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Coughing in the theater is not a respiratory ailment. It is a criticism.

quote by Alan Jay Lerner
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Notes On An Unadorned Night

after Rene Char

Let's agree that the night is a blank canvas, a station
break, a bridge of a song.

Let's agree further that activities at night—movies,
campfires, reading by a lamp—are all
basically an homage to the day.

I have come to regard these two statements as
contradictory. Let me explain.

First, set aside that one could see a movie, torch a fire,
and read with the sun blazing over us.

The in-between aspect of night need not spark a flurry of
activity, is all I'm saying.

You could do nothing at night! Just lay and sleep!

A Cézanne sketch I looked at last night bears
mentioning.

A big Gallic face, reclining upwards, looks up at three
boxcars on train tracks.

The man's eyes are wide open and unfulfilled.

The two disemboweled deer I saw the night before also
bear mentioning.

The torsos of both deer were connected to faces, both
looking up.

I assumed they were struck by trains near the house
where I was sleeping.

Anyway, it occurred to me that as I looked into these
two dead deer's eyes that so much has fallen at
me, rather than simply by me.

I want to be among people. I do.

But I just want the easy parts skipped, for bodies to rub
up against each other, to always feel as new flesh
touches new flesh.

Those deer weren't an emblem of anything. I'm not like that.

I don't need dead animals to mirror my own interior world.

[...] Read more

poem by Daniel Nester
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Theatre Of Dreams

Oh can I lie here, can I whisper; can I tell
you anything that you want to hear,
Is it thoughts, is it feelings, is it what you
need, can I make you feel good,
It's just something that I thought that
you'd like, in a world that's dying,
Oh I can see you smiling. Oh, can I do this
for you?
In the pale and lonely light you feel so
exciting ah,
I fail the words, I need to speak to tell you
how,
You can love who you love, you can be who
you want, in the theater of dreams,
Oh, you can love who you love, you can be
who you want, in the theater of dreams. In
the theater of dreams.
Oh can I touch you, can I hold you, I can
do anything, that you want me to,
Does it hurt, is it OK is it what you need to
make you feel good,
I got something that I think that you'd like,
in a world that's changing,
Oh I can feel you smiling, Oh can I do this
for you?
In a pale and lonely life, you seem so
exciting ah,
I fail the words, I need to speak to tell you
how.
You can love who you love, you can be who
you want, in the theater of dreams.
Oh, you can love who you love, you can be
who you want, in the theater of dreams.
This is where you open up your mind, yeah.
This is where you lose, lose your chains of
time.
In the theater of dreams.

poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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If government, or those in positions of power and authority, can silence criticism by the argument that such criticism might be misunderstood somewhere, there is an end to all criticism, and perhaps an end to our kind of political system. For men in authority will always think that criticism of their policies is dangerous. They will always equate their policies with patriotism, and find criticism subversive.

quote by Henry Steele Commager
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Art Of Life

If anyone believes,
The one standing alone...
Taking the heat under spotlight,
Runs the show...
Hasn't met the director or the producer,
The manager, assistant manager.
The script writer, agent, publicist...
And a host of others behind the scenes.

If anyone believes,
The one standing alone...
Taking the heat under spotlight,
Runs the show...
Doesn't know theater.
Or who calls the shots,
To enable any light to shine
And be spotted anywhere.

Theater is staged.
No matter whose name is on the marquee,
To sell the tickets.
Theater is staged.
And the best acts are trained to fill the seats.
If one knew theater,
One would know the art of life.

And the importance of having not only a good director...
But one with the bucks,
Who can keep the production afloat long enough to seduce...
Is the key to selling an audience sold on what they see,
Until the curtain drops to signal the end of the performance.

Taken from its natural habitat to be staged,
The art of life...
Is only theater to delude and to captivate believers.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Great Stealth-burger Caper

A head cold had settled in with a vengeance.
After a couple of days at home I felt stir crazy.
Was it time to go somewhere, maybe a movie?

A quick glance at Arts & Entertainment section
and we made our choice of movies playing at our
favorite theater.

We jumped in the car and headed to the cinema.
“Haven’t eaten all day lets get a burger” I said.
“We don’t have enough time to stop to eat, lets
get something at the theater” Laureen replied.

“Nope, too expensive and the food is crappy anyway.
Let’s get some burgers to go and sneak them into the theater”

“What? ” You know they don’t let people take in food”
“Yeah, so they don’t need to know, right? ”

We wheeled into “Cruisers” a 50’s throwback diner.
You know the kind with old pictures of Elvis and Marilyn,
hanging on the walls and black & white checkerboard floors.

