All professions are conspiracies against the laity.
quote by George Bernard Shaw
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The Borough. Letter VI: Professions--Law
'TRADES and Professions'--these are themes the Muse,
Left to her freedom, would forbear to choose;
But to our Borough they in truth belong,
And we, perforce, must take them in our song.
Be it then known that we can boast of these
In all denominations, ranks, degrees;
All who our numerous wants through life supply,
Who soothe us sick, attend us when we die,
Or for the dead their various talents try.
Then have we those who live by secret arts,
By hunting fortunes, and by stealing hearts;
Or who by nobler means themselves advance,
Or who subsist by charity and chance.
Say, of our native heroes shall I boast,
Born in our streets, to thunder on our coast,
Our Borough-seamen? Could the timid Muse
More patriot ardour in their breasts infuse;
Or could she paint their merit or their skill,
She wants not love, alacrity, or will:
But needless all; that ardour is their own,
And for their deeds, themselves have made them known.
Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil!
Who from destruction save us; who from spoil
Protect the sons of peace, who traffic, or who toil;
Would I could duly praise you; that each deed
Your foes might honour, and your friends might read:
This too is needless; you've imprinted well
Your powers, and told what I should feebly tell:
Beside, a Muse like mine, to satire prone,
Would fail in themes where there is praise alone.
- Law shall I sing, or what to Law belongs?
Alas! there may be danger in such songs;
A foolish rhyme, 'tis said, a trifling thing,
The law found treason, for it touch'd the King.
But kings have mercy, in these happy times.
Or surely One had suffered for his rhymes;
Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold,
So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold;
But he escap'd,--nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I,
Who love my king, for such offence to die.
But I am taught the danger would be much,
If these poor lines should one attorney touch -
(One of those Limbs of Law who're always here;
The Heads come down to guide them twice a year.)
I might not swing, indeed, but he in sport
Would whip a rhymer on from court to court;
Stop him in each, and make him pay for all
The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall: -
Then let my numbers flow discreetly on,
Warn'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington,
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The Third Satire Of Dr. John Donne
Compassion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies
The tears a passage thro' my swelling eyes;
To laugh or weep at sins, might idly show,
Unheedful passion, or unfruitful woe.
Satyr! arise, and try thy sharper ways,
If ever Satyr cur'd an old disease.
Is not Religion (Heav'n-descended dame)
As worthy all our soul's devoutest flame,
As Moral Virtue in her early sway,
When the best Heathens saw by doubtful day?
Are not the joys, the promis'd joys above,
As great and strong to vanquish earthly love,
As earthly glory, fame, respect and show,
As all rewards their virtue found below?
Alas! Religion proper means prepares,
These means are ours, and must its End be theirs?
And shall thy Father's spirit meet the sight
Of Heathen Sages cloath'd in heavenly light,
Whose Merit of strict life, severely suited
To Reason's dictates, may be faith imputed?
Whilst thou, to whom he taught the nearer road,
Art ever banish'd from the bless'd abode.
Oh! if thy temper such a fear can find,
This fear were valour of the noblest kind.
Dar'st thou provoke, when rebel souls aspire,
Thy Maker's Vengeance, and thy Monarch's Ire?
Or live entomb'd in ships, thy leader's prey,
Spoil of the war, the famine, or the sea?
In search of pearl, in depth of ocean breathe,
Or live, exil'd the sun, in mines beneath?
Or, where in tempests icy mountains roll,
Attempt a passage by the Northern pole?
Or dar'st thou parch within the fires of Spain,
Or burn beneath the line, for Indian gain?
Or for some Idol of thy Fancy draw,
Some loose-gown'd dame; O courage made of straw!
Thus, desp'rate Coward! would'st thou bold appear,
Yet when thy God has plac'd thee Centry here,
To thy own foes, to his, ignobly yield,
And leave, for wars forbid, the appointed field?
