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It was an ongoing struggle to say no, I don't want to be a part of the perpetuation of this stereotype.

quote by John Amos
Added by Lucian Velea
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What Part Of Life Are You Living

What part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you giving to live.
What part of life are you giving.
What part of life are you living.

And what part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you giving to live.
What part of life are you giving.
What part of life are you living.

What part of life is a drive by.
What part of life is a downslide.
What part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life is a drive by.
What part of life is a downslide.

And what part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you giving to live.
What part of life are you giving.
What part of life are you living.

What part of life is a drive by.
What part of life is a downslide.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you willing to live.

What part of life is a drive by.
What part of life is a downslide.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you willing to live.

What part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you giving to live.
What part of life are you giving.
What part of life are you living.

What part of life is a drive by.
What part of life is a downslide.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you willing to live.
What part of life is a downslide.
What part of life is a drive by.
And...
What part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Forward Motion

Whoa-o...Ive been banging my head against the wall
Whoa-o...for so long it seems I knocked it down, yeah it got knocked down
Whoa-o...and the heating bill went through the roof
Whoa-o...and the wall I knocked down was the proof
That my landlord needed to kick me out
I got evicted now Im living on the street
My spirits lifted...oh wait, that wasnt me
Too many turns have turned out to be wrong
This time I learned that, I knew it all along
When car crashes occur
Then Ill be what you were
When I see what I should
When I see that its good (that its good)
To experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush my teeth
Experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush my teeth
Cause I struggle with forward motion
I struggle with forward motion
We all struggle with forward motion
Cause forward motion is harder than it sounds
Well everytime I gain some ground
I gotta turn myself around again
Its harder than it sounds
Well everytime I gain some ground
I gotta turn myself around again
Whoa-o...Ive been banging my head against the wall
Whoa-o...for so long it seems I got knocked out. yeah, I got knocked out cold
Whoa-o...and the medical bills went through the roof
Whoa-o...and the scar on my head is the proof
That Ill still remember this when I get old
I got evicted now Im living on the street
My spirits lifted...oh wait, that wasnt me
Too many turns have turned out to be wrong
This time I learned that, I knew it all along
When I grasp the concept
Then Ill sleep where you slept
When I know I need help
When I allow myself (allow myself)
To experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush your teeth
Experience the bittersweet
To taste defeat
Then brush your teeth
Cause I struggle with forward motion
I struggle with forward motion
We all struggle with forward motion

[...] Read more

song performed by Relient K
Added by Lucian Velea
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Crazy Love, Vol. Ii

Fat charlie the archangel
Slped into the room
He said i have no opinion about this
And i have no opinion about that
Sad as a lonely little wrinkled balloon
He said well i don't claim to be happy about this, boys
And i don't seem to be happy about that
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
She says she knows about jokes
This time the joke is on me
Well, i have no opinion about that
And i have no opinion about me
Somebody could walk into this room
And say your life is on fire
It's all over the evening news
All about the fire in your life
On the evening news
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
Fat charlie the archangel
Files for divorce
He says well this will eat up a year of my life
And then there's all that weight to be lost
She says the joke is on me
I say the joke is on her
I said i have no opinion about that
Well, we'll just have to wait and confer
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of your love
I don't want no part of this crazy love
I don't want no part of this crazy love

song performed by Paul Simon
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prejudice and Racism

Prejudice

I don't like him or her or them
because they are
white, black, Asian, European, Middle Eastern,
Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Atheist,
those narrow-minded vegetarians,
and those cruel murderers who eat meat.
Look at those geeks, and nerds, and goths.
Why would anyone want to be emo or scene?
What kind of loser likes classical music and books?
Look at those disgraces to humanity
who have tattoos and piercings.
Look at how fat she is, and how skinny he is!
You jocks and preppy girls, you think you are so good.
Obviously anyone who watches TV or drinks beer is a bum,
and don't you hate those teens always texting on their phones?

People are prejudiced
against everyone and everything,
how you look, and what you do,
whether you are young or old,
male or female, what you believe and what you don't.
And let us not forget those people
who are prejudiced against people
who are prejudiced.

