I am a pupil of Pissarro.
quote by Paul Cezanne
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The Master's Hand
The painter was a genius,
His pupil knew this well,
For in the times that they discuss
They bond as in a spell...
They think such thoughts that change their art,
Their purpose and their style,
Such that new wisdom can impart
Its reasons for a smile...
The pupil spent a whole weekend
Within the studio,
Together with his brand new friend,
Who seemed all things to know...
The painting pupil's Easter scene
Was called The Cross of Christ.
Behold the Man... The Nazarene...
God's Lamb here sacrificed...
The pupil thought his painting done
When Sunday night came round,
He smiled as if a war was won,
As if a treasure found...
The master painter let him leave
So he could travel home
And yet Christ's painting made him grieve
The cruelty of Rome...
And in the night, he painted on,
Transforming here and there,
A stream of light to shine upon
The Saviour's bleeding hair...
With Pilate's words now coloured gold,
For all the world to see
The greatest story ever told...
Christ died for you and me...
When morning came, he painted still,
The gamblers at Christ's feet,
The thieves who died there on that hill,
The sort you'd hate to meet...
The scoffers in the crowd below
And Mary full of tears...
The crown of thorns, Christ's blood in flow,
While Satan stares and cheers...
Then something new the painter felt
That he should add that day...
A weeping angel humbly knelt
At Christ's feet there to pray...
He was Death's angel sent ahead
[...] Read more
poem by Denis Martindale
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On Seeing A Pupil Of Kung-sun Dance The Chien-ch`i
On the nineteenth day of the tenth month of the second year of Ta-li (15 November 767), in the residence of Yuan Ch`ih, Lieutenant-Governor of K`uei-chou, I saw Li Shih-er-niang of Lin-ying dance the chien-ch`i.
Impressed by the brilliance and thrust of her style, I asked her whom she had studied under. ``I am a pupil of Kung-sun'', was the reply.
I remember in the fifth year of K`ai-yuan (717) when I was still a little lad seeing Kung-sun dance the chien-ch`i
and the hun-t`o at Yen-ch`eng. For purity of technique and self-confident attack she was unrivaled in her day.
From the ``royal command performers'' and the ``insiders'' of the Spring Garden and Pear Garden schools in the palace down to the ``official call'' dancers outside, there was no one during the early years of His Sagely Pacific and Divinely Martial Majesty who understood this dance as she did. Where now is that lovely figure in its gorgeous costume? Now even I am an old, white-haired man; and this pupil of hers is well past her prime.
Having found out about the pupil's antecedents, I now realized that what I had been watching was a faithful
reproduction of the great dancer's interpretation. The train of reflections set off by this discovery so moved me
that I felt inspired to compose a ballad on the chien-ch`i.
Some years ago, Chang Hsu, the great master of the ``grass writing'' style of calligraphy, having several times
seeen Kung-sun dance the West River chien-ch`i at Yeh-hsein, afterwards discovered, to his immense
gratification, that his calligraphy had greatly improved. This gives one some idea of the sort of person Kung-sun
was.
In time past there was a lovely woman called Kung-sun, whose chien-ch`i astonished the whole world. Audiences numerous as the hills watched awestruck as she danced, and, to their reeling senses, the world seemed to go on rising and falling, long after she had finished dancing. Her flashing swoop was like the nine suns falling, transfixed by the Mighty Archer's arrows; her
soaring flight like the lords of the sky driving their dragon teams aloft; her advance like the thunder gathering up its dreadful rage; her stoppings like seas and rivers locked in the cold glint of ice.
The crimson lips, the pearl-encrusted sleeves are now at rest. But in her latter years there had been a pupil to whom she transmitted the fragrance of her art. And now in the city of the White Emperor the handsome woman from Lin-ying performs this dance with superb spirit. Her answers to my questions have revealed that there was good reason to admire, my ensuing
reflections fill me with painful emotion.
Of the eight thousand women who served our late Emperor, Kung-sun was from the first the leading performer of the chien-ch`i. Fifty years have now gone by like a flick of the hand - fifty years in which rebellions and disorders darkened the royal house. The pupils of the Pear Garden have vanished like the mist. And now here is this dancer, with the cold winter sun
shining on her fading features.