Know thy own foes; th' Apostate Angel, he
You strive to please, the foremost of the Three;
He makes the pleasures of his realm the bait,
But can he give for Love, that acts in Hate?
The World's thy second Love, thy second Foe,
The World, whose beauties perish as they blow,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
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A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just
And makes me end where I begun.
poem by John Donne
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Canto II
ARGUMENT
Forsaken Nancy in this Canto,
Brings 'gainst her John a Quo Warranto,
'Cause he had left her in the Lurch,
To rear a Pulpit in the Church :
And under colour of Religion
Courted another pretty Pigeon.
Now you must know that all the Blame
Was laid upon the Baggage Fame ;
Who rais'd between them the sad Squabble,
By forging of this Idle Fable !
Next you shall see in Sluggish Dress,
That Gallant Lady Idleness ;
Who has more Suitors waiting on her,
Than the most virtuous Maid of Honour ;
But here I almost had forgot
To won the Error of our Plot,
The Poet laid his Scene in France,
But I can't tell by what Mischance,
He now and then dares venture over,
And steps as far as Deal or Dover.
Mean while a Hagg, made up of Mouths and Ears,
Who prates both what, and more than what she hears,
The Moderns call her Fame : This crafy Jade
Of Slandring drives and unknown subtle trade ;
For she had got the Faculty to Brew
With dubious, Certain ; and with false, things true ;
And with such Art she her Ingredients mixed,
That where she pleas'd A Calumny she fixed ;
This Baggage once in her mad Moods and Tenses
Had Lombard read, the Master o'th' Sentences ;
Thence she had learn'd to spread a Lie Malicious,
And then to serve a Turn, us'd the Officious ;
When her light business call'd to the Court
Us'd the Jocose, and lewdly ly'd in sport ;
Her trade she practiced first in private Letters,
Bespatter'd there, and vilifi'd her Betters ;
In Coffee-houses then she grew a Prater,
Broke off al Trades, she sets up Observator.
A Justice once clapt her i'th' Stocks and stript her,
Then by a tough-back't Knave feverely Whipt her ;
Not warn'd, the Brazen-face would out be flying
Against the State with her Opprobrious Lying ;
Jockey for Leasing put her to the Horning,
In England she was Pillory'd for Stuborning ;
A thousand pounds for False News she was fined ;
And till she paid the fine to Gaol Confined :
Venturing at last on Scandalum Magnatum,
[...] Read more
poem by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux from Le Lutrin
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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We cannot build up the idea of the apostolate of the laity without the foundation of the liturgy.
quote by Dorothy Day
Added by Lucian Velea
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Among our own people also the church sorely needs clergy in close touch with the ordinary life of the laity, living the life of ordinary men, sharing their difficulties and understanding their trials by close personal experience.
quote by Roland Allen
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Full Moon Day Third Lunar Month
One candle is a light unto itself.
One hundred candles
illuminate a room.
In a room,
one candle is
a light unto itself.
Uposatha day at Wat Katum,
seven old ladies and one old man
taking eight precepts
for a day
to keep the Niraya fires at bay.
'I undertake
to observe the precept
to refrain from
killing living beings.
'I undertake
to observe the precept
to refrain from
taking things not given.
'I undertake………'
An old monk gives a sermon:
'A silent sandoth arahant is blamed.
Articulate Sariputta is blamed.
Economical speech of Ananda is blamed.
Even silent Buddhas cannot escape censure.
Criticising others
burns the mind,
wards off wholesome
states of mind.'
A new and lofty concrete sala hall
is being built to house a replica
of a famous Buddha image.
In this, they say, Luang Po Sothorn
floated, in a miracle,
along the river Bang Pakhong
to Chachoengsao
after the sacking of Ayudhaya
a city of a million souls.
Eleven o'clock,
a bell sounds.
Seven monks follow their abbot
to walk a hot and dusty concrete road
past a rabble of dogs with mange,
to Jai Hieng's house.
