The real ""action"" in the liturgy in which we are all supposed to participate is the action of God himself. This is what is new and distinctive about the Christian liturgy: God himself acts and does what is essential.
quote by Joseph Ratzinger
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Satan Absolved
(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)
Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts,--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child.
[Laughs. I have come to make my peace, to crave a full amaun,
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers--drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil--doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity
The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.
It was at least the truth, the whole truth, I foresaw
When He must needs create that simian ``in His own
Image and likeness.'' Faugh! the unseemly carrion!
I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,
No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.
Oh, I will serve Him well!
[Certain Angels approach. But who are these that come
With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?
Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,
Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!
Sob almost in God's sight! ay, real salt human tears,
Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.
The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation
When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.
Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath
Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death
Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,
Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven's hall
And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.
Not Michael's self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.
Yet all now wail aloud.--What ails ye, brethren? Speak!
Are ye too in rebellion? Angels. Satan, no. But weak
With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.
Satan. Ye have in truth good cause.
Angels. And we would know God's plan,
His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why
Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.
[...] Read more
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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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
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Easter-Day
HOW very hard it is to be
A Christian! Hard for you and me,
—Not the mere task of making real
That duty up to its ideal,
Effecting thus complete and whole,
A purpose or the human soul—
For that is always hard to do;
But hard, I mean, for me and you
To realise it, more or less,
With even the moderate success
Which commonly repays our strife
To carry out the aims of life.
“This aim is greater,” you may say,
“And so more arduous every way.”
—But the importance of the fruits
Still proves to man, in all pursuits,
Proportional encouragement.
“Then, what if it be God’s intent
“That labour to this one result
“Shall seem unduly difficult?”
—Ah, that’s a question in the dark—
And the sole thing that I remark
Upon the difficulty, this;
We do not see it where it is,
At the beginning of the race:
As we proceed, it shifts its place,
And where we looked for palms to fall,
We find the tug’s to come,—that’s all.
II.
At first you say, “The whole, or chief
“Of difficulties, is Belief.
“Could I believe once thoroughly,
“The rest were simple. What? Am I
“An idiot, do you think? A beast?
“Prove to me only that the least
“Command of God is God’s indeed,
“And what injunction shall I need
“To pay obedience? Death so nigh
“When time must end, eternity
“Begin,—and cannot I compute?
“Weigh loss and gain together? suit
“My actions to the balance drawn,
“And give my body to be sawn
“Asunder, hacked in pieces, tied
“To horses, stoned, burned, crucified,
“Like any martyr of the list?
“How gladly,—if I made acquist,
“Through the brief minutes’ fierce annoy,
“Of God’s eternity of joy.”
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning
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Not Supposed To Break Down
Youre not supposed to be human
Youre not supposed to really feel
Not supposed to get involved
With anything completely real
Fifteen families starving
All around the corner block
Here were standing so alone
Just like gibraltar rock
Not supposed to break down
Youre not supposed to break down
Swallow the dirt
Keep listening to the hurt
Youll be safe and sound
Supposed to be super human
Cover everything
Just like a bird
Cover an egg with its wing
And knowing theres nothing sacred
And what is the use
>no point trying to find
What is worth, what is true
Not supposed to break down
Youre not supposed to break down
Swallow the hurt listen to the dirt
Youll be safe and sound
Youre not supposed to break down
Youre not supposed to break down
Swallow the hurt
Listen to the dirt
And youll be safe and sound
A fool and his mainline connection
By-pass going to the well
But that doesnt matter anymore
Im sure that we can tell
Whos a puppet on a string
An who really holds the glove
But it aint up you and me
Its up to the lord above
Youre not supposed to break down
Youre not supposed to break down
Swallow the hurt
Keep on listening to the dirt
And Ill bet youll be safe and sound
Youre not supposed to break down
Youre not supposed to break down
Swallow the hurt
Listen to the dirt
Ill bet youll be safe and sound
And Ill bet youll be safe and sound
And Ill bet youll be safe and sound
[...] Read more
song performed by Van Morrison
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Transformation Inquisition Saul Into Paul Of Tarsus
What caused miraculous;
transformation inquisition
Saul into Paul of Tarsus?
Saul had previously hated persecuted;
Jews who converted to Christianity
with fanatical deadly holocaust passion?
Infamous Saul of Tarsus;
had one crazed goal
for all followers of Jesus.
To capture then bring to public trial execution;
all Christians he could lay his hands on.
Saul an elite member of the Sanhedrin even
instigated approved ancient equivalent;
of vigilante mob lynchings public stonings.
Saul actively present when first Christian
martyr Stephen was by an angry mob killed;
assumed responsibility of guarding clothes
of all who zealously to death stoned Stephen.