Cruisers make great burgers cheap (volume...Over a zillion sold) .
Thin patties, shredded lettuce, onions, tomatoes, pickles
and fresh sesame buns. Burgers better than the guys
with the “Golden Arches” or “flame broiled” belly busters.

It was 30 minutes before show time, but we were in luck.
Things were going well because we arrived 15 minutes before noon.
The movie gods were with us…
Just as we placed our order, people started lining up behind us.

“Two regular burgers with the works and mustard dressing please”
“Want fries with your burgers”
“Nope” I said hurriedly.

Laureen placed her order,
“One regular burger with everything except onions and an order of fries.”
“Do you want curly, regular, tatter tots or steak fries? ”
“Uh, I’ll take the steak fries please”
“Anything to drink? ”
“No thanks, just a cup for water (she wasn’t about to let me drink from her water bottle) .
We looked at each other as we sat down holding
our plastic tent with a black number 3 on it.

“Uh, how are we going to smuggle in that much food”, laureen asked.
“In your purse” I answered with a clueless grin on my face.
“Are you kidding, it’s already full and besides my water bottle is in it”
“I’ll put the water bottle in my back pocket”

[...] Read more

poem by Ray Lucero
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Allegany Camp

amazing grace circus camp
amazing grace day camp
amazing grace hallelujah jeremy camp
amazing grace jeremy camp
amazing love jeremy camp
amazing place chalet pigeon forge
amazing race church camp
amazing race games for camps
amazing race girl scout camp
amazon camp dutch lodge oven
amazon camp in sweetwater missouri
amazon cast iron dutch lodge camp
amazon dutch oven camp
amazon lodge dutch oven camp
ambassador camp at lake waccamaw nc
ambassador camp inc
ambassador chalet
ambassador chalet at doral
ambassador chalet wgc
amber bowers
amber camp lazlo
amber pow camp
amberg germany dp camp
ambition camp hockey pro
ambler baseball camp
ambleside scotland school camp
ambon pow camp
ambor island pow camp
ambor pow camp
ambulance bower
amc camp dodge
amc camp movie summer
amc camp summer theater
amc little lyford camps
amc movie camp
amc movie camps
amc north west camp bear mountain
amc pinkham notch camp
amc summer camp for s
amc summer camp for s 2007
amc summer camp movies
amc summer movie camp
amc summer movie camp 2007
amc summer movie camp 2008
amc summer movie camp arlington
amc summer movie camp ontario california
amc theater camp hill
amc theatres summer camp
amcmovie camps
amelia earhart in japanese war camp

[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Beneath The Ossa Of Dust

(On the event when five women buried alive)

What kind of hearts
We contain in the chests!
What kind of thoughts
We bear in the minds!
What kind of blood
Flows through our veins!
For the loins and the wolves,
The rats and cats, the dogs and hogs:
The ferocious animals
That bear the brutal hearts,
Dare not bury their fellows alive.

I weep, weep and weep!
I wail, wail and wail!
On the deed you did,
On the crime you committed;
And those who remained silent spectators,
Are the accomplices too,
The collaborators,
In execution of the most heinous,
And monstrous deed.

The daughters of Eve and Adam,
Who are akin to us
As mothers, daughters, sisters
And companions of life
Have been maltreated,
Buried alive by the so-called elites:
Cream of the crop,
Who are men in forms
But wolves in spirits,
The sky might not have witnessed
The spectacle more horrible,
More hideous since centuries.

They might have suffocated
Feeling themselves beneath
The Ossa of dust,
Blocking the respiratory tracks,
All helpless, unaided
With palpitating, breathing hearts,
And fearful minds
Wrapped in the brutal murkiness,
Yearning for a single
Fresh breath or a gust of wind.

Where are the laws?
Where are the morals?

[...] Read more

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Street Crazies

(chorus)
i am hungry
i am hungry
give me something
i am hungry
feed me
give me something
street crazy
(Repeat chorus with a cacophany of insane, incoherent sounds, includinggrowling, humming and coughing)
i am nobody, i am nobody, i am nobody
(Repeat chorus in a cacophany of insane, incoherent sounds, including growling, humming and coughing)
yes, they're cropping up now with alarming frequency
these little group eyes
wasted people standing around
those who've been kicked ass backwards
hard out of our society
as we try for the better,
for the higher in man
they may as well be apes, you know
trying to comprehend the way of death
(Repeat chorus in a cacophany of insane, incoherent sounds, includinggrowling, humming and coughing)
shovel it up the street, shovel it up the street, shovel it up the street
and it gets me down
and it gets me down
this is the vision i see
street crazy

song performed by Iggy Pop
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In Pursuit of the Poetic Soul of Ryan Adams

