Latest quotes | Random quotes | Vote! | Latest comments | Add quote

Orhan Pamuk

Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.

in My Name is Red (1998)Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Dan Costinaş
Comment! | Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian

Share

Related quotes

Patrick White

Ten Hours A Day Painting In The Half Wild Fields

Ten hours a day painting in the half wild fields
at Long Bay, eleven miles outside of Westport
for four and a half years without
seeing another human for months in the winter
except when we drove into Perth every six weeks
for smokes and groceries.
A quarter mile of treacherous driveway,
mud, ice, freezing rain, you had to accelerate
just right, and steadily, to keep the car
from sliding back down the hill.
Sometimes two or three attempts
like a long distance Olympic ski jumper
and you standing at the top of the ninety metre hill
so I didn’t kill you going backwards,
one hand on a shovel
planted in a small grey pyramid of rock salt
like a sign of readiness and ownership
that always made me think
this is what an hourglass must look like
when it finally hits bottom.
Four miles of treacherous dirt road
one car wide
six deaths down and counting
and the schoolbus always coming our way
just as we were
without being able to brake or pass.
And then twenty perilous miles,
a hot knife of anxiety in the back of my neck,
riding the rat snake of black ice
through a gauntlet of frozen road kill
on the back of Sunset Boulevard all the way to Perth.
Coffee at Tinker’s or the Red Fox,
groceries at Loeb’s,
dog kibble and wet food for the cats at Berry’s,
you’d buy something wholly intriguing to an Aquarius
and I’d buy another tool at Canadian Tire
without even knowing what is was for
but always intended to find out and use
because you never know
when you’re living on a farm
twenty-five miles outside of town
when someone who’s come over
to give you hand fixing something,
usually a car,
is going to ask you for something
everything else in the world
depends upon you having
at that one crucial moment
even if you don’t know what it’s for.
Country makes you feel
there’s a practical purpose
to being a useless poet with tools.
Months of slushy quick mud roads
where no one could get in or out
without chains on a backhoe and even then,
long soporific embering nights
when the drifts were up over the windowsills
and there was a human glow on the snow
that quietly defied all death threats from the weather
and we were all, just you and I,
and the cats and the dogs
as Willie P. would say
all safe inside and warm somewhere.
You were a witch of a cook
that would put most survivalists to shame
if they could have seen what you could do
with a bit of stew, cardboard and cornmeal.
Comes of being raised on welfare
in Westmount I suppose
and looking like a cross
between Nefertiti and Sophia Loren
with a nickname like Black Savage
who collected feathers, and rocks, and bones
and whispered to the albino skulls of small mammals
as if they and you were happy about something certain
I wasn’t privy to
nor ever thought to ask.
For nine years I’d felt
I’d fallen into paradise by accident
and kept my mouth shut lest
anybody discovered I was there by mistake.
Long walks with the sun going down over the treeline
of the island in the bay
with a long caravan of seven dogs and eleven cats
because we couldn’t bear to give them away
and they all had a big abandoned barn to sleep in
when the weather wasn’t out to kill anything that lived.
Gumboots and walking sticks in the spring
that would make me alternately feel
like Merlin or Moses
though that’s where the comparison ends,
because we’d only get as far as the fire pits
on the shore of Bob’s Lake
without ever intending to cross it
before turning back
without having killed anyone
except for the occasional groundhog
the dogs would seize by the neck ferociously,
snap it like a castanet with one shake of their head
and carry on as if nothing had happened
out of the ordinary in a dog’s life,
because we were already living in the promised land.
Years of living with a woman from Montreal
called Black Savage
who had the courage of gunpowder
the instincts of a queen cobra
and the finesse of a white-tailed doe.
And knew how to paint and write and make love as well.
And to be out in the fields with you
on those warm August afternoons
hazy with dragonflies down by the beaver pond
where you painted the dead trees
as if they’d all had the same hysterectomy you had
at twenty-three, shapely denuded torsos
missing their arms like the Venus de Milo,
and I’d try to catch the inflections of light on the water
so totally absorbed in the scene
the beavers decided despite appearances
I wasn’t there
and went on working behind me.
And once a fox sat outside its den all day
over my left shoulder
with its forelegs crossed
wondering what this curious, harmless human
was doing that so intrigued the both of us.
We painted hundreds and hundreds of landscapes
in the depths of our perfect isolation
working for hours beside each other
without ever saying a word
our brushes hadn’t already said for us
as if they had rooted themselves in the scene
and begun to sprout leaves.
But if I were able to say something to you now
looking back on it through
this aerially blue perspective of time
I’d say we weren’t painting landscapes
but the topology of bliss
when you know it’s been there
a long, long time
like the prophetic skulls
of the grey fieldstones
and the wild grapevines that covered them.
Now all that long black hair of yours
I hear is as grey as a winter dawn.
I left the farm a week after you
put all the cats and dogs down
to make me feel what it was like
to be savaged in paradise
and thoroughly abandoned
for being untrue to your paranoia
though we were joined at the hip for years
and never felt crowded
except when other people were around.
You were beautiful, you were talented,
you were as spooky as deadly nightshade,
as loyal as a female consigliere,
as true as the wing of a hawk
to the same bird I was,
and we rode the wild thermals
of our hearts and bodies and mind and art
like two halves of the same helical chromosome
and even when we painted together
until nightfall and and stars
