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Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

quote by Peter De Vries
Added by Lucian Velea
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To The Aggies Of Ateneo De Davao Around The World

nostalgia is the word for all these now
we have the urge to look out the window and find
who we were: the joys of the college years that will tickle us
old friends and their memories like innocent children
coming on our laps asking for our embraces
old pictures make our hearts shrink a little only to grow
bigger like a bread from the pan
fresh and fuming with the flavor of wheat

nostalgia is the word for it
and time is its mother that nourishes with its milk
the past comes to us always with something greener
and a breather of mint and rosemary
some peppers and honeyed lemonades

nostalgia is the word for it
when our wings have gone far beyond the lands of our births
dissolving in the horizons of other lands
when our chirps are gone

nostalgia is the word for it
when we come back stronger this time and lovelier
with our wounds that healed
with our pains that lost its trick

nostalgia is the word for it
such is she a beautiful woman still even though the hairs have turned gray
and the breasts sag and the bones rattling like brittle sticks

nostalgia is the word for it and no matter where the winds of this world
and its cyclones and waves have taken us
we are back looking for the glitter of each other's eyes
and then we laugh and then the world has heard us

yes, nostalgia is the word that people seldom use
as they move on with their respective lives

but we are here once again
nostalgia is the theme, it is here and soon it will leave
we are once again full even for once

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lejos De Ti

English lyrics by karen
Morris, toronto, canada
This song is more of a stright forward vallenato song with the blend of forging instruments, such as the steel string guitar, a cuban "tres" cuban "clave", and a snare drum.
T;lejos de ti" talks about being apart from the person you love and all the feelings that arise from your loneliness. this song says " with all the love from my soul i wait for you
Year and i wish to tell you with my guitar, all my feelings for you. i love you, i'm always dreaming of you, and without your love i'm dying.... but i'll keep waiting for you".
Tengo las cuerdans de mi guitarra
I have the stings of my guitar
Tengo la noche y tengo mi voz
I have the night and i have my voice
Para entregarte con toda el alma
With which to deliver to you with all my soul
Las dulces notas de mi cancin
The sweetness of my song.
Son las tretezas y la nostalgia
My song is sadness and nostalgia,
Las amargarte del corazn
And the bitterness of the heart.
Son tus recuerdos en la distancia
They are the memories of you at a distance
Los que me llenande inspiracin
That fill me with inspiration.
----------
Coro:
Con todo el amor del alma
With all the love of my soul
Te espero en el ao nuevo
I wait for you in the new year.
Y quiero con mi guitarra
And i want to tell you with my guitar that
Decirte lo que yo siento
You are the one for whom i wait.
Que siempre te estoy queriendo
I want to tell you that i am always wanting you
Que siempre te estoy soando
And am always dreaming of you.
Sin ti yo me estoy muriendo
Without you i am dying.
Pero te sigo esperando
But, still, i am waiting for you.
-----------
Tengo la brisa por mi ventana
The breeze that flows through my window
Que me acaricia como tu voz
Caresses me like the tenderness of your voice,
Tengo gravadas dentro del alma
Imprinted on my soul are the memories of
Las dulces huellas de tu pasin
Your tender and sincere passion.
Voy sumergiendome en la nostalgia
I get lost in the nostalgia

[...] Read more

song performed by Gloria Estefan
Added by Lucian Velea
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It's Better With The Good Eye

Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be,
Looking back at oh so far away.
Memory’s just another way to see.

A place to go on holiday for free,
Forty years ago if it’s a day.
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.

And was that other person really me,
What changed, why could I not stay?
Memory’s just another way to see

The way things were around us then when we
Thought all our dreams were surely on their way.
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be,

The sky was always blue it seemed to me,
Every day the sun shone so they say -
Memory’s just another way to see,

But now I know that life’s not lunch for free
That bitter fruit is served on many days
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be,
Memory’s just another way to see.