South of the Hill of Golden Grain the boughs of the trees already interlace. On the rocky walls of Ch`u-t`ang the dead grasses blow forlornly. At the glittering feast the shrill flutes have once more concluded. When pleasure is at its height, sorrow follows.
The moon rises in the east; and I depart, an old man who does not know where he is going, but whose feet, calloused from much walking in the wild mountains, make him wearier and wearier of the pace.
On Seeing a Pupil of Kung-sun Dance the Chien-ch`i
On the nineteenth day of the tenth month of the second year of Ta-li (15 November 767), in the residence of
Yuan Ch`ih, Lieutenant-Governor of K`uei-chou, I saw Li Shih-er-niang of Lin-ying dance the chien-ch`i.
Impressed by the brilliance and thrust of her style, I asked her whom she had studied under. ``I am a pupil of
Kung-sun'', was the reply.
I remember in the fifth year of K`ai-yuan (717) when I was still a little lad seeing Kung-sun dance the chien-ch`i
and the hun-t`o at Yen-ch`eng. For purity of technique and self-confident attack she was unrivalled in her day.
From the ``royal command performers'' and the ``insiders'' of the Spring Garden and Pear Garden schools in the
palace down to the ``official call'' dancers outside, there was no one during the early years of His Sagely Pacific
and Divinely Martial Majesty who understood this dance as she did. Where now is that lovely figure in its
gorgeous costume? Now even I am an old, white-haired man; and this pupil of hers is well past her prime.
Having found out about the pupil's antecedents, I now realized that what I had been watching was a faithful
reproduction of the great dancer's interpretation. The train of reflections set off by this discovery so moved me
that I felt inspired to compose a ballad on the chien-ch`i.
Some years ago, Chang Hsu, the great master of the ``grass writing'' style of calligraphy, having several times
seeen Kung-sun dance the West River chien-ch`i at Yeh-hsein, afterwards discovered, to his immense
gratification, that his calligraphy had greatly improved. This gives one some idea of the sort of person Kung-sun
was.
In time past there was a lovely woman called Kung-sun, whose chien-ch`i astonished the whole world. Audiences numerous as
the hills watched awestruck as she danced, and, to their reeling senses, the world seemed to go on rising and falling, long after
she had finished dancing. Her flashing swoop was like the nine suns falling, transfixed by the Mighty Archer's arrows; her
soaring flight like the lords of the sky driving their dragon teams aloft; her advance like the thunder gathering up its dreadful
rage; her stoppings like seas and rivers locked in the cold glint of ice.
The crimson lips, the pearl-encrusted sleeves are now at rest. But in her latter years there had been a pupil to whom she
transmitted the fragrance of her art. And now in the city of the White Emperor the handsome woman from Lin-ying performs
this dance with superb spirit. Her answers to my questions have revealed that there was good reason to admire, my ensuing
reflections fill me with painful emotion.
Of the eight thousand women who served our late Emperor, Kung-sun was from the first the leading performer of the
chien-ch`i. Fifty years have now gone by like a flick of the hand - fifty years in which rebellions and disorders darkened the
royal house. The pupils of the Pear Garden have vanished like the mist. And now here is this dancer, with the cold winter sun
shining on her fading features.
South of the Hill of Golden Grain the boughs of the trees already interlace. On the rocky walls of Ch`u-t`ang the dead grasses
blow forlornly. At the glittering feast the shrill flutes have once more concluded. When pleasure is at its height, sorrow follows.
The moon rises in the east; and I depart, an old man who does not know where he is going, but whose feet, calloused from
much walking in the wild mountains, make him wearier and wearier of the pace.
Shakuntala Act 1
King Dushyant in a chariot, pursuing an antelope, with a bow and quiver, attended by his Charioteer.
Suta (Charioteer). [Looking at the antelope, and then at the king]
When I cast my eye on that black antelope, and on thee, O king, with thy braced bow, I see before me, as it were, the God Mahésa chasing a hart (male deer), with his bow, named Pináca, braced in his left hand.
