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If anything's progressive, then we make progress.

quote by Michael Giles
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Columbiad: Book IX

The Argument

Vision suspended. Night scene, as contemplated from the mount of vision. Columbus inquires the reason of the slow progress of science, and its frequent interruptions. Hesper answers, that all things in the physical as well as the moral and intellectual world are progressive in like manner. He traces their progress from the birth of the universe to the present state of the earth and its inhabitants; asserts the future advancement of society, till perpetual peace shall be established. Columbus proposes his doubts; alleges in support of them the successive rise and downfal of ancient nations; and infers future and periodical convulsions. Hesper, in answer, exhibits the great distinction between the ancient and modern state of the arts and of society. Crusades. Commerce. Hanseatic League. Copernicus. Kepler. Newton, Galileo. Herschel. Descartes. Bacon. Printing Press. Magnetic Needle. Geographical discoveries. Federal system in America. A similar system to be extended over the whole earth. Columbus desires a view of this.

But now had Hesper from the Hero's sight
Veil'd the vast world with sudden shades of night.
Earth, sea and heaven, where'er he turns his eye,
Arch out immense, like one surrounding sky
Lamp'd with reverberant fires. The starry train
Paint their fresh forms beneath the placid main;
Fair Cynthia here her face reflected laves,
Bright Venus gilds again her natal waves,
The Bear redoubling foams with fiery joles,
And two dire dragons twine two arctic poles.
Lights o'er the land, from cities lost in shade,
New constellations, new galaxies spread,
And each high pharos double flames provides,
One from its fires, one fainter from the tides.

Centred sublime in this bivaulted sphere,
On all sides void, unbounded, calm and clear,
Soft o'er the Pair a lambent lustre plays,
Their seat still cheering with concentred rays;
To converse grave the soothing shades invite.
And on his Guide Columbus fixt his sight:
Kind messenger of heaven, he thus began,
Why this progressive laboring search of man?
If men by slow degrees have power to reach
These opening truths that long dim ages teach,
If, school'd in woes and tortured on to thought,
Passion absorbing what experience taught,
Still thro the devious painful paths they wind,
And to sound wisdom lead at last the mind,
Why did not bounteous nature, at their birth,
Give all their science to these sons of earth,
Pour on their reasoning powers pellucid day,
Their arts, their interests clear as light display?
That error, madness and sectarian strife
Might find no place to havock human life.

To whom the guardian Power: To thee is given
To hold high converse and inquire of heaven,
To mark untraversed ages, and to trace
Whate'er improves and what impedes thy race.
Know then, progressive are the paths we go
In worlds above thee, as in thine below
Nature herself (whose grasp of time and place
Deals out duration and impalms all space)

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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Vision Of Columbus - Book 8

And now the Angel, from the trembling sight,
Veil'd the wide world–when sudden shades of night
Move o'er the ethereal vault; the starry train
Paint their dim forms beneath the placid main;
While earth and heaven, around the hero's eye,
Seem arch'd immense, like one surrounding sky.
Still, from the Power superior splendors shone,
The height emblazing like a radiant throne;
To converse sweet the soothing shades invite,
And on the guide the hero fix'd his sight.
Kind messenger of Heaven, he thus began,
Why this progressive labouring search of man?
If man by wisdom form'd hath power to reach
These opening truths that following ages teach,
Step after step, thro' devious mazes, wind,
And fill at last the measure of the mind,
Why did not Heaven, with one unclouded ray,
All human arts and reason's powers display?
That mad opinions, sects and party strife
Might find no place t'imbitter human life.
To whom the Angelic Power; to thee 'tis given,
To hold high converse, and enquire of heaven,
To mark uncircled ages and to trace
The unfolding truths that wait thy kindred race.
Know then, the counsels of th'unchanging Mind,
Thro' nature's range, progressive paths design'd,
Unfinish'd works th'harmonious system grace,
Thro' all duration and around all space;
Thus beauty, wisdom, power, their parts unroll,
Till full perfection joins the accordant whole.
So the first week, beheld the progress rise,
Which form'd the earth and arch'd th'incumbant skies.
Dark and imperfect first, the unbeauteous frame,
From vacant night, to crude existence came;
Light starr'd the heavens and suns were taught their bound,
Winds woke their force, and floods their centre found;
Earth's kindred elements, in joyous strife,
Warm'd the glad glebe to vegetable life,
Till sense and power and action claim'd their place,
And godlike reason crown'd the imperial race.
Progressive thus, from that great source above,
Flows the fair fountain of redeeming love.
Dark harbingers of hope, at first bestow'd,
Taught early faith to feel her path to God:
Down the prophetic, brightening train of years,
Consenting voices rose of different seers,
In shadowy types display'd the accomplish'd plan,
When filial Godhead should assume the man,
When the pure Church should stretch her arms abroad,
Fair as a bride and liberal as her God;

