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The actor depends wholly on himself. He gives his performance in what, to him, seems the most effective manner.

quote by Bela Lugosi
Added by Lucian Velea
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In a Manner of Speaking

In a manner of speaking, I want to kill you,
said the drunk redneck to his wife,
In a manner of speaking, I don't love you,
said my ex (turned vegan) to me,
as I returned from a psych ward, hoping for
some sort of reconciliation,
And in a manner of speaking, the whole
world has gone to shit, that no mentally
unbalanced poet can improve upon,
In a manner of speaking, I was just a haiku
before I birthed an epic poem in 2008
and it went something like:
In a manner of speaking…

In a manner of speaking, there is plenty of
beer and loose women,
In a manner of speaking, there is plenty of
internet journals with useless information,
In a manner of speaking, there are plenty of
assholes writing about getting laid and anal sex
on MySpace,
In a manner of speaking, my friend got raped
a few years ago and now has occasional herpes
outbreaks, which are quite disturbing
to her husband,
In a manner of speaking, I'm losing faith in humanity
and love at times,
In a manner of speaking, we just go through the motions,
hoping for something to change or something
spectacular to happen.

But I don't really know any more,
trying to make sense of it all, screaming for some sort of
sanity that eludes me,
In a manner of speaking, I feel alone here,
unable to connect to what's around me-
I just told some guy at a bar that I was a Dallas Cowboys
fan and I don't even watch football,
and he told me to come in my 'gear' on Sunday,
In a manner of speaking, I feel somewhat liberated
because I have no clue as to what I'm doing,
knowing that there is really no escape.

January 8,2008
-Alexander Shaumyan

poem by Alexander Shaumyan
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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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Epitaph on an Unread Verse after William Carlos Williams' Red Wheelbarrow

This is just to play on plum phrases
hibernating in your brainbox,
which your neurones were probably waiting for
to break free fast.

Forgive me their taste is delicious,
so neat and so bold.

An agèd poet with hollow laughter
swiftly sprayed her incisive syllables
in consonant activity and, yearning,
paid [s]lip service:

so much depends
upon lifelong learning's expectations,
an unread verse [s]pokes for comments,
reigns above lily-livered chicken-hearted critics
before a blank screen.

so much more depends
upon monochromatic ash clouds
glazed with silicates
beside Icelandic
eruptions.

Life is verse role-reversing uninclined ignorance
shadowing dis...inclined ink lined page.

(Revised 3 October 2009 and19 Aptil 2010)

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
William Carlos Williams 1883_1963

Variation on a Theme by William Carlos Williams
1 I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer. I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do and its wooden beams were so inviting.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Miss Reid's Speed Seeds Misread Red Weed Barrow Greed Screed

Miss Reid's Speed Seeds Misread Red Weed Barrow Greed Screed

So much depends upon callow Monsanto’s
arrow minded rein reign
glazed with gain and, again, phrased with pain,

wheedling sallow farmers who see red
forced to furrow b[l]ushels of transgenic sterile crop seeds
on narrow plain
lots which soon lie fallow
rather than wide marrow
raised with rain
and fertile appetizers

Need greed's speed weed reeds
beside white ants’
terror might nest?

Fazed again, who chickens out of errors?

12 October 2009 robi3_1928_will5_0006 PVW_JNX
Parody William Carlos Williams 1883_1963 The Red Wheelbarrow

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon
a red
wheelbarrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens

William Carlos WILLIAMS 1883_1963

WILLIAMS William Carlos 1883_1963 will5_0001_will5_0000 PXX_NXX The Red Wheelbarrow_So Much Depends
__________________

The Yellow Goldfish

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Actor Of Love

Hold on
I have found something I longing for
To fill the hollowness of my heart
But why I'm feeling more of sorrow

Before
I am the one who said: 'Oh, I'll control'
But now I realize you are my world
And it's waiting to break apart

I'm an actor of love
I'm trying to perfect
But I'm just fooling around

I'm an actor of love
I want to be your hero
But I've made myself a clown

I'm an actor of love
I need you by my side
But now you leave me alone

I'm an actor of love
I beg your forgiveness
But you refuse me so cold

Sometimes
We wonder why we should be together
Do we really dream of love forever?
Or we afraid to be alone

