I've always been a composer dependent on texts.
quote by David Del Tredici
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One-Eighty By Summer
Come on just say it,
You need me like a bad habit,
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone.
Come on just say it (Are you afraid to),
You need me like a bad habit (Say what you want to, tell me you want to),
One that leaves you defenseless, dependent, and alone (Are you afraid to say what you want to, tell me you want to).
Well I hold my tongue use it to assess,
The damage from way back when it mattered,
But nothing seems important anymore,
Were just protecting ourselves from our self,
And I dont think Ill ever come back down (I dont think Ill ever come back down),
I dont think Ill ever come back down (I dont think Ill ever come back down),
I dont think Ill ever come back down (I dont think Ill ever come back),
I dont think Ill ever come back
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
Are you ashamed to say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
(Come on just say it) Are you ashamed to (Come on just say it) say what you want to tell me you want to.
Im making the difference,
It just seems pointless,
Well Ill be obvious,
Thats got out of focus,
Why cant you just be happy,
Why cant you just be happy.
And I dont think Ill ever come back down (I dont think Ill ever come back down),
I dont think Ill ever come back down (I dont think Ill ever come back down),
I dont think Ill ever come back down (I dont think Ill ever come back),
I dont think Ill ever come back...
(Just come back {over and over, about 15 times})
Just come on just say it,
Come on just say it,
Well Ill just say it,
Ill just say it,
I need you defenseless, dependent and alone.
(Just come back {over and over, about 9 times})
She says live up to your first impression,
Well my best side was your worst invention,
In case you live without the intention,
In case you live without the intention.
(Just come back {over and over, about 8 times})
She says live up to your first impression,
Well my best side was your worst invention,
In case you live without the intention,
In case you live without the intention.
She says live up to your first impression (Come on, just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (Come on, just say it),
Why cant you live without the intention (I need you defenseless, dependent),
Why cant you love without the intention (alone).
She says live up to your first impression (I just say it),
Well my best side was your worst invention (I just say it),
[...] Read more
song performed by Taking Back Sunday
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The Hind And The Panther, A Poem In Three Parts : Part II.
“Dame,” said the Panther, “times are mended well,
Since late among the Philistines you fell.
The toils were pitched, a spacious tract of ground
With expert huntsmen was encompassed round;
The inclosure narrowed; the sagacious power
Of hounds and death drew nearer every hour.
'Tis true, the younger lion 'scaped the snare,
But all your priestly calves lay struggling there,
As sacrifices on their altars laid;
While you, their careful mother, wisely fled,
Not trusting destiny to save your head.
For, whate'er promises you have applied
To your unfailing Church, the surer side
Is four fair legs in danger to provide;
And whate'er tales of Peter's chair you tell,
Yet, saving reverence of the miracle,
The better luck was yours to 'scape so well.”
“As I remember,” said the sober Hind,
“Those toils were for your own dear self designed,
As well as me; and with the selfsame throw,
To catch the quarry and the vermin too,—
Forgive the slanderous tongues that called you so.
Howe'er you take it now, the common cry
Then ran you down for your rank loyalty.
Besides, in Popery they thought you nurst,
As evil tongues will ever speak the worst,
Because some forms, and ceremonies some
You kept, and stood in the main question dumb.
Dumb you were born indeed; but, thinking long,
The test, it seems, at last has loosed your tongue:
And to explain what your forefathers meant,
By real presence in the sacrament,
After long fencing pushed against a wall,
Your salvo comes, that he's not there at all:
There changed your faith, and what may change may fall.
Who can believe what varies every day,
Nor ever was, nor will be at a stay?”
“Tortures may force the tongue untruths to tell,
And I ne'er owned myself infallible,”
Replied the Panther: “grant such presence were,
Yet in your sense I never owned it there.
A real virtue we by faith receive,
And that we in the sacrament believe.”
“Then,” said the Hind, “as you the matter state,
Not only Jesuits can equivocate;
For real, as you now the word expound,
From solid substance dwindles to a sound.
Methinks, an Æsop's fable you repeat;
You know who took the shadow for the meat:
Your Church's substance thus you change at will,
[...] Read more
poem by John Dryden
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My Dependence
I like to be dependent, and so for ever
with warmth and care of my mother
my father , to love, kiss and embrace
wear life happily in all their grace.
