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Exercise is the yuppie version of bulimia.

quote by Barbara Ehrenreich
Added by Lucian Velea
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Knyghthode and Bataile

A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus' Treatise 'DE RE MILITARI'

Proemium.
Salue, festa dies
i martis,
Mauortis! auete
Kalende. Qua Deus
ad celum subleuat
ire Dauid.

Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail Kalende
Of Marche, wheryn Dauid the Confessour
Commaunded is his kyngis court ascende;
Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour,
This same day as a Tryumphatour,
Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee,
To London is comyn. O Saviour,
Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee!

And she, thi modir Blessed mot she be
That cometh eke, and angelys an ende,
Wel wynged and wel horsed, hidir fle,
Thousendys on this goode approche attende;
And ordir aftir ordir thei commende,
As Seraphin, as Cherubyn, as Throne,
As Domynaunce, and Princys hidir sende;
And, at o woord, right welcom euerychone!

But Kyng Herry the Sexte, as Goddes Sone
Or themperour or kyng Emanuel,
To London, welcomer be noo persone;
O souuerayn Lord, welcom! Now wel, Now wel!
Te Deum to be songen, wil do wel,
And Benedicta Sancta Trinitas!
Now prosperaunce and peax perpetuel
Shal growe,-and why? ffor here is Vnitas.

Therof to the Vnitee 'Deo gracias'
In Trinitee! The Clergys and Knyghthode
And Comynaltee better accorded nas
Neuer then now; Now nys ther noon abode,
But out on hem that fordoon Goddes forbode,
Periurous ar, Rebellovs and atteynte,
So forfaytinge her lyif and lyvelode,
Although Ypocrisie her faytys peynte.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Interpretations

INTERPRETATIONS

Fat fortune's made, flat wife Dow fed
rat’s force runes laid, bat - strife - ciao - bed.

Version I Final Hour
Undefeated, all round oppressed,
pun deleted, fall sound suppressed.

Version II Foresight
Insightful plans in stealth prepared
sin, night, culls man, win’s wealth despaired.

Version III Adultery
Distresses through, fears one must stifle,
mistresses two, years won, lust, trifle.

Version IV Dixit Spouse
He’d rule, make hay, term ends today,
heed fool, fake bay, worm wends to play.

Version V Dixit Daughter
Who hid himself behind his wealth
in failing health must part from pelf.

Version VI Dixit Son
Abusing all, refusing fall,
lewd now must stall, cued to Death’s call

Version VII Dixit Bureaucrat
Who played sly hand, f[l]ame fanned, cold dust,
grew, greyed, sigh banned, aim sand, old, bust.

Version VIII Conclusion
Statistics show life’s little glow
soon ebbs, tide’s flow goes where none know.
Bonanza dreams, boon nailed, no shows,
so stanza schemes soon fail, flow slows.

23 March 1975 revised 4 February 2009
robi03_1464_robi03_0000 HXX_MXX
For previous version entitled The Art of Interpretation see below
f[l]ame: aim’s fame flame lame

The Art of Interpretation

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Clean Up The World

Clean Up The World

Where have we gone?
We’ve drifted away
Too many years
Nothin’ to say
Too many years
Intentional lies
Too many years
Collegiate-laundered hipplets
Drivin’ us to demise

Got to clean up the world, clean up the world
Clean up the world, clean up the world
We’ve got to put that yuppie back in its cage

Along came McRonald
We got in its way
Too many years
Puppeteers played
Too many years
Stealing us blind
Too many years
Of totalitarians smothering us from the right

Got to clean up the world, clean up the world
Clean up the world, clean up the world
We’ve got to put that yuppie back in its cage

Their Wall Street money’s been holdin’ us fast
Ideals shallow and vain
They sell us all just to make it last
Revolution of ‘89 today

We got to clean up the world, clean up the world
Clean up the world, clean up the world
We’ve got to put that yuppie back in its cage

Self-centered cosmos
Material gain
Too many years
Deflecting their blame
Too many years
Stuffin’ their cart
Too many years
Deceit inside the head
Instead of love in their heart