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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Get Some Rest

Getting little rest...
Isn't what's suggested is the best thing.
But...
Once one is committed,
It's difficult to quit.
Like many would would rather sit,
Just to...
Reminisce a bitterness,
Or...
Ignore the taking of those risks,
To...
Excuse the value of it.

And as a bit of a reminder...
Progress isn't made by sitting.
Progress isn't made by quitting.
Progress takes sacrificing,
What is wanted and what one likes.
And...
Progress isn't made by wishing.
Progress isn't made by shrinking...
Away to sneak a taste of cake,
While awaiting for someone else to make.
And...
Progress isn't made by sitting.
No.
Progress isn't made by quitting.
no.
Progress takes sacrificing,
What one wants, prefers and likes.

And,
Getting little rest...
Isn't what's suggested is the best thing.
But...
Once one is committed,
It's difficult to quit.
Like many would would rather sit,
Just to...
Reminisce a bitterness,
Or...
Ignore the taking of those risks,
To...
Excuse the value of it.

And as a bit of a reminder...
Get up and be tough.
Know,
To quit is not the best thing.
But...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Personally, I still don’t really know what progressive means. In some people’s minds if a piece of music is over 10 minutes long, it automatically gets the label of being progressive. I always enjoy playing arrangements kind of in a classical format, which is in movements. To me, music is either good or bad; it doesn’t matter what the label is. The kind of progressive label that I don’t like is the one that involves lyrics that quote dancing gnomes, Stonehenge and fairytales.

quote by Ian Mosley
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Old Bob Blair

I got so down to it last night,
With longin' for what could not be,
That nothin' in the world seemed right
Or everything was wrong with me.
My house was just a lonely hole,
An' I had blisters on my soul.

Top of my other worries now
The boys are talkin' strike, an' say
If we put up a sudden row
We're sure of forcin' up our pay.
I'm right enough with what I get;
But some wants more, an' then more yet.

Ben Murray's put it up to me:
He says I got some influence
Amongst them, if I agree
'Which I will do if I have sense'
We'll make the boss cough up a bit.
That's how Ben Murray looks at it.

I don't know that the old boss can.
I've heard he's pushed to make ends meet.
To me he's been a fair, straight man
That pays up well an' works a treat.
But if I don't get in this game,
Well, 'blackleg' ain't a pretty name.

This thing has got me thinkin' hard,
But there is worse upon my mind.
What sort of luck has broke my guard
That I should be the man to find
A girl like that? . . . The whole world's wrong!
Why was I born to live and long?

I get so down to it last night
With broodin' over things like this,
I said 'There's not a thing in sight
Worth havin' but I seem to miss.'
So I go out and get some air
An' have a word with old Bob Blair.

Bob's livin' lonely, same as me;
But he don't take to frettin' so
An' gettin' megrims after tea.
He reads a lot at night, I know;
His hut has books half up the wall
That I don't tumble to at all.