I like to be dependent, and so for ever
on my kith and kin, for they all shower
harsh and warm advices, complaints
full wondering ,true and info giants.
I like to be dependent, and so for ever
for my friends, chat and want me near
with domestic,family and romantic tips
colleagues as well , guide me work at risks.
I like to be dependent, and so for ever
for my neighbours too, envy at times
when at my rise of fortune like to hear
my daily steps , easy and odd things too.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto II
THE ARGUMENT
The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal interests;
To share their sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm
Till, in th' Effigy of Rumps, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.
THE learned write, an insect breeze
Is but a mungrel prince of bees,
That falls before a storm on cows,
And stings the founders of his house;
From whose corrupted flesh that breed
Of vermin did at first proceed.
So e're the storm of war broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various rout
Of petulant Capricious sects,
The maggots of corrupted texts,
That first run all religion down,
And after ev'ry swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their mothers got their sons,
That were incapable t' enjoy
That empire any other way;
So PRESBYTER begot the other
Upon the good old Cause, his mother,
Then bore then like the Devil's dam,
Whose son and husband are the same.
And yet no nat'ral tie of blood
Nor int'rest for the common good
Cou'd, when their profits interfer'd,
Get quarter for each other's beard.
For when they thriv'd, they never fadg'd,
But only by the ears engag'd:
Like dogs that snarl about a bone,
And play together when they've none,
As by their truest characters,
Their constant actions, plainly appears.
Rebellion now began, for lack
Of zeal and plunders to grow slack;
The Cause and covenant to lessen,
And Providence to b' out of season:
For now there was no more to purchase
O' th' King's Revenue, and the Churches,
But all divided, shar'd, and gone,
That us'd to urge the Brethren on;
Which forc'd the stubborn'st for the Cause,
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Butler
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Ode to Rae Wilson Esq.
A WANDERER, Wilson, from my native land,
Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee,
Where rolls between us the eternal sea,
Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand,—
Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall;
Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call;
Across the wavy waste between us stretch'd,
A friendly missive warns me of a stricture,
Wherein my likeness you have darkly etch'd,
And though I have not seen the shadow sketch'd,
Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.
I guess the features:—in a line to paint
Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint.
Not one of those self-constituted saints,
Quacks—not physicians—in the cure of souls,
Censors who sniff out mortal taints,
And call the devil over his own coals—
Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God,
Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd;
Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod,
Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd,
But endless flames, to scorch them up like flax—
Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd cribb'd
Th' impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!
Of such a character no single trace
Exists, I know, in my fictitious face;
There wants a certain cast about the eye;
A certain lifting of the nose's tip;
A certain curling of the nether lip,
In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky;
In brief it is an aspect deleterious,
A face decidedly not serious,
A face profane, that would not do at all
To make a face at Exeter Hall,—
That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray,
And laud each other face to face,
Till ev'ry farthing-candle ray
Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace.
Well!—be the graceless lineaments confest!
I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth;
And dote upon a jest
'Within the limits of becoming mirth';—
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious—
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.
I pray for grace—repent each sinful act—
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Hood
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Choral Leader With a Love
On you they're too dependent,
And that's what you love.
A dependency defended,
And fits like a glove.
On your nerves they irritate,
And you wish from them to get away...
To breathe and celebrate.
But you're the one who picked this tune.
Deciding what is done they do.
On you they're too dependent,
And that's what you love.
A dependency defended,
And fits like a glove.
In harmony with them you choose their solos too.
Trying to convince yourself you've had it and you're through.
A choral leader with a focus only to lead.
With a love to hear the doo wop,
Dropped nonstop.
A choral leader with a focus only to lead.
With a love to hear the doo wop,
Dropped nonstop.
And when the arguments get heated in intensity,
You say you want to pack up and from them you want to leave.
A choral leader with a focus only to lead.
With a love to hear the doo wop,
Dropped nonstop.
A choral leader with a focus only to lead.
With a love to hear the doo wop,
Dropped nonstop.
In harmony with them you choose their solos too.
Trying to convince yourself you've had it and you're through.
And when the arguments get heated in intensity,
You say you want to pack up and from them you want to leave.
On you they're too dependent,
And that's what you love.
A dependency defended,
And fits like a glove.