For is it not written?
'At this they covered their ears
and, yelling at the top of their voices,
they all rushed at him, (Stephen)
dragged him out of the city and began
to stone him. Meanwhile, the witnesses
laid their clothes at the feet
of a young man named Saul.
While they were stoning him, Stephen
prayed, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.'
Then he fell on his knees
and cried out, 'Lord, do not hold this sin
against them.' When he had said this,
he fell asleep. (To death Stephen
was by the mob executed.) Acts 7: 57-60.
What did Saul think what then were his actions?
'Saul was there, giving approval to his death' Saul
for his part approved the mob murder of Stephen. Acts 8: 1.
Saul like a ravenous wolf after Stephen was martyred;
went door to door in Jerusalem finding Jews to arrest
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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New Language
Anderson/squire/howe/white/sherwood/khoroshev
I speak from some sort of protection of learning
Even tho I make it up as I go on
A special trait is that Ive tried
To reach all feelings
So I speak a new language of love
Some say that it is written in the circle
Others that it is written in the sun
But I protect myself by seeing this experience
As a metaphor for moving on
Sometimes I check myself
To start to believe in
The horoscopes you read everyday
Theyre telling me somethings
I really ought to know
But then again I like to
Then again I learn to
Then again Im running away
Vision is coming so fast I cant stop myself
Vision forgets who is real
On the city streets, people get lost
Just waiting for history
Pushing the real world away
Taking a chance only once in your life
Only weakness can stop you from hearing
New languages
Translate each word
As they bring you creation
Your voice is the perfect key
Is there something that
Im supposed to see
Is there something that im
Supposed to feel
Im with you
And I cant help but want to know
(talk to me)
Is there something that Im supposed to teach
(speak to me)
Is there something that Im supposed to find
As I reach to the healing in each spoken word
For some strange reason time just cannot wait a minute
Im chasing every second before I let go
Yesterday my history
Dreams are still a mystery
This living is a gift I should know
Lay it down and let me live the new language
Let me learn at every twist every turn
Lay it down and let me love the further future
Let me know Im running
Let me know Im learning
[...] Read more
song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
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New Language
Anderson/squire/howe/white/sherwood/khoroshev
I speak from some sort of protection of learning
Even tho I make it up as I go on
A special trait is that Ive tried
To reach all feelings
So I speak a new language of love
Some say that it is written in the circle
Others that it is written in the sun
But I protect myself by seeing this experience
As a metaphor for moving on
Sometimes I check myself
To start to believe in
The horoscopes you read everyday
Theyre telling me somethings
I really ought to know
But then again I like to
Then again I learn to
Then again Im running away
Vision is coming so fast I cant stop myself
Vision forgets who is real
On the city streets, people get lost
Just waiting for history
Pushing the real world away
Taking a chance only once in your life
Only weakness can stop you from hearing
New languages
Translate each word
As they bring you creation
Your voice is the perfect key
Is there something that
Im supposed to see
Is there something that im
Supposed to feel
Im with you
And I cant help but want to know
(talk to me)
Is there something that Im supposed to teach
(speak to me)
Is there something that Im supposed to find
As I reach to the healing in each spoken word
For some strange reason time just cannot wait a minute
Im chasing every second before I let go
Yesterday my history
Dreams are still a mystery
This living is a gift I should know
Lay it down and let me live the new language
Let me learn at every twist every turn
Lay it down and let me love the further future
Let me know Im running
Let me know Im learning
[...] Read more
song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 2
LET PETER rejoice with the MOON FISH who keeps up the life in the waters by night.
Let Andrew rejoice with the Whale, who is array'd in beauteous blue and is a combination of bulk and activity.
Let James rejoice with the Skuttle-Fish, who foils his foe by the effusion of his ink.
Let John rejoice with Nautilus who spreads his sail and plies his oar, and the Lord is his pilot.
Let Philip rejoice with Boca, which is a fish that can speak.
Let Bartholomew rejoice with the Eel, who is pure in proportion to where he is found and how he is used.
Let Thomas rejoice with the Sword-Fish, whose aim is perpetual and strength insuperable.
Let Matthew rejoice with Uranoscopus, whose eyes are lifted up to God.
Let James the less, rejoice with the Haddock, who brought the piece of money for the Lord and Peter.
Let Jude bless with the Bream, who is of melancholy from his depth and serenity.
Let Simon rejoice with the Sprat, who is pure and innumerable.
Let Matthias rejoice with the Flying-Fish, who has a part with the birds, and is sublimity in his conceit.
Let Stephen rejoice with Remora -- The Lord remove all obstacles to his glory.
Let Paul rejoice with the Scale, who is pleasant and faithful!, like God's good ENGLISHMAN.
