Please don't ask me any questions about the politics of 30 years ago.
quote by Helen Reddy
Added by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
I'll Do My Best To Deliver
Ask me for what you want.
Just ask me,
Ask me.
And make it anything,
You need...
From me.
Ask me for what you want.
Ask me for what you need,
And I'll do my best to deliver.
Ask me.
Just ask me.
Ask me for what you want.
Just ask me.
Ask me.
Ask me for anything,
And I will fullfill...
That need.
Ask me for what you want.
Ask me for what you need,
And I'll do my best to deliver.
Ask me.
Just ask me.
And I'll do my best to deliver.
Ask me.
Just ask me.
Oh ask me for what you want.
Ask me for what you need,
And I'll do my best to deliver.
Ask me.
Just ask me.
And I will do my best to deliver.
Ask me.
Just ask me.
And I'll do my best to deliver.
Ask me.
Just ask me.
And I will do my best to deliver.
Just ask me for what you want.
Just ask me for what you need,
And I will do my best to deliver.
Come thunderstorms, rain or shine...
That pressure you have will be taken right off your mind.
I will do my best to deliver.
Just ask me...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Y
Don't ask us Y!
We do the things that we do
Don't ask us Y!
We feel the same as you
Don't ask us Y!
Life can be so damn cruel
Don't ask us Y!
It's all been decided for you
Pure soul first breath is filled with sin
A young child just born quit suffering
A mother's greed, get high, chasin' ghosts again
This will happen over and over again!
Don't ask us Y!
We do the things that we do
Don't ask us Y!
We feel the same as you
Don't ask us Y!
Life can be so damn cruel
Don't ask us Y!
It's all been decided for you
I look into your eyes, I feel your pain, life's insane
I'm gonna do my best to try again and live again
I know we're all the same, we live our lives it's like a game
And still we do it over and over again!
Don't ask us Y!
We do the things that we do
Don't ask us Y!
We feel the same as you
Don't ask us Y!
Life can be so damn cruel
Don't ask us Y!
It's all been decided for you
First communion done, now your life has just begun
Second plot the whole world is looking with a gun
Another child will do it when he's on the run
The vicious circle of life has just begun!
Don't ask us Y!
We do the things that we do!
Don't ask us Y!
We feel the same as you!
Don't ask us Y!
Life can be sooo cruel!
Don't ask us Y!
It's all been decided for you!
Don't ask us Y!
We feel the same as you
Don't ask us Y!
Life can be so damn cruel
Don't ask us Y!
It's all been decided for you
[...] Read more
song performed by Zug Izland
Added by Lucian Velea
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Always Asking Questions
We all want peace we dont want misery
So many of us wont let us be these things
But we only are confused
We feel stronger as we grow older
But still we feel bemused
Always asking questions
Were always asking questions
And the temptation is to just step back
Well we give what we lack
We will always be asking questions
Why rich?
Why poor?
Always asking questions
Were always asking questions
Why this?
Why that?
Were always asking questions
Why this?
Why that?
Always asking
Dont stop asking
Dont stop asking questions
Always asking questions
In answer to this question is just shut up
You dont know
I dont know
Nobody knows
This is an answer to every question
This is a place to begin
Always asking questions
Always asking questions
Why this?
Why that?
Why this?
Why that?
Always asking questions
(why this why that? )
Always asking questions
(why this why that? )
Always asking questions
(why this why that? )
Words: william bryant
Music: howard jones
song performed by Howard Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ask
This is our new single ...
Ask !
Shyness is nice, and
Shyness can stop you
From doing all the things in life
That you'd like to
Shyness is nice, and
Shyness can stop you
From doing all the things in life
That you'd like to
So, if there's something you'd like to try
If there's something you'd like to try
Ask me - i won't say "no" - how could i ?
Coyness is nice, and
Coyness can stop you
From doing all the things in
Life that you want to
So, if there's something you'd like to try
If there's something you'd like to try
Ask me - i won't say "no" - how could i ?
Spending warm summer days indoors
Writing frightening verse
To a buck-toothed girl in luxembourg
Ask me, ask me, ask me
Ask me, ask me, ask me
Because if it's not love
Then it's the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb
That will bring us together
Nature is a language - can't you read ?
Nature is a language - can anybody read ?
So ... ask me, ask me, ask me
Ask me, ask me, ask me
Because if it's not love
Then it's the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb
That will bring us together
If it's not love
Then it's the bomb
Then it's the bomb
That will bring us together
So ... ask me, ask me, ask me
Ask me, ask me, ask me
Oh, la ...
song performed by Smiths
Added by Lucian Velea
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Second Book
TIMES followed one another. Came a morn
I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
And looked before and after, as I stood
Woman and artist,–either incomplete,
Both credulous of completion. There I held
The whole creation in my little cup,
And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,
'Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine
And all these peoples.'