Got to clean up the world, clean up the world
Clean up the world, clean up the world

[...] Read more

poem by Will Fiala
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Mix Up, Mix Up

Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord, yeah!
Well, its not easy,
Its not easy
Speak the truth, come on, speak. eh, now!
It ever cause it what it will:
He who hide the wrong he did
Surely did the wrong thing still.
Get in the studio of -
Studio of time and experience
Here we experience the good and bad;
What we have, and what we had -
This session (session),
Not just another version (version).
Oh lord, give me a session (session),
Not another version (version)!
Theyre so much stumbling blocks right in-a our way:
Monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday;
Theres so much wanting, so much gaining, so much have done.
Too much little mix-up, in the mix-up, yes!
Too much little mix up!
Too much of this mix up - mix up!
I was born in the country, right on top of the hill
I still remain, I know I still, I will-a,
But through your f...in respect and through your false pride
Someone wanna take jah - jah - jah children for a ride!
Shut up! open the gate, and let the saints through.
Please make it a session (session);
Not another version (version);
Ooh, please make it a session (session);
Not another version (version)!
Hey, you been talkin all your mouth full of lies,
Sitting there toppling and, lord, they criticize.
So through the eyes of the fool the deaf is wise,
And through the eyes of the wise the fool is size.
Saying is too much mix up - mix up!
Saying is too much mix up - mix up!
I wanna clear the wheel once and for all;
I wanna clear my wheels, I dont care who fall!
I gotta clear my wheels once and for all;
Clear my wheels, I dont care who fall - fall:
(too much mix-up - mix-up!)
---
/guitar solo/
---
Hey! mr. music, why dont you wanna play?
Dont you know today is a bright holiday? yeah! (holiday)
Some people waiting for the message that you bring,
They listening to every word that youll sing.
Singing: (too much mix-up - mix-up -
(too much little mix up!)

[...] Read more

song performed by Bob Marley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Linux Concept(.SVCPD)

Name: Standardize Version Compatible Package Deployment.

Goals: 1. Make All Software On Linux Compatible By A Version Standard.

a: By this if you name something name_x.x.x.(1) and something else of the same version will not conflict with it. Only the number in the brackets will be important for this standardisation. Allow the software creators, programmers, and designers to state what stage the software is in. Why because I believe good organisation will produce better coding. Not just clean code, but clean files that call upon that code.

b: The inner compatibility is important an key. Why are Linux competing against each other? Why is it not a joint effort in it's entirety? Now I'm not speaking of their design or how something works by itself but with other and completely different software. Now imagine for a second if you wanted something that wasn't on you current os (Operating System) , but was on another Linux. Wouldn't it be nice if you could install their package. Without having to rebuilding the source to a package, compiling natively, or having to worry about if it will conflict with any of your currently installed files.

Now the third part of the version number name_x.x.2.x Let it describe the hardware it will work with. Let this number be tested and proven before it is given and if it not let the number clarify what hardware it is for and state it hasn't been completely tested yet. Thus the alpha betas what ever you want call them. Now the second number let it define a controlled listing of bugs/errors. And
let the very first number describe the current version of the modification in code or design.

Next let us add another number x.x.x.x -x
To describe any unavoidable conflicts in detail and to keep a listing of them of files in a specific version type.

Another thing I want from this packaging software.
Is the ability to covert packages between different types.
And upon conversion to.SVCPD I want it automatically generate this version number. I want to it access a database and return a number that describes everything I listed above. I want the user to see what will work, what won't, and explanation why other then just an error code. Or a compiler code. We need to make Linux more user friendly. But not in the eye candy sort of way. But instead in the usability way. Make it to where you can almost install any software on Linux within reason. I want to make it where the design of an operating system is more important then the window environment.
And it is already happening for alot operating systems already have multiple window environments installed.

