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The man who gets drunk in peacetime is a coward. The man who gets drunk in wartime goes on being a coward.

quote by Jose Bergamin
Added by Lucian Velea
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Peacetime

We're living in peacetime—
floating and adrift in
an endless space
of instant materialization,
lɐǝɹǝɥʇǝ waves coasting on
the crystal rim
of our infrastructure,
impelled, jettisoned
through the jet steam
ɯɐsʇǝɾ of
a jocular lifestyle.
We're living in peacetime.

We refuse
to be roused
from out medicated slumber
slɐɔıɯǝɥɔ lɐɥʇǝl ɟo lıɐʇʞɔoɔ ɐ
suıǝʌ ɹno ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ƃuısɹnoɔ —
t̡͕͔̦̝̏̾̓̆r̞ͥ̂ͮ͂͝ë̯̱ͯͯ̽ͧ̓ḁ͇̱͓̣͚̭ͬc̥͍ͤ̓͐l̫ͯ̔ḛ ̿̕ ̣̤b͖ͭ͗̇̎̑̍l̂̓͏o̦̣̬͚̻͈̔o̸͖̩͉̖͔̲͎̐ͬ̀̐̇̎d͔̥̝̖̹̲̻̿̃̂f ̖̗̳̓ͮ̊̈͌͘lͪͬͥỏ̺̩͖̩̼̱̽̉̀w̱͉͕̙̲͂͊̂͊
pǝʇɐɔɔısǝp'pǝʇɐssıdsuı
perennially cubed
contamination
a mordant climate forming:
fever-pitch ʇ͖͙͠s̸͍̗̲͎̙̳ı̶͙̫̪ǝ̙̫̞͖̲ƃ̱̝͓͖̰̦̩͝ ʇ̢ı͝ǝ͈̺ẓ̗̺̀ ̜̥͉̮̀z̰̯ɯ̘̬̫͖͎̳̟ɹ͕̠̖ǝ̱͉̼͈͇ͅͅɥɔ͚̼͖sʇ̢̗̱̩̜̗͍ḻǝ͍̱ͅʍ̸
sickness ƃuıllǝʍs ƃ̪̭̰͈̥̹̕u̖͕̰̼͓͓̳ı͏ll͖͇͘ǝ͓̝ʍ̪͢s̨̰̻ ƃ̸̻̤̬̯̖̺̦̬̭̝̩̲̖̟̰̞̲́͢͠ù̴̶̷̥̯̣͓̫͚̻̻̳̣͈̟̫͍̜͎͚͓̥ı̴͔̝ ̳͍̟͜ĺ̨̤͇̲̳͚̝̖̘͔̥̖̹̩̫̺̳̞́͘l̡͢͝҉͈̭͈̦̞̥̫̳̙͇̝͚͔̪̣̫͓͙͎ ͢ǝ̀҉̡͕̱̙̗̙̟͕̩̻̪̰̤͇͜ʍ̡͉͇͓̯̞̹̯̩̮͔̦͓͜ͅś͚͎̯̤̘͢͞͞
i n our heads;
a jumbled abjuration,
abeyance— ǝɔuɐés 'ou —
for existence.
Sleep now,
we're living in peacetime.