I'm an actor of love
I want to protect you
But I always hurt you bad

I'm an actor of love
I want to be your shield
But may turn someone you hate

I'm an actor of love
We kiss in the morning
But in night we have a war

I'm an actor of love
We care for each other
But we only circle round

If this love only makes me crazy
Take the story and just let it be
Tragedy or comedy

[...] Read more

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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With No Escapes From It To Exit

There is no other way to address truth,
But to be prepared to be stripped naked...
Bare,
With the exposing of every blemish.
Since truth is not seeking to be impressed.
Truth is on a mission to uncover honesty.
And many are still unbelieving,
The depth of which truth sees without explanation...
To deceive what is already revealed.
When truth is in one's presence and is fully awakened,
With no escapes from it to exit...
Foolish is the time taken to charade in masquerade,
To evade it with a wasting away of one's time.

With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!

With no escaping undetected,
Truth...
Is very effective.
Once fed truth it manifests.
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!

With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!

With no escaping undetected,
Truth...
Is very effective.
Once fed truth it manifests.
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!

With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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Amours de Voyage, Canto III

Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotunda,
Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,
Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,
Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;
Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;
Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;
Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.--
Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,
Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,
Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,
Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,
Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,
Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,--
Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,
Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!

I. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--on the way to Florence.

Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.--We don't know,
You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;
But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual reason,--
He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.
Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so
Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,--
Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:
I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.
Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly
Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, my
Pen will not write any more;--let us say nothing further about it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;
So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expression
Quite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.
Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?
Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas
That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;
I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.--
When does he make advances?--He thinks that women should woo him;
Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.
She that should love him must look for small love in return,--like the ivy
On the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, and
E'en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.

II. Claude to Eustace,--from Rome

[...] Read more

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Geraint And Enid

O purblind race of miserable men,
How many among us at this very hour
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
By taking true for false, or false for true;
Here, through the feeble twilight of this world
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach
That other, where we see as we are seen!

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth
That morning, when they both had got to horse,
Perhaps because he loved her passionately,
And felt that tempest brooding round his heart,
Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said:
'Not at my side. I charge thee ride before,
Ever a good way on before; and this
I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,
Whatever happens, not to speak to me,
No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast;
And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,
When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am,
I will not fight my way with gilded arms,
All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse,
Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire.
So the last sight that Enid had of home
Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown
With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire
Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again,
'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracks
Through which he bad her lead him on, they past
The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds,
Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode:
Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon:
A stranger meeting them had surely thought
They rode so slowly and they looked so pale,
That each had suffered some exceeding wrong.
For he was ever saying to himself,
'O I that wasted time to tend upon her,
To compass her with sweet observances,
To dress her beautifully and keep her true'--
And there he broke the sentence in his heart
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue
May break it, when his passion masters him.
And she was ever praying the sweet heavens
To save her dear lord whole from any wound.
And ever in her mind she cast about
For that unnoticed failing in herself,
Which made him look so cloudy and so cold;
Till the great plover's human whistle amazed

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Hyperactive

Shes got a date for lunch in Singapore,
Holds stock in I.B.M. and hates Dior.
She puts up her make-up on at 6.00am
She goes to work, gets home then puts it on again
And its a mystery how wild that girl can be;
Shes got so much energy;
Shes such an expert at surprising me.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
And shes so attracted to a wild romance,
And more effective than a stimulant -
Shes hyperactive.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
she never missed a beat or missed a chance,
And Im persuaded by her argument.
Shes hyperactive.
The other dancers hypervantilate and start to sweat.
One look at her - I know the nights not over yet.
She says Where are we going now?
Her voice is sweet and soft.
I think she lost the key that turns her motor off.
And its a mystery how wild that girl can be;
Shes got so much energy;
Shes such an expert at surprising me.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
She never missed a beat or missed a chance,
And Im persuaded by her argument.
Shes hyperactive.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
And shes so attracted to a wild romance,
And more effective than a stimulant -
Shes hyperactive.
And its a mystery how wild that girl can be;
Shes got do much energy;
Shes such an expert at suprising me.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
And shes so attracted to a wild romance,
And more effective than a stimulant -
Shes hyperactive.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
she never missed a beat or missed a chance,
And Im persuaded by her argument.
Shes hyperactive.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
She never missed a beat or missed a chance,
And more effective than a stimulant -
Shes hyperactive.
Shes hyperactive when she starts to dance.
She never missed a beat or missed a chance,
And more effective than a stimulant -
Shes hyperactive.

