They will expel him who speaks the truth from nine villages.
Turkish proverbs
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Truth Through Repetition
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Truth through repetition Truth through repetition Truth through repetiion
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poem by David Keig
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I. The Ring and the Book
Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.
Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Truth and Reality (Opinion)
Daily at the end of my "anusthaanam"-(spiritual ritual) ", I make a strong, fervent and sincere prayer to the Divinity that intellectuals and scholars in the world should be fearless and speak the truth without any inhibitions. This has been the tradition of our ancestors and speaking truth is essential for the benefit of the society and the society will be able to know the actualities and act on them.
Normally the rulers do not like the truth to be known. Also leaders of ideologies, religions, their supporters and the like also do not like the truth to be known to the ordinary people. The writers are normally and should be fearless such that the ills and evils in the society are exposed and remedial measures are taken. But what is truth?
Truth is what it is or as it is irrespective of perceptions of the individuals. Reality is what we see of truth; how much we see of truth. Reality is always dictated by our mental make-up, likes, dislikes, limitations in our ability and willingness to see, view, comprehend and accept the truth. Reality is individual's perception of the truth. Truth, most of the times, is only perceived and rarely understood or experienced. Thus reality is limited truth. Reality is either inability to be truthful or inability and limitations of the individual to see the truth unbiased. Also truth corresponds to the individual, about himself, his Self and the reality corresponds to the objective world within and without the body of the individual.
Real situations are compromised states of existence in the attempt of pursuit of the truth. We all talk about truth limited by our perception and not the truth most of the times. We have compulsions inbuilt, acquired or imagined not to accept the truth and allow truth to be spoken or spread through us. But truth is a flowing river. It may flood us but it never dries up. On the other the reality is like a stagnated lake. Our fear of repercussions taking place if we speak, accept or propagate truth, make us real and not truthful. We prefer peaceful and calm life. We call that realistic approach and adjust and compromise.
Thus, most of the times, we are not truthful. We are all limited and confined to our perceptions of truth. Truth is best revealed when understood or experienced. But we rarely get such insight. All our knowledge and information is hearsay through books, newspapers, magazines, radio and TV news channels, web sites etc, . We are all aware that these books and news items are filtered through the editors and owners of these media. Thus the perceptions of these responsible and financing individuals decide the truth content in the item. We pick up these as truth and argue or form our own perceptions. Sometimes the editorial policy of the editors or owners of these media do not allow truth as it is to reach us when they find it objectionable in that form. Thus truth is never completely known or allowed to be known and hence not completely comprehended. The fears, imaginations, illusions shape our perceptions and our comprehension of the truth. Many times it appears that no absolute truth exists or known, perceived or understood and experienced. Just as feelings and perceptions of good and bad and other qualities, truth is also relative as "truth to me", "truth to him", "truth to you", "truth to them" and a truth accepted by all is not possible and available to be expressed, accepted or spread and we all mistake our perceptions of truth as truth without understanding or experiencing the truth. But truth is like fire. It can not be hidden or held in hand.
the palm. Truth sneaks through our cautions and suppression and declares itself.
poem by Varanasi Ramabrahmam
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Let Us Forget Our Villages...
Villages, my friend, are no more those heavens.
You used to tell about villages living, I remember.
Villages, my friend, are no more those marvels.
You used to boast about the ones quite variant, I recall.
Villages have begun to grow its heights,
Its vast expanses shrinking to a few yards.
Villages have sent away their caring mothers to the towns,
Villages have driven away their milky animals to the farm houses.
That`s why my friend, I can`t take you to my village
And when you offer to do so, I am not inclined.