I was glad, that day;
The June was in me, with its multitudes
Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
My childhood backward in a childish jest
To see the face of't once more, and farewell!
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
At early morning,–would not wait so long
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
With my gown in the dew, took will and way
Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
To fly my fancies in the open air
And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;
'The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,
And so with me it must be, unless I prove
Unworthy of the grand adversity,–
And certainly I would not fail so much.
What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
Before my brows be numb as Dante's own
To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
Such leaves? what leaves?'
I pulled the branches down,
To choose from.
'Not the bay! I choose no bay;
The fates deny us if we are overbold:
Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dare not touch
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
Ah–there's my choice,–that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ancestral Woman
I was never child
My maternal granny called me an old, old soul
I seen time come and go
I gave birth to giving birth
Ain’t nothin I don’t know
The sun is my shade I pull it down to allow darkness and light
To give birth to the same day, the eternal now
Then, you ask me, as woman
Then, you ask me, as a colored woman
Then, you ask me, as a female
Then, you ask me, as a black female
Then, you ask me, as a Mother
Then, you ask me, as the epitome of androgeny
What is my contribution, evolution ain’t as old
I been in the grave, beyond the grave
I been the grave, I had to brave the newness of oldness
I remember when silence was communication
Being blind the revelation
Not knowing the greatest education
Nothingness the only information
I am the past, my innateness the futre
My being the immediate now
I am the ancient androgenous embryo
I render gender apropos
I survived domestice violence and sexual abuse
Being told I am of no use
Cause I won’t accept yo validation
As my self-reaization
Then, you ask me, as a woman
Then, you ask me, as a colored woman
Then, you ask me, as a female
Then, you ask me, as a black female
Then, you ask me, as a Mother
Then, you ask me, as the epitome of androgeny
What is my contribution, evolution ain’t as old
I been the grave, beyond the grave
I been the grave, I had to brave the newness of oldness
How does it feel being a Woman
It feels like
I Am all, in all, sustain all, absolutely independent of all
My power never diminishes
[...] Read more
poem by Josephine DixonBanks
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Virginia's Story
Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.
She was born in Canada with her father and brothers.
They owned a Barber Shoppe.
I don't remember exactly where in Canada.
I believe it was right over the border like Windsor or Toronto.
I never knew exactly where it was.
When she was old enough she got married.
First, she married a man by the name of Frank Gates.
He was from Madagascar.
He fathered my mom and her brother and sister.
The boy's name was Frank Gates, Jr.
Two girls name were Anna and Agnes.
Agnes was my mother.
Frank Gates went crazy after the war
He drank a lot and died
Then grandma Elizabeth married a man by the name of Mr. Wooten.
He had a German name, but I don't think he was German.
She took his last name after they got married.
Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.
Their son, Frank Gates Jr. Became a delegate in the democratic party.
He use to get into a lot of trouble because he liked to fight.
He was a delegate from the 1940's to 1970's.
He died of gout in the 1970's.
Anna was a maid and cook.
She baked cakes and stuff for people as a side line.
She had a hump on her back (scoliosis) .
She had to walk with a cane.
She could cook good though.
She did this kind of work all of her life, just like her mom, Elizabeth
They were both good cooks
They had a lot of money because they had these skills
Especially when people had parties.
Because they would make all of this food and then they would have left-overs.
We got to eat a lot of stuff we normally wouldn't get because of that.
When they cooked, they didn't use no measuring stuff, they would just use there hand.
My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.
She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.
[...] Read more
poem by Talile Ali
Added by Poetry Lover
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IV. Tertium Quid
True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!
It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!
Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Don't Ask God
Don’t ask God for wisdom lest he give you folly to teach your heart.
Don’t ask God for wealth lest he give you poverty to make you depend on him.
Don’t ask God for vision lest he give you blindness to guide your way.
Don’t ask God for strength lest he give you weakness to sustain you.
Don’t ask God for protection lest he give you adversity, so he can fight for you.
Don’t ask God for progress lest he give you stillness so you can know him.
Don’t ask God for water lest he give you thirst, so you can seek the living water.
Don’t ask God for food lest he give you hunger for righteousness.
Don’t ask God for joy, lest he give you mourning to put your heart on eternity.
Don’t ask God for beauty lest he give you ashes to teach you how to look inward.