We're deaf to
nature's gnarled cachinnate,
eschewed its guttural
ɔıɟǝlɐɯ
ǝuıuɹnʇɐs snarl, replaced
our Adonai—
o̙̰̫̼̍̇̋̑͗u̖̗̙͎͚̮̝͛ͧ̃r̝̟̱͓̪̝̥̝̲̬̃̐̑ͫ ̄̏̄ͬ̊̌̈ ̭͚͍͍̭̣̬͇̰͕͖̈͛͂̔̋ͩͯͧ̔ṭ̭̥̇͊͊̒͐̍̾̔͑ͣ̓͐ͥ̋͑͂͒r͇͉̠͇͔͆ͥͥ ͑ͪͨu̙̲̯͓̺̻͔̤͚̯̰͊ͥ̊̂̓̓ͥt͇̩̭̘͕͈͖̞̦̙̮̮̘̖̩̘̮̻̽̂͐ͤ̉͆͌̓ ͮ̐̿̊̀͛ͪ̿̍̄h̺͚͇̤̣̬̳̫̰͉͚̫ͤ̈́̑͐s͕͖͉͖͔͕̟̺͇͍͚̠ͣ̅́͊ͬ͛̏̽ ̒̆͗̑ͩ ̗͕͉̞̥̰͙͙̈́͛͆̌͑͐̑͑̔t̯̳̙̘̦̭͈̣͖̹͙̪ͭͫ̑͆͆̐̎ͣ́͑̎ͅr̠͍͕̦͍ ̰̰ͣ͌̂̑͆o̮͖̜̱͖̫̙̟̺ͫ͋͐̊̍̋ͮm͍̩̺̪̦̣̘͚̜͓̞̬̒̋́̓ͮ̌̀͂͌̉͑ͬ p̬̱̠͔̬͉͎̙̼͕̖̥̝ͤ̔͆̏͐ͪ̑ͬ̑̅̑̓̏ͨ̅̓ȇ͖̹̖̺̖̻̮̲̳̯͊ͣ̓̑̐ͧ ̳͍̤̬̯̞͕͂̽̀͌̅̈́ͦͭͤͯͬ̉l̩͍̰͖̠͉̅̽̅ͧ͒͗ͦͦ̏̆̋̓ͅē̝̣͈̩̣̱̟̙ ͎̰̖͕ͣ̆ͭ͗̆̇̋ͩͩ̑̾ͤͣ̔͒̒ͮ͆ͅ-͇̣̪̻̠̦̬̥̣̲̹͔̊ͤ̒́ͩ̒͐ͤõ̪̻̳̤ ͔̰̟̼̻̋̓̂͗̀͗͑e̥͈͖̤͔̙̠̘̟͇̩̬̘̒̾̋͋ͭ̓͗͛͊͌ͧͅì̬̮̘ͯͬͤ̎̾ͣ̊ ͨ͗̑̈̆ͪ̀̿̚ͅl̟̤̝̙̼͖͔̊͛̿̎̈́̈́ͪ̎ͧ͆̏̑̃̉͗̇ͩ͂̒ —
for anodyne automatons
that supplant sylvan landscapes—
spnolɔ ǝʇǝɹɔuoɔ ɟo ǝuılʎʞs.
We substitute community
for its datapoints
in an advertising algorithms.
We're living in peacetime.

We're living in peacetime,
accepting that loss is forever.
Lethean padded coffins for us, calling

[...] Read more

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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Dont Drive Drunk

He and his wife have had problems
That hes played off like nothings wrong
til he comes home from work early
Just to find the girl is gone
Oh but he gets into the cupboard
Picks out that bottle of gin
Drinks like theres no tomorrow
And decides to take a spin
No dont drive drunk
Dont drive drunk, no
Dont drive drunk
Mothers against drunk drivers are mad
Teenager at a live party
Says, give me one for the road
But hes already so inebriated
If you lit a smoke hed explode
But bartender says, I dont think so
Young one says, I can deal
Staggering out he says, check you all later
But I really dont think he will
No dont drive drunk
Dont drive drunk, no
Dont drive drunk
Mothers against drunk drivers are mad
(repeat)
(background)
Dont drive drunk
D-d-d dont drive drunk
Dont drive drunk
Hicup
(repeat)
Boy out with girl on their first date
Gets pulled over by the law
Officer says, hey cant you drive straight
Or have you been drinking alcohol?
Boy says, man are you crazy?
Cop says, hey then walk this line
But results from the breathalizer
Proves hes charged with d.u.i.
No dont drive drunk
Dont drive drunk, no
Dont drive drunk
Mothers against drunk drivers are mad
(repeat)
(background)
Dont drive drunk
D-d-d dont drive drunk
Dont drive drunk
Hicup
(repeat)

song performed by Stevie Wonder
Added by Lucian Velea
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Give The Po Man A Break

Give po man a break
Give po man a break
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a
Give po man a

[...] Read more

song performed by Fatboy Slim
Added by Lucian Velea
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Smalltime Shot Away

3d :
Tucked it in
Dropped a lie
Turn me off
(I travel I travel)
We never leave each other cause we leave each other so cold
It makes a madder way
The easy part is taking yourself in
Its wartime every time
A shot away
Wipe the smile from your face
Its getting in the way
Its wartime every time
She caught me on a lie and she turned me off
She made it cold
You couldnt do it if you wanted to
(believe me believe me)
Its wartime every time
Small talk every time
Its my favourite chloroform
Its pillow talk every time
Get it out the way
Friction war
Shot away
Ricochet
Were like identical twins
Sucking on the same teat
Spitting out the same things
(I travel far, I travel far)
Its wartime every time
Small talk every time
Its my favourite chloroform
Its pillow talk every time
Getting out the way
Friction war
Ricochet
Lineem up and knockem down
A shot away
A shot away
A shot away
A shot away

song performed by Massive Attack
Added by Lucian Velea
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Satan Absolved

(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)
Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts,--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child.