Another goal is to have the software packaged in.SVCPD to no matter what software environment it is installed it calls upon files from that environment and has a gui interface of that environment. And it not to be necessary to install a different environment for it.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Verison Girl

(chorus)
Version girl, what's your name?
Oh you come and you go,
Version girl, what's your name?
Just like the morning sun.
It's so hard to find a personality with charms
Like yours for me.
Oo-ee oo-ee oo-ee
Version girl, what's your name?
Don't you know I long to say.
Version girl, what's your name?
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Oo-ee oo-ee oo-ee
I sit in the sun waiting for you to come along
So my heart will be satisfied
So please let me be your number one
Under the moon, under the stars and under the sun.
(chorus)
Version girl, whats's you name?
Oh you come ......etc
Oo-ee oo-ee oo-ee
(talking)
Version girl, whats's you name?
Oh you come .......
Oo-ee oo-ee oo-ee
I sit in the sun waiting for you to come along
So my heart will be satisfied
So please let me be your number one
Under the moon, under the stars and under the sun.
Chorus

song performed by Ub40
Added by Lucian Velea
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Glorified G

Got a gun, fact I got two
Thats o.k. man, cuz I love god
Glorified version of a pellet gun
Feels so manly, when armed
Glorified version of a pellet gun (4x)
Double think, dumb is strength
Never shot at a living thing
Glorified version of a pellet gun
Feels so manly, when armed
Glorified version of a pellet gun (3x)
Glorified version of a...
Always keep it loaded (3x)
Kindred to be an american...
Life comes...i can feel your heart...
Ooh...life comes...i can feel your heart through your neck...
Life comes...i can feel your heart through your neck...
Like some...i can steal your heart form your neck...
Glorified...glorified...

song performed by Pearl Jam
Added by Lucian Velea
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Preface To Ossian

WITHOUT increasing his genius, the author may have improved his language, in the eleven years that the following poems have been in the hands of the public. Errors in diction might have been committed at twenty-four, which the experience of a riper age may remove; and some exuberances in imagery may be restrained with advantage, by a degree of judgment acquired in the progress of time. Impressed with this opinion, he ran over the whole with attention and accuracy; and he hopes he has brought the work to a state of correctness which will preclude all future improvements.

The eagerness with which these poems have been received abroad, is a recompense for the coldness with which a few have affected to treat them at home. All the polite nations of Europe have transferred them into their respective languages; and they speak of him who brought them to light, in terms that might flatter the vanity of one fond of flame. In a convenient indifference for a literary reputation, the author hears praise without being elevated, and ribaldry without being depressed. He has frequently seen the first bestowed too precipitately; and the latter is so faithless to its purpose, that it is often the only index to merit in the present age.

Though the taste which defines genius by the points of the compass, is a subject fit for mirth in itself, it is often a serious matter in the sale of the work. When rivers define the limits of abilities, as well as the boundaries of countries, a writer may measure his success by the latitude under which he was born. It was to avoid a part of this inconvenience, that the author is said by some, who speak without any authority, to nave ascribed his own productions to another name. If this was the case, he was but young in the art of deception. When he placed the poet in antiquity, the translator should have been born on this side of the Tweed.

These observations regard only the frivolous in matters of literature; these, however, form a majority of every age and nation. In this countrymen of genuine taste abound; but their still voice is drowned in the clamors of a multitude, who judge by fashion of poetry, as of dress. The truth is, to judge aright, requires almost as much genius as to write well; and good critics are as rare as great poets. Though two hundred thousand Romans stood up when Virgil came into the theatre, Varius only could correct the Æneid. He that obtains fame must receive it through mere fashion; and gratify his vanity with the applause of men, of whose judgment he cannot approve.

The following poems, it must be confessed, are more calculated to please persons of exquisite feelings of heart, than those who receive all their impressions by the car. The novelty of cadence, in what is called a prose version, thou h not destitute of harmony, will not, to common readers, supply the absence of the frequent returns of rhyme. This was the opinion of the writer himself, though he yielded to the judgment of others, in a mode, which presented freedom and dignity of expression, instead of fetters, which cramp the thought, whilst the harmony of language is preserved. His attention was to publish inverse.--The making of poetry, like any other handicraft, may be learned by industry; and he had served his apprenticeship, though in secret, to the Muses.