and way off on the hill
the tiny windows of our farmhouse
filled with the welcoming warmth
of the light we’d left on to guide us back
out of the woods to our place in the distance
and a crockpot of stew that tasted
like all that was good about the human heart,
even standing at our separate easels
among the New England asters
and English ox-eyed daisies
trying to keep the powder-blue damselflies
out of the paint without hurting them
or working them into the sky on our canvases,
like a pre-mixed shade
of value nine celestial cerulean blue,
even standing in the crows-nest of our easels
like the rigging of separate ships
that could have easily passed in the night
but didn’t
even then,
your brush going one way
and mine the other
I never thought for a second
we weren’t rowing in the same lifeboat
toward the same lunar shore.
And you must know this before
either one of us dies
and the ear and the mouth
lose their chance to say and hear the truth,
and I say it like a bird
into the mesmeric eclipses of your Medusan eyes
without turning into unfeeling stone
like some albino rogue moon
that’s got a grudge against the darkness,
I say it in humility and gratitude
and deep reverence I seldom accord the gods
when I think of you
as this dark lighthouse of a lover
painting with me in those beautiful fields back then,
and what a witch-magnet among women you were
whenever you were among them
like a black rose at a coven of apostate doves,
your dark energy as ferocious and Mongolian as mine,
and how fastidiously noble and compassionate
you were about most things,
listening to anyone with rapt attention for hours
who wanted to convince of the uniqueness of their pain
and you’d suggest pithy strategies
like the snakey oracle of Delphi
and quite rightly they’d fall in love with you.
But not once did I ever doubt your fidelity
mostly because no one had walked out on me
after a month of marriage
and emptied my bank account and apartment
without a word of why
while I was at art school
watching my wedding ring turn green
before I came home to nothing
to find out my marriage was just a cheap hustle.
And I said to myself if it had happened to me
I might even be more paranoid about my next lover,
than you were of me from the very start,
and I loved you and it hurt
to see that massive black hole
in the center of your galactic heart.
And I know how spaced-out I am
so there’s never any lack of room for more
in this expanding universe
and it’s so rare that I feel crowded,
I said stand at my side twenty-four seven
and whatever I do you do with me
and you’ll never need fear
because you have certainty of sight
that I could possibly be untrue to you
and in time, things will heal
and you’ll be able to trust again.
And by that I thought to remove
that arrowhead of pain from your life.
When you love someone the way I loved you,
what else are you supposed to do
but make sure everytime you see one
there’s one snake less under the rosebush
that could bite either one of us
when we least expected it?
But your paranoia was hydra-headed
and as fast as I cut the head of one snake off
another grew back as venomous.
I could walk on beer when I was drinking.
I can walk on stars when I want.
I never managed water
though I still don’t think I tried hard enough,
but walking on snakes without getting bit
was a different order of ordeal
and I could tell from the way I was going numb
from the number of hits I took,
and how my heart was turning into dry ice
so I could go straight from a solid state
everytime you accused me out of the blue
of things that never even remotely crossed my mind
like planets in transit across the black sun
of a completely alien solar system
to the one you and I were living in
to a ghost
without all the intervening tears
that don’t make a damn bit of difference
to reptiles without lachrymal glands.
And one day without warning
after nine years of being constant companions,
compatible familiars in every other way but one,
you just walked out,
forgiving me for something I hadn’t done,
and I let you go
like that raccoon we raised
and returned to the wild
though it tore our hearts out to do so.
Four years later, the first time
I talked to you since you left
I asked you over the phone,
after we’d both gone on to other lovers,
you walking out on yours
because they didn’t like your art,
and mine leaving me like waterbirds
as the leaves fell from the trees in the fall,
I asked you from the bottom of my fathomless heart
if you still believed I’d been untrue to you
and you said, yes,
and that’s about the saddest thing
I’ve ever heard in my life,
and said quietly out of the wounded silence
I really hope you learn differently one day
and hung up somehow knowing
I could never talk to you again about anything.
You weren’t Eve.
And there was never a Lilith in that garden.
Our innocence was home-made.
Death was already a raccoon skull when we got there,
and if you want to blame the snakes
you might as well blame the fireflies.
You were betrayed. Badly. It’s true
but by someone else not us.
You were Black Savage,
the Aquarian beast-mistress
who could speak with such tenderness
to skulls and dead trees,
the minutiae of death
that lined your windowsill
with the bones of hummingbirds and killdeer
beside tubes of viridian green
and alizarin crimson paint
and that serious violet
only you could manage to mix
in a small jar with a dead honeybee on top.
Thank-you for nine great years
of painting beside you in those fields.
I haven’t enjoyed the like of them since.
Nor ever met anyone quite like you.
Hope you’ve learned to keep better track
of what snake belongs to what garden
so you don’t hurt the innocent ones.
I don’t blame you.
Given how deeply you were hurt.
Who else could you have been?
Personally I would have betrayed the betrayer
but he was long gone
and all that was left you could do I suppose
to take the black thorn out of your heart
was to succumb to betraying the betrayed.
And if I ever meet your ex-husband
I promise you I’ll do it for you.
And send you the skull
to put on your windowsill
between the fossil of the moon
and your red-tailed hawk feather.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Sonnet: The Thought and Act Are Very Nigh