Let us hide in the fortress of this city`s hard walls known to us and
Forget our villages where our memories wander as ghosts.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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The Truth The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth
Lonely days lonely nights
Hoping thing's gonna turn out right
You had me hanging on a string
For you I did most anything
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Its a blind mans eye baby ain't no youth
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies I got my proof
Put your face up to my window
Ask me baby what did I see
Well I know I know you ain't right
I know you ain't right for me
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
All I want is the truth
All I want is the truth
All I want is
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Blind mans eye baby ain't no use
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies I got nothing to prove
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
Don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
(fade)
song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Truth Whole Truth, Nuthin But The Truth
(ian hunter)
Lonely days lonely nights
Hoping things gonna turn out right
You had me hanging on a string
For you I did most anything
You dont give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Its a blind mans eye baby aint no youth
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Dont need your lies I got my proof
Put your face up to my window
Ask me baby what did I see
Well I know I know you aint right
I know you aint right for me
You dont give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little babys got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
All I want is the truth
All I want is the truth
All I want is
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Blind mans eye baby aint no use
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Dont need your lies I got nothing to prove
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little babys got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
Dont hurt ya
Dont hurt ya
The truth dont hurt ya
The truth dont hurt ya
Dont hurt ya dont hurt ya
The truth dont hurt ya
(fade)
song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Truth, The Whole Truth, Nuthin' But The Truth
(ian hunter)
Lonely days lonely nights
Hoping thing's gonna turn out right
You had me hanging on a string
For you i did most anything
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Its a blind mans eye baby ain't no youth
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies i got my proof
Put your face up to my window
Ask me baby what did i see
Well i know i know you ain't right
I know you ain't right for me
You don't give me no
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
All i want is the truth
All i want is the truth
All i want is
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Blind mans eye baby ain't no use
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Don't need your lies i got nothing to prove
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Gods little baby's got nothing to shoot
The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth
Get your kicks on a different route
Don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
Don't hurt ya don't hurt ya
The truth don't hurt ya
(fade)
song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ancient Banner
In boundless mercy, the Redeemer left,
The bosom of his Father, and assumed
A servant's form, though he had reigned a king,
In realms of glory, ere the worlds were made,
Or the creating words, 'Let there be light'
In heaven were uttered. But though veiled in flesh,
His Deity and his Omnipotence,
Were manifest in miracles. Disease
Fled at his bidding, and the buried dead
Rose from the sepulchre, reanimate,
At his command, or, on the passing bier
Sat upright, when he touched it. But he came,
Not for this only, but to introduce
A glorious dispensation, in the place
Of types and shadows of the Jewish code.
Upon the mount, and round Jerusalem,
He taught a purer, and a holier law,—
His everlasting Gospel, which is yet
To fill the earth with gladness; for all climes
Shall feel its influence, and shall own its power.
He came to suffer, as a sacrifice
Acceptable to God. The sins of all
Were laid upon Him, when in agony
He bowed upon the cross. The temple's veil
Was rent asunder, and the mighty rocks,
Trembled, as the incarnate Deity,
By his atoning blood, opened that door,
Through which the soul, can have communion with
Its great Creator; and when purified,
From all defilements, find acceptance too,
Where it can finally partake of all
The joys of His salvation.
But the pure Church he planted,—the pure Church
Which his apostles watered,—and for which,
The blood of countless martyrs freely flowed,
In Roman Amphitheatres,—on racks,—
And in the dungeon's gloom,—this blessed Church,
Which grew in suffering, when it overspread
Surrounding nations, lost its purity.
Its truth was hidden, and its light obscured
By gross corruption, and idolatry.
As things of worship, it had images,
And even painted canvas was adored.
It had a head and bishop, but this head
Was not the Saviour, but the Pope of Rome.
Religion was a traffic. Men defiled,
Professed to pardon sin, and even sell,
The joys of heaven for money,—and to raise
Souls out of darkness to eternal light,
For paltry silver lavished upon them.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Satan Absolved
(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)
Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts,--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child.
[Laughs. I have come to make my peace, to crave a full amaun,
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers--drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil--doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity
The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.
It was at least the truth, the whole truth, I foresaw
When He must needs create that simian ``in His own
Image and likeness.'' Faugh! the unseemly carrion!