In Pursuit of the Poetic Soul of Ryan Adams

By Uriah Lee Hamilton

Last day of summer, football Saturday afternoon. A Warm breeze was pushing me toward Ann Arbor like a happy autumn leaf in pursuit of the beautiful poetic soul of Ryan Adams. Lovely charming mood all the way playing Easy Tiger and Demolition and feeling like the universe was kind and smiling.
Exit off 94 West onto State Street and all excited to make my way to Liberty Street and the heart of the College town I love. Kids were milling around everywhere in their gold and blue, gleeful and happy that Michigan is now playing 500 football after a discouraging start. Parking spaces across the street from Michigan Theater in the parking structure are all taken, I have to drive to the roof and still wait for a football fan to leave.
Me and my friend Cassandra start walking around and dig everything and everyone we see. Ann Arbor brings out your gentle Jack Kerouac nature, the part of you that wants to praise everything for it’s sad but beautiful, integral purpose to this existence.
We enter an Eastern clothing and folk art store that is positively charming and enlightening. I can’t remember the name of the store. Perhaps, it is called the Enchanted Sarong. It almost felt like George Harrison was there with us, beautiful carved statues of Buddha and Krishna and Ganesha were everywhere. The sales lady was friendly and helpful and said sweetly, “we’re Om friendly” as we asked about carved symbols for the breath-word Om. The serene incense Nag Champa drifted through the room but it was now time to leave and make our way to the Ryan Adams concert at Michigan Theater.
I purchased my tickets the very minute they went on sale and prayed I had front row despite my tickets saying double A. No Such luck, but I was still happy to be in row 27. As I was waiting for the show to begin, I saw my concert friend Jeremy and got his attention. He looked as happy and as excited as myself and said he had spent a fortune at some cool record store. Jeremy then handed me a beautiful soundboard copy of Ryan Adams at the Gem Theater in downtown Detroit June 20th 2007. Man, how I’ve been longing for that show! I then gave Jeremy a copy of Ryan’s punk rock band the Finger.
Now the lights go out and the music begins. Ryan Opens with Goodnight Rose and closes with Goodnight Hollywood Boulevard. Everything in-between is just magical. The first auspicious sign was that Ryan came out playing guitar! ! In June, he only sang, he didn’t play any instruments, some injury sidelined him. The June Show as a result was more subtle, almost like MTV Unplugged. Subtle but amazing. Last night was more rocking and adventurous with reworked extended arrangements, ala the Grateful Dead. In particular was a long and lovely version of Off Broadway from Easy Tiger. At the completion of Off Broadway, I shouted, “That was gorgeous! ” Of course, I may have added an expletive, all in the interest of ecstatic joy for music.
Ryan told a story during the show about running into a girl on her way to the concert that didn’t recognize him because he dresses like a plumber. My friend after the show said she thought she saw Ryan Adams on the street near the theater. I asked, “Really? ” She said, “I saw someone that looked like a plumber.” I can say, I didn’t see Ryan on the streets anywhere in Ann Arbor yesterday, but I have been known to miss a plumber or two in my day.
The first two songs in the encore made the whole show for me. Ryan came out by himself with an acoustic guitar and sang Call Me On Your Way Back Home. Toward the end of the song, Ryan played harmonica and I screamed like a schoolgirl, pretty much the way I do whenever Bobby Dylan plays harmonica! And if that wasn’t enough to make the end of summer completely magical, Ryan then sat down at the piano and sang Sylvia Plath: Oh my God, the point of tears! I’ve waited six years to hear him sing that song live from the Album Gold. As I told my friend, that was the song that sealed the deal making Ryan Adams my modern hero! If you want to get my attention and loyalty, sing about one of the tragic poets I love.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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One Small Ailment

ONE SMALL AILMENT

One small ailment is enough to destroy a mood and spoil a life’s good feeling-
One irritation can kill the soul-
Bodily beings holy as we are
We cannot endure the itch, the ague, the pain, the plague, the aching wound, the ‘thousand natural shocks flesh is heir to’

‘To scratch or not to scratch’ becomes the question-
Our pretensions mocked by our own small hurts.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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On the Critical Attitude

The critical attitude
Strikes many people as unfruitful
That is because they find the state
Impervious to their criticism
But what in this case is an unfruitful attitude
Is merely a feeble attitude. Give criticism arms
And states can be demolished by it.