It takes a sinful thought just split seconds,
To change into a mortal sinful act;
And sever with Heaven, man’s sacred bonds;
Renew with hell, an unholy sin’s pact.

The devil chooses man’s one weakest time,
Creating occasion for mortal sin;
And thereafter, lapses man’s life sublime;
The ‘devilized’ soul lives in sin with gin!

The sinful thought heralds the sinful act;
Such seed when sown soon sprouts into a tree;
The gardener- devil uses every tact
To coax man through and bear fruits, rotten, free;

Beware then man, the thought and act are nigh!
The soul in mortal sin, in hell shall die!

6-4-2002 by Dr John Celes

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Music of the World and of the Soul

I

Why should I say I see the things I see not?
Why be and be not?
Show love for that I love not, and fear for what I fear not?
And dance about to music that I hear not?
Who standeth still i’ the street
Shall be hustled and justled about;
And he that stops i’ the dance shall be spurned by the dancers’ feet,
Shall be shoved and be twisted by all he shall meet,
And shall raise up an outcry and rout;
And the partner, too,
What ’s the partner to do?
While all the while ’tis but, perchance, an humming in mine ear,
That yet anon shall hear,
And I anon, the music in my soul,
In a moment read the whole;
The music in my heart,
Joyously take my part,
And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with these retreat, advance;
And borne on wings of wavy sound,
Whirl with these around, around,
Who here are living in the living dance
Why forfeit that fair chance?
Till that arrive, till thou awake,
Of these, my soul, thy music make,
And keep amid the throng,
And turn as they shall turn, and bound as they are bounding,
Alas! alas! alas! and what if all along
The music is not sounding?