[Laughs. I have come to make my peace, to crave a full amaun,
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers--drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil--doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity
The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.
It was at least the truth, the whole truth, I foresaw
When He must needs create that simian ``in His own
Image and likeness.'' Faugh! the unseemly carrion!
I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,
No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.
Oh, I will serve Him well!
[Certain Angels approach. But who are these that come
With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?
Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,
Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!
Sob almost in God's sight! ay, real salt human tears,
Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.
The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation
When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.
Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath
Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death
Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,
Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven's hall
And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.
Not Michael's self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.
Yet all now wail aloud.--What ails ye, brethren? Speak!
Are ye too in rebellion? Angels. Satan, no. But weak
With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.

Satan. Ye have in truth good cause.

Angels. And we would know God's plan,
His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why
Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.

Fayne snatched for it and missed;

Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small

Finely cut features in a dance of delight;

Fayne with one sweep flung at his face

All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Lost Horizons

The last horizons I can see are filled with bars and factories
And in them all we fight to stay awake...
Drink enough of anything to make this world look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
She had nothing left to say so she said she loved me
I stood there grateful for the lie...
Drink enough of anything to make this girl look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
Turn summer trees to bones and ice
Turn insect songs against the night
With words we build and words we break
Im drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves...
Drink enough of anything to make myself look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves

song performed by Gin Blossoms
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Mother's Lesson

Come hither an' sit on my knee, Willie,
Come hither an' sit on my knee,
An' list while I tell how your brave brither fell,
Fechtin' for you an' for me:
Fechtin' for you an' for me, Willie,
Wi' his guid sword in his han'.
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!

Ye min' o' your ain brither dear, Willie,
Ye min' o' your ain brither dear,
How he pettled ye aye wi' his pliskies an' play,
An' was aye sae cantie o' cheer:
Aye sae cantie o' cheer, Willie,
As he steppit sae tall an' sae gran',
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.

D'ye min' when the bull had ye doun, Willie,
D'ye min' when the bull had ye doun?
D'ye min' wha grippit ye fra the big bull,
D'ye min' o' his muckle red woun'?
D'ye min' o' his muckle red woun', Willie,
D'ye min' how the bluid doun ran?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.

D'ye min' when we a' wanted bread, Willie,
the year when we a' wanted bread?
How he smiled when he saw the het parritch an' a',
An' gaed cauld an' toom to his bed:
Gaed awa' toom to his bed, Willie,
For the love o' wee Willie an' Nan?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!

Next simmer was bright but an' ben, Willie,
Next simmer was bright but an' ben,
When there cam a gran' cry like a win' strang an' high
By loch, an' mountain, an' glen:
By loch, an' mountain, an' glen, Willie,
The cry o' a far forrin lan',
An' up loupit ilka brave man, Willie,
Up loupit ilka brave man.

[...] Read more

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I'm A Coward

I ain't afraid of no lions
I ain't afraid of no grizzly bear
I got in a wrestlin' match with old king kong
He didn't even muss my hair
There's just one thing in the whole wide world
That make me doubt my stuff
I'm a coward when it comes to love
Now bring down old hulk hogan
King kong bundy too
Bring down old big mike tyson
I'll show them what a real man can do
They say the tougher' get goin'
Now baby that's when the goin' get tough
But i'm a coward when it comes to love
I'm a coward when it comes to love
I'm a coward when it comes to love
You can bring on a different sexy girl
At every night of the week
Buddy that's okay
But i start tremblin', my knees get weak
Whenever i hear her say
"do you love me baby?"
"do you love me baby?"
"do you love me baby?"
I got a muscle of iron
I got another muscle made of steel
But when we start kissin' 'n' huggin'
You may be the bravest man in the whole wide world
But buddy, that ain't enough
I'm a coward when it comes to love
I'm a coward when it comes to love
I'm a coward when it comes to love

song performed by Bruce Springsteen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Good Night, My Darlings

When life gives a bum rap, don’t kvetch and don’t bitch,
for weeping solves nothing, it’s better to chortle
when forced to strike out once delivered the pitch
that tells us the game’s up since we’re only mortal.

“Good night, my darlings, I’ll see you tomorrow, ”
the famous last lines of Sir Noël, no coward,
are well worth recalling when, grieving with sorrow,
despair grows like weeds in the hearts when joy flowered.

