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History creates comprehensibility primarily by arranging facts meaningfully and only in a very limited sense by establishing strict causal connections.

quote by Johan Huizinga
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Believer's Principles : Chap. IV.

Faith and Sense Natural, compared and distinguished.

When Abram's body, Sarah's womb,
Were ripe for nothing but the tomb,
Exceeding old, and wholly dead,
Unlike to bear the promis'd seed:

Faith said, 'I shall an Isaac see;'
'No, no,' said Sense, 'it cannot be;'
Blind Reason, to augment the strife,
Adds, 'How can death engender life?'

My heart is like a rotten tomb,
More dead than ever Sarah's womb;
O! can the promis'd seed of grace
Spring forth from such a barren place?

Sense gazing but on flinty rocks,
My hope and expectation chokes:
But could I, skill'd in Abram's art,
O'erlook my dead and barren heart;

And build my hope on nothing less
That divine pow'r and faithfulness;
Soon would I find him raise up sons
To Abram, out of rocks and stones.

Faith acts as busy boatmen do,
Who backward look and forward row;
It looks intent to things unseen,
Thinks objects visible too mean.

Sense thinks it madness thus to steer,
And only trusts its eye and ear;
Into faith's boat dare thrust its oar,
And put it further from the shore.

Faith does alone the promise eye;
Sense won't believe unless it see;
Nor can it trust the divine guide,
Unless it have both wind and tide.

Faith thinks the promise sure and good;
Sense doth depend on likelihood;
Faith ev'n in storms believes the seers;
Sense calls all men, ev'n prophets, liars.

Faith uses means, but rests on none;
Sense sails when outward means are gone:

[...] Read more

poem by Ralph Erskine
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Strict It Gets

To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.

Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.

Picking seeking detail...
To prevail,
And...
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
Detailed...
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.

To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.

Detailed!
The critic visits,
And strict it gets.

Detailed!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Causal

Take it causal
Life is causal
Your whole existence is causal
Sunrise sunset causal
Governing bounding causal
Rolling wheel is causal
Pin of axle shaft also causal
Your life is causal
Your whole existence is causal.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Crosseyed & Painless

Lost my shape-trying to act casual!
Cant stop-i might end up in the hospital
Im changing my shape-i feel like an accident
Theyre back!-to explain their experience
Isnt it weird/looks too obscure to me
Wasting away/and that was their policy
Im ready to leave-i push the fact in front of me
Facts lost-facts are never what they seem to be
Nothing there!-no information left of any kind
Lifting my head-looking for danger signs
There was a line/there was a formula
Sharp as a knife/facts cut a hole in us
There was a line/there was a forula
Sharp as a knife/facts cut a hole in us
Im still waiting...Im still waiting...Im still waiting...
Im still waiting...Im still waiting...Im still waiting...
Im still waiting...Im still waiting...
The feeling returns/whenever we close out eyes
Lifting my head/looking around inside
The island of doubt-its like the taste of medicine
Working by hindsight-got the message from the oxygen
Making a list-find the cost of opportunity
Doing it right-facts are useless in emergencies
The feeling returns/whenever we close out eyes
Lifting my head/looking around inside.
Facts are simple and facts are straight
Facts are lazy and facts are late
Facts all come with points of view
Facts dont do what I want them to
Facts just twist the truth around
Facts are living turned inside out
Facts are getting the best of them
Facts are nothing on the face of things
Facts dont stain the furniture
Facts go out and slam the door
Facts are written all over your face
Facts continue to change their shape
Im still waiting...Im still waiting...Im still waiting...
Im still waiting...Im still waiting...Im still waiting...
Im still waiting...Im still waiting...

song performed by Talking Heads
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A Teaching Of The Facts Can Relax

Vulnerability when needed,
Can attract true love.
With a getting of some pity too.

A vulnerability when needed,
Can attract true love.
With a bit of innocence,
That can put one in the mood.

And when,
Facts of life are slow...
A teaching of the facts can relax.
A teaching of the facts,
Can get one to relax.

And when,
A nervousness sets in...
A teaching of the facts can relax,
In those moments.
A teaching of the facts can relax.

And when,
Eyes begin to cry...
A teaching of the facts can relax,
In those moments.
A teaching of the facts can relax.
A teaching of the facts can relax.

Vulnerability when needed,
Can attract true love.
With a teaching of the facts to relax,
In those moments.
A teaching of the facts can relax.

A vulnerability when needed,
Can attract true love.
With a bit of innocence,
That can put one in the mood.

And when,
A nervousness sets in...
A teaching of the facts can relax,
In those moments.
A teaching of the facts can relax.

