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Mrs Woolf's complaint should be addressed to her creator, who made her, rather than me.

quote by Cecil Beaton
Added by Lucian Velea
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Go Cut Creator Go

[LL Cool J]
1, 2, 3 'o' clock 4 'o' clock ROCK
5, 6, 7 'o' clock 8 'o' clock ROCK
9, 10, 11 'o' clock 12 'o' clock ROCK
Gonna ROCK (What?) ROCK, ROCK around the clock
Three years ago in St. Albans, Queens
I was rockin at a park called one eighteen
Little kids stood and watched as I rocked the spot
Didn't know that years later I'll be standin on top
Livin near Farmers Boulevard I was born and base-shaw
Stopped the rich and shaked hands with the poor
And this is a story about a brother I know
Cut Creator on the fader no watch him go
[Chorus]
Go, go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go, go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
[LL Cool J]
When back in the days before I clocked some dough
I used to go to the show and sit in the front row
Hopin and prayin one day I'll get on the road
So I had a feeler and a summer and I meet when I'm stoned
Not fearin a thought, got stung like a horse
Don't make fun of my posse, cause each man is a boss
When his only damn way to pull a jam out the crate
One time for your mind
Check out the guitar break
[Chorus]
Go, go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go, go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
Go Cut Creator Go
[LL Cool J]
This jam just wasn't enough for Jimmy Hendrix to see
He could do lessons of mixin take you under his wing
Straight from the heart cause it ain't the money that we came here for
Ain't no thoughts in the room ain't breakin no roles
And in the Rock 'n' Roll land, a big strivin plan
Just my posse learn the vocals what little they had
It's all about us three: Eve, Phil & Jay
He heard Cut Creator cut now check it out to play

[...] Read more

song performed by LL Cool J
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Eternal Creation

The Parent’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to the child; but to irrefutably ensure that the infant was nourished with their breath and blood till the time it could unflinchingly fend for its symbiotic survival; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created them for,

The Sun’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to light; but to irrefutably ensure that the rays optimistically enlightened even the most infinitesimally lugubrious cranny of remorsefully cloistered earth; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Rose’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to fragrance; but to irrefutably ensure that the majestic resplendence ebulliently blossomed into the lives of countless haplessly beleaguered and bereaved; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Peak’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to victory; but to irrefutably ensure that the royal triumph peerlessly massacred even the most ethereal iota of devilishness form this Universe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

Nature’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to newness; but to irrefutably ensure that the evolution metamorphosed every bit of egregiously stagnating ghoulishness into a sky of rhapsodic freshness; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Cloud’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to rain; but to irrefutably ensure that the water stupendously ignited vivaciously iridescent life in every ingredient of hopelessly dying soil; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Conscience’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to truth; but to irrefutably ensure that the righteousness insuperably conquered every trace of diabolical lies on earth and the atmosphere; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Ocean’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to salt; but to irrefutably ensure that the tanginess wonderfully illuminated every treacherously spiceles and deliriously lackadaisical moment of life; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Poet’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to fantasy; but to irrefutably ensure that the dream spellbindingly impregnates the winds of Omnipotent romance into monotonously monstrous robots; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created him for,

The Lip’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to smiles; but to irrefutably ensure that the happiness altruistically perpetually perpetuates into every dwelling incarcerated in chains of murderous gloom; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Rainbow’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to vividness; but to irrefutably ensure that the color timelessly enshrouded every gruesomely befriended orphan; miserably deteriorating on the globe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Shadow’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to tranquility; but to irrefutably ensure that the peacefulness granted celestial reprieve to every bizarrely estranged soul squandering on this Universe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The philanthropist’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to unity; but to irrefutably ensure that the oneness miraculously coalesced every spuriously staggering and cold-bloodedly fighting caste; creed and tribe into the unassailable religion of humanity; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created him for,

The wind’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to freedom; but to irrefutably ensure that the liberation unequivocally freed every element of torturously enslaved earth till times immemorial; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

The night’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to sensuality; but to irrefutably ensure that the passion brilliantly transformed every speck of infertility into the chapters of everlastingly Omniscient procreation; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

The eyelash’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to flirtation; but to irrefutably ensure that the mischief serenely catapulted every fretfully frenetic organism into realms of impeccable childhood; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

