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Most parts that can be played by one actor can equally well be played by another, but not this.

quote by Kenneth More
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Into how many parts would you divide the child after Divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many insane parts would you divide your new-born child’s eternal happiness; after your treacherously vindictive divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many heartless parts would you divide your new-born child’s invincible freedom; after your venomously unbearable divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many ribald parts would you divide your new-born child’s unsurpassable creativity; after your lethally unceremonious divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many salacious parts would you divide your new-born child’s majestic destiny; after your lecherously ignominious divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many emotionless parts would you divide your new-born child’s triumphant spirit; after your contemptuously debasing divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many terrorizing parts would you divide your new-born child’s unbridled fantasies; after your abhorrently cadaverous divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many excruciating parts would you divide your new-born child’s humanitarian blood; after your cold-bloodedly cannibalistic divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many tyrannized parts would you divide your new-born child’s unconquerable artistry; after your violently besmirching divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many reproachful parts would you divide your new-born child’s redolent playfulness; after your despicably devastating divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many sacrilegious parts would you divide your new-born child’s impregnable mischief; after your sadistically bemoaning divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many wanton parts would you divide your new-born child’s impeccable integrity; after your hedonistically carnivorous divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many ghoulish parts would you divide your new-born child’s limitless fertility; after your mindlessly malicious divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many diabolical parts would you divide your new- born child’s infallible innocence; after your unforgivably truculent divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many vengeful parts would you divide your new-born child’s uninhibited cries; after your preposterously bigoted divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many criminal parts would you divide your new-born child’s princely silkenness; after your tempestuously confounding divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many satanic parts would you divide your new-born child’s tiny brain; after your barbarously ungainly divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many sadistic parts would you divide your new-born child’s unlimited curiosity; after your egregiously dastardly divorce?

You might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but into how many carnivorous parts would you divide your new-born child’s parental longing; after your inanely decrepit divorce?

And you might legally divide each other from the bonds of immortal marriage; but tell me; into how many goddamned parts would you divide your new-born child’s immortal love; after your devilishly vituperative divorce?

©®copyright-2005, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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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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Book III - Part 03 - The Soul is Mortal

Now come: that thou mayst able be to know
That minds and the light souls of all that live
Have mortal birth and death, I will go on
Verses to build meet for thy rule of life,
Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil.
But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both;
And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul,
Teaching the same to be but mortal, think
Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind-
Since both are one, a substance interjoined.

First, then, since I have taught how soul exists
A subtle fabric, of particles minute,
Made up from atoms smaller much than those
Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke,
So in mobility it far excels,
More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause
Even moved by images of smoke or fog-
As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled,
The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft-
For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come
To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest,
Their liquids depart, their waters flow away,
When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke
Depart into the winds away, believe
The soul no less is shed abroad and dies
More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved
Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn
From out man's members it has gone away.
For, sure, if body (container of the same
Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause,
And rarefied by loss of blood from veins,
Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then
Thinkst thou it can be held by any air-
A stuff much rarer than our bodies be?

Besides we feel that mind to being comes
Along with body, with body grows and ages.
For just as children totter round about
With frames infirm and tender, so there follows
A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then,
Where years have ripened into robust powers,
Counsel is also greater, more increased
The power of mind; thereafter, where already
The body's shattered by master-powers of eld,
And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers,
Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way;
All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time.
Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved,
Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air;

[...] Read more

poem by Lucretius
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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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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto II

THE ARGUMENT

The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal interests;
To share their sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm
Till, in th' Effigy of Rumps, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.

THE learned write, an insect breeze
Is but a mungrel prince of bees,
That falls before a storm on cows,
And stings the founders of his house;
From whose corrupted flesh that breed
Of vermin did at first proceed.
So e're the storm of war broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various rout
Of petulant Capricious sects,
The maggots of corrupted texts,
That first run all religion down,
And after ev'ry swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their mothers got their sons,
That were incapable t' enjoy
That empire any other way;
So PRESBYTER begot the other
Upon the good old Cause, his mother,
Then bore then like the Devil's dam,
Whose son and husband are the same.
And yet no nat'ral tie of blood
Nor int'rest for the common good
Cou'd, when their profits interfer'd,
Get quarter for each other's beard.
For when they thriv'd, they never fadg'd,
But only by the ears engag'd:
Like dogs that snarl about a bone,
And play together when they've none,
As by their truest characters,
Their constant actions, plainly appears.
Rebellion now began, for lack
Of zeal and plunders to grow slack;
The Cause and covenant to lessen,
And Providence to b' out of season:
For now there was no more to purchase
O' th' King's Revenue, and the Churches,
But all divided, shar'd, and gone,
That us'd to urge the Brethren on;
Which forc'd the stubborn'st for the Cause,

