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Helen Hunt

I usually don't read things written about me and I certainly don't read things if they are inappropriate.

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Written In Rock

On my way back from a wedding
I drove round some of the old streets
I got swept up by the memories
Of cold nights and warm sheets
I parked outside the house wed lived in
I tried to think of all the pain
But all I remembered was the laughter
And the precious trust we cant reclaim
There are no second prizes
And there will be no consolation wreath
We may as well miss by a mile
As miss by the skin of our teeth
They all thought we were some sure thing
I had the bloody coat and wedding ring
But nothings written in rock
I know Im not the one
Was I just the great pretender
Written in rock
There was no battle won
Only a mutual surrender
No guarantees, thats alright
If I was gonna stay,
I would have stayed all night
Bye bye love, you were so damn right
Nothings written in rock
Nothings written in rock
You finally learned the deep dark secret
That I knew you were waiting for
So I watched the death of innocence
Of the young dreamer at lifes door
This world can tear your soul to pieces
If you give it half a chance
There are no rules to remember
There are no written steps to the dance
I dont believe in fate
I dont believe in blind luck of the draw
I dont believe in love
I mean I dont believe anymore
They all thought we were the real thing
I had the bloody coat and the wedding ring
But nothings written in rock
I know Im not the one
Was I just the great pretender
Written in rock
There was no battle won
Only a mutual surrender
No guarantees, thats alright
If I was gonna stay,
I would have stayed all night
Bye bye love, you were so damn right

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It's written in here/Ovdje pise

It's written in here all that hurts
it's written in here all that laughs
it's written in here all that wants
it's written in here all that waits
it's written in here in every tear
it's written in here read beneath
or do not read at all

it's written in here butterflies in heart
it's written in here all dresses torn
it's written in here twilight and dawn
it's written in here clocks in the soul
it's written in here in every tear
it's written in here read beneath
or do not read at all


ovdje piše sve što boli
ovdje piše sve što se smije
ovdje piše sve što hoće
ovdje piše sve što čeka
ovdje piše u svakoj suzi
ovdje piše čitaj ispod
ili ne ćitaj uopšte

ovdje piše leptiri u srcu
ovdje piše rašivene halje
ovdje piše zore i sutoni
ovdje piše satovi u duši
ovdje piše u svakoj suzi
ovdje piše čitaj ispod
ili ne čitaj uopšte

2009.

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For It Is Written

It is written says it best for the words written have stood the test.
While enduring the test of time it exposes God's Sovereign Design.
Prophecy sets The Word apart pointing to the end from the very start.
The Word you can't belittle as there's truth in every jot and tittle.

My dear friend it is written: Zeal for your house will consume me,
And The Lord cleared the temple of all money changing Pharisees.
It is written: These people honor me but their hearts are far from me,
And many religious people you see are filled with empty hypocrisy.
It is written: God’s name is blasphemed by Gentiles because of you,
And an empty zeal without knowledge is in the heart of many Jews.

It is written: Those who were not told, they will see and understand,
And that is why the Gentile Nations have accepted The Son of Man.
It is written: I lay in Zion a rock that causes men to stumble and fall,
And that rock, my friend, is Jesus Christ The Lord and God above all.
To Abraham it is written: I have made you the Father of many Nations.
Is it any wonder that through the Jew we have been afforded Salvation?

My friend, it is written: There is no one righteous, not even one.
And God so loved us that He sent to the world His Only begotten Son.
For it is written: In the Gospel a righteousness from God is revealed,
And that righteousness is Christ by whose wounds we have been healed.
My friend it is written: Cursed is everyone who is hung on a tree,
And Christ became that curse as He died on the cross for you and me.

And friend it is written: He was numbered with the transgressors,
And Christ died with criminals at the hands of angry oppressors.
It is written: The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me,
And all of man’s hostility towards God was laid on Christ at Calvary.
It is written: I’ll strike the shepherd and the flock will be scattered,
And the disciples left at the cross seeing Christ so sorely battered.

The Word of God can't be denied as God alone is The Father of Time.
Christ stands outside the window of time guiding His Eternal Design.
Time for God truly stands still as God fulfills His Sovereign Will.
Scoffing tongues will be stilled as every jot and tittle is fulfilled.

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James Russell Lowell

A Fable For Critics

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'

Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.

Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,

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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

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Read My Lips

Words and music: doug johnson, mike reno, neil shilkin
Here you come again, lookin for another thrill
With your lipstick, high heel shoes, lookin like youre
Dressed to kill
Tattoo stuck on you, branded by a chosen few
What short memory, now its time to pay your dues
Dont you hear a word I say?
Just turn your head and look this way
And read my lips
Read my lips, listen to me, Im talkin to you
Read my lips
Read my lips, Im tellin you, Im through with you
I know where you go when you need to get some
Bad little actress on a mattress, its seduction
Anything for you
You dont hear a word I say
So turn your head and look this way
And, read my lips
Read my lips, listen to me, Im talkin to you
Read my lips
Read my lips, listen to me, youre history
Ive been watching what you do
And it doesnt take a fool
To see what weve been through
Oh, gonna turn the page on you
(guitar solo)
You dont hear a word I say
So turn your head and look this way
And read my lips
Read my lips, listen to me, Im talkin to you
Read my lips
Read my tips, oh, Im through with you
Read my tips
Read my lips, listen to me, Im talkin to you
Read my lips
Read my lips, listen to me, youre history
Oh yeah, read my lips
I said, read my lips
Read my lips
Just read my lips

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Steal The Thunder

Here you come again, lookin' for another thrill
With your lipstick, high heel shoes, lookin' like you're dressed to kill
Tattoo stuck on you, branded by a chosen few
What short memory, now it's time to pay your dues
Don't you hear a word I say? Just turn your head and look this way
And read my lips, read my lips, listen to me, I'm talkin' to you
Read my lips, read my lips, I'm tellin' you, I'm through with you
I know where you go when you need to get some
Bad little actress on a mattress, it's seduction, anything for you
You don't you hear a word I say, so turn your head and look this way
And read my lips, read my lips, listen to me, I'm talkin' to you
Read my lips, read my lips, listen to me, you're history
I've been watching what you do, and it doesn't take a fool
To see what we've been through, oh, gonna turn the page on you
(Solo)
You don't you hear a word I say, so turn your head and look this way
And read my lips, read my lips, listen to me, I'm talkin' to you
Read my lips, read my lips, oh, I'm through with you
Read my lips, oh, read my lips, listen to me, I'm talkin' to you
Read my lips, read my lips, listen to me, you're history
Oh yeah, read my lips, I said, read my lips, read my lips
Just read my lips
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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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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Byron

The Vision of Judgment

I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era 'eight-eight'
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And 'a pull altogether,' as they say
At sea — which drew most souls another way.

II

The angels all were singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
Broke out of bounds o'er th' ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky
Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV

His business so augmented of late years,
That he was forced, against his will no doubt,
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)
For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks:
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

V

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conqueror's cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;

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Vision of Judgment, The

I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era 'eight-eight'
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And 'a pull altogether,' as they say
At sea — which drew most souls another way.

II

The angels all were singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
Broke out of bounds o'er th' ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky
Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV

His business so augmented of late years,
That he was forced, against his will no doubt,
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)
For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks:
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

V

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conqueror's cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

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Read Between The Lines

Uh hu
You got to read between the lines
You got to read between the lines
You got to read between the lines
Ah ah ah ah
Late afternoon
Its the sun going down
A call on the cell
Why is he in such a hurry
Leaving the room
Hes mumbling too
Now look what hes doing
Hes leaving out the room
No explanation
No ask for location
Just watching him pacing
Wonder who hes chasing
Looks like versation
The end of debation
Hed love to go swing and
(chorus)
You better open your mind
And read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Hot in the morning
Im up waiting for breakfast
Know your getting restless
This fool is full of questions
Little replying
Whole lot of denying
Instead I feel life in
So why do you keep on trying
Touch for the median
Now hes a comedian
Thats all the more reason
Its changing like the season
Are you still pleasing
How soon youll be leaving
Which one hell be creeping
(chorus)
(bridge)
Your replies are getting old
Its in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies again told
Look in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies are getting old

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If You Read

If you read me
In my lines you begin
To understand what
I write about &
Perhaps what I am
That would be
So ordinary
A matter only of clarification.

If you read me, however
Carefully
in between
My lines,
and go deeper
To hidden symbols
And find some meanings
You will find
something
Else, something not
Me but sounding like
Me and you will begin to have doubts
If it is really me
Or I am just
Bluffing
Misleading you
For something else
So that you
Do not grasp me
At all,

and if you begin
to
Doubt it,
well, it could be that it was
Done on purpose
i
Wanting to achieve
A little
dramatization
Of what I am,
For some little
Thrills
Some gigs
Or gimmicks
We all love these
Tragic plays
Most of the
The time.

