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It's a risk casting anyone against type or what they're known to do. But there's one thing better than having a great actor, which is having a great actor who's never done what you're asking him to do. He's hungry to get out of the trailer every day and hungry to test himself.

quote by Sam Mendes
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Using Boot Camp

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[...] Read more

poem by Caasder Fronds
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I'm the type of girl

Im the type of girl that will hang on.
And never let go.
I'm the type of girl whose always hyper.
The one you wanna know.

Im the type of girl you wont wanna date.
But would love to be just friends.
I'm the type of girl who knows the killer.
Long before it ends.

I'm the type of girl whose rooms a mess.
But whose desk is always neat.
I'm the type of girl who is slightly weird.
But you really wanna meet.

I'm the type of girl that holds her tounge.
But never says whats right.
I'm the type of girl who loves to sleep.
But reads all through the night.

I'm the type of girls who fails at sports.
But wins at every game.
I'm the type of girl that always cries.
But covers all the pain.

I'm the type of girl that falls inlove.
With all the wrong guys.
I'm the type of girl thats ready to believe.
In all your pathetic lies.

I'm the type of girl that hates Taylor Lautner.
And all those other teens.
I'm the type of girl who sits alone.
But chases every dream.

I'm the type of girl you can't forget.
Or get out of your head.
I'm the type of girl who'll stick by your side.
Even when your dead.

I'm the type of girl who says what she feels.
And means every single words.
I'm the type of girl that falls up stairs.
And sings songs you've never heard.

I'm the type of girl who spends her life.
Writing depressing poems.
I'm the type of girl who loves to walk.
'Cause she likes to be alone.

[...] Read more

poem by Silence Dogood
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Im That Type Of Guy

Youre the type of guy that cant control your girl
You try to buy her love with diamonds and pearls
Im the type of guy that shows up on the scene
And gets the seven digits, you know the routine
Youre the type of guy that tells her, stay inside
While youre steady frontin in your homeboys ride
Im the type of guy that comes when you leave
Im doin your girlfriend, thats somethin you cant believe
Cause Im that type of guy
Youre the type of guy that gets suspicious
Im the type of guy that says, the puddin is delicious
Youre the type of guy that has no idea
That a sneaky, freaky brothers sneakin in from the rear
Im the type of guy to eat it, when he wont
And look in the places that your boyfriend dont
Youre the type of guy to try to call me a punk
Now knowin that your main girls bitin my chunk
Im the type of guy that loves a dedicated lady
Their boyfriends are borin, and I can drive em crazy
Youre the type of guy to give her money to shop
She gave me a sweater _kiss_ thank you, sweetheart
Im that type of guy
Im the type of guy that picks her up from work early
Takes her to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and breakfast
Youre the type of guy eatin a tv dinner
Talkin about... goddamn it, ima kill her
Im the type of guy to make her say, why youre illin, bee?
...youre the type of guy to say, my lower back is killin me
...catch my drift?
Youre the type of guy that likes to drink olde english
Im the type of guy to cold put on a pamper
Youre the type of guy to say, what you talkin bout?
Im the type of guy to leave my drawers in your hamper
Im that type of guy
Im that type of guy
You know what I mean?
Check it out...
T-y-p-e g-u-y
Im that type of guy to give you a pound and wink my eye
Like a bandit, caught me redhanded, took her for granted
But when I screwed her, you couldnt understand it
Cause youre the type of guy that dont know the time
Swearin up and down, that girls all mine
Im the type of guy to let you keep believin it
Go head to work, while I defrost it, and season it
Im that type of guy
Im that type of guy
Know what I mean
Im that type of guy
So ridiculous

[...] Read more

song performed by LL Cool J
Added by Lucian Velea
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Casanova Brown

Let me tell you bout that jive type
That jive type
Casanova brown
I met him at a party
He said the sweetest things when he hit on me
Wrapped up in his arms
I was blinded by his charm and I couldnt see
Like the story of little red riding hood
The big bad wolf was up to
Up to no good, woo, no
That jive type,that jive type
Casanova brown
He hit on me and hell hit on you
That jive type,that jive type
Casanova brown
I was lonely and naive
I guess thats why I believed every word he says
It felt so good to hear
Every time he said he cared it went straight to my head
He loved me and left me
But I cant deny
His love was so doggone good
I still, I still love that guy, ooh, [oh no] hey
That jive type,that jive type
Casanova brown
He hit on me and hell hit on you, watch out
That jive type,that jive type, ooh
Casanova brown
Let me tell you bout that jive type
That jive type
Casanova brown
That jive type,that jive type,
Casanova brown
I was sittin there mindin my business
Feelin good, checkin things out
Sippin on little wine [jive type, that jive type]
Then I spotted
Super cool dude cross the room diggin on me
I tried to pretend like I didnt even see him
But he was so fine
He took my hand and started to dancin
I know he felt me fallin for him
cause he kept holdin me tighter and tighter, ooh
Sure was nice
Girl, my head was all turned around, oh
I didnt know what I was gettin into, ooh, ow
Up to no good, oh no
That jive type,that jive type
Casanova brown
That jive type,that jive type