On your nerves they irritate,
And you wish from them to get away...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The bases for historical knowledge are not empirical facts but written texts, even if these texts masquerade in the guise of wars or revolutions.
quote by Paul Deman
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Texts
The best
Texts
In your
Mobile
Are from
Me.
The worst
Texts
In your
Mobile
Are from
Me.
As I've
Loved you
In the best
And worst
Possible
Ways.
We may not
Relive
Those
Good and
Bad
Days
Yet the fact
Remains
I'll love you
Always
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Christmas-Eve
I.
OUT of the little chapel I burst
Into the fresh night air again.
I had waited a good five minutes first
In the doorway, to escape the rain
That drove in gusts down the common’s centre,
At the edge of which the chapel stands,
Before I plucked up heart to enter:
Heaven knows how many sorts of hands
Reached past me, groping for the latch
Of the inner door that hung on catch,
More obstinate the more they fumbled,
Till, giving way at last with a scold
Of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled
One sheep more to the rest in fold,
And left me irresolute, standing sentry
In the sheepfold’s lath-and-plaster entry,
Four feet long by two feet wide,
Partitioned off from the vast inside—
I blocked up half of it at least.
No remedy; the rain kept driving:
They eyed me much as some wild beast,
The congregation, still arriving,
Some of them by the mainroad, white
A long way past me into the night,
Skirting the common, then diverging;
Not a few suddenly emerging
From the common’s self thro’ the paling-gaps,—
—They house in the gravel-pits perhaps,
Where the road stops short with its safeguard border
Of lamps, as tired of such disorder;—
But the most turned in yet more abruptly
From a certain squalid knot of alleys,
Where the town’s bad blood once slept corruptly,
Which now the little chapel rallies
And leads into day again,—its priestliness
Lending itself to hide their beastliness
So cleverly (thanks in part to the mason),
And putting so cheery a whitewashed face on
Those neophytes too much in lack of it,
That, where you cross the common as I did,
And meet the party thus presided,
“Mount Zion,” with Love-lane at the back of it,
They front you as little disconcerted,
As, bound for the hills, her fate averted
And her wicked people made to mind him,
Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him.
II.
Well, from the road, the lanes or the common,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning
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What Is The 'Orthodox' Difference
There is too much hypocrisy expressed,
In religion.
Too much division in it too...
For it to go unobserved.
The existence of 'Christianity'
Is based upon concepts created by the 'Jews'.
And there seems to be a conflict of interests...
When folks of ignorance slander, demean and smear,
Like they do!
Especially when people uphold beliefs,
Similar in nature.
And said to establish foundations...
That are firm in culture, heritage and customs
As solid as concrete!
And who doesn't know concrete eventually crumbles?
What is the 'orthodox' difference...
When Catholics and Jews conduct familiar rituals?
Wear kippahs (yalmulkes) to dentify their strong ties.
Keep people of color submissive and dismissed.
With racist overtones they claim do not exist!
Yet this clearly sits,
To acknowledge those who are hypocrites
There is too much hypocrisy expressed,
In religion.
Too much division in it too...
For it to go unobserved.
NOTE:
Judaism (from the Greek Ioudaïsmos, derived from the Hebrew י ה ו ד ה , Yehudah, 'Judah';
[1] in Hebrew: י ַ ה ֲ ד ו ּ ת , Yahedut, the distinctive characteristics of the Judean ethnos)
[2] is a set of beliefs and practices originating in the Hebrew Bible (Tanakh) ,
as later further explored and explained in the Talmud and other texts.
Judaism presents itself as the covenantal relationship between the Children of Israel
(later, the Jewish nation) and God.
It is considered either the first or one of the first monotheistic religions,
and is among the oldest religions still being practised today.
Many of its texts and traditions are central to the other Abrahamic religions,
with Jewish history and the principles and ethics of Judaism having influenced Christianity and Islam,
as well as some non-Abrahamic religions.