II

Are there not, then, two musics unto men?
One loud and bold and coarse,
And overpowering still perforce
All tone and tune beside;
Yet in despite its pride
Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred,
And sounding solely in the sounding head
The other, soft and low,
Stealing whence we not know,
Painfully heard, and easily forgot,
With pauses oft and many a silence strange
(And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not),
Revivals too of unexpected change
Haply thou think’st ’twill never be begun,
Or that ’t has come, and been, and passed away
Yet turn to other none,
Turn not, oh, turn not thou!
But listen, listen, listen, if haply be heard it may;
Listen, listen, listen, is it not sounding now?

III

Yea, and as thought of some departed friend
By death or distance parted will descend,
Severing, in crowded rooms ablaze with light,
As by a magic screen, the seer from the sight
(Palsying the nerves that intervene
The eye and central sense between);
So may the ear,
Hearing not hear,
Though drums do roll, and pipes and cymbals ring;
So the bare conscience of the better thing
Unfelt, unseen, unimaged, all unknown,
May fix the entrancèd soul ’mid multitudes alone.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Music of the Reeds

It had been the worst of years, I seemed
To always be in strife,
First my business in receivership
And then my darling wife,
She decided that our poverty,
Once Banks had seized our home,
Was the perfect opportunity
For her to leave, and roam.

So she roamed with a protector,
The accountant I'd released,
When I found that through his perfidy
I'd have to call the police,
He was always just one step ahead,
My wife knew me too well,
So they took the Channel Ferry, left
This fool, to rot in hell!

I was heading for a breakdown,
All this fretting, and the grief,
I was hell-bent on disaster,
Vowed to catch this blatant thief,
And my wife, I would have killed her
For disloyalty, I swear,
So I followed them through Europe,
Catching glimpses, everywhere.

But they managed to elude me
And I ended up in Greece,
I had gone through all the money
I had salvaged for the chase,
With what little I had left, I found
A villa I could rent,
By a woodland, in the marshes
I could brood on what I'd spent.

It was broken down and basic,
Had been empty there for years,
And the roof was badly leaking,
Rain could mingle with my tears,
I felt sorry for myself, and it
Was lonely, stuck out there,
Where the isolated shepherd came
To see, to stand and stare.

But they soon had lost their interest
In the stranger in their midst,
I was left to brood in silence
Walk the woodland in the mist,
And I skirted round the marshes
Where there lay a shallow lake,
It was fresh, and it was verdant
And unspoiled by man's estate.

When the weather was idyllic
I would sit and think of Beth,
Of the time there on the hillside
Where the world had held its breath,
But the years of wine and flowers
They had slowly been submerged,
And with age, the passion sours
As we lose that primal urge.

I would lie awake at midnight
Hear the music of the reeds,
With the wind so gently playing
Through the marshes and the trees,
And one night I left the villa
When I heard a certain note,
And I saw a sudden movement,
That I thought must be a goat.

But my eyes had slowly focussed,
It seemed old and tired, and turned
And it stared at me quite sadly
It had horns, a beard that curled,
And it stood up on the hindquarters
A goat is noted for,
And it clutched the pipes of Pan
To breathe soft music, from its core.

It stood there for but a moment
Then it walked into the wood,
With its shoulders bowed and beaten,
And it staggered as it moved,
But the music was so wistful
Of a love, long lost before,
That my eyes began to glisten
As the lake lapped at the shore.

In a month I'd met with Gaya
Who I'd seen, back through the trees,
Dancing gently in the moonlight
Casting petals in the breeze,
And she came back to the villa
Where she saw to all my needs,
And we lie in love, and listen
To the Music of the Reeds.