Racism

The blacks
the whites
the Asians
the Indians
the Middle Easterns
the Italians
the Jews
the Mexicans
the Russians
the Chinese
the Japanese
the English
the French

[...] Read more

poem by Zachary Zuccaro
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Part Of My Life

Can you be a part of my life?
Can you be a part of my life?
Oh its easy to find some one to play with
And almost anyone will do to fill your idle time
But that very special someone,
You can share all your dreams with is so hard to find
And it use to be like me to settle for the physical
But these days it aint too easy to make up my mind
Cause apparently you body just to temporally to take up my precious time
See Ive got to know that
That I can be free with you and
Youve got to show that
That youre worthy of my time
Can you stimulate my mind?
And I know that it looks good,
But can you be a part of my life
And Im sure that it feels good
But can you be a part of my life
And it probably even taste good
But can you be a part of my life
Ive got to know
I still appreciate the beauty of a man
But theres more to what I need now than what meets the eye
And if beautys only skin deep,
Then your pretty skin wont send me to my highest high
Oh its been along time come for maturity
And I believe that its truly what it has to be
Cause as much as I admire you
My sexual desire, aint controlling me
See Ive got to know that
That I can be free with you and
Youve got to show that
That youre worthy of my time
Can you stimulate my mind?
And I know that it looks good,
But can you be a part of my life
And Im sure that it feels good
But can you be a part of my life
And it probably even taste good
But can you be a part of my life
Ive got to know
And I know that it looks good,
But can you be a part of my life
And Im sure that it feels good
But can you be a part of my life
And it probably even taste good
But can you be a part of my life
Ive got to know
Can you be a part of my life?
I got to know that

[...] Read more

song performed by India Arie
Added by Lucian Velea
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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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White mine worker’s song (in answer to Don Mattera)

At their jobs beneath spinning wheels
next to yellow mine dumps
and the small train track
after non-payment of many months salaries
people’s lives cannot now turn back
while the mine owners are black

as a man takes the last sight
of the stars gleaming above him
before he hangs himself
on the tree in his garden
only death welcomes him
as he has lost any way
of making a living…

[References: “Mine worker’s song” by Don Mattera. “Num spokesman Lesiba Seshoka said in a statement on Thursday that the union was outraged at hearing Aurora’s commercial director Thulani Nogbane telling the committee that all Num-affiliated members at Grootvlei and more than 80% at Aurora’s Orkney mine had been paid...Aurora director Zondwa Mandela told the committee that illegal miners, acid mine drainage and the termination of a water pumping subsidy by the Department of Mineral Resources as well as involvement by the trade unions Num and Solidarity, were to blame for the mine’s cash flow problems…”Num is pleased that a successful application by the department to obtain another compliance order has been handed down, ” said Seshoka, adding that this should force Aurora to pay outstanding salaries. Solidarity’s Helping Hand project visited the NG Kerk (Dutch Reformed Church) Strubenvale, Thursday providing struggling workers with much-needed food hampers, as well as feedback on the portfolio committee meeting. Aurora management has declined to speak to the press.” The Springs Advertiser Wednesday,20 April 2011.

“The need for aid to workers of Aurora Gold East Rand is stronger than ever, following the recent suicide of Marius Ferreira. Fifty-two-year-old Ferreira, a respected fitter in the mine for many years, gave in to the pressures of ongoing non-payment of salaries over the past 18 months. Taking his own life by drinking ant poison, he passed away at Far East Rand Hospital on March 29, along with the last inkling of dignity and pride he once possessed. A loving father and husband, Ferreira’s death devastated those who knew him – most of all his wife, Susan. A resident at a retirement village in Krugersrus, Susan’s struggle to come to terms with her husband’s death has only being heightened by the ongoing struggles that she is now forced to face alone. “They went from a comfortable living – Marius earning on average R16000 a month depending on overtime – to one of pure struggle, ” explains a close family member, who prefers to remain anonymous. “They were forced to sell everything. They were forced to move to the retirement village as they could no longer afford the house they were in. They lost their cars and were eventually at the point where they even had to sell their bed linen and cutlery just to put food on the table, ” she adds. Ferreia’s death appears to have sparked a string of potential suicides, with no end to their seemingly never-ending struggle in sight. Johan Cronje and his wife Chané*, together with their three children; aged 11,10 and six; are on the same dark road as Ferreira – Johan having attempted to take his own life no less than three times on Thursday evening. “I was busy in the kitchen when I went looking for Johan. I found a rope tied on a noose already set up outside, ” explains Chané. Calming her husband down, Chané kept a weary eye on him through the night – not daring to sleep for fear of waking up to find his lifeless body. He attempted to hang himself twice more that night. “We were comfortable once. Never would we have expected to find ourselves in such a position, ” says 32-year-old Chané, tears threatening to break. A qualified winding engine driver,36-year-old Johan’s R18000 salary allowed Chané to fulfil her role as a full-time housewife at their Groot Vlei Village home, caring for their two sons and daughter. Losing their vehicles, furniture, dignity and hope as salary problems persisted. Johan’s failed attempts to find alternative work is considered the main reason for his suicide attempts…The couple is R48000 in arrears on their home, recently receiving a eviction notice. Chané says that the last payment received from Aurora was at the end of January – a meagre R1800,10% of one months salary.” The Springs Advertiser Wednesday,11 May 2011. ]

