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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Eighth Book

ONE eve it happened when I sate alone,
Alone upon the terrace of my tower,
A book upon my knees, to counterfeit
The reading that I never read at all,
While Marian, in the garden down below,
Knelt by the fountain (I could just hear thrill
The drowsy silence of the exhausted day)
And peeled a new fig from that purple heap
In the grass beside her,–turning out the red
To feed her eager child, who sucked at it
With vehement lips across a gap of air
As he stood opposite, face and curls a-flame
With that last sun-ray, crying, 'give me, give,'
And stamping with imperious baby-feet,
(We're all born princes)–something startled me,–
The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks
Abruptly, as if frightened at itself;
'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above
In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh,
And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book,
And knew, the first time, 'twas Boccaccio's tales,
The Falcon's,–of the lover who for love
Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us
Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no more.
Laugh you, sweet Marian! you've the right to laugh,
Since God himself is for you, and a child!
For me there's somewhat less,–and so, I sigh.

The heavens were making room to hold the night,
The sevenfold heavens unfolding all their gates
To let the stars out slowly (prophesied
In close-approaching advent, not discerned),
While still the cue-owls from the cypresses
Of the Poggio called and counted every pulse
Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually
The purple and transparent shadows slow
Had filled up the whole valley to the brim,
And flooded all the city, which you saw
As some drowned city in some enchanted sea,
Cut off from nature,–drawing you who gaze,
With passionate desire, to leap and plunge,
And find a sea-king with a voice of waves,
And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery locks
You cannot kiss but you shall bring away
Their salt upon your lips. The duomo-bell
Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms down,
So deep; and fifty churches answer it
The same, with fifty various instances.
Some gaslights tremble along squares and streets
The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire:

[...] Read more

poem by from Aurora Leigh (1856)Report problemRelated quotes
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I. The Ring and the Book

Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.

[...] Read more

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Truth and the Devil

The devil unstoppably took pride in salaciously writing; the book of
obnoxious caste-creed and venomously penalizing hatred,

The devil unstoppably took pride in acrimoniously writing; the book of
indiscriminate bloodshed and disastrously traumatizing ruthlessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in vengefully writing; the book of
tyrannical devastation and lecherously bellicose orphaning,

The devil unstoppably took pride in fretfully writing; the book of
vindictive war and satanically criminal holocausts,

The devil unstoppably took pride in maliciously writing; the book of
coldblooded barbarism and manipulatively bizarre malice,

The devil unstoppably took pride in forlornly writing; the book of
worthless
ghosts and mortuaries brutally anointed with fresh blood,

T The devil unstoppably took pride in indigently writing; the book of
nonchalant spuriousness and fecklessly insipid meaninglessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in torturously writing; the book of
ominous
animosity and hedonistically pugnacious illwill,

The devil unstoppably took pride in dictatorially writing; the book of
licentious bawdiness and insanely threadbare nothingness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heinously writing; the book of
lascivious poverty and baselessly crippling uncertainty,

The devil unstoppably took pride in savagely writing; the book of
despicable
defeat and lethally ballistic atrociousness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in raunchily writing; the book of
dolorous
delinquency and insidiously slandering betrayal,

The devil unstoppably took pride in preposterously writing; the book of
scurrilous lunatism and barbarously incarcerating fiendishness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in frigidly writing; the book of
jejune
mockery and impudently castigating brazenness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heartlessly writing; the book of
ghastly
bloodshed and indefatigably bombarding politics,

[...] Read more

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

[...] Read more

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The mother and the artist

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling

[...] Read more

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Young Free And Single

Welcome to the radio show: Young, Free And Single!
We got a good show lined up for you, let's have our first caller:
Hey, Jane's my name and love's my game,
I just turned eighteen yesterday.
I'm blond, I'm tall, I'm full of fun,
Give me a call and I'll show you some.
Frank met Jane now, and Jane met Eddie - on the radio show.
Who wants to have fun, who's hot and ready? - For the radio show.
Call up the station, have a go, get the phone in your hand.
Friends and lovers, give a call, take a chance on a voice if you can.
Y-O-U-N-G -F-R- double E, and and and single, sss-single.
Y-O-U-N-G -F-R- double E, and and and single, sss-single.
And and and single, sss-single.
Hey Jane, oh Jane, a voice supreme, I hear myself a living dream,
I'll tell you where, I'll tell you how,
Hang up that phone, we'll meet right now.
Young, free and single - who wants to take a dare?
Young, free and single - looking for affairs.
Young, free and single - always for a game.
Young, free and single - voices bring you fame.
What's your name now, call in a chance - on the radio show.
Playing roulette and you might get a blank - or you might have a go.
Love on the airway and it's yours, pick the heart of your choice.
Friends and lovers, give a call, make a match - by the sound of a voice.
Y-O-U-N-G -F-R- double E, and and and single, sss-single.
Y-O-U-N-G -F-R- double E, and and and single, sss-single.
Y-O-U-N-G -F-R- double E, and and and single, sss-single.
Y-O-U-N-G -F-R- double E, and and and single, sss-single.
(c) 1985 by Far Musikverlag GmbH, Berlin

