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Eureka! - I have found it!

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Australia's Forgotten Flag

Oh! the Cross of deepest blue,
With the bright stars shining through,
That was raised, my sons, for you,
On a skirt of purest whiteness long ago,
Long ago,
Long ago,
On the field of far Eureka long ago.

Oh! the girl that sewed the silk,
Blue as skies and white as milk,
(Jeanie Scotland – of that ilk)
In the hut there by Eureka long ago –
Years agone –
Auld Lang Syne –
With her young dead digger sweetheart on Eureka long ago.

Oh! the prayer the diggers said,
With the Southern Cross o'erhead!
It is whispered by the dead –
In the graveyard by Eureka whispered still –
Whispered still,
Murmured still,
By the shades that haunt Eureka murmured still.

Oh! the brother and the mate,
In the bonds of love and hate,
Ah! the help that came too late,
When the diggers marched from Creswick to the dawn,
Years agone!
Long years gone,
Oh! the midnight march from Creswick to Eureka and the dawn!

Few, and taken by surprise,
Oh! the mist that hid the skies –
And the steel in diggers' eyes –
Sunday morning in September long ago;
And they grapple and they strike –
With the pick-handle and pike –
Twenty minutes freed Australia at Eureka long ago.

For the leader won his crown,
Though the flag was trampled down,
For it rose in Melbourne town,
Oh, it rose in Melbourne city that same year,
With a clear
Ringing cheer
Oh! it floated high in Melbourne that same year.

When the London strikers starved,
While old England's roast was carved,

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The Fight at Eureka Stockade

"Was I at Eureka?" His figure was drawn to a youthful height,
And a flood of proud recollections made the fire in his grey eyes bright;
With pleasure they lighted and glisten'd, tho' the digger was grizzled and old,
And we gathered about him and listen'd while the tale of Eureka he told.

"Ah, those were the days," said the digger, "twas a glorious life that we led,
When fortunes were dug up and lost in a day in the whirl of the years that are dead.
But there's many a veteran now in the land - old knights of the pick and the spade,
Who could tell you in language far stronger than mine 'bout the fight at Eureka Stockade.

"We were all of us young on the diggings in days when the nation had birth -
Light-hearted, and careless, and happy, and the flower of all nations on earth;
But we would have been peaceful an' quiet if the law had but let us alone;
And the fight - let them call it a riot - was due to no fault of our own.

"The creed of our rulers was narrow - they ruled with a merciless hand,
For the mark of the cursed broad arrow was deep in the heart of the land.
They treated us worse than the negroes were treated in slavery's day -
And justice was not for the diggers, as shown by the Bently affray.

"P'r'aps Bently was wrong. If he wasn't the bloodthirsty villain they said,
He was one of the jackals that gather where the carcass of labour is laid.
'Twas b'lieved that he murdered a digger, and they let him off scot-free as well,
And the beacon o' battle was lighted on the night that we burnt his hotel.

"You may talk as you like, but the facts are the same (as you've often been told),
And how could we pay when the license cost more than the worth of the gold?
We heard in the sunlight the clanking o' chains in the hillocks of clay,
And our mates, they were rounded like cattle an' handcuffed an' driven away.

"The troopers were most of them new-chums, with many a gentleman's son;
And ridin' on horseback was easy, and hunting the diggers was fun.
Why, many poor devils who came from the vessel in rags and down-heeled,
Were copped, if they hadn't their license, before they set foot on the field.

"But they roused the hot blood that was in us, and the cry came to roll up at last;
And I tell you that something had got to be done when the diggers rolled up in the past.
Yet they say that in spite o' the talkin' it all might have ended in smoke,
But just at the point o' the crisis, the voice of a quiet man spoke.

" `We have said all our say and it's useless, you must fight or be slaves!' said the voice;
" `If it's fight, and you're wanting a leader, I will lead to the end - take your choice!'
I looked, it was Pete! Peter Lalor! who stood with his face to the skies,
But his figure seemed nobler and taller, and brighter the light of his eyes.