The soldiers job just doesn’t end at giving birth to martyrdom; but to irrefutably ensure that the valor to timelessly serve the mothersoil; throbbed fearlessly in every chest; even centuries after his veritable death; was what the Almighty Creator had created him for,

The breath’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to life; but to irrefutably ensure that the exultation inexhaustibly transcended over; even the most inane anecdote of baseless corruption and demeaning death; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

And the heart’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to Love; but to irrefutably ensure that the compassionate togetherness tirelessly bonded the entire planet into a paradise of Omnipresently unshakable strength; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for…

©copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. All rights reserved.

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Heart-shaped Box

She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak
Ive been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks
Ive been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn back (alt: ... when you turn black)
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! wait! (alt: hate! haight!)
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Your advice
Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on angels hair and babys breath
Broken hymen of your highness Im left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Your advice
She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak
Ive been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks
Ive been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn back (alt: ... when you turn black)
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! wait!
Ive got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Your advice (x3)

song performed by Nirvana
Added by Lucian Velea
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Legacy of the Purple Robe

The legacy of the purple robe,
Worn by the most powerful of kings, Gods, and highest of lords,
The purple robe of majesty, embedded with diamond galore,
The legacy of the apparel and the creator never seen before,
In correlation with the platinum crown,
The Creator of everything wearing the magic gown,
Beyond the planet Earth, the creator beyond the renowned,
Creator of the nine planets and the galaxy all around,
Beyond the sky, the solar system painted by the creator,
The creator without a name, the universe’s dictator,
Higher than Zeus, God, Allah, something much greater,
The creator with portraits of the universe, the painter,
Wearing the purple gown and the platinum crown, the God of all,
Within the asteroid belt, the universe’s wall,
In the creator’s portrait, the solar system enthralled,
Not a religion, but something higher than the skies,
Something invisible, looking down on the Earth with blue eyes,
Beyond religion, the highest of the power of gods refined,
The artist of the universe’s blueprint that’s intricately designed,
Creator of the moon, the grass, the mountains, and the sun that shines,
The purple robe beyond the stars, worn by the creator in the royal shrine,
The purple robe and the platinum crown, only worn by the most creative of mind,
For this creator was truly a painter, an artist of the universe,
Inflicted by hypergraphia and insanity of mind, the artist’s curse,
That sits above the realm of space when the planets dispersed,
At one point everything was one planet cluttered in space,
Until he created boundaries within the realm that separated planets in a linear trace,
Above the galaxy in the darkened realm beyond the stars the creator’s place,
Until he created the new portrait of the big bang, and the old blueprint was replaced,
Within one shattering boom of the storm, the portraits transformed in haste,
And the cluttered planet was forgotten forever without a trace,
Now separated in the solar system,9 planets are spread in space,
The purple robe, only worn by the artist and the God of everything,
Compulsively observing his portrait sitting on the different sections of the asteroid ring,
The platinum crown, and the purple robe, worn by the ultimate king,
Beyond religion, the highest power humans never seen,
The creator, that painted everything.

poem by Kurt Kacich
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I Have Searched My Soul

I have searched my soul,
With a deepness...
That is complete.
I've addressed this to confess.
And express this to accept.

I have searched my soul,
With a deepness...
That is complete.

I've addressed....
My weaknesses.
I've addressed...
Insecurities.
I've addressed,
Past failures.
And I have addressed...
My wants and needs.

No more,
Do I run and hide.
And no more to myself lie.
No more,
Do I refuse to be...
Who the 'me' I am.
And...
I have searched my soul,
With a deepness...
So clear my eyes can see.

I've addressed....
My weaknesses.
I've addressed...
Insecurities.
I've addressed,
Past failures.
And I have addressed...
My wants and needs.

I have searched my soul,
With a deepness...
That is complete.

No more,
Do I run and hide.
And no more to myself lie.
I have searched my soul,
With a deepness...
For me that is complete.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Is that creator in you?

Let their sun rise to them from our west,
Let the doubtful ignorance be cleared as the mist,
Let the program on every chip be our tips,
Let our people wake up in pleasant hand shake.

