Just keep thinking about the good side of ADD - the creativity and the originality it can stimulate.
quote by David Neeleman
Added by Lucian Velea
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Add Some Music
The sunday mornin' gospel goes good with the soul
There's blues, folk, and country, and rock like a rollin' stone
The world could come together as one
If everybody under the sun
Add some music to your day
(Add some music add some add some music to your day)
A bob didit a bop didit
You'll hear it while you're walkin' by a neighbor's home
You'll hear it faintly in the distance when you're on the phone
You're sittin' in a dentist's chair
And they've got music for you there
To add some music
(Add some music add some add some music to your)
To your day
A bob didit a bop didit
Add some music music everywhere (add some music)
Add some add some add some add some music (add some music)
Your doctor knows it keeps you calm
Your preacher adds it to his psalms
So add some music
(Add some music add some add some music to your)
To your day
Music
(Add some music add some music)
When you're alone
(Add some music add some music)
Is like a companion
(Add some music add some music)
For your lonely soul
Oo oo oo woo oo woo oo oo oo oooo
When day is over (when day is over)
I close my tired eyes (I close my tired)
Music is in my soul
At a movie you can feel it touching your heart
And on every day of the summertime
You'll hear children chasing ice cream carts
They'll play it on your wedding day
There must be 'bout a million ways
To add some music
(Add some music add some add some music to your)
To your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Add Some Music To Your Day
The sunday mornin gospel goes good with the soul
Theres blues, folk, and country, and rock like a rollin stone
The world could come together as one
If everybody under the sun
Add some music to your day
(add some music add some add some music to your day)
A bob didit a bop didit
Youll hear it while youre walkin by a neighbors home
Youll hear it faintly in the distance when youre on the phone
Youre sittin in a dentists chair
And theyve got music for you there
To add some music
(add some music add some add some music to your)
To your day
A bob didit a bop didit
Add some music music everywhere (add some music)
Add some add some add some add some music (add some music)
Your doctor knows it keeps you calm
Your preacher adds it to his psalms
So add some music
(add some music add some add some music to your)
To your day
Music
(add some music add some music)
When youre alone
(add some music add some music)
Is like a companion
(add some music add some music)
For your lonely soul
Oo oo oo woo oo woo oo oo oo oooo
When day is over (when day is over)
I close my tired eyes (I close my tired)
Music is in my soul
At a movie you can feel it touching your heart
And on every day of the summertime
Youll hear children chasing ice cream carts
Theyll play it on your wedding day
There must be bout a million ways
To add some music
(add some music add some add some music to your)
To your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
Add some music to your day
song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Adrienne Vittadini
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[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
Added by Poetry Lover
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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
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Cant Stop Thinking About You
Cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
Its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
And its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about you
When the night-time comes around
Daylight has left me, i
I cant take it if I dont see you no more
I cant help it, I need your loving so much more
And I cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
And its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about you, ooh
Cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about you
When the morning comes around
And the daylight gets to me, i
I cant take it if I dont see you no more
I cant help it, I need your loving so much more
And I cant stop thinking about you, oh yeah
I cant stop thinking about you
And its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about you
I cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about you
(repeat and fade:)
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about you
song performed by George Harrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Add It Up
The first time that I saw you, you were modestly waiting for a bus
Now youre driving around in hired limousines
And you talk so upper class.
The cost is high, but its not the only price you ultimately pay
Add it up, you might have got some money
But you lost me on the way
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Ah, gucci, gucci, gucci
Cartier, cartier
Gucci, gucci, gucci
Add it up,
You multiplied and multiplied but whats it leading to?