"The blood to his forehead was rushin' as hot as the words from his mouth;
He had come from the wrongs of the old land to see those same wrongs in the South;
The wrongs that had followed our flight from the land where the life of the worker was spoiled.
Still tyranny followed! no wonder the blood of the Irishman boiled.

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Christmas Fun

Eureka! it's Christmas time again!
A time to reminisce about seasons past
of pizzas hot, cup cakes, icing coated snacks,
home-made lemonade, champagne and Santa's sacks
of choicest toys, newly produced and recast.
Eureka! laughter pervades the plain!
for dazzling lights of astonishing colours
exhibit rare heavenly multicolours
for the yuletide's ambience of pomp and pageantry
in every country tropical and wintry.
Eureka! it's Santa's express train!
A very pleasant holiday time indeed.
When a dream becomes wonderland for a kid
who takes a trip in Santa Claus's speed sleigh
in this great and awesome paradise for play.
Eureka! it's the ding dong season!
A time to raise sweet voices for a reason
A time to sing a heart warming and sweet hymn
in well lit Cathedrals that are hardly dim.
Eureka! it's Christmas time again!
Ding dong the much awaited Christmas bells chime.
The gladdened poor are cheery without a dime,
whilst the rich is cheery with his loaded barn,
each of them spending as much dough as they can.

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Eureka

Roll up, Eureka's heroes, on that grand Old Rush afar,
For Lalor's gone to join you in the big camp where you are;
Roll up and give him welcome such as only diggers can,
For well he battled for the rights of miner and of Man.
In that bright golden country that lies beyond our sight,
The record of his honest life shall be his Miner's Right;
But many a bearded mouth shall twitch, and many a tear be shed,
And many a grey old digger sigh to hear that Lalor's dead.
Yet wipe your eyes, old fossickers, o'er worked-out fields that roam,
You need not weep at parting from a digger going home.
Now from the strange wild seasons past, the days of golden strife,
Now from the Roaring Fifties comes a scene from Lalor's life:
All gleaming white amid the shafts o'er gully, hill and flat
Again I see the tents that form the camp at Ballarat.
I hear the shovels and the picks, and all the air is rife
With the rattle of the cradles and the sounds of digger-life;
The clatter of the windlass-boles, as spinning round they go,
And then the signal to his mate, the digger's cry, "Below!"
From many a busy pointing-forge the sound of labour swells,
The tinkling of the anvils is as clear as silver bells.
I hear the broken English from the mouth of many a one
From every state and nation that is known beneath the sun;
The homely tongue of Scotland and the brogue of Ireland blend
With the dialects of England, right from Berwick to Lands End;
And to the busy concourse here the States have sent a part,
The land of gulches that has been immortalised by Harte;
The land where long from mining-camps the blue smoke upward curled;
The land that gave the "Partner" true and "Mliss" unto the world;
The men from all the nations in the New World and the Old,
All side by side, like brethren here, are delving after gold.
But suddenly the warning cries are heard on every side
As closing in around the field, a ring of troopers ride,
Unlicensed diggers are the game--their class and want are sins,
And so with all its shameful scenes, the digger hunt begins.
The men are seized who are too poor the heavy tax to pay,
Chained man to man as convicts were, and dragged in gangs away.
Though in the eyes of many a man the menace scarce was hid,
The diggers' blood was slow to boil, but scalded when it did.

But now another match is lit that soon must fire the charge
"Roll up! Roll up!" the poignant cry awakes the evening air,
And angry faces surge like waves around the speakers there.
"What are our sins that we should be an outlawed class?" they say,
"Shall we stand by while mates are seized and dragged like lags away?
Shall insult be on insult heaped? Shall we let these things go?"
And with a roar of voices comes the diggers' answer--"No!"
The day has vanished from the scene, but not the air of night
Can cool the blood that, ebbing back, leaves brows in anger white.
Lo, from the roof of Bentley's Inn the flames are leaping high;
They write "Revenge!" in letters red across the smoke-dimmed sky.