I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,
No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.
Oh, I will serve Him well!
[Certain Angels approach. But who are these that come
With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?
Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,
Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!
Sob almost in God's sight! ay, real salt human tears,
Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.
The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation
When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.
Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath
Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death
Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,
Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven's hall
And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.
Not Michael's self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.
Yet all now wail aloud.--What ails ye, brethren? Speak!
Are ye too in rebellion? Angels. Satan, no. But weak
With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.
Satan. Ye have in truth good cause.
Angels. And we would know God's plan,
His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why
Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.
[...] Read more
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Honest Truth
the truth is i love you
the truth is i always dream of you at night
the truth is i do my best to hide it from you
the truth is the future is blank without you
the truth is i am hurting
the truth is i am scared
i am scared how i pretend in front of everyone
the truth is a cannot tell anyone of this
the truth is i cannot even tell you
then it starts to hurt even more
the truth is i'm scared to tell you
the truth is you might be scared to break her heart
the truth is i'm scared you might love me too
the truth is i am not happy
the truth is i don't feel the love i want
the truth is i want to be loved by you only
the truth is you're too blind to see
the truth is you might not believe me if i told you
the truth is you might be scared of it
the truth is the emotional distance kills me
the truth is being close to you makes it worse
should i tell you this truth?
would you believe this truth?
the truth....the truth....the truth...
i'm the only one who knows the
and this truth hurts
because the truth is i love you
the truth is i love you
the truth is i still love you....
03 August 2010
poem by Neo Patricia Monamodi
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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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Sad But The Truth Is On
There are too many bold,
Sad but the truth is on.
And too may all-knowing for their teachers.
Sad but the truth is on.
And they say their teachers can't teach,
Or read, or write to them...
On their lowered levels.
Sad but the truth is on.
Sad but the truth is on.
Many never knew about a hug to touch.
Sad but the truth is on.
There's just too many needing loving.
Sad but the truth is on.
And they don't believe a lesson taught to them,
Reveals and begins to grow to show.
Sad but the truth is on.
It's so sad but the truth is on.
It's so sad about the truth!
The truth for so many has gone.
It's so sad to see it...
Nonexisting.
Sad but the truth is on.
It's so sad but the truth is on.
It's sad about the truth,
Today!
For so many that truth is gone.
It's so sad today...
That,
People sit back to watch it too!
Sad but the truth is on.
It's so sad but the truth is on.
Everybody's talking about a fairness.
But nothing there is fair.
Sad but the truth is on.
Sad but the truth is on.
And,
Everything once fair there is gone.
'Cause nothing in the air is fair there!
Everybody's talking about a fairness.
But nothing there is fair.
And,
Everything once fair there is gone.
Because nothing in the air is fair,
There!
Sad but the truth is on.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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If Truth Was A Factor
If truth was a factor,
There'd be no backup to go after.
If,
Truth was a factor.
If,
Truth was a factor.
And if truth was a factor,
There'd be less sadness and more laughter...
If,
Truth was a factor.
If,
Truth was a factor.
We all would benefit from it!
If,
Truth was a factor.
There'd be no sadness that existed.
If,
Truth was a factor.
If,
Truth was a factor.
If truth was a factor,
There'd be no backup to go after.
If,
Truth was a factor.
If,
Truth was a factor.
And if truth was a factor,
There'd be less sadness and more laughter...
If,
Truth was a factor.
If,
Truth was a factor.
We all would benefit from it!
If,
Truth was a factor.
There'd be no sadness that existed.
If,
Truth was a factor.
If,
Truth was a factor.
And if truth was a factor,
There'd be less sadness and more laughter...
If,
Truth was a factor.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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(V - 2009) The Truth of the Truth
The Sages and Seers
That be and have been
Cannot have seen
The truth of the Truth!
What they see as Truth
Is Truth merely
It’s not really
The truth of the Truth!