John Simon reviews “The Letters of Noël Coward, ” edited with commentary by Barry Day (“Sir Noël’s Epistles, ” NYT Book Review, November 25,2007) :
The astute English critic Kenneth Tynan identified Broadway humor as being chiefly of two kinds: Jewish and homosexual. He might have called it kvetch and bitch, perfectly good types, but not really British. Noël Coward, who was only one of those two things, specialized in neither type in his oeuvre. He kept it all for his correspondence. So “The Letters of Noël Coward, ” edited and commented on by Barry Day, may come as a surprise to most readers. It abounds in both kinds of humor, as only Sir Noël (knighted very late in life owing to obstruction by Winston Churchill) could dish it out. But it follows like Day the knight that, given the editor’s several books of Cowardiana, what we get is much more than just Coward’s letters, however delectable…
As Tynan perceptively wrote, “Coward took the fat off English comic dialogue; he was the Turkish bath in which it slimmed.” In 1973, at a gala performance of the revue “Oh, Coward! , ” he made his last public appearance (I was there) . Leaning on Dietrich more than escorting her, he was asked if he enjoyed the show. Answer: “One does not laugh at one’s own jokes — but I went out humming the tunes.” On the closing night of his life, in Jamaica with his secretary Cole Lesley and his companion, the actor Graham Payn, he took leave with, “Good night, my darlings, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dead on the morrow, he didn’t get to see them. But we, happily, will see him in his immortal plays, as another famous Scotsman put it, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

11/26/07

poem by Gershon Hepner
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The White Cliffs

I
I have loved England, dearly and deeply,
Since that first morning, shining and pure,
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover,
I was a traveller, the guest of a week;
Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover',
Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger,
Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger,
Only the English are really her own.

II
It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—
Lives there a novel-reader who has not
At some time wept for those delightful girls,
Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls,
In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques,
Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks
Hearts just as hot - hotter perhaps than those
Whose owners now abandon hats and hose?
Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill
Loving against her noble parent's will
A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm
Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm
At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night
Before his regiment goes off to fight;
And see him the next morning, in the park,
Complete in busbee, marching to embark.
I had read freely, even as a child,
Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde
But many novels of an earlier day—
Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey,
Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's Red As a Rose,
Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows
What others. Now, I thought, I was to see
Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee,
I cared for none and no one cared for me.

III
A light blue carpet on the stair
And tall young footmen everywhere,
Tall young men with English faces
Standing rigidly in their places,
Rows and rows of them stiff and staid

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poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Sea & Sand

Here by the sea and sand
Here by the sea and sand
Nothing ever goes as planned,
Nothing ever goes as planned,
I just couldnt face going home
I just couldnt face going home
It was just a drag on my own.
It was just a drag on my own.
They finally threw me out
They finally threw me out
My mother got drunk on stout,
My mother got drunk on stout,
My dad couldnt stand on two feet,
My dad couldnt stand on two feet,
As he lectured about morality.
As he lectured about morality.
Now I guess the families complete,
Now I guess the families complete,
With me hanging round on the street
With me hanging round on the street
Or here on the beach.
Or here on the beach.
The girl I love
The girl I love
Is a perfect dresser,
Is a perfect dresser,
Wears every fashion
Wears every fashion
Gets it to the tee.
Gets it to the tee.
Heavens above,
Heavens above,
I got to match her
I got to match her
She knows just how
She knows just how
She wants her man to be
She wants her man to be
Leave it to me.
Leave it to me.
My jackets gonna be cut slim and checked
My jackets gonna be cut slim and checked
Maybe a touch of seersucker with an open neck
Maybe a touch of seersucker with an open neck
I ride a g.s. scooter with my hair cut neat
I ride a g.s. scooter with my hair cut neat
I wear my wartime coat in the wind and sleet.
I wear my wartime coat in the wind and sleet.
I see her dancing
I see her dancing

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song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gotham - Book II

How much mistaken are the men who think
That all who will, without restraint may drink,
May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst,
Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,
At the pure waters of the living well,
Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!
Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,
A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy
May play untaught, whilst, without art or force,
Make it but jingle, music comes of course.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains,
The daily, nightly racking of the brains,
To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,
To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;
To know the times when Humour on the cheek
Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak,
And when be silent; when to use the powers
Of ornament, and how to place the flowers,
So that they neither give a tawdry glare,
'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;'
To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one,
One critic in an age, can find when done)
To form a plan, to strike a grand outline,
To fill it up, and make the picture shine
A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme
Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time;
To make proud Sense against her nature bend,
And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend.
Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe,
Who make it all their business to describe,
No matter whether in or out of place;
Studious of finery, and fond of lace,
Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings,
The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings.
Let dull Propriety in state preside
O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide;
Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence
Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense,
Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime
Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time.
Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon,
With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon;
Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore,
Let streams meander, and let torrents roar;
Let them breed up the melancholy breeze,
To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees;
Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged
With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed,
They have their wish; like idle monarch boys,
Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys;

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poem by Charles Churchill
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Get Drunk Tonight

I wanna get drunk tonight
get drunk, so drunk
and travel beyond time
where I can see my youth
only my youth
where you were so in love with me
and I was so in love with you.

