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Human requirements are the inspiration for art.

quote by Stephen Gardiner
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Her love is my inspiration

Her love is my inspiration

Love is the inspiration for my heart to sing a tune,
love is the inspiration for my ear to hear,
love is the inspiration for my soul to warm,
love is the inspiration for my mouth to smile,
love is the inspiration for my eyes to glisten.

Love is the inspiration to draw my soul near another
love is the inspiration for my mouth to utter sweet words,
love is the inspiration for my eyes to gaze upon her,
love is the inspiration for my heart to speak out.

Love is the inspiration for need, love is the inspiration for my mouth to touch hers,
love is the inspiration for my eyes to close,
love is the inspiration for my heart to race,
love is the inspiration for my tears to burn.

Love is the inspiration for longing,
love is the inspiration for my eyes to see only her,
love is the inspiration for my heart to cry out,
love is the inspiration for my ear to hear her whispers,
love is the inspiration for my soul to join hers forever.

Love is the inspiration for forever,
love is the inspiration for my heart to be whole,
love is the inspiration for my ear to always hear those words,
love is the inspiration for my soul to have hers,
love is the inpiration for my mouth to speak the truth.

Love is the inspiration for my soul to seek life
love is the inspirationfor my ear to hear her words,
love is the inspiration for my soul to reach for her,
love is the inspiration for my mouth to speak her truths,
love is the inspiration for my eyes to always look upon her first,

For she is the inspiration for my Love.

Nathaniel Cole Buddington

poem by Nathan Buddington
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Sweet Inspiration

Written by s. welton-jaimes, j. & m. jaimes
Sweet inspiration
Through the nation
With elation for your love
Inspiration, sweet inspiration
Sweet inspiration
Through the nation
With elation for your love
Inspiration, sweet sensation
You really do something special to me
And theres nothing better
Than when youre lying in my arms
So glad we got together
I never needed nobody
Until you came along
And this feelings so strong
I should be working on something
But I aint got the time
Ive got you on my mind
Sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
The thought of you gives me butterflies
And I feel so happy
Whenever you reach out for me
This is how it should be
And Ive just got to be with you
Nothing else can compare
Just as long as youre there
And Ill never desert you
Cos you fill me with pride
Baby you changed my life
Sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
When I cant think clearly
Just one kiss is all I need
Then I look in your eyes
And I know, I know, I know, Im yours
Sweet inspiration
Through the nation
With elation for your love
Inspiration, sweet sensation
Sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
Baby youre my, sweet inspiration
We got the love

[...] Read more

song performed by Kim Wilde
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With every beat of my heart

Not even the most voluptuously sensuous of clouds; surreally wandering till eternity in fathomless cosmotic space; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most tantalizingly nubile of dewdrops; profoundly shimmering in nocturnal moonlight like the ultimate queen’s garland of exotic pearls; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most invincibly Herculean mountaintops; unflinchingly towering towards the heavens in the face of the mightiest of attack; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most royally undulating seas; timelessly blessing the pristine shores with gloriously unassailable froth; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most perennially overflowing of treasuries; from which rained solely a torrentially unstoppable cascade of mystically resplendent silver and gold; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most mellifluously rejuvenating of nightingales; perpetuating the unlimitedly dreary atmosphere with miraculously ameliorating sounds; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most boundlessly burgeoning of skies; celestially reflecting an ocean of bounteously virile crystalline blue; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most vivaciously cascading droplets of rain; metamorphosing every tawdrily sinister patch of aridness on earth into a paradise of mesmerizing beauty; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most ubiquitously silken strands of the inscrutable spider’s web; aristocratically glimmering in opulently milky moonlight; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most amazingly vivid of rainbows; filtering fresh rays of optimism and hope in the forlornly dreary sky; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most redolently proliferating of soil; the magical virility which unfathomably multiplied in lightening seconds of time; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most beautifully poignant of roses; synergistically radiating their handsomely scarlet personality to every conceivable cranny of this boundless Universe; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most triumphantly blazing of Sunshine; blistering a path of irrefutably fearless righteousness in the most bashful face of blemishing defeat; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most victoriously iridescent of moonlight; unceasingly enlightening the sordidly hedonistic fabric of the wretchedly incarcerating night; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most effulgently undefeated of blood; indefatigably diffusing the spirit of intrepidly exhilarating camaraderie; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most boundlessly unfettered of deserts; the flamingly impregnable expanse of poignant golden granules; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most tranquilly bewitching of shadows; the uncannily titillating tinge of timeless mystery that they incessantly emanated; had the slightest of inspiration,