song performed by Robert Palmer
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What You Want

Think once if you want a little bit of fun
Think twice if you think I could be the one
Three times get your game on ready to run
All depends on what you want
I could get you caught up in a spin
Think twice
Is it the real thing you're into
Turn your life back to front
All depends on what you want
Come in baby I'm freezin
Stay a while or just breeze in
Check one one time together
Two for love, real and forever
We're not children anymore no
Can't tell what you're in my life for
Decide before we take the ride
Free fall or a rollercoaster oh oh
Put in a box
Friend or lover or both
Choice A, Choice B Uno, dos
Think once if you want a little bit of fun
Think twice if you think I could be the one
Three times get your game on ready to run
All depends on what you want
I could get you caught up in a spin
Think twice
Is it the real thing you're into
Turn your life back to front
All depends on what you want
Listen up no strings attached dear
Not into pressure, come around here
Let's Play
What do you say
Life's a little game oh oh
And if you want to take it further
Hang out, get a little closer
That's cool, no rules
It's really up to me and you
We'll hang a tag on this
After our first kiss
We can play this any way we want to
Think once if you want a little bit of fun
Think twice if you think I could be the one
Three times get your game on ready to run
All depends on what you want
I could get you caught up in a spin
Think twice
Is it the real thing you're into
Turn your life back to front
All depends on what you want

[...] Read more

song performed by Debbie Gibson
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The Song Goes On

I never left at all you were there before
Never let it go now I need some more
But you did confuse me you get it on get it on
And If I had to use me I? be there in the song
And the song goes on
Ah yeah and the song goes on
I?e been by the sides
Would?t you agree with me
Never fought it off kept away oh so bad
Don? like your world or the way you had
You secure your choice your?e around like a voice
Never let you know you were there every word
And the word goes on
Ah yeah and the word goes on
I?e been by the sides
Would?t you agree with me
It depends on whose doorway you walk through
To find the truth
It depends on whose doorway you walk through
To find the truth
Never left at all you were there like before
I never let it go now I need some more
Oh you did confuse me you?e in my way on and on
If I had to use me I? be there in the song
And the song goes on
Ah yeah and the song goes on
It depends on whose doorway you walk through
To find the truth
It depends on whose doorway you walk through
To find the truth
It depends on whose doorway you walk through
To find the truth
It depends on whose doorway you walk through
To find the truth

song performed by Ocean Colour Scene
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Dependence

What is this, all of my darkest fears?
Why have they gathered here?
To watch a fool go down.
Go away. why would you waste your time?
Here where the sun wont shine.
Theres nothing left for you.
Chorus:
I cant go on this way
Knowing you dont want me.
I cant go on this way
Knowing you dont need me.
I cant go on this way
When everything I do depends on you.
Depends on you.
I had it all. one of the sunny boys.
Hear my pride and joy.
You were always there by me.
Funny how fast sunny times go by?
And fall to a darkened sky.
And lot of useless toys
I cant go on this way
Knowing you dont want me.
I cant go on this way
Knowing you dont need me.
I can t go on this way
When every step I take depends on you
Depends on you.
I cant go on this way
Knowing you dont want me.
I cant go on this way
Knowing you dont need me.
I cant go on this way
When everything I do depends on you.
Depends on you

song performed by Richard Marx
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Double Ballade Of Primitive Man

He lived in a cave by the seas,
He lived upon oysters and foes,
But his list of forbidden degrees,
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose, -
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,
He worshipp'd the river that flows,
And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked-up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose, -
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

His communal wives, at his ease,
He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his State had a queen, like the bees
(As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke, it was never in prose,
But he sang in a strain that would scan,
For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

On the coasts that incessantly freeze,
With his stones, and his bones, and his bows;
On luxuriant tropical leas,
Where the summer eternally glows,
He is found, and his habits disclose
(Let theology say what she can)
That he lived in the long, long agos,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

From a status like that of the Crees,
Our society's fabric arose, -
Develop'd, evolved, if you please,
But deluded chronologists chose,
In a fancied accordance with Mos
es, 4000 B. C. for the span
When he rushed on the world and its woes, -
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

But the mild anthropologist,--HE'S
Not RECENT inclined to suppose
Flints Palaeolithic like these,
Quaternary bones such as those!
In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.'s,

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Lang
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Behind the Scenes

The actor struts his little hour,
Between the limelight and the band;
The public feel the actor's power,
Yet nothing do they understand
Of all the touches here and there
That make or mar the actor's part,
They never see, beneath the glare,
The artist striving after art.
To them it seems a labour slight
Where nought of study intervenes;
You see it in another light
When once you've been behind the scenes.