I wanna get drunk tonight
get drunk, so drunk
and travel beyond eternity
where I can see you and I
no one else
but you and I
loving each other.

I wanna get drunk tonight
get drunk, so drunk
so you will carry me
hold me
in your arms
and lay me beside you
till morning comes...

poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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The Fyftene Loyes Of Maryage

Somer passed/and wynter well begone
The dayes shorte/the darke nyghtes longe
Haue taken season/and brynghtnes of the sonne
Is lytell sene/and small byrdes songe
Seldon is herde/in feldes or wodes ronge
All strength and ventue/of trees and herbes sote
Dyscendynge be/from croppe in to the rote

And euery creature by course of kynde
For socoure draweth to that countre and place
Where for a tyme/they may purchace and fynde
Conforte and rest/abydynge after grace
That clere Appolo with bryghtnes of his face
Wyll sende/whan lusty ver shall come to towne
And gyue the grounde/of grene a goodly gowne

And Flora goddesse bothe of whyte and grene
Her mantell large/ouer all the erthe shall sprede
Shewynge her selfe/apparayled lyke a quene
As well in feldes/wodes/as in mede
Hauynge so ryche a croune vpon her hede
The whiche of floures/shall be so fayre and bryght
That all the worlde/shall take therof a lyght

So now it is/of late I was desyred
Out of the trenche to drawe a lytell boke
Of .xv. Ioyes/of whiche though I were hyred
I can not tell/and yet I vndertoke
This entrepryse/with a full pyteous loke
Remembrynge well/the case that stode in
Lyuynge in hope/this wynter to begyn

Some Ioyes to fynde that be in maryage
For in my youth/yet neuer acquayntaunce
Had of them but now in myn olde aege
I trust my selfe/to forther and auaunce
If that in me/there lacke no suffysaunce
Whiche may dyspleasyr/clerely set a parte
I wante but all/that longeth to that arte

yet wyll I speke/though I may do no more
Fully purposynge/in all these Ioyes to trete
Accordynge to my purpose made to fore
All be it so/I can not well forgete
The payne/trauayle/besynes and hete

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Example of Vertu : Cantos I.-VII.

Here begynneth the boke called the example of vertu.

The prologe.

Whan I aduert in my remembraunce
The famous draughtes of poetes eloquent
Whiche theyr myndes dyd well enhaunce
Bokes to contryue that were expedyent
To be remembred without Impedyment
For the profyte of humanyte
This was the custume of antyquyte.
I now symple and moost rude
And naked in depured eloquence
For dulnes rethoryke doth exclude
Wherfore in makynge I lake intellygence
Also consyderynge my grete neglygence
It fereth me sore for to endyte
But at auenture I wyll now wryte.
As very blynde in the poetys art
For I therof can no thynge skyll
Wherfore I lay it all a part
But somwhat accordynge to my wyll
I wyll now wryte for to fulfyll
Saynt Powles wordes and true sentement
All that is wryten is to oure document
O prudent Gower in langage pure
Without corrupcyon moost facundyous
O noble Chauser euer moost sure
Of frutfull sentence ryght delycyous
O vertuous Lydgat moche sentencyous
Unto you all I do me excuse
Though I your connynge do now vse
Explicit prologus.

Capitulum Primsi.
In Septembre in fallynge of the lefe
Whan phebus made his declynacyon
And all the whete gadred was in the shefe
By radyaunt hete and operacyon
Whan the vyrgyn had full domynacyon
And Dyane entred was one degre
Into the sygne of Gemyne
Whan the golden sterres clere were splendent
In the firmament puryfyed clere as crystall
By imperyall course without incombrement
As Iuppyter and Mars that be celestyall
With Saturne and Mercury that wer supernall
Myxt with venus that was not retrograte
That caused me to be well fortunate
In a slombrynge slepe with slouth opprest

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poem by Stephen Hawes
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