It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony which these poems might derive from rhyme, even in much better hands than those of the translator, could atone for the simplicity and energy which they would lose. The determination of this point shall be left to the readers of this preface. The following is the beginning of a poem, translated from the Norse to the Gaelic language; and, from the latter, transferred into English. The verse took little more time to the writer than the prose; and he himself is doubtful (if he has succeeded in either) which of them is the most literal version.

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE.

WHERE Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Lochlinn his high commands; where, with justice, he ruled the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his sword; abrupt rises Gormal in snow! the tempests roll dark on his sides, but calm, above, his vast forehead appears. White-issuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled torrents pour down his sides. Joining, as they roar along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to the main.

Gray on the bank, and far from men, half-covered, by ancient pines, from the wind, a lonely pile exalts its head, long shaken by the storms of the north. To this fled Sigurd, fierce in fight, from Harold the leader of armies, when fate had brightened his spear with renown: when he conquered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors fell in blood, or rose in terror on the waves of the main. Darkly sat the gray-haired chief; yet sorrow dwelt not in his soul. But when the warrior thought on the past, his proud heart heaved against his side: forth flew his sword from its place: he wounded Harold in all the winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and mild of soul, the last beam of the setting line, remained to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in Lulan's battle slain, beheld not his father's flight from his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient line! The splendid beauty of bright-eyed Fithon covered still the fallen king with renown. Her arm was white like Gormal's snow; her bosom whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like two stars were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rise on the deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant are their beams aloft, as stately they ascend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around her stately steps. Heroes loved-but shrunk away in their fears. Yet, midst the pride of all her charms, her heart was soft and her soul was kind. She saw the mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose in her breast. Her joy was in the chase. Each morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lulan's waves, she roused the resounding woods to Gormal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &c.

The same versified.

Where fair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandinia reign'd,
And held with justice what his valor gain'd ,
Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,
A o'er the warfare of his storms, appears
Abrupt and vast.--White wandering down his side
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,
Unite below, and, pouring through the plain,
flurry the troubled Torno to the main.
Gray, on the bank, remote from human kind,
By aged pines half-shelter'd from the wind,
A homely mansion rose, of antique form,
For ages batter'd by the polar storm.
To this, fierce Sigurd fled from Norway's lord,
When fortune settled on the warrior's sword,
In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were slain,
Or forc'd to wander o'er the Bothnic main.
Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes,
But when the memory of defeat arose,
His proud heart struck his side; he grasp'd the spear,
And wounded Harold in the vacant air.
One daughter only, but of form divine,
The last fair beam of the departing line,
Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike son
Fell in the shock which overturn'd the throne.
Nor desolate the house! Fionia's charms
Sustain'd the glory which they lost in arms.

[...] Read more

poem by James Macpherson
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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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Becoming the new feminine ideal requires just the right combination of insecurity, exercise, bulimia and surgery.

quote by G.B. Trudeau
Added by Lucian Velea
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From Epidermal Taxidermy to Internal Epiphany

FROM EPIDERMAL TAXIDERMY TO INTERNAL EPIPHANY

Portrait of fair mind is neither, nor!
neither mastered nor in pieces shred,
displayed to touring tourists - Turrell's bore -
whose dreams no themes of genius hint ahead.
Could paint drip down to mop pain's vail of tears,
unveiling pooled oasis to exchange,
past wraith, fresh faith to grace remaining years,
then fears would fade before excitement strange.
From monochrome to rainbow glow display
“we are such stuff as dreams are made of” shows,
no lifeless stuffing, feathers drooping, fray;
vitality surpasses surface glows
to put to shame greyed taxidermist’s skills
forever fixed in time: true talent spills.

True talent overflows as curiousity
channels potential, recent acquisitions,
to harness latent energy, to free
flame burning to encounter twin shared visions.
Gold courage holds no secrets for fair muse
whose darker shades may by Miss, understood,
misunderstandings sweep away to choose
hues better read, refusing mirage wood.
If one would ink fresh portrait of fair mind
contact’s impact could do it justice true,
where words match deeds indeed, feed surge behind
layered lines to tempt that talent through.
No taxidermist’s trophy, prized possession,
pro-active win/win casts out sin, transgression.

