I want to be Robin to Bush's Batman.
quote by Dan Quayle
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Robin Hood And Guy Of Gisborne
When shawes been sheene, and shradds full fayre,
And leeves both large and longe,
Itt is merry, walking in the fayre forrest,
To heare the small birds songe.
The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Amongst the leaves a lyne:
And it is by two wight yeomen,
By deare God, that I meane.
'Me thought they did mee beate and binde,
And tooke my bow mee froe;
If I bee Robin a-live in this lande,
I'le be wrocken on both them towe.'
Sweavens are swift, master,' quoth John,
'As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
For if itt be never soe lowde this night,
To-morrow it may be still.'
'Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
For John shall goe with mee:
For I'le goe seek yond wight yeomen
In greenwood where the bee.'
^ TOP
The cast on their gowne of greene,
A shooting gone are they,
Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee;
There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Had beene many a man bane,
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde,
Topp, and tayle, and mayne.
'Stand you still, master,' quoth Litle John,
'Under this trusty tree,
And I will goe to yong wight yeomen,
To know his meaning trulye.'
'A, John, by me thou setts noe store,
And that's a farley thinge;
How offt send I my men beffore,
And tarry my-selfe behinde?
It is noe cunning a knave to ken,
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Robin Hood And The Butcher
Come, all you brave gallants, and listen awhile,
With hey down, down, an a down,
That are in the bowers within;
For of Robin Hood, that archer good,
A song I intend for to sing.
Upon a time it chanced so,
Bold Robin in forrest did 'spy
A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare,
With his flesh to the market did hye.
'Good morrow, good fellow,' said jolly Robin,
'What food hast [thou]? tell unto me;
Thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell,
For I like well thy company.'
The butcher he answer'd jolly Robin,
'No matter where I dwell;
For a butcher I am, and to Nottingham
I am going, my flesh to sell.'
'What's [the] price of thy flesh?' said jolly Robin,
'Come, tell it soon unto me;
And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear,
For a butcher fain would I be.'
'The price of my flesh,' the butcher repli'd,
'I soon will tell unto thee;
With my bonny mare, and they are not too dear,
Four mark thou must give unto me.'
'Four mark I will give thee,' saith jolly Robin,
'Four mark it shall be thy fee;
The mony come count, and let me mount,
For a butcher I fain would be.'
Now Robin he is to Nottingham gone,
His butchers trade to begin;
With good intent to the sheriff he went,
And there he took up his inn.
When other butchers did open their meat,
Bold Robin he then begun;
But how for to sell he knew not well,
For a butcher he was but young.
When other butchers no meat could sell,
Robin got both gold and fee;
For he sold more meat for one peny
Then others could do for three.
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
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Robin Hood's Flight
Robin Hood's mother, these twelve years now,
Has been gone from her earthly home;
And Robin has paid, he scarce knew how,
A sum for a noble tomb.
The church-yard lies on a woody hill,
But open to sun and air:
It seems as if the heaven still
Were looking and smiling there.
Often when Robin looked that way,
He looked through a sweet thin tear;
But he looked in a different manner, they say,
Towards the Abbey of Vere.
He cared not for its ill-got wealth,
He felt not for his pride;
He had youth, and strength, and health,
And enough for one beside.
But he thought of his gentle mother's cheek
How it sunk away,
And how she used to grow more weak
And weary every day;
And how, when trying a hymn, her voice
At evening would expire,
How unlike it was the arrogant noise
Of the hard throats in the quire:
And Robin thought too of the poor,
How they toiled without their share,
And how the alms at the abbey-door
But kept them as they were:
And he thought him then of the friars again,
Who rode jingling up and down
With their trappings and things as fine as the king's,
Though they wore but a shaven crown.
And then bold Robin he thought of the king,
How he got all his forests and deer,
And how he made the hungry swing
If they killed but one in a year.
And thinking thus, as Robin stood,
Digging his bow in the ground,
He was aware in Gamelyn Wood,
Of one who looked around.
[...] Read more
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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Robin Hood and the Prince of Aragon
NOW Robin Hood, Will Scadlock and Little John
Are walking over the plain,
With a good fat buck which Will Scadlock
With his strong bow had slain.
`Jog on, jog on,' cries Robin Hood,
`The day it runs full fast;
For though my nephew me a breakfast gave,
I have not yet broke my fast.