Let Agrippa, which is Agricola, rejoice with Elops, who is a choice fish.
Let Joseph rejoice with the Turbut, whose capture makes the poor fisher-man sing.
Let Mary rejoice with the Maid -- blessed be the name of the immaculate CONCEPTION.
Let John, the Baptist, rejoice with the Salmon -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for infant Baptism.
Let Mark rejoice with the Mullet, who is John Dore, God be gracious to him and his family.
Let Barnabus rejoice with the Herring -- God be gracious to the Lord's fishery.
Let Cleopas rejoice with the Mackerel, who cometh in a shoal after a leader.
Let Abiud of the Lord's line rejoice with Murex, who is good and of a precious tincture.
Let Eliakim rejoice with the Shad, who is contemned in his abundance.
Let Azor rejoice with the Flounder, who is both of the sea and of the river,
Let Sadoc rejoice with the Bleak, who playeth upon the surface in the Sun.
[...] Read more
poem by Christopher Smart
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Prejudice
IN yonder red-brick mansion, tight and square,
Just at the town's commencement, lives the mayor.
Some yards of shining gravel, fenced with box,
Lead to the painted portal--where one knocks :
There, in the left-hand parlour, all in state,
Sit he and she, on either side the grate.
But though their goods and chattels, sound and new,
Bespeak the owners very well to do,
His worship's wig and morning suit betray
Slight indications of an humbler day
That long, low shop, where still the name appears,
Some doors below, they kept for forty years :
And there, with various fortunes, smooth and rough,
They sold tobacco, coffee, tea, and snuff.
There labelled drawers display their spicy row--
Clove, mace, and nutmeg : from the ceiling low
Dangle long twelves and eights , and slender rush,
Mix'd with the varied forms of genus brush ;
Cask, firkin, bag, and barrel, crowd the floor,
And piles of country cheeses guard the door.
The frugal dames came in from far and near,
To buy their ounces and their quarterns here.
Hard was the toil, the profits slow to count,
And yet the mole-hill was at last a mount.
Those petty gains were hoarded day by day,
With little cost, for not a child had they ;
Till, long proceeding on the saving plan,
He found himself a warm, fore-handed man :
And being now arrived at life's decline,
Both he and she, they formed the bold design,
(Although it touched their prudence to the quick)
To turn their savings into stone and brick.
How many an ounce of tea and ounce of snuff,
There must have been consumed to make enough !
At length, with paint and paper, bright and gay,
The box was finished, and they went away.
But when their faces were no longer seen
Amongst the canisters of black and green ,
--Those well-known faces, all the country round--
'Twas said that had they levelled to the ground
The two old walnut trees before the door,
The customers would not have missed them more.
Now, like a pair of parrots in a cage,
They live, and civic honours crown their age :
Thrice, since the Whitsuntide they settled there,
Seven years ago, has he been chosen mayor ;
And now you'd scarcely know they were the same ;
Conscious he struts, of power, and wealth, and fame ;
[...] Read more
poem by Jane Taylor
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Canto the Fifth
I
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
The greater their success the worse it proves,
As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.
II
I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain -- simple -- short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.
III
The European with the Asian shore
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
Far less describe, present the very view
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.
IV
I have a passion for the name of "Mary,"
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad -- and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.
V
The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
'T is a grand sight from off the Giant's Grave
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.
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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Don Juan: Canto The Fifth
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;
The greater their success the worse it proves,
As Ovid's verse may give to understand;
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.
I therefore do denounce all amorous writing,
Except in such a way as not to attract;
Plain- simple- short, and by no means inviting,
But with a moral to each error tack'd,
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting,
And with all passions in their turn attack'd;
Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill,
This poem will become a moral model.
The European with the Asian shore
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream
Here and there studded with a seventy-four;
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam;
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,
Far less describe, present the very view
Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.
I have a passion for the name of 'Mary,'
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary,
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free:
But I grow sad- and let a tale grow cold,
Which must not be pathetically told.
The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades;
'T is a grand sight from off 'the Giant's Grave
To watch the progress of those rolling seas
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease;
There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.