Martin Swords
“Prompt Poems”
Villanelle
March 2008

poem by Martin Swords
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The Chronicles of Nostalgia Part 1 Pick up Something... a memory

Amidst the pain i crawled and reached for
The pocket knife, suddenly a memory to abhor
Slipped through my hands into my mind
I swatted it away along with the flashback I tried to find
My flashbang, for i was sweating anticipating the next enemy
As soon as my fingers impacted the surface a memory did come
A memory of her, but
She is gone... I must forget... I feel confused... must
I just chased my memories around and
Around, but when i got to the end there was a sting
Of pain and angst and a pang of my nostalgia
With shackles of my shadow I once was, I cannot sing
The tune
Of life nor rejoice with love in June
No, school seems just a s hollow
This poem is a personal self pit wallow
This is the tune of nostalgia
Sometimes it has repercussion, others times
After just one rhyme
Life and pain drift away
This very day
Today hear the ballad of those whose
Nostalgia is malignant.

poem by David Knox
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A Place With No Name

“They tell me you are wicked and I believe them…”
— Carl Sandburg, “Chicago”

This is place with no name,
an imagined ideal, nostalgia
wearing bib overalls, chewing
grass stems, herding cattle,
shearing creamy black-faced
lambs. We carry buckets full
of myths and great expectations.

She hungers for the flavor of buffalo, longs for fresh bones, cougar tracks, wolf dens, the scorch of rapid flames escorting one season into the next, total exchange of life for life, of death for hope.
This is neither fairytale nor ancient pastoral, neither romanticism nor barefoot babes—It is Kinsella’s antipastoral in America.
It is coyotes and coydogs lurking behind walls of fiery thistle, luring pups through horseweeds to razor sharp traps with whimpers and pledges of friendship.

I have seen the earth swallow her own children.
I have seen the sun drink until there was nothing left for the land, until the sunflowers hung their heads in shame and wept dry black tears.

I hear nightly incantations of this place, it howls sober songs—I hear the hollow sounds of owls that warn, the cry of cold winds that begin and end every year—
The indifferent frogs chorus through lightening and spring snow—they think only of their children.
I feel her opening up to swallow again—she baits the trap with illusions of splendor, with promises she will not keep—her hunger never satisfied.
She is my grandmother, my mother, your mother, our sister, the apparition from whom we can hide no better than the prince of Denmark. She speaks in a strange language. We lean in to listen—the bait.

This place still has no name.
The nostalgia rusts.
No one wears overalls anymore.
You must know what the owl means.

The old children throw their weapons to the surface in the wake of silver blades, in the bed of that ash which still remains, in the bed where life meets itself—the old women break their dishes against her surface.
The new children cast themselves into her arms—momentarily quench her thirst with tears—they wait for her to yawn.
Cattle are raised in muddy lots. Pigs never see the grass, never the sun, just grated floors and the pretentious hands that mock her grace.

I have seen the red of factories flow through creeks into ponds and wells. I have seen them celebrate their victories and she will not call out to them—she rejects their bitterness. They are sleeping pills, bad drugs.
I see a dead thing on the road. I know the ringed tail, the hoofed leg, the long snout, the white-gray fur, the domestication gone wrong. The vulture is grateful for our mistakes.

The indifferent frogs sing.
Still. The grass has cancer.
We only think of lambs on Easter.
These buckets are getting too heavy.
I cannot tell a lie.

I killed the tree, used it for books that I bought and never read, used it for walls I take for granted, for heat I could have lived without.
I ate the pig, fed the cattle to my children—we used their bodies for shoes, hats, manufactured food for feral cats and roaming hounds.
I leaned in to hear her faint voice whisper. I tried to kiss her, pulled away when she drew me near, stretched toward her again to hear a family secret.
I fed the vultures a skunk, a raccoon, an armadillo, and two cats that I threw into her long weeds.

I chew her poisonous stems, flirt with her cancer, taunt and dare it, engage it in a war where there can be no victor but her, in a battle I expect to win.

We carry buckets full of
myths and great expectations.

[...] Read more

poem by Jane L. Carman
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My life is very exciting now. Nostalgia for what? It's like climbing a staircase. I'm on the top of the staircase, I look behind and see the steps. That's where I was. We're here right now. Tomorrow, we'll be someplace else. So why nostalgia?

quote by Jeanne Moreau
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I don't play nostalgia acts. I don't play nostalgia shows.

quote by David Cassidy
Added by Lucian Velea
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From The Banks Of Ganga: IX

Colourful petals
Yellow, ochre, white
Red and green
Halt a while around me:

Moments of present ecstasy
Nostalgia of yester years
And future days

Surrounded by chilling waters
My body quivers in chillness
When will it turn into a cold mass?
Will it then recall petals of nostalgia…?

I slip into my future moments of oblivion
My body flowing with the rapidity of Ganga

I don't know!
I can't say!