Not even the most fierily magnetic of breath; the endlessly insuperable cavern of seduction that it ignited in every tangible and intangible open space which it wholesomely enshrouded; had the slightest of inspiration,

Whilst with every beat of my heart; there unlimitedly triggered unconquerably sparkling fantasy in even the most obsolete dormitory of my brain; and I inevitably and inspiringly wrote an infinite lines of “Immortal Love Poetry”; till even beyond the definitions of veritably ultimate and hopelessly silencing death….

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Heavenly Poetry

It was my incessant inspiration; to diffuse into an
unfathomable valley of goodness; perpetually coalesce
with my bountiful rudiments; irrespective of the
contemporarily bombastic slang and slime,

It was my tireless inspiration; to float in the aisles
of untamed sensuousness; assimilate all fathomless
beauty of this resplendent Universe; in every
ingredient of my agonizingly famished blood,

It was my unrelenting inspiration; to embrace the
winds of timeless fantasy; let the spirit of
euphorically rhapsodic existence; take wholesome
control upon my countenance from all sides,

It was my limitless inspiration; to blazingly surge
forward in the chapter of vibrantly enthralling life;
gloriously emerge as a triumphant winner in every
direction that I even remotely conceived to tread,

It was my boundless inspiration; to poignantly break
the heinous shackles of crippling monotony;
uninhibitedly liberate each of my senses to blend with
the unparalleled ecstasy of this Omnipotent cosmos,

It was my unprecedented inspiration; to unfurl into an
insatiable civilization of creativity every unfurling
instant of the day; fabulously decipher the enigmatic
meanings of survival; with the silken dexterity of an
embellished prince,

It was my indefatigable inspiration; to coin new
benchmarks on even the most diminutive step that I
transgressed; digressing from conventionally
treacherous turgidity; to sparklingly enhance the
fireballs of optimism in every tomorrow,

It was my profuse inspiration; to unstoppably
reminisce the caverns of mischief of my innocuous
childhood; Omnisciently cherish the compassionate lap
of my divinely mother; for infinite more births of
mine,

It was my undaunted inspiration; to philanthropically
serve all bereaved humanity till the very last breath
of mine; assiduously persevere all day and twinkling
night; to unite all religion; caste; creed and tribe;
handsomely alike,

It was my incorrigible inspiration; to romantically

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Sweet Inspiration

Lyrics and music by dan penn and spooner oldham
I need your sweet inspiration
I need you here on my mind
Every hour of the day
Without your sweet inspiration
The lonely hours of the night
Just dont go my way
A woman in love
Needs sweet inspiration
Yeah, and honey thats all I ask, thats all I ask from you
Ive gotta have your sweet inspiration
You know there just aint no tellin what a satisfied woman might do
The way you call me baby, baby
Is such a sweet inspiration
The way you call me darlin, darlin
Sets my heart to skating
And if Im out in the rain, baby
And in a bad situation
You know I just reach back in my mind
And there I find your sweet, sweet inspiration
Sweet inspiration
Oh, what a power
And Ive got the power
Every hour of the day
I need your inspiration
To go on, to go on living
To keep on giving this way
I need your sweet inspiration
Sweet inspiration, sweet inspiration, sweet inspiration
Sweet, sweet inspiration
Sweet, sweet inspiration
I need, sweet inspiration

song performed by Vonda Shepard
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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

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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Canto the Fourth

I.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

II.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

III.