Books all about them ancient blokes

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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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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Work In Progress

Okay, I forgot about the trash,
I didn't trim the long hairs on my moustache.
I did buy you a ring; I believe it was back in '93.
Alright, I admit it; I forgot our anniversary.
I did pick up the baby this morning at the nursery.
That ain't no big thing; It's a gold star for me.
You get tired and disgusted with me,
When I can't be just what you want me to be.
I still love you and I try real hard.
I swear, one day, you'll have a brand new car.
I even asked the Lord to try to help me:
He looked down from Heaven, said to tell you please;
Just be patient, I'm a work in progress.
I'm sorry I got mad, waitin' in the truck;
It seemed like hours, you gettin' all dressed up,
Just to go to Shoney's on a Wednesday night.
I read that book you gave me about Mars and Venus;
I think it's sinkin' in but I probably need to re read it,
But I'm starting to see now, what you been saying is right.
You get tired and disgusted with me,
When I can't be just what you want me to be.
I still love you and I try real hard.
I swear, one day, you'll have a brand new car.
I even asked the Lord to try to help me:
He looked down from Heaven, said to tell you please;
Just be patient, I'm a work in progress.
Instrumental Break.
I know you meant well when you bought gave me those clogs,
But my heels get hot down by the muffler on my hog.
I'm sure they're stylish, but I'll take my boots.
I try to do that health thing like you want me to do,
That low-fat, no fat's gettin' hard to chew.
Now, I love your cookin', honey,
But sometimes, I need some real food.
You get tired and disgusted with me,
When I can't be just what you want me to be.
I still love you and I try real hard.
I swear, one day, you'll have a brand new car.
I even asked the Lord to try to help me:
He looked down from Heaven, said to tell you please;
Just be patient, I'm a work in progress.
Oh honey, just be patient, now,
I'm a work in progress.
Oh, I need a major tune up.
Maybe a full, body-off, restoration.

song performed by Alan Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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These Wooden Ideas

Its a better way to feel
Dont be real, be post modern
(Its not that one dimensional, its not the only thought)
Its a better way to feel
When youre not real, youre post modern
(Its not that one dimensional, its not the only thought)
I stopped and waited for progress
I stopped and waited for progress
I stopped and waited
But Im not willing to accept it all
This wooden idea is your method of repetition
This wooden idea is how you sell reduction x 2
Its the best way to feel
Dont be real, its post modern
(Its not that one dimensional, its not the only thought)
Its a better way to feel
When youre not real, youre post modern
(Its not that one dimensional, its not the only thought)
You cant keep waiting for progress
You cant keep waiting for progress
You cant keep waiting
And Im not willing to accept it all
This wooden idea is your method of repetition
This wooden idea is how you sell reduction
I bet you dont know how to spell contradiction
I bet you dont know how to sell conviction
I bet you dont know how to spell contradiction
I bet you dont know how to sell conviction
This wooden idea is your method of repetition
This wooden idea is how you sell reduction

song performed by Idlewild
Added by Lucian Velea
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There will never be peace

As long as
someone can pull out a gun
to shoot someone dead
as long as
someone can dropp a bomb
on some strangers head

there will never be peace
no there will never be peace
in this world

as long as
someone can start a war
based on a pack of lies
as long as
someone ignores the truth
when they look deep in your eyes

there will never be peace
no there will never be peace
in this world

if this is progress
we haven't come too far
if this is progress
we don't know who we are

if this is progress
we are worlds apart
if this is progress
we'd better go back to the start

as long as
someone stabs you in the back
and sticks the knife in good
as long as
someone walks without shame
in streets paved with blood

there will never be peace
no there will never be peace
in this world

poem by Ian Clark
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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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The March

In early, prehistoric days, before the reign of Man,
When neolithic Nature fashioned things upon a plan
That was large as it was rugged, and, in truth, a trifle crude,
There arose a dusky human who was positively rude.

Now, this was in the days when lived the monster kangaroo;
When the mammoth bunyip gambolled in the hills of Beetaloo;
They'd owned the land for centuries, and reckoned it their own;
For might was right, and such a thing as 'law' was quite unknown.

But this dusky old reformer in the ages long ago,
One morning in the Eocene discovered how to 'throw';
He studied well and practised hard until he learned the art;
Then, having planned his Great Campaign, went forth to make a start.

'See here,' he said - and hurled a piece of tertiary rock,
That struck a Tory bunyip with a most unpleasant shock -
'See here, my name is Progress, and your methods are too slow,
This land that you are fooling with must be cut up. Now go!'

