A cemetery never refuses a corpse.
Lebanese proverbs
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When all my youth in years be
When all my youth in years be
Fallen at length
And you see me
Lying trunk and bough naked strength
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
You shall hear then the solid sullen bell
Announcing to the world that I have fled
From this vile world, with the vilest worms of earth to dwell
When on your bed the spangled moonlight falls
You know that in my place of rest
By a running rivulet where a bird keeps her brood and nests
There comes a divine glory to the cemetery walls
My marble tomb bright in dark sheen appears
As slowly steals a silver flame
In a sway of lights and shades game
Along the letters of my name
Inscribing the humble living of my fame
And over the number of my years
A soiled vase bares flowers wane and wilted
And stones around with salt of tears are gilded
My soul in its clay cold bed lay forsaken
In the place where I sleep and never to be waken
The daunting haunting piercing owl’s cry
Shall burst upon my slumbering ears
Not a single seraph hovers in the sky
While I lay wrapped in my shroud of fear
The mystic sliver swims away
From off your bed the moonlight dies
And closing eaves of wearied eyes
You sleep till dawn arises dipped in grey
As time claims its bounty my friends become scarce
And the letters of my name will fade into less
With blackest moss the letter-plots
Will be thickly crusted one and all
Over grown weeds with blades tall
Claim my grave with girded entangled knots
As the splendor falls in the cemetery wall
They say every soul has a star
That glimmers and flickers through channeled wind far
Till it fades and fails and die
So the soul converges to its archetype in the sky
Yet no angle clad in light by golden heaven gated
None which clad in light my spirit waited
[...] Read more
poem by Isaac Ziv (2010)
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A walking corpse
I walk around like a zombie.
A reflection of a corpse.
Like Im in a body thats not mine.
A body depression has invaded.
Im a reflection of a corpse.
So numb and dead inside.
Not being able to feel.
Trapped in a body.
That once used to be mine.
Now its like its someone elses.
Im a walking corpse.
So very dead inside.
As numb as numb
Number than Ice.
Depression has over road.
And overtaken me.
Its made me like a walking corpse.
I may aswell be dead.
Thats how I feel inside.
A excellent resembalence
Of a walking corpse.
Mabey I can fight it
But that I very much doubt.
I have had to fight to many demons.
One more I cant fight this yet.
Im a walking corpse.
Dead inside.
A marvolos resembalence.
Of a walking corpse
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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To Enact
To use statistics like fanatics.
To control and to attack!
With one purpose to achieve...
The holding of 'some' people back!
To enact...
A meaningful existence.
To enact...
A control without resistance.
To enact...
A rule no one refuses.
No matter who's abused.
Or who's left to be confused!
To enact...
A meaningful existence.
To enact...
A control without resistance.
To enact...
A rule no one refuses.
No matter who's abused.
Or who's left to be confused!
To use statistics like fanatics.
To control and to attack!
With one purpose to achieve...
The holding of 'some' people back!
And this is done effectively...
To hide this as a fact!
To enact...
A meaningful existence.
To enact...
A control without resistance.
To enact...
A rule no one refuses.
No matter who's abused.
Or who's left to be confused!
To enact...
A meaningful existence.
To enact...
A control without resistance.
To enact...
A rule no one refuses.
No matter who's abused.
Or who's left to be confused!
To enact,
Like a coup...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11
SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: 5
He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10
Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15
Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20
“Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;
The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.
Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;
Press but an entrance, and presume it won.
Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, 25
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
And, in this omen, is already slain.
Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance, 30
And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war:
The last respect the living can bestow, 35
To shield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,
And which for us with their own blood they bought;
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend
To the sad city of Evander send, 40
Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d 45
The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d
With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair. 50
[...] Read more
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Achilles And The Slaying Of Hector
Achilles took the slain body of proud Prince Hector
slit holes through warrior corpse ankles and proceeded
to drag Hector’s defeated slain body behind his chariot
an ignoble act of revenge bitterness hate anger contempt
Achilles killed proud Hector with a single spear thrust
Achilles refused to eat mourns on Olympian ambrosia
Achilles killed Hector with a spear thrust into the neck
proud noble neck the only vulnerable on Hector’s body
Hector who wore the god made prize armour of Achilles
armour stripped from slain Patroclus beloved of Achilles
in grief how anger festered into revenge rage in Achilles
Hector victim of vengeance dies a slow agonizing death
Hector accepted his fate begged Achilles treat his body
with respect once slain but hubris was wrath of Achilles
shamelessly Achilles desecrates the Trojan heroes body
for nine days dragging slain corpse around the battlefield
for nine days denying King Priam funeral rites for his son
Achilles enraged cared nothing for feelings of Hector’s family
shamed humiliated is corpse of Hector dragged behind chariot
Achilles what great rage passions storm in soul possessed
Achilles who addressed Hector like an entreating dog
stated as he killed him it was hopeless to expect respect
for his slain defeated corpse declared 'my rage, my fury
would drive me now to hack your flesh away and eat
you raw — such agonies you have caused me' “For what
you've done. No one can keep the dogs off of your head,
not if they brought me ransom of ten or twenty times as much,
or more' then Achilles slices Hector's head hanging only
by skin thus fell Trojan prince Hector to pride arrogance
Achilles of scorn wrath slayer of Hector son of King Priam
Hector with wife child who fought to defend his city family
even Zeus was dismayed by hubris abuse to Hector's body
at the command of Zeus Hermes led King Priam in a wagon
out of Troy across the plains into the Greek camp unnoticed
to Achilles' tent to plead with Achilles for a slain son's body
to permit a father to perform his funeral rites for son Hector
Priam grasped Achilles by the knees and begged this feared
killer of so many of his sons to worthy ransom his son's body
Priam begged by the gods kissed the hand of Achilles killer
of his sons stirred Achilles' grief to tears to claim corpse son
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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To Think Of Time
To think of time--of all that retrospection!
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward!
Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue?
Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?
Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you?
Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?
If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing.
To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women were
flexible, real, alive! that everything was alive!
To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part!
To think that we are now here, and bear our part! 10
Not a day passes--not a minute or second, without an accouchement!
Not a day passes--not a minute or second, without a corpse!
The dull nights go over, and the dull days also,
The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over,
The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible
look for an answer,
The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters
are sent for,
Medicines stand unused on the shelf--(the camphor-smell has long
pervaded the rooms,)
The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the
dying,
The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,
The breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases, 20
The corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it,
It is palpable as the living are palpable.
The living look upon the corpse with their eye-sight,
But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and looks curiously
on the corpse.
To think the thought of Death, merged in the thought of materials!
To think that the rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and fruits
ripen, and act upon others as upon us now--yet not act upon us!
To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking
great interest in them--and we taking no interest in them!
To think how eager we are in building our houses!
To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent!
(I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy
or eighty years at most, 30
[...] Read more
poem by Walt Whitman
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Mercyful Fate (live)
Satan's Fall
They're walking by the night
The moon has frozen blue
Long black coats a shelter for the rain
Their load must get through
Now bats are leaving their trees
They're joining the call
Seven satanic Hell preachers
Heading for the hall
Bringing the blood of a newborn child
Got to succeed if not it's Satan's fall
Curse Of The Pharaohs
Away out in Egypt in the valley of kings
Where the mummified pharaohs
Pretend dead in their sleep
Don't touch, never ever steal
Unless you're in for the kill
Or you'll be hit by the curse of the pharaohs
Yes you'll be hit and the curse is on you
The curse of the pharaohs can be so deadly
Just destroying your future
Makin' it all shady
Don't touch, never ever steal
Unless you're in for the kill
Or you'll be hit by the curse of the pharaohs
Yes you'll be hit and the curse is on you
A Corpse Without Soul
Listen, I'm a corpse, I'm a corpse
I'm a corpse without soul
Satan, he's taken, he's taken
He's taken his toll
And he took it on me
I, I'm trapped, I'm trapped
I'm trapped in his spell
Tonight, I'm going, I'm going
I'm going to Hell, inside his spell
Into The Coven
Howl like a wolf
And a witch will open the door
Follow me and meet our high priestess
Come, come into my coven
And become Lucifer's child
Undress until you're naked
And put on this white coat
Take this white cross and go to the center of the ring
Come, come into my coven
And become Lucifer's child
Evil
I was born on the cemetery
Under the sign of the moon
[...] Read more
song performed by Metallica
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Mercyful Fate
(medley of five mercyful fate songs:
Satans fall, curse of the pharaohs, a corpse without soul, into the coven and evil.)