But sometimes,

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Written In Stone

I'm gonna take you down to the riverside
Where the water runs slow and wide
There's a big ole rock out in the middle
And I took my hammer and chisel
And worked all night so you could see
Just how much you mean to me
I carved your name right next to mine
And it'll be there till the end of time
And my love will last at least that long
It's written in stone how I feel for you
It's written in stone what I want to do
Spend my life and life hereafter loving you
And darling if we live to be 100
Or if we don't make it half that long
I want you to know how I feel for you
Is written in stone
There's a place on the edge of town
When I was a kid I found
Two names on a stone together
Lying side by side forever
And it was then and there I knew
If I ever thought a love was true
I'd surely want to write it down
On something that would be around
When all the spoken words have come and gone
It's written in stone how I feel for you
It's written in stone what I want to do
Spend my life and life hereafter loving you
And darling if we live to be 100
Or if we don't make it half that long
I want you to know what I feel for you
Is written in stone
And when this life has come and gone
Our love will still be
Written in stone how I feel for you
Written in stone what I want to do
Spend my life and life hereafter loving you
And darling if we live to be 100
Or if we don't make it half that long
I want you to know how I feel for you
Is written in stone

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Sam Loves Joann

(tia sillers/john tirro)
Joann was is an awkward position
Very unmarried and starting to show
Joann had wanted to be a beautician
She thought it looked like a good time to go
Got on a greyhound to ride up to macon
No one is new brunswick would quite understand
She wouldnt look at the side of the highway
Where written in spray paint said sam loves joann
Joann, joann, how could you leave your man
Im yours forever in big old blue letters
Its written in spray paint sam loves joann
Sams on his way to the state penitentiary
He doesnt know hes a father to be
Sam only wanted to borrow a chevy
But the state locked him up and they threw out the key
Sam hoped to take her away to get married
But he never asked her, so much for big plans
Now the prison bus takes him on down that same highway
Where written in spray paint sam loves joann
Joann, joann, how could you leave your man
Im yours forever in big old blue letters
Its written in spray paint sam loves joann
Funny how things from the heat of the moment
Like making a baby or getting tattooed
Last a lot longer than ever expected
Feelings might fade but the facts never do
Its all the same in the small towns and big towns
The names might change but across this great land
Just take a ride along any old highway
Its written in spray paint sam loves joann
Joann, joann, how could you leave your man
Im yours forever in big old blue letters
Its written in spray paint sam loves joann
Joann, joann, how could you leave your man
Im yours forever in big old blue letters
Its written in spray paint sam loves joann
Its written in spray paint sam loves joann
Its written in spray paint sam loves joann

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Written In Blood And Love

In pages written in blood, in pages written love.
Stories are told of you grow old together.
Live to dieing forever.
Scarred by the pain of misery.
Scarred by the imperfections the have created so many rejections.
Give me the antidote to the poison that I have slipped in my own drink.
Let me breath the life in again.
Drowned out all the cowardliness of my angel who holding me up.
Such a beautiful crutch.

Still in the pages written in blood, in the pages written love.
We are just one of millions.
Every story is the same.
All that's changed is the names, places, and faces.
Erase it all.
Rewrite the entire fall.
Let the wind take me.
Let the lightning strike me here and now.
For i will not let it cloud my judgement.
No matter the storm that's brought on.

In the pages written in blood, in the pages written in love
Hate me for the right reasons
Hate me because I am what you wanted me to be.
In all the irony.
I didn't change for you.
It was done way before you came along and sang your song.

All the pages have been written, in blood and love.
The Shakespeare play Romeo and Juliet to the fullest.
Its the cruelest games in tragedy strikes without a ounce of leniency.
No mercy to those who are jumping without a life line.
Protection against the evil of an accident so quick.
A slip becomes a fall.
Next your trying to stall buy a little time.
But its in vain.
Nothing can be changed.
Its sink or swim till you reach shore.
So long off stripped of everything you thought was important.

Values so mixed up in these pages written in blood, in the pages written in love.
We have killed another pair of doves.

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Byron

Canto the First

I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

First Book

OF writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,–
Will write my story for my better self,
As when you paint your portrait for a friend,
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it
Long after he has ceased to love you, just
To hold together what he was and is.

I, writing thus, am still what men call young;
I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling; not so far,
But still I catch my mother at her post
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up,
'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes
Leap forward, taking part against her word
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel
My father's slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets. O my father's hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee!
I'm still too young, too young to sit alone.

I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life–
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,–
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children, (to be just,)

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Z. Comments

CRYSTAL GLOW

Madhur Veena Comment: Who is she? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ....You write good!