In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

V.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
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The Interpretation of Nature and

I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.


II.

Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.

III.

Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.

IV.

Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.

V.

The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.

VI.

It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.

VII.

The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.

VIII.

Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.

IX.

The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.

X.

The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.

XI.

As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.

XII.

The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.

XIII.

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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Intrigue

THOU art my love
And thou art the peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a storm
That breaks black in the sky
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree
And at the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl
Woe is me!

Thou art my love
And thou art a tinsel thing
And I in my play
Broke thee easily
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow
Woe is me.

Thou art my love
And thou art a weary violet
Drooping from sun-caresses.
Answering mine carelessly
Woe is me.

Thou art my love
And thou art the ashes of other men's love
And I bury my face in these ashes
And I love them
Woe is me.

Thou art my love
And thou art the beard
On another man's face
Woe is me.

Thou art my love
And thou art a temple
And in this temple is an altar
And on this altar is my heart
Woe is me.

Thou art my love
And thou art a wretch.

[...] Read more

poem by Stephen Crane
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The Undying One- Canto III

'THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make
Howling and moaning, listlessly and low:
Methinks that to a heart that ought to break
All the earth's voices seem to murmur so.
The visions that crost
Our path in light--
The things that we lost
In the dim dark night--
The faces for which we vainly yearn--
The voices whose tones will not return--
That low sad wailing breeze doth bring
Borne on its swift and rushing wing.
Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud,
And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud?
When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth,
And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?

If such an evening, tho' but one,
It hath been yours to spend alone--
Never,--though years may roll along
Cheer'd by the merry dance and song;
Though you mark'd not that bleak wind's sound before,
When louder perchance it used to roar--
Never shall sound of that wintry gale
Be aught to you but a voice of wail!
So o'er the careless heart and eye
The storms of the world go sweeping by;
But oh! when once we have learn'd to weep,
Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep.
Let one of our airy joys decay--
Let one of our blossoms fade away--
And all the griefs that others share
Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear:
And the sound of wail, like that rushing wind
Shall bring all our own deep woe to mind!

'I went through the world, but I paused not now
At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow:
I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark
Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark:
And the grief of others, though sad to see,
Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!

'I saw the inconstant lover come to take
Farewell of her he loved in better days,
And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break--
Which beat so fondly at his words of praise.
She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow'd thing,
Seeking to mock the hues of early spring,
When misery and years had done their worst

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Quatrains Of Life

What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?

What did it bring me that I loved it, even
With joy before it and that dream of Heaven,
Boyhood's first rapture of requited bliss,
What did it give? What ever has it given?

'Let me recount the value of my days,
Call up each witness, mete out blame and praise,
Set life itself before me as it was,
And--for I love it--list to what it says.

Oh, I will judge it fairly. Each old pleasure
Shared with dead lips shall stand a separate treasure.
Each untold grief, which now seems lesser pain,
Shall here be weighed and argued of at leisure.

I will not mark mere follies. These would make
The count too large and in the telling take
More tears than I can spare from seemlier themes
To cure its laughter when my heart should ache.

Only the griefs which are essential things,
The bitter fruit which all experience brings;
Nor only of crossed pleasures, but the creed
Men learn who deal with nations and with kings.

All shall be counted fairly, griefs and joys,
Solely distinguishing 'twixt mirth and noise,
The thing which was and that which falsely seemed,
Pleasure and vanity, man's bliss and boy's.

So I shall learn the reason of my trust
In this poor life, these particles of dust
Made sentient for a little while with tears,
Till the great ``may--be'' ends for me in ``must.''

My childhood? Ah, my childhood! What of it
Stripped of all fancy, bare of all conceit?
Where is the infancy the poets sang?
Which was the true and which the counterfeit?