`Then to yonder lodge let us take our way,
I think it wondrous good,
Where my nephew by my bold yeomen
Shall be welcomd unto the green wood.'
With that he took the bugle-horn,
Full well he could it blow;
Streight from the woods came marching down
One hundred tall fellows and mo.
`Stand, stand to your arms!' crys Will Scadlock,
`Lo! the enemies are within ken:'
With that Robin Hood he laughd aloud,
Crys, They are my bold yeomen.
Who, when they arriv'd and Robin espy'd,
Cry'd, Master, what is your will?
We thought you had in danger been,
Your horn did sound so shrill.
`Now nay, now nay,' quoth Robin Hood,
`The danger is past and gone;
I would have you to welcome my nephew here,
That hath paid me two for one.'
In feasting and sporting they passed the day,
Till Phoebus sunk into the deep;
Then each one to his quarters hy'd,
His guard there for to keep.
Long had they not walked within the green wood,
But Robin he was espy'd
Of a beautiful damsel all alone,
That on a black palfrey did ride.
Her riding-suit was of sable hew black,
Sypress over her face,
Through which her rose-like cheeks did blush,
All with a comely grace.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Robin Hood, A Child.
It was the pleasant season yet,
When the stones at cottage doors
Dry quickly, while the roads are wet,
After the silver showers.
The green leaves they looked greener still,
And the thrush, renewing his tune,
Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill
Into the bright blue noon.
Robin Hood's mother looked out, and said
"It were a shame and a sin
For fear of getting a wet head
To keep such a day within,
Nor welcome up from his sick bed
Your uncle Gamelyn."
And Robin leaped, and thought so too;
And so he has grasped her gown,
And now looking back, they have lost the view
Of merry sweet Locksley town.
Robin was a gentle boy,
And therewithal as bold;
To say he was his mother's joy,
It were a phrase too cold.
His hair upon his thoughtful brow
Came smoothly clipped, and sleek,
But ran into a curl somehow
Beside his merrier cheek.
Great love to him his uncle too
The noble Gamelyn bare,
And often said, as his mother knew,
That he should be his heir.
Gamelyn's eyes, now getting dim,
Would twinkle at his sight,
And his ruddy wrinkles laugh at him
Between his locks so white:
For Robin already let him see
He should beat his playmates all
At wrestling, running, and archery,
Yet he cared not for a fall.
Merriest he was of merry boys,
And would set the old helmets bobbing;
If his uncle asked about the noise,
[...] Read more
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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Gotham City (with english version)
Gotham City
Mas é preciso ser batman em gotham city,
É preciso ler gibi antigo e desfolhado,
Sendo morcego, não ser vampiro, ser beat,
Besouro caindo nos ouvidos deflorados.
Mas é preciso ser batman em gotham city,
Roncando o motor turbinado do bat-carro,
Gostar de Liszt, saber tudo e tudo cite!
Tomar copos de leite e não fumar cigarro!
Sendo o batman enfrento o coringa e o pingouin,
A sensual mulher gato que me arranha as pernas
E o peito e declara estranha paixão por mim!
Ter sempre ao meu lado um Robbin longe a tavernas;
É preciso ser batman em gothan city enfim,
Pra a luta ao som do rock, morar em caverna!
Gotham City
But is crave to be batman in gotham city,
Is crave to read old and defoliate comics,
Being bat, not to be vampire, being beat,
Beetle falling in the deflorated ears.
But is crave to be batman in gotham city,
Snoring the turbining motor of the bat-car,
To like Liszt, to know everything and everything cite!
To take milk cups and not to smoke cigarette!
Being batman I face coringa and pingouin,
the sensual woman cat that scratches me legs
and the chest and declares stranger passion for me!
To always have to my side a Robbin far the taverns;
She is crave to be batman in gothan city at last,
For the fight to the sound of the rock, to live in cave!
poem by Jayro Luna
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Madge: Ye Hoyden
At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft,
Ffor that a romping wench was shee--
"Now marke this rede," they bade her oft,
"Forsooken sholde your folly bee!"
But Madge, ye hoyden, laught & cried,
"Oho, oho," in girlish glee,
And noe thing mo replied.