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Remember Me

I stand here face to face
With someone that I used to know
He used to look at me and laugh
But now he claims
That hes known me for so very long
But I remember being no one
I wanted to be just like you
So perfect, so untouchable
Now you want me to be with you
Someone who used to have it all
Do you remember now
You acted like you never noticed me
Forget it
Cause the gone has come around
And youre not allowed to be a part of me
Did you know me?
Or were you too preoccupied
With playing king in your small kingdom
And now the real world
Has stripped you of your royalty
And from your kingdom youre evicted
I wanted to be just like you
So perfect, so untouchable
Now you want me to be with you
Someone who used to have it all
Do you remember now
You acted like you never noticed me
Forget it
Cause the gone has come around
Youre not allowed to be a part of me
Part of me
Part of me
Part of me
Youre never going to be a part of me
Youre never going to be a part of me
Youre never going to be a part of me
Youre never going to be a part of me
Youre never going to be a part of me
Youre never going to be a part of me
Do you remember now
You acted like you never noticed me
Forget it
Cause the gone has come around
Youre not allowed to be a part of me
Part of me
Part of me
Part of me

song performed by Hoobastank
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Sacred And Profane

give me tears
give me love
let me rest
let up on
send the bored
your restless
the feedback-scarred
devotionless
you're all a part of me now
and if i fall
you're all a part of me now
in the sun
you're all a part of me now
you're all a part of me now
will love ever be enough
just in time to prove
will words ever be enough
just in time to lose
give me signs
that arrest
it could snow
and happiness
give me time
give me peace
and i will prove
my release
you're all a part of me now
and if i fall
you're all a part of me now
in the sun
you're all a part of me now
you're all a part of me now
will love ever be enough
just in time to prove
will time ever be enough
will love ever be enough
you're all a part of me now
and if i fall
you're all a part of me now
in the sun
you're all a part of me now
you're all a part of me now
you're all a part of me now
and if i fall
you're all a part of me now
in the sun
you're all a part of me now
will love ever be enough
will love ever be enough
will love ever be enough

[...] Read more

song performed by Smashing Pumpkins
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Sacred & Profane

Give me tears
Give me love
Let me rest
Lord above
Send the bored
Your restless
The feedback scarred
Devotionless
Youre all a part of me now
And if I fall
Youre all a part of me now
In the sun
Youre all a part of me now
Youre all a part of me now
Will our love ever be enough
Just in time to prove
Will our words ever be enough
Just in time to lose
Give me sight
And barren breast
Pure snow and happiness
Give me time
Give me peace
And I will prove
My release
Youre all a part of me now
And if I fall
Youre all a part of me now
Trapped in the sun
Youre all a part of me now
Youre all a part of me now
Will our love ever be enough
Just in time to prove
Will our time ever be enough
Will out love ever be enough
Youre all a part of me now
And if I fall
Youre all a part of me now
In the sun
Youre all a part of me now
Youre all a part of me now
Youre all a part of me now
And if I fall
Youre all a part of me now
Trapped in the sun
Youre all a part of me now
Will our love ever be enough
Just in time to prove

song performed by Smashing Pumpkins
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tenacity Of Dandelions

Living in a rain forest has its challenges;

Here self perpetuation reigns supreme.
I’m convinced that if we do not fight for every inch of space in this forest of trees our house will be swallowed up in a few short years.

One of the best examples natures self perpetuation is the venerable dandelion, who seems to have a knack for survival second to none.

The war begins;

Although the young tender leaves of dandelions are edible, unless harvested early they quickly turn bitter…so eating all of them is not really an option.

So I attack my enemy with a smoke belching weed eating machine.
There’s a morbid satisfaction in lopping off dandelions at soil level.
Little do I know that the deep tap root remains and within a few days will push new growth above ground.

