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Quietness is best.

Romanian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Paradigm Shift

Let's dance, stop to fight
We do the paradigm shift tonight
Yeah, it's a natural drift alright
And it's coming up out of the blur
Out of your mind from deep below
The hidden harmonies discover
Chaos-- which means order
Its evolution is a spiritual way
For quietness is stronger than motion
Silence is stronger than sound
Listen to the tone which is not played
Nothing is what we want
Quietness is stronger than motion
Silence is stronger than sound
Nothing is what we get
But the holistic movement of all
Yes, that is the way
Do you hear the river flow?
Do you hear it?.. Yes!
Do you hear it flow
You talked yourself into wrong questions
You don't care about the answers
You let the others be the good ones
You're part of the death-bringing system
There is no place where you can hide
Stop chasing the wrong Gods of time (ter)
Chasing the wrong Gods of time (bis)
Running out of time (ter)
Time kills!
You're lowering hopes much too much
You get into the grind much too much
And losing faith in your abilities
The loyalty to your beloved system
Of belief must surrender
To chaos which means order
Evolution's not a model of yours
For quietness is stronger than motion
Silence is stronger than sound
Listen to the tone which is not played
Nothing is what we want
Quietness is stronger than motion
Silence is stronger than sound
Nothing is what we get
But the holistic movement of all
Yes, that is the way
Do you hear the river flow?
Do you hear it flow?
Do you hear it

song performed by Alphaville
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What It Took for Me To Get Here

Perhaps I am old fashion.
With a joy of having peace...
And surrounded by quietness,
I've discovered I love alot.
But I can not live within my home,
With rooms that are closed.
And each padlocked.
That's why I refuse to share my space,
With those who have issues.
And I trust not.

'You have enough space.
We could share as room-mates.
We can split expenses.
Doesn't that make sense? '

Perhaps I am old fashion.
With a joy of having peace...
And surrounded by quietness,
I've discovered I love alot.
But I can not live within my home,
With rooms that are closed.
And each padlocked.
That's why I refuse to share my space,
With those who have issues.
And I trust not.

'Trust?
I'm talking about saving us both a few bucks.'

Perhaps I am old fashion.
With a joy of having peace...
And surrounded by quietness,
I've discovered I love alot.
But I can not live within my home,
With rooms that are closed.
And each padlocked.
That's why I refuse to share my space,
With those who have issues.
And I trust not.

'What are you saying?
You can't use a few more dollars,
In your pocket?
Allowing you to breathe.
Economically and more freely? '

Perhaps I am old fashion.
With a joy of having peace...
And surrounded by quietness,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The frost of the highest peak.

Always been here
In fact
With you
Entwining my name
Forever
With your many names
In the frost of the highest peak.
Unlocking all doors.
When I leave the evil forever
And I say ''Nevermore and never again''
Quietness comes and quietness passes off
It is hang in the air
Both in its own sense and in the opposite
Words around it
Like holes and stars.
Very much like a destiny and an undestiny song
When its sound is moved by the quietness
Into quietness
As a cry is moved by the wind
Into its eco
Forever
When hope.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Goat Paths

The crooked paths go every way
Upon the hill - they wind about
Through the heather in and out
Of the quiet sunniness.
And there the goats, day after day,
Stray in sunny quietness,
Cropping here and cropping there,
As they pause and turn and pass,
Now a bit of heather spray,
Now a mouthful of the grass.

In the deeper sunniness,
In the place where nothing stirs,
Quietly in quietness,
In the quiet of the furze,
For a time they come and lie
Staring on the roving sky.

If you approach they run away,
They leap and stare, away they bound,
With a sudden angry sound,
To the sunny quietude;
Crouching down where nothing stirs
In the silence of the furze,
Couching down again to brood
In the sunny solitude.

If I were as wise as they
I would stray apart and brood,
I would beat a hidden way
Through he quiet heather spray
To a sunny solitude;
And should you come I'd run away,
I would make an angry sound,
I would stare and turn and bound
To the deeper quietude,
To the place where nothing stirs
In the silence of the furze.

In that airy quietness
I would think as long as they;
Through the quiet sunniness
I would stray away to brood
By a hidden beaten way
In a sunny solitude.

I would think until I found
Something I can never find,
Something lying on the ground,
In the bottom of my mind.

poem by James Stephens
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The Secret Society Of The Suddenly Quiet...