Sabbe sankhara dukkha
On the anniversary
[...] Read more
poem by Brian Taylor
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So Finer
To bear a dress one picks from the academy
Is to deliver a speech for the other men who are men;
The laity speaks with a duty to be heard,
One expert has spoken on the tasks of beauty
And suffering.
I see the flown wings of an older generation,
Their suits are in the middle of golden dresses;
Ladies so finer than themselves shall sway
In time with the music that is concrete and sad,
Innocence is sad.
To be caution is to be godly, and this message made me
A monument on the glad surfaces,
On those narratives we call upon
In the middle of forefingers,
Those glaring feet of fingers and dresses.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Task: Book II. -- The Time-Piece
Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war
Might never reach me more! My ear is pained,
My soul is sick with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man. The natural bond
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not coloured like his own, and having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed,
Make enemies of nations who had else
Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And worse than all, and most to be deplored
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
With stripes, that mercy with a bleeding heart
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush
And hang his head, to think himself a man?
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home. - Then why abroad?
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free,
They touch our country and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire! that where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.
Sure there is need of social intercourse,
Benevolence and peace and mutual aid
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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My Claim To Honour!
I’d been thinking
To be a very great man,
My attribute being poetry,
And my poems highly rated.
I had genuinely believed
That poetry is great gift,
Poet is a superman
And he was venerated.
I had discontentment
That I didn’t get the credit
Which I truly deserved
For my superior poetry.
Poets much junior
And close to political bosses
Got awards and honours.
For, they wrote base flattery.
So, when I died I wrote
An elegy on myself,
A long narrative poem,
Superb in its contents.
Carrying my dead body
I went around the city
Reciting my elegy
To my heart’s full content.
From gate to gate I moved
From street to street I went
At road junctions I stopped,
To drum up support in my favour.
I was firm in my resolve
To get my rightful honour
Which the state had for long
Overlooked to confer.
Sans any modesty
My elegy compared me
With many other poets
And stated my claim.
The elegy eulogized
And compared my talents,
Exalted my skills,
And extolled me to the brim.
“…………………………………………………..
Internatio nal poet …………………………….
……. Multilingual Poet ……………………..
…………….. Mystic, epic poet ………………
[...] Read more
poem by P.K. Joy
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A Tribute to The Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI
Message: “But, let there be one flock and one Shepherd.”
The world has got a Pope anew!
His name is Joseph Ratzinger;
On April, twenty-fourth, Sunday,
He’s duly installed as the Pope,
Successor to Pope John Paul II.
A German cardinal old-aged,
A Theologian ’yond compare;
A man of wisdom, silver-haired,
A conservative of the Church,
He said Inaugural Mass that day.
St. Peter’s Square was thronged by crowds
Of people of all ages, sex-
That numbered five lakhs from countries,
To witness his Investiture:
A life-time’s rare phenomenon!
Yes, Heads of States and religious;
The clerics and the laity too;
Representatives from many lands;
Some curious tourists and Faithful,
Dignitaries and pilgrims too,
Had jubilantly gathered here.
And Benedict, the XVI stood,
All dressed in cassock of pure white;
With face akin a beaming sun,
He blessed the flock that vouched support,
Became their new Shepherd of love!
A Pallium of finest wool,
With five red crosses and three nails
Just like the wounds of Jesus Lord;
A ring with St.Peter, as fisherman-
A Mitre and a Staff- he got!
Oh, what a glorious sight indeed!
All flower-decked and incensed air;
Heavenly scene on earth for once;
The sheep in finest attire-
They came to greet the new Shepherd!
The Pope then said a Latin mass-
A language of the Vatican;
With Gospels in Latin and Greek;
Pope’s homily that took an hour!
The patient crowds turned ecstatic!
[...] Read more
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet: Things Happen as Per God’s Wish
Miracles, God performs even these days!