The Ultimate Truth
Cannot be known
We aren’t that grown –
The truth of the Truth!
We’re part of the Truth
We’re trying to see
We’re yet so tiny –
The truth of the Truth!
Though hard and great
The pains we give
We cannot outlive
The truth of the Truth!
What’s Truth to you once
Remains not the same
So changing the game –
The truth of the Truth!
What’s Truth to a man
Is not Truth to all
That’s what we call
The truth of the Truth!
These thoughts as I pen
It’s Truth to me
It’s to me only
The truth of the Truth!
poem by Kannan G
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.
The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.
ACT I
Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.
Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.
Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Truth
The truth about a truth is that
The truth can’t be concealed for long;
And when revealed, the truth appears
A bigger truth than what it was.
Truth is beautiful; splendid;
Truth is eternal; everlasting;
Truth is endearing to righteous hearts;
Truth is consoling, comforting;
Truth is perennial; evergreen;
Truth is God.
Truth is a virtue all yearn for;
Truth is global, heavenly;
Truth is uncompromising;
Truth is always encouraging;
Truth is desirable; exhilarating.
Truth is mankind’s ultimate search;
Truth is a great topic of research;
Truth is delighting; enchanting;
Truth is trust-worthy from
Beginning to the end.
No lies can hide a truth for long;
No lies can make a lie, a truth;
All lies will vanish leaving truth exposed,
As bright as ever any time.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 21-08-2010
poem by John Celes
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Seventh Book
'THE woman's motive? shall we daub ourselves
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft clay
And easily explored. She had the means,
The moneys, by the lady's liberal grace,
In trust for that Australian scheme and me,
Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands,
And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed,
She served me (after all it was not strange,;
'Twas only what my mother would have done)
A motherly, unmerciful, good turn.
'Well, after. There are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud;
A miller's wife at Clichy took me in
And spent her pity on me,–made me calm
And merely very reasonably sad.
She found me a servant's place in Paris where
I tried to take the cast-off life again,
And stood as quiet as a beaten ass
Who, having fallen through overloads, stands up
To let them charge him with another pack.
'A few months, so. My mistress, young and light,
Was easy with me, less for kindness than
Because she led, herself, an easy time
Betwixt her lover and her looking-glass,
Scarce knowing which way she was praised the most.
She felt so pretty and so pleased all day
She could not take the trouble to be cross,
But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her shoe,
Would tap me softly with her slender foot
Still restless with the last night's dancing in't,
And say 'Fie, pale-face! are you English girls
'All grave and silent? mass-book still, and Lent?
'And first-communion colours on your cheeks,
'Worn past the time for't? little fool, be gay!'
At which she vanished, like a fairy, through
A gap of silver laughter.
'Came an hour
When all went otherwise. She did not speak,
But clenched her brows, and clipped me with her eyes
As if a viper with a pair of tongs,
Too far for any touch, yet near enough
To view the writhing creature,–then at last,
'Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's name,
'Thou Marian; thou'rt no reputable girl,
'Although sufficient dull for twenty saints!
'I think thou mock'st me and my house,' she said;
'Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month,
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Chabi of the Okavango
Chabi Maenga bought me a chicken. It took two, three hours to cook in the big black pot and was still tough as our leather boots. A goodbye gift to me, upon my leaving the district, leaving the passenger seat by his side.
Chabi had met me in Gaborone with a newly-issued 1978 model Toyota, a boxy thing that bounced crazily on the dirt tracks but was considered state of the art at the time. We drove north until the paved road ran out, then north east across the remote reaches of the Northern Kalahari to my new duty station in Maun. We slept half-way at Serowe, at the 'we are working together' cooperative hotel, under thatch. On the second day we skirted two of the four long walls enclosing the richest diamond mine in the world and tracked the elongated fence that separated buffalo, endemic with foot-and-mouth disease, from cattle. We swung north once more as we reached the side of the 'vanishing lake', Ngami, that in some years confirmed its presence on the standard maps, and in others was simply no-where to be found. All depended on the rains in distant Angola.
