I think we respond well when we do something well.
quote by Katey Sagal
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The Clarion Call
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
Why are you so down cast?
Why have your beats of heart become still?
Why is your fate bound with negritude?
Why does silence prevails on your lips?
Where are the guardians of motherland?
Why are your cities so plight ridden?
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
Somewhere glimmer all lamps,
Somewhere dance enchanting scenes,
Somewhere toss starving children,
Somewhere wheezes miserable life,
Why is it difficult to enkindle the lamps?
This is the dilemma of my motherland
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
Why are illuminated their houses?
Why are dark our dwellings?
In front of them the Life dances,
And our fate is inscribed with adorations,
Who has devised all these divisions?
Who has enmeshed us all?
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
Death dances all around,
Life is enfolded with smokes,
Somewhere toss the injured human beings,
Somewhere lie dead-bodies coffinless,
Where are the sentinels of peace?
Why has decay overshadowed the garden?
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
We shall have to up lift the eyes,
We shall have to enkindle the extinguished lamps,
We shall have to wipe out contents hatred,
We shall have to revitalize this garden,
We shall have to hold up the flag of righteousness,
This is the last part of all oppressions.
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
The heads will never stoop henceforth
Tough they are cut off,
Those who are on the way will never stop,
[...] Read more
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Chain Lightning
Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
Energy is contagious
Enthusiasm spreads
Tides respond to lunar gravitation
Everything turns in synchronous relation
Laughter is infectious
Excitement goes to my head
Winds are stirred by planets in rotation
Sparks ignite and spread new information
Respond, vibrate, feed back, resonate
Sun dogs fire on the horizon
Meteor rain stars across the night
This moment may be brief
But it can be so bright
Hope is epidemic
Optimism spreads
Bitterness breeds irritation
Ignorance breeds imitation
Sun dogs fire on the horizon
Meteor rain stars across the night
This moment may be brief
But it can be so bright
Reflected in another source of light
When the moment dies
The spark still flies
Reflected in another pair of eyes
Dreams are sometimes catching
Desire goes to my head
Love responds to your invitation
Love responds to imagination
Respond, vibrate, feed back, resonate
song performed by Rush
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And I am also here to say that if something were to happen, we are prepared to respond swiftly, to respond effectively, and to respond strongly. That is our tradition as a country. And that is a tradition that we will uphold, regardless of any circumstance because this nation is one that is very, very strong and, indeed, extraordinarily resilient.
quote by Janet Napolitano
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People are the thing: if i call 'gold,' gold does not respond; if i call 'clothes,' clothes do not respond; people are the thing.
Twi proverbs
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The matinee audiences are different because they're mostly kids, a great percentage kids. So they respond to everything differently, but I understand what they do respond to.
quote by Rue McClanahan
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Americans rightly asked, if this is the way our government responds to a natural disaster it knew about days in advance, how would it respond to a surprise terrorist attack? How would it respond to an earthquake?
quote by Russ Carnahan
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The Craft was what it was. People who respond to that movie respond to it really strongly.
quote by Robin Tunney
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You May Obey it
It is in your mouth and in your heart,
It is near to you that you may obey it;
But who will cross ovcer the seas and bring me to you?
For my love is not beyond your level,
But it is beyond the seas! !
I am nearer to you always in spirit but,
You will always feel me around you when you do think of me;
So respond to my love and respond to my heart,
For my words are in your mouth and i am always nearer to you in spirit!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Upwardly MobileBreasts
Upwardly mobile breasts
link together East and West,
occupying cyberspace
to tease, to please, as they unbrace -
spring feeding fantasy oppressed -
that gravity which, second-guessed,
would temper passions. These, apace,
grow, flow with honey, milk, chased chaste.
Man, mammal mammary obsessed,
manhandles, memory manifests
'I' level interest interface_
_sings [t]issues in both good, poor taste,
can't displace attention best
focused elsewhere, soul possessed
by magnet tandem ride, slim waist,
upwardly mobile, undepressed.
D stands for Double bubble laced,
succulence symetric spaced
to dot eyes until life’s digressed
by bridal bridle, dispossessed.
Upwardly mobile breasts -
down and out, or corset pressed,
pear or apple pair set pace.
Fancy free, corset compressed
holding out or, on request,
outstanding assets in life's quest.