Add it up,
The only thing subtracted is the love I had for you
So add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Symbols of perversion and insanity
Symbols of social immorality
Symbols of economic cruelty
Symbolize all what you did to me
Ah, gucci, gucci, gucci
Cartier, cartier
Gucci, gucci, gucci
Cartier, cartier
Money cant cover up the fact youre getting older every day
And you cant disguise your sad little eyes that give your loneliness away
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
(repeat)
song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Suicide Lovers
suicide lovers 6x
suicide lovers are always there in the dark still together
still huging eachother still holding eachother up
suicide lovers are the only ones in the dark
shering ther feeling and shering ther thoughts
feeling pain and feeling love thinking about dieing
and thinking about been with eachotherno matter what
they talk about how there going to die together
holding hands and deareming about the day that comes
suicide lovers are the only ones int he dark still
hugging eachother and holding eachother up dreaming
about love and dreaming about the heart when it stops
we all die and we'll never give it up they think life has no point
theres nothing in the worldfor them exept for eachother
ther thinking about having a baby and dieing together
suicide lovers have a babythere baby is growing up good
and strong. healthy and stands up for herself the
she finds a guy just like her they are together forevere
they will never give it up ther love becomes pure and up ther
thinking about marriageand having a baby of there own
they have a son there dreams come truethey will call him
skyler a name they both like, they are thinking about another
baby so they have a girl and call her carli they thought that carli was
a goog name for there child skyler and carli are getting along
one is 17 and one is 21, damb they grow ou fast and strong
i cant belive what they been throug years dreaming and thinking
the world of each other they both find ther one and the both
are happy so they will be together forever! !
suicide lovers, suicide lovers, suicide lovers
suicide suicide i already diiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeedddddd...... loverrrrrrrrrrrrrss
suicide lovers suicide lovers are always in the dark
suicide lovers 6x
suicide lovers are always there in the dark still together
still huging eachother still holding eachother up
suicide lovers are the only ones in the dark
shering ther feeling and shering ther thoughts
feeling pain and feeling love thinking about dieing
and thinking about been with eachotherno matter what
they talk about how there going to die together
holding hands and deareming about the day that comes
suicide lovers are the only ones int he dark still
hugging eachother and holding eachother up dreaming
about love and dreaming about the heart when it stops
we all die and we'll never give it up they think life has no point
theres nothing in the worldfor them exept for eachother
ther thinking about having a baby and dieing together
[...] Read more
poem by Valya Madden
Added by Poetry Lover
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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward
.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate
'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude
This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.
These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.
I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.
And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.
And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.
The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.
I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.
The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.
Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.
I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.
Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.
Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.
I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.
I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.
Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'
That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.
Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.
All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves
[...] Read more
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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2u
2u
I hope that youve been thinking about me
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
Pick up the phone to call you
But I hung up cause Im so afraid
Afraid of rejection
Or another woman in your face
Hopin all day that you would call me
And that youre thinkin of me too
Well in my case with the game of love
If I played I would probably lose
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that youre thinkin of me
And I pray every night you love me
I dont ever want what we have to end
And Ill always be your friend
Dont you feel me calling from afar
If you dont know Ive been there from the start
As sure as my name is what it is
Youll always have a place in my heart
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
Ooh, ooh, ooh....
I hope that you have been thinking of me
The way that I have been thinking of you
When I pray every night
That its me in your dreams when your sleepin
I really hope that Im the that youre thinking about
Yeah, yeah, yeah...
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too (I hope that, I hope that youve
Been thinkin)
The way that I have been thinking of you (all the time, cant get you off my
Mind baby)
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
See I hope that its you
And I hope that you are baby
Thinking of me too
[...] Read more
song performed by Mary J Blige
Added by Lucian Velea
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Be Good Johnny
Skip de skip, up the road
Off to school we go
Dont you be a bad boy johnny
Dont you slip up
Or play the fool
Oh no ma, oh no da,
Ill be your golden boy
I will obey evry golden rule
Get told by the teacher
Not to day-dream
Told by my mother:
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good be good (johnny)
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good (johnny)
Be good be good.
Are you going to play football this year, john?
No!
Oh, well you must be going to play cricket this year then,
Are you johnny?
No! no! no!
