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I still have my talent to produce and direct.

quote by Marc Wallice
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Hidden Talent

Written by gerry beckley, 1998
Found on human nature.
Just like a person from another world
My eyes can see inside you, little girl
I see things that you dont want to see
I see things youre trying to hide from me
Im just trying to make you understand
All the ways you can affect this man
From the moment that you came in touch
With the power there to burn so much
Youve got hidden talent (yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
You know your past is whats been bugging you
If youre ready girl ... do what you gotta do
Look for your life between the lines
Bad directions and poor designs
Youve got hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
Check it out you ... got it, hidden talent, oh
With the advantage of perspective i
See theres more to you than meets the eye
But now the time must come to spread your wings and fly
Yeah (hidden talent) yeah
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
Check it out ... you got it, hidden talent, oh
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
Affair without warning
Hidden talent, mmm (mmm)
Hidden talent (hidden talent, yeah)
I bet youre gonna find some hidden talent, oh
(fade)

song performed by America
Added by Lucian Velea
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Your Face Among Many, A Blossom

Your face among many, a blossom.
Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
The sun can't understand why it can't
open the buds of the parking meters.
Some people worry they don't have talent.
Given a name, who isn't a masterpiece?
A perfect self-portrait of what they're becoming?
Talent, the worst superstition of all.
That lullaby you sing to your voodoo doll
at bedtime, to let her know she's special
when, in fact, she's blind. Talent.
That estranged mix of an eclipse and an oilslick
that isn't sure of its standing in life.
Sensible shoes wishing they had wings on their heels.
The redundant navigator of mountain streams
that would have found their own way to the river
all by themselves. You ask if I think you have talent.
To me that's like a flower asking
if I think it will ever come to bloom,
a star wondering if it's shining or not,
a sea uncertain of its own waves and weather.
And I say, your eyes do, your ears do, your mouth has,
these birch-trees, those starlings, that tree, those rocks,
these rags of last year's flowers do, but not you.
On the day of creation when God exhausted herself
using up the leftovers of her inspiration
so as not to let anything go to waste, she pinched the noses
of a few sacred clowns and instead of
breathing life into their lungs, she opened their throats
and poured a special esoteric elixir of talent,
the mother of all oceanic love potions
that ever played favourites with a select few
among everyone she'd ever given birth to,
out of her mouth into theirs, such that like her
all they had to do, they were so talented,
was give the word. Say be. And it was.
Because the moment you ask if you have something,
you've already lost it. Like space or time or mind,
talent isn't possessed. It's made manifest spontaneously.
Do you see the ruby throated hummingbirds
in a last duel with the thorns
of the locust trees in blossom,
one drawing blood, the other, first honey?
Behind every river making its way to the sea
stands the cornerstone of a mountain
buried under an avalanche
it brought down upon itself
like the winter solstice
between the dolmens of Stonehenge,
just as every dropp of water is a lost key,

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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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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Conversation

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of sense,
And Conversation in its better part
May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller’s toil,
On culture, and the sowing of the soil.
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.
As alphabets in ivory employ,
Hour after hour, the yet unletter’d boy,
Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee
Those seeds of science call’d his a b c;
So language in the mouths of the adult,
Witness its insignificant result,
Too often proves an implement of play,
A toy to sport with, and pass time away.
Collect at evening what the day brought forth,
Compress the sum into its solid worth,
And if it weigh the importance of a fly,
The scales are false, or algebra a lie.
Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few respect or use thee as they ought!
But all shall give account of every wrong,
Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue;
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,
Or sell their glory at a market-price;
Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,
The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.
There is a prurience in the speech of some,
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb;
His wise forbearance has their end in view,
They fill their measure and receive their due.
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days,
Names almost worthy of a Christian’s praise,
Would drive them forth from the resort of men,
And shut up every satyr in his den.
Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth,
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!
Infectious as impure, your blighting power
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower;
Its odour perish’d, and its charming hue,
Thenceforth ‘tis hateful, for it smells of you.
Not e’en the vigorous and headlong rage
Of adolescence, or a firmer age,
Affords a plea allowable or just
For making speech the pamperer of lust;
But when the breath of age commits the fault,
‘Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault.