King Dushyant: The fleet animal has given us a long chase. Oh! there he runs, with his neck bent gracefully, looking back, from time to time, at the car (chariot) which follows him. Now, through fear of a descending shaft, he contracts his forehand, and extends his flexible haunches; and now, through fatigue, he pauses to nibble the grass in his path with his mouth half opened. See how he springs and bounds with long steps, lightly skimming the ground, and rising high in the air! And now so rapid is his flight, that he is scarce discernible!
Suta: The ground was uneven, and the horses were checked in their course. He has taken advantage of our delay. It is level now, and we may easily overtake him.
King Dushyant: Loosen the reins.
Suta: As the king commands. – [He drives the car first at full speed, and then gently.] – He could not escape. The horses were not even touched by the clouds of dust which they raised; they tossed their manes, erected their ears, and rather glided than galloped over the smooth plain.
King Dushyant: They soon outran the swift antelope. –Objects which, from their distance, appeared minute, presently became larger: what was really divided, seemed united, as we passed; and what was in truth bent, seemed straight. So swift was the motion of the wheels, that nothing, for many moments, was either distant or near. [He fixes an arrow in his bowstring.]
[Behind the scenes.] He must not be slain. This antelope, O king, has an asylum in our forest: he must not be slain.
Suta: [Listening and Looking.] Just as the animal presents a fair mark for our arrow, two hermits are advancing to interrupt your aim
King Dushyant: Then stop the car.
Suta: The king is obeyed. [He draws in the reins.]
Enter a Hermit and his Pupil.
Hermit: [Raising his hands.] Slay not, O mighty sovereign, slay not a poor fawn, who has found a place of refuge. No, surely, no; he must not be hurt. An arrow in the delicate body of a deer would be like fire in bale of cotton. Compared with thy keen shafts, how weak must be the tender hide of a young antelope! Replace quickly, oh! replace the arrow which thou hast aimed. The weapons of you kings and warriors are destined for the relief of the oppressed, not for the destruction of the guiltless.
King Dushyant: [Saluting them.] It is replaced.
[He places the arrow in his quiver.]
Hermit: [With joy] Worthy is that act of thee, most illustrious; of monarchs; worthy, indeed, of a prince descended from Puru. Mayst thou have a son adorned with virtues, a sovereign of the world!
Pupil: [Elevating both his hands.] Oh! by all means, may thy son be adorned with every virtue, a sovereign of the world!
King Dushyant: [Bowing to them.] My head bears with reverence the order of a Bráhmin
Hermit: Great king, we came hither to collect wood for a solemn sacrifice; and this forest, and the banks of the Malini, affords an asylum to the wild animals protected by Shakuntala, (Shakuntala) whom our holy preceptor Kanva has received as a sacred deposit. If you have no other avocation, enter yon grove, and let the rights of hospitality be duly performed. Having seen with your own eyes the virtuous behaviour of those whose only wealth is their piety, but whose worldly cares are now at an end, you will then exclaim, 'How many good subjects are defended by this arm, which the bowstring has made callous!'
King Dushyant: Is the master of your family at home?
Hermit: Our preceptor is gone to Sómatirt'ha, in hopes of deprecating some calamity, with which destiny threatens the irreproachable Shakuntala, and he has charged her, in his absence, to receive all guests with due honour.
King Dushyant: Holy man, I will attend her; and she, having observed my devotion, will report it favourably to the venerable sage.
Both: Be it so; and we depart on our own business. [The Hermit and his Pupil go out.]
King Dushyant: Drive on Suta. By visiting the abode of holiness, we shall purify our souls.
Suta: As the king (may his life be long!) commands. [He drives on.]
[...] Read more
poem by Kalidasa
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Book III - Part 02 - Nature And Composition Of The Mind
First, then, I say, the mind which oft we call
The intellect, wherein is seated life's
Counsel and regimen, is part no less
Of man than hand and foot and eyes are parts
Of one whole breathing creature. But some hold
That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated,
But is of body some one vital state,-
Named "harmony" by Greeks, because thereby
We live with sense, though intellect be not
In any part: as oft the body is said
To have good health (when health, however, 's not
One part of him who has it), so they place
The sense of mind in no fixed part of man.