For though the actor at his best
Is, like a poet, born not made,
He still must study with a zest
And practise hard to learn his trade.
So, whether on the actor's form
The stately robes of Hamlet sit,
Or as Macbeth he rave and storm,
Or plays burlesque to please the pit,

'Tis each and all a work of art,
That constant care and practice means --
The actor who creates a part
Has done his work behind the scenes.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Ninth Book

EVEN thus. I pause to write it out at length,
The letter of the Lady Waldemar.–

'I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you this,
He says he'll do it. After years of love,
Or what is called so,–when a woman frets
And fools upon one string of a man's name,
And fingers it for ever till it breaks,–
He may perhaps do for her such thing,
And she accept it without detriment
Although she should not love him any more
And I, who do not love him, nor love you,
Nor you, Aurora,–choose you shall repent
Your most ungracious letter, and confess,
Constrained by his convictions, (he's convinced)
You've wronged me foully. Are you made so ill,
You woman–to impute such ill to me?
We both had mothers,–lay in their bosom once.
Why, after all, I thank you, Aurora Leigh,
For proving to myself that there are things
I would not do, . . not for my life . . nor him . .
Though something I have somewhat overdone,–
For instance, when I went to see the gods
One morning, on Olympus, with a step
That shook the thunder in a certain cloud,
Committing myself vilely. Could I think,
The Muse I pulled my heart out from my breast
To soften, had herself a sort of heart,
And loved my mortal? He, at least, loved her;
I heard him say so; 'twas my recompence,
When, watching at his bedside fourteen days,
He broke out ever like a flame at whiles
Between the heats of fever . . . 'Is it thou?
'Breathe closer, sweetest mouth!' and when at last
The fever gone, the wasted face extinct
As if it irked him much to know me there,
He said, Twas kind, 'twas good, 'twas womanly,'
(And fifty praises to excuse one love)
'But was the picture safe he had ventured for?'
And then, half wandering . . 'I have loved her well,
Although she could not love me.'–'Say instead,'
I answered, 'that she loves you.'–'Twas my turn
To rave: (I would have married him so changed,
Although the world had jeered me properly
For taking up with Cupid at his worst,
The silver quiver worn off on his hair.)
'No, no,' he murmured, 'no, she loves me not;
'Aurora Leigh does better: bring her book
'And read it softly, Lady Waldemar,
'Until I thank your friendship more for that,

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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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
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Hunting of the Snark: An Agony in Eight Fits

Fit the First.
THE LANDING

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide

By a finger entwined in his hair.
"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:

What I tell you three times is true."
The crew was complete: it included a Boots—
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods—
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes—

And a Broker, to value their goods.
A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share—
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,

Had the whole of their cash in his care.
There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,

Though none of the sailors knew how.
There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,

And the clothes he had bought for the trip.
He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pairs of boots—but the worst of it was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:

[...] Read more

poem by Lewis Carroll (1876)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Hunting of the Snark

Fit the First
THE LANDING

'Just the place for a Snark!' the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.

'Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What i tell you three times is true.'

The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-maker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pairs of boots--but the worst of it was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to 'Hi!' or to any loud cry,
Such as 'Fry me!' or 'Fritter my wig!'
To 'What-you-may-call-um!' or 'What-was-his-name!'
But especially 'Thing-um-a-jig!'

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:

[...] Read more

poem by Lewis Carroll
Added by Poetry Lover
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Partnership

It depends on if you are serious.
I can only show I am...
If you say you are.

It depends on if you are serious.
If you are not...
We can just dropp this.

It depends on if you are serious.
I can only show I am...
If you say you are.

It depends on if you are serious.
If you are not...
We can just dropp this.

'Is that it?
No whispers or kisses?
With advancements started...
To tease then to dismiss? '

Like I said...
It depends on if you are serious.
If you are not...
We can just dropp this.

I am on a mission.
I would like to have partnership.
But if you are not completely into it...
Why would I wish to be into you?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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