This Christmas, as ever at this time of year,
there’s a worldwide brotherhood and sisterhood
whose numbers I cannot count
and would not wish to know;
who seldom know each other;
and perhaps, that’s just as well..

who, in their dressing-gowns on Christmas morn,
amid bright wrappings hasty torn,
and exclamations…
fall suddenly quiet,
are far, somewhere else for several moments;
return, and look silently in thought, deeply,
at partner, children; their eyes
now a little more shining than they were..

or who, at a lively dinner-party,
fall quiet for a minute,
look around the table, thoughtfully; or
squeeze a hand, secretly; then
return as if they’d never been away;
return perhaps with new vigour
in their conversation and in response..

or even, acceptably alone at Christmas,
celebrate it in this quietness;
if you knew them, which you don’t,
you might say something to them;
or, just might not know what you should say..

who are these, suddenly quiet
for a moment, far away,
celebrating something in their quietness?

they are those whose quietness would say,
this is what I never knew, when I a child;
longed for, never thought it would come true;
how fortunate I am, that I’ve survived
to feel like this…

Indians might say, this is the story of your present life,
which you wrote with your previous life..
the drama of separation now transcended…
that may be so, explain a lot; or it may not… but,

look at them- when they don’t see you doing that-
look at them deeply with the eyes of love;
saying in yourself, yes, yes, yes…

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Jabberwocky

Other than the slight ringing in my ears
The only other sound I hear is the
Computers low droning inner gears.
Monotonous sounds that drive me a
Little crazy at times; background noises
That become deafening after awhile
Especially sitting in quietness
Or rather semi-quietness. Still, I’ll
Never get used to these subtle noises.
I think, perhaps, I am a little mad
If that’s possible; I don’t hear voices
Like a bug-house lunatic, God forbad!
I must be nuts though, to sit here alone
Typing jabberwocky verses at home.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Only Three Days Away

Is it the quietness of midnight,
That people find it appropriate...
To honk a car horn to shock and disturb,
With a shouting to a closed window...
Of someone living just a few steps away.
To then have a loud conversation,
As to where they should meet for lunch...
When the weekend comes?

Is it the quietness of midnight,
That people find this appropriate to do?
Or should I ignore what is going on,
To get up to have a snack of popcorn?
And forget about sleeping.
With a making of my own plans,
For a weekend anticipated with such enthusiasm...
Only three days away.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Paradigm Shift

Lets dance
Stop to fight
We do the paradigm shift tonite
Yeah, its a natural drift alright
And its coming up out of the blur
Out of your mind from deep below
The hidden harmonies discover
Chaos which means order
Evolutions not a model of yours
For quietness is stronger than motion and silence is stronger than sound
Were listening to the tone which is not played
Nothing is what we want
Nothing is what we get
But the holistic moment of all
Yes
That is the way
Do you hear the river flow
You talked yourself into wrong questions
You dont care about the answers
You let the others be the good ones
Youre part of the deathbringing system
Theres no place where you can hide
Stop! chasing the wrong gods of time
Im running out of time
Time kills
Youre lowering hopes much too much, getting into the grind much too much
And losing faith in your abilities
The loyalty to your beloved system of belief must surrender
To chaos which means order, evolutions not a model of yours
For quietness is stronger than motion
Do you hear the river flow
Do you hear it!?
Echolette/1993

song performed by Alphaville
Added by Lucian Velea
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On Hyndford Street

Take me back, take me way, way, way back
On hyndford street
Where you could feel the silence at half past eleven
On long summer nights
As the wireless played radio luxembourg
And the voices whispered across beechie river
In the quietness as we sank into restful slumber in the silence
And carried on dreaming, in god
And walks up cherry valley from north road bridge, railway line
On sunny summer afternoons
Picking apples from the side of the tracks
That spilled over from the gardens of the houses on cyprus avenue
Watching the moth catcher working the floodlights in the evenings
And meeting down by the pylons
Playing round mrs. kellys lamp
Going out to holywood on the bus
And walking from the end of the lines to the seaside
Stopping at fuscos for ice cream
In the days before rock 'n roll
Hyndford street, abetta parade
Orangefield, st. donards church
Sunday six bells, and in between the silence there was conversation
And laughter, and music and singing, and shivers up the back of the neck
And tuning in to luxembourg late at night
And jazz and blues records during the day
Also debussy on the third programme
Early mornings when contemplation was best
Going up the castlereagh hills
And the cregagh glens in summer and coming back
To hyndford street, feeling wondrous and lit up inside
With a sense of everlasting life
And reading mr. jelly roll and big bill broonzy
And really the blues by mezz mezzrow
And dharma bums by jack kerouac
Over and over again
And voices echoing late at night over beechie river
And its always being now, and its always being now
Its always now
Can you feel the silence?
On hyndford street where you could feel the silence
At half past eleven on long summer nights
As the wireless played radio luxembourg
And the voices whispered across beechie river
And in the quietness we sank into restful slumber in silence
And carried on dreaming in god.

song performed by Van Morrison
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Pickthorn Manor

I

How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day!
A steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away,
Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through
And tip the edges of the waves with shifts
And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems
Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp
As wind through leafless stems.
The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts
Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts
Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp.