And when,
Eyes begin to cry...
A teaching of the facts can relax,
In those moments.
A teaching of the facts can relax.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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There Is Something Really Wrong About That

There's something really wrong about that!
Those facts you ration.
There is something really wrong about that!
They're not based in truth of action.
Something really wrong about that!
Those facts you ration.
Absent is the truth of action.
Nothing is said about that.

There is something really wrong about that!
Those facts you ration.
There's something really wrong about that!
They're not based in truth of action.
Something really wrong about that!
Those facts you ration.
Absent is the truth of action.
Nothing is said about that.

Truth has been manipulated.
Something is wrong about that!

And people now themselves they hate.
Something is wrong about that!

Racism is the indicator.
Something is wrong about that!

And how one lives is too debated.
Something is wrong about that!

There is something really wrong about that!
Those facts you ration.
There's something really wrong about that!
They're not based in truth of action.
Something really wrong about that!
Those facts you ration.
Absent is the truth of action.
Nothing is said about that.

We've all been underestimated.
Something is wrong about that!
The thoughts of people are degraded.
Something is wrong about that!
Deceivers seem too much elated.
Something is wrong about that!
And truth for us has been created...
With an ease that's made..

Oh there's something really wrong about that!
Those facts you ration.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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War...

war creates fighting that kills everyone...
war creates hate where love should be...
war creates tears that will never dry away...
war creates pain that wont go away...
war creates sadness that wont feel better...
war creates destruction that will take too long to fix...
war blinds us of what’s right or wrong...
war steals us of the right to be happy...
war creates gaps that keep us apart...
war creates a fire you cant put out...
war drops bombs on our hopes and dreams...
war creates children without a father, no one to tuck them in at night...
war makes it hard for a parent to say “everything will be alright” when then don’t even have anyone that they can say “good night”.
war scars a child's mind with things they cant erase...
war makes a good nights sleep a living hell...
war creates nightmares that are never-ending dreams and then, just screams
war creates guilt that eats you alive inside...
war makes you see things that make you scream inside...
war creates scars when all you've seen is blood and more...
war only leaves death when every body drops to the floor...
war creates silence after it ends, so how long till it starts again?
and when all the willing that will fight, die and say their last good night
the war will end, the living will mourn, all for peace but what was it all for? For all those people who died, just so now everyone alive, can do nothing to cope but cry...

Age 14

poem by Alexander SaPonte
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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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It Makes More Sense

It makes more sense,
Stopping something not to start.
Yes it makes more sense,
Not to tear things all apart.
Or bring up filthy garbage,
Knowing it is just a farce.

It makes more sense,
To walk away than to be petty.
And it makes more sense,
To prevent a thumping headache.
And it makes more sense,
Not to argue with a fool.
Knowing this is something done,
Many fools love to do.

And it makes more sense,
Stopping something not to start.
Yes it makes more sense,
Not to tear things all apart.
Or bring up filthy garbage,
Knowing it is just a farce.
And it makes more sense,
Not to argue with a fool.
Knowing this is something done,
Fools love to do.

And it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.
And it makes more sense,
To chase all bitterness away.
And it makes more sense,
To say, 'You're right' than build a hate.
Knowing that tomorrow promises another day.

And it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.
And it makes more sense,
To chase all bitterness away.
And it makes more sense,
To say, 'You're right' than build a hate.
Knowing that tomorrow promises another day.

Yes it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.
And it makes more sense,
To say, 'You're right' than build a hate.
Knowing that tomorrow promises another day.
Yes it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Interpretation of Nature and

I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.


II.

Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.

III.

Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.

IV.

Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.

V.

The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.

VI.

It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.

VII.

The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.

VIII.

Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.

IX.

The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.

X.

The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.

XI.

As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.

XII.

The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.

XIII.

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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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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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Back To The Facts

From minds the chains are gone.
From minds the chains are gone.
From minds the chains are gone.
From minds the chains are gone.
And it's...
Back to the facts.
Back to unpack those facts,
Packed.
Back to the facts!
To dust them off and stack them tall.
Back to the facts...
To unwrap and stack.

Medieval evils,
No longer can be forced on people.
Walls are falling.
And used as steps for those who crawl.
To see life without limits,
With a higher consciousness.

And it's...
Back to the facts.
Back to unpack those facts,
Packed.
Back to the facts!
To dust them off and stack them tall.
Back to the facts...
To unwrap and stack.

Medieval evils,
From minds the chains are gone...
To keep the people,
From a...
Bouncing off the walls.

Medieval evils,
From minds the chains are gone...
To keep the people,
From a...
Bouncing off the walls.