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Eureka Pile

I seem to find myself each time I run away
Dont give me vivid in some yester body (selling) days ?
Sometimes they reappear just like the sands of time
Or dya like some quick sand baby running off my summer wine
Same faces broken homes
Those memories have fled
All tears within me now are dormant or dead
My viens are bursting with a thirst that you cannot ignore
Alright eurekas pile
Now my saviour, or my whore
Theres a lot that they dont mind when things arent what they seem
I always wake up baby cos I always wake up me
My life may aint come to much
Ignore my history
Least my eureka pile can see some way I feel
Aint the way I see (* 2)
My eureka pile and me.

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Long live our king! (a skit poetry)

Among the rats, the king asked his subjects
to democratise education in his la, la land
with the best intention to make them understand
the essence of the ‘king' but Karl raised the
validity of teaching English in their country
but the ghost of globalisation out of the grave
to hover in every sphere including science
and technology, Komsky from the first world
with a heart of that third, a sympathiser of the
poor and the hater of the war, had an effective
mechanism to bring equilibrium in society eroding
away inequality, the head of the powerful committee
Pack brought out in a nick of time from the neck of
the jar of nectar : learning to know, learning to do,
learning to be, learning to live together; eureka! Eureka!
jumped up the king and started shouting ‘education for
all and all are allowed to access education, equality and
justice for all except the king as he is the head of the state
among us equals'

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Rock Star

I sing, you sing too but I shall not sing
Like you, you, the king rocking blockbuster
Jumping rock star with a manipulated tune
You have spiral demand in the market cheap
and duplicate.You shout eureka, eureka as if
you got the Latest and biggest diamond, truth,
I do not have lower cased mind to spread the
hand to beg the pearl manufactured in cocktail
glass to drink to jump like a frog out of the pond
to challenge the elephant- the central bank.

Reason- logic, the captive children of your
myopic mind, your rhythm of reality Is the
unfertile arid land bereft of sound imagination
the slave of the grotesque illogical dimensions.

I know the bird, in you, the mother of great falsehood
singing the song sweetest of truth as the cage- bird sings
the sweetest songs of freedom.

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Ned Kelly Is Proud

It's a sad sad day...
Our land, being taken from us 
No care for the future..
They; take and taking,
Government balls deep'n
the miners; shut up money
A beaut dummy!  
What would old Ned think?
What would old Ned do?

Eureka; those Legends!
Young Ned grew up to, truly awed..
Those Old fellas swore an Oath
under our Southern Cross..
' stand truly by each other and
fight to defend our rights and liberties '

Ned and the Eureka mob; laughing at
you young fella's! Struttin around, pill poppin
Loose pizzles,  Straight off the production floor,
Medicured with your tough stickers...

Wearing my Mask; our Southern Cross displayed for all...
Have you earned IT? ? ? ?

It's a sad sad day...
Our LAND, being TAKEN from US! !
Young Fella's....
Where are' YOU 'at the Marches, why are
you NOT at your neighbors side...

Bash'n each other?
It's not your fault! ! ! ! ! !

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Dear Comrade! Erik. Solheim

I too like to hide in your kite's tail
And see a better world from a high.
If the whole world rules by a joker
What a pity instead of a tyrant?
Our children die everywhere kicking the Land mines
And they are very brave sometimes.
They knew your old fox's story
About the bitter grapes,
Not only that,
Pi! A Greek letter used as a symbol for the ratio of a Circle's circumference
To its Diameter. (About 3.14)
They sing the old song of Archimedes 'Eureka! Eureka!' uproariously.

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Voyage around the Square Root of Minus One

I often heard
that while the sciences concern themselves
with objective truths
the arts deal with subjective phenomena.

Many years ago I held the same view,
but later came to the conclusion
that this is just a well-combed popular myth.

It is an untenable credo
because the sharp separation
of the arts and sciences is a rigid
and arbitrary mandate, full of holes.

Although all subjects have their specificities,
at the same time they also share
many common traits with each other.

There is art in science and science in art.

Artists, for example,
apply geometry to represent
a three dimensional scene in a painting,
which is a two dimensional surface.