The old civilizations and new world in Pacific Ocean,
The same old genes of first generation peaceful human,
The chart of nomenclature with variant faith, dream and color,
under the great grand name of Human, the creator.

The creator of the fire for the food,
The creator of tools for the growth,
The creator of mechanics for the transport,
The creator of electricity for the comfort,
The creator of magnificent diodes,
The creator of tiny humble chips,
The creator of laptop and internet,
The creator of wars based on faith,
The creator of ignorance,
To destroy all these intelligence.

Let the creator of peace in you evolve,
to teach the destroyers who revolve,
to reach those hearts that tremble,
Let us have the peace that triumphs.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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0020 A loving sestina to Our Lady

1 In Europe, around the end of the 12th century, women
2 began to be regarded by men as more than a good lay
3 and mother to your children; but that contented sorta love
4 that even men feel afterward, could be seen as quite divine
5 and thus related however distantly to the Creator;
6 this gave rise to a type of poetry called the sestina.

6 a troubadour called Arnaut Daniel invented the sestina,
1 so it’s said, around 1190; and this new respect for women
5 as being, believe it or not, related distantly to their Creator
2 led to this, to us, rather absurd and complicated ‘lay’ -
4 that was the rather double-entendre name for the divine
3 love for mankind related to the act of physical love

3 which, though we make this a common metaphor for love
6 today, was new then, to unreconstructed men; the sestina
4 which plugs the same six end-words throughout, divine
1 and human, was supposed to underline that women,
2 exquisitely praised in the poetry of the troubadour’s lay,
5 were men’s path to loving, through them, his Creator;

5 Creator of man and woman, Adam and Eve; Creator
3 of all things and of, crucially, both human and divine love
2 and this point was hammered home; the troubadour’s lay
6 in this somewhat tiresome form of the sestina
1 was supposed to make men respectful, and women
4 feel good about themselves (like Maya) as being divine;

4 but of course, troubadours were also human and divine
5 musicians; sexy and available (OK, blame their Creator…)
1 and, it was envied, did their own share of loving women
3 while going from castle to castle, gig to gig, love to love;
6 which gave rather a double edge to their sung sestina
2 and prompted many a coarse joke about ‘a good lay’..

2 however, poets - Dante, Petrarch - found the lay
4 a way of linking human love and the divine;
6 a profound metaphor, in a fine, poetic sestina,
5 that love in all its forms is the very nature of the Creator
3 and that we should remember this while making love
1 and perhaps have rather more respect for women..

Envoi:
5 I hope that this sestina has made its point: the Creator
3 is Love; Love is the Creator; and for most of us, this love
1 arises from, let’s say, a very poetic lay; with women.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Women Who Are Well-behaved

Women who are well-behaved
do not make history, and they
take second place to the depraved,
whom history gives right of way,
for though officially the word condemns
the women who’re considered lawless,
they’re given diamonds and gems
for being flexible, not flawless.

Kathryn Harrison reviews “Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History” by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich (“We’re No Angels, ” NYT, September 30,2007) :
Ulrich, a Harvard historian whose “Midwife’s Tale” won the 1991 Pulitzer Prize for history, uses “three classic works in Western feminism” as a springboard for examining the theme of “bad” behavior. Could the popularity of her slogan, she wondered, be explained by “feminism, postfeminism or something much older? ” The answer emerges in Ulrich’s choice of texts: Christine de Pizan’s “Book of the City of Ladies, ” written in 1405; Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s “Eighty Years and More, ” published in 1898; and “A Room of One’s Own, ” based on two lectures Virginia Woolf gave in 1928 — all works by women who “turned to history as a way of making sense of their own lives.” History, Ulrich reminds us, “isn’t just what happens in the past, ” but what we choose to remember. As much invention as discovery, history attempts to make the chaotic present into a coherent picture by comparing it to images, equally artificial, fashioned from events long past. Pizan, Stanton, Woolf: three women with “intellectual fathers” and “domestic mothers, ” who were “raised in settings that simultaneously encouraged and thwarted their love of learning” and “married men who supported their intellectual ambitions.” For each, her “moment of illumination came through an encounter with an odious book” expressing man’s “disdain” for women. Pizan responded to a 15th- century satire containing “diatribes” against her sex, Stanton to law tomes that set forth the rights of husbands and fathers over their wives and daughters, Woolf to “The Mental, Moral and Physical Inferiority of the Female Sex, ” an imagined history representing what she discovered in the reading room of the British Museum.

