Citatepedia^®.com

Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self.

quote by W.H. Auden
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Bagman's Dog, : Mr. Peters's Story

Stant littore Puppies!-- Virgil.

It was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drown'd and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive;
And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup.

The Bagman taught him many a trick;
He would carry and fetch, and run after a stick,
Could well understand
The word of command,
And appear to doze
With a crust on his nose,
Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand:
Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.
Never was puppy so bien instruit,
Or possess'd of such natural talent as he;
And as he grew older,
Every beholder
Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.--

Time, however, his wheels we may clog,
Wends steadily still with onward jog,
And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog!
When just at the time,
He was reaching his prime,
And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime,
One unlucky day,
How, no one could say,
Whether some soft liaison induced him to stray,
Or some kidnapping vagabond coax'd him away,
He was lost to the view
Like the morning dew;
He had been, and was not -- that's all that they knew;
And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore,
As never a Bagman had sworn before;
But storming or swearing but little avails,
To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.--

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion old, but in thorough repair,
The only strange thing, from the general air
Of its size and appearance, is, how it got there;
In front is a short semicircular stair
Of stone steps,-- some half score,--
Then you reach the ground floor,
With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Harris Barham
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Free Yourself and Let It Go

Deflated ego?

You think I say the things I do to you,
To deflate your ego?
I am hoping my assistance,
Helps you get rid of it.
And seeing no benefit in being limited.
And that's what your ego has done!
Made you believe you are number one.
And everything you do is correct.
Without a self examination...
Needed to allow you to live your best yet.

Deflated ego?

I may say some things to you that upsets.
I may even criticize something you do,
You accept as your best.
I might even attempt to strip,
That façade you charade.
Since it's your ego that has you 'tripped'...
When you see it for what it is,
You will realize your greatness has nothing to do with it.
In fact it is keeping you,
Inflated with bs and other nonsense.

Deflate your ego?
You think I do that,
From a threat I feel.
To diminish you in some way...
So I would have a greater appeal?
And deflating your ego would give me thrills?

You need to free yourself and let it go.
If you believe that keeping it,
Inspires a greater you with heights to reach!

Free yourself and let it go.
That ego you've got stunts your growth!

Free yourself and let it go.
That ego you've got stunts your growth!

Free yourself and let it go.
That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!

That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Like It's Mixed With Yeast

Feed my ego,
Let it lift...
Like it's mixed with yeast.
Like delicious bisquits whipped.
Or a cake that bakes to rise,
To the heights of the sky.

Feed my ego,
Let it lift...
Like it's mixed with yeast.
Like delicious bisquits whipped.
And no one can get enough of it.

I admit I seek applause,
To arouse my roar.
And when I don't get it,
I wish for it a bit!

I admit I seek applause,
To arouse my roar.
And when I don't get it,
I wish for it a bit!

I admit I seek applause,
To arouse my roar.
Feed my ego,
Let it lift.
Feed my ego,
Let it lift.

I admit I seek applause,
To arouse my roar.
Feed my ego,
Let it lift.
Feed my ego,
Let it lift.
Like it's mixed with yeast.

Or...
Delicious bisquits whipped,
No one can get enough of it!

Feed my ego,
Let it lift...
Like it's mixed with yeast.
And allow everyone to get a sample piece to eat.

Feed my ego,
Let it lift...
Like it's mixed with yeast.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

True Confession

1
Today, recovering from influenza,
I begin, having nothing worse to do,
This autobiography that ends a
Half of my life I'm glad I'm through.
O Love, what a bloody hullaballoo
I look back at, shaken and sober,
When that intemperate life I view
From this temperate October.
To nineteen hundred and forty-seven
I pay the deepest of respects,
For during this year I was given
Some insight into the other sex.
I was a victim, till forty-six,
Of the rosy bed with bitches in it;
But now, in spite of all pretexts,
I never sleep a single minute.

O fellow sailor on the tossing sea,
O fleeting virgin in the night,
O privates, general in lechery,
Shun, shun the bedroom like a blight:
Evade, O amorous acolyte,
That pillow where your heart can bury -
For if the thing was stood upright
It would become a cemetery.

I start with this apostrophe
To all apostles of true love:
With your devotion visit me,
Give me the glory of the dove
That dies of dereliction. Give
True love to me, true love to me,
And in two shakes I will prove
It's false to you and false to me.

