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More than the jewish people preserved the sabbath, the sabbath preserved them.

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Any More Than The Moons Aglow

There are fairies in the light
In that glowing bulb so bright
Resin trunks - amber lockets
Wound-around a ring of spirits.

Who goes there… in the wilderness?
Shaking snow, laden with deftness.
Is she an angel—I don't know?
Any more than the moons aglow…

Who goes there… in the shadows?
Winking, when all I do is frown.
Oh there's a seraph in moonlight.
Owl-wing-flutters drown my soul tonight…

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The world is more than the sum of it's parts

The world is more than the sum of it's parts;
Things so unequal, it must be an art,
For nothing's predictable as it might seem,
From the hour of our birth to the death of our dream.

In real life Cinderella can win the prince,
No matter how unlikely the size of her prints:
If the quantum shoe fits the strange facts of the case,
We can acquit and find there no disgrace.

The sole home of Ripley and Guinness and Freud;
Guilt not allayed and surprise unalloyed-
No use to bother with syntax or diction;
In this world, truth is much larger than fiction.

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More Than Degrees

Mini-jobs and maxi-prices,
You are what you say you are!
But true love knows my name more than Degrees.
You are what you eat and i am what i eat,
But i am like Daniel in the lions den with my mind;
And true love knows my name more than the Degrees around me.
Life to some people is like the wind,
But others wait to see where it blows to;
And like your existing contracts on this earth,
But true love knows my name more than Degrees.

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More than a marble

I love that curvaceous woman,
Carved out of marble,
Kept in a show case.
It loves me not.
Dear, you are not different.
Expressionless or expression hidden,
You be, I love you.
It matters not.
You merit more than the marble.
01.07.2001, Pkd

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Emily Dickinson

The Brain—is wider than the Sky

632

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—

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No More Than Passing Spats

Choosing to hide their delusions,
Has to terrify those in denial.
Those with a wish to protect,
Their hopes from fears...
That current conflicts,
Are no more than passing spats...
Between schoolyard children,
During recess...as to them it appears.

And the authorities looking at this,
From their windows...
Will soon make it clear with warnings,
Of disciplinary actions taken...
If those responsible do not stop soon.
Or parents will be contacted,
With threats to dispell those with bad behavior...
From their classes.

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More Than Just A Birth

Christmas.
More than just a birth.
More than the celebration,
The food and the presents
Deeper than acts of giving.
More than a day of rest,
A time with the family.
More than a mass or service,
For annual religious favours.

More than just a birth
The birthday of the Son of God,
Christmas has another reason:
The beginning of a revelation
Once long lost to man,
A revelation who breathes
Who laughs and cries,
Who man can see and hear
With his very own eyes and ears.

A revelation who is alive,
There for friendships and strive
Who listens and speaks
Grieves and rebukes.
A woman's next door neighbour
Another man's childhood friend
A stranger's guest of honour,
A revelation who lives in our midst
Changing lives with each encounter.

Christmas.
A day of remembrance,
Remembering the Friend of man
Who befriended and walked
Among Jews and Romans
Down the streets of Jerusalem.
Remembering the bread and wine
Who longs and loves
Flowing freely like His blood.

Remembering a revelation:
Of a God more real than ever;
On the day His Son was born
Breathing the air of the manger.

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More Than Life Itself

I love you more than life itself
Is that so much of a crime,
To say for you, I’d do all I could
Even if it meant for me to live or die.
If you’d ask me to climb a mountain
I would ask you only how high
And if you asked me to swim the ocean,
Into the sea I would surely dive.

I love you more than words can say,
Even more than the the words that I write
You’d have to enter my soul, to feel love flow
Then my words you would never deny.
I would give you my heart for yours to start
I would give you my eyes for you to cry
I would give you all I had for you to live,
And if you asked for it, All I would surely give.

I love you more than man could believe,
Even more than any man could wish,
And this mans wishes came true, when I met you
Then my life became yours, when we kissed.
I would do without all for you to smile
I would give up my freedom for you to dream
I would do anything for you to wish and laugh and have
As nothing is to much from what I have seen.

I love you more than any woman could hope
I love you that much, today, tomorrow and forever,
So what ever that I might do, I do it for you
And never, to you could I say never.
I dream alone so that you can dream more,
I walk alone so that you can run,
And when the Earth shall bury me away one day
Its greatest love, will finally be done.