9/30/07

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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The Creator And A Barren Woman

A barren woman had been praying for a child for long,
Then after many years without hope the Creator heard her prayers;
Then the Creator said to her: 'A year today you will give birth'.

This is the story of the Creator and a barren woman:
A year after the barren woman gave birth to a child.
Now, she started to complain again to the Creator;
Because, she has no time to take care of the child.

'Oh, i am too tired of taking care of this child';
And the Creator was very patience.
'Oh, i cannot take care of this child any longer';
And the Creator was very patience again.
'Oh, i have given my husband a child but i cannot take care of him';
This child was a son and then, the Creator said to the woman:
'When you were baren you did cried out for a child but,
Now that you've got one you also crying daily for his upkeep';
'Well, the wants of mankind are many and mankind is NOT satisfied'.

Yes, we are all living on this earth;
With stories and the things that we see around us;
But mankind is really NOT satisfied, whether barren or with a child.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The One God

A God of mercy

A God of kindness

A God who Is Love

He Is my own

A God so magnificent

A God of graciousness

The Holy One

Who walketh In Righteousness

Thank You for the privilege

Of seeing Your creation

Everyday I live to glorify You

Cos everyday is a gift from You

A God who gave His Son

A God who is concerned about every detail of my life

A God who loves my family

A God who is always there for me...

My Father In Heaven

He Is the One

The Creator of the glorious Angels

The Creator of the beautiful flowers

The Creator of the oceans and seas

The Creator of the lovely hills

The Creator of all precious creatures

The Creator of me

The Only True God

[...] Read more

poem by Ifeanyi Eze
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Paradise Lost: Book 09

No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us'd,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam'd. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death's harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous'd;
Or Neptune's ire, or Juno's, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea's son:

If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor'd,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas'd me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem'd chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign'd; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon'd shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall'd feast
Serv'd up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem. Me, of these
Nor skill'd nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress'd; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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If HE is Not Now Here, HE is Nowhere!

Wandering here and there,
Searching for beloved,
On moutain peaks,
Nature looks beautiful with green forest and meadows covered by veil of fog and mist!
Forest and meadows full of life
Looking at the mountain peak,
standing in meadow the cloud of mist,
covering it now!

For one spiritual minded,
World is felt under veil,
For materialistic mind spirit covered under veil,
Reality is under veil of mind,
Light is more deceptive,
When light passes through veil of ignorance of mind,
Creator looks like creature,
How one can believe creator,
his creation creature are one!

The belief and faith are so strong,
That even if creator comes and say,
'I am the creator',
We drag him to court,
Or show him way to asylum,
Because we are creators of our future,
never want creator to poke his nose,
When misguided mind,
Keeps on misguiding,
Misguiding its own creator!
Every flow of current,
Generate a force,
Which opposes its own origin,

So, son opposes his own father,
not knowing father, mother, son are same and one!

The one not found in me or you,
Or in the space within atom,
Or not found in beauty of nature,
Beauty of life around,
How can he be in Kashi or Jerusalem or Kaaba?

If not He can understand my song of love,
How he can understand Mantra and verses?

If he can't cross the boundary of hearts,
Man made boundaries of caste and creed,
Nation and state borders,
How can I believe, He is LORD OF UNIVERSE?

[...] Read more

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Plan of Creation

Life's terms, life's rules.
Rules made up by life,
But not the creator of life.
Life tries to challenge the rules of the creator.
It tries to change the rules of the creator.
But the creator can never be changed.
Nor can His rules.

He should never be challenged.
His wisdom and knowledge is the design.
For I am not the designer.
I am merely a part of the plan.
Of the overall design.
A beautiful creation, by a beautiful creator.

My mind is my cage, my box.
To live outside the box is to be truly free.
The creator's creation is creative.

But I am only a piece of the puzzle.
A puzzle is many pieces, that creates a big picture.
For I am not the big picture,
I am merely just a part of it.