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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There are two kinds of talent, man-made talent and God-given talent. With man-made talent you have to work very hard. With God-given talent, you just touch it up once in a while.

quote by Pearl Bailey
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The first thing they were told was how to hone their talent. Then they were told how to market their talent, discipline their talent and type their talent. And then they were told they might as well forget about talent.

quote by Esther B. Fein
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Talent Fights Talent, Ego Fights Ego

God is supreme, creation of people! !
Supreme people create god supreme!
Where is the beginning and end of the logic?
Mind breaks, in heart fear creates!
Does supreme man create mind, heart and fear?
Spontaneous, natural and automatic! !
Talent breaks talent, logic devours logic!

One talent creates the dyke
How to demolish it, is busy working mine
Everything is within the mind, nothing is out side it!
People is the supreme, you say the truth!
I am the supreme working to make it untruth.

Really! really! things are spontaneous, natural and automatic!
Ego fights ego, talent fights talent, logic devours logic!

poem by Abdul Wahab
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Talent

Have you ever felt like you can't do anything?
Or maybe, more, you can't do anything well?
LIke everything you do is just to par,
No steep above anyone,
And always a step behind the next.

Pen against paper,
Just turns words and thoughts into something expected,
Paint against canvas,
Just turns colors into an elementary picture.
Setting to work with expectations, only to have them broken.

Or maybe even you do something well,
Or are told that you do,
And all of a sudden it, too, becomes par.
A mundane activity that changes no minds, nor lives,
Neither impresses, nor leaves impressions.

This is how I feel,
Torn apart by everything I do,
And the nothing I do well.
Left in a world of talent,
Only to realize I have none if my own.

If one were to ask me,
'what is your talent? '
I would think for a moment,
Then, I would reply,
'My talent is non talent'

I recognize talent in others,
I recognize their deserve of praise,
And it makes me happy,
But then I remember,
I have nothing to show them.

I long for something to show the world,
To open peoples' minds to beauty and art,
Yet, slowly, everyday I begin to see;
I will never be the entertainer,
Just, merely, the entertained.

By: Bethany Maxwell
©2012

poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. Matthew (Chapter 25)

‘The Heaven’s kingdom is like ten
Virgins, who took their lamps to meet,
The bridegroom in his wedding feast;
Five were foolish but five were wise.’

‘The foolish ones went with their lamps,
Which had no oil in them at all;
The wise ones also took their lamps,
Along with oil to use in flasks.’

‘The bridegroom came a bit delayed;
The virgins felt drowsy and slept;
A cry was heard at midnight loud,
‘Behold, the bridegroom comes, meet Him! ’

The virgins woke and trimmed their lamps;
The foolish ones then asked the wise,
‘Spare us some oil to keep lamps on.’

The wise ones then replied, ‘Sorry,
We need the oil for our own lamps;
It may not be enough for both;
Go to the merchant shop and buy.’

While foolish virgins went to buy,
The bridegroom came during that time;
The ones ready, accompanied him;
The wedding hall’s door was then locked.’

The other virgins then arrived;
They cried, ‘Lord, Lord, open the door! ’
The bridegroom but replied, ‘Amen,
I say to you, I know you not! ’

‘So, stay awake for, you know not
The day, nor hour when bridegroom comes! ’

‘A man who went on a journey,
To all his servants, gave money,
As per each one’s ability.’

‘He gave five talents to the first;
Two talents to the servant next;
One talent only, to the last,
And went away immediately! ’

‘The one who got five talents made,
Another five talents by trade;
The one who had two talents too
Likewise had made another two;

[...] Read more

poem by John Celes
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Man On Wire! !

Man on wire! !
An act like magic,
With explosive fantasies;
To set the records with his talent.