And it's...
Back to the facts.
Back to unpack those facts,
Packed.
Back to the facts!
To dust them off and stack them tall.
Back to the facts...
To unwrap and stack.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The History Of Tomorrow

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of light
By dumping us in the dark with pits everywhere

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of food
By asking us to chop several fire-woods to heat up a pot full of stones

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of job creation
By making us slaves on our own soil

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of education
By dumping us in dilapidated buildings without teachers

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of accountability
By looting our treasury and asking us for yet another term in office

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of safety
By leaving pot holes large enough to swallow countless accident victims on our roads

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our bows and arrows
Would secure our future

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless heroes
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless robbers
Robbers with fame
Robbers without shame
Robbers that we would roast with flame

© Adegbenro Adekunle Jacob

Tomorrow’s history is today. All world leaders must make real democracy work. They must be selfless. We must not wait until there is horror and terror before we learn. Nigerian leaders must shun CORRUPTION.

poem by Adegbenro Adekunle
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They Know That They Don't Know

They know that they don't know!
And their opinions discloses the evidence.
Most of their knowledge has been obtained,
By innuendos and nonsense.
Leaving them exposed,
To an ignorance that shows.

They know that they don't know!
And any actions taken to comprehend...
Becomes entrapped by an inferiority,
Felt within them.

And that which escapes their understanding...
Is left out of their reach.
Although very close...
Are those answers they seek most.
But quick they fold their arms to their chests,
With stubborn hands to express...
Their choice not to hear,
What for them is best!

Declaring they wish not to listen...
Because facts distracts,
A consciousness they lack!

They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it...
And spread those rumors made to fit,
Those ears that are as limited!

They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it.
They know that they don't know.
But they want to gossip it...
And spread those rumors made to fit,
Those ears that are as limited!

They know that they don't know,
With their minds closed.
They know that they don't know,
With their minds closed.
They know that they don't know,
With their minds closed.
And spread those rumors made to fit,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I. The Ring and the Book

Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Strict Time

Theres a hand on a wire that leads to my mouth
I can hear you knocking but Im not coming out
Dont want to be a puppet or a ventriloquist
cause theres no ventilation on a critical list
Fingers creeping up my spine are not mine to resist
Strict time
Chorus:
Toughen up, toughen up
Keep your lip buttoned up
Strict time
Oh the muscles flex and the fingers curl
And a cold sweat breaks out on the sweater girl
Strict time
Oh hes all hands, dont touch that dial
The courting cold wars weekend witch trial
Strict time
All the boys are straight laced and the girls are frigid
The talk is two-faced and the rules are rigid cause its strict time
Strict time
Chorus
You talk in hushed tones, I talk in lush tones
Try to look italian through the musical valium
Strict time
Thinking of grand larceny
Smoking the everlasting cigarette of chastity
Cute assistants staying alive
More like a hand job than the hand jive
Strict time
Chorus

song performed by Elvis Costello
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Making Connections

Tendrils grappling in air
Making connections be
It the wind or something else
Out there

Just to hold on to what when

Thin green sword-like palm
Hawaiian leaves stretching to the
Blue skies and sun
Making connections to whatever
Is who knows what slices thin some
Spaces in between light and dark

Some shadows playing like small
Children in the night park playground

Anything to touch life
Yawning to what-is if-this-could-happen
Then what?

Powered Rockets bulleting to space stabbing
& Lots of jet nozzles buzzing to
Vast dark silence clean cutting lines
Colored smoke curving with light

Making connections to planetary skies
Moon, Venus, Jupiter

On to Pluto to Zeus what if
One baby-finger touching fine fish
Fins swimming in ocean-space out-there

Making connections in between haze & fog
What if it is there that which lies next to this
Next to us from far and they can be then near

We are all tendrils rockets baby fingers space ocean fish fins
Making connections this empty hands loosened fingers
Dripping sands and spilling fine touches to wind chimes

Pointing stretching making fingers in between
A short distance making always always

Connections to what if what if I am there too.
Chances are, you chase and find them, footprints

They were once, and they all left, just seconds away.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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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)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Love Creates

Love creates mysterious things,
Love creates beautiful expressions,
Love creates everything we need,
Love creates without a thought :)

Love creates no thinking mind,
Love expresses from hearts,
Love comes through effortlessly,
Love becomes the place we share :)

Love is our greatest gift,
Love shares our hearts as one,
Love is creation and our intentions,
Love knows our beauty without pretending :)

Love creates ABUNDANCE always,
LOVE CREATES OUR INTENTIONS,
Love creates our endless wants regardless,
Love is our self expression SHARED :)

poem by Paul Jensen Jr
Added by Poetry Lover
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