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Lejos De Ti (Far From You)

English lyrics by karen
Morris, toronto, canada
This song is more of a stright forward vallenato song with the blend of forging instruments, such as the steel string guitar, a cuban "tres" cuban "clave", and a snare drum.
T;lejos de ti" talks about being apart from the person you love and all the feelings that arise from your loneliness. this song says " with all the love from my soul I wait for you
Year and I wish to tell you with my guitar, all my feelings for you. I love you, Im always dreaming of you, and without your love Im dying.... but ill keep waiting for you".
Tengo las cuerdans de mi guitarra
I have the stings of my guitar
Tengo la noche y tengo mi voz
I have the night and I have my voice
Para entregarte con toda el alma
With which to deliver to you with all my soul
Las dulces notas de mi cancin
The sweetness of my song.
Son las tretezas y la nostalgia
My song is sadness and nostalgia,
Las amargarte del corazn
And the bitterness of the heart.
Son tus recuerdos en la distancia
They are the memories of you at a distance
Los que me llenande inspiracin
That fill me with inspiration.
----------
Coro:
Con todo el amor del alma
With all the love of my soul
Te espero en el ao nuevo
I wait for you in the new year.
Y quiero con mi guitarra
And I want to tell you with my guitar that
Decirte lo que yo siento
You are the one for whom I wait.
Que siempre te estoy queriendo
I want to tell you that I am always wanting you
Que siempre te estoy soando
And am always dreaming of you.
Sin ti yo me estoy muriendo
Without you I am dying.
Pero te sigo esperando
But, still, I am waiti

song performed by Gloria Estefan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Television

Before that sacred holy flickering tv-screen
You're served commercials day-time fakes and tv-priests
You keep your VCR running almost constantly
Afraid to miss out on something happening on channel three
You zap from channel one to two look what they have done to you
You live from staged realities and fakes
Channel three then four and five you double check your tv-guide
Re-enacted lives to keep you awake
Life is served
Here every taste will find our satisfaction guarantee
On the never sleeping flickering screen
You keep watching this truly weird masquarade
The flickering screen enchants you your truly all enslaved
Nostalgia sports and comedies, cops cartoons and tragedies
Remote control at hand you sit enslaved
Washing powder and apple pies re-runs soaps and Jesus Christ
Anytime is time to zap the world away
Life is served...
We're your tellyvisions
You zap from channel one to two...
Nostalgia sports and comedies...
Life is served...

song performed by Quorthon
Added by Lucian Velea
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On The Last Hour....

incoherent
hour

nostalgia vomiting
nostalgia

hands wrap your
body of
hands

desire is gone
welcome

total blankness
you leave everything

to God to
God

switch to switch
turns off.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The religious hatred

Muslims and Christians
Who are converts of Hindus,
Have got no nostalgia that
They were once Hindus
As Hindus who were converts
Of Jain or Buddhists,
Having no nostalgia that
They were Jain or Buddhists.
Temples were replaced by mosques
As shrines of Jain and Buddha
Had been replaced by temples.
Religions destroyed brotherliness
04.05.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Notforgettin'

Before that sacred holy flickering tv-screen
You're served commercials day-time fakes and tv-priests
You keep your VCR running almost constantly
Afraid to miss out on something happening on channel three
You zap from channel one to two look what they have done to you
You live from staged realities and fakes
Channel three then four and five you double check your tv-guide
Re-enacted lives to keep you awake
Life is served
Here every taste will find our satisfaction guarantee
On the never sleeping flickering screen
You keep watching this truly weird masquarade
The flickering screen enchants you your truly all enslaved
Nostalgia sports and comedies, cops cartoons and tragedies
Remote control at hand you sit enslaved
Washing powder and apple pies re-runs soaps and Jesus Christ
Anytime is time to zap the world away
Life is served...
We're your tellyvisions
You zap from channel one to two...
Nostalgia sports and comedies...
Life is served...

song performed by Quorthon
Added by Lucian Velea
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Memory Will Endure (Revised)

‘Cent Mille Chansons’ stirs memory, beautiful
voice, melody of such bitter-sweet nostalgia, a
whispering spirit crying in the cupboard: no drag
worm relates stories of new knights and dragons

Just dream sustained characters who take their
bows, spirits bolstered by lyrics of this song, there
always will be a hundred thousand loves – and
castles and stars to remain untouched by us