As the foundation of Western Christianity,
many aspects of Judaism also correspond to secular Western concepts of ethics and civil law.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Go To Bed (Revised)
There's a depressed little alien in my head,
my physical life's outer-ego clown laughs,
jokes the alien's too emotionally scared of
moving forward
Two difficult documents to tackle, both
demanding study and not a ray of sun
light, life shrinking until all it contains are
these brutal texts
I shall have to read articles on Telecoms
fraud to understand the legal text, and why
so scared? Luckily, this psychosomatic
headache is making me useless,
I should have stayed in bed…
[ORIGINAL: ]
The little alien in my head
is depressed, while the outer
ego clown which leads my
physical life laughs and jokes,
the emotional little alien is
scared of moving ahead, two
difficult documents to tackle
and not a ray of sunlight,
entailing a lot of research, life
shrinking until all it contains
are these two texts, I shall
have to read articles on
telecommunications fraud
to understand what is said
in my legal text, and why am
I so scared? Luckily, this
psychosomatic headache
is making me useless, I
had better go to bed…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Piccalilli (Revised)
Piccalilli - the pickle that zings with zest
and foretells my royal downfall, a roll
prepared with onion, cheese, egg n'
tomato, spiced liberally with piccalilli
One bite cost my common sense -
knowing full well white rolls make me
ill I ate with relish still; it tastes soooo
wonderful when one like me
Lives in a bland dish desert of safe
condiments in black pepper and coarse
salt - if I felt bad after Prego steaks, I
now adore a crazy piccalilli tang
An extravaganza returns to haunt me in
solitary confinement of official texts, head
throbbing, oh piccalilli, chopped veggies,
cheese and spice, enchanting, piquant
For the unrequited palate…
[ORIGINAL: ]
Piccalilli - the word just sings with zest
and zing - spells my downfall, when you
prepared a roll with golden onion, tomato
egg and cheese all spiced up with piccalilli
I took one bite and lost all common sense
knowing full well that white rolls make me
ill I went ahead and ate with relish, it tastes
wonderful to one like me who lives life
In a desert of bland dishes with black pepper
and coarse salt the only safe condiments - I
love Prego steaks, feel bad afterwards, now
adore the tangy taste of piccalilli
An extravaganza coming back to haunt me in
solitary confinement with official texts, head
throbbing; oh piccalilli, chopped vegetables
and spices enchanting and piquant
For the underprivileged palate…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Thrusting Lines
Praised for single-minded devotion to duty only,
my lines subjected to minute scrutiny as I lack
the tools to reproduce literally; rephrasing to
create fluent, mellifluous texts is wrong
We are employed to be a conduit faithfully re-
laying source texts through mindless copy-
ing which causes my brain to shut down
so my boss thinks me incompetent
Unable to deal with the soothing repetition most
people deem a real treat, I'm learning to accept
being the worst official in history, not given any
responsibility, only checked and monitored
Lost access to my inner being while ignoring the
enchantment of words dancing in rhythmic lines,
I shall have to create a sacred space where
sound can be freed to reign supreme
Where the rhythm of lilting vowels formed into
notes with various beats by rushing, explosive
consonants, creates melodies rising and
falling in thrusting lines
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Knowledge Interpretation Flames
judgment discernment eyes world cosmos changing
mimesis Ancient Greek soul through worlds hurling
mimesis art’s imitation of life nature centuries enduring
independent intellectual pursuits time critique overlapping
analysis meaning human texts symbolic expressions flowing
knowledge interpretation flames bright insight understanding
contrast form self-reflective knowledge involving understanding
implicitly explicitly interpretation texts defined knowledge perceiving
theoretical explanation to reduce entrapment in systems mind dominating
domination dependence obeying emancipatory interest perception expanding
focused interpretation explanation not social transformation dominating
knowledge liberation scope of autonomy scope of domination reducing
espoused general theory of values either society affirming or criticizing
literature humanities plus minus a normative dimension perceiving
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Who Can Define Nibiru Meanings?
Who can define the plough star's
previous recorded crossings
who can define Nibiru meanings?
Is it possible for us to know about
the Destroyer's previous solar flybys
with any great degree of certainty?
crossings crossing
maker crossing points
Gilgamesh in epic
for gateway sought
'straight is the crossing point'
narrow the way that leads
Assur the boatman charges
'silver for the crossing fees'
'The Arameans were defiant
took up position at the entrance
to the... gate, crossing point'.
let the texts tell you what Nibiru is
Sumerians Mesopotamians
associated heavenly bodies with deities
the cuneiform sign for Dingir 'god'
the cuneiform sign for 'neberu' star
ancient near eastern scholars identified
stars planets as gods deified beings
numerical Sumerian reference number signs
Nibiru planet Jupiter once Mercury
god Marduk a star tri-fold four fold references
Nibiru is cometh within Pluto orbit
'He (Marduk) set fast the position
of to fix their (stars) bounds'
'let Nibiru be the holder of the crossing
place of the heaven and of the earth'
'Nibiru is his (Marduk's) star, which
he made appear in the heavens'
'the red star which stands in the south
after the gods of the night (the stars)
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Dead Library
There they go, bearing him in tears;
another gift for termites and earthworms,
another place in history foregone.