Don’t ask God for friends lest he give you enemies so he can be your friend.
Don’t ask God for life lest he give you death to mortify your flesh.
Don’t ask God for crown lest he give you a cross to save your soul.
In pride,
In selfishness,
In haughtiness,
In foolishness
In arrogance,
In self righteousness,
Don’t ask God for anything
Don’t ask God for something
Don’t ask God for everything
Just ask God for God.
Isaac 'Slimx'
November 2008
poem by Isaac 'slimx'
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Canto the First
I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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The Boatman's Crossing!
The boatman is out, crossing the swollen river,
Dips the bamboo staff, churns the frowning waters,
Calling for strength from the still depths, he moves on,
Like children running behind a cart, waves giggle along.
The river asks no questions.
Dark for lies shrouded in curtains of inky black,
Moon just a strained smile, is seized by the clouds crack,
Lovelorn silver edges aglow, puff in pride on the conquest,
Homesick, signaling to each other, stars join in the jest.
The night asks no questions.
Yet to startle darkness, the weakest hour of morn,
Pushing this log of wood, is yet to be born,
Thick as honey, wind flutters leaves in bouts of rage,
Dripping with the scent of hill balsams and lush foliage.
The wind asks no questions.
Heaving branches of blossoms and figs, offer themselves,
In homage to the river, on either banks banyan trees swagger,
Dipping their flowing roots, like an old woman’s tress,
Bait fish; like one throws pebbles in water seeking answers,
The trees ask no questions.
This, a strange journey he makes in the quiet of the morn,
Questions arise in his head, like on the banks- the wayside corn,
To lull them sings, a wailing tune, like in wilderness richotteing nails,
His mother sang, to stall his questions after
her bed-timetales.
The boatman asks no questions.
As they sail by, birds sent aflutter, snigger, trees jeer,
A startled stork from the far-off horizon hollers-All clear,
Drawn by his song, in his trailing nets fishes ensnare,
Like a maiden in panic, the river hastens, after a night’s dare.
The birds ask no questions.
Dawn breaks its garland of flushing colors galore,
A veiled maiden sits at the boat’s far-end, shadows devour
Head bowed, eyes downcast, break not her silence of the night,
Lest she should dropp off like an unopened bud at first light.
poem by Seema joglekar
Added by Poetry Lover
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II. Half-Rome
What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)
Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Odyssey: Book 19
Ulysses was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby
with Minerva's help he might be able to kill the suitors. Presently he
said to Telemachus, "Telemachus, we must get the armour together and
take it down inside. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you
have removed it. Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of
the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went
away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this more
particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel
over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may
disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes
tempts people to use them."
Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called
nurse Euryclea and said, "Nurse, shut the women up in their room,
while I take the armour that my father left behind him down into the
store room. No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has
got all smirched with soot during my own boyhood. I want to take it
down where the smoke cannot reach it."
"I wish, child," answered Euryclea, "that you would take the
management of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after
all the property yourself. But who is to go with you and light you
to the store room? The maids would have so, but you would not let
them.
"The stranger," said Telemachus, "shall show me a light; when people
eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from."
Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their
room. Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets,
shields, and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold
lamp in her hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon
Telemachus said, "Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls,
with the rafters, crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest
are all aglow as with a flaming fire. Surely there is some god here
who has come down from heaven."
"Hush," answered Ulysses, "hold your peace and ask no questions, for
this is the manner of the gods. Get you to your bed, and leave me here
to talk with your mother and the maids. Your mother in her grief
will ask me all sorts of questions."
On this Telemachus went by torch-light to the other side of the
inner court, to the room in which he always slept. There he lay in his
bed till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering
on the means whereby with Minerva's help he might be able to kill
the suitors.
Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana,
and they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near
the fire in her accustomed place. It had been made by Icmalius and had
a footstool all in one piece with the seat itself; and it was
covered with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came
from the women's room to join her. They set about removing the
tables at which the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away
the bread that was left, with the cups from which they had drunk. They
emptied the embers out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them
[...] Read more
poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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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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The Victories Of Love. Book II
I
From Jane To Her Mother
Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?
But God's wise way is to give nought
Till we with asking it are tired;
And when, indeed, the change desired
Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
It comes by Providence, not Grace;
And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
Are groans at unexpected cares.
First Baby went to heaven, you know,
And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
Then he became more talkative,
And, stooping to my heart, would give
Signs of his love, which pleased me more
Than all the proofs he gave before;
And, in that time of our great grief,
We talk'd religion for relief;
For, though we very seldom name
Religion, we now think the same!