One hundred thousand horizons of love, we shall
add new another romance as we join a hundred
thousand lovers in the blue sphere of earth; the
world will never need to know –

but memory endures a hundred thousand years
in my sensitive soul

[ORIGINAL: ]

Listening to Cent Mille Chansons stirred a memory:
a beautiful voice, a melody conveying such bitter-
sweet nostalgia - the whispering spirit in the cup-
board crying: there is no dragworm to tell me a
new story of knights and dragons

Just dreams sustain as my characters take their bows,
the spirit bolstered by the lyrics of this song, there
always will be a hundred thousand loves; castles
and stars will remain untouched by us in this
ocean of love, there will always be

A hundred thousand horizons, we shall add another
romance as we join a hundred thousand lovers in
the blue sphere of the earth; the world will never
know - but the memory will endure a hundred
thousand years in my sensitive soul...

1.Lyrics “Cent Mille Chansons” Frida Boccara

Il y aura cent mille chansons
Quand viendra le temps des cent mille saisons
Cent mille amoureux
Pareils à nous deux
Dans le lit tout bleu de la terre
Cent mille chansons rien qu'à nous
Cent mille horizons devant nous
Partagés de bonheur

[...] Read more

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Segments Of A Circle

The stained-glass sky flounces and shatters
As the wonder of the night scintillates
Upon the sleeping skin of a promenade
In the circlet roads of a silent ballet

Light perched foots steps trample upon
The maladroit blotches of the porch lights
And beneath the maw of the waxing moon
Was the silhouette of a gaudy woman

She would always be the same woman
In her sapid vagueness, no peculiarities
No sobriquets, no facades, no niceties;
A plummeting ballet herself

She is always in the equipoise of my eyelids
At the beginning and end of rainy days
Quaffing the gray sketches of the atmosphere
Riding the blue winds of tranquilized euphoria

She is always out there like the chirps of a sparrow
Whenever the moon laze in her eiderdown couch
She would be leaning effulgently to kiss the stars
That incinerates with her enigma

Sometimes she would be tender like a conch's whisper
A surging lullaby standing by the bedpost
Crooning in the veranda and the breaking tides
In harmony with the sirens' song

Sometimes she would be a nightmare
A phantom crumpling every reverie
A pristine picture clawed by dementia
Pinned into the frangible ceiling

The nostalgia slumbering in her brittle bones,
The wonder combing her coal tresses,
And the buoyant nights in her screaming palms
Sometimes, I think I know this woman

Before the sun rise and set in the roof beams
I do try to cipher her riddling phantasm
A void silhouette with a potent effect
A salient ballet injured in a pirouette

Time after time, a voice behind the blear
Would wake me from this saccharine dream
Before the steely teeth of veracity would notch
And spray the poison in a treacle cup

[...] Read more

poem by Norman Santos
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Dreaming Upon the Open Air of Endless Possibilities

Towards the sky,
Dreams lay breathless
Pausing for beautiful serenity
Resting at ease
Amongst the essence of endless possibilities
Blessed by the visions that have yet to be achieved
Prospecting visions upon a deep thought provoking venture

Ambitions, A breath of fresh air has been released
Funneling hope towards sweet scented loyalty
Smells of new found confidence
Upon these newly formed inner beliefs
That all will grow beyond a once tiny spec of acceptance
Frolicking on like a Child without any worry

Nostalgia, sweet nostalgia

Going back to this youthful imagination
Giving wings to the flight of yesterday's wishes
Striving to recapture the confidence that escaped me years ago
Becoming at peace with every pain that had me under it's control
Imagination has no limits whatsoever

Oh, How I love living inside myself
What about the outside?

Reality hits
The present comes back with a switchblade vengeance
Stabbing itself straight into my heart
Shattering itself into thorns
So it can be the crown endearment of this mind
As misery makes itself at home again

Who is that I see?
Who is this person's reflection in front of me?
Looks so familiar
Why is he smiling at me?

Me? It is I?
How can this be?
I put my hand upon this very mirror
Being pulled right in
How can this be?
My reflection switches sides
As I shatter into many small pieces

It's me, It's truly me
A brand new me
Still feeling the things always felt
Yet, As I walk outside I breathe fresh air

[...] Read more

poem by James Darwin Smith II
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He Often Thinks Of Rosie

He often thinks of Rosie where might she be today?
Is she still back home in Derry from here long miles away
For three years they were an item but for them things did not work out
As often can happen in love affairs between one from a Northern Land and one from a Land in the far South.