14 September 2012

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Patrick White

If You Were A Thought And I Were An Emotion

If you were a thought and I were an emotion
time would still be at cross-purposes with space
and we'd still be sitting here
dangling our bare feet like two kids
over the edge of the abyss
when we go fishing for stars
not really caring if we catch anything
as we throw them back in with our blessings.
You can taste the jewels the light's been through
sometimes when you close your eyes
and the revealed and the revealing
are just the water and fish of a feeling
idling in the shadows and reeds of the mindstream.
There's a way of being lost within yourself that's starbound.
And there's a way of being found
where people scatter flowers before you
all the way to a hole in the ground
you're expected to fill like someone else's shoes.
You can lie under a gravestone
like a man behind a desk with his name on it
who's been practising for years
to lie very very still
in case he wakes the others up in the snakepit.
Or you can keep the music on
all through the long uneventful night
and feel things that have nothing to do with you
like stray bits of your neighbour's dreams on the internet.
Or you can put a finger up to your lips and counsel silence.
Three approaches. Three gates. No difference.
Everyone enters the same garden
as if Eden were a cemetery in slow motion
but that old angel with the flaming sword at the gate
burnt out like a candle a long time ago
and the serpent's a tour guide for fanatical purists
who can't get out of the closets of hell
and the apple of knowledge
finally took a bite out of itself
and has been falling down crazy drunk
with the cranky wasps of autumn ever since.
Wonder's the passive sister of interactive madness
and twice as alluring in her self-restraint
than Rasputin in a burlap sack in the river.
Wonder sails off the coasts of the clouds like the moon
and doesn't lay a claim to what she discovers.
She can see and be seen
but she doesn't put a name on it.
She doesn't need to turn the leaf over
like an unopened loveletter
to know what the tree means
because it's always been her lover.
So if you were a thought and I were an emotion
would you be the brainwave
that rides the night ocean
of my passion at the flood
or would you be into me
like water into mud
like insight into a ripening lamp
about to fall toward paradise again
to see what I've been missing?
If you were a thought and I were an emotion
and we were to hold hands like a bridge
on both sides of the mindstream
would the bridge flow as the water does
or would you think of the two of us
you were the more solid
and I was less real?
Looking upon me from all angles
like a sphere that fills the room
like a habitable planet
with a dead moon in its arms
its only daughter
all ashes and shadows and frozen water
and nowhere to bury her skull in the earth
tell me the truth.
If you were a thought and I were an emotion
if you were land and I were an ocean
because thoughts have legs
and feelings have fins
(or is it scales and feathers?)
if we could bring her back to life
like the weather
and mend her battered body
would it be better to think than feel?
Would the solid turn into the real?
Would she wake up like a koan
with the answer to cancer
and the sound of one hand clapping
high-five the lightning with thunderous compassion
until it rained on the moon?
Would she heal?
If you were a thought and I were an emotion
would all the petals of your loves me loves me nots
you scatter like thoughts on the wind
feel like one whole flower again
that blossoms in the heart
and roots in the brain?
Illusory cures for illusory diseases
would beauty be enough to bluff the pain?

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Orhan Pamuk

Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.

in My Name is RedReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Emily Dickinson

Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music

861

Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.

Loose the Flood—you shall find it patent—
Gush after Gush, reserved for you—
Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas!
Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true?

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Let's Face The Music And Dance

There may be trouble ahead
But while there's moonlight and music
And love and romance
Let's face the music and dance
Before the fiddlers have fled
Before they ask us to pay the bill
And while we still
Have the chance
Let's face the music and dance
Soon
We'll be without the moon
Humming a diff'rent tune
And then
There may be teardrops to shed
So while there's moonlight and music
And love and romance
Let's face the music and dance
Dance
Let's face the music and dance

song performed by Irving BerlinReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Until The Music Dies

My soul dripping away...
Drop by dropp the dirty floor is filled
Life fading as the breaths get short
A happy thought
A dream
Fear and hope as one
Then panic
My bounding heart
A slow reaction
I save my life
A hero's strength to a coward act
And tears for what I nearly lost
My hungry breath is coming back
your voice, your smell, your eyes...
I'll take another day
I'll fight 'till my strength dries
I swim inside your lies
a dropp of hope within
until the music dies
I'll stay upstage and sing...

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Not Always Is The Music Heard Inside

Not always is the music heard inside-
Not always do the poems come-
Tiredness and emptiness are often silence,
And ‘wanting' a poem is not enough
To make a poem come-

Still if one listens long enough
If one really waits to hear
If one trusts oneself and one's own inner song,

In time
There will be again some hint of beauty
That needs to be expressed-

For those who live in poetry
And for those who bear it with them
Wherever they go,

The poem will come eventually
If God gives it.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The music of one’s love is deaf and dumb

Curiously I once heard music
where there was none
this I perceived when
-two deaf and dumb,
young lovers were caught-up
in an all-embracing kiss.
After which they spoke in sign,
by so much implicit recollection-that
I myself; could clearly, understand
each phrase of intangible air
each semaphore!
Each nuance of elicit breath;
and whilst I silently stood, there…
I swear I saw their beauty
prelude in an almost; atmospheric light!
And oh, I'm sure the aurora-borealis
invoked my hearts delight!
To see that the music of one's
love is deaf and dumb,
but never is it blind
to the heart of its sum!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I Can't Hear The Music

I can't hear the music
although I try each day.
You took it with you when you left me
and then went on your way.