[...] Read more

song performed by Gloria Gaynor
Added by Lucian Velea
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What Type Of Man

What kind of a man goes after a married woman
What kind of a man does it and proclaims his faith in GOD
What kind of man does the things that he shouldn't
Does that type of man think that he will never be caught.
What type of man leaves his children and his wife
What type of man puts his needs and his wants first
What type of a man is scared to fight his own fights
Does that type of man cares whose soul that he hurts.
What type of man talks behind other peoples backs
What type of man lies to make himself look tall in front of others
What type of man is scared to admit the guilt that he has done
Does that type of man think that we are his brothers.
What type of man will not work for a living
What type of man wants others to take care of him
What type of man thinks he is something but he's not
Does that type of man thinks that manhood is his friend.
What type of man cannot be used as an example
What type of man does not keep promises that he's made
What type of man should not be father to any child
Does that type of man know the price that a real man has paid.
What type of man thinks but he cannot think
What type of man looks but he truly does not see
What type of man hears but he does not listen
Does that type of man know that he could never be me.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Traffic Jam: The Trap Of Traffic Light

It's not only test your luck, but also test your patience
It's not only test your guts, but also test your instinct
It's not only test your sanity, but also test your obedience to law
It's not only test your ethics, but also test your fidelity
It's not only test your sight, but also test your reflex
It's not only test your estimation of time, but also test your street knowledge
It's not only test your ego, but also test your kindness
It's not only test your control, but also test your awareness
It's not only test your attitude, but also test your responsibility
It's not only test your priority, but also test your humanity

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Casting My Spell On You

A johnson/e johnson
I took a black cat, (a cave bat) threw em in a pot pot, pot pot pot pot
I took a green snake, (a blue snake), tied em in a knot knot, knot knot knot knot
I took the dogs paw, (a calves jaw) hung em on the line line, line line line line
I took a horse hair, (a green bear) made a crazy sign sign, sign sign sign sign
Im casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you
Youll never never be untrue, yeah yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah,yeah yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah
I took a ghost too, an old shoe, put em in the ground ground, ground ground ground ground
I took and old dish, a dried fish, made a crazy sound sound, sound sound sound sound
I took in a goose egg, a frog leg, put em in a sack sack, sack sack sack sack
I got a hindu, (a tattoo) a genie on my back back, back back back back
Im casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you
Youll never never be untrue, yeah yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah,yeah yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah
I took a black cat, (a cave bat) threw em in a pot pot, pot pot pot pot
I took a green snake, (a blue snake), tied em in a knot knot, knot knot knot knot
I took the dogs paw, (a calves jaw) hung em on the line line, line line line line
I took a horse hair, (a green bear) made a crazy sign sign, sign sign sign sign
Im casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you,youll never never be untrue,
Casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you, casting my spell on you, youll never never be untrue,

song performed by Roy Orbison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hind And The Panther, A Poem In Three Parts : Part III.

Much malice, mingled with a little wit,
Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ;
Because the muse has peopled Caledon
With panthers, bears, and wolves, and beasts unknown,
As if we were not stocked with monsters of our own.
Let Æsop answer, who has set to view
Such kinds as Greece and Phrygia never knew;
And Mother Hubbard, in her homely dress,
Has sharply blamed a British lioness;
That queen, whose feast the factious rabble keep,
Exposed obscenely naked, and asleep.
Led by those great examples, may not I
The wonted organs of their words supply?
If men transact like brutes, 'tis equal then
For brutes to claim the privilege of men.
Others our Hind of folly will indite,
To entertain a dangerous guest by night.
Let those remember, that she cannot die,
Till rolling time is lost in round eternity;
Nor need she fear the Panther, though untamed,
Because the Lion's peace was now proclaimed;
The wary savage would not give offence,
To forfeit the protection of her prince;
But watched the time her vengeance to complete,
When all her furry sons in frequent senate met;
Meanwhile she quenched her fury at the flood,
And with a lenten salad cooled her blood.
Their commons, though but coarse, were nothing scant,
Nor did their minds an equal banquet want.
For now the Hind, whose noble nature strove
To express her plain simplicity of love,
Did all the honours of her house so well,
No sharp debates disturbed the friendly meal.
She turned the talk, avoiding that extreme,
To common dangers past, a sadly-pleasing theme;
Remembering every storm which tossed the state,
When both were objects of the public hate,
And dropt a tear betwixt for her own children's fate.
Nor failed she then a full review to make
Of what the Panther suffered for her sake;
Her lost esteem, her truth, her loyal care,
Her faith unshaken to an exiled heir,
Her strength to endure, her courage to defy,
Her choice of honourable infamy.
On these, prolixly thankful, she enlarged;
Then with acknowledgments herself she charged;
For friendship, of itself an holy tie,
Is made more sacred by adversity.
Now should they part, malicious tongues would say,
They met like chance companions on the way,