Randy L. McClave

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More Than A Melody

Verse One:
In the still of a moment; my voice can be heard
So listen carefully, there music inside each word
I am the Composer, of the melody of life
So, take upon my yoke learn of me, I'll be your guiding light
I am the Director, Be part of My symphony
I speak peace unto the storms; even the winds obey Me
Let me be your song, you'll never have to walk alone
I will help carry on, carry on
Verse 2:
I am the music within the inner ear
Hearken unto my voice, I'll declare, I'll draw near
I am the rythym to every beat of your heart
And, If you'll place your trust in me I'll never ever part
So, let Me be your song, you'll never have to walk alone
I will help you carry on, onnn
Pre-chorus:
When the notes are formed(They make)
They make a special sound(the music inside the music)
The music inside the music;(It lifts me when i'm down, i'm more than)
More than the beat of time(so much more)more than the lyric more than
More than just a melody(More than just a ryhme)
More than just a rhyme; more than just a melody;come unto me
Chorus:
Ohh,ohhhhh,ohhh,ohh
ohh,ohh,ohh,oh,ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
More than just a melody(i'm your closet friend i'll be there to the end)
More than just a rhyme(Shelter in the time of the storm;you'll never
have to be alone,now)
More than just a melody(trouble won't last always when you realize
that iam)
More than just a rhyme(you won't to live each day alone because I am
more)
More than just a melody(more than just a song to sing more than the
beat moree,morree)
More than just a melody(More than anything that you can spend me on, spend me on
i am)
More than just a melody(Morrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)
More than just a melody(Yes,Yes i'm more)
More than just a melody
More than just a melody
More than just a melody
This more than a melody is off the cd entitled "More Than A Melody(Not
"Best of Yolanda Adams)

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More Than A Melody

Verse One:
In the still of a moment; my voice can be heard
So listen carefully, there music inside each word
I am the Composer, of the melody of life
So, take upon my yoke learn of me, I'll be your guiding light
I am the Director, Be part of My symphony
I speak peace unto the storms; even the winds obey Me
Let me be your song, you'll never have to walk alone
I will help carry on, carry on
Verse 2:
I am the music within the inner ear
Hearken unto my voice, I'll declare, I'll draw near
I am the rythym to every beat of your heart
And, If you'll place your trust in me I'll never ever part
So, let Me be your song, you'll never have to walk alone
I will help you carry on, onnn
Pre-chorus:
When the notes are formed(They make)
They make a special sound(the music inside the music)
The music inside the music;(It lifts me when i'm down, i'm more than)
More than the beat of time(so much more)more than the lyric more than
More than just a melody(More than just a ryhme)
More than just a rhyme; more than just a melody;come unto me
Chorus:
Ohh,ohhhhh,ohhh,ohh
ohh,ohh,ohh,oh,ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
More than just a melody(i'm your closet friend i'll be there to the end)
More than just a rhyme(Shelter in the time of the storm;you'll never
have to be alone,now)
More than just a melody(trouble won't last always when you realize
that iam)
More than just a rhyme(you won't to live each day alone because I am
more)
More than just a melody(more than just a song to sing more than the
beat moree,morree)
More than just a melody(More than anything that you can spend me on, spend me on
i am)
More than just a melody(Morrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)
More than just a melody(Yes,Yes i'm more)
More than just a melody
More than just a melody
More than just a melody
This more than a melody is off the cd entitled "More Than A Melody(Not
"Best of Yolanda Adams)

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The Australian Emigrant

How dazzling the sunbeams awoke on the spray,
When Australia first rose in the distance away,
As welcome to us on the deck of the bark,
As the dove to the vision of those in the ark!
What fairylike fancies appear’d to the view
As nearer and nearer the haven we drew!
What castles were built and rebuilt in the brain,
To totter and crumble to nothing again!
We had roam’d o’er the ocean—had travers’d a path,
Where the tempest surrounded and shriek’d in its wrath:
Alike we had roll’d in the hurricane’s breath,
And slumber’d on waters as silent as death:
We had watch’d the Day breaking each morn on the main,
And had seen it sink down in the billows again;
For week after week, till dishearten’d we thought
An age would elapse ere we enter’d the port.

