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I will never be below the title.

quote by Bette Davis
Added by Lucian Velea
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Title

Give a title
Pursue it.

Giving title is in your hand
After giving title it is you
To go behind it.

Through this title
You are going to search truth
And the secret of truth
Though the title is
Not based on truth.

Title given on imagination
And imaginary world is not real world.
Without imagination
You can not go anywhere
You can not achieve anything.
It is your imagination
That pull and push you.

From the starting
You are wandering
With the title
You have given.
Unless you forget
All that are yours
You can not reach me.

Go not with anything.
Come to me only
Come to me in empty.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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You Will Make Them Proud

What's in a title you may well ask,
Think carefully before you name,
A nom de plume is akin to a mask,
It can be beautiful but it can also maim.

When you're naming a child be wary,
What you call them is theirs for life,
Some names given can be scary,
Remarks made can cut like a knife.

A name can be just like an open wound,
Inside and out it can fester,
If you choose a title that is finely tuned,
They will not then become the court jester.

You may well think you don't really care,
It's your child you can do what you want,
They have to live with it so please be aware,
Your decision could come back to haunt.

When they mature and grow older,
In their title they may well feel ashamed,
Their attitude to you will grow colder,
It will be you who is blamed.

Some human beings can be very cruel,
To abuse they'll use any excuse,
Don't let your child be made feel a fool,
Name them wisely lest they suffer abuse.

Just like in poetry a title can rhyme,
Please ensure you give that some thought,
Some names given should be classed as a crime,
As they can leave the recipient distraught.

I tell you this story as a warning,
My mother entitled me Jock,
Some of the names I'm now adorning,
Have placed me in a state of shock.

You love your child so try to be kind,
That title on them you've endowed,
Will be theirs forever keep that in mind,
choose wisely and,

‘' You Will Make Them Proud ‘'

poem by Bri Mar
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Absalom and Achitophel

In pious times, e'er Priest-craft did begin,
Before Polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multiply'd his kind,
E'r one to one was, cursedly, confind:
When Nature prompted, and no law deny'd
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart
To Wives and Slaves; And, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Maker's Image through the Land.
Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,
A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller's care;
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
To Godlike David, several Sons before.
But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,
No True Succession could their seed attend.
Of all this Numerous Progeny was none
So Beautifull, so brave as Absalon:
Whether, inspir'd by some diviner Lust,
His father got him with a greater Gust;
Or that his Conscious destiny made way
By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.
Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,
With Kings and States ally'd to Israel's Crown
In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,
And seem'd as he were only born for love.
What e'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please.
His motions all accompanied with grace;
And Paradise was open'd in his face.
With secret Joy, indulgent David view'd
His Youthfull Image in his Son renew'd:
To all his wishes Nothing he deny'd,
And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
His Father could not, or he would not see.
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
Were constru'd Youth that purg'd by boyling o'r:
And Amnon's Murther, by a specious Name,
Was call'd a Just Revenge for injur'd Fame.
Thus Prais'd, and Lov'd, the Noble Youth remain'd,
While David, undisturb'd, in Sion raign'd.
But Life can never be sincerely blest:
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.
The Jews, a Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring race,
As ever try'd th' extent and stretch of grace;
God's pamper'd people whom, debauch'd with ease,
No King could govern, nor no God could please;
(Gods they had tri'd of every shape and size
That Gods-smiths could produce, or Priests devise.)

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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Sonny Liston

When Sonny Liston was World heavyweight Boxing Champion the
World was a much different place
Though before he won the title from Floyd Patterson the first man had been to outer space
I recall photos of him after he lost his title to Muhammad Ali the look of disappointment in his face
Long before he knew adulation and glory he only knew of failure and disgrace.

From the night he lost his title to Ali for him 'twas downhill to failure all of the way
No more moments of glory for the ageing Sonny Liston he was then well beyond his prime day
In the rematch with Ali he did not regain his title and he returned to his old ways of crime
Yet memories of the man known as 'The Big Bear' are destined for to live on for some time

That he did take his own life Sonny Liston just to think about to say the least seems sad
He may have had many criminal covictions but there was worse than him since he was not all bad
He was one who knew of shame and glory and he is one well worthy of recall
And though his end one might say was far from glorious death in one way or another will come to us all.