II
No griffe she had nor knew no care,
But gayly rompit all daies long,
And, like ye brooke that everywhere
Goes jinking with a gladsome song,
Shee danct and songe from morn till night,--
Her gentil harte did know no wrong,
Nor did she none despight.
III
Sir Tomas from his noblesse halle
Did trend his path a somer's daye,
And to ye hoyden he did call
And these ffull evill words did say:
"O wolde you weare a silken gown
And binde your haire with ribands gay?
Then come with me to town!"
IV
But Madge, ye hoyden, shoke her head,--
"I'le be no lemman unto thee
For all your golde and gownes," shee said,
"ffor Robin hath bespoken mee."
Then ben Sir Tomas sore despight,
And back unto his hall went hee
With face as ashen white.
V
"O Robin, wilt thou wed this girl,
Whenas she is so vaine a sprite?"
So spak ffull many an envious churle
Unto that curteyse countrie wight.
But Robin did not pay no heede;
And they ben wed a somer night
& danct upon ye meade.
VI
[...] Read more
poem by Eugene Field
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Robin Hood
Now here’s the tale of a Derbyshire boy by the name of Robin Dean
who was born near to Buxton where the hills are so green.
His parents struggled to find enough food to feed their family,
so Robin and his brothers stole food regularly.
The gaunt looking Robin was caught stealing at the age of ten
and was sentenced to a life of servitude in the Hall at Elvasten.
He scrubbed floors, washed pots and pans, and cleaned cutlery,
but he dreamed of becoming the Earl’s Master of Archery.
At the age of twelve years he had to learn the ways of the land
and the gamekeeper made sure he was a reliable hand.
Before long he became a maker of longbows and arrows
he then as an archer won prizes at county shows.
King Richard asked his noblemen for men to fight the crusades,
he wanted the best archers and those who could swing blades.
Robin Dean was equipped and sent to fight the Lion Heart’s cause
he became honoured in battle, and won the King’s applause.
Time and time again he produced his archery long-range skills
and was knighted Sir Robin Dean of the Derbyshire Hills.
The King gave him land on the Derbyshire and Nottingham border
to provide a suitable income for a knight of the highest order.
After seven hard years of fighting, the crusades were not going well
King Richard had been captured and imprisoned in a cell.
He was put up for ransom and the cost was highest ever asked,
so the soldiers returned to England to raise gold by the cask.
A storm in the English Channel forced the ship Robin Dean was on
to sail up the coast and dock in the port of Lincoln’s Boston.
He travelled across the county to the land which belonged to him,
but in Nottingham he entered and gained an Archery Tournament win.
This caused eyebrows to be raised throughout the tournament day,
the Nobles didn’t like a stranger taking their prize money away.
Sir Robin Dean the archer, became well known from there on
and he was offered a place to stay at the Castle in Donington.
At supper the Baron asked many questions about the life of his guest,
but Robin said little, which left the Baron to guess.
They eventually said goodnight and went to their bedrooms to retire
and before the sun rose, Robin had left for his estate in Derbyshire.
Sir Robin’s estate bordered into a part of the huge Sherwood Forest
where he was held by robbers demanding the purse from his vest.
Though outnumbered he drew his sword and put up a courageous fight,
but they over powered him, and took him to their forest camp site.
[...] Read more
poem by Orlando Belo
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Robin and Makyne
ROBIN sat on gude green hill,
Kepand a flock of fe:
Mirry Makyne said him till
'Robin, thou rew on me:
I haif thee luvit, loud and still,
Thir yeiris twa or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,
Doutless but dreid I de.'
Robin answerit 'By the Rude
Na thing of luve I knaw,
But keipis my scheip undir yon wud:
Lo, quhair they raik on raw.
Quhat has marrit thee in thy mude,
Makyne, to me thou shaw;
Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?
Fain wad I leir that law.'
'At luvis lair gif thou will leir
Tak thair ane A B C;
Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy, and free:
So that no danger do thee deir
Quhat dule in dern thou dre;
Preiss thee with pain at all poweir
Be patient and previe.'
Robin answerit hir agane,
'I wat nocht quhat is lufe;
But I haif mervel in certaine
Quhat makis thee this wanrufe:
The weddir is fair, and I am fain;
My scheip gois haill aboif;
And we wald prey us in this plane,
They wald us baith reproif.'
