'elite'.
'Can't they see,
The future ahead from them...
They themselves delete?
And...
Without an eating of all that is done...
What they believe,
Is an impossibility.'
'Blinded are the greedy.
And this they can not see.
When they are finished with their eating...
They will turn eventually to rust..
And all that is left,
Will crumble like dust!
After the rusting with the dusting,
Will swallow them all up.
With no repeating of a feasting,
For them ever again to be known.
Even if eyes,
Knowing what was...
Will again be known.'
They have been feasting with a feeding.
Even at the expense,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Have You Heard a Duck Hiccup?
Has anyone seen the elite eat beets?
Has anyone ever seen them pat their feet?
Have you ever seen them groove in seats?
Or bust a move sweating in the Summer heat?
Have you heard a duck hiccup?
Have you heard a moth cough,
Flying in a loft?
Have you seen a bison eat?
And why aren't they called Buffalo,
With hot wings?
Adam and Eve I can see in Eden.
But I can't see either one elite.
I can even see them grooving in the heat.
But I can't see them with ducks cuttin' up!
Oh. Oh.
Oh. Oooohhh-a-noooah.
Has anyone seen the elite eat beets?
Has anyone ever seen them pat their feet?
Have you heard a duck hiccup?
~Huh? ~
Oh. Oh.
Oh. Oooohhh-a-noooah.
'What? '
~Huh? ~
'What? '
~Huh? ~
Have you heard a duck hiccup?
Oh. Oh.
Oh. Oooohhh-a-noooah.
'What? '
~Huh? ~
'What? '
~Huh? ~
Have you heard a duck hiccup?
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Elite Crimes Against Humanity
We must educate inferior elite
cure them of their superiority complex,
because their inability to give
to feel remorse guilt compassion,
proves them to be a crime against humanity.
The elite believe
they control our world,
with their weapons
of poverty prejudice,
ignorance religion.
The elite are truly like
child bully in the sand box,
who never learned to share
as adults sowing grief despair,
it is time to teach them responsibility.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Political Fruit: A Political Solution!
A yokel’s assessment
loft pigeon holing
key kiwi politics
for term year 2001.
Under Labouring Leadership
exhibited by Prime Minister.
Housewife mentality not
her honourable Helen Clark.
“I’m glad I’m a kiwi
in the land of the free(?)
I wish I was a dog
and Jenny Shipley was a tree! ”
That former National Leader
of the N.Z. Socialist Welfare State.
Effectively exterminated some of
the old the sick the maimed not retained.
The (destained) . Supposedly unemployable.
Through effective long hospital waiting lists.
Patients patiently dying in sickening turn.
Waiting for their turn lifetime tax paid for.
Grossly government underfunded operations.
Patients could not live long enough to have.
Contrast increasing youth adult suicide rates.
Highlights dispirited dispossessed chose to die.
Rather than live with unstomachable shame.
Shame for their families to deal with if had one.
National gave their last paid jobs away to
cheaper ill fated foreign third world workers.
To even more socially exploited workers.
In even more exploited less fortunate lands.
Ensuring aspiring elite rich may free trade
grossing ever more greed upon greed
sweat and misery maximized equating to
an advanced global industrial slavery.
As Neo-liberal policies bite ever harder.
“Full employment is necessary
for capitalism
to grow”; did you never realize!
Shrinking profit rates! Economic Solution?
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Occupy' Ghosts Of King Jackson Liberty Call
A strong nation
must be more
than an elite 1%
who own 30%
of the nation
favoured status
under George W. Bush
as his personal pals
exempt paid no taxes.
Zillions more hidden
in corporations slush funds
tax free back handers.
NYPD protecting clients who?
In force mob attacking a lone
female cyclist wearing a hoodie?
Watch NYPD baton
strike a protestor hit
on head with baton...
in Oakland at 14th and Broadway?
Bad cops hiding behind shield thugs?
Good citizens you pay their salary?
Sitting on the fence is not
empowerment path to freedom
is self determination not!
Democracy justice equality
will not miracle jump out of hat!
We are the nation people 99%.
Do you want your guaranteed
civil constitutional rights?