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Young, Free & Single

Radio speaker: (not on album version)
Welcome to the radio show: young, free and single!
We got a good show lined up for you, lets have our first caller:
Hey, janes my name and loves my game,
I just turned eighteen yesterday.
Im blond, Im tall, Im full of fun,
Give me a call and Ill show you some.
Frank met jane now, and jane met eddie - on the radio show.
Who wants to have fun, whos hot and ready? - for the radio show.
Call up the station, have a go, get the phone in your hand.
Friends and lovers, give a call, take a chance on a voice if you can.
Y-o-u-n-g -f-r- double e, a-a-and single, sss-single.
Y-o-u-n-g -f-r- double e, a-a-and single, sss-single.
A-a-and single, sss-single.
Hey jane, oh jane, a voice supreme, I hear myself a living dream,
Ill tell you where, Ill tell you how,
Hang up that phone, well meet right now.
Young, free and single - who wants to take a dare?
Young, free and single - looking for affairs.
Young, free and single - always for a game.
Young, free and single - voices bring you fame.
Whats your name now, call in a chance - on the radio show.
Playing roulette and you might get a blank - or you might have a go.
Love on the airwave and its yours, pick the heart of your choice.
Friends and lovers, give a call, make a match - by the sound of a voice.
Y-o-u-n-g -f-r- double e, a-a-and single, sss-single.
Y-o-u-n-g -f-r- double e, a-a-and single, sss-single.
Y-o-u-n-g -f-r- double e, a-a-and single, sss-single.
Y-o-u-n-g -f-r- double e, a-a-and single, sss-single.
...

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All Summer Single

What should I do baby, a-what should do,
Where should I go, what should I do?
Yes, I got the blues, the summertime blues.
Eight oclock in the morning,
Eight oclock, its a new york day.
Eight oclock in the morning, babe,
Gonna wipe that dirt, shake that sweat,
Wipe that, shake it, lose the blues right now.
All summer single
All summer single, you cant touch what you can see.
Now all summer single, went away, away from me.
All summer single, yes, I dont care you know
I want a good time, for you and me.
All summer single.
Theres a shot in the dark now, babe.
I reach out to touch the new york skyline.
Oh yes, I am free, baby. its you I want,
So shake them loose, the blues right now.
Ah ah ah ah ah. all summer single.
All summer single, I wanna be what I wanna be.
Yeah, all summer single, Im gonna have
What I can see.
All summer single, yes, I dont mind, ya know.
All I want is a good time.
(somebody tell the truth.)--->*
Lost my baby fore the summer sun was through. (*)
Hurt and jealous friends fighting over you. (*)
I lost my baby fore the summer sun was through. (*)
Yeah I dont mind, you know, that all I want is a
Good time, good time.
All summer single, I want you here,
Near to me. ow!
All summer single, I wanna good time,
And I wanna be free.
All summer single, thats the way,
Thats the way I feel
All summer single, well, I dont mind.
I wanna good time for you and me.
Oh oh oh oh oh oh. all summer single,
All summer single, oh.
All summer, all summer, all summer,
All summer single,
All summer single, away from home.
All summer, all summer, all summer,
All summer single.
(fade out)