I see it now, alas, with eyes unsealed,
That age of innocence too well revealed.
The flowers I gathered--for I gathered flowers--
Were not more vain than I in that far field.

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Where Does my Inspiration Lie

As I drive my truck each day I wonder what it is I will see today?
Each day brings something new for my eyes and ears
From state to state, from coast to coast what new things will I see this day?
The sunrises from my front window to my back from day to day
The colors are different each and every day from that sunrise
The scenery is never the same even though I’ve been here dozens of time
Where does my inspiration lie?

Some people have to get up to go to work and it is the same old thing day after day
But here in my old truck things are not that way.
I look forward to the days drive and the sites I’ll see and just what’s ahead of me
I have been very lucky to be able to travel and see this most beautiful land
The seasons change and I drive from season to season for just that reason
The seasons are never quite the same the colors are very bright with the changes
Where does my inspiration lie?

The people I meet, the things I’ve seen God you have blest me through my travels
Snow on the mountain peaks, creeks where fish are seen, great rivers miles long
Mother bears teaching her young to fish, deer’s, antelopes, long horned mountain goats
Flowers in a field of gold, windmills that you make go fast in the breath of your wind
Craters that have fallen from the sky large enough to make a hugh bright blue lake
Cactus that bloom in the hot desert sun, sand storms that scared us to death
Where does my inspiration lie?

My inspiration lies in you God where all that is, you have made each and every day
My inspiration lies in you my Lord for what I’ve seen you have made
My inspiration lies in your grace and beauty your love and mercy that you give me
My inspiration lies in the songs I hear from the morning dove that coos by my window
My inspiration lies in the evening skies as it bids us good night with the colors so bright
My inspiration lies in your son God who came here so we would be able to see your face
Where does my inspiration lie?

poem by Gloria Comingore
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Poetic Standard

Poetic Standard

Poetic inspiration must supply
Open sourced resourcefulness, may not
Exist in half-light, cuts the gordian knot
That holds back harmony from inner eye.
Insidious compromise can't satisfy
Creative impulse that rejects as blot
Secondary lot where, half forgot,
Tired lines block, lock life's vista, dreams deny.
All hesitation acts out living lie
None should accept to temper daily rot,
Dread time-trap snapped shut once one bolt is shot.
Aloft soar, draw from intuitions, fly!
Read much, hunch heed, rise from rant's rubbish vent,
Dare to revise, creative dance invent.

Skein poetic weaves life's leaves. Flash wink
Turns think through ink to stage fulfilling page
As insight mixes music, words wild, sage.
No Tao is tainted that cues tone-true link
Descriptive and instructive, scanned in sync.
Although some self-styled poets feel form's cage,
Review Stravinsky's words, all doubts assuage.
Deny blank prose poetic rose crown. Drink
Pierian deep, sip not lip-service brink,
Or compensate for feelings trapped to wage
Ego war against injustice guaged,
To ease maimed spirit's claims of unfair stink.
Inside poetic process progress make,
Craft well, rewrite, reword from second take.

6 September 2009 robi3_1908_robi3_0845 ASX_IXX
Acrostic Sonnet POETIC STANDARD STANDARD POETIC
See notes and related poems below
__________________
Pierian Spring

The Pierian Spring from greek mythology is held the metaphorical source of knowledge about the arts and science. Pieria, ancient Macedonia, was the location of Mount Olympus, the seat of worship of Orpheus and the Muses. The spring is believed to be a fountain of knowledge that inspires whoever drinks from it.

Alexander Pope - Essay on Criticism

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII (Entire)

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem’d my sin in me;
What seem’d my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Believer's Jointure : Chapter II.

Containing the Marks and Characters of the Believer in Christ; together with some further privileges and grounds of comfort to the Saints.

Sect. I.

Doubting Believers called to examine, by marks drawn from their love to Him and his presence, their view of his glory, and their being emptied of Self-Righteousness, &c.

Good news! but, says the drooping bride,
Ah! what's all this to me?
Thou doubt'st thy right, when shadows hide
Thy Husband's face from thee.