Mask your mouths as NYPD
tear gases peaceful protesters;
if your in danger on the side lines?
On the high moral ground we
few will stand unbowed
before NYPD armor guns shields.
Just as ancestors at Lexington
Massachusetts faced an unjust foe.
Faced fears to earn a land of the free.
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Stealing Your Homes Salaried Employment
How will vile
sickening mega rich
strip away your hard
won savings;
steal your homes
salaried employment
your pride honour
integrity with immunity?
Wall street foxy bankers
players will glorify themselves
with hoax extortion rackets
internal trading investments;
housing markets will implode
crash rendering millions
homeless create recessions
global while corporate bankers;
will be plan state rescued
with poor citizen paid taxes
elite 1% luxury tax exempt
will bathe in your blood bath.
“the elite,
govern by profit,
illusions, propaganda....”
a profound observation
and absolutely true
for decades presidents
have been systematically
chipping away at citizen
rights and freedoms
exalted coup de grace
was homeland security
act; beware enforced laws
of this demonic strategy
actually strip away legally
all constitutional civilian
rights if implemented;
in the name of the great
elite new world order,
a cunning deceit called
War on Terror.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Survival By Choice
i guess survival
is a choice too
insider trade off
planned elite survival
has been prepared
for new world order
even back in 1945
Berlin had massive
underground shelters
underground cities
built for survival
started big time late
1940s d.u.m.b
deep underground
military base
technology for survival
cities started big time
during cold war classified
period 3.5 miles deep enough
to survive oncoming polar shift
continental plate movement
dumb built
three to four
miles deep
preparation selected
elite human race
will new world survive
while elite
underground
slum it
i hope
to bask
in glory
of heaven
tour suburbs
paradise
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Gnostic Texts
Described as snobbish and elite
by Garry Wills,
what the Church wished to delete
provides me thrills.
I’m thinking of the Gnostic text
that, somewhat rude, is
opposed to those disciples vexed
by deeds of Judas,
proposing that he was opposed
to martyrdom,
which Christians have so long supposed
to be the bomb
that made so popular the myth
this text explodes.
Like Pagels, I am happy with
such Gnostic codes.
Inspired by “Reading Judas: The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity, ” by Elaine Pagels and Karen L. King (New York: Penguin,2007) , and Gary Wills’s description of second century Gnostic texts such as “The Gospel of Juddas” as “elite and snobbish” in his book “What The Gospels Meant, ” reviewed by David Gibson (“What Jesus Really Did, ” NYT, March 2,2008) :
“What the Gospels Meant” starts straightforwardly with a helpful explanation of just what a Gospel is: “a meditation on the meaning of Jesus in the light of sacred history as recorded in the sacred writings.” Wills then parses the Gospel of Mark, the earliest account, as a “report from the suffering body of Jesus, ” written to comfort early Christians facing persecution. Matthew’s is the teaching Gospel, recounting many of Christianity’s most familiar sermons. The erudite Luke presents “the reconciling body of Jesus, ” a Gospel of poignant stories like the Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan that display the humanity of Jesus and the universality of his message. John is, as ever, the theologian, a prophetic voice from “the mystical body of Jesus.” Yet the paradox of modern Christianity is that the growth of biblical scholarship, and the fervor of believers in sola Scriptura (Scripture alone) , has done so little to affect the mass of biblical illiterates who proclaim their convictions about what Jesus would do while knowing precious little about what he actually did or, more important, what he meant. Neo-atheists aren’t much better, sneering at Christians but displaying ignorance about Christianity. And neo-Gnostics — academics and acolytes who claim to channel the rebel spirit of various early Christian offshoots — routinely confer on “elite and snobbish” (Wills’s phrase) second-century texts an authority they rarely grant to the canon. Such literalism sustains a fragile faith.
In this sense, Wills is a dangerous man. He does not create a foolish consistency out of differing Gospels, but underscores the attributes of each narrative to highlight truths more crucial than whether there were four discrete Evangelists, or whether three wise men actually followed a star in the East. The credulous will be shocked by his rationality, while skeptics will be scandalized by his respect for the faith. To be sure, Wills includes asides that will win few points with Rome, like his claim that the virgin birth “is not a gynecological or obstetric teaching, but a theological one.” And he throws in facts that can be mischievously tossed out at family gatherings or, worse, to the pastor after Sunday services — for example, that the crown of thorns was probably a wreath of acanthus leaves. (Wills also provides his own translations of the original “marketplace” Greek, though I’m not sure that killing the “pampered” calf or hearing that the Word became flesh and “bivouacked with us” will catch on.)