Shared view should sunshine through tune-blended flow
to filter out, to mend, doubt’s daunting pain,
suspend in amber all imbroglio
freeing focus, tender trust sustain.
Bottled up desire too well preserves
formaldehyde-postponed screw-cap allure,
throttles interaction, tires, reserves
soul’s parking place, secure in sinecure.
Restraints life paints can’t canvas open urge,
anticipate emotions strong, long stored
in hibernation waiting to emerge,
eager for adventures unexplored.
Suspended animation soul-song cheats
with taxidermist version of heart’s beats.

Could luck alight tonight and somehow show
new way to leech frustration numbing brain,

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Light Burst, Confusion, First Thirst, Then Fusion, Flight

As nature hates a vacuum NOTHING can
be but a figment fragment second-guessed.
Reality and dreams combine, their quest
is thus to banish NOTHING then to span
creation’s vastness, scanning big bang's van,
from tao trip evolution's also-ran
to space displacement through one thousandth dan,
to Time condensing on initial jest
when request and inquest converge in gest.
Atoms void avoid, spin tails till trail's lost, rest
contest, contestants, distance, über plan,
arresting surface difference with zest.

From mess congestive to suggestive test
of chaos, universal fractal fest
patterns pitter patter, matter must
invent itself from, to, through, into dust.

./.

Before big bang rang change strange, range remaining still in flux
electrons once were strangers all to call of ‘fiat lux’.
Along came fission’s fusion, confusion first, then light
bequeathing mission’s clues upon delusion and delight.
This led to fate's conclusion, caused atoms to unite
the which, in turn, illusion lent woe_man - sum mum quite!

From chaos sprung our meeting, a marriage of convenience,
the which our rhymes are sweeting so judge linked lines with lenience.
When I was oxygenic and you two hydro genes
as dry as dust hygenic remained both Ways and Means,
as lonely and divided you me me…anderings,
unknown were helix he licks, and protoplasmic strings.

Unknown were then amoebae, or cells life's spells now bring,
like wise unfixed stoned genes' screen sticks, where species do their thing,
Thus life reached out, leached in for years before the Christian Right
decided seven days were all transforming night to right.
The Kansas Education Board's creation tale lies scored,
for aeons spun, together run, provided bread and board
for creatures wild - those really mild encountered some predators
before blind humankind assigned their carbon half-life daters.
Without our tryst few formal life forms on earth could ever
pursue existence ‘normal’, act out silly or feel clever.

When I was young and ignorant unknown to hair twins hydro
few days were spent in versing chant, reversing carbohydro
none fought for life on food chain link, existence ungalactic
they were a simple pair I think, electrons unclimactic.
But now beneath, above, beyond it is our joy to bond -

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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How Many Times Have You Told Me That?

You have your version!
And I have mine.
One of us got hit by conclusions,
For purposes to comprehend.
The other...
Wishes to be correct!
And lays up in traction,
From toe to neck.
Hoping a mending of fractures,
Is successful.
With a wish for an embarrassment,
Not to be made this public.

And I will say this,
About your version of the 'incident'.
And your need to have it accepted.
From a point of view you wish respected.
You need no longer to protect it.
Since it is obvious who between us,
Has been more affected.
So I will leave you to get some needed rest.
With any version that conflicts,
With the one that I witnessed.
And your attempts not to be involved in it...
Will be a matter between you,
And your deluded consciousness.

Do you see me?

'Of course I see you! '

Which one of us seems to be traction free?
And which one of us 'seems' to be...
Stubbornly on the defensive?

'You just 'think' you are right ALL the time! '

You have your version!
And I have mine.
One of us got hit by conclusions,
For purposes to comprehend.