'Eye...cons' which, since time, showcased,
imagination ever graced.
Man, mental midget, seems impressed
by mammoth mountains, curves which crest
from chest to rib-cage, touching base
with fancy's fables few detest.
Fun bags balloon 'bove Everest,
peak projections never rest,
[c]rush hour preoccupations taste
angst lest dream disintegrates.
Upwardly mobile breasts -
in the pink, admired with zest, -
swift soar above the commonplace,
'To wit' says one, 'To woo I'll case
the joint to free restraints! ' 'Obsessed! '
replies the other, 'feathered nest.'
Some, spread, taut drawn to taunt Time's haste,
lest silly cones should run to waste.
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Upon Death
They are passing their tests so seriously,
The graves house the dead who talk
Due to their success, and their successes to come.
Passing the test is like graduating,
And this means facts are held by the head.
Then one learns all that one exerts,
Once the tossing and turning in the grave
Is complete.
This is the final test, how does one respond?
The physical suffering declines,
A word or two is passed and the soul ejects.
My angelic help is tremendous,
My own guardians will respond.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sex has no age
A man can fall for a woman,
Young enough to be
His daughter or grand daughter.
A woman can fall for a man,
Young enough to be
Her son or grandson.
A girl can respond to a man,
Older enough to be
Her father or grandfather.
A boy can respond to a woman,
Older enough to be
His mother or grandmother.
Spectrum of sex is so catholic.
09.08.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward
.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate
'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude
This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.
These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.
I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.
And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.
And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.
The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.
I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.
The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.
Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.
I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.
Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.
Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.
I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.
I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.
Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'
That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.
Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.
All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves
[...] Read more
poem by Warren Falcon
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Life a school, learning the living
Life, a school
With no class rooms
With no black boards
With no one standing before you and teaching
With no tests
With no exams
With no marks, ranks and promotions
With no books
Life, a school
And you are in the same standard or class life through
Who is teaching, but
Everyone you come across and
Everything nearby
From just born to the one waiting to depart
The leaf dancing to the tunes of the wind
The car that is speeding by your side
The plane flying up in the sky
The water flowing gently in the stream
The stars twinkling in the dark sky
The colourful horizon at the other end
The mist, cloud, smoke and emission
The small ant busy carrying a much-bigger-to-its-size dry leaf
The butterfly jumping from flower to flower
All have potentials to teach,
If you have the desire to learn
What do they teach
To remain happy ever
To help others improve their status of happiness
To keep yourself balanced in all situations
To go ahead with your work emotion free
To stay healthy and be kicking
To be special of your own
To be social and sociable
To lead and to be an active part in team
Not to lose time in dreams and wasteful thinking
Not to be lazy and lost
Not to feel unwanted
And quite a number of other things for lively living
And to apply what all you learnt
And just not remeber and pour it out for scoring marks
Who assesses performance?
You and you only
As you only know what was taught
And you only know what was learnt
The more you apply what you learnt
The better is your performance
Know your performace from
[...] Read more
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Lost Love, Never Found
So many times I have been asked,
"Are you alone on this moonlit night?
Do you live in solitude, never to open your eyes to the world?
Do you know of all those alive
Searching everyday for somebody to love and for
Somebody with whom to fall in love with? "
Someone to give you flowers,
To dine with or to hold in one's arms?
Are you alone on a rainy night, or
By yourself on a lovely spring day,
Taking each step you take in solitude,
With nobody to share your thoughts with-
How many years have you lived alone
With nobody to open your heart up to? "
These are the words and questions of many-
Also asking me how many times I have loved and lost-or
Have you loved and lost before in
Any given moment in time?
All I can do is to respond and say to that world out there continuously wondering is that
I am the queen of my own world; my eyes open to my own thoughts,
Alone in the world of my own imaginings and
Rejoicing every day and night to be
Alone in my own special castle- loving myself and
Being my own best and closest friend-
Solitude is a safe and pleasurable haven for me-
I am alone but never lonely- and if one is to ask me
"Have you ever been in love before and lost?