Oh, what a bar is thus removed
To loving and to being loved!
For no agreement really is
In anything when none's in this.
Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
His wife against his hearty breast,
The interior difference seem'd to tear
My own, until I could not bear
The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
He never felt this. If he did,
I'm sure it could not have been hid;
For wives, I need not say to you,
[...] Read more
poem by Coventry Patmore
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Ask Me
Amy grant/tom hemby
Copyright 1991 age to age music, inc./edward grant, inc./puxico music (ascap), adm. by reunion music group, inc.
This song is about a girlfriend of mine. if you or someone you love has been a victim of sexual abuse, please dont be afraid to seek help. the sexual abuse helpline is open 24 hours a day, and
Ne who cares is waiting for your call...(800)4a-child
I see her as a little girl hiding in her room
She takes another bath and she sprays her mommas perfume
To try to wipe away the scent he left behind
But it haunts her mind.
You see shes his little rag, nothing more than just a waif
And hes mopping up his need, she is tired and afraid
Maybe shell find a way through these awful years to disappear.
Ask me if I think theres a God up in the heaven
Where did he go in the middle of her shame?
Ask me if I think theres a God up in the heavens
I see no mercy and no one down heres naming names
Nobodys naming names.
Now shes looking in the mirror at a lovely woman face
No more frightened little girl, like shes gone without a trace
Still she leaves the light burning in the hall
Its hard to sleep at all.
Still she crawls up in her bed acting quiet as a mouse
Deep inside shes listening for a creaking in the house
But noones left to harm her, shes finally safe and sound
Theres a peace shes found.
Ask her how she knows theres a God up in the heaven
Where did he go in the middle of her shame?
Ask her how she knows theres a God up in the heavens
She said his mercy is bringing her life again.
Ask me how I know theres a God up in the heaven
(how do you know? )
Where did he go in the middle of her shame
(where did he go? )
Ask me how I know theres a God up in the heavens
(how do you know? )
She said his mercy is bringing her life again
Shes coming to life again.
Hes in the middle of her pain
In the middle of her shame
Mercy brings life
Hes in the middle
Mercy in the middle.
So ask me how I know
Ask me how I know, yeah
Ask me how I know theres a God up in the heaven
(how do you know? )
Ask me how I know theres a God up in the heavens
(how do you know? )
Yeah, ask me how I know
(how do you know? )
Ask me
[...] Read more
song performed by Amy Grant
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Booker Washington Trilogy
I. A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE
(To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)
Legree's big house was white and green.
His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.
He had strong horses and opulent cattle,
And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.
His garret was full of curious things:
Books of magic, bags of gold,
And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.
But he went down to the Devil.
Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.
His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
He had great long teeth, and an appetite.
He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,
And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.
His fist was an enormous size
To mash poor niggers that told him lies:
He was surely a witch-man in disguise.
But he went down to the Devil.
He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day
To capture his slaves that had fled away.
But he went down to the Devil.
He beat poor Uncle Tom to death
Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.
Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,
To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
And Simon Legree stared up beneath,
And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:
And went down to the Devil.
He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
He went into his grand front room.
He said, "I killed him, and I don't care."
He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
Went down cellar to the webs and damp.
There in the middle of the mouldy floor
He heaved up a slab, he found a door —
And went down to the Devil.
[...] Read more
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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King Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba
(A Poem Game.)
“And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, . . .
she came to prove him with hard questions.”
[The men’s leader rises as he sees the Queen unveiling
and approaching a position that gives her half of the stage.]
Men’s Leader: The Queen of Sheba came to see King Solomon.
[He bows three times.]
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon,
I was King Solomon.
[She bows three times.]
Women’s Leader: I was the Queen,
I was the Queen,
I was the Queen.
Both Leaders: We will be king and queen,
[They stand together stretching their hands over the land.]
Reigning on mountains green,
Happy and free
For ten thousand years.
[They stagger forward as though carrying a yoke together.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred oxen.
Congregation: We were the oxen.
[Here King and Queen pause at the footlights.]
Both Leaders: You shall feel goads no more.
[They walk backward, throwing off the yoke and rejoicing.]
Walk dreadful roads no more,
Free from your loads
For ten thousand years.
[The men’s leader goes forward, the women’s leader dances round him.]
Both Leaders: King Solomon he had four hundred sweethearts.
[Here he pauses at the footlights.]
Congregation: We were the sweethearts.
[He walks backward. Both clap their hands to the measure.]
Both Leaders: You shall dance round again,
You shall dance round again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
Cymbals shall sound again,
[The Queen appears to gather wildflowers.]
[...] Read more
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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