'Robin, tak tent unto my tale,
And wirk all as I reid,
And thou sall haif my heart all haill,
Eik and my maiden-heid:
Sen God sendis bute for baill,
And for murnyng remeid,
In dern with thee bot gif I daill
Dowtles I am bot deid.'
'Makyne, to-morn this ilka tyde
And ye will meit me heir,
Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde,
Quhyle we haif liggit full neir;
But mawgre haif I, and I byde,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Henryson
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Rockin Robin
(thomas)
Twiddley dee, twiddley diddley dee
Twiddley dee, twiddley diddley dee
Twiddley dee, twiddley diddley dee
Tweet, tweet, twiddley de
He rocks in the treetops all the day long
Hoppin and a-boppin and a-singing this song
Every little bird, every little bee
Loves to hear the robin go tweet-tweet-tweet
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Yeah go rockin robin, really gonna rock tonight
Every little swallow, every chick-a-dee
Every little bird in the old oak tree
Wise old owl, big black crow
Put out their wings singing go bird go
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Yeah go rockin robin, really gonna rock tonight
The chief bird standing at the birdbath stand
Taught him how to do the bop and it was grand
Start goin steady and bless my soul,
He out-bopped the buzzard and the oriole
He rocks in the treetops all the day long
Hoppin and a-boppin and a-singing this song
Every little bird, every little bee
Loves to hear the robin go tweet-tweet-tweet
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Yeah go rockin robin, really gonna rock tonight
Break
The chief bird standing at the birdbath stand
Taught him how to do the bop and it was grand
Start goin steady and bless my soul,
He out-bopped the buzzard and the oriole
He rocks in the treetops all the day long
Hoppin and a-boppin and a-singing this song
Every little bird, every little bee
Loves to hear the robin go tweet-tweet-tweet
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Rockin robin, tweet, twiddley dee
Yeah go rockin robin, really gonna rock tonight
Twiddley dee, twiddley diddley dee
Twiddley dee, twiddley diddley dee
Twiddley dee, twiddley diddley dee
Tweet, tweet, twiddley de
song performed by Hollies
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Witch's frolic
[Scene, the 'Snuggery' at Tappington.-- Grandpapa in a high-backed cane-bottomed elbow-chair of carved walnut-tree, dozing; his nose at an angle of forty-five degrees,--his thumbs slowly perform the rotatory motion described by lexicographers as 'twiddling.'--The 'Hope of the family' astride on a walking-stick, with burnt-cork mustachios, and a pheasant's tail pinned in his cap, solaceth himself with martial music.-- Roused by a strain of surpassing dissonance, Grandpapa Loquitur. ]
Come hither, come hither, my little boy Ned!
Come hither unto my knee--
I cannot away with that horrible din,
That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin.
Oh, better to wander frank and free
Through the Fair of good Saint Bartlemy,
Than list to such awful minstrelsie.
Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by,
And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.
[Grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano, proceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophizeth the Abbey in the distance.]
I love thy tower, Grey Ruin,
I joy thy form to see,
Though reft of all,
Cell, cloister, and hall,
Nothing is left save a tottering wall,
That, awfully grand and darkly dull,
Threaten'd to fall and demolish my skull,
As, ages ago, I wander'd along
Careless thy grass-grown courts among,
In sky-blue jacket and trowsers laced,
The latter uncommonly short in the waist.
Thou art dearer to me, thou Ruin grey,
Than the Squire's verandah over the way;
And fairer, I ween,
The ivy sheen
That thy mouldering turret binds,
Than the Alderman's house about half a mile off,
With the green Venetian blinds.
Full many a tale would my Grandam tell,
In many a bygone day,
Of darksome deeds, which of old befell
In thee, thou Ruin grey!
And I the readiest ear would lend,
And stare like frighten'd pig;
While my Grandfather's hair would have stood up an end,
Had he not worn a wig.
One tale I remember of mickle dread--
Now lithe and listen, my little boy Ned!
Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned,
Though thy mother thine idlesse blames,
In Doctor Goldsmith's history book,
Of a gentleman called King James,
In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches,
[...] Read more
poem by Richard Harris Barham
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Robin Suicide
A robin committed suicide today
dead against my living room window pane;
flying fast in chilly mid-November;
perhaps heading south.
The sound; wings blurred; a thump!
he went straight to ground.