Though sin and guilt thy spirit faints,
And trembling fears thy fate;
But harbour not thy groundless plaints,
Thy Husband's advent wait.

Thou sobb'st, 'O were I sure he's mine,
This would give glad'ning ease;'
And say'st, Though wants and woes combine,
Thy Husband would thee please.

But up and down, and seldom clear,
Inclos'd with hellish routs;
Yet yield thou not, nor foster fear:
Thy Husband hates thy doubts.

Thy cries and tears may slighted seem,
And barr'd from present ease;
Yet blame thyself, but never dream
Thy Husband's ill to please.

Thy jealous unbelieving heart
Still droops, and knows not why;
Then prove thyself to ease thy smart,
Thy Husband bids the try.

The following questions put to the
As scripture-marks, may tell
And shew, what'er thy failings be,
Thy Husband loves thee well.

MARKS.

Art thou content when he's away?
Can earth allay thy pants?
If conscience witness, won't it say,
Thy Husband's all thou wants?

[...] Read more

poem by Ralph Erskine
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Sohrab and Rustum

And the first grey of morning fill'd the east,
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.
But all the Tartar camp along the stream
Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep;
Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;
But when the grey dawn stole into his tent,
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent,
And went abroad into the cold wet fog,
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent.

Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere
Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand,
And to a hillock came, a little back
From the stream's brink--the spot where first a boat,
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.
The men of former times had crown'd the top
With a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and now
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent,
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread.
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood
Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent,
And found the old man sleeping on his bed
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step
Was dull'd; for he slept light, an old man's sleep;
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:--

"Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn.
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?"

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:--
"Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I.
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,
In Samarcand, before the army march'd;
And I will tell thee what my heart desires.
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first
I came among the Tartars and bore arms,
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown,
At my boy's years, the courage of a man.
This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world,

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poem by Matthew Arnold (1853)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I need inspiration

I need inspiration like rolling hills and roaring thunder
I need inspiration like humanity's fatal blunder
I need inspiration of the purest kind
Where both the dark and the light are defined

I need inspiration to spark the flame of imagination
I need inspiration that could rouse an entire nation
I need inspiration like a roaring fire
The kind of inspiration of which I'll never tire

Please love be my inspiration
You love, are the light of my imagination
With those emerald eyes that are so serene
Your tempting words which set the scene
Your candied lips and gentle breath
That soul of yours with its endless depth

Come my love, explore with me
There is so much we've yet to see
On our journey we shall inspire that dullest of imaginations
And your love will be my eternal inspiration

poem by Jade Hymora
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In Search Of Inspiration

searching the world for inspiration
searching books, music and nature too
a lot of effort gone into it, a lot of concentration
inspiration i think is hard to find

in the songs of birds, in the whistle of the wind
i search for inspiration, even a tiny little bit
when a baby laughed or when a woman grinned
i searched folr inspiration, guess it's harder to find

in the words of shelly, keats and shakespeare too
inspiration i searched and searched, no use
in 'gone with the wind'and 'the sound of music'
movies i searched for a bit of inspiration
'
without inspiration, what do i write
i wanna fill the pages with the poem that's right
i need to write a poem, i need inspiration
i wanna write a poem. wait a minute! ! , i just did! ! !

note: i never write poems for the sake of writing.......it comes from the heart......in reality...i dont need to search for inspiration much.....it comes when it needs to... :)

Copyright © 2009 by Sneha Murali

poem by Sneha Murali
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My Inspiration.