Margaret Alice Comment: Beautiful, it stikes as heartfelt words and touches the heart, beautiful sentiments, sorry, I repeat myself, but I am delighted. Your poem is like the trinkets I collect to adorn my personal space, pure joy to read, wonderful! Only a beautiful mind can harbour such sentiments, you have a beautiful mind. I am glad you have found someone that inspires you to such heights and that you share it with us, you make the world a mroe wonderful place.

Margaret Alice Comment: Within the context set by the previous poem, “Cosmic Probe”, the description of a lover’s adoration for his beloved becomes a universal ode sung to the abstract values of love, joy and hope personified by light, colours, fragrance and beauty, qualities the poet assigns to his beloved, thus elevating her to the status of an uplifting force because she brings all these qualities to his attention. The poet recognises that these personified values brings him fulfilment and chose the image of a love relationship to illustrate how this comes about; thus a love poem becomes the vehicle to convey spiritual epiphany.


FRAGRANT JASMINE

Margaret Alice Comment: Your words seem to be directed to a divine entity, you seem to be addressing your adoration to a divinity, and it is wonderful to read of such sublime sentiments kindled in a human soul. Mankind is always lifted up by their vision and awareness of divinity, thank you for such pure, clear diction and sharing your awareness of the sublime with us, you have uplifted me so much by this vision you have created!

Margaret Alice Comment: The poet’s words seem to be directed to a divine entity, express adoration to a divinity who is the personification of wonderful qualities which awakens a sense of the sublime in the human soul. An uplifting vision and awareness of uplifting qualities of innocence represented by a beautiful person.


I WENT THERE TO BID HER ADIEU

Kente Lucy Comment: wow great writing, what a way to bid farewell

Margaret Alice Comment: Sensory experience is elevated by its symbolical meaning, your description of the scene shows two souls becoming one and your awareness of the importance of tempory experience as a symbol of the eternal duration of love and companionship - were temporary experience only valid for one moment in time, it would be a sad world, but once it is seen as a symbol of eternal things, it becomes enchanting.


I’M INCOMPLETE WITHOUT YOU

Margaret Alice Comment: You elevate the humnan experience of longing for love to a striving for sublimity in uniting with a beloved person, and this poem is stirring, your style of writing is effective, everything flows together perfectly.

Margaret Alice Comment:

'To a resplendent glow of celestial flow
And two split halves unite never to part.'

Reading your fluent poems is a delight, I have to tear myself away and return to the life of a drudge, but what a treasure trove of jewels you made for the weary soul who needs to contemplate higher ideals from time to time!


IN CELESTIAL WINGS

Margaret Alice Comment: When you describe how you are strengthened by your loved one, it is clear that your inner flame is so strong that you need not fear growing old, your spirit seems to become stronger, you manage to convey this impression by your striking poetry. It is a privilege to read your work.

Obed Dela Cruz Comment: wow.... i remembered will shakespeare.... nice poem!

Margaret Alice Comment: The poet has transcended the barriers of time and space by becoming an image of his beloved and being able to find peace in the joy he confers to his beloved.

'You transcend my limits, transcend my soul, I forget my distress in your thoughts And discover my peace in your joy, For, I’m mere image of you, my beloved.'

Margaret Alice Comment: You are my peace and solace, I know, I am, yours too; A mere flash of your thoughts Enlivens my tired soul And fills me with light, peace and solace, A giant in new world, I become, I rise to divine heights in celestial wings. How I desire to reciprocate To fill you with light and inner strength raise you to divine heights; I must cross over nd hold you in arms, light up your soul, Fill you with strength from my inner core, Wipe away your tears burst out in pure joy How I yearn to instill hope and confidence in you we never part And we shall wait, till time comes right. the flame in my soul always seeks you, you transcend my limits, transcend my soul, I forget my distress in your thoughts And discover my peace in your joy, For, I’m mere image of you, my beloved.


RAGING FIRE

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A Poem Can Be Written Anywhere, Anytime

A poem can be written anywhere, anytime-
A poem can be written too early in the morning
While waiting in Talpiot for ‘Rami Levi Supermarket’ to open-
It can be written in one’s head in a frozen Army barracks in Beit El
Or in a small room on Rav Berlin St on an old Smith- Corona
In the first happy years of one’s marriage-
It can be written for years from Haganah St. in French Hill
In the family years and the lonely ones
It can be written walking by the sea in Tel Aviv
With small children in hand-
It can be written on the same shore years later when one’s life has been broken
By Love’s desertion-
It can be written in old age on Rehov Shahal in Givat Mordechai
As one takes joy from the birth of one’s first grandchild-

A poem can be written anywhere anytime-

I have been writing my poems in Israel
For more than half a lifetime-

May those too
Who come after me
Read and Write Poetry here.

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