By using ‘objective' geometrical perspective,
Renaissance artists, among them Alberti,
Brunelleschi, Uccello, Leonardo and Dürer,
developed in Europe the ‘subjective' illusion
of perceptual realism.

Later, in the Dutch Republic of the 17th century,
Johannes Vermeer applied expensive pigments
to the canvas and conducted
pioneering research in optics that enhanced
the supreme quality of his work,
imbuing his paintings with sublime,
otherworldly light.

In the 19th century
the Romantic painter John Constable
prepared detailed studies
of the landscape and weather conditions
of England, before transcribing them
into images of stunning accuracy and grace.

Following the closing of the Weimar Bauhaus
by the Nazis in 1933, the artist Josef Albers
moved to the USA, where he worked at
Black Mountain College and at Yale University.

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It Is All About You....for Jiji

i think, i know now
the secret of your
maturity, the terminal
station of your
final growth, that which
you accept yourself,
wash it, your whole soul
with tears,
mourn for days, unable to
swallow food,
sweating out
insecurities, shedding off
pretensions, laugh,
scream, run as though it is
the last day of your life,
stop, sing, dance,
eat, pray,
and then you still find yourself
all alone,
meditate, arrive at a destination,
and say,
this is it,
eureka, you find finally what
you did not look for,
it is ugly, but it is true,
and you embrace it
like the memory of your long
dead mother,
it is,
and you are so silent
there is this sanctity
of yourself assuring
yourself that
everything is alright
that now everything is true,
real,
tangible, warm, alive,
beating,
loud, clear, flowing,
rivers and seas join
in the celebration,
choir of clouds
pools of moons,
mighty suns, all universe in
oneness
to accept yourself
as you are,
you have taken the leap
into the peace
of your own pool,

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Simple Solutions

When I was a young man, I
used to ask this question.
“Words are the tools of my trade.
What am I? ”

A simple succinct question.
No one ever knew the answer,
I am about to impart to you.
“A poet. A man to whom
words are sacred.”

Now I am old born old, and I
have a question, to ask of you!
“What is the quintessential value
of the entire human race? ”

“quintessence, from Latin quinta essentia, fifth essence!

The highest essence,
that coming after the four elements
forming the substance of the heavenly bodies,
the pure essence of any substance.”


? /? /? /? /? /? /? /? /?

guess

guess

guess

yet still uncertain

or do you know?


Did you work this out
with your amazing
astonishing powers
focusing reasoning?


Or was it a moments inspiration?
A moment of eureka?
A transcendental moment?

eureka, from Greek heureka, ‘I have found it

Cry of triumph at a discovery. The exclamation

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It May Not Seem Fair

She was part
Of what held
This family together

When it didn't want or
Didn't think it needed
To be held

Now she tells me
Of growing up on the ranch
In the early nineteen hundreds

Why their father left
Coming by with money
Putting in a couple days of work

Then heading back out
As the held together
Four young girls and their mother

On a ranch
Needing at least
Two stong men

Just to hold the horses
Horses that were halter broke
Yet still needed to learn

To repond
To the bridles
Givin instructions

They needed
To be taught
But never question way

They would turn
Trot canter pause
Cut gallop or stop short

When they felt
The pull in their mouths
The slap on their flanks

Expected to be saddled
Carry pull
And be ridden

For the rest of
Their lives

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Eureka Rings A Bell

Eureka! ” moments sometimes may result
from outright theft, with Graham Bell the worst
example. For he traveled to consult
the patent of Elisha Gray, the first
to find a way to speak by telephone,
and aided by a drunken patent clerk,
got credit for the patent which alone
should have been Gray’s, who did the major work
before the son of the professor Bernard Shaw
would use as Henry Higgins’ model stole
his great invention and used patent law
to take not part of credit but the whole.
Could it be that Archimedes, too,
stole from a competitor the math
enabling him to figure out what you
and I’ve been told he found out in his bath?