II

Her little feet tapped softly down the path.
Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze
Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath
Of fallen petals on the grass, could please
Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside
With a swift move, and a half-angry frown.
She stopped to pull a daffodil or two,
And held them to her gown
To test the colours; put them at her side,
Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried
Some new arrangement, but it would not do.

III

A lady in a Manor-house, alone,
Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke
Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown
Too apathetic even to rebuke
Her idleness. What is she on this Earth?
No woman surely, since she neither can
Be wed nor single, must not let her mind
Build thoughts upon a man
Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth
Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,
And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.

IV

Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing.
Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel
Other than strange delight at her wife's doing.
Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal
Over her face, and then her lips would frame
Some little word of loving, and her eyes

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Lowell
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Simple Words, And Quietness!

i used to write
with exploding images,
and intricate rhymes.
mapping the grand design
of passion unfolding.
but now i've reached a place
of quietness, and simple words,
raw honesty, and tiny flames...
and i'm at peace with myself.

i know that all war is wrong,
that hunger and homelessness
are a scourge, the result
of our own actions.
and i feel deeply the responsibility
to share in the suffering
of one and all.

i dont blame anything on God,
we havent even touched
what God is with our concepts.
dont blame anything on politicians,
we put them there
out of our own apathetic greed.
i dont blame lonliness on lovers,
you cant know love
without having been lonely.

age brings with it a deep sense
of mortality, and of the value
of each fleeting moment.
it's all too easy to spend
your life fighting and working
for things that have no lasting value...
i know, i've been there.

i learned to look in the mirror,
and really see myself.
learned to look at myself,
and see all others.
i've taken responsibility for
my thoughts and desires,
as well as my actions...
so i have no right to judge.

compassion, and giving...
celebrate the moment.
what i dont know
i dont have to know...
i have enough faith

[...] Read more

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The River

It is a venerable place,
An old ancestral ground,
So broad, the rainbow wholly stands
Within its lordly bound;
And here the river waits and winds
By many a wooded mound.
Upon a rise, where single oaks
And clumps of beeches tall
Drop pleasantly their shade beneath,
Half-hid amidst them all,
Stands in its quiet dignity
An ancient manor-hall.
About its many gable-ends
The swallows wheel their flight;
The huge fantastic weather-vanes
Look happy in the light;
The warm front through the foliage gleams,
A comfortable sight.
The ivied turrets seem to love
The low, protected leas;
And, though this manor-hall hath seen
The snow of centuries,
How freshly still it stands amid
Its wealth of swelling trees!
The leafy summer-time is young;
The yearling lambs are strong;
The sunlight glances merrily;
The trees are full of song;
The valley-loving river flows
Contentedly along.
Look where the merry weather-vanes
Veer upon yonder tower:
There, amid starry jessamine
And clasping passion-flower,
The sweetest Maid of all the land
Is weeping in her bower.
Alas, the lowly Youth she loves
Loves her, but fears to sue:
He came this morning hurriedly;
Then forth her blushes flew!
But he talk'd of common things, and so
Her eyes are fill'd with dew.
Time passes on; the clouds are come;
The river, late so bright,
Rolls foul and black, and gloomily
Makes known across the night,
In far-heard plash and weary drench,
The passage of its might.
The noble Bridegroom counts the hours;
The guests are coming fast;

[...] Read more

poem by Coventry Patmore
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In Memory of My Feelings

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.

My quietness has a number of naked selves,
so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves
from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons
and have murder in their heart!
though in winter
they are warm as roses, in the desert
taste of chilled anisette.
At times, withdrawn,
I rise into the cool skies
and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification
of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape,
speaks, but I do not hear him,
I'm too blue.
An elephant takes up his trumpet,
money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror
across shoulder blades. A gun is "fired."
One of me rushes
to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me
flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes,
and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips
are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt's lust,
definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs
of earth.
So many of my transparencies could not resist the race!
Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets,
a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth,
the imperceptible moan of covered breathing,
love of the serpent!
I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants
and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud
and animal death whips out its flashlight,
whistling
and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent's eyes
redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth!
My transparent selves
flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing
without panic, with a certain justice of response
and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.

poem by Frank O'Hara
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Joseph’s Dreams and Reuben's Brethren [A Recital in Six Chapters]

CHAPTER I

I cannot blame old Israel yet,
For I am not a sage—
I shall not know until I get
The son of my old age.
The mysteries of this Vale of Tears
We will perchance explain
When we have lived a thousand years
And died and come again.