Theyre walking by the night
The moon has frozen blue
Long black coats a shelter for the rain
Their load must get through
Now bats are leaving their trees
Theyre joining the call
Seven satanic hell preachers
Heading for the hall
Bringing the blood of a newborn child, yeah
Got to succeed, if not its satans fall
-
Away out in egypt in the valley of kings
Where the mummified pharaohs
Pretend dead in their sleep, yeah
Dont touch, never ever steal
Unless youre in for the kill
Or youll be hit by the curse of the pharaohs
Yes, youll be hit and the curse is on you, yeah
Oh, the curse of the pharaohs can be so deadly
Or just destroying your future
Making it all shady, yeah
Dont touch, never ever steal
Unless youre in for the kill (for the kill)
Or youll be hit by the curse of the pharaohs
Yes, youll be hit and the curse is on you
-
Listen (listen, listen), yeah
Im a corpse, Im a corpse
Im a corpse without soul
Satan (satan, satan), yeah
Hes taken, hes taken
Hes taken his toll, he took it on me
I (i, I), yeah
Im trapped, Im trapped
Im trapped in his spell
Tonight (tonight, tonight), yeah
Im going, Im going
Im going to hell, inside his spell
-
Howl like a wolf
And a witch will open the door
Follow me and meet our high priestess, yeah-ee-yeah
Come, come into my coven, yeah-ee-yeah
And become lucifers child
Undress til youre naked
And put on this white coat
Take this white cross and go to the center of the ring, yeah-ee-yeah
Come, come into my coven, yeah-ee-yeah
[...] Read more
song performed by Metallica
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Cemetery In My Mind
Locked in the mall in a state of fright
Looking for salvation in a car headlight
But you cant have what you cant buy
Tomorrow is better than yesterday,
Tomorrow is better than today,
Tomorrow is better than yesterday they say
Cemetery in my mind
Cemetery in my mind
This must be my time
Wake work drink sleep retire
Tide comes up way too high
You can fall but can you rise
Cemetery in my mind,
You can fall but can you rise
Theres no pulse no sign of life,
Cemetery in my mind.
song performed by Midnight Oil
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Cemetery Drive
cemetery drive,
covered in mist,
driving down the road,
so cold,
the crypts and tombstones cast dark shadow,
the bats and the wind,
grimly howl,
cemetery drive,
a place of shadow,
cemetery drive,
tall dead trees,
comfort the dead,
black roses grow along the road,
they fight the cold,
and give the living hope,
the living hope their hearts never stop,
and they'll never have to call cemetery drive home,
and tend to the shadows and black roses
poem by Catie Belle Stark
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Lilydale
[ music: robert buck/lyric: natalie merchant ]
Come as we go far away
From the noise of the street
Walk a path so narrow
To a place where we feel at ease
Some think it is haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Theres a stillness here
Thankful found
Childs pose angelic
A stone lamb at her feet
Part the matted overgrowth
To read the carven elegy
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Theres a stillness here
Thankful found
Born in new albion
Of rice family elite
Wed to myron bilowe
Thrice with sons
Blessed was she
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Gods acre is a fenced in
Hollow ground
Here soon to rise up
Amelia tender and sweet
Her last words spoke
All is well
All is peace
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Gods acre is a fenced in
Hollow ground
song performed by 10000 Maniacs
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Memory's Kingdom
MEMORY’S KINGDOM
In memory’s kingdom we try to forget
the downsides of life and the sadness and sorrows
that when we recall them induce and upset
the cart that transports us to happy tomorrows.
We may spend a day in solemn memorial
of what happened once and still makes us downcast,
and read in a poem or brief editorial
events that transport us from present to past,
but quickly move back then to pastures much greener
than those where great tragedies once had occurred.
Forgetting’s not classified as misdemeanor,
and memories may feel more blessed when they’re blurred.
Written on Memorial Day, May 25,2009, and inspired by Marc Porter-Zasada’s article “Random Access Memory” which he wrote inspired by a visit to the Veterans’ graveyard in Westwoood:
Random Access Memory
By Marc Porter Zasada
It’s a few days before Memorial Day, right here in the Kingdom of Forgetting, and the Urban Man has gone down to the veteran’s cemetery. Yes, the cemetery. Wait...don’t tune out just yet, my swift and belovèd Angelenos, zipping down the 405 to the next big thing; or just now heading home on the 10 with that nice full-day-at-the-beach feeling; or better yet rushing to apple martinis at your friend’s excellent after-the-barbeque bash...
You only have to do this once a year.