When Sonny Liston lost his title to Ali before the onset of this technological age
I recall a memorable photo of him in a newspaper a headline caption in the sporting page
The poor bloke had such a sad look about him a memory with me that still remain
Of one who knew of disgrace and glory, discrimination, insult and hardship and pain.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Crucifixion of Christ

Composed, by Special Request, 18th June 1890

Then Pilate, the Roman Governor, took Jesus and scourged Him,
And the soldiers platted a crown of thorns, and thought it no sin
To put it on His head, while meekly Jesus stands;
They put on Him a purple robe, and smote Him with their hands.

Then Pilate went forth again, and said unto them,
Behold, I bring Him forth to you, but I cannot Him condemn,
And I would have you to remember I find no fault in Him,
And to treat Him too harshly 'twould be a sin.

But the rabble cried. Hail, King of the Jews, and crucify Him;
But Pilate saith unto them, I find in Him no sin;
Then Jesus came forth, looking dejected and wan,
And Pilate saith unto them, Behold the Man.

Then the Jews cried out, By our laws He ought to die,
Because He made Himself the Son of God the Most High;
And when Pilate heard that saying the Jews had made,
He saw they were dissatisfied, and he was the more afraid.

And to release Jesus Pilate did really intend,
But the Jews cried angrily, Pilate, thou art not Caesar's friend,
Remember, if thou let this vile impostor go,
It only goes to prove thou art Caesar's foe.

When Pilate heard that he felt very irate,
Then he brought Josus forth, and sat down in the judgment-seat,
In a place that is called the Pavement,
While the Blessed Saviour stood calm and content.

The presence of His enemies did not Him appal,
When Pilate asked of Him, before them all,
Whence art Thou, dost say from on High?
But Jesus, the Lamb of God, made no reply.

Then saith Pilate unto Him, Speakest Thou not unto me,
Remember, I have the power to crucify Thee;
But Jesus answered, Thou hast no power at all against me,
Except from above it were given to thee.

Then Pilate to the Jews loudly cried,
Take Him away to be crucified;
Then the soldiers took Jesus and led Him away,
And He, bearing His Cross, without dismay.

And they led Him to a place called Golgotha,
But the Saviour met His fate without any awe,

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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You May Have Obtained Nama

You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

Lord resides within you, but you couldn't discern him;
You wander aimlessly thinking him to be afar;
You calculate about the One beyond the calculations;
You limit the Illimitable
And in this state of twoness, you count your futile beads!
You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

You try to be Harijan without having Hari!
How can pangs of hunger subside by a bash of hollow words?
How can throes of separation subside by mere donning of ascetic clothes?
It is like the futile roaring of rainless clouds!
You may have obtainednama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

You think you have become harijan by merely singing lord's praises,
You try to rival a swan, when your deeds are those of a crow!
The lord will indeed disregard you!
You may have obtainednama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!

Says Narsinh, only he is worth our obeisance,
Whose mind has dissolved into the formless;
In whom the delusion of the world of differences is shattered
And in whom the flame of renunciation is resplendent.
You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without the groom!

poem by Narsinh Mehta
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Starts/Ends/Thoughts/Randoms of Poem that Are in Progress

Poem title: Unknown 1
Like a line in a song
Like a letter in word

Poem title: Unknown 2
Keeps you sane
But keeps the pain

Poem title: Unknown 3
Starved for help
Thirsty to be free

Poem title: Free
So turn the key
and unlock the door

set your self free
from this cage

Open the door
and let yourself through

poem by Jenn Koning
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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—

Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Gotham - Book I

Far off (no matter whether east or west,
A real country, or one made in jest,
Nor yet by modern Mandevilles disgraced,
Nor by map-jobbers wretchedly misplaced)
There lies an island, neither great nor small,
Which, for distinction sake, I Gotham call.
The man who finds an unknown country out,
By giving it a name, acquires, no doubt,
A Gospel title, though the people there
The pious Christian thinks not worth his care
Bar this pretence, and into air is hurl'd
The claim of Europe to the Western world.
Cast by a tempest on the savage coast,
Some roving buccaneer set up a post;
A beam, in proper form transversely laid,
Of his Redeemer's cross the figure made--
Of that Redeemer, with whose laws his life,
From first to last, had been one scene of strife;
His royal master's name thereon engraved,
Without more process the whole race enslaved,
Cut off that charter they from Nature drew,
And made them slaves to men they never knew.
Search ancient histories, consult records,
Under this title the most Christian lords
Hold (thanks to conscience) more than half the ball;
O'erthrow this title, they have none at all;
For never yet might any monarch dare,
Who lived to Truth, and breathed a Christian air,
Pretend that Christ, (who came, we all agree,
To bless his people, and to set them free)
To make a convert, ever one law gave
By which converters made him first a slave.
Spite of the glosses of a canting priest,
Who talks of charity, but means a feast;
Who recommends it (whilst he seems to feel
The holy glowings of a real zeal)
To all his hearers as a deed of worth,
To give them heaven whom they have robb'd of earth;
Never shall one, one truly honest man,
Who, bless'd with Liberty, reveres her plan,
Allow one moment that a savage sire
Could from his wretched race, for childish hire,
By a wild grant, their all, their freedom pass,
And sell his country for a bit of glass.
Or grant this barbarous right, let Spain and France,
In slavery bred, as purchasers advance;
Let them, whilst Conscience is at distance hurl'd,
With some gay bauble buy a golden world:
An Englishman, in charter'd freedom born,
Shall spurn the slavish merchandise, shall scorn

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Independence

Happy the bard (though few such bards we find)
Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind;
Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear,
And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear:
Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need
Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead
To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail
When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail,
Quality in full plumage passes by;
He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye,
And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state,
And is above conversing with the great.
Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill,
Who have conspired to seize that sacred hill
Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain,
And sunk the mountain level with the plain;
Who, with mean, private views, and servile art,
No spark of virtue living in their heart,
Have basely turn'd apostates; have debased
Their dignity of office; have disgraced,
Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand,
And caused their name to stink through all the land;
Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen
For the support of great, but guilty men;
Have made the bard, of their own vile accord,
Inferior to that thing we call a lord.
What is a lord? Doth that plain simple word
Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard,
Like an alarum bell on Night's dull ear,
Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear
Than other words? Whether we will or no,
Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd go
E'en on the mention, and of course transmit
Notions of something excellent; of wit
Pleasing, though keen; of humour free, though chaste;
Of sterling genius, with sound judgment graced;
Of virtue far above temptation's reach,
And honour, which not malice can impeach?
Believe it not--'twas Nature's first intent,
Before their rank became their punishment,
They should have pass'd for men, nor blush'd to prize
The blessings she bestow'd; she gave them eyes,
And they could see; she gave them ears--they heard;
The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd;
Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink,
To talk, and (every now and then) to think;
Till they, by Pride corrupted, for the sake
Of singularity, disclaim'd that make;
Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode,
Flew off, and struck into another road,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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My Only Title

My only title to her grace
Is her sad, too silent face;
All my right to call her mine
The twin tears that on it shine,
Tears that tell of griefs long hid
In the shadows of each lid,
And of doubts that wound her sore
Our twin lives shall meet no more.
Nay, my right and title this,
That she gave me one shy kiss
'Twixt the dawning and the day,
Benediction on my way,
When the vain world was asleep
And no ear to hear us weep,
And that once my fingers pressed
The warm treasures of her breast,
Just a moment, and the truth
Learned of her close--hidden youth
With its joys and sweetnesses
Deep beyond all wit to guess,
All but mine, and what might be
Were she wholly joined with me.