My Inspiration growing up would have to be my very own mom Thelma Ligons. She not only taught me how to be a young lady but she showed me in her actions, as she carried herself around other people. People are probably wondering why I didn’t pick someone else well it’s because. My Mother well my mommy has always giving me advice on how to carry myself around people, how to carry myself around strangers. If it wasn’t for this lady then I would’ve not have turn out into this nice young lady that you have before you today. She is my pick for inspiration for being the example of how to be a soldier for the Lord, she is my inspiration on how to be a prayer warrior, she is my inspiration on how stick up for my religion when I am faced in battle against it.
My mom has been my inspiration for eighteen years and may it be longer Lord willing. I can’t imagine her not inspiring to do things right, she has inspired me to go to college to make something of myself; she has inspired me to do things that I thought I couldn’t. Her inspiration has carried on through me like if she had put sewn it on me. I really appreciate my Mother’s Inspiration and what it has done for me. Praise God for her cause her inspiring has lead to great miracles and many good deeds.
Inspiration you ask well I just gave you my inspiration. My best friend and she will always be my mommy till the day that I die.
A mother is...A role model, someone who you can look up to, and someone that will give great advice. A mother is...A comedian, someone that's always there to make you laugh, someone that can always make you smile. My mother is...Sugar and spice, everything nice. Creative, fun, special. Artistic, jazzy, surprising. Goofy, crazy, smiley. She’s my mother, and I love her.

poem by Natasha Ligons
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Kahlo-Christ Conjunctions - Sacrificed Flesh, Broken Bread, Emmaus Vision

[The curious or, better, interested reader may view the images alluded to in this essay at this website: http: //falconwarren.blogspot.com/2011/01/kahlo-christ- conjunctions-sacrificed.html]

Kahlo Strophes

As with love, also the bellows.

Calavera*, the Future stands
hand to mouth, fingers to forehead
unfolding before still instatic shapes.
Hold desperately to frames before
these quaking perceptions.

She could not stop there,
had to flare out, dry paint,
and the dryer flesh peel down
to bone, a sexless esqueleto**,
skull no longer mustached,
a calavera, nothing more,
curved calcium reliant forever
upon canvas, what is congealed
there to fan and burn,
a 'cauda pavonis'***.

- the author, from the text below

*Skull
**Skeleton
***Peacock's Tail (an image in alchemy) .

'Poetry such as this attempts not just a new syntax of the word. Its revolution is aimed at the syntax of the mind itself. Its structuring of experience is purposive, not dreamlike. We are dealing with a self-induced, or naturally or mysteriously come by, creative state from which two of the most fundamental human activities diverge, the aesthetic and the mystic act. The creative matrix is the same in both, and it is that state of being that is most peculiarly and characteristically human, as the resulting aesthetic and mystic experience is the purist form of human act. There is a great deal of overlapping, today especially, when art is all the religion most people have and when they demand of it experiences that few people of the past demanded of religion....A visionary poem is not a vision. The religious experience is necessitated and ultimate.' - Kenneth Rexroth, World Outside the Window, the Selected Essays of Kenneth Rexroth, pg.255-256

Rexroth's words are pertinent to the images used in this essay, Kahlo's painting above is visionary, Grunewald's are religious, and several photos are both, and all are 'aimed at the syntax of the mind itself.. Its restructuring of experience is purposive, not dreamlike.' The images included in this essay, which is more a prose poem than regular prose, are meant to convey equally or more, at least as as much as, the words in their incantatory formations which may induce entrance into 'imaginal' spaces where word and image meet in a practical magic, inspire a felt understanding and perhaps gain a view or actual entrance into what ecstatic poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, calls 'the Greater Relation.'

I've decided to publish this piece-in-progress as it unwinds in spirals 'aimed at the syntax of the mind itself...its restructuring of experience' with the understanding that it may later appear in greatly altered form. In a real sense this writing writes itself; I try to heed, copy, then hone to the bone what might be wanting to be sung, for what is below, and often what I write, is more akin to music, a vocal/verbal lilt beyond a particular solid tilt of view of a world absolute, static logos.

Heraclitus noted thousands of years ago, 'All is flux.'

To this I would only add, and perhaps this is what all of my writing amounts to,

'All is reflux.'

Selah. WF

NYC,1/31/11

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poem by Warren Falcon
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