How often while ploughing the ‘watery waste’,
Our thoughts—from the Future have turn’d to the Past;
How often our bosoms have heav’d with regret;
For faces and scenes we could never forget:
For we’d seen as the shadows o’er-curtain’d our minds
The cliffs of old England receding behind;
And had turned in our tears from the view of the shore,
The land of our childhood, to see it no more.

But when that red morning awoke from its sleep,
To show us this land like a cloud on the deep;
And when the warm sunbeams imparted their glow,
To the heavens above and the ocean below;
The hearts had been aching then revell’d with joy,
And a pleasure was tasted exempt from alloy;
The souls had been heavy grew happy and light
And all was forgotten in present delight.

’Tis true—of the hopes that were verdant that day
There is more than the half of them withered away:
’Tis true that emotions of temper’d regret,
Still live for the country we’ll never forget;
But yet we are happy, since learning to love
The scenes that surround us—the skies are above,
We find ourselves bound, as it were by a spell,
In the clime we’ve adopted contented to dwell.

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Tear It Down

We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of racoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within the body.

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Tear It Down

We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of raccoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within that body.

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Pieces Of You In A Pair Of Dreams (chapter one)

In a piece of my dreams
I've eroded you with my kisses
until there was nothing
nothing else to kiss but a perfumed soul,
but I was too late
for there were others before me
that left their marks by breaking bits of it
like they had the right of ruling over you
like kings.
I'd kill them if you'd let me,
but I think that you liked being their queen,
more than you like being mine.

Breaking the sun into a billion pieces
and hiding before anyone notice the disasters
I cause for you,
somehow became my ritual of love
in this sad sad autumn,
where pieces of you still hug me
like someone that cares
and I can't tell if it's real or not,
for I've been dreaming a lot these days
about giants and creatures that live on the moon.
But the giants don't help me much these days,
searching for their trophies
they got lost somewhere on the moon.

I'm sure that there are others that love you
but know that I love you more than the sum of them all
for I've danced with you in the corners of a sun
they can't even see.
You may not be the most beautiful girl in the world,
but to me you are.

...damn
a piece of my dream is missing,
you.

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0027 In Honour of Honour and WHAuden

You asked me which of Auden’s poems
were my favourite, and I sighed
for memory’s fade, then walked to the dusty shelf
where next to those volumes of Eliot
with their brown-paper covers for those
precious wartime books allowed
a ration of Canadian paper for
fighting men to read in those
few moments of leisure for the open heart and
the vision of a peacetime world, was

‘Collected Shorter Poems 1930-1944 W.H.Auden’

which fell open at page 54,
‘In Memory of W.B.Yeats (d.January 1939) ’
‘Earth, receive an honoured guest…’;
those pages yellowed more than
the others around them as if
read often late at night
under what was still gaslight
with respectful but unwashed hands
after cocoa and biscuits with a scrape of butter

and it all came back: 1953, that was the year
when there was only one poet Yeats..
and poetry and music were the same;
I turned the pages – they fell open once again,
‘Time will say nothing but I told you so’…

So many poems there, unread, or unremembered,
how could it be that I abandoned Auden,
not hearing his music, while
other interests began to pull?

Then I sat silent at the thought
that a great poet of great mind, great heart,
was writing, writing, most of my lifetime
while I was wrapt in other things;

sat silent, honouring
what is to be honoured
as best we can;
what is to be honoured.

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More Amazing Than The Crucifixion

More amazing that the crucifixion
was, of course, the holocaust.
That’s why some believe it’s fiction,
view Jew-haters have endorsed.
Sad fact is that truly it
occurred––six million crucified,
and not just one. Though Holy Writ
does not include them by his side,
Chagall has done this. From the cross
the Christ looks sadly down, an SS-man
observing bloody feet, a boss
who’ll claim he was a minor yes-man
to that atrocity we see
on Golgotha has taken place;
he never will confess that he
deserves great blame. The Jewish race
survived this SS-man’s attack
whose evil has been called banal,
confusing merely white and black!
confusion not one Marc Chagall
made showing cruelty to Christ
who’s cringing on the cross. Some think
they know why he was sacrificed.
I from such explanations shrink,
confronted by the genocide
of all the millions who were killed
with gas used like a pesticide
by people more than Romans skilled
in culture and humanity,
some God-believers, even, whose
world-views saw no profanity
in crucifixion of the Jews.