In fact, you don’t have to do it at all, since I have pulled off the 405 to serve as your very own ambassador to the L.A. National Cemetery, right near the Wilshire exit. Maybe you’ve seen it: that glimpse of many white headstones appearing briefly below the crowd of Westwood office towers as you head north.
I went last Thursday to avoid the rush. And sure enough, again this year as I parked among the low rolling hills, I was the only visitor I could see: For a time just me and 86,000 sleeping vets.
I’m sorry to say it wasn’t peaceful. The 405 runs right alongside on an elevated grade, so it’s never peaceful here. I figure even the dead are aware of us roaring ceaselessly into the future.
What do I do on these annual visits? I read a few headstones, here and there, out loud. That’s all. That’s it. I exercise a sort of Random Access Memory by reciting from what you might call the original memory sticks:
Charles O. Wesby, Colonel,158th Infantry, Spanish American War. Walter T. Rowland, PFC, World War II. Bertrand R. Butler, PFC, Vietnam—I see that Bertrand died at age 18.
Here’s a crowd of fresh flowers and a bouquet of happy birthday balloons around the grave of Daniel Patrick Cagle, SPC, U.S. Army, killed during Operation Iraqi Freedom: born May 20,1985, died May 23,2007. Daniel had just made it to age 22. Obviously his family visited this grave just the day before, on his birthday, when they set up little figurines of pirates and Homer Simpson and other small toys, I suppose from his childhood. Birthday candles were stuck in the earth, reading “D-A-N.”
Okay, sorry, now I really am depressing you. I know that images should be more fleeting in the Kingdom of Forgetting, that the names should come more quickly, one after the other. I mean, what would happen if people here paused too long to recall not merely lost lovers and misplaced friends, but lost soldiers and far-off wars? And what if they actually remembered the 7 p.m. news when the 8 p.m. news rolled around? Here in the Kingdom of Forgetting, shouldn’t it always be the moment just after the last update?
It’s not like that in a cemetery, where one headstone does not disappear when you read the next. Here’s Robert Thomas Ayers the third, Sergeant, U.S. Army, Iraqi Freedom, died 2007 at the age of 23. And further on, Steven Vega, SPC U.S. Army, Iraqi Freedom, born 1984, died 2008. “Truly one of a kind, ” it says on his marker.
Someone has placed fresh blooms and coins on the headstone of Jin Su Ong, PFC, U.S. Army, Iraqi Freedom, born 1987, died January 4,2009. Me I add a coin, since I forgot to bring flowers.
Then the Urban Man looks at his watch, and finds he’s late for his next appointment. He glances up at the 405 and feels the tug of the current. Still, as he rushes toward his car, he tries to get in just two or three more names:
Paul Thornton, Apprentice Seaman,1954. Richard Duncan, U.S. Navy, Vietnam. Edgar Lopez, Marine, born 1977, died in Iraq August 28,2004, Killed in Action, awarded the Purple Heart.
© 2009 Gershon Hepner 5/24/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Pharsalia - Book VI: The Fight Near Dyrhachium. Scaeva's Exploits. The Witch Of Thessalia.
Now that the chiefs with minds intent on fight
Had drawn their armies near upon the hills
And all the gods beheld their chosen pair,
Caesar, the Grecian towns despising, scorned
To reap the glory of successful war
Save at his kinsman's cost. In all his prayers
He seeks that moment, fatal to the world,
When shall be cast the die, to win or lose,
And all his fortune hang upon the throw.
Thrice he drew out his troops, his eagles thrice,
Demanding battle; thus to increase the woe
Of Latium, prompt as ever: but his foes,
Proof against every art, refused to leave
The rampart of their camp. Then marching swift
By hidden path between the wooded fields
He seeks, and hopes to seize, Dyrrhachium's fort;
But Magnus, speeding by the ocean marge,
First camped on Petra's slopes, a rocky hill
Thus by the natives named. From thence he keeps
Watch o'er the fortress of Corinthian birth
Which by its towers alone without a guard
Was safe against a siege. No hand of man
In ancient days built up her lofty wall,
No hammer rang upon her massive stones:
Not all the works of war, nor Time himself
Shall undermine her. Nature's hand has raised
Her adamantine rocks and hedged her in
With bulwarks girded by the foamy main:
And but for one short bridge of narrow earth
Dyrrhachium were an island. Steep and fierce,
Dreaded of sailors, are the cliffs that bear
Her walls; and tempests, howling from the west,
Toss up the raging main upon the roofs;
And homes and temples tremble at the shock.