Boy, you sure are a funny kid, johnny, but I like you! so tell me,
What kind of a boy are you, john?
I only like dreaming
All the day long
Where no one is screaming
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good be good (johnny)
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Johnny!
song performed by Men At Work
Added by Lucian Velea
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Good Love
Everytime I get to see you
I get this feelin
Its so fuzzy inside
And as soon as I walk away from you
Im still tasting your kiss
Saving it in my mind
Its not everyday I find
A guy that makes me smile all the time
Not the way that you do
All the guys I thought I used to love
Compared to you they dont match up
They got nothing on you
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
Baby you got somethin special
That has me thinking of settling down
Youre the one my mama told me
Would sooner or later one day finally come around
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
You bring me joy
And you bring me much pleasure
I could never see myself leaving you ever
Your soft touch is good and it cant get no better
You have got my mind so caught up
Im drunk off of your good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
[...] Read more
song performed by TLC
Added by Lucian Velea
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Fourth Book
THEY met still sooner. 'Twas a year from thence
When Lucy Gresham, the sick semptress girl,
Who sewed by Marian's chair so still and quick,
And leant her head upon the back to cough
More freely when, the mistress turning round,
The others took occasion to laugh out,–
Gave up a last. Among the workers, spoke
A bold girl with black eyebrows and red lips,–
'You know the news? Who's dying, do you think?
Our Lucy Gresham. I expected it
As little as Nell Hart's wedding. Blush not, Nell,
Thy curls be red enough without thy cheeks;
And, some day, there'll be found a man to dote
On red curls.–Lucy Gresham swooned last night,
Dropped sudden in the street while going home;
And now the baker says, who took her up
And laid her by her grandmother in bed,
He'll give her a week to die in. Pass the silk.
Let's hope he gave her a loaf too, within reach,
For otherwise they'll starve before they die,
That funny pair of bedfellows! Miss Bell,
I'll thank you for the scissors. The old crone
Is paralytic–that's the reason why
Our Lucy's thread went faster than her breath,
Which went too quick, we all know. Marian Erle!
Why, Marian Erle, you're not the fool to cry?
Your tears spoil Lady Waldemar's new dress,
You piece of pity!'
Marian rose up straight,
And, breaking through the talk and through the work,
Went outward, in the face of their surprise,
To Lucy's home, to nurse her back to life
Or down to death. She knew by such an act,
All place and grace were forfeit in the house,
Whose mistress would supply the missing hand
With necessary, not inhuman haste,
And take no blame. But pity, too, had dues:
She could not leave a solitary soul
To founder in the dark, while she sate still
And lavished stitches on a lady's hem
As if no other work were paramount.
'Why, God,' thought Marian, 'has a missing hand
This moment; Lucy wants a drink, perhaps.
Let others miss me! never miss me, God!'
So Marian sat by Lucy's bed, content
With duty, and was strong, for recompense,
To hold the lamp of human love arm-high
To catch the death-strained eyes and comfort them,
Until the angels, on the luminous side
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Nothing So Good
Aint nothin so good
As a sunday morning
When the day is dawnin? kinda makes you feel good
There aint nothing so fine
As a lazy weekend
Just hangin out with your best friend
There aint nothing so good
There aint nothing so good as a good time
Theres nothing so right as the right time
I said please ? dont count on me
Said please ? dont count on me
Theres nothing so good as a good time
Maybe there should
There aint nothing so good
Aint nothin so strong
As the strength of a good love
I cant get enough
Cant ever get too much love
There aint nothing so right
As the sound of your voice
Im gonna make it my choice
And get into something good
There aint nothing so good as a good time
There aint nothing so right as the right time
I said please ? dont count on me
Said please ? dont you count on me
Theres nothing so good as a good time
Maybe there should
There aint nothing so good
Sail away
Cant drift too far
Gotta get away
Be where you are
Sail away, sail away
Sail on far
Gotta find a way
Into your heart
Aint nothin so good
As a sunday morning
When the day is dawning
Kinda makes you feel good
There aint nothing so fine