Bright spawner, on your sandbank dwell
Coldblooded as a plumber's pipe -
The procreatory ocean swell
Warming, till they're over ripe,
The cockles of your cold heart, will
Teach us true love can instil
Temperature into any type.

Does not the oyster in its bed
Open a yearning yoni when
The full moon passes overhead
Feeling for pearls? O nothing, then,
Too low a form of life is, when
Love, abandoning the cloister,

[...] Read more

poem by George Barker
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Last Picasso

Words and music by neil diamond
The last picasso, the last picasso was just acquired by some old museum, and don quixote, well don quixote the old mans rhyme has lost its reason; which only reminds me have I remembered to say that without you this life of plenty, would seem so empty, the last picasso. oh me and you--me oh me oh me oh me and you-- we, we can sigh--me oh me oh me oh me oh we can sigh. the last picasso, the last picasso may gather dust amid the ruins, and don quixote, well don quixote may no longer make his wishful tunes; but I still have you and I will have you when evrything else is gone and done with. well be like one with the last picasso. oh me and you--me oh me oh me oh me oh me and you-- we, we can sigh--me oh me oh me oh me oh we can sigh. oh, me and you--me oh me oh me oh me oh me and you-- we, we can sigh--me oh me oh me oh me oh we can sigh. oh, me and you--we we can sigh me oh me oh me oh we can sign. oh, me and you.

song performed by Neil Diamond
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Don Quixote's misfortune is not his imagination, but Sancho Panza.

quote by Franz Kafka
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Key (A Moorish Romance)

'On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra.'
—Scott's
Travels in Morocco and Algiers.

'Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?'
Sancho Panza in
Don Quixote

The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapor
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock—
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell'd hilt—
Oh! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has spilt!

His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal;
His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout
Of Victory or Death!

For why? the last Zebeck that came
And moor'd within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul—
The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thunder cloud
The sunny land of Spain!

No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honor's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

No Protocol

To forgive someone misdeeding,
Is to be shatterproof...
When deceivers are loose,
And do whatever they choose.

To forgive someone misdeeding,
Is to be shatterproof...
When deceivers are loose,
And do whatever they choose.
Since,
They have no protocol.
None that can be seen at all.

Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too.
Yeah.
Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too.
Yeah.
Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too...
To make more fools,
Of whomever they choose.
Yeah.

Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too.
Yeah.
Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too.
Yeah.
Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too.
Because they have no protocol.
None that can be seen at all.

To forgive someone misdeeding,
Is to be shatterproof...
When deceivers are loose,
Since...
They have no protocol.
None that can be seen at all...
Because,
Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too.
Yeah.
Their main gig is to ego boost,
And dupe too.
Yeah.
Their main gig is to ego boost,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Tentative Decisions

Now that I can
Release my tensions
Let me make clear
My best intentions
Girls ask and i
Define decision
Boys ask and i
Describe their function
Oh the boys
Want to talk
Like to to talk about those problems
And the girls
Say theyre concerned
And they are
Concerned with these decisions
And its all
Hard logic
To follow and the
Girls get lost
And the boys
Say theyre concerned
But they are
Concerned with these decisions
I wanna talk
I wanna talk as much as I want
Im gonna give
Im gonna give the problem to you
I wanna talk
I wanna talk as much as I want
Im gonna give
Im gonna give the problem to you
Decide, decide
Make up your mind
Decide, decide
I told you what to say
Confuse, confuse
Describe what I found
Confuse, confuse
I told you what to say
Oh the girls
Still want to talk
Want to talk about those problems
And the boys
Say theyre concerned
But they are concerned with these decisions
And its all
Hard logic
I know
And the girls get lost
And the boys

[...] Read more

song performed by Talking Heads
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Loveable Characters

I long for the streets but the Lord knoweth best,
For there I am never a saint;
There are lovable characters out in the West,
With humour heroic and quaint;
And, be it Up Country, or be it Out Back,
When I shall have gone to my Home,
I trust to be buried 'twixt River and Track
Where my lovable characters roam.