Of your talent,
Of my talent,
With ideas,
With your life,
With my life,
To the people,
And, to reach to the clouds! !

To reach to the top,
To expose your talent,
Wire, tire, lire, quire, ire, mire;
But, love can help you know your name.

Man on wire! !
To the clouds,
To the stars!
To stage a walk,
But, take my life and take me for what i am.

Zaire, shire, hire, dire, fire!
Moral, loyal, royal, oral, coral, floral, rural;
Man on wire! !
All in the name of his talent for us to see.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Begend

I tell a legend I once heard
Of a race called mankind, no more heard
Placed in time that told and sang
To all who heard and they which were
This is the end of a tale begun
The time, that time began to sing his song
A song of snow and broadway shows
Telling the tale of a tree called Know
Which Adam through Eve through the serpent came to know
And in due course came to show
All they had come to know
To know the art of breaking life and hearts
Then the acts that breaks God's heart
To know the murder act and evil more
Cain killed Abel hence killed himself forevermore
A sword lived by, a sword killed by
Time named history and sadly money swings by
Sings and strings his violin strings
Hoping the lyrics of his song will pull the heartstrings
Of the noblest beast of nature's field
Of the cruelest beast of nature's field
Of a race embedded with treasures yet Seek the treasures that nature's left
A talent within exceeds the talent of gold without
A talent of gold could buy you bread without a doubt
Just like a dollar could brighten your cloud
The talent is hidden in a talent(dollar) shroud
A talented man with a chair, his mouth, his head and heart and guitar
Sat and sang and received talents of gold to buy his house
To buy his cars, feed his wife and hungry mouse
All called him great who were greats untapped
A song of rain and lonely nights
A song of pain and few respites
A tale of a race filled with guilty shadows
A race that raced against itself in a race that destroyed the race fellows
Because they thought God shouldn't have made rainbows
A race called mankind should have one colour
Why had he made them in different skin hues
The shades that ran from black to you
That's what knowing makes you think
That you know more than he who makes you think
A tale of love that transcends hues
The weaker sex through time subdued
Subdued the stronger sex as time ensued
Breath in, breath out, make your sentences
Give, receive, ask photosynthesis
Receive, don't give, break the synthesis
The synthesis of a man and a woman
Soaked with deceit, and a cheating pair
A tale of love broken by who got caught first
The only line that separates black from white

[...] Read more

poem by Jenim Dibie
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Canto the Thirteenth

I
I now mean to be serious; -- it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
And critically held as deleterious:
Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.

II
The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('T is an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain -- which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

III
I'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;
I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best:
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue,
Is no great matter, so 't is in request,
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue --
The kindest may be taken as a test.
The fair sex should be always fair; and no man,
Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain woman.

IV
And after that serene and somewhat dull
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days
More quiet, when our moon's no more at full,
We may presume to criticise or praise;
Because indifference begins to lull
Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways;
Also because the figure and the face
Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place.

V
I know that some would fain postpone this era,
Reluctant as all placemen to resign
Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera,
For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line:
But then they have their claret and Madeira
To irrigate the dryness of decline;
And county meetings, and the parliament,
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Don Juan: Canto The Thirteenth

I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
And critically held as deleterious:
Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.

The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain - which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

I'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;
I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best:
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue,
Is no great matter, so 'tis in request,
'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue -
The kindest may be taken as a test.
The fair sex should be always fair; and no man,
Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman.

And after that serene and somewhat dull
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days
More quiet, when our moon's no more at full,
We may presume to criticise or praise;
Because indifference begins to lull
Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways;
Also because the figure and the face
Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place.

I know that some would fain postpone this era,
Reluctant as all placemen to resign
Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera,
For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line:
But then they have their claret and Madeira
To irrigate the dryness of decline;
And county meetings, and the parliament,
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent.

And is there not religion, and reform,
Peace, war, the taxes, and what's call'd the 'Nation'?
The struggle to be pilots in a storm?
The landed and the monied speculation?
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm,

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 3

For a Man is to be looked upon in that which he excells as on a prospect.