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Charting The Single

(lyrics: derek dick)
Yeah!
Slow french kissing with the dauphins daughter
If I fall in love now Ill be floating in seine
Plastered in paris
Ive had an eiffel
Gonna make my escape on the midnight train
Choo, choo to you
Choo, choo to you
Charting the single
Schnapping my fingers on an alcoholic day
Sniff round a fraulein when Im scent to cologne
All night hotel liebling make your mark
Let sugar daddy melt in his home sweet home
Home is where the heart lies
Where is home, is where the heart lies, but where is home?
Get a pizza the action when I romeo again
Chianti see you with me, so just let him wine
Juliet on the balcony, its pasta serenade
Wedding rings, I know when venice time
Venice time to chart the single, to chart the single
Charting the single, charting the single
The chicks are getting cheaper on the not so common market
Stockpile experience before the blond hairs turn to grey
Before the blond hairs turn to grey
I like to train, express myself in the universal language
Ego on my face in the nicest possible way
Its absolutely the nicest possible way
Charting the single
I got no clause in my contract, got no shares in my name
Im just charting the single in a bachelors game
Charting the single
Its a solo performance on a one way street
Youll never have the chance again and never again well meet
Charting, charting, charting, charting the single
Yeah, yeah, charting the single
Yeah, yeah, charting the single
Charting, ouh, charting, ouh charting, ouh, charting the single
Charting, charting, charting, Im charting the single
Charting, charting, Im charting the single
Charting, charting, charting, charting the single
Charting the single, charting the single
Home is where the heart lies, but if the heart lies
Where is home, is where the heart lies, but where is home?
Where is home?
Charting the single

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Seventh Book

'THE woman's motive? shall we daub ourselves
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft clay
And easily explored. She had the means,
The moneys, by the lady's liberal grace,
In trust for that Australian scheme and me,
Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands,
And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed,
She served me (after all it was not strange,;
'Twas only what my mother would have done)
A motherly, unmerciful, good turn.

'Well, after. There are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud;
A miller's wife at Clichy took me in
And spent her pity on me,–made me calm
And merely very reasonably sad.
She found me a servant's place in Paris where
I tried to take the cast-off life again,
And stood as quiet as a beaten ass
Who, having fallen through overloads, stands up
To let them charge him with another pack.

'A few months, so. My mistress, young and light,
Was easy with me, less for kindness than
Because she led, herself, an easy time
Betwixt her lover and her looking-glass,
Scarce knowing which way she was praised the most.
She felt so pretty and so pleased all day
She could not take the trouble to be cross,
But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her shoe,
Would tap me softly with her slender foot
Still restless with the last night's dancing in't,
And say 'Fie, pale-face! are you English girls
'All grave and silent? mass-book still, and Lent?
'And first-communion colours on your cheeks,
'Worn past the time for't? little fool, be gay!'
At which she vanished, like a fairy, through
A gap of silver laughter.
'Came an hour
When all went otherwise. She did not speak,
But clenched her brows, and clipped me with her eyes
As if a viper with a pair of tongs,
Too far for any touch, yet near enough
To view the writhing creature,–then at last,
'Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's name,
'Thou Marian; thou'rt no reputable girl,
'Although sufficient dull for twenty saints!
'I think thou mock'st me and my house,' she said;
'Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month,

[...] Read more

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Single By Choice

Single by choice
Never marry, never ever divorce
Listen to the solitary voice
Tell you Im single by choice
Single by choice
Never marry, never ever divorce
Listen to the solitary voice
Tell you Im single by choice
I know what youre thinking
She cant be complete
til the right kind of man
Come sweep her off her feet
Well Ive been there before
Times four or times five
With the right kind of man
Barely made it out alive
Single by choice
Never marry, never ever divorce
Listen to the solitary voice
Tell you Im single by choice
Alone but not lonely
Never marry, never ever divorce
Listen to the solitary voice
Tell you Im single by choice
I know what youre thinking
She cant be complete
til the right kind of man
Come sweep her off her feet
Well Ive been there before
Times four or times five
With the right kind of man
Got love in my day
And I dont waste one moment
Wishing it awya
Single by choice, single by choice
Single by choice, single by choice
Single by choice
Never marry, never ever divorce
Listen to the solitary voice
Tell you Im single by choice
Single by choice, single by choice
Single by choice, single by choice

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Single Is Fair

Single
I am single
Question of double
Does not arise.

I am single
Only single.

Single sun
Single moon
Single earth
Single air
Single sky
Sngle water
Single fire
Single soul
Single body
All are there
All are fair.
Single is single
Single is beautiful
Single is fair.