I am not the beginning.
I am not the end.
I am just something in between.
I am stuck in the middle.
And there is no place I would rather be.

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Paradise Lost: Book 10

Mean while the heinous and despiteful act
Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how
He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve,
Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit,
Was known in Heaven; for what can 'scape the eye
Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart
Omniscient? who, in all things wise and just,
Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind
Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed,
Complete to have discovered and repulsed
Whatever wiles of foe or seeming friend.
For still they knew, and ought to have still remembered,
The high injunction, not to taste that fruit,
Whoever tempted; which they not obeying,
(Incurred what could they less?) the penalty;
And, manifold in sin, deserved to fall.
Up into Heaven from Paradise in haste
The angelick guards ascended, mute, and sad,
For Man; for of his state by this they knew,
Much wondering how the subtle Fiend had stolen
Entrance unseen. Soon as the unwelcome news
From Earth arrived at Heaven-gate, displeased
All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare
That time celestial visages, yet, mixed
With pity, violated not their bliss.
About the new-arrived, in multitudes
The ethereal people ran, to hear and know
How all befel: They towards the throne supreme,
Accountable, made haste, to make appear,
With righteous plea, their utmost vigilance
And easily approved; when the Most High
Eternal Father, from his secret cloud,
Amidst in thunder uttered thus his voice.
Assembled Angels, and ye Powers returned
From unsuccessful charge; be not dismayed,
Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth,
Which your sincerest care could not prevent;
Foretold so lately what would come to pass,
When first this tempter crossed the gulf from Hell.
I told ye then he should prevail, and speed
On his bad errand; Man should be seduced,
And flattered out of all, believing lies
Against his Maker; no decree of mine
Concurring to necessitate his fall,
Or touch with lightest moment of impulse
His free will, to her own inclining left
In even scale. But fallen he is; and now
What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass
On his transgression,--death denounced that day?
Which he presumes already vain and void,

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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Heart Shaped Box

She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak
I've been locked inside your Heart-Shaped box for weeks
I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn back
Hey! Wait!
I've got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! Wait!
I've got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Your advice
Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on angel's hair and baby's breath
Broken hymen of your highness I'm left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back
Hey! Wait!
I've got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Hey! Wait!
I've got a new complaint
Forever in debt to your priceless advice
Your advice (x3)

song performed by Evanescence
Added by Lucian Velea
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IV. Tertium Quid

True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Iliad: Book 2

Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept
soundly, but Jove was wakeful, for he was thinking how to do honour to
Achilles, and destroyed much people at the ships of the Achaeans. In
the end he deemed it would be best to send a lying dream to King
Agamemnon; so he called one to him and said to it, "Lying Dream, go to
the ships of the Achaeans, into the tent of Agamemnon, and say to
him word to word as I now bid you. Tell him to get the Achaeans
instantly under arms, for he shall take Troy. There are no longer
divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them to her own
mind, and woe betides the Trojans."
The dream went when it had heard its message, and soon reached the
ships of the Achaeans. It sought Agamemnon son of Atreus and found him
in his tent, wrapped in a profound slumber. It hovered over his head
in the likeness of Nestor, son of Neleus, whom Agamemnon honoured
above all his councillors, and said:-
"You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his
host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his
sleep. Hear me at once, for I come as a messenger from Jove, who,
though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you. He
bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take
Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has
brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at
the hands of Jove. Remember this, and when you wake see that it does
not escape you."
The dream then left him, and he thought of things that were,
surely not to be accomplished. He thought that on that same day he was
to take the city of Priam, but he little knew what was in the mind
of Jove, who had many another hard-fought fight in store alike for
Danaans and Trojans. Then presently he woke, with the divine message
still ringing in his ears; so he sat upright, and put on his soft
shirt so fair and new, and over this his heavy cloak. He bound his
sandals on to his comely feet, and slung his silver-studded sword
about his shoulders; then he took the imperishable staff of his
father, and sallied forth to the ships of the Achaeans.
The goddess Dawn now wended her way to vast Olympus that she might
herald day to Jove and to the other immortals, and Agamemnon sent
the criers round to call the people in assembly; so they called them
and the people gathered thereon. But first he summoned a meeting of
the elders at the ship of Nestor king of Pylos, and when they were
assembled he laid a cunning counsel before them.
"My friends," said he, "I have had a dream from heaven in the dead
of night, and its face and figure resembled none but Nestor's. It
hovered over my head and said, 'You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one
who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his
shoulders should dock his sleep. Hear me at once, for I am a messenger
from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and
pities you. He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you
shall take Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the
gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides
the Trojans at the hands of Jove. Remember this.' The dream then

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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Gebir

FIRST BOOK.