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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“Mathew” 6: 9-13

“our father in heaven”
(ode to the man who has children,
sitting around in an imaginary
place envied by other members
of the brainwashed)

“hallowed be your name”
(the sheep that baaaaa in unison
believe that there is a sound made
by all the simultaneous crying in
desperation which has then been
construed as a “name” then given
to the imaginary listener in said
imaginary place)

“your kingdom come”
(evidently, this wondrous trailer
park in the sky is something that is
supposed to be open to anyone sad
enough to submit their will to the pool
of simultaneous sheep baaaaa ing away
at the wall in hopes that the imaginary
listener in this imaginary place will
say something back)

“your will be done”
(those committed to baaaaa ing & to the
spread of this act of yelling to the sky in
hopes that said imaginary listener in said
imaginary trailer park will say something
back, wrote a lot of their babbling fiction
down & apparently there is where the aspiring
brainwashed can find the how to manual
for walking on four legs, growing a thick
coat of bustling hair & chewing grass)

“on earth as it is in heaven”
(and once you drink the kool aid, there is
no going back according to the sheep
gazing at the stars, baaaaa ing in unison
hoping for the trailer park in the sky
where they can continue to baaaaa
together, grow their coats together &
chew grass together obliviously)

“give us this day our daily bread”
(baaaaa ing loud enough at the sky is
supposed to bring 3 square meals back to
the sheep who have done so, because
after having created an imaginary listener

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Running The Risk

Seeing you, watching you
Watching me
I hold back my emotions
I keep them veiled in secrecy
I cant let go of this thing weve started
Wasnt looking for love
No conspiracy of the broken hearted
I dont know how far to go
Until Im gone, gone, gone
I couldnt see the danger
It was just a little taste of temptation
I could not read the silence
That was written on your face
But here comes that feeling again
And theres nothing more I can do
I keep running the risk of losing you
Theres nothing more I can say
Im still running the risk of you walking away
Im lost drowning in a sea of emotion
Ive got one simple need
I need you to feel my devotion
I dont know how far to go
Until Im gone, yeah gone
Its a complicated picture
Im all tangled up in temptation
I couldnt read the silence
That was written on your face
But here comes that feeling again
And theres nothing more I can do
I keep running the risk of losing you
Theres nothing more I can say
Im still running the risk of you walking away
Im running the risk of losing you
Im walking this tightrope
Youre my only hope
Theres nothing more I can do
I keep running the risk of losing you
Losing you
And theres nothing more I can do
I keep running the risk of losing you
Theres nothing more I can say
Im still running the risk of you walking away
Im running the risk of losing you
Im walking this tightrope
Darling, youre my only hope
Theres nothing more I can do
I keep running the risk of losing you
Im running the risk of losing you
Im telling you honey
This heart of mine cant run the risk

[...] Read more

song performed by Foreigner
Added by Lucian Velea
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Casting A Spell

LA'-LA-E/LA-LA'-E'
Oi
Maria mondou me dizer
Maria mondou me dizer
Nao (eu) quero falar com voce
Oi
She's just testing her wings and if you give in to her, you'll be just another feather in her cap-she'll drop you in a flash.
She's casting a spell, she's casting a spell, well if she's casting a spell, I can castone as well.
So I said. "No, no, no, I ain't falling for this!
This girl is built to tease; she's only testing the efficiency of her kiss."
She's casting a spell.
Well, if she's casting a spell; I can cast one as well.
She wants to check out how you check out on her test-bed:
Will you get in her book or will you go right to her head?
She's casting a spell.
Well, if she's casting a spell; I can cast one as well.
And so, I cast it right back on her, don't you know my luck; she fell under the influence and then the thunder struck.
Now we're casting a spell, we're casting a spell-you can cast one as well!

song performed by Robert Palmer
Added by Lucian Velea
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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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:

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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All Lost.

Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Type photo caption, save, no show, all lost, anger!
Stress!

PB

(C) Yorkshire, Sunday 11th October at 21.58.

poem by Paul Butters
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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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,—

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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