As a lazy weekend
Just hangin out with your best friend
There aint nothing so good
There aint nothing so good as a good time
Aint nothing so right as the right time
I said please ? dont count on me
Said please ? dont count on me
Theres nothing so good as a good time
[...] Read more
song performed by Nazareth
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dulcimer Stomp / The Other Side
Aerosmith
Dulcimer Stomp/The Other Side
come on
lovin' you has got to be
(take me to the other side)
like the devil and the deep blue sea
(take me to the other side)
forget about your foolish pride
(take me to the other side)
oh take me to the other side
(take me to the other side)
my mama told me there'd be days like this
and man she wasn't foolin'
'cause I just can't believe the way you kiss
uh huh
you opened up your mouth with baited breath
you said you'd never leave me
you love me, you hate me, I tried to take the loss
you're cryin' me a river but I got to get across
lovin' you has got to be
(take me to the other side)
like the devil and the deep blue sea
(take me to the other side)
forget about your foolish pride
(take me to the other side)
oh take me to the other side
(take me to the other side)
I'm lookin' for another kind of love
oh lordy how I need it
the kind that likes to leap without a shove
oh honey, best believe it
to save a lot of time and foolish pride
I'll say what's on my mind, girl
you loved me, you hate me, you cut me down to size
you blinded me with love and yeah it opened up my eyes
lovin' you has got to be
(take me to the other side)
like the devil and the deep blue sea
(take me to the other side)
my conscience got to be my guide
(take me to the other side)
oh honey take me, take take take take take ow
take me to the other side
I'm lookin' for another kind of love
oh lordy how I need it
the kind that likes to leap without a shove
honey, you best believe it
now I ain't one for sayin' long goodbyes
I hope all is forgiven
you loved me, you hate me, I used to be your lover
[...] Read more
song performed by Aerosmith
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the First
I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.
II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.
III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.
V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Crouchin’ On The Outside
One two three four five six seven eight hey baby you're a little too late
I'm standin' on the outside lookin' in at you on the inside
Lookin' out at me on the outside lookin' in
Through the window of my madness at a place I never been
And you say you understand just what my trouble's all about
But you're sitting on the inside playing on the win side
While I'm freezing on the outside in the what's-it-all-about side
Lookin' in at you on the inside looking out
One two three four five six seven eight hey Jim let's talk about hate
I'm walkin' on the white side lookin' 'round at you on the brown side
Lookin' back at him on the black side lookin' down
And we're mouthin' words of freedom but we don't make any sound
And we clasp our hands in brotherhood and then go wash our hands
While you're stayin' on the brown side on the go-ahead-and-put-me-down side
While I'm standin' on the white side on the got-me-way-up-tight side
Lookin' back at him on the black side lookin' back
One two three four five six seven eight hey Claude don't bother to wait
You're cruisin' on the gay side lookin' straight at me on the straight side
Lookin' way at you on the gay side lookin' straight
And you're screamin' from the rooftops bout the pleasures that won't wait
And your closet's full of queenly gowns for extra special dates
And you're campin' on the gay side on the c'mon-out-and-play side
While I'm over on the trick side on the got-to-find-a-chick side
Lookin' way at you on the gay side lookin' straight
One two four seven nine eight twelve fifteen nineteen eighteen ninety-nine twenty-four else
[ sax ]
One two three four five six seven eight hey Miss hallucinate
You're boppin' on the hip side laughin' at me on the flip side
Chasin' after you on the hip side losin' my grip
And you're walkin' on a tightrope and you're tryin' not to slip
And you say you found out where it's at and give it all a try
So you're groovin' on the hip side in the come-and-take-a-trip side
I'm movin' on the square side in the show-me-when-and-where side
Chasin' after you on the hip side lookin' high
Lookin' at you on the hip side lookin' out yeah
Lookin' at you on the flip side lookin' back
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Added by Poetry Lover
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