I can't hear the music
and now I cry each day.
You used to play your songs for me
and I used to hear you say

How much you really loved me
and the promises you swore.
And now after all these years
and all my tears
I can't hear the music anymore.

I remember all the nights we spent
and all the songs you'd sing.
They kept me warm as I listened
and oh what joy they'd bring.

In each new song and each new word
I'd revel in your voice.
I never thought there'd be a time
when you would make the choice
to take your songs and leave me
so I could never hear,
never hear the music anymore.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Let's Face The Music And Dance

there may be trouble ahead,
but while theres moonlight and music and love and romance,
let's face the music and dance.
before the fiddlers have fled,
before they ask us to pay the bill,
and while we still have the chance,
let's face the music and dance.
soon, we'll be without the moon,
humming a different toon,
and then,
there may be tear drops to shed.
so while theres moonlight and music and love and romance,
let's face the music and dance,
let's face the music and dance.
(musical break)
soon, we'll be without the moon,
humming a different toon,
and then,
there may be tear drops to shed.
so while theres moonlight and music and love and romance,
let's face the music and dance,
let's face the music and dance.

song performed by Nat King ColeReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Turn Up The Music

Thoughts get behind me, don’t want to think
So confused, loved or not tears on the brink
What goes on in that silent mind of yours?
Love and loneliness goes on in hers

Turn the music up louder, maybe not think at all
Live life in the songs, a place where she can stall
Keeping thoughts to herself, she can’t unwind
So much baggage from the past on her mind

Everything in her life locked down tight
When sadness come over her coming to light
On top of the world some of the time
His moods bringing her down, what a crime

She will continue to live in his shadow
Maybe things can change, back to long ago
Her ipod can silence everything else
So maybe today, just keep to herself


By Dogs4donna


© 2007 Dogs4donna (All rights reserved)

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Music Comes And Goes

by: Tripp

the soothing sounds of a piano to a guitar the sounds they make
the feeling It brings when the piano sings playing the strings of a guitar
the times come and goes as the music grows


in the heart of those who play
thinking of that one thing that brings epiphany to that instrument you play
as you hold and take care playing with hopes and dreams the music slips through
and sings


i can't get enough of what it does to me
when i hear that sound that voice

the music she brings to my heart when I'm with her
her voice is the epiphany to my heart
holding on to her the music keeps playing

my heart keeps beating as the music plays
i keep dreaming dreaming holding on hoping this song will never end
dreaming to fall in love with this instrument forever


she is my instrument

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Magic Lies In Silence Of Grass and In Your Voice

I am barefoot walking in the grass of morning,
The dew drops are comforting my feet,
I felt relieved by my stress and grief,
When i heard your voice in the grass rustling.

I lie down on grass and i could feel its silence,
I close my eyes and i enjoyed your voice,
The smell of grass was taken on the wings of wind,
Magic lies in silence of grass and in your voice.

Is amazing how much miracle stays in a blade of grass,
Opening my eyes i saw above the sky,
There was your face among the clouds smiling,
I had the feeling that i want to hug the sky.

I'm gonna miss you all the days of life,
And even when death will take my last breath,
Last thing i'll do passing to eternity,
I'm gonna miss you.

Winter will come, grass will fall asleep,
I 'll not hear the grass rustling anymore,
Only my memories with you will be always alive,
Rustling in my mind as grass did.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Thought And Intelligence

Unfortunately,
One's intelligence used as a means...
To prove a respecting of a thought process,
Would one day catch on as popular to manifest...
Has fizzled quicker than popcorn thrown to pigeons.