Marjorie Kehe reviews The Telephone Gambit, by Seth Shulman, in The Christian Science Monitor, January 9,2008:

How often does a detective story upend history? Probably about as often as a science and technology journalist pens a page-turner. But with this month's release of 'The Telephone Gambit' by Seth Shulman both these unlikely events are coming to pass at the same moment. This slender volume (252 pages, with notes and credits) is a work of nonfiction - although the strangeness of truth definitely overtakes fiction here as Shulman explains how he unraveled Alexander Graham Bell's claim to have invented the telephone. We may never be absolutely certain, but 'The Telephone Gambit' presents compelling evidence that Bell snuck a look at rival inventor Elisha Gray's patent application, stole a crucial element from it, and then lived an uncomfortable lie for the rest of his days. This is not the work of a muckraker. No one wanted to reach such a conclusion less than did Shulman, a longtime admirer of Bell's. But that's exactly why this book is such a good read. Shulman carefully spells out not only the steps he took to piece together his story, but also the reluctance he battled en route. Why would Bell - a man whose good character was noted by all who knew him - behave so dishonorably? How could he have stolen from a rival he had never met? And is it even possible that such a high-profile crime could have gone undetected for so long? The answers to these questions unspool neatly throughout Shulman's narrative but they read more like the stuff of thrillers than of the history of science. Figures in this real-life drama include (it would seem) an alcoholic patent clerk, some unscrupulous attorneys, and a beautiful young woman whom Bell yearned to marry. Shulman's first glimpse of the story came in 2004. He was enjoying a yearlong research fellowship at the Dibner Institute for the History of Science and Technology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. There, he was studying recently digitized reproductions of the private papers of Bell. Shulman was thrilled to be able to follow so close on the heels of his hero - yet puzzled by something he saw. Shulman knew the story of the invention of the telephone as well as anyone - or at least he thought he did. Alexander Graham Bell and Elisha Gray filed patent applications on the very same day in 1876. (Gray's was actually a 'caveat' - but it would have served the purpose of staking Gray's exclusive righ”The Telephone Gambit, ” by Seth Shulman in The Christian Science Monitor, January 0,2008: t to continue research in this area.) According to the official story, Bell filed a few hours earlier than Gray and so was awarded the patent. Then, the next month, he had the breakthrough moment we've all read about in the history books. (After spilling acid in his lab, Bell shouted, 'Watson, come here, I need you.' Watson, in another room, heard him through the device they were experimenting with and thus was born the telephone.) Or so we've always believed. But what troubled Shulman was that Bell's 'eureka moment' depended on an element that had been completely missing from Bell's research until only two days earlier. Then, this crucial link suddenly appeared in Bell's journal in a sketch remarkably similar to a drawing found in Gray's patent application. In the days just before this sketch appeared, Bell had not been working in his lab. On the contrary, he'd been in Washington, filing his patent claim. I won't spoil the fun (and it is fun) by explaining exactly how Shulman proceeded and what he discovered as he worked backward from that point. Bell, he ended up concluding, was a great innovator who had made much progress toward the telephone, but he is not its creator. Instead, it seems, he was a talented, decent man, who lived with guilt ever after being pressured into an unseemly act of theft. Shulman does a neat job of painting, in rapid brush strokes, a portrait of the thrilling era of innovation in which Bell lived and also of the interesting circumstances of his life. (His speech professor father was the real-life model for the Henry Higgins of George Bernard Shaw's 'Pygmalion.') Shulman also manages to lace his work with just enough technology to tell his story without losing the interest of any low-tech readers. As a result, 'The Telephone Gambit' succeeds splendidly as an edge-of-your- seat historical tale. Yet it also manages to go somewhere deeper, leaving readers with intriguing questions about the ways in which truth may remain undiscovered, even when lying open in plain sight.

© 2008 Gershon Hepner 1/16/08

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Isaac Asimov

The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka' (I found it) but 'That's funny ...'

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People think of these eureka moments and my feeling is that they tend to be little things, a little realisation and then a little realisation built on that.

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Isaac Asimov

The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' but 'That's funny...'

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