He should have missed the house,
it's large, the window is below the roof,
he was not flying blind
or forgot to look.
Like a jet with no flaps down,
he hit the window full-throttle;
smashing pain.
I got up took a look
expecting him to fly or stir
but he didn't move below; lay quiet.
I went down to see.
Robin, older, neck awry
didn't stir, didn't move.
no silent cry.
Neck broken.
Instant Death.
Instant Oblivion,
I looked for mourners.
There were none.
This Robin was solo in Death as we all are;
on his own.
It didn't seem fitting
to conduct a garbage-can burial,
I said a few words, cursed,
and decided to bury him in dirt.
Picked him up by his tail plumage
took him to the back yard;
dug a shallow grave, mumbled something;
lay him down in there;
patted the top of his dirt pyre
my good deed done.
[...] Read more
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Robin Redbreast
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away, --
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow, --
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
poem by William Allingham
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Robin Hood and Little John
When Robin Hood was about twenty years old,
With a hey down down and a down
He happend to meet Little John,
A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade,
For he was a lusty young man.
Tho he was calld Little, his limbs they were large,
And his stature was seven foot high;
Where-ever he came, they quak'd at his name,
For soon he would make them to fly.
How they came acquainted, I'll tell you in brief,
If you will but listen a while;
For this very jest, amongst all the rest,
I think it may cause you to smile.
Bold Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmen,
Pray tarry you here in this grove;
And see that you all observe well my call,
While thorough the forest I rove.
We have had no sport for these fourteen long days,
Therefore now abroad will I go;
Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat,
My horn I will presently blow.
Then did he shake hands with his merry men all,
And bid them at present good b'w'ye;
Then, as near a brook his journey he took,
A stranger he chancd to espy.
They happend to meet on a long narrow bridge,
And neither of them would give way;
Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood,
I'll show you right Nottingham play.
With that from his quiver an arrow he drew,
A broad arrow with a goose-wing:
The stranger reply'd, I'll liquor thy hide,
If thou offerst to touch the string.
Quoth bold Robin Hood, Thou dost prate like an ass,
For were I to bend but my bow,
I could send a dart quite thro thy proud heart,
Before thou couldst strike me one blow.
'Thou talkst like a coward,' the stranger reply'd;
'Well armd with a long bow, you stand,
To shoot at my breast, while I, I protest,
Have nought but a staff in my hand.'
[...] Read more
poem by anonym
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When the Bush Begins to Speak
They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
poem by Henry Lawson
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That Beating Of The Bush
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I have this 'thing' about honest and truth.
And those who become offended,
By declaring them too harsh to accept!
There has not been an experience I received,
I regretted with a wish to forget!
And those attempting to live their lives,
In pretense to deceive believing this is not deception...
Will always escape with excuses and alibis to make.
Charading as if...
No one recognizes,
Who is in masquerade.
And who amongst them fakes!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
An honesty and truth spoken,
From deceivers is rare.
Those who deceive perceive...
Those who are direct and honest,
Are insensitive and do not care!
With a sharing of this mentality...
To those empathetic,
In a keeping of delusions...
Spared from despair!
But I know I'm not the only one...
Who elects to see,
Dishonesty from all people get up and leave.
I can't be!
I'm not into,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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One Hundred Years
Now, Batman, Prophet Batman, a hundred years ago,
He looked upon this land and found it good.
"'Tis the place to build a village," bold Batman said, and so
They straight began - or so I've understood
To fling rude huts together by the swamp and by the stream,
To make beginning here and then for Batman's daring dream.
But Batman, Prophet Batman, was quite a modest cove;
His vision sought no far and fabled goals.
A village he could picture here; but no vast treasure trove
A mighty city of a million souls
A miracle arising by the swamp and by the stream
In the hundred years that followed on one pioneering dream.
Now I, far lesser prophet, stand here to view the scene
Tall spire, proud dome athwart a sunny sky,
This far-flung city basking by many a garden green
Yet hopelessly I fail to prophesy.
While earth holds threat and promise both, and high hope walks with dread,
Then who may claim the vision of one hundred years ahead?
Shall yet a greater miracle arise beside the stream,
When wiser plans of wiser men prevail
Some shining City of Content beyond man's boldest bream?
Or must a world's mad frenzy end the tale,
And, in a hundred years from now, another village rise
To shield indomitable man ‘neath ruin-fretted skies?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Batman Combats Oscar Wilde
“Are you serious? ” Frederick asked.
“Yes, Oscar Wilde, the writer”, George Batman said. “We had a conversation in the park.”
“Oh”, said Frederick. “Is he not dead? ”
“We had a conversation in the park”, Batman said.
“I see”, said Frederick.
“You remember that in The Picture of Dorian Gray Wilde argues that books cannot be moral or immoral, only well-written or badly written”, Batman commented.
“So? ”
“Well, I disagreed.”
“And why is that? ” Frederick inquired.
“Look. Wilde confuses content with style. A book with a moral message can either fail or excel in its stylistic presentation, and so can a book with immoral content.”
“I see”, said Frederick. “So what happened? ”
“Nothing special”, Batman said. “We continued to argue. I told Oscar that I am not impressed with some of his witty dictums.”
“Oh”, Frederick said. “What did Wilde say? ”
“He wanted to hear examples”, Batman said.
“Did you give him? ”
“Yes, of course. I started with the ‘The truth is rarely pure, and never simple’, from The Importance of Being Earnest.”
“What is wrong with that? ” Frederick asked.
“I told Wilde that his purified statement is self-contradictory because it is so simple that it cannot be true”.
“I see”, Frederick said. “What else? ”
“Well”, said Batman, “I also told him that I disagreed with the aphorism that ‘Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood’. This is a derogatory and false comment on the psychology of women, belittling female intelligence and dignity. Besides, not only that men also want to be loved, but love and understanding can be overlapping as well.”
“What did Wilde say? ”
“I don’t know. He is dead”.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Rubaiyat Of A Robin - After Edward Fitzgerald - Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam
Jest plays with rubaiyat and, four by four,
unseals for your amusement more and more
verses together thread in rosary
unreeled to bloom till tomb will curtains draw.
Repealed are value judgement and perspective
revealed through standpoint purely introspective,
darkside concealed of moon’s yin-yang shines clear
when we’re in orbit, - option more effective.
Rolled form performs rôle midwife to perception,
sprung tongue in cheek, tweaks sense of imperfection
or willingness to leach between the lines,
impeach entrenched ideas of self-[s]election.
This prose arose as stream deprived of section,
where ‘dip at will’ will still sustain inspection,
the current’s sense, at odds with current views
ignores round holes, square pegs, top-down direction.
Here there’s no fear of critics’ peer rejection,
contention treated with due circumspection
intention is to mention for retention
an overview or clue to extrospection.
Life’s curtains are a veil through which few see,
as many haste taste-waste eternity,
mixed up, ignore life fixes finite sum
to/through infinite opportunity.
Can “Truth” exist? all ask, who seek its core,
we, modest, etch our words to sketch the score,
diverse the verses which converge to link
reflections mirrored many times before.
Vast content, style, a while, united are,
aim at soul stimulation, nothing bar,
to pleasure, treasure, or discard at will
as minds outreach to other minds on par.
Meditating, we shed light on what
tomorrow’s tot may factor into ‘bot’ -
the poet’s lot, forgot, to help all think
ahead of time, enhance life for a lot
Some seek Nirvana, Faith speaks more than “how”.
Others reject Salvation’s wraith, - w[h]ine “now”.
Verifying facts? Inventing dreams?
Each furrow-burrows with a different plough.
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Met Pet Goat While Twin Towers Burn
"9/11 justified
invasion Afghanistan?
really Taliban
zero hijackers
zero links
to al-Qaeda?
at the time
hijackers were Arab?
not Afghani?
President George W. Bush
failed nation America
ordered total no shot down"
9: 03 a.m. Bush no action partakes
in a meaningless primary publicity
photo-op ignoring responsibility
continental US is already under attack
at Emma E. Booker Elementary
School in Sarasota, Florida
Mr President beat around the Bush
is reading 'Met Pet Goat'
to school children
for five critical minutes
after he had been told
second World Trade
Center tower had been hit
that America was under attack
wait rewind "What's the time? "
approximately 8: 48 a.m.
morning September 11 2001
first pictures of burning
World Trade Center
are broadcast on live television
reporters news anchors viewers
have had no advance warning
"What has happened in lower Manhattan?
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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