His divine plans will come all true always;
He does all things in strange and unique ways;
‘If God is truth, truth will triumph’- Man says.
Discovers God, new Shepherds for His flock;
The world functions only as Per His word,
No matter whatev’r Man does to the clock,
For God loves man much more than any bird.
And don’t forget that He’s the Almighty;
He made things to obey His Holy Will;
He wants the world’s both clergy and laity,
To climb with steadfastness, life’s rocky hill.
Who will give life and shed his blood for men?
What love has made Man, World, also Heaven?
6-16-2001
poem by John Celes
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No Fears
some times you think you have found the right person
when actually some one is just fugiting with their many options
sometime we think we are a priority in people's lives
when we are actually the best gamble they've put up with.
politicians call us the electorate, ready for a ride
priests/prophets call us the laity, craving for God's mercy
merchants call us customers, for just some little cheating
lovers call us their better halves...the shadows they can drag along
But at least, the sun shines for us with cold hearts
the ones who never enjoy the warmth of pretense
Thank God, the moon always guides we, the pessimists
the ones who hold love sacred, but never take it for granted
When the fire extinguishes, we curdle in reality
our true identity never frightens us
When the doors are shut, we simply move on
our real enemies don't scare us...NO FEARS
poem by Timothy muggaga
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Pope – Jesus Christ’s the Only Hope
A Poetic Excerpt (I) from his speech to US Bishops
For modern world, the only hope is Christ –
The soul of man needs God for sustenance;
One’s loyalty to Holy See is prime;
Let Catholics strengthen bonds with Peter’s See.
America is great a nation sure;
The US Catholics fervently do pray;
Let me commend all believers to God;
Let’s thank God for the gift of grace to Church.
Let world’s largest community today –
The Catholics shine their light to all around,
And spread the Gospel to all fellow-men;
Let them too see your work and thank the Lord.
Welcome all immigrants to join your fold,
And share their joys and sorrows and trials;
Support the poor and needy as usual;
You’re well known for your generosity!
American aid for all disasters,
Within the country and that globally,
Is ample proof of generous a heart:
That needs thanksgiving to the Almighty!
This country is a land of strong a faith;
They worship God with fervor and great pride;
Their arguments are based on Bible truths;
You are a witness to Lord Jesus Christ.
I exhort you, brother bishops to sow
The seeds of Gospel in this fertile soil,
And help the Vine of Hope in Christ grow well,
And lead souls to encounter living God.
Let your beliefs and teachings of the church
Be practiced in your professional lives;
Let’s not exploit the poor and downtrodden;
Let sex be sacred and per moral thought.
Let’s safe-guard right to life until one’s death;
Let faith permeate every Catholic’s life;
Let affluence not hamper thirst for God,
Nor block the progression of soul to Him.
Let’s not forget our ultimate life’s aim;
Let’s drink from wells of God’s infinite love;
[...] Read more
poem by John Celes
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On Fayrford Windowes
I know no paynt of poetry
Can mend such colourd Imag'ry
In sullen inke: yet Fayrford, I
May relish thy fayre memory.
Such is the Ecchoes faynter sound,
Such is the light when sunne is drownd;
So did the fancy looke upon
The worke before it was begunne:
Yet when those shewes are out of sight
My weaker colours may delight.
Those Images so faythfully
Report true feature to the eye
As you may thinke each picture was
Some visage in a looking-glasse;
Not a glasse-window face, unlesse
Such as Cheapside hath: where a presse
Of paynted gallants looking out
Bedecke the Casement round about:
But these have holy physnomy:
Each pane instructs the Laity
With silent eloquence: for here
Devotion leads the eye, not eare,
To note the catechising paynt,
Whose easy phrase doth so acquaint
Our sense with Gospell that the Creede
In such a hand the weake may reade:
Such types even yet of vertue bee,
And Christ, as in a glasse wee see.