The other...
Wishes to be correct!
And lays up in traction,
From toe to neck.
Hoping a mending of fractures,
Is successful.
With a wish for an embarrassment,
Not to be made this public.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Case Of A Waterfall

a waterfall can be seen in different angles
different versions can be said
how a waterfall falls from a very high cliff

the first version is the waterfall itself
the second as you turn clockwise
gives you the version of a fog hanging on a cliff
or a horizon of white clouds
the third version, as you turn another quarter
again on a clockwise direction gives you a water fountain
going up the sky
and the last version on another clockwise
or quarter turn gives you the rage of the river
flowing to the sea

that is how reality appears to our very eyes
some points of view

how life becomes depends on how we see it
coupled with our faith
within ourselves

to one who sees a twisted point of view from a dog's eyes
life appears like a tick sucking blood from the armpit of
a puppy

blood is drained and stored on a bloating stomach
of the tick. Life is actually, how you see it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Parrot And The Woodpecker May Return

Kasiananthan's Poem on the Tamil Diaspora and Eelam
[Sung by TEnicayccal Cellappa] Translated by T.Wignesan

mAnkiliyum marankottiyum The parrot and the woodpecker
kUtutirumpa tatayillai their nests to regain nothing waylays
nAnkal mattum ulakattilEyE Only we in all this world
nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai our homeland to seek may not turn
nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai our homeland to seek may not turn

[Above refrain repeated twice]

cinkalavan pataivAnil From skies filled with Sinhalese planes
neruppai alli corikiratu fire tumbles down in seething showers
enkal uyir tamil Elam Our lifeblood our Tamil Eelam
cutukAtAy erikiratu a simmering graveyard on fire

tAykatarap pillaikalin While mothers rave in pain children's
nencukalaik kilikkinrAn breasts the oppressor tears apart
kAyyAkum munnE ilam Long before they might ripen tender
pincukalai alikkirAn the buds crushed from burgeoning

[Refrain]

pettavankal UrilE Those who begot us back home
Enku rAnku pAcattilE tossing turning in their longing for us
ettanai nAl kArttiruppOm For how many days might we linger on
atuttavan tEcattilE in the other man's refugee land

unnavum mutiyavillai Without proper food
urankavum mutiyavillai without sufficient sleep
ennavum mutiyavillai Unable rightly even to think
innumtAn vitiyutillai when will the day dawn for us

[Refrain]

kitti pullu atittu nankal We who played at kitti pullu*
vilaiyAtum teruvilEyE joyously in the heedless streets
katti vayttuc cutukirAnAm There now tethered others lie felled
yAr manatum urukavillai no no hearts pain for us

Ur katitam patikkayilEyE When our eyes light on letters from home
vimmi nencu vetikkitu sobs prise open our brimming breasts
pOrpulikal pakkattilEyE By the flanks of battling Tigers
pOkamanam tutikkitu there to be our hearts throb and yearn

[Refrain]

Note: * A competitive game played by hitting a small stick with a bigger one, the goal being to cover the greatest distance. Also called in Tamil Nadu and Malaysia: kavuntA kavunti.

[...] Read more

poem by T. Wignesan
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Exercise It

Exercise the will to succeed
The will can successfully enjoy itself.

Exercise the mind to proceed
The brain has much in procedure.

Exercise the body and to bleed
Inside the layers of itself.

Exercise again and again, indeed
To enliven the soul for its task.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Part III

Now, as the elder lights the fresh cigar
Conducive to resource, and saunteringly
Betakes him to the left-hand backward path,—
While, much sedate, the younger strides away
To right and makes for—islanded in lawn
And edged with shrubbery—the brilliant bit
Of Barry's building that's the Place,—a pair
Of women, at this nick of time, one young,
One very young, are ushered with due pomp
Into the same Inn-parlour—"disengaged
Entirely now!" the obsequious landlord smiles,
"Since the late occupants—whereof but one
Was quite a stranger!"—(smile enforced by bow)
"Left, a full two hours since, to catch the train,
Probably for the stranger's sake!" (Bow, smile,
And backing out from door soft closed behind.)