There are lovable characters drag through the scrub,
Where the Optimist ever prevails;
There are lovable characters hang round the pub,
There are lovable jokers at sales
Where the auctioneer's one of the lovable wags
(Maybe from his "order" estranged),
And the beer is on tap, and the pigs in the bags
Of the purchasing cockies are changed.

There were lovable characters out in the West,
Of fifty hot summers, or more,
Who could not be proved, when it came to the test,
Too old to be sent to the war;
They were all forty-five and were orphans, they said,
With no one to keep them, or keep;
And mostly in France, with the world's bravest dead,
Those lovable characters sleep.

I long for the streets, but the Lord knoweth best,
For there I am never a saint;
There are lovable characters out in the West,
With humour heroic and quaint;
And, be it Up Country, or be it Out Back,
When I shall have gone to my Home,
I trust to be buried 'twixt River and Track
Where my lovable characters roam.

poem by Henry Lawson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To kill ego is to kill self.

Every move you initiate
Is towards gaining you power.
It is the motto of your ego.
Fire spreads by eating the fuel.
Life stays by burning the food.
Ego stands by swaying others.
Where is fire if there is no fuel?
Where is life if there is no food?
Where is ego if there is no second person?

Ego keeps you and propels you.
Ego spares you and rescues you.
Its action is gaining power,
With which only it’s effective.
To beat or evade the rivals,
To snatch or catch for livelihood,
And to corner and keep sex mates,
The ego seeks to have power.
The ego keeps you viable
To fight to get or possess.

To get power is of instincts
That manifests in child’s action.
Playing toys, it manipulates them.
Fighting pears, it finds its strength.
Fighting foes, it asserts its right.
To imitate is to feel high.
To cry is to get back the lost.
To explore is to train its skill.
Loving mother is feeling safe.
Fearing is guarding the self.

Every act done, right or wrong,
Every skill learnt, good or bad,
Every show made, worth or worse,
Are all towards gaining a hold.,
Be it an act of friendliness,
Where you seek to spread influence,
Or an act of love and courtship,
Where you strive for an acceptance
Or of service and sacrifice,
Where you reserve ground for future.

Sports are the substitutes of fight,
Where you test your killing spirit.
Indoor games are mental conquests.
To forgive, forget and patch up
Is to have eyes on the future.
To surrender to the might
Is to be a part of the might.

[...] Read more

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Beware Of Soliloquy!

Try, try until
Every practices become routine,
try, try until,
Every act becomes your Life
style,
fully digested, Assimilated,
Runs with every heartbeat,
Circulated as your own blood,
Let your blood lose all colour,
All odour and become distilled
water, Boiled over furnace of
indifference! Then comes a day,
All that practices pay, All become inaction in action,
Man with no soliloquy!
soliloquy is an act of ego,
Ego is that stain of blood,
That can't be wiped with blood
itself, Be a thoughtless,
Mindless ego,
Let it die!
yet mindful existence as nothing,
One remain,
No thoughts no soliloquy, Never even wish before,
Grand silence of ego's death,
Never even celebrate or mourn,
Let ego die without food and
shelter,
Ego is shelter of ego itself, Never think words are mine and
comments are yours,
Think your own voice recochet,
Or bounces back
as own echo!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Lines on and from

("Sir: For the first time in twenty-three years 'Bartlett's Familiar Quotations' has been revised and enlarged, and under a separate cover we are sending you a copy of the new edition. We would appreciate an expression of opinion from you of the value of this work after you have had an ample opportunity of examining it." --THE PUBLISHERS)

Of making many books there is no end--
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.
Thou wert my guide, philosopher and friend
When only one is shining in the sky.

Books cannot always please, however good;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
To be great is to be misunderstood,
The anointed soverign of sighs and groans.

The Moving Finger writes, and having writ,
I never write as funny as I can.
Remote, unfriendly, studious let me sit
And say to all the world, "This was a man!"