Such my title is and treasure,
Such my glory beyond measure,
Such my thought for the new years,
Burdened with what doubts and fears,
Yet one day to claim her mine.
Here, beyond this shadowy Rhine,
Far from her and journeying still,
Feel I her young pulses thrill,
Her warm body nestled close
To my own with all its woes.
And I know that some far hour
I shall call to her with power,
When the sun is fast in prison
And the midnight stars have risen
Clear and kind in a warm sky,
And the shepherd's hour is nigh,
In a language she shall heed,
``Life is fleeting, love hath need.
Time it is tears should not be.
Come, my love, and dwell with me.''
And I know that without stay,
'Twixt the dawning and the day,
When the vain world is asleep
And no ear to hear her weep,
She shall dry her tears and come;
And we too through Christendom

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Bad Writing

the sentence & the paragraph had agreed upon meeting at dawn
out in the middle of the page
as the reflection off the fine silver pen being lifted by the human hand in the sky
shone off the bright white recycled paper
there stood one strong paragraph,
which
was armed with clever words, quirky verbs & quiet frankly,
a whole slew of other sentences
who may or may not be brought into the fray
with this
vigilante,
who stood a good distance away from the paragraph
with its shadow blotting out part of the page-
the sentence was tight
knit
&
written in a language that the paragraph had never heard of
before-
the paragraph tilted it’s font a bit, to stave off the human shifting the paper,
causing a bit of a breeze across the soft plane,
but the sentence hadn’t come here today
to waste its time flashing its
fashion sense, and in
standard
new times roman,
it spoke out in italics
“we gonna do this or not? ”
& the paragraph,
without a moment’s hesitation,
nodded, saying, in some bold n’ fancy variation of
book antiqua,
“i been ready since i saw the punctuation at the end of your
babbling jumble of foreign words”-
at that point,
the title of the page & the
header
walked in tandem to the place in between both the paragraph
and the sentence-
now equidistant apart from both,
they talked of what had brought both these forms of writing
to the page
this brisk & early morning in
june-
to make a story short,
the foreign language sentence & the
english (current language of commerce) paragraph
had come to this duel over a
beautiful
metaphor-
and while both the title & the header could understand,

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Delapruch
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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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Canto the Sixth

I
"There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, -- taken at the flood," -- you know the rest,
And most of us have found it now and then;
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
The moment, till too late to come again.
But no doubt every thing is for the best --
Of which the surest sign is in the end:
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.

II
There is a tide in the affairs of women
Which, taken at the flood, leads -- God knows where:
Those navigators must be able seamen
Whose charts lay down its current to a hair;
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen
With its strange whirls and eddies can compare:
Men with their heads reflect on this and that --
But women with their hearts on heaven knows what!

III
And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,
Young, beautiful, and daring -- who would risk
A throne, the world, the universe, to be
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk
The stars from out the sky, than not be free
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk --
Though such a she's a devil (if that there be one),
Yet she would make full many a Manichean.

IV
Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset
By commonest ambition, that when passion
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget,
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one.
If Antony be well remember'd yet,
'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion,
But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes,
Outbalances all Caesar's victories.

V
He died at fifty for a queen of forty;
I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty,
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport -- I
Remember when, though I had no great plenty
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I
Gave what I had -- a heart: as the world went, I
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never
Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Early Works - Time Out

Deep within the blackness
lay the barriers
known to all as time
with depths much deeper
than the boundaries of hell.
Within each boundary
lie one day,
one year,
and one century.

And still within the blackness
lies more barriers
known to all as the future
with heights higher than heaven,
which are guided by the hand of fate.

Time rules our lives
and fate rules time
to the extent
it causes destruction
or gives life to those in need.

Time can be a killer
and time can be a prayer,
time can be helpful
and time can be a menace.

Unlike anything on earth,
time has no ending,
where life can cease to be
time will carry on
even when all life has gone.

Time to us is just a word
for one cannot see time;
one cannot feel time,
though one can define time
as a passing.

We all live within a life cycle
where time is all around us.
Though we cannot see time,
it is a constant ruler
within our lives.

Time is measured for travel
in light,
in sound,
in speed.

[...] Read more

poem by David Harris
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Straight From Queens

Uncle
Rippin the microphone
And blowin the stage apart.
These mcs aint got no heart
They need to quit before they start.
Shakin and breakin em down
Best at least
F***in em up up at least
Smackin em in a pilek
Now have a stomp and a smile g.
Raisin
Replacin
Like jason
When I be chasin
These rappers
Machetti style
Choppin down
Their petty styles bassin
All in my face
You got the mic
But I gotta getcha off it
You got my rhyme
Now cough it
Brother sweat the tip and forfeit.
Youre nada
Know nota
Im hotter
Youre a slow trotter.
Karate
Switch the e into an a
And its karata.
When I come on
Im rippin it up
Just like a madman.
I fly your head
Chop off your legs
And make your head stand.
Tax and wreckin these chumps
All of them I rub out.
You know the time
Whats on your mind
You know I never go out.
I be breakin bouts
Ya boys
Your block is full of bums see.
You never was too clever
Stick the fork in you
Youre done g.
The instrumentll rip
With the ultimate