Chabi and I shared that front cabin, on and off, for nearly three years. 'Call me Chabi.. like Chubby Checker' was how he introduced himself. He was early 50s, salt and pepper in his tight thin curls, and I was 24... supposedly the boss, the one who signed the requisition slips and the log book for each and every trip. But Chabi was very much in charge.
The first thing he taught me was the Tswana language. After three months by his side I was almost fluent - a status I had not remotely reached in my two years to that point in the capital city. I spoke with his northern dialect: 'f's pronounced as 'h's, 'tl's with a silent 'l'. This marked me as a man of the Okavango, the Ngami, for the rest of my days among the Tswana people. Later my wife of the southern Tswana, and her family, would tease me constantly about this northern country-bumpkin accent. But what did I care? It sounded good to me and I was proud enough simply to be rattling away in SeTwana, however rustic it might sound, and to know more or less what others were rattling. In reciprocation, I helped Chabi with his English, when he was in the mood for it.
The second thing he taught was how to shoot guinea-fowl. He did this mainly by intimidation. Since he was putting in all the hours of driving - not only did I have no licence, but he was the designated official (although I did break the central transport rules more than once when his arthritis was playing up) - and it was me who had better take care of the supper. He would slow the truck to a crawl and I would open the window as we came across a gaggle of birds on the left hand side, gesture for me to pick up his shotgun and cue me... 'ema.... ema.... jaaanu! '. And if I aimed for the centre of the crowd, and kept the gun fairly straight, we would be sure to get a couple of birds for the pot. These we would take to the local primary school and have any available hungry teachers take care of the cooking and share in the meal. This required some concentration to avoid biting down on buckshot.
But the best times we had were on the road to Shakawe. He was delighted, first of all, when I nicknamed the village at the end of the Delta, at the remote northern border, as 'Shake-a-way'. He found this unnecessarily hilarious and I backed it up with a cassette recording of the South African multi-racial band Juluka's song, 'Shake My Way'. In fact we played very little but the first few Juluka albums on my portable cassette player during those trips.
We loaded up the back of the truck with the necessary items: my metal trunk, bought from the Mazezuru (the impoverished itinerant white-clothed Jehova's Witnesses expelled from Rhodesia-Zimbabwe - as it was at the time of my purchase, temporarily - who lived by tinsmithery, also beating out conical tin tops for rondavels) , and filled with a few changes of clothes, a couple of books and plenty of 'tinned stuff', cheap imported meals such as chicken biriyani. On top of the trunk went Chabi's battered suitcase. And then the two most essential items, side by side: a barrel of drinking water, a barrel of fuel. And a prayer that the last of these should not leak or spill over anything else, along those bumpy roads.
If it was winter, it was plain sailing. The dirt roads were dry and firm and we could make it to Shakawe in a day. We would circumnavigate most of the villages along the way:
.... Sehitwa, within sight of the vanishing lake if it had not vanished, Sehitwa where an Irishman started a little fishing industry singlehanded, selling frozen bream fillets all the way down to Johannesburg, supplying my monthly 'Fishko' party... until the Lake dried up...
... Nokaneng, meaning 'by the river', but it was a river that had long disappeared with the gradual drying of the swamps that fed it;
... Tsau, a camp for road building, which had created about 20 kilometres of Norwegian-funded tarmacadam in about five years, supposedly an experiment in desert blacktop that in fact linked nothing to nothing;
.... Gomare, the district's secondary centre, with its massive 'community' school, of which I was a board member, where the board had spent years painstakingly rounding up a few cattle and bags of sorghum to finance the first classroom. These efforts had been completely bypassed by the arrival of the World Bank with nearly a million dollars, more of which appeared to be spent on highly artistic walkways than on the new classrooms;
... Etsha, a new village settled by several thousand long-term refugees from the Angolan civil war who turned out to be impressive growers of grain, unique basket designers and weavers and secret brewers of palm beer (to search for which, Chabi would occasionally take us by alternative backroads) , by a handful of Danish medical students, and by one Welshman with scores of cats who marketed the baskets to tourists and the national museum;
... Sepopa... oh, what to say about Sepopa, a village like any small and remote African village;
... and then finally, Shakawe, a busy trading post hard up by the Angolan border, with a local culture, chiefdom and opposition political party all its own.