He did not wish to live over there and in Melbourne she would not stay
Nostalgia won out over love or so 'twould seem that way
She went back home to Derry though he had asked her to become his wife
Young Rosie she was homesick a natural thing in life.

His wife and he have parted ways they have a year old son
The love died in their marriage he is not the first or he won't be the last one
To know of marriage failure such is life I do suppose
Yet his greatest love will always be the lovely brown haired Derry Rose.

He often thinks of Rosie they parted ways six years ago
He loved her and he always will though apart they did grow
Nostalgia won out over love in their case anyway
She went back home to Derry and home in Melbourne he did stay.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Romancing in Dispair

Enigma...
Romancing with Nostalgia
I have this strong desire
Thinking someone... a dream now,
To liberate my sen-ital love
To romance with her.
Rain when shatters over house sheet
Takes me back to
My years of romance.
Those memories makes me impotent
I go senile...
I wish if i could take her,
in my arms,
And hum softly in her ears,
My lines of immature poetry... teen confession.
In narrative tune
Emphasizing more for clear wordings,
...stop it!
She is gone.
What has remained is a heart piercing feelings,
If love had law,
She would've been prosecuted.
but... whatever it is,
I always think of you.
One face of romance.
Romancing with my distress.
Nothing is left in me.
its nonentity...
My fate...
Unlucky with relations.
for whom I admire,
I make'em my perennial dream
But they have no solace for me.
Beholding this despair,
Lamenting this loss,
I tumble in life.
Romancing with her was unbelievable,
Romancing with her memories pains,
here I do.
Romancing with nostalgia.
crying in her memories,
I wish if I could add,
more vulnerable synonym for 'crying'.
I smile remembering time you used to tickle me.
time, you pulled me under your umbrella
but our romance remained incomplete.
Our relation wasn't so necessary for her.
One life cleavage.
I sustain my this part with pain.
my aspiration lay barren.

[...] Read more

poem by Norden Lama
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The Fragrance of Nostalgia

Once upon a time at a starry sheen moonlight
heart rending serenade passionately responded I
as luring whiff of unmistakable fragrance of nostalgia
plummeted me through childhood hazy maze
and with crystal longing stares of forgotten voices
stoked the smoldering embers of sleeping fires
and once again retrospect’s court summoned me
to drink the bittersweet verdict of ambivalence.

paths not taken, smiles not returned
seeds half sowed in stunted growth
insatiate disrupted oyster deep diving swims
scintillating fishing expedition thrills gnawed
berry picking sprees, jungle-hunting packs
truancy-laden schools barefooted trodden.

puberty slapped and hurtled me
headlong into the preposterous travail
pits of the hazy mazes of adolescence
naive serenading virgins ventured
behind flowering shrubs wittingly lured
sent away limping as initiating tasted
naivety fled leaving gnawing quest
unwitting scapegoats of juvenile delinquency

Oh! But how many childhood sweethearts!
ripe fruits untainted, not plucked!
dreams unfulfilled, snares not dodged
eggs in nest not hatched and songs unsung
what remains is only the fragrance of nostalgia
charting the path of future hunches without regrets.

poem by Dela Bobobee
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Water is threatening to rejoice

Water is threatening to rejoice
At the sight of man’s complicteres laughter.
Water untouchable is stabled in the shoulder
Is watching the sub nose rain that fall in the falling light.
Water is the rudimentary beautiful
Musicality of white.
But water in its dead beauty torn a spilling
Is a common prowler drunk by the landscape.
Man is the beast that coward against the rain,
He revolt hard against its tone.
Water is the sudden strength of its circulating power
Water rusted in the veins surgically cut the
Putrefying strength of the leap of an eyeball.
The wreckage of water is nostalgia for the
Way it cut kindly in kindly out, nostalgia
With its stigmata knotted around the antipode
With the speed of a rain dropp primal water
The color of cinnamon moving with the speed
Of cloves cigarettes smoke committing the
Remembrances of suicide where the entrails of
Animal are crossroad of reading the future
With casted bones, shells and stones.
The voodoo of the who do is moist with its germination
That blackens the water with its green.
The reprehensible rain today murdered
Sixteen thousands, sixteen thousand taken by surprised
By the innocence of water,
By the bodies of sudden floats.

poem by David E. Patton
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