The ones missed getting whacked by now have gone to seed. I’ve never really taken the time to count the number of seeds that comprise that cute puff ball, but they must number in the hundreds One single plant gone to seed can replenish what others fail to accomplish.

My next assault is the lawnmower;
The whirling blades make short work of these tenacious weeds. Little do I know that some have already seeded the lawn with their spawn and in a short while the cycle begins all over again. The ones that get cut quickly learn to hug the ground just below the mower blades, ready to shoot up stalks that provide flowers that seemingly overnight turn into seed balls. They only need a mild wind to scatter them afar.

There is a local fellow that makes specialty garden tools. He sold me a long handled, pronged weed extractor. Works like a charm, reaching far enough into the soil, that the taproot can be removed. Although I make a valiant effort to remove all the dandelions I miss a few that are hiding beneath ferns or other larger plants. Seemingly overnight yellow flowers reappear.

The war presses on…I’m losing, so spraying with “Roundup” looks more inviting. After considering this option for about two seconds, the idea is abandoned.

Defeated I sue for peace, but the Dandelion King offers no quarter.

Weighing the lessons of my defeat I quickly realize that there are no “weeds”, rather a host of plants that live in harmony and balance with each other. I’m the one that foolishly believed that I could prevail over a primordial cycle of life that I cannot begin to understand, and that will be here long after I’m gone.

Now when I walk across the lawn and encounter a dandelion I tip my weathered cap and acknowledge that in war “To the victor belong the spoils”.

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
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We Your Dearest Friends

We, your dearest friends
Are having dinner without you
We're witty and we use it to be vicious
In just another minute
We'll laughing about you
To the untrained eye
It wouldn't look suspicious
We, your dearest friends
Don't really care if you have needs
Your hopes and dreams
Are trivial by your standards
We make fun of how you sing
And then we imitate your speech
And the stupid things
You say we like to slander
But we won't reel you out too far
'Cause after all, we need you for
Our ongoing quest
We've bonded here in faithlessness
To undermine your happiness
Toying with your paranoia
Everything you do annoys us
It annoys us
We remember how
You bought us all those gifts
You liked to make us think
You were so generous
Be careful in the future
Of everything you say and do
'Cause it can and will be used
Against you by us
We your dearest friends
Judge you "guilty
Here and now
Of thinking you're a star
When it's all over
Nobody wants you
And we the least of all
It's been a long time since
You had those famous lovers
But we won't reel you out too far
'Cause after all, we need you for
Our ongoing quest
We've bonded here
In faithlessness
To undermine your happiness
Toying with your paranoia
Everything you do annoys us
(it annoys the hell out of us)
It's not the straw

[...] Read more

song performed by Carly Simon
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rhythm Nation

with music by our side
to break the color lines
let's work together
to improve our way of life
join voices in protest
to social injustice
ageneration full of courage
come forth with me

people of the world today
are we lookink for a better way of life(sing)
we are a part of the rhythm nation
people of the world unite
strength in numbers we can get it right(sing it)
we are a part of the rhythm nation

this is the test
no struggle no progress
lend a hand to help
your brother do his best
thinds are getting worse
we have to make them better
it's time to give a damn
let's work together...come on...

people of the world today
are we lookink for a better way of life(sing)
we are a part of the rhythm nation(people)
people of the world unite
strength in numbers we can get it right(sing it)
we are a part of the rhythm nation

people of the world today
are we lookink for a better way of life(sing it)
we are a part of the rhythm nation
people of the world unite
strength in numbers we can get it right
we are a part of the rhythm nation

say it people
say it to me
say it to me if you want a better way of life
say it people
say it to me
say it to me if you want a better way of life

people of the world today
are we lookink for a better way of life(sing)
we are a part of the rhythm nation
people of the world unite

[...] Read more

song performed by Janet Jackson from Rhythm Nation 1814
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Paradise Lost: Book X

Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood
Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above
Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd
The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd
Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer
Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight
Then loudest Oratorie: yet thir port
Not of mean suiters, nor important less
Seem'd thir Petition, then when th' ancient Pair
In Fables old, less ancient yet then these,
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha to restore
The Race of Mankind drownd, before the Shrine
Of Themis stood devout. To Heav'n thir prayers
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious windes
Blow'n vagabond or frustrate: in they passd
Dimentionless through Heav'nly dores; then clad
With incense, where the Golden Altar fum'd,
By thir great Intercessor, came in sight
Before the Fathers Throne: Them the glad Son
Presenting, thus to intercede began.
See Father, what first fruits on Earth are sprung
From thy implanted Grace in Man, these Sighs
And Prayers, which in this Golden Censer, mixt
With Incense, I thy Priest before thee bring,
Fruits of more pleasing savour from thy seed
Sow'n with contrition in his heart, then those
Which his own hand manuring all the Trees
Of Paradise could have produc't, ere fall'n
From innocence. Now therefore bend thine eare
To supplication, heare his sighs though mute;
Unskilful with what words to pray, let mee
Interpret for him, mee his Advocate
And propitiation, all his works on mee
Good or not good ingraft, my Merit those
Shall perfet, and for these my Death shall pay.
Accept me, and in mee from these receave
The smell of peace toward Mankinde, let him live
Before thee reconcil'd, at least his days
Numberd, though sad, till Death, his doom (which I
To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse)
To better life shall yeeld him, where with mee
All my redeemd may dwell in joy and bliss,
Made one with me as I with thee am one.
To whom the Father, without Cloud, serene.
All thy request for Man, accepted Son,
Obtain, all thy request was my Decree:
But longer in that Paradise to dwell,
The Law I gave to Nature him forbids:
Those pure immortal Elements that know

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poem by John Milton
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Part Of Life, That is

Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.

Stuck with sticking emotions felt in my gut...
Unable to abandon them.
Or give them up...
Had been a place I'd been,
Back then.
With no one but myself...
And faith,
To help me slowly break away...
Of a hold I had on them to mend.

Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.

I have learned to feel grief deeply,
Where it is felt.
Let it visit.
And then from it to leave!
Not to forget the process...
But to breathe!

Remembering...
With an agony upon my letting go,
Knowing what I felt was painful...
It was also,
Part of life!

A part of life,
That is!

Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.
Few get to sit in the midst of it.
Part of life that is.
With the giving of opinion and the giving of lip.
Part of life that is.

Few get to sit in the midst of it.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Metamorphoses: Book The Sixth

PALLAS, attending to the Muse's song,
Approv'd the just resentment of their wrong;
And thus reflects: While tamely I commend
Those who their injur'd deities defend,
My own divinity affronted stands,
And calls aloud for justice at my hands;
Then takes the hint, asham'd to lag behind,
And on Arachne' bends her vengeful mind;
One at the loom so excellently skill'd,
That to the Goddess she refus'd to yield.
The Low was her birth, and small her native town,
Transformation She from her art alone obtain'd renown.
of Arachne Idmon, her father, made it his employ,
into a Spider To give the spungy fleece a purple dye:
Of vulgar strain her mother, lately dead,
With her own rank had been content to wed;
Yet she their daughter, tho' her time was spent
In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,
Thro' the great towns of Lydia gain'd a name,
And fill'd the neighb'ring countries with her fame.
Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,
The Nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or
hill:
Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,
And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care;
Thither, from fam'd Pactolus' golden stream,
Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came.
Nor would the work, when finish'd, please so much,
As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch;
Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
Or with quick motion turn'd the spindle round,
Or with her pencil drew the neat design,
Pallas her mistress shone in every line.
This the proud maid with scornful air denies,
And ev'n the Goddess at her work defies;
Disowns her heav'nly mistress ev'ry hour,
Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her pow'r.
Let us, she cries, but to a tryal come,
And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.
The Goddess then a beldame's form put on,
With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;
Prop'd by a staff, she hobbles in her walk,
And tott'ring thus begins her old wives' talk.
Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise
The admonitions of the old, and wise;
For age, tho' scorn'd, a ripe experience bears,
That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:
Still may remotest fame your labours crown,
And mortals your superior genius own;
But to the Goddess yield, and humbly meek

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poem by Ovid
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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

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Portait Of Authority

nothing more nothing less
an icon on the wall decoration and
duress
that which many strive to be
its the merble statue standing over me
and nobody has the will to tear it down
it determines wrong and right
but to me its just a stereotype
and it makes us lose our sight
the portait of authority
you tell me
that's what im supposed to be
(it embodies what he cannot be)
another time another man
and oppressive intrusion
and a plague across his land
and it haunts him every day
it tells him he has no chance
his hopes just fade away
and he can't muster the support
and to him it's just a stereotype
of his life-long fight

song performed by Bad Religion
Added by Lucian Velea
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