Behold two turtles in one cage,
With such a lovely equipage,
As they who knew them long may doubt
Some yong ones have bin stollen out.
When with a fishing rodde the clarke
Saint Peters draught of fish doth marke,
Such is the scale, the eye, the finne,
Youd thinke they strive and leape within;
But if the nett, which holds them breake,
Hee with his angle some would take.
But would you walke a turne in Pauls?
Looke uppe; one little pane inroules
[...] Read more
poem by William Strode
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AdiSankara
Luminous on the snowy Himalaya
The effulgence of Kaladi Kerala
The beacon light up there spirited
From south of Bharath enlightened
Bestowed the blest Sivaguru and Aryamba
Lord siva born to them, great Sankara
Not an ordinary child but divine
Did he younger resort to be a sanyasin
Would a mother consent? Aryamba didn't
Yet she soon couldn't but consent
Destiny, a crocodile to Sankara threw a life-threat
Relieved him demanding he be an ascetic asset
Thence Aryamba let Sankara renounce, go yonder
Was she then mollified to be attened to later
Set out Sankara for an accomplished guru atlast
For he in search of an ascetic tryst
Guru of gurus Govindapada
Sought after on the banks of river Narmada
Not a boy of toy trinkets, Sankara
Became to his credits early a Paramahamsa
Wonder was he then just eight years
An adept became seer of seers
Bespoken over era and era
His spirituality, the Advaitha
Travelled far and wide Sankara
Expounded Upanishads Sutras and Gita
Composed commentaries the Bhashyas
To this day spoken about in praises
An occasion Sankara for his old mother
Routed elseway Purna river
Favourably for her daily ablution
En route near by his house on diversion
Sankara the giver of prosperity
Did once reward a lady of abject poverty
With golden gooseberries out of divine ability
On receiving the only fruit had that pious laity
One anecdote scaled up his power
Gushing forth once into floods Narmada river
Sankara encapsulated it in his vessel prior
Released it in the banks later
[...] Read more
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Horace, Epist. I, VII Imitation Of Horace To Lord Oxford
Harley, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
His mind with public cares possest,
All Europe's business in his breast,
Observed a parson near Whitehall,
Cheap'ning old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in case,
And show'd some humour in his face;
Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My lord, (who, if a man may say't,
Loves mischief better than his meat),
Was now disposed to crack a jest
And bid friend Lewis go in quest.
(This Lewis was a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley's favour)—
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If possible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.
Lewis his patron's humour knows;
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter sift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift,
A clergyman of special note
For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes to run him down:
No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no sort of vice;
Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought;
Not rich, but owed no man a groat;
In state opinions a la mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad;
Had given the faction many a wound,
And libell'd all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father'd what he writ:
His works were hawk'd in ev'ry street,
But seldom rose above a sheet:
Of late, indeed, the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp;
And, since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended to retire.
Said Harley, 'I desire to know
From his own mouth, if this be so:
Step to the doctor straight, and say,
I'd have him dine with me to-day.'
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Swift
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(Just A) Patsy
Put defenses to rest
when justice becomes moot
defy - let others follow suit
to start the uprise is to start the war
paranoid conspiracies galore
What's the point to maintain your innocence
what's the point to play into their game
what's the use to even try and sway
pigs that are out to put you away
Just a patsy played for a fool
crooked games are what they're playing
lying
song performed by Sick Of It All from Call To Arms
Added by Lucian Velea
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Aliens Exist
Hey mom there's something in the backroom
I hope its not the creatures from above
You used to read me stories
As if my dreams were boring
We all know conspiracies are dumb
What if people knew that these were real
I'd leave my closet door open all night
I know the CIA would say
What you hear is all hearsay
I wish someone would tell me what was right
Up all night long
And there's something very wrong
And I know it must be late
Been gone since yesterday
I'm not like you guys
I'm not like you
I am still the skeptic
song performed by Blink 182 from Enema Of The State
Added by Lucian Velea
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