Canalising a river
Grafting a fruit tree
Educating a person
Transforming a state
These are instances of fruitful criticism
And at the same time instances of art.

poem by Bertolt Brecht
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Harassed

Yeah yeah yeah
Well when I was a young boy
My mama told me:
"Blood's thicker than water"
That's what she told me
I don't give a damn anymore
I can't see what makes me so
I remember your criticism
I can't be an organism of your kind
Yeah (yeah), yeah, yeah
Well when I was a little older
My papa said:
"Son yours does not cry
Get your act together boy
Then get the hell out of my sight"
I don't give a damn anymore
I can't see what makes me so
I remember your criticism
I can't be an organism of your kind
Yeah (yeah), Yeah (yeah)
Your kind
Yeah (yeah), Yeah...
You watch the circles
You treat me so bad
I don't dare think it over
Yeah...(mutter)
I can't give.
I said "yeah!"
I don't give a damn anymore
I can't see what makes me so
I remember your criticism
I can't be an organism of your kind
Yeah (yeah), Yeah (yeah)
Your kind (x3)

song performed by Puddle Of Mudd
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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An open criticism

I hated most to be called lazy
I keep my self engaged and remain busy
It is funny and very easy
To create flutter and make it noisy

We tend to become idle and relax so much
When not seized with problems as such
It is day to day affairs and must be tackled properly
It is appreciated very much when put across wisely

It is good sign to remain always active
It is equally bad sign if you expose as reactive
People may count you as hostile and immature
It may block your chances and make you insecure

It is not right on our part to offer arguments at criticism
It is known lacuna and allowed in humanism
We simply offer advice or comments without being asked for
It simply creates distrust and situation like mini war

We must learn to sustain the criticism at any cost
It is very severe and considered as worst
Why do we employ double standard when we are at fault?
It adds to woe and agony as if wounds are filled with salt

It keeps you worried all the time for critical remarks
It generates ill will and controversy sparks
It leads to heated arguments and strain the relation
To patch up later on becomes impossible and out of question

It has become now fashion to point out the lapses
No one cares as to what should be done to avert crisis
It is easy to spoil the relation and add fuel to fire
It takes less time to appreciate and admire

Words once spoken can’t be taken back
It may develop bitterness and relation may crack
It may also cause irreparable damage
It may slip out of control to manage

I shall sand to loose in all the respects
Who will search the soul and inspect?
There is something like good humor
It is best weapon in your armor

You inflict injury and your opponent may not come to know
Nice words spoken with sweetness may try to soothe and woe
It is how we tackle and come to an understanding
It is strongest and permanent thing for bonding

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Gods Favoured Me

Heat – no air-con today – realising France’s dream of
saving their coastline due to the Greenhouse effect,
went for a lunch-break stroll singing all the way,
refusing to contemplate office problems

The gods favoured me on my first day, email connection
restored, now I am so privileged to read criticism of the
work I did before leaving on holiday, I am still girdling
my loins with positive thoughts

Before tackling heartbreaking rejection of words I wrote,
New Year’s Resolution: never face today what can be
deferred to tomorrow, stop and smell the roses, I can
read nasty remarks any time

The mere fact of having an office in which to be miserable
is such a source of joy and delight, not to be spoilt with
feelings of inadequacy; why cry about the humours of
those in charge trying to convince me I am

A disaster because I cannot write the words they dictate,
cannot march to the tune they prescribe, kept in my place
by them changing their translation rules every day - I am
thankful that I can still think and feel after years

As a civil servant, I should have turned into a cyborg ages
ago, yet the incessant stream of criticism proves I am still
the same human I was at the beginning – people like me
cannot be changed into robots

No matter how much criticism is directed our way, olé!

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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When I am asked, "What do you think of our audience?" I answer, "I know two kinds of audiences only - one coughing, and one not coughing."

Arthur Schnabel in My Life and Music (1961)
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When I am asked, What do you think of our audience I answer, I know two kinds of audiences only--one coughing, and one not coughing.

quote by Arthur Schnabel
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Bobyahed2dis

[Jeff Stewart]
And I say... right about now you are rockin with the best!
Can I get a hit? *inhale* *coughing* Thank you *coughing*
What you're about to experience is a walk on the Funkadelic side
Who knows better than the Funkadelic devil himself
To all knotty head niggaz

song performed by Redman from Dare Iz a Darkside
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I know two kinds of audiences only - one coughing, and one not coughing.

quote by Artur Schnabel
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I Can't Go To School Today

I can't go to school today
my fingers are as cold as ice
i will die
my hair is so messy it jummped off my head
i'm coughing so much it is like i am coughing up a storm
i have the flu
my dog ate my homework
i am a germ magnet
i'm going to vomit
my stomach hurts
i broke my leg
my throat is sore
i have no way to get there
it's my birthday
i only have one pair of clothes
i didn't eat my breakfast
my ear is ringing
some one is going to kill me
i can't go to school today

poem by Zoie Wood
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