12/28/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Saved A Dance For You
a healthy impulse of moving along the lines
a beautiful impulse of moving the plateaux of limestone minds
a wonderful impulse of healing the moments in time
in rhythm blasts wearing off the masks
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Gebir
FIRST BOOK.
I sing the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt
Among those mountain-caverns which retain
His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells,
Nor have forgotten their old master's name
Though severed from his people here, incensed
By meditating on primeval wrongs,
He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose
Whole nations; here, ten thousand of most might
He called aloud, and soon Charoba saw
His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile,
What should the virgin do? should royal knees
Bend suppliant, or defenceless hands engage
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms?
For 'twas reported that nor sword sufficed,
Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail,
But that upon their towering heads they bore
Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars.
This told she Dalica, then cried aloud:
'If on your bosom laying down my head
I sobbed away the sorrows of a child,
If I have always, and Heaven knows I have,
Next to a mother's held a nurse's name,
Succour this one distress, recall those days,
Love me, though 'twere because you loved me then.'
But whether confident in magic rites
Or touched with sexual pride to stand implored,
Dalica smiled, then spake: 'Away those fears.
Though stronger than the strongest of his kind,
He falls-on me devolve that charge; he falls.
Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure;
Nay, journey to his tents: a city stood
Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad built,
Whose father Gad built Gadir; on this ground
Perhaps he sees an ample room for war.
Persuade him to restore the walls himself
In honour of his ancestors, persuade -
But wherefore this advice? young, unespoused,
Charoba want persuasions! and a queen!'
'O Dalica!' the shuddering maid exclaimed,
'Could I encounter that fierce, frightful man?
Could I speak? no, nor sigh!'
'And canst thou reign?'
Cried Dalica; 'yield empire or comply.'
Unfixed though seeming fixed, her eyes downcast,
The wonted buzz and bustle of the court
From far through sculptured galleries met her ear;
Then lifting up her head, the evening sun
Poured a fresh splendour on her burnished throne-
[...] Read more
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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I Wanna Know (The Pit And The Pendulum)
Under the intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyes
I have felt the full knowledge
And force of their expression
And yet been unable to possess it
And have felt it leave me
As so many other things have left
The letter half-read
The bottle half-drunk
Finding
Finding in the commonest objects of the universe
A circle of analogies
Of metaphors
Ooohhh
For that expression
Which has been willfully
withheld from me
The access to the inner soul denied
I wanna know, ooohhh
I wanna know
I wanna know, oh
I wanna know
In consideration
In consideration of the faculties and impulses
Of the human soul
Of the human soul
In consideration
Of our arrogance
Of our arrogance
Our radical, primitive irreducible arrogance of reason
We have all overlooked the propensity
We saw no need for it
The paradoxical something which we may call perverseness
Perverseness
Through its promptings we act without
Comprehensible object
We act for the reason we should not
We act for the reason we should not
For certain minds this is absolutely irre-, irre-
irresistible
irresistible
The conviction of the wrong
Or impolicy of an action
Is often the unconquerable force
The unconquerable force
It is a primitive impulse
It is a primitive impulse
Primitive impulse
The overwhelming tendency
The overwhelming tendency to do
Wrong for the wrong's sake
[...] Read more
song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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The snob wishes to attach himself to some group because it is already regarded as an elite; friends are in danger of coming to regard themselves as an elite because they are already attached. We seek men after our own heart for their own sake and are then alarmingly or delightfully surprised by the feeling that we have become an aristocracy.
C.S. Lewis in The Four Loves
Added by Rebeca Bucur
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There is a lack of critical assessment of the past. But you have to understand that the current ruling elite is actually the old ruling elite. So they are incapable of a self-critical approach to the past.
quote by Ryszard Kapuscinski
Added by Lucian Velea
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