Inspired by an article by Randy Kennedy in the NYT on January 2,2010, describing the purchase of a Chagall gouache depicting the crucifixion by the London:

The London Jewish Museum of Art is a scrappy young institution, created in 2001 and camped in rented space in St. John’s Wood, off the beaten track of London’s art world. But over the last nine years the museum has been diligently trying to forge a reputation for itself, adding more than 100 works to an already substantial collection that grew out of that of the Ben Uri Gallery, a Jewish artists’ society founded in London in 1915. So when David Glasser, one of the museum’s chairmen, was perusing a Paris auction catalog a few months ago, he found it hard to believe what he saw: a previously unknown 1945 gouache by Marc Chagall. It was one of a small group of images Chagall made in direct response to the Holocaust, after he and his wife had fled France in 1941, after the German occupation and after he had begun to learn the details of the Nazi atrocities. The gouache on heavy paper, which Chagall signed and titled himself lightly with a pencil in Russian — “Apocalypse in Lilac, Capriccio” — employs one of his familiar motifs, an image of a crucified Jesus, which he used as a metaphor for persecuted Jewry. But this crucifixion, painted in New York, where Chagall settled for several years, is one of the most brutal and disturbing ever created by an artist primarily known for his brightly colored folkloric visions. “Apocalypse” shows a naked Christ screaming at a Nazi storm trooper below the cross, who has a backwards swastika on his arm, a Hitler-like mustache and a serpentine tail. Another small figure can be seen crucified and a second being hanged, and a man appears to be poised to stab a child. A damaged, upside-down clock falls from the sky. The darkness and directness of the work may have been a response not only to the war but also to the death of Chagall’s wife, Bella, a year earlier from a viral infection that might have been treated if not for wartime medicine shortages….
And beginning on Thursday, it will go on public display for the first time, at the Osborne Samuel gallery in Mayfair, before moving into the museum’s permanent collection at the end of the month. In going on view, it will become another of the notable publicly exhibited examples of Chagall’s wartime imagery, like the “Yellow Crucifixion” from 1943, at the Georges Pompidou Center, and the “White Crucifixion” from 1938 at the Art Institute of Chicago. “Although in many of his works Chagall had reacted to events in Germany, he usually did not depict them but used symbols — such as the crucifixion, a Jew holding a Torah, a mother protecting her child or a falling angel — to suggest what was happening there, ” writes Ziva Amishai-Maisels, a Chagall scholar and professor emeritus at Hebrew University of Jerusalem, in a catalog to accompany the exhibition of the painting. “Although he still used some of these symbols in ‘Apocalypse, ’ he combined them with the reality of the Holocaust in a manner that was very rare in his work. This and the way he depicted the conflict between the Nazi and the naked Christ make this a unique work.” Ms. Baron, of the Art Fund, agreed. “I think it is really a tremendous coup, ” she said, “to get it for this collection and for the country.”


1/2/10

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Light Is More Important Than The Lantern

Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than both of us.
The are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty
And my madness.


Translated by B. Frangieh And C. Brown


Submitted by Noele Aabye

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The Physique is more powerful than the mind

the physique is more
powerful than the mind

it can help you track
down the impossible

if you can scale down
your mental attention
to its level

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The World Is More Than I Can Ever See

THE WORLD IS MORE THAN ALL I CAN EVER SEE

The world is more than all I can ever see
Its secret bits of dust reform
In ways no particle accelator can recreate.

We live and die in promises of forgetfulnesses
Great silences and seeings
Of beings we never
are-.
All we know and all
We live and die for-

It is only this moment
Of interminable silence
Upon which this poem
never
Ends.

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The Poem's Truth Is That It Says More Than It Knows

THE POEM’S TRUTH IS THAT IT SAYS MORE THAN IT KNOWS

The poem’s truth is that it says more than it knows
That it goes beyond its own intention
That it means in more than only one way
The poem’s truth is its hidden music
And the melody it plays through and beyond our listening
A poem’s truth answers itself in endless questions and ambiguities
No wonder no one simply reads these simple words
As if they were simply written.

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