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Sexy Single

All my life I've tried to find
A love to give me piece of mind
And I, I looked into your eyes
Captivated by your wicked smile
I was mesmerized there
for a while or two
But what's a girl gonna do?
Oh I lay in my bed
with your stupid face in my head
Just another piece in my life
Now I'm a sexy single
Sexy single that's OK
I'm living on my own
And I'm feeling the way I do
Like a sexy single
Sexy single
Birds of a feather
We flock together
Like leaves on a tree
We were meant to be in love
I guess it was just a dream
Oh I lay in my bed
with your stupid face in my head
Just another piece in my life
Sexy single
Sexy single that's OK
I'm living on my own in my special way
Like a sexy single
Sexy single
I'm sexy single
Sexy single
Sexy single
I said I'm living on my own
And feeling the way I do
When I'm not with you
I said I'm sexy single
That's OK
Living on my own
And feeling the way I do
I said when I'm not with you
Sexy single that's OK
I'm living on my own in my special way
Like a sexy single
Sexy single

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Byron

Canto the Fourteenth

I
If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss --
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

II
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?

III
For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

IV
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

V
'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there's a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it -- when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns -- you can't gaze a minute
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

[...] Read more

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Byron

Don Juan: Canto The Fourteenth

If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there's a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it:--when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns,--you can't gaze a minute
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

'Tis true, you don't - but, pale and struck with terror,
Retire: but look into your past impression!
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror
Of your own thoughts, in all their self--confession,
The lurking bias, be it truth or error,

[...] Read more

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It's Cool

It's cool,
If there's no content...
In what you say or do.
It's cool,
If no one comprehends,
With a meaning that's approved.

No one carries a single thought
To improve a life so screwed.

It's cool,
If there's no content...
In what you say or do.
It's cool,
If no one comprehends,
With a meaning that's approved.

No one carries a single thought
No one carries a single thought
No one carries a single thought
To improve a life so screwed.

It's cool,
If there's no content...
In what you say or do.
It's cool,
If no one comprehends,
With a meaning that's approved.

No one carries a single thought
No one carries a single thought
No one carries a single thought
To improve a life so screwed.

No one carries a single thought
No one carries a single thought
No one carries a single thought
To improve a life so screwed.

It's cool
No one has a single thought
It's cool
No one has a single thought
It's cool
No one has a single thought
To improve a life so screwed.

It's cool,
If there's no content...
In what you say or do.

[...] Read more

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A Single Black Rose

A single Black Rose to turn the tide
A single Black Rose to make one die
A single Black Rose to ensnare the soul
A single Black Rose to widen that hole

A single Black Rose to melt the heart
A single Black Rose to force a start
A single Black Rose to entwine the bodies
A single Black Rose to dictate the deaths of these

A single Black Rose to lie upon her breast
A single Black Rose to stop the tears from soaking his vest
A single Black Rose to mourn this memory
A single Black Rose to become a plot in this cemetery

A single Black Rose to take a life
A single Black Rose to end his strife.

(8/21/2007)

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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood

[...] Read more

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Picture Book

Picture yourself when youre getting old,
Sat by the fireside a-pondering on[? ].
Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa a long time ago.
Picture book, of people with each other, to prove they love each other a long ago.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Picture book.
Picture book.
A picture of you in your birthday suit,
You sat in the sun on a hot afternoon.
Picture book, your mama and your papa, and fat old uncle charlie out cruising with their friends.
Picture book, a holiday in august, outside a bed and breakfast in sunny southend.
Picture book, when you were just a baby, those days when you were happy, a long time ago.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Picture book.
Picture book.
Picture book.
Picture book.
Picture book,
Na, na, na, na na,
Na, na, na, na na,
A-scooby-dooby-doo.
Picture book,
Na, na, na, na na,
Na, na, na, na na,
A-scooby-dooby-doo.
Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa a long time ago.
Long time ago,
Long time ago,
Long time ago,
Long time ago,
Yeah, yeah, yeah.

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Why.............?

The American book of 'why',
The Asian book of 'why',
The European book of 'why',
The African book of 'why',
The Australian book of 'why',
The most asked question in the valley of world events;
Especially when one explodes a bomb!

The Christian book of 'why',
The Muslim book of 'why',
The Jewish book of 'why',
The Hindu book of 'why',
The Krishna book of 'why',
lLife is like the yeast which makes the bread rise;
But, the writer always has his or her own mind.

The Pagan book of 'why',
The Buddhist book of 'why',
The Protestant book of 'why',
The Confucian book of 'why',
To all life's aspects with the remaining books of 'why';
Poetry is the literature that muses with the mind.

Shall the trumpet be blown in the city and,
The people will not be afraid?
Seven bulls and seven rams,
I am the planted tree by the rivers of waters.
I am very young in years but,
The word 'why' is the question that goes around easily.

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