Go, lovely Rose, that lives its little hour!
Go, little booke! and let who will be clever!
Roll on! From yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moon and I could keep this up forever.

poem by Franklin P. Adams
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Inside My Head

This song will discuss four main parts of the brain, the cerebrum, the
cerebellum, the limbic system and the brain stem and one individual's use or
misuse of these parts.
Verse 1:
Inside my head, or inside my brain,
is that part of me which keeps me sane,
which helps me discern between right and wrong,
and other things I'm gonna talk about in this song,
It's time for the people to know, so now I tell 'em,
what goes in my cerebrum and my cerebellum,
the though process that helps me get dressed,
get up and go to school, sit down and take a test,
it helps me determine if a girl is fine,
and the steps necessary to make her mine,
it tells me if something is cold or hot,
and I don't mess it up with crack, coke, or pot,
it helps my hearing, taste, touch and sight,
and smell so that I can tell that everything's alright,
it tells me when to get up and when to go to bed,
this is some of what goes on inside my head,
inside my head, I wonder what might happen,
if the day came and I stopped rappin',
would I still have friends or be all alone,
do they like me for me or for the microphone,
and also, when I go on a date,
to a fancy resteraunt, a hundred dollars a plate,
and people stare, is it because they recognize me,
or are they knee-jerk reacting to what they see,
I'm sorry, let me make it somewhat clear,
do they look with joy or do they look with fear,
do they think 'oh wow, Young MC is near',
or do they think, 'yo, get that nigga out of here',
I don't know, it's an unfortuante case,
that I can't read your mind when I see your face,
but on the other hand, you can't read mine,
so I guess that the status quo's just fine,
for instance, say I'm in a tall building,
looking out the window, what if I illed and,
jumped out, would it really matter to some,
and if they had my funeral, just who would come,
would they cry for me after I was gone,
well don't worry, that's not how I'm gonna move on,
cause I wanna go to heaven after I am dead,
but this is what I goes on inside my head
Chours 2: (spoken)
the cerebrum is the part of the brain which is responsible for thinking,
reasoning, problem solving, and initiating resposes to external stimuli. It
is comprised of four lobes: the frontal, which is concerned with speach and
voluntary muscle activity, the partietal, which is concerned with the
interpetation of sensory stimuli, the temporal, which is concerned with

[...] Read more

song performed by Young MC
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

In Praise of Ego

In carefree, laughing, joyful mood –
let’s praise the ego, to its face!

Our most faithful mate throughout our life;
with us longer than our parents or our children are;

at our heels at all times, proud of head and tail,
saying to the world that ‘I belong to him! ’;

faithful as a dog; and cunning as a cat;
between them, running our un-mastered lives;

(and like the cosy purring cat you stroke upon your lap,
ego's the secret dark night-hunter, out to kill all life..)

ego, more awake than we ourselves,
never missing a living moment;

every heart-beat an opportunity;
sharper entrepreneur than any city slicker:

‘what’s in it for me? ’; there is no trick,
no turn, no market swing, that ego can’t exploit and profit from;

so let’s praise ego to its face; see the Creator’s own full force,
brilliant and magnificent, manifested, used, in ego’s skills…

but know, and know we know, its lifetime’s bitter secret:
for all its skills, its energies are stolen fuel…:

moment by moment sapping secretly,
the consciousness, the wisdom, happiness,

that seem just out of our elusive reach..
So – as we watch a child, so innocent,

playing its merry games of fantasy,
running round itself in playground and in park,

we laughing in parental love, sing out those magic words:
‘I’m watching you…! ’

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Do You Know Why You Are Unhappy?

you have always been unhappy
feeling unwanted, despised and hurt
yes, your ego is hurt
you believe that this ego is hurt
that this ego exists

try believing there is none
believe that there is no such word as

ego

try believing there is no you at all
let us see who gets the feeling of being unwanted
despised or hurt

there is none now

you see? 99% percent of what you do is for yourself
yourself
your ego and you are so unhappy, because in truth
there is no you
there is no ego

and all you did was for no one else

that is what emptiness is all about
precisely, that is what unhappiness is.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Intro

I don't practice Santeria I ain't got no crystal ball
well I had a million dollars but I, I'd spend it all
if I could find that hina and that sancho that she's found
well I'd pop a cap in sancho and I'd slap her down
what I really wanna know..I ready mmhmm
what I really wanna say I can't define
well it's love that I need oh,whoa
my soul will have to wait 'til I get back
find a hina of my own daddy's gonna love one and all
I feel the break feel the break feel the break
and I gotta live it up oh, yeah, huh well, I swear that I
what I really wanna know..I'm ready
what I really wanna say I can't define
that love make it go my soul will have to...
ooh what I really wanna say..I'm petty
what I really wanna say is I've got mine and I'll make it well, yes I'm comin' up
tell sanchito that if he knows what is good for him
he'd best go run and hide daddy's got a new .45
and I won't think twice to stick that barrel straight down sanchos throught
belive me when I say that I got somthing for his punk ass
what I really wanna know..I'm ready oooh
what I really wanna say is there's just one
way back and I'll make it yeah, well, my soul will have to wait

song performed by Sublime
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Santeria