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Butler
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Traces of my touch

I've pushed the borders
I left the stations
The trains are equally sad
The passengers equally busy

I've crossed the moonlight
I've swum the seas
The drops are equally wet
The depths are equally low

I've touched the treetops
I've opened the nests
The boughs are equally fragile
The root is equally deep

Nothing has changed
But the traces of my touch

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Old Upright Piano

For as long as I remember, when friday night came round
The family would gather out at grandpas house.
With supper over and the dishes done
It was then the best time came
At an old upright piano that only grandma played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
Grandpa was a stubborn man, they said it was his style.
Grandma called him ornery, but she said it with a smile.
Even he could not disguise the love he felt so strong;
We all could see it in his eyes when she played his favorite song.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
I was almost 17 when my grandma died;
I stayed all night with grandpa; the old man never cried.
He sat at her piano, there was nothing we could say
It was the first time in my life I ever heard my grandpa play.
It wasnt beautiful dreamer or my wild irish rose
It was a song he played from memory & he never missed a note
I sat right there beside him until the morning came
What a friend we have in jesus was the only song he played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.

song performed by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
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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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Hero

Outside, confidence is king
I am all that you're projecting
Inside feel the rising tide
And the revolution's deafening
I was trying to hide my opposing side
Trying to reconcile my Jeckyl and Hyde
Ladies and gentlemen listen up please
I don't want to be your hero
(No, I am not open parts of me are broken)
Do yourself a favor
Save yourself
Don't pick me find someone else
(Why'd you want to bother find yourself another)
Sometimes you put all of your desires in an object of affection
But in time because you idolise there is only disappointment
I was flying so high in your perfect sky
But I needed to fall cannot have it all
Ladies and gentlemen listen up please
I don't want to be your hero
(No, I am not open parts of me are broken)
Do yourself a favor
Save yourself
Don't pick me find someone else
(Why'd you want to bother find yourself another)
Ladies and gentlemen listen up please
I don't want to be your hero
(No, I am not open parts of me are broken)
Do yourself a favor
Save yourself
Don't pick me for someone else
(Why'd you want to bother find yourself another)
Don't need to compromise
I don't need to occupy the floor
There's a danger in boxing in my sin
And all that I am..
It's too much pressure
I'll only let you down again
(No, I am not open parts of me are broken)
It's too much pressure
I'll only let you down again
(Why'd you want to bother find yourself another)
Ladies and gentlemen listen up please
I don't want to be your hero
(No, I am not open parts of me are broken)
It's too much pressure
I'll only let you down again
(No, I am not open parts of me are broken)
Ladies and gentlemen listen up please
I don't want to be your hero
(No, I am not open parts of me are broken)

song performed by Darren Hayes
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Affirmations

In the slippings of my mind-
the errant misses
the missing blisses-
gather together all the remisses
all cousins
each making statements
proud and forelorn
joyous and now shorn
of all excuses and illusions
and pretty color smoke mirrors
to state simply and clearly
how each in accounting for itself
could explain
my great and small decisions
each bickering with one another
each casting subtle blame
as to how the other
had ruined me, my name
caused trouble and mayhem
whilst I looked on

saying:
'Each of you made me what I am
merely human.'

With a start they all looked up
one stating
'you are merely the sum
we are the parts
without us you lack meaning.'

'Yes, we' they said 'are your constituents
we gave birth you and all your musings
our parts are greater than your whole, true this.'
they said blending together in chorus.

They stepped back all celebrating their often stated contention;
We are all you are and can hope to be'

I blanched, stammering out my truth to wit:

'Parts are called parts because they are merely parts not wholes
and I am not you because I have in my life
assumulated all of you
and in doing so have become something other;
that you, mere parts, cannot comprehend having only the vantage point
of the past, while I present the Present Whole'

'Can a nose comprehend a face?

[...] Read more

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Who Learns My Lesson Complete?

WHO learns my lesson complete?
Boss, journeyman, apprentice--churchman and atheist,
The stupid and the wise thinker--parents and offspring--merchant,
clerk, porter and customer,
Editor, author, artist, and schoolboy--Draw nigh and commence;
It is no lesson--it lets down the bars to a good lesson,
And that to another, and every one to another still.