The trip was easy between dawn and dusk, in the cold dry season. In the summertime, however, a different question entirely. With the road camp at Tsau concentrating on its lonely piece of blacktop in the middle of nowhere, the rains and the traffic - such as they were, and they were always sufficient for this at least - churned up the rest of the district roads unmercifully. There were patches of known notoriety where we were almost sure to get stuck, and no way, due to thick bush linings along the track, to avoid them. Chabi, fortunately, was a past master at laying wooden planks under the wheels and using the 4-wheel drive to get us out...eventually. The journey took two days. The floors of classrooms in Gomare, Etsha or Sepopa became our beds.
The journey took us along the outer rim of the river channels that flanked the vast inland swamp called Okavango. And it was at Shakawe that the settled population enjoyed a true and vivid view of the river, there at the ingress, the inflow which fed the intricate waterways of the swamp, the high-banked and spectacular panhandle. Shakawe perched above those fast-flowing, pure, clear waters, which over the years had slowly diminished in flow for reasons no-one seemed to fully understand. It was often the place where we started our weeklong series of Kgotla meetings, village assemblies chaired by the Chief, and addressed by the young English district officer on the subject of the latest local government plans for the area, speaking a nervous mixture of Setswana and English (Chabi or a local agricultural officer providing translation) . This was normally followed by several hours of grandstand speeches by the assembled males, rising one by one from their wood-and-leather chairs to comment on what they thought I had proposed. The meeting - perfect for total-immersion SeTswana training for the young DO - were finished off, sometimes, by an invitation from the Chief to the women, sitting on the outer margins of the throng, often with babies, to speak their minds at last.
Through many such assemblies, the oddity of my presence was remarked upon only once, by a slightly intoxicated monnamogolo (respected old man) , who approached the table at which the Chief and I sat, and called out loudly, I never thought I would see the little lady (being Queen Elizabeth, or her representative) at this Kgotla once again!
Once at Shakawe, there were three options for continuing our journey. To work our way back down the side of the Okavango, holding meetings in two villages each day, taking about a week to return to the district office and our homes in Maun. Or to head off west to visit the few remote villages - Shai-Shai, Nau-Nau, Kangwa - founded by Herero cattleowners, their wives clad in massive layers of German-inspired skirts, and their San (Bushman) herders, near the Namibian border, across which lay a land still heavily occupied by the apartheid army. Or, the most magical and exciting option of all, to drive onto the little ferry ('pontoon') and cross to the remote eastern bank of the panhandle, and drive down to the three villages that lay there, on roads that barely deserved the name. Only one trading store with the most basic items could be found in that territory, and no supplies of fuel at all. Once a month, a Baptist dentist arrived in his light plane to preach to the people, distribute Bibles, and then, only then, extract teeth. If you were stranded, and spoke politely, he might stand you a lift back home.
Snakes became caught under our wheels sometimes. Ostriches would run alongside, trying to outpace us, then following the trail in front of us. And once an elephant suddenly stepped onto the trail from its hiding place behind a tree. Chabi brought us to a massive sudden halt, and we waited, waited silently.. until the creature went on its way.
In three years, he had only one accident, and that was on the tarmac on the way back from the trip to the capital. It was dark, approaching Francistown.. and a cow had gone to sleep on one side of the road. It was a minor collision, but the government censured him anyway, after much argumentation.