They gazed at him in wonder, then they slowly backed away;
For 'throwing' things was novel in that neolithic day;
'Twas the prehistoric 'argument,' the first faint gleam of 'art.'
Yet those mammoths seemed to take it in exceedingly bad part.

Then a hoary, agéd bunyip rose, and spluttered loud and long;
He said the balck man's arguments were very, very wrong;
'You forget,' he said, indignantly 'the land is ours by right,
And to seek to wrest it from us would be - well, most impolite.'

But the savage shook his woolly head and smiled a savage smile,
And went on hurling prehistoric missiles all the while,
Till the bunyip and the others couldn't bear the argument,
And they said, 'You are a Socialist.' But, all the same - they went.

Some centuries - or, maybe, it was aeons - later on,
When the bunyip and the mammoth kangaroo had passed and gone;
While the black man slowly profited by what his fathers saw,
While he learned to fashion weapons and establish tribal law.

There came a band of pale-faced men in ships, from oversea,
Who viewed the land, then shook their heads and sadly said, 'Dear me!'
Then they landed with some rum and Bibles and a gun or two,
And started out to 'civilize,' as whites are apt to do.

They interviewed the black man and remarked, 'It's very sad,
But the use you make of this great land is postively bad;
Why, you haven't got a sheep or cow about the blessed place!
Considering the price of wool, it's simply a disgrace!'

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ode to the Mother

Two angels sit in your womb,
& in their rosy chamber
They weigh your name
Like rhyming treasures:

“If there were a word, mightier
Than Love, ‘Mother’
Would be mightier, & far more
Loyal. & if a single word
Can command from Kings
A pause or tear, what word
Is greater, & far more dear? ’”

“A word far loftier
Than that humble praise, ”
The other angel plays.
“’Fate’ hangs high above
This cradle in which we stir,
& concurs all kings, both vile
& sincere. Fate concurs all,
‘Fate’ is the word.”

“Fate may steer
Happiness we bestow,
& so I bow
With respect
For your word.
But can this ‘fate’ collapse
Three allied gods
Of love, faith,
& moral dynasty?
Can this word you hold so dear,
Quake immortality
With pathless fears?
‘Mother’ can combat
This drifting shadow,
My word is armed with love.
‘Fate’
Can breed & die with work,
But love is the child of mother.
& mother is saved by child.
As mother cradles
The child in youth,
The child shines her name
With proof…
Above the ‘fated’
Eclipse of death.
This vital truth of ‘Mother’
Weighs far greater
Than the common

[...] Read more

poem by Masiela Lusha
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We all want progress, but if you're on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive.

quote by C.S. Lewis
Added by Lucian Velea
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Take the human race to new heights of sophistication

Nature blessed me with
Great many things

The one gift I rate quite high is
That
You came in my life as an offspring

You gave me
All those pleasures
Unknown to me
Prior to your arrival

Your each movement was a marvel
Your each stage of growth was a milestone
Your each progress was an ecstasy
The first clear word spelt out by you
Was no less cheering than
What all great musicians would have done
In a soothing harmony
Your first independent step
Made me feel that I landed on the moon
Your first declaration that
You felt hungry
Made me feel
That a most sensitive kid is getting groomed
On your first day in the school
I was rehearsing
To welcome a genius back home
Your first flawless recitation of a rhyme
Elated me to that high
That I was creating a great actor
When you first located the
Lost-for-long key bunch
I saw in you a world class detective

Each first of your progressive step
Made me more and more proud
And wonder more and more

You continue to remain a pride
And you will ever be my pride

Even your dismissal and disapproval of my
Age-experience-biased views
Leave me to wonder how
Smart you are proving
I get amazed at each step of yours
And you remain a pride

The one thing I would pray the almighty

[...] Read more

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Columbiad: Book X

The vision resumed, and extended over the whole earth. Present character of different nations. Future progress of society with respect to commerce; discoveries; inland navigation; philosophical, med and political knowledge. Science of government. Assimilation and final union of all languages. Its effect on education, and on the advancement of physical and moral science. The physical precedes the moral, as Phosphor precedes the Sun. View of a general Congress from all nations, assembled to establish the political harmony of mankind. Conclusion.