The great laws take and effuse without argument;
I am of the same style, for I am their friend,
I love them quits and quits--I do not halt, and make salaams.

I lie abstracted, and hear beautiful tales of things, and the reasons
of things; 10
They are so beautiful, I nudge myself to listen.

I cannot say to any person what I hear--I cannot say it to myself--it
is very wonderful.

It is no small matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so
exactly in its orbit forever and ever, without one jolt, or the
untruth of a single second;
I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years,
nor ten billions of years,
Nor plann'd and built one thing after another, as an architect plans
and builds a house.

I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman,
Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman,
Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.

Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one is immortal;
I know it is wonderful, but my eyesight is equally wonderful, and how
I was conceived in my mother's womb is equally wonderful; 20
And pass'd from a babe, in the creeping trance of a couple of summers
and winters, to articulate and walk--All this is equally
wonderful.

And that my Soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other
without ever seeing each other, and never perhaps to see each
other, is every bit as wonderful.

And that I can think such thoughts as these, is just as wonderful;
And that I can remind you, and you think them, and know them to be
true, is just as wonderful.

And that the moon spins round the earth, and on with the earth, is
equally wonderful,
And that they balance themselves with the sun and stars, is equally
wonderful.

poem by Walt Whitman
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Old Paul and Old Tim

When rival adorers come courting a maid,
There's something or other may often be said,
Why HE should be pitched upon rather than HIM.
This wasn't the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM.

No soul could discover a reason at all
For marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL;
Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,
Against marrying either - or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old,
They were equally timid and equally bold;
They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes -
Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young EMILY, I should have said,
"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,
Threescore at the least you are verging upon";
But I wasn't young EMILY. Let us get on.

No coward's blood ran in young EMILY'S veins,
Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;
At the rumours of battles all over the globe
He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in "Job."

He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise -
Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy's spies,
Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee -
For an eminent army-contractor was he.

So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,
Implored her between them at once to decide,
She told them she'd marry whichever might bring
Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.

They both went away with a qualified joy:
That coward, Old PAUL, chose a very small boy,
And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,
He set to work boxing that little boy's ears.

The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,
But the lion was roused, and Old PAUL didn't care;
He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked
Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.

Old TIM knew a trick worth a dozen of that,
So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.
"I'll cover myself with cheap glory - I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 2

LET PETER rejoice with the MOON FISH who keeps up the life in the waters by night.

Let Andrew rejoice with the Whale, who is array'd in beauteous blue and is a combination of bulk and activity.

Let James rejoice with the Skuttle-Fish, who foils his foe by the effusion of his ink.

Let John rejoice with Nautilus who spreads his sail and plies his oar, and the Lord is his pilot.

Let Philip rejoice with Boca, which is a fish that can speak.

Let Bartholomew rejoice with the Eel, who is pure in proportion to where he is found and how he is used.

Let Thomas rejoice with the Sword-Fish, whose aim is perpetual and strength insuperable.

Let Matthew rejoice with Uranoscopus, whose eyes are lifted up to God.

Let James the less, rejoice with the Haddock, who brought the piece of money for the Lord and Peter.

Let Jude bless with the Bream, who is of melancholy from his depth and serenity.

Let Simon rejoice with the Sprat, who is pure and innumerable.

Let Matthias rejoice with the Flying-Fish, who has a part with the birds, and is sublimity in his conceit.

Let Stephen rejoice with Remora -- The Lord remove all obstacles to his glory.

Let Paul rejoice with the Scale, who is pleasant and faithful!, like God's good ENGLISHMAN.

Let Agrippa, which is Agricola, rejoice with Elops, who is a choice fish.

Let Joseph rejoice with the Turbut, whose capture makes the poor fisher-man sing.

Let Mary rejoice with the Maid -- blessed be the name of the immaculate CONCEPTION.

Let John, the Baptist, rejoice with the Salmon -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for infant Baptism.

Let Mark rejoice with the Mullet, who is John Dore, God be gracious to him and his family.

Let Barnabus rejoice with the Herring -- God be gracious to the Lord's fishery.

Let Cleopas rejoice with the Mackerel, who cometh in a shoal after a leader.

Let Abiud of the Lord's line rejoice with Murex, who is good and of a precious tincture.

Let Eliakim rejoice with the Shad, who is contemned in his abundance.

Let Azor rejoice with the Flounder, who is both of the sea and of the river,

Let Sadoc rejoice with the Bleak, who playeth upon the surface in the Sun.