When we camped in the villages at night his radio took over from my cassette player. First the Botswana news. Then the solemn reading out of those who had passed away. Followed by church music. Just right to lull us both to sleep.
Perhaps the last thing Chabi tried to teach me concerned the wizards of the forest. When, during the long hours of travelling, he would start to talk as in an obsessive trance about the 'baloi', the spirits, he would gradually enter the world of 'deep Setswana', and his meanings became lost to me. The guttural sounds of the language would become a backdropp to the noise of the engine. My lack of ability to follow him into the tales of the wizards always seemed a disappointment to him, but he never gave up completely.
Mainly, while on the road together, he and I talked like father and son, cooked and ate together, and often slept alongside each other. When back in town, however, we did not socialize. We became formal in our work environment, 'district officer' and 'driver'. Chabi never came to hear me entertain the office crowd from the District Council with my guitar on Friday nights at Le Bistro cafe on the banks of the Thamalakane river. He never invited me to meet his family or to see his home. Which is what make it all the more surprising when he turned up at my place, during my last days in Maun, with that hardy three-year-old chicken. The first thing he did was invite me to wring its neck. And not for the first time with him, I ducked this challenge.
Zimbabwe was already free and its freedom would continue for a while. The wars of Angola raged on, fueled from distant lands, while the occupation of Namibia intensified. My place at Chabi's side was taken by a young Motswana graduate, and doubtless later by another. And then, as if by a miracle, generated by the pressure of resistance in the heart of South Africa, the dark clouds began to lift across the region, and the peace that lay at the heart of Botswana began to spread to all its troubled neighbours.
[...] Read more
poem by Frank Bana
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0995..... Supreme Truth
We know who is Super Star and Supreme Star
More so, we are more interested in their personal life
Ever wanted to know what Supreme Truth is?
Ever interested to ponder on above line?
Love is Truth, Affection is Truth, Compassion is Truth,
Friendship is Truth, Peace is Truth, Universe is Truth, Atom is Truth
Mountain is Truth, Earth is Truth, Sun is Truth, Truth is Truth
There are Millions of Truths; but one could be the ‘Supreme Truth’
What is the Supreme Truth? Truth of All Truths?
Truth that sustains all Truths is the Supreme Truth
That which is Beyond ‘Time’ and ‘Space’ and Eternal
That which is the one and only is Supreme Truth
We are Born, Live and Die; Earths, Suns, Stars and Galaxies do die;
Lights, Sounds, Nations, Religions, Castes, Money, all will vanish oneday;
Nothing in Space-Time region will last forever and Die one day;
Anything out of Space-Time Horizon can only exist for ever
Everything is Consciousness; Consciousness sustains everything
The seen and unseen are two realms of Consciousness
An Electron is conscious of velocity and angle to rotate
Chairs, Sticks, Stones Books, He, She, It and all have Consciousness
Consciousness is Dormant in Few, Explicit in Few, That’s Truth.
Every object is conscious of what it is; They can’t exist otherwise
What way will Knowing Consciousness help me?
Listen carefully, for this may change all your perspective
Consciousness Infinite is, The God in Absolute Form
Consciousness is on a Big Agenda;
To express itself in many forms and Evolve
We are latest creations in 13.73 Billion Years in River of Consciousness;
We were Sticks and Stones one day; You and I Today
Know it or not we are Evolving; Evolution is an upward march
All of us are from same fountain of Consciousness
Is Buddha a fool to renounce his Princedom in search of Truth?
Consciousness little unplugged is Happiness;
Consciousness fully Unplugged is Bliss (Cosmic Consciousness)
Be more conscious; Be full of Awareness of your doings;
You can evolve faster and faster; Being Conscious can
Speed up your Karmic path, avoiding many cycles of Births and Deaths
We cannot not exist; We are Gods in the making; Time only counts;
Be more Conscious; Consciousness is the only –‘The Supreme Truth’
(28-03-2010, Chennai)
poem by Gan Chennai
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