I dont practice santeria
I aint got no crystal ball.
I had a million dollars but id,
Id spend it all.
If I could find that heina and that sancho that shes found,
Well Id pop a cap in sancho and Id slap her down.
What I really wanna know,
My baby, what I really want to say I cant define.
Well its love,
That I need, oh ,
But my soul will have to,
Wait till I get back and find heina of my own.
Daddys gonna love one and all.
I feel the break,
Feel the break,
Feel the break and I got to live it up,
Oh, yea huh, well I swear that i.
What I really wanna know, baby,
What I really want to say I cant define.
That love make it go,
My soul will have to...
What I really wanna say,
My baby,
What I really wanna say is Ive got mine.
And Ill make it, yes, Im comin up.
Tell sanchito that if he knows what is good for him he best go run and hide.
Daddys got a new .45.
And I wont think twice to stick that barrel straight down sanchos throat.
Believe me when I say that I got somethin for his punk ass.
What I really wanna know, my baby,
What I really wanna say is theres just one,
Way back,
And Ill make it, yea,
But my soul will have to wait.
Yea, yea, yea

song performed by Sublime
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

For Whittier’s Seventieth Birthday

DECEMBER 17, 1877

I BELIEVE that the copies of verses I've spun,
Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand and one;
You remember the story,--those mornings in bed,--
'T was the turn of a copper,--a tale or a head.

A doom like Scheherezade's falls upon me
In a mandate as stern as the Sultan's decree
I'm a florist in verse, and what would people say
If I came to a banquet without my bouquet?

It is trying, no doubt, when the company knows
Just the look and the smell of each lily and rose,
The green of each leaf in the sprigs that I bring,
And the shape of the bunch and the knot of the string.

Yes,--'the style is the man,' and the nib of one's pen
Makes the same mark at twenty, and threescore and ten;
It is so in all matters, if truth may be told;
Let one look at the cast he can tell you the mould.

How we all know each other! no use in disguise;
Through the holes in the mask comes the flash of the eyes;
We can tell by his--somewhat--each one of our tribe,
As we know the old hat which we cannot describe.

Though in Hebrew, in Sanscrit, in Choctaw you write,
Sweet singer who gave us the Voices of Night,
Though in buskin or slipper your song may be shod;
Or the velvety verse that Evangeline trod,

We shall say, 'You can't cheat us,--we know it is you,'
There is one voice like that, but there cannot be two,
Maestro, whose chant like the dulcimer rings
And the woods will be hushed while the nightingale sings.

And he, so serene, so majestic, so true,
Whose temple hypethral the planets shine through,
Let us catch but five words from that mystical pen,
We should know our one sage from all children of men.

And he whose bright image no distance can dim,
Through a hundred disguises we can't mistake him,
Whose play is all earnest, whose wit is the edge
(With a beetle behind) of a sham-splitting wedge.

Do you know whom we send you, Hidalgos of Spain?
Do you know your old friends when you see them again?
Hosea was Sancho! you Dons of Madrid,

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

A Mirror Image

How many times when reading a book,
do we identify with the characters within?
Their traits they have we share,
their loves and heartaches
their lives go through somehow mirror our own.
It’s as if the author was writing about us.
As though he has put us under a microscope
and then writing down everything, he saw.
However, we know this isn’t so
because he or she has written
segments of their own life
and by accident they happen to mirror ours.
Every writer will tell you
that they have their characters under control.
Having written numerous novels,
I know the characters take on a life of their own
and do what they want to do.
We become their instrument as they guide us on our way.
We end up writing what they want us to say.
To every writer his characters are real,
they live, breathe and feel.
The more you write about them,
the more alive they become.
So the next time you pick up a book
and the characters seem real,
they probably are to the author
who looks after them.

24 September 2008

poem by David Harris
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!