[...] Read more

poem by Christopher Smart
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You Played Yourself

Verse 1
This is it, dope from the fly kid
The ice mic is back with the high bid
Suckers youve lost cos players youre not, gangstas you aint
Youre faintin, punk, if you ever heard a gunshot
Yo, the pusher, the player, the pimp gangsta, the hustler
High roller, dead pres folder
Is cold lampin like a black king on a throne
Evil e...turn up the microphone
So I can ill and break on the rollin tape
Another album to make? great
Islam turn the bass kick up a bit
Hype the snare, now I got a place to sit
And ride the track like a black mack in his lac
Hit the corner slow where the girls are at
And kick game the way it should be done
How you gonna drop science? youre dumb
Stupid ignorant, dont even talk to me
At school you dropped math, science and history
And then you get on the mic and try to act smart
Well let me tell you one thing, you got heart
To perpetrate, youre bait, so just wait
Till the press shove a mic in your face
Or you meet boogie down or chuck d
Stetsasonic or the big daddy
And they ask you about the game you claim you got
Drop science now, why not?
You start to sweat and fret, it gets hot
Howd you get into this spot?
You played yourself...
Yo, yo, you played yourself...
Verse 2
Im no authority but I know the d-e-a-l
When it comes to dealin with the females
What you got they want, cash is what they need
Slip sucker and theyll break you with speed
But you meet a freak, you try to turn her out
Spendin moneys what Im talkin about
But you fool out, your pockets got blew out
And after the date, no boots, you got threw out
Mad and shook cos your duckets got took
Call her up, phones off the hook
But who told you to front and flaunt your grip?
You cant buy no relationship
You played yourself...
Yo, homeboy, you played yourself...
Verse 3
Im in the mc game, a lot of mcs front
And for the money theyre sell out stunts
But they claim that theyre rich and that they keep cash

[...] Read more

song performed by Ice T
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Pharsalia - Book IX: Cato

Yet in those ashes on the Pharian shore,
In that small heap of dust, was not confined
So great a shade; but from the limbs half burnt
And narrow cell sprang forth and sought the sky
Where dwells the Thunderer. Black the space of air
Upreaching to the poles that bear on high
The constellations in their nightly round;
There 'twixt the orbit of the moon and earth
Abide those lofty spirits, half divine,
Who by their blameless lives and fire of soul
Are fit to tolerate the pure expanse
That bounds the lower ether: there shall dwell,
Where nor the monument encased in gold,
Nor richest incense, shall suffice to bring
The buried dead, in union with the spheres,
Pompeius' spirit. When with heavenly light
His soul was filled, first on the wandering stars
And fixed orbs he bent his wondering gaze;
Then saw what darkness veils our earthly day
And scorned the insults heaped upon his corse.
Next o'er Emathian plains he winged his flight,
And ruthless Caesar's standards, and the fleet
Tossed on the deep: in Brutus' blameless breast
Tarried awhile, and roused his angered soul
To reap the vengeance; last possessed the mind
Of haughty Cato.

He while yet the scales
Were poised and balanced, nor the war had given
The world its master, hating both the chiefs,
Had followed Magnus for the Senate's cause
And for his country: since Pharsalia's field
Ran red with carnage, now was all his heart
Bound to Pompeius. Rome in him received
Her guardian; a people's trembling limbs
He cherished with new hope and weapons gave
Back to the craven hands that cast them forth.
Nor yet for empire did he wage the war
Nor fearing slavery: nor in arms achieved
Aught for himself: freedom, since Magnus fell,
The aim of all his host. And lest the foe
In rapid course triumphant should collect
His scattered bands, he sought Corcyra's gulfs
Concealed, and thence in ships unnumbered bore
The fragments of the ruin wrought in Thrace.
Who in such mighty armament had thought
A routed army sailed upon the main
Thronging the sea with keels? Round Malea's cape
And Taenarus open to the shades below
And fair Cythera's isle, th' advancing fleet

[...] Read more

poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

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poem by Alexander Pope
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It Comes - Part 6

(It is suggested that the reader reads Parts 1,2,3,4 and 5 first)

Naval fighters in the vicinity of the Coast Guard flight
last known position flew towards it.
Reaching the area, they noticed
the blue light moving north and commenced their first attack.
Rockets were fired.
Great fountains of water sprouted into the air
as the rockets exploded beneath the surface.
The blue light seemed unaffected
and continued moving northward.
A second attack was launched
and further fountains of water reached out of the sea.