Just humus to the soil for all his toil.
Had I known, the poor fellow cried,
a break from pursuit of wealth and health
I would have taken to make felt
my Name in the pages of history.
Jets, cars and chariots all shall fade.
Castles, plantations all shall be obscured
with time's demise but history salutes
those who march on it in inky lines.
They that add no lines to the living
library get dead alongside their texts.
Selfishly, they read and saw nothing to write.
Read by none, their texts are in the Dead Library.
Mazi Ikechukwu Bismarck Oji
18th June,2010
poem by Ike Bismarck Oji
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Gnostic Texts
Described as snobbish and elite
by Garry Wills,
what the Church wished to delete
provides me thrills.
I’m thinking of the Gnostic text
that, somewhat rude, is
opposed to those disciples vexed
by deeds of Judas,
proposing that he was opposed
to martyrdom,
which Christians have so long supposed
to be the bomb
that made so popular the myth
this text explodes.
Like Pagels, I am happy with
such Gnostic codes.
Inspired by “Reading Judas: The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity, ” by Elaine Pagels and Karen L. King (New York: Penguin,2007) , and Gary Wills’s description of second century Gnostic texts such as “The Gospel of Juddas” as “elite and snobbish” in his book “What The Gospels Meant, ” reviewed by David Gibson (“What Jesus Really Did, ” NYT, March 2,2008) :
“What the Gospels Meant” starts straightforwardly with a helpful explanation of just what a Gospel is: “a meditation on the meaning of Jesus in the light of sacred history as recorded in the sacred writings.” Wills then parses the Gospel of Mark, the earliest account, as a “report from the suffering body of Jesus, ” written to comfort early Christians facing persecution. Matthew’s is the teaching Gospel, recounting many of Christianity’s most familiar sermons. The erudite Luke presents “the reconciling body of Jesus, ” a Gospel of poignant stories like the Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan that display the humanity of Jesus and the universality of his message. John is, as ever, the theologian, a prophetic voice from “the mystical body of Jesus.” Yet the paradox of modern Christianity is that the growth of biblical scholarship, and the fervor of believers in sola Scriptura (Scripture alone) , has done so little to affect the mass of biblical illiterates who proclaim their convictions about what Jesus would do while knowing precious little about what he actually did or, more important, what he meant. Neo-atheists aren’t much better, sneering at Christians but displaying ignorance about Christianity. And neo-Gnostics — academics and acolytes who claim to channel the rebel spirit of various early Christian offshoots — routinely confer on “elite and snobbish” (Wills’s phrase) second-century texts an authority they rarely grant to the canon. Such literalism sustains a fragile faith.
In this sense, Wills is a dangerous man. He does not create a foolish consistency out of differing Gospels, but underscores the attributes of each narrative to highlight truths more crucial than whether there were four discrete Evangelists, or whether three wise men actually followed a star in the East. The credulous will be shocked by his rationality, while skeptics will be scandalized by his respect for the faith. To be sure, Wills includes asides that will win few points with Rome, like his claim that the virgin birth “is not a gynecological or obstetric teaching, but a theological one.” And he throws in facts that can be mischievously tossed out at family gatherings or, worse, to the pastor after Sunday services — for example, that the crown of thorns was probably a wreath of acanthus leaves. (Wills also provides his own translations of the original “marketplace” Greek, though I’m not sure that killing the “pampered” calf or hearing that the Word became flesh and “bivouacked with us” will catch on.)
12/28/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Tale XXI
The Learned Boy
An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and
hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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I may not be a first-rate composer, but I am a first-class second-rate composer.
classic quote by Richard Strauss
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Originally, I wanted to be a composer. I always tell people, 'I think of myself as a composer.'
quote by Ornette Coleman
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