Mightily, diversly, meseems they err.
Often the body palpable and seen
Sickens, while yet in some invisible part
We feel a pleasure; oft the other way,
A miserable in mind feels pleasure still
Throughout his body- quite the same as when
A foot may pain without a pain in head.
Besides, when these our limbs are given o'er
To gentle sleep and lies the burdened frame
At random void of sense, a something else
Is yet within us, which upon that time
Bestirs itself in many a wise, receiving
All motions of joy and phantom cares of heart.
Now, for to see that in man's members dwells
Also the soul, and body ne'er is wont
To feel sensation by a "harmony"
Take this in chief: the fact that life remains
Oft in our limbs, when much of body's gone;
Yet that same life, when particles of heat,
Though few, have scattered been, and through the mouth
Air has been given forth abroad, forthwith
Forever deserts the veins, and leaves the bones.
Thus mayst thou know that not all particles
Perform like parts, nor in like manner all
Are props of weal and safety: rather those-
The seeds of wind and exhalations warm-
Take care that in our members life remains.
Therefore a vital heat and wind there is
Within the very body, which at death
Deserts our frames. And so, since nature of mind
And even of soul is found to be, as 'twere,
A part of man, give over "harmony"-
Name to musicians brought from Helicon,-
Unless themselves they filched it otherwise,
To serve for what was lacking name till then.
Whate'er it be, they're welcome to it- thou,
Hearken my other maxims.
[...] Read more
poem by Lucretius
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Lots Of Writing Talents
let us discuss the pupil-writer
worst pupil in the class
with lots of writing talents
worst pupil in the class
with lots of writing talents
worst behaviour most
potential makes perfect sense
lazy uninterested bodes
well for a bad future pending
bodes well as a bad storm omen
storm in a tea cup or personal trials?
wisdom pretends to make an effort
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Good teachers make the best of a pupil's means; great teachers foresee a pupil's ends.
classic quote by Maria Callas
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Part VI
With a change
Of his whole manner, opens out at once
The Adversary.
"Now, my friend, for you!
You who, protected late, aggressive grown,
Brandish, it seems, a weapon I must 'ware!
Plain speech in me becomes respectable
Therefore, because courageous; plainly, then—
(Have lash well loose, hold handle tight and light!)
Throughout my life's experience, you indulged
Yourself and friend by passing in review
So courteously but now, I vainly search
To find one record of a specimen
So perfect of the pure and simple fool
As this you furnish me. Ingratitude
I lump with folly,—all's one lot,—so—fool!
Did I seek you or you seek me? Seek? sneak
For service to, and service you would style—
And did style—godlike, scarce an hour ago!
Fool, there again, yet not precisely there
First-rate in folly: since the hand you kissed
Did pick you from the kennel, did plant firm
Your footstep on the pathway, did persuade
Your awkward shamble to true gait and pace,
Fit for the world you walk in. Once a-strut
On that firm pavement which your cowardice
Was for renouncing as a pitfall, next
Came need to clear your brains of their conceit
They cleverly could distinguish who was who,
Whatever folk might tramp the thoroughfare.
Men, now—familiarly you read them off,
Each phyz at first sight! O you had an eye!
Who couched it? made you disappoint each fox
Eager to strip my gosling of his fluff
So golden as he cackled 'Goose trusts lamb?'
'Ay, but I saved you—wolf defeated fox—
Wanting to pick your bones myself!' then, wolf
Has got the worst of it with goose for once.
I, penniless, pay you ten thousand pounds
(—No gesture, pray! I pay ere I depart!)
And how you turn advantage to account
Here's the example! Have I proved so wrong
In my peremptory 'debt must be discharged'?
O you laughed lovelily, were loth to leave
The old friend out at elbows—pooh, a thing
Not to be thought of! I must keep my cash,
And you forget your generosity!