Slowly the blue light got smaller
as the creature dived deeper under the waves.
The fighters returned to base
to be debriefed and have their aircraft refuelled and rearmed.
Military Chiefs concurred that the rockets exploded at depths,
which could not reach the creature.
The only other way was to time the rockets
to explode with delays.

Work began on modifying the rockets
on all search aircraft.
It was tried to estimate how far down
the creature would be swimming
and how long it would take the rockets to reach it.
Each night squadrons comprising of five aircraft to search the seas.

Another month passed before the blue light was again spotted.
Naval fighters from several different countries
moved towards the position.
The first five fighters there commenced their attack.
Rockets were fired hit the water caused splashes
without exploding.
The seconds passed as the aircraft
swooped upwards out of their dive.
As they reached the top of their climb,
the rockets exploded throwing up great fountains of water
and pieces of something.
As the sea calmed a large stain that appeared red
under the moonlight surrounded the area.
The blue light had disappeared.

Deep below the surface
eyes watched as bits of the creature gently floated down.
Some pieces were intercepted by sharks.
Their eyes closed in temporary sadness.

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poem by David Harris
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Pulling myself together for M'lady Ann Beard

In dreams I can communicate
with disparate parts of me.
I’m learning to appreciate.
The frightening complexity

Of the different parts of me.
Which I must balance constantly
A task I must face every day
so they combine to make me, me..

I am a father and a son.
I am a brother and a friend.
The endless list goes on and on.
It seems as though it has no end.

Somehow I manage to control
at least the parts on public view.
The scattered parts which make the whole
But still conceal a thing or two.

The parts of me I need to change.
I’m sure I can do given time.
Some parts of me are weird and strange.
Like creatures from an earlier time.

The Id tries to assert its will.
The ego sure to disagree.
The super ego bids them both be still.
I just accept they’re part of me.

When other people look at me.
I wonder if they wonder too
If they can see reality.
I am not certain that I do.

Wednesday,02 December 2009
http: //blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Book I - Part 05 - Character Of The Atoms

Bodies, again,
Are partly primal germs of things, and partly
Unions deriving from the primal germs.
And those which are the primal germs of things
No power can quench; for in the end they conquer
By their own solidness; though hard it be
To think that aught in things has solid frame;
For lightnings pass, no less than voice and shout,
Through hedging walls of houses, and the iron
White-dazzles in the fire, and rocks will burn
With exhalations fierce and burst asunder.
Totters the rigid gold dissolved in heat;
The ice of bronze melts conquered in the flame;
Warmth and the piercing cold through silver seep,
Since, with the cups held rightly in the hand,
We oft feel both, as from above is poured
The dew of waters between their shining sides:
So true it is no solid form is found.
But yet because true reason and nature of things
Constrain us, come, whilst in few verses now
I disentangle how there still exist
Bodies of solid, everlasting frame-
The seeds of things, the primal germs we teach,
Whence all creation around us came to be.
First since we know a twofold nature exists,
Of things, both twain and utterly unlike-
Body, and place in which an things go on-
Then each must be both for and through itself,
And all unmixed: where'er be empty space,
There body's not; and so where body bides,
There not at an exists the void inane.
Thus primal bodies are solid, without a void.
But since there's void in all begotten things,
All solid matter must be round the same;
Nor, by true reason canst thou prove aught hides
And holds a void within its body, unless
Thou grant what holds it be a solid. Know,
That which can hold a void of things within
Can be naught else than matter in union knit.
Thus matter, consisting of a solid frame,
Hath power to be eternal, though all else,
Though all creation, be dissolved away.
Again, were naught of empty and inane,
The world were then a solid; as, without
Some certain bodies to fill the places held,
The world that is were but a vacant void.
And so, infallibly, alternate-wise
Body and void are still distinguished,
Since nature knows no wholly full nor void.
There are, then, certain bodies, possessed of power

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poem by Lucretius
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Country Is Like A Body

When one part sick
All parts look unhealthy
When one part missing
All parts get the impact

When one part is weak
Do other parts only blame and not help to fix it?
When one part is failed
Do other parts only let it fall and not support it?

Even it is often forgotten
It doesn't mean it is not important
Even it is always underestimated
It doesn't mean it could completely be ignored

One part may be incapable
But it doesn't mean all parts can do nothing
One part may be invalid
But it doesn't mean all parts should also give up the spirit

In some incredible moment they are working together
In some unseen place they don't stop to struggle
It may be hard but always raises up the hope
It may be small change but always look forward

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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