Woman and girl, the two, alone inside,
Begin their talk: the girl, with sparkling eyes—
"Oh, I forewent him purposely! but you,
Who joined at—journeyed from the Junction here—
I wonder how he failed your notice. Few
Stop at our station: fellow-passengers
Assuredly you were—I saw indeed
His servant, therefore he arrived all right.
I wanted, you know why, to have you safe
Inside here first of all, so dodged about
The dark end of the platform; that's his way—
To swing from station straight to avenue
And stride the half a mile for exercise.
I fancied you might notice the huge boy.
He soon gets o'er the distance; at the house
He'll hear I went to meet him and have missed;
He'll wait. No minute of the hour's too much
Meantime for our preliminary talk:
First word of which must be—O good beyond
Expression of all goodness—you to come!"

The elder, the superb one, answers slow.

"There was no helping that. You called for me,
Cried, rather: and my old heart answered you.
Still, thank me! since the effort breaks a vow—
At least, a promise to myself."

"I know!
How selfish get you happy folks to be!
If I should love my husband, must I needs
Sacrifice straightway all the world to him,
As you do? Must I never dare leave house

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Inn Album (1875)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Teddy Bear

A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,
Which is not to be wondered at;
He gets what exercise he can
By falling off the ottoman,
But generally seems to lack
The energy to clamber back.

Now tubbiness is just the thing
Which gets a fellow wondering;
And Teddy worried lots about
The fact that he was rather stout.
He thought: "If only I were thin!
But how does anyone begin?"
He thought: "It really isn't fair
To grudge one exercise and air."

For many weeks he pressed in vain
His nose against the window-pane,
And envied those who walked about
Reducing their unwanted stout.
None of the people he could see
"Is quite" (he said) "as fat as me!"
Then, with a still more moving sigh,
"I mean" (he said) "as fat as I!

One night it happened that he took
A peep at an old picture-book,
Wherein he came across by chance
The picture of a King of France
(A stoutish man) and, down below,
These words: "King Louis So and So,
Nicknamed 'The Handsome!'" There he sat,
And (think of it!) the man was fat!

Our bear rejoiced like anything
To read about this famous King,
Nicknamed "The Handsome." There he sat,
And certainly the man was fat.
Nicknamed "The Handsome." Not a doubt
The man was definitely stout.
Why then, a bear (for all his tub)
Might yet be named "The Handsome Cub!"

"Might yet be named." Or did he mean
That years ago he "might have been"?
For now he felt a slight misgiving:
"Is Louis So and So still living?
Fashions in beauty have a way

[...] Read more

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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What's Philli's Ph or who the F of Philli is -?

Baby bee n times I can be a rapper
Can't help sometimes gotta go flapper
Sorry for spelli too mini a skirt
Too mini a brain too tight a shirt
These Angle turmoils your lg spoil
No worry honey it's just an angle
Of a circle lol or a triangle
Can't take it baby, not any more
He's gotta go out, out of your door
It'll pass or fail at the first test
When Philli fills in all the rest

Hello Philli hip hip hurray
I've come today to make my day
Shall we take it outside if it hurts your pride
Fill in the blanks exercise 1
Say who has lost and who has won
Fill in the blanks exercise 2
There's no fool unless I sing about you
Fill in the blanks exercise 3
Say who got A and who got C
Teach teeth to stammer
Teach steps to speed
Who brought your hammer
Say what's your creed

Say Philli nilly-willy
Who's that rotten in this Denmark vice
U r a secret gadget powerful device
Kneel down Philli before definitions
These are just last extinct ignitions
Of academic dames going nuts with buts
Academic sirs in pro and con huts
You wanna know you wanna know
The Wh- of the last glow

And you oh reader surely don know
What Ph Phili or who the F of Philli is
Lol fill in the blanks exercise 1
Or be patient please as Phili is
A person persona empty non grata
Rising on different social strata

Hello Philli hip hip hurray
What's gonna happen if u come my way?

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I think her friends were worried that the bulimia might come back, about some psychological slide, and she was given breathing space to some extent by the media as much as she ever has been.

quote by Anthony Holden
Added by Lucian Velea
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