Ha ha, I took your measure when I laughed
My laugh to that! First quarrel—nay, first faint
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Inn Album (1875)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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That is the difference between good teachers and great teachers: good teachers make the best of a pupil's means; great teachers foresee a pupil's ends.
quote by Maria Callas
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The educator must believe in the potential power of his pupil, and he must employ all his art in seeking to bring his pupil to experience this power.
quote by Alfred Adler
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Teacher’s Day (in acrostic)
Teaches and trains even the worst pupil
Ever ready to help the student in troubled times
Allows students to nurture their talents
Chides and punishes justly
Held in high esteem
Exemplary and encouraging
Remembers the pupil, forgets the name
’Selflessly serves society to the best of his/ her ability
Defends the weaker students against the robust
Advises appropriately
Yields to the highly intelligent student
Copyright By Dr John Celes 5-09-’11
poem by John Celes
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Tale XIX
THE CONVERT.
Some to our Hero have a hero's name
Denied, because no father's he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend -
A point she was not eager to defend:
But who, without a father's name, can raise
His own so high, deserves the greater praise;
The less advantage to the strife he brought,
The greater wonders has his prowess wrought;
He who depends upon his wind and limbs,
Needs neither cork nor bladder when he swims;
Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along,
As not himself--but in his helpers--strong.
Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear,
For call John Dighton, and he answer'd 'Here!'
But who that name in early life assign'd
He never found, he never tried to find:
Whether his kindred were to John disgrace,
Or John to them, is a disputed case;
His infant state owed nothing to their care -
His mind neglected, and his body bare;
All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
But in a market-town an active boy
Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ;
Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began
To show the talents of a thriving man.
With spirit high John learn'd the world to
brave,
And in both senses was a ready knave;
Knave as of old obedient, keen, and quick,
Knave as of present, skill'd to shift and trick;
Some humble part of many trades he caught,
He for the builder and the painter wrought;
For serving-maids on secret errands ran,
The waiter's helper, and the ostler's man;
And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose,
His varying genius shone in blacking shoes:
A midnight fisher by the pond he stood,
Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood;
At an election John's impartial mind
Was to no cause nor candidate confined;
To all in turn he full allegiance swore,
And in his hat the various badges bore:
His liberal soul with every sect agreed,
Unheard their reasons, he received their creed:
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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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;
[...] Read more
The Buddha says;
The Buddha said:
We must open ourselves to the world
Knowing that what we sense about the world
Is Maya.
and the pupil asked: If what we see is an illusion
then what is the purpose of opening to lies?
The Buddha answered To open our inner eye
to the truth which is found by emptying oneself
of all that you know about the world.
the pupil asked: If all that we see is misrepresented
then what is the use of inquiry?
The Buddha said: You have already asked that question
What is the use of repeating the answer?
poem by George Murdock
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Cadenus And Vanessa
THE shepherds and the nymphs were seen
Pleading before the Cyprian Queen.
The counsel for the fair began
Accusing the false creature, man.
The brief with weighty crimes was charged,
On which the pleader much enlarged:
That Cupid now has lost his art,
Or blunts the point of every dart;
His altar now no longer smokes;
His mother's aid no youth invokes—
This tempts free-thinkers to refine,
And bring in doubt their powers divine,
Now love is dwindled to intrigue,
And marriage grown a money-league.
Which crimes aforesaid (with her leave)
Were (as he humbly did conceive)
Against our Sovereign Lady's peace,
Against the statutes in that case,
Against her dignity and crown:
Then prayed an answer and sat down.
The nymphs with scorn beheld their foes:
When the defendant's counsel rose,
And, what no lawyer ever lacked,
With impudence owned all the fact.
But, what the gentlest heart would vex,
Laid all the fault on t'other sex.
That modern love is no such thing
As what those ancient poets sing;
A fire celestial, chaste, refined,
Conceived and kindled in the mind,
Which having found an equal flame,
Unites, and both become the same,
In different breasts together burn,
Together both to ashes turn.
But women now feel no such fire,
And only know the gross desire;
Their passions move in lower spheres,
Where'er caprice or folly steers.