No doubt old Jacob acted mean
Towards his father’s son;
But other hands were none too clean,
When all is said and done.
There were some things that had to be
In those old days, ’tis true—
But with old Jacob’s history
This tale has nought to do.

(They had to keep the birth-rate up,
And populate the land—
They did it, too, by simple means
That we can’t understand.
The Patriarchs’ way of fixing things
Would make an awful row,
And Sarah’s plain, straightforward plan
Would never answer now.)
his is a tale of simple men
And one precocious boy—
A spoilt kid, and, as usual,
His father’s hope and joy
(It mostly is the way in which
The younger sons behave
That brings the old man’s grey hairs down
In sorrow to the grave.)

Old Jacob loved the whelp, and made,
While meaning to be kind,
A coat of many colours that
Would strike a nigger blind!
It struck the brethren green, ’twas said—
I’d take a pinch of salt
Their coats had coloured patches too—
But that was not their fault.

Young Joseph had a soft thing on,
And, humbugged from his birth,
You may depend he worked the thing
For all that it was worth.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Night visions

I do not fear the dark, my eyes
adjust so that I can see.
The beauties which would otherwise
be hidden by the night from me.

To walk abroad alone by night
seems only natural to me
Quite different from brighter light
the sun provides consistently.

It is a different world by night
the garish colours of the day.
Have been replaced by black and white
as beautiful in their own way.

As anything you see by day
The muted colours softening
harsh outlines in a subtle way
Moving shadows intertwining.

Produce in me serenity
A mood the quietness inspires
I stroll enwrapped in reverie
as often as my heart desires

I can look back nostalgically
recalling how thing used to be
or look ahead and try to see
what the future holds for me.

I see the darkness as a friend
For me it holds no mystery
I know for sure I can depend
upon the quiet night to be.

A time when I can meditate
and view my world quite differently.
Which will let me appreciate
all of the beauty which I see.

Although some people fear the night
and find the silence frightening.
To walk by night is my delight
I find the quietness soothing.

11-Oct-08

http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Serenity is my portion for M lady Ann Beard

The last rays of the setting sun
encarnadine the grey stonewalls
of my small house when day is done.
I watch content as darkness falls.

I have an unimpeded view
from where I sit towards the sea.
Each sunset shows me something new
the darkness holds no threat for me.

In fact I crave the quietness.
I choose to live in solitude.
I hate the city’s business
an anti social attitude? .

That may be true I can’t deny
I do not seek the company
of fellow men and I know why
I hate the close proximity.

Of the unthinking bustling crowd
Who advertise their discontent
broadcasting random thoughts aloud
By accident without intent.

The random thoughts they radiate
albeit quite unknowingly
combine together and create
a standing wave of misery.

Perhaps I am too sensitive.
Which would explain my attitude
The reason that I choose to live
in isolated solitude.

I’m woken by the rising sun
which bids me that it’s time to rise
and greet the new day just begun.
In perfect peace and quietness.

The grey stone walls now tinged with gold
I look towards the distant sea
Enjoy the beauty I behold
I am content as I should be.

08/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Just love the Cemetery

one thing about grave
about the cemetery that i like
they are all so real, real as death
and the people who come visiting
they come with their real self
laugh, smile or tears they are
all so reall, for there is no more need
to fake one's feeling, put on a face
everything is now known to the dead
or remains forever unknown
there is a quietness in the grave
and the cemetery that i like
it is the ingratiating quietness
that is so soothing to the soul
the calm acceptance of life
that to die is also a part of living

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Soothing graves

one thing about grave
about the cemetery that i like
they are all so real, real as death
and the people who come visiting
they come with their real self
laugh, smile or tears they are
all so reall, for there is no more need
to fake one's feeling, put on a face
everything is now known to the dead
or remains forever unknown
there is a quietness in the grave
and the cemetery that i like
it is the ingratiating quietness
that is so soothing to the soul
the calm acceptance of life
that to die is also a part of living

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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As If To Digest in The Darkness

Everyday those same voices heard increase!
Everyday
And they
Don't go away

Everyday those same voices heard increase!
Everyday
And they
Don't go away.

It's not like I don't care for people.
But everyday
Their bickering stays.

Everyday those same voices heard increase!
Everyday
And they don't go away.

It's not like I don't care for people.
But everyday
Their bickering stays.

And I've got to get away to watch the Sunset,
To observe them as their silhouettes
Fade on the horizon digested by the darkness,
To get some quietness.

Everyday those same noisy bickering people.
Everyday
Everyday
Everyday those same noisy bickering people.
Everyday
Everyday

And I'm glad when the Sun gets ready to set
To take their bickering silhouettes
Delivering a quietness,
As if to digest in the darkness.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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