[...] Read more

song performed by LL Cool J
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untitled abstract painting of Custer's Last Stand

Untitled abstract painting of Custer’s last stand

an abstract painting of custer’s last stand
Hangs in the Montana Museum of Modern Art
A fish with a halo and many Indians mating
And no name tag makes this painting, stand apart

Montanans know the title of this portrait
Although no name tag is shown
Yet, as the gaze falls upon it
the title is intuitively known,

the last words that were spoken
from this famous man’s mouth
As the battle of the Big horn
Began to go south

Oddly enough, as in the painting
his last words were not prayer
Though the words; “copulation and Indians, “
“Fish And Holy, “ were there.

The title of the painting and Custer’s last words
Weren’t from Romans or Corinthians.
They were simply “Holy Mackerel
Look at all the F#@*in’ Indians

poem by David Whalen
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Don Juan: Canto The Sixth

'There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which,--taken at the flood,'--you know the rest,
And most of us have found it now and then;
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
The moment, till too late to come again.
But no doubt every thing is for the best-
Of which the surest sign is in the end:
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.

There is a tide in the affairs of women
Which, taken at the flood, leads- God knows where:
Those navigators must be able seamen
Whose charts lay down its current to a hair;
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen
With its strange whirls and eddies can compare:
Men with their heads reflect on this and that-
But women with their hearts on heaven knows what!

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she,
Young, beautiful, and daring- who would risk
A throne, the world, the universe, to be
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk
The stars from out the sky, than not be free
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk-
Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one),
Yet she would make full many a Manichean.

Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset
By commonest ambition, that when passion
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget,
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one.
If Antony be well remember'd yet,
'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion,
But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes,
Outbalances all Caesar's victories.

He died at fifty for a queen of forty;
I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty,
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport- I
Remember when, though I had no great plenty
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I
Gave what I had- a heart: as the world went, I
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never
Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever.

'T was the boy's 'mite,' and, like the 'widow's,' may
Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now;
But whether such things do or do not weigh,
All who have loved, or love, will still allow
Life has nought like it. God is love, they say,

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poem by Byron
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Each One Needs a Title

Each one needs a title.
It's not enough to call them by their first names.
Or not be introduced,
Without hearing one's résumé.
And they are serious too.
They want people to know they've earned degrees.
They quickly reveal where they live, what they drive.
And where they eat to be fed the best cruisine.

Each one needs a title.
Something that widens eyes a lot.
Some are overheard saying,
Where they vacation and shop.
Who has a nanny!
And which ones do not.
Who employs a housekeeper.
And which services some had to stop.

Each one needs a title.
At least one impressive enough...
For tongues to wag,
And jaws to drop!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Metamorphoses: Book The Thirteenth

THE chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the
field:
To these the master of the seven-fold shield
Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain.
Eager to speak, unable to contain
His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around
The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground.
The Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd,
Speeches of Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd?
Ajax and And dares Ulysses for the prize contend,
Ulysses In sight of what he durst not once defend?
But basely fled that memorable day,
When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming
prey.
So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar
With words to flourish, than ingage in war.
By diff'rent methods we maintain our right,
Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight.
In bloody fields I labour to be great;
His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit:
Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see,
The sun, and day are witnesses for me.
Let him who fights unseen, relate his own,
And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon.
Great is the prize demanded, I confess,
But such an abject rival makes it less;
That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain,
Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain:
Losing he wins, because his name will be
Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me.
Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood
Without that plea wou'd make my title good:
My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd
With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd;
And who before with Jason sent from Greece,
In the first ship brought home the golden fleece.
Great Telamon from Aeacus derives
His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives
In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son
This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy
stone),
Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above
Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove.
Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line,
Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine:
As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim;
This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name
Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed
By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed:
Then must I lose these arms, because I came

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poem by Ovid
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