Thirsting for battle and with hopes inflamed
Here Caesar hastes, with distant rampart lines
Seeking unseen to coop his foe within,
Though spread in spacious camp upon the hills.
With eagle eye he measures out the land
Meet to be compassed, nor content with turf
Fit for a hasty mound, he bids his troops
Tear from the quarries many a giant rock:
And spoils the dwellings of the Greeks, and drags
Their walls asunder for his own. Thus rose
A mighty barrier which no ram could burst
Nor any ponderous machine of war.
Mountains are cleft, and level through the hills
The work of Caesar strides: wide yawns the moat,
Forts show their towers rising on the heights,
[...] Read more
poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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My Claim To Honour!
I’d been thinking
To be a very great man,
My attribute being poetry,
And my poems highly rated.
I had genuinely believed
That poetry is great gift,
Poet is a superman
And he was venerated.
I had discontentment
That I didn’t get the credit
Which I truly deserved
For my superior poetry.
Poets much junior
And close to political bosses
Got awards and honours.
For, they wrote base flattery.
So, when I died I wrote
An elegy on myself,
A long narrative poem,
Superb in its contents.
Carrying my dead body
I went around the city
Reciting my elegy
To my heart’s full content.
From gate to gate I moved
From street to street I went
At road junctions I stopped,
To drum up support in my favour.
I was firm in my resolve
To get my rightful honour
Which the state had for long
Overlooked to confer.
Sans any modesty
My elegy compared me
With many other poets
And stated my claim.
The elegy eulogized
And compared my talents,
Exalted my skills,
And extolled me to the brim.
“…………………………………………………..
Internatio nal poet …………………………….
……. Multilingual Poet ……………………..
…………….. Mystic, epic poet ………………
[...] Read more
poem by P.K. Joy
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What the Chinese Would Say behind the Japs
they think they are greater
but look they use our characters
to write their own names, their own names! ! !
taking our lamps, our light to brighten up their own houses,
civilisation, their own souls,
originality, creativity thrown to the winds
and they talk about intelligence with us
these half schooled barbarians
who once ransacked our survival
waylaid our pride, like how Rome tore down
the Temple of Jerusalem, the Germans
exterminated the Jews............
the disciples who learnt morals only to sidetrack
their masters, our philosophers, to bury their corpses
in their gardens, flowers grown over them
but a corpse is a corpse! ! !
behind the beauty of everything Japanese
is but a corpse that each of them tries desperately to hide
the very thing that explains the obsession with cleanliness
but a corpse is a corpse
it is unpleasant and lives on
in the japanese mind to disturb them
if they let it hide in their soul
without proper atonement
and adherence to the master's teachings
rain, storm and earthquake would destroy the blooms
and expose the skeletons below them
the skeletons that refuse to be whitewashed
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Fauconshawe
[A Ballad]
To fetch clear water out of the spring
The little maid Margaret ran,
From the stream to the castle's western wing
It was but a bowshot span ;
On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling
Lay a dead man, pallid and wan.
The lady Mabel rose from her bed,
And walked in the castle hall,
Where the porch through the western turret led
She met with her handmaid small.
'What aileth thee, Margaret ?' the lady said,
'Hast let thy pitcher fall ?
'Say, what hast thou seen by the streamlet side—
A nymph or a water sprite—
That thou comest with eyes so wild and wide,
And with cheeks so ghostly white ?'
'Nor nymph nor sprite,' the maiden cried,
'But the corpse of a slaughtered knight.'
The lady Mabel summon'd straight
To her presence Sir Hugh de Vere,
Of the guests who tarried within the gate
Of Fauconshawe, most dear
Was he to that lady ; betrothed in state
They had been since many a year.
'Little Margaret sayeth a dead man lies
By the western spring, Sir Hugh ;
I can scarce believe that the maiden lies—
Yet scarce can believe her true.'
And the knight replies, 'Till we test her eyes
Let her words gain credence due.'
Down the rocky path knight and lady led,
While guests and retainers bold
Followed in haste, for like wildfire spread
The news by the maiden told.
They found 'twas even as she had said—
The corpse had some while been cold.
How the spirit had pass'd in the moments last
There was little trace to reveal ;
On the still, calm face lay no imprint ghast,
Save the angel's solemn seal,
Yet the hands were clench'd in a death-grip fast,
And the sods stamp'd down by the heel.