A society debating the importance of education...
But not employing the effects of prioritizing its benefits,
Leaves those with high expectations conflicted and confused.
Especially when those who express thought and intelligence,
Are mentally abused and 'accused' of 'thinking' they are 'smart'.
In fact,
There are more people encouraging the act of cheating today...
Just to prove being competent does not require common sense.
Not if the goal is to be seen as successful with abilities to impress.

Unfortunately,
One's intelligence used as a means...
To prove a respecting of a thought process,
Would one day catch on as popular to manifest...
Has fizzled quicker than popcorn thrown to pigeons.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

You Cant Stop The Music

And so norman decides to stop living
Out his fantasy of being a rock star and
Accept reality. this is the end for
Norman but not for us because there
Will always be someone ready to take
His place -- after all, euerybodys a
Star!
You cant stop the music
Lets all raise a glass
To the rock stars of the past,
Those that made it,
Those that faded,
Those that never even made the grade,
Those that we thought would never last.
Singers come and go,
And stars fade away.
They vanish in the haze
And theyre never seen again,
But the music just keeps playing on.
They cant stop the music,
They cant stop the music,
They cant stop the music playing on.
Ive been half a million places,
Ive seen half a million people who stare,
Ive been a star and down and out,
Ive been put on, sat on, punched and spat on,
Theyve called me a faggot, a spiv and a fake,
They can knock me down and tread on my face,
They cant stop the music playing on.
Lets all raise a glass
To the rock stars of the past,
Those that made it,
Those that faded,
Those that never even made the grade,
Those that we thought would never last.
Singers come and go,
And stars fade away.
They vanish in the haze
And theyre never seen again,
But they cant stop the music playing on.

song performed by KinksReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The Music Of The Spheres

During the day and all night long
I am hearing a very peculiar song.

There's unstruck music much like an infinite melody
resonating inside my head; an enchanting symphony.

It has no real tune or beat which one can recognise
only by hearing it then as all else is a compromise.

In silence and solitude it's usually heard without end
an invisible companion and sweetly sounding friend.

If one is listening intently and endeavours to get to its source,
can hear one finer sound inside another, which is not by force.

Who can rightly say from where it comes and where it does go?
perhaps only a true mystic has the knowledge or ability to show.

With practical wisdom and a clear spiritual insight
by his grace and advice can lead one into the light.

Until, at last, reaching that inclusive shore of infinite silence
which the experience of there being is a permanent abidance.

Could this be the long lost legendary music of the spheres?
that few people of times past underwent the trouble to hear.

And when it’s continually heard confers many an untold blessing
the likes of which most people now would not even be guessing.

------------------
Notes:

1. Originally Titled 'Unstruck Music' and also herewith extended.
2. Refer to Yoga and Mystical Philosophical Literature dealing with Nada Yoga and The Music of the Spheres.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Play On The Music

Play on the music
Drop by drop

The strings divine
The nature at its eloquence
From heavens to earth
Stretch the string
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Beethoven’s symphony
Chopin’s piano
Santana’s guitar
Or the cuckoos song
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the heat of the night
In cold surroundings
The story of my love
My illusions great
I construct heavens
Play on the music
Drop by drop
For the moments rare
It’s only for those
The discerning here
The enchanted being
Play on the music
Drop by drop

Don’t leave me alone
O soul you fly
The body shivers
With the thought
Of death and destruction
O soul we were friends
Thou fly to eternity
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Your place is heaven
I want to be heard
A slave to a master
So ungrateful
Your beauty in this world
I hath been
You decorated me
With ornaments rare
Play on the music
Drop by drop

For this is your fate
O carrier of soul

The life’s going by
Take your share
O body of the soul
Freedom anew
In the world here
Play on the music
Drop by drop

For I am the real
The being and the nothing
The beloved and the rival
The saki and the wine
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the deep longing
Of the night long
The strings so stretched
From the heavens to earth
Sing songs of love, O beloved mine
Reveal thy face, in my imaginations wild
Torn is my being, between real and unreal
Play on the music
Drop by drop

In the middle of the night
The rain drops falling
From the clouds high
Is telling me this story
Khayyam’s disciple
Sings a song
Play on the music
Drop by drop

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
 

Search


Recent searches | Top searches