Hesper again his heavenly power display'd,
And shook the yielding canopy of shade.
Sudden the stars their trembling fires withdrew.
Returning splendors burst upon the view,
Floods of unfolding light the skies adorn,
And more than midday glories grace the morn.
So shone the earth, as if the sideral train,
Broad as full suns, had sail'd the ethereal plain;
When no distinguisht orb could strike the sight,
But one clear blaze of all-surrounding light
O'erflow'd the vault of heaven. For now in view
Remoter climes and future ages drew;
Whose deeds of happier fame, in long array,
Call'd into vision, fill the newborn day.

Far as seraphic power could lift the eye,
Or earth or ocean bend the yielding sky,
Or circling sutis awake the breathing gale,
Drake lead the way, or Cook extend the sail;
Where Behren sever'd, with adventurous prow,
Hesperia's headland from Tartaria's brow;
Where sage Vancouvre's patient leads were hurl'd,
Where Deimen stretch'd his solitary world;
All lands, all seas that boast a present name,
And all that unborn time shall give to fame,
Around the Pair in bright expansion rise,
And earth, in one vast level, bounds the skies.

They saw the nations tread their different shores,
Ply their own toils and wield their local powers,
Their present state in all its views disclose,
Their gleams of happiness, their shades of woes,
Plodding in various stages thro the range
Of man's unheeded but unceasing change.
Columbus traced them with experienced eye,
And class'd and counted all the flags that fly;
He mark'd what tribes still rove the savage waste,
What cultured realms the sweets of plenty taste;
Where arts and virtues fix their golden reign,
Or peace adorns, or slaughter dyes the plain.

He saw the restless Tartar, proud to roam,
Move with his herds and pitch a transient home;
Tibet's long tracts and China's fixt domain,
Dull as their despots, yield their cultured grain;
Cambodia, Siam, Asia's myriad isles
And old Indostan, with their wealthy spoils

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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The Holy Constitution

Read ye here the song as sung
By a chief named, briefly, Ung.
In the days when arguments were manly axes:
'O my people, this my Law
Is without defect or flaw,
And it governs ways and means and rates and taxes.
To amend it were unwise;
And if any tribesman tries,
He will meet with swift unerring retribution.
'Tis omnipotent, infallible, as all may recognise;
In short, it is out Noble Constitution.'

When this Neolithic man
Gave the world his early plan
Of tribal laws to bind his nascent nation,
He opined, with fine conceit,
That his System was complete,
And the acme of all human legislation.
'For all time this Law shall stand!'
He decreed with manner grand
And a splendid disregard for evolution;
And the Tory crowd that followed, bore this tenet in its hand:
'You must never touch the Sacred Constitution.'

So the Party then in power,
To improve the shining hour,
Contracted quite a pleasing little habit:
Safely guarded in their 'right,'
If they fancied aught in sight,
Being 'constitutionally safe,' they'd grab it.
And they told the rank and file,
With a patronising smile,
When the People talked of 'wrongs' and 'persecution,'
'It is very, very sad, and, no doubt, your case is bad;
But we cannot tamper with the Constitution.'

But meat-winners of the day
(Rabid Socialists were they)
By slow degrees arrived at this conclusion:
That the hide-bound Tory joss
Totalled mainly bluff and dross,
And its 'sacredness' was wholly an illusion.
Then with yells and growlings vile,
In their quaint primeval style
They planned a prehistoric revolution;
And with bits of tertiary rock they wrecked the Torries' smile
And, incidentally, the Constitution.