[...] Read more
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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The Tragic Death of the Rev. A.H. Mackonochie
Friends of humanity, of high and low degree,
I pray ye all come listen to me;
And truly I will relate to ye,
The tragic fate of the Rev. Alexander Heriot Mackonochie.
Who was on a visit to the Bishop of Argyle,
For the good of his health, for a short while;
Because for the last three years his memory had been affected,
Which prevented him from getting his thoughts collected.
'Twas on Thursday, the 15th of December, in the year of 1887,
He left the Bishop's house to go and see Loch Leven;
And he was accompanied by a little skye terrier and a deerhound,
Besides the Bishop's two dogs, that knew well the ground.
And as he had taken the same walk the day before,
The Bishop's mind was undisturbed and easy on that score;
Besides the Bishop had been told by some men,
That they saw him making his way up a glen.
From which a river flows down with a mighty roar,
From the great mountains of the Mamore;
And this route led him towards trackless wastes eastward,
And no doubt to save his life he had struggled very hard.
And as Mr Mackonochie had not returned at dinner time,
The Bishop ordered two men to search for him, which they didn't decline;
Then they searched for him along the road he should have returned,
But when they found him not, they sadly mourned.
And when the Bishop heard it, he procured a carriage and pair,
While his heart was full of woe, and in a state of despair;
He organised three search parties without delay,
And headed one of the parties in person without dismay.
And each party searched in a different way,
But to their regret at the end of the day;
Most unfortunately no discovery had been made,
Then they lost hope of finding him, and began to be afraid.
And as a last hope, two night searches were planned,
And each party with well lighted lamps in hand
Started on their perilous mission, Mr Mackonochie to try and find,
In the midst of driving hail, and the howling wind.
One party searched a distant sporting lodge with right good will,
Besides through brier, and bush, and snow, on the hill;
And the Bishop's party explored the Devil's Staircase with hearts full of woe,
A steep pass between the Kinloch hills, and the hills of Glencoe.
[...] Read more
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Added by Poetry Lover
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There Is Something Within Us That Refuses Change
So many lifetimes I have lived,
Among some who have just lived one.
Experiences I have had a plenty.
And many I observe have had few,
Or perhaps none from their point of view.
It is difficult to dismiss those trials and tribulations.
And the obstacles that come with growth...
Which are purposely set on one's path to take notice.
So many lifetimes I have lived,
Among some who have just lived one.
Experiences I have had a plenty.
And many I observe have had few,
Or perhaps none from their point of view.
And those making attempts to grasp onto the past,
Are not so eager to let go from that which has detached.
Like the gifts of seasons that come to give, bestow and leave...
There is something within us that refuses change that comes drastically.
Although being a part of 'nature' has not identified that as reality.
It is difficult to dismiss those trials and tribulations.
And the obstacles that come with growth...
Which are purposely set on one's path to take notice.
There is something within us that refuses change.
Although change is all we know.
There is something within us that refuses change.
Although change is all we know.
There is something within us that refuses change.
Although change is all we know.
Change is...
All we know!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Mercyful Fate Medley
They're walking by the night
The moon has frozen blue
Long black coats a shelter for the rain
Their load must get through
Now bats are leaving their trees
They're joining the call
Seven satanic Hell preachers
Heading for the hall
Bringing the blood of a newborn child, yeah
Got to succeed, if not it's Satan's fall
Way out in Egypt in the valley of kings
Where the mummified pharaohs
Pretend dead in their sleep, yeah
Don't touch, never ever steal
Unless you're in for the kill
Or you've been hit, by the curse of the pharaohs
Yes you've been hit, and the curse is on you
Ooh, the curse of the pharaohs can be so deadly
Just destroying your future
Makin' it all shady
Don't touch, never ever steal
Unless you're in for the kill
In for the kill
Or you'll be hit, by the curse of the pharaohs
Yes you'll be hit, and the curse is on you
Listen, yeah
I'm a corpse
I'm a corpse
I'm a corpse without soul
Satan, yeah
He's taken
He's taken
He's taken his toll
He took it on me
I, yeah
I'm trapped
I'm trapped
I'm trapped in his spell
Tonight, yeah
I'm going
I'm going
I'm going to Hell, inside his spell
Howl like a wolf
And a witch will open the door
Follow me, and meet our high priestess
Yeah, yeah, come, come into my coven
Yeah, yeah, and become Lucifer's child
Undress until you're naked
And put on this white coat
Take this white cross and go
[...] Read more
song performed by Metallica
Added by Lucian Velea
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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