I can only respond- "I have never lost a love before, because in your eyes,
A love I have never found-but I have learned to be a friend and a loving companion to myself- I trust myself, value my talents and dance, sing and laugh everyday
With myself in solitude- I suppose I have loved before and do love now, as
I have become my own best and closest friend-
I have never loved and lost- because I adore my spirit for some time now and
I haven't had to search further than my own home and yard to find myself, and
It hasn't taken much time for me to come to the realization that
I can find flowers in my own back yard, and
Myself, I shall never lose…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Response: I Will Follow You
I wasn't gonna write
I didn't plan on losing this internal fight
I really thought I couldn't handle what I could become
I still don't, but it's in those times of greatest pain
Those times where I tend to feel most insane
When I need an outlet, so I guess this time, this is how we'll speak because I'm Your son
I'm sorry if I just failed You
I'm sorry that right now it's hard to trust You too
You gave me a Spirit that is strong
You gave me an unstoppable strength, my joy, my song
This I sing out, with every breath of life
But my body yells and shouts louder than my Spirit
You feel far from me, but my body is me, alas with its strife
It is a deafening scream, even if it were silent... I must admit
The painfulness, the closeness, the selfness make its cries-
LOUD... Loud... loud, it's hard to sing over the yelling as my soul dies
So give me again this life and joy, slience the death and screams
Show me there's more to this situation than it seems
Show me that You're there
Show me that You're here
Show me You're with me now
Show me that You never left, such as you did vow
So amidst the torment, amidst every stab, amidst every scream
Give me Your voice to scream
Give me Your voice to scream your praise
Silence my cries in malaise
I feel the blood, I see the blood, I lose the blood
I feel the pain, I see the stain, it's physical... and spiritual
Sorry I didn't listen, you tried to save me, but please reign down your love like a flood
As I choke on pain, I do not ask for physical healing, but God heal my spirit and make it perpetual
I want to forever hold on to you
I want to see this pain with your view
Dear God, do not let it end here, do not let that be the end of this reponse, not that end
Please I pray you do send
Send more, not just Your view of my pain, send more of You, I want see people like You see them
I want to share Your love and forgiveness to every sin
Thank You already Lord that THIS is my response
Thank You for giving me the words to respond to utmost pain
Thank You for showering me with Your love that does not wain
That never runs out, and never runs dry
I will follow You, I will follow You, I will follow You, I will try
Let me not again stray away
I will follow You, I will follow You, I will follow, now I see Your words that I am to respond with, say:
I will follow You
poem by David Knox
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A romance is life
How does one make the life so romantic?
No problem even if your friends are living beyond Atlantic
There is no distance barrier and one sees directly
It is enough to rouse feelings if we speak honestly
Even seasons inject the feeling of romance
The individual may find appealing with little glance
It may certainly give relief when first shower is on
Everything sounds dramatic when heat waves have gone
It takes away your concentration when beautiful eyes are met
What a magnetic pull effect when wishes are responded or let
It was beautifully hidden in one side of the beating heart
You are in no position to think or respond despite looking so smart
Beautiful and attractive faces play all the tricks
The magic environment persists without use of sticks
How does one fall in magnetic pull of attraction?
How does the individual respond with any reaction?
One good smile takes away his beautiful smile
He doesn’t know how to carry on for a while
There is strong urge to come very close
They may try to prove good and try not to loose
To go in for quick seduction may not work any longer
They may need some to help them as messenger
The bold action may follow suit if both are sincere
Romantic words are exchanged without any fear
The romance has got no age bar
They can come closer while driving in car
Each one finds a feeling of super star when they meet
The whole world seems to have fallen or come under their feet
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A weak love
Neither it broke nor did it speak
It just tried to prove strong but felt very weak
I preserved to the heart and consider as super class
Took special care to feel easy at pass
It has all its charm
Nothing has been done to harm
It still waits for warm welcome
When will you respond and come?
I too have loved from heart
I was for it from the very start
Love is not only gift but an art
We got to be careful not to part
It may pain me more
If it is blamed anymore
It is so sacred and retained as such
Do not think a lot or so much
It may take longer than expected
It is to be adored and respected
It is heavenly gift and not given to all
Luck is those who understand and respond the call
Will you be sincere enough to obey?