For there be twelve cardinal virtues -- three to the East -- Greatness, Valour, Piety.

For there be three to the West -- Goodness, Purity and Sublimity.

For there be three to the North -- Meditation, Happiness, Strength.

For there be three to the South -- Constancy, Pleasantry and Wisdom.

For the Argument A PRIORI is GOD in every man's CONSCIENCE.

For the Argument A POSTERIORI is God before every man's eyes.

For the Four and Twenty Elders of the Revelation are Four and Twenty Eternities.

For their Four and Twenty Crowns are their respective Consummations.

For a CHARACTER is the votes of the Worldlings, but the seal is of Almighty GOD alone.

For there is no musick in flats and sharps which are not in God's natural key.

For where Accusation takes the place of encouragement a man of Genius is driven to act the vices of a fool.

For the Devil can set a house on fire, when the inhabitants find combustibles.

For the old account of time is the true -- Decr 28th 1759-60 -- -- --

For Faith as a grain of mustard seed is to believe, as I do, that an Eternity is such in respect to the power and magnitude of Almighty God.

For a DREAM is a good thing from GOD.

For there is a dream from the adversary which is terror.

For the phenomenon of dreaming is not of one solution, but many.

For Eternity is like a grain of mustard as a growing body and improving spirit.

For the malignancy of fire is oweing to the Devil's hiding of light, till it became visible darkness.

For the Circle may be SQUARED by swelling and flattening.

For the Life of God is in the body of man and his spirit in the Soul.

For there was no rain in Paradise because of the delicate construction of the spiritual herbs and flowers.

For the Planet Mercury is the WORD DISCERNMENT.

For the Scotchman seeks for truth at the bottom of a well, the Englishman in the Heavn of Heavens.

[...] Read more

poem by Christopher Smart
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Rainbow Revelation

Bless you for your anger,
Its a sign of rising energy,
Direct not to your family,
Waste not on your enemy.
If you turn it to love,
Itll bring you happiness,
Bless you for your anger,
Its a sign of rising energy.
Bless you for your sorrow,
Its a sign of vulnerability,
Direct not to your family,
Direct not to yourself.
If you turn it to love,
Itll give you happiness,
Bless you for your sorrow,
Its a sign of vulnerability.
Bless you, bless you, bless you,
For the times you feel no love.
Open your heart to breath and live,
In time youll find love in you.
Bless you for your greed,
Its a sign of great capacity,
Direct not to your family,
Direct not to the world.
If you turn it to love,
Youll find your happiness,
Bless you for your greed,
Its a sign of great capacity.
Bless you, bless you, bless you,
Bless you for what you are.
Just remember you are loved,
Remember, I love you.

song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Saddle Up

Saddle up.
This ride we're taking,
Wont be easy.
Saddle up.
We're taking the direct route,
Without a scenic tease.
Saddle up.
This ride we're taking,
Wont be easy.
Saddle up.
We're taking the direct route,
Without a scenic tease.

I've got to speed up that peace,
That waits for me.
All that mess about aggression!
And who's got a better weapon,
To teach a lesson.
Ain't getting one thing done!
But keeping people on the run!

Saddle up.
This ride we're taking,
Wont be easy.
Saddle up.
We're taking the direct route,
Without a scenic tease.
Saddle up.
This ride we're taking,
Wont be easy.
Saddle up.
We're taking the direct route,
Without a scenic tease.

I've got to speed up that peace,
That waits for me.
All that mess about aggression!
And who's got a better weapon,
To teach a lesson.
Ain't getting one thing done!
But keeping people on the run!
I'm not accustomed to the cunning!

Saddle up.
This ride we're taking,
Wont be easy.
Saddle up.
We're taking the direct route,
Without a scenic tease.
If you wont to share that chaos,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Chatterton's Will

Burgum, I thank thee, thou hast let me see
That Bristol has impress'd her stamp on thee,
Thy generous spirit emulates the Mayor