All this happened, as you know,
Quite a long, long time ago;

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Recluse - Book First

HOME AT GRASMERE

ONCE to the verge of yon steep barrier came
A roving school-boy; what the adventurer's age
Hath now escaped his memory--but the hour,
One of a golden summer holiday,
He well remembers, though the year be gone--
Alone and devious from afar he came;
And, with a sudden influx overpowered
At sight of this seclusion, he forgot
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,
'What happy fortune were it here to live!
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought
Of mortal separation, could intrude
With paradise before him, here to die!'
No Prophet was he, had not even a hope,
Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,
A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others, never could be his.
The station whence he looked was soft and green,
Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth
Of vale below, a height of hills above.
For rest of body perfect was the spot,
All that luxurious nature could desire;
But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze
And not feel motions there? He thought of clouds
That sail on winds: of breezes that delight
To play on water, or in endless chase
Pursue each other through the yielding plain
Of grass or corn, over and through and through,
In billow after billow, evermore
Disporting--nor unmindful was the boy
Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and birds;
Of fluttering sylphs and softly-gliding Fays,
Genii, and winged angels that are Lords
Without restraint of all which they behold.
The illusion strengthening as he gazed, he felt
That such unfettered liberty was his,
Such power and joy; but only for this end,
To flit from field to rock, from rock to field,
From shore to island, and from isle to shore,
From open ground to covert, from a bed
Of meadow-flowers into a tuft of wood;
From high to low, from low to high, yet still
Within the bound of this huge concave; here
Must be his home, this valley be his world.
Since that day forth the Place to him--'to me'
(For I who live to register the truth
Was that same young and happy Being) became

[...] Read more

poem by William Wordsworth
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O Hush Thee, - Though Maybe parody Sir Walter Scott - Lullaby on an Infant Chief

O Hush Thee, - Though Maybe...

O hush thee, though maybe desires in the night
for [s]mothering lady, lewd, lovely and tight,
would make you less lonely, sweet dreams would flow free,
they’d all tell of longings precocious in thee!

O flush not the toilet for loudly it blows,
awaking the warders who guard thy repose,
their belts they’d unbuckle, bare bottoms be red,
should any young lady draw near to your bed.

Don’t blush for, sweet baby, the time may soon come
when thy sleep shall be broken by bosom and bum,
then hush thee, my darling, fake rest while you may,
till a wife takes your manhood, - then rake every day!

25 April 1990 Parody Sir Walter SCOTT – Lullaby for an Infant Chief

O Hush Thee, My Baby - Parody Sir Walter Scott


O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a Chimp,
his ancestor’s mother amoeba or shrimp,
the woods and the glens you see, once under sea,
all bear silent witness to thy history.

Fear not evolution, for progress revolves
around its lost secrets ‘til scientist solves
how toes, once extended prehensile, could free
Mankind for steps taken to end up with thee!

Soon brain implantations shall banish revolt,
dispensing with thoughts non-conformist with jolt
shocks of a nature to well guarantee
subservience set in tag RFID.

Yet brain stimulation through radio waves
may set the ball rolling for much mankind craves
as areas, dormant, awake for fresh free
with flash telepathic advancing on key.

Know privacy, freedoms, most must sacrifice
in the name of the fight for what’s Right versa vice, -
and verses like this may to posterity
be unknown in a world were none dare disagree.

‘O, hush thee, my baby, take rest while I croon,
for ‘Progress’ comes early, and Freedom too soon’
may with some liberal economy

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Misplaced Or Progressive Justice

Great temples are nowhere in the concrete jungle of the town;
Temple sculptures are nowhere in beach statues or park trees;
Peace and beauty are nowhere in noise and pollution by traffics;
Spiritualists or poets are nowhere among fanatics and drunkards!

Are population and pollution by vehicles the progress of town?
Is God proving to be everywhere by vanishing temples in towns?
Can peace and beauty resurrect in the busy towns of progress?
Who can rectify a town full of misplacements in the modern times?

For developing backward classes, opportunities for others are denied;
Even in the court, justice renders judgements based on this method!
Can social justice be attained by punishing generations of other classes?
Is it not just giving opportunities to all poor men in education and jobs?

Justice has become just ice in many judgements pronounced here;
Chasm has widened between classes dividing the society into pieces!
Misplacement of people in all walks of life has deprived efficiency too.
Can this kind of misplacement or progressive justice develop a nation?

poem by Ramesh T A
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I know that Bush, for political reasons, is going to nominate a minority, a Hispanic man or someone where it will be harder for people on the progressive side to oppose and split some of the traditionally progressive or democratic constituents.

quote by Patricia Ireland
Added by Lucian Velea
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