'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning,
When nights are equal, but not so the days;
The Parcae then cut short the further spinning
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise
The waters, and repentance for past sinning
[...] Read more
poem by Byron
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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:
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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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[...] Read more
poem by Caasder Fronds
Added by Poetry Lover
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A Womans Worth
You could buy me diamonds , you could buy me pearls
Take me on a cruise around the world
Baby you know Im worth it
Dinner lit by candles, run my bubble bath
Make love tenderly to last and last
Baby you know Im worth it
Wanna please wanna keep wanna treat your woman right
Not just told but to show she is worth your time
You will lose if you choose to refuse to put her first
She will if she cant find a man who knows her worth, mhmn
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint afraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
If you treat me fairly Ill give you all my goods
Treat you like a real woman should
Baby I know your worth it
If you never play me , promise not to bluff
Ill hold it down when it gets ruff
Baby I know your worth it
She rolls the mile makes you smile all the while being true
Dont take for granted the passion that she has for you
You will lose if you choose to refuse to put her first
She will if she cant find a man who knows her worth. oh
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint afraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
No need to read between the lines, spell it out for you
Just hear this song cuz you cant go wrong when you value
A woman,woman,woman, a womans worth
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint fraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
Cuz a real man knows a real woman when he sees her
And a real woman knows a real man aint fraid to please her
And a real woman knows a real man always comes first
And a real man just cant deny a womans worth
Mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn mhmn
song performed by Alicia Keys
Added by Lucian Velea
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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
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poem: Will You Travel With Me To Heaven?
When you wake up in the morning
From a dream you think is okay
You see your spouse and family
Get ready for another day
The dream you saw, the things you see
The bed on which you soundly sleep
Your kids all grown up, your husband
And old memories that you keep
Who do you think created them?
Were they created from nothing?
If there is no god who made these
All, then what's the point of living?
D'you think we were made from nothing
Then from nothing we live for fun
To eat and drink, to love and hate
Then when we die, what comes is none?
The eyes with which your body sees
Those sockets that keep your eyeballs
The mouth you use for food and speech
The way you answer random calls
The languages you use to speak
And another –your mother tongue-
The way you carry yourself, and
How you breathe through your heart and lungs
The muscles that stretch when you smile
Your friends who often make you laugh
The words you try to understand
And how you sign your name so fast
Your kids who once stayed in your womb
The months you carried them in you
Your feelings when you saw their first
Walk and when they smile back at you
The food you eat and cook each day
The rainfalls that fall from above
The earth you walk on each night and
[...] Read more
poem by Miriam Mababaya
Added by Poetry Lover
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Maybe My Baby
(eric carmen)
Maybe my babys got a new man
Who can take her where she wants to go
(Im thinking)
Maybe my babys got a new lover
And Im not supposed to know
I call her on the telephone
But shes never where shes supposed to be
Lately when were all alone
Well it seems she dont want any part of me
Dont you know Im gonna lose my mind
If theres someone else after all this time
(Im thinking)
Maybe my babys got a new man
Who can take her where she wants to go
(Im thinking)
Maybe my babys got a new lover
And Im not supposed to know
(well somethin tells me)
Maybe my babys got a new guy
And hes really puttin on a show
(Im thinking)
Maybe my babys got a new lover
And Im not supposed to know
I cant believe its come to this
But my heart keeps tellin me theres somethin wrong
I feel the difference in her kiss
I wanna know what Ill do when shes really gone
Well, dont you know Im gonna lose my mind
If theres someone else after all this time
(I keep thinking)
Maybe my babys got a new man
Who can take her where she wants to go
Maybe my babys got a new lover
And Im not supposed to know
(well somethin tells me)
Maybe my babys got a new guy
And hes really puttin on a show
(Im thinking)
Maybe my babys got a new lover
And Im not supposed to know
I cant seem to pin her down
Friends tell me all Im getting is the runaround
Im sitting home and its saturday night
Is she moving in with someone else tonight
Maybe my babys got a new man
Who can take her where she wants to go
(Im thinking)
Maybe my babys got a new lover
And Im not supposed to know
[...] Read more
song performed by Eric Carmen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hey, Wait A Minute
Hey, wait a minute something just aint right hey, wait a minute
Somethings just not fair
I was supposed to win the lottery
Im supposed to be a millionaire
Im supposed to be a worldwide tourist
With lots of equity and life insurance
Yes Im supposed to be a gold card member
Rubbin elbows with the big time spenders
Im supposed to be a wealthy man
But all Ive got are blistered hands
Hey, wait a minute!
Hey, wait a minute
Theres got to be a better way
Im workin twice as hard but gettin no richer
Than I was yesterday
Im supposed to drive a big mercedes
Live in a mansion full of naked ladies
Im supposed to own my own casino
Be a superstar like sammy, frank and dino
Some day Im gonna be a big success
And tell my boss to kiss my ass
Hey, wait a minute
Something must be wrong
Im supposed to be dining on caviar
And drinking dom perignon
Yes Im supposed to have open invitations
To classy country clubs all across the nation
Yes Im supposed to have jewelry and diamonds
And a fifty foot yacht I can sail around the islands
Im supposed to be so carefree
But all Ive got is misery
Hey, wait a minute
Somethings just not right
song performed by Reo Speedwagon
Added by Lucian Velea
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