Bow down to almighty and pray
Oh, God! Give me the strength to withstand
Give m e insight to know her as friend
I shall stand in no way or obstruct
My conscience will definitely guide me and instruct
I shall prove it to be a noble act
I love you from is like day light fact
It is not body alone
Soul too has to be won
It may be then be called real bondage
The golden story will be written on page
Come and join to make it success
Have all doubts cleared with open access
I was ever your and remain so in future
Take every word of mine for sure
I was at pain to learn about loose remark
It was as if a loud noise from dog with bark
How can one think of so bad for pure form?
One should always remain firm and better informed
[...] Read more
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Dina-my limited world
I have my own limited world
I live with happiness in small fold
“Dina” is no longer any stranger
She has taken away all my anger
She will bring bundle of love
In form of flower and simply observe
She speaks no word but shy away
I see in her real reflection and way
I really have no idea how to go along
I fear I may go sometimes wrong
I murmur in night with only one name
Dina where are and how you came?
Dina is on wall and clouds carry her impression
I watch it with intense obsession
She has made me to sink
I watch sky without any wink
She took me to a lake side
The water was calm and area looked very wide
I dreamed of carrying her in moon light
Even though she was seated by my right
She is no more making any move
How to go close to her and prove
That I meant to her so many things
She has to catch me for something
She opened mouth to say she is ordinary
Hail from noble family but has lots of worry
She may throw complete weight behind
I was something very dear and precious find
She is nice and comfortable with me
I too remain close and feel very free
She is clever but not that blind
I want her to be caring and very kind
She promises me to be in constant touch
I feel pulse of honesty as such
She is great with full of enthusiasm
I feel she is complete incarnation of humanism
She is not the divine figure
Yet full of energy and very sure
She is brilliant and gifted with intelligence
I can’t remain away without her presence
[...] Read more
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Lovely beating heart
We have lovely beating pure heart
Injected by God and heavenly art
Only kindness to be shown and nothing to part
If we can show little with very good start
If poor see kindness in your eyes?
They have all thanks giving and nothing to ask why?
God himself is before in the form of ordinary woman
Blessed with divine power and caring for all human
No one is prepared to serve the destitute
We have no were to find such kind and noble institutes
It requires greater understanding with wider concept
Only service to render and always ready or very prompt
Flow of rushing river waters can be controlled
New and energetic disciples can be enrolled
Dams can be built across river and water can be stored?
But what about inner call to be acted upon and explored
Not all may go in for charity or good cause
They are not blinded by disbelief or paused
Some awakening efforts are needed to arouse
As heart is always ready to respond with no grouse
We are fortunate enough to have all facilities
To be kind or bear sympathy is very good quality
It is not an order from almighty to be his strict follower
But clear commandment not to go away or make it slower
You land a helping hand and see the gratitude?
Eyes may speak with altogether different attitude
They are not helpless but fallen out with favor and victims
We can visit them individually or making small teams
Share a piece of bread and you can save dead
Clear apathy and remorse for world is read
They want some to come and wipe their tears
They have undergone enough and now have worst fears
When they see young and able bodied with all the happiness
Their soul cries out a foul and discrimination is seen on face
They have no reason to curse but definitely question to ask
Why they were singled out on earth from His noble task
It is commonly said and believed too
All wrong does suffer here only and it is very true
There is no other world to decide their fate
So it is still good time left for not to be late
[...] Read more
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Mind fluctuates
“Old habits die hard” as saying goes
But what human mind thinks and does
It tries to rise but fall back with little fear
People may speak and it has to bear
Never get discouraged
As in past you have tactfully managed
If not fully transformed
But you have acted and remained well informed
We are not slave of the habits
That is on negative side and considered s debit
We are supposed to come out
End to it with complete rout
Nothing can run for longer period on set lines
You have to create by lane or sidelines
So incase you need escape route
You can walk slowly on one foot
Time may compel you to shed the differences
You may have to draw the correct inferences
There might arise many instances
Where you will have to clear your stances
Person is adapted to set norms
He may find it smooth until warned
If something goes wrong
He needs to amend and remain among
Nothing can protect you from established practice
That may be easily understood and noticed
You may be cheated on various occasions
That may compel you to address the questions
It is neither your strength
Nor a set wave length
You need to fluctuate and respond
As it may then properly correspond
It is nature’s law to expose to change
Even seasons respond with and manage
We as human being need to adjust
That is demand and of course must
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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