A dog, a parrot, or an ape,
Or some worse brute in human shape
Engross the fancies of the fair,
The few soft moments they can spare
From visits to receive and pay,
From scandal, politics, and play,
From fans, and flounces, and brocades,
From equipage and park-parades,
From all the thousand female toys,
From every trifle that employs
The out or inside of their heads
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Swift
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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;
[...] Read more
poem by George Gordon Byron
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Zone
At last you're tired of this elderly world
Shepherdess O Eiffel Tower this morning the bridges are bleating
You're fed up living with antiquity
Even the automobiles are antiques
Religion alone remains entirely new religion
Remains as simple as an airport hangar
In all Europe only you O Christianism are not old
The most modem European Pope Pius X it's you
The windows watch and shame has sealed
The confessionals against you this morning
Flyers catalogs hoardings sing aloud
Here's poetry this morning and for prose you're reading the tabloids
Disposable paperbacks filled with crimes and police
Biographies of great men a thousand various titles
I saw a pretty street this morning I forgot the name
New and cleanly it was the sun's clarion
Executives laborers exquisite stenographers
Criss-cross Monday through Saturday four times daily
Three times every morning sirens groan
At the lunch hour a rabid bell barks
The lettering on the walls and billboards
the doorplates and posters twitters parakeet-style
I love the swank of that street
Situated in Paris between the rue Aumont-Thieville and the avenue des Ternes
Here's the young street and you're still a baby
Dressed by your mother in blue and white only
You're very pious and with your oldest friend Rene Dalize
Nothing is more fun than Masses and Litanies
It's nine o'clock the gaslight is low you leave your bed
You pray all night in the school chapel
Meanwhile an eternal adorable amethyst depth
Christ's flamboyant halo spins forever
Behold the beautiful lily of worship
Behold the red-haired torch inextinguishable
Behold the pale son and scarlet of the dolorous Mother
Behold the tree forever tufted with prayer
Behold the double gallows honor and eternity
Behold the six-pointed star
Behold the God who dies on Friday and rises on Sunday
Behold the Christ who flies higher than aviators
He holds the world's record for altitude
[...] Read more
poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
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A Little Teacher
At times a little teacher stands before me
With a smiling face.
And her sweet mouth speaks
Things I have never heard.
A cute girl of early teens,
A teacher of principles self imposed.
In her class I am the lone pupil
And she teaches me ever.
The chambers of my recollections past
Cry for a change perhaps,
My old teachers fade into oblivion
As my new teacher waits to steal in.
My learning is her choice
Though the subjects taught are none new.
No notes, no admonishing and no comparisons!
I begin to learn the mind of a growing child.
There arises only one question-
How long will she teach like this?
As she makes steps forward unto her tomorrows
I shall cease to be her pupil.
My steps are made as well
As the tomorrows won`t leave me alone.
Somewhere I may stand stranded with feeble feet
And the gale of ailments may begin to cross my frame.
Then I shall remember the lessons taught by you
My little teacher, my philosopher once
And I shall hold on to your kind love and care
Oh! My dear daughter, let us stop for now.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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The inner magnet sings like flower to bee, like bee to flower
The inner magnet sings
like flower to bee; like bee to flower -
Some traditions say, that
we all have an inner sound; which
we can train; or can leave it be..
as gold for Midas; Midas, so, for gold;
and this, it's said, calls pupil to their teacher;
teacher to their pupil; it is
that yearning to know more
that draws the two to unity;
anmd so the holy men
show no surprise to see you there
(unsure, nonplussed, and wondering..)
at their holy feet which are not theirs..
holy chicken, holy egg...
so here I sit, pen down, and silent, still,
loving this idea; asking nothing;
treasuring, now, this sound
I cannot hear as yet;
and yet, may be as loud
as pindropp silence in the heart:
the lovely sound
of listening itself.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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By Moschus
I slept when Venus enter'd: to my bed
A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led,
A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said:
'Shepherd, receive my little one! I bring
An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing.'
She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought,
Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught,
How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound,
How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound,
How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire
Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre.
Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded he
But ditties sang of amorous sort to me.
The pangs that mortals and immortals prove
From Venus' influence and the darts of love.
Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught;
His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot.
poem by William Cowper
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