I sing the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt
Among those mountain-caverns which retain
His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells,
Nor have forgotten their old master's name
Though severed from his people here, incensed
By meditating on primeval wrongs,
He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose
Whole nations; here, ten thousand of most might
He called aloud, and soon Charoba saw
His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile,
What should the virgin do? should royal knees
Bend suppliant, or defenceless hands engage
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms?
For 'twas reported that nor sword sufficed,
Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail,
But that upon their towering heads they bore
Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars.
This told she Dalica, then cried aloud:
'If on your bosom laying down my head
I sobbed away the sorrows of a child,
If I have always, and Heaven knows I have,
Next to a mother's held a nurse's name,
Succour this one distress, recall those days,
Love me, though 'twere because you loved me then.'
But whether confident in magic rites
Or touched with sexual pride to stand implored,
Dalica smiled, then spake: 'Away those fears.
Though stronger than the strongest of his kind,
He falls-on me devolve that charge; he falls.
Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure;
Nay, journey to his tents: a city stood
Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad built,
Whose father Gad built Gadir; on this ground
Perhaps he sees an ample room for war.
Persuade him to restore the walls himself
In honour of his ancestors, persuade -
But wherefore this advice? young, unespoused,
Charoba want persuasions! and a queen!'
'O Dalica!' the shuddering maid exclaimed,
'Could I encounter that fierce, frightful man?
Could I speak? no, nor sigh!'
'And canst thou reign?'
Cried Dalica; 'yield empire or comply.'
Unfixed though seeming fixed, her eyes downcast,
The wonted buzz and bustle of the court
From far through sculptured galleries met her ear;
Then lifting up her head, the evening sun
Poured a fresh splendour on her burnished throne-

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poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Palamon And Arcite; Or, The Knight's Tale. From Chaucer. In Three Books. Book III.

The day approached when Fortune should decide
The important enterprise, and give the bride;
For now the rivals round the world had sought,
And each his number, well appointed, brought.
The nations far and near contend in choice,
And send the flower of war by public voice;
That after or before were never known
Such chiefs, as each an army seemed alone:
Beside the champions, all of high degree,
Who knighthood loved, and deeds of chivalry,
Thronged to the lists, and envied to behold
The names of others, not their own, enrolled.
Nor seems it strange; for every noble knight
Who loves the fair, and is endued with might,
In such a quarrel would be proud to fight.
There breathes not scarce a man on British ground
(An isle for love and arms of old renowned)
But would have sold his life to purchase fame,
To Palamon or Arcite sent his name;
And had the land selected of the best,
Half had come hence, and let the world provide the rest.
A hundred knights with Palamon there came,
Approved in fight, and men of mighty name;
Their arms were several, as their nations were,
But furnished all alike with sword and spear.

Some wore coat armour, imitating scale,
And next their skins were stubborn shirts of mail;
Some wore a breastplate and a light juppon,
Their horses clothed with rich caparison;
Some for defence would leathern bucklers use
Of folded hides, and others shields of Pruce.
One hung a pole-axe at his saddle-bow,
And one a heavy mace to stun the foe;
One for his legs and knees provided well,
With jambeux armed, and double plates of steel;
This on his helmet wore a lady's glove,
And that a sleeve embroidered by his love.

With Palamon above the rest in place,
Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace;
Black was his beard, and manly was his face
The balls of his broad eyes rolled in his head,
And glared betwixt a yellow and a red;
He looked a lion with a gloomy stare,
And o'er his eyebrows hung his matted hair;
Big-boned and large of limbs, with sinews strong,
Broad-shouldered, and his arms were round and long.
Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old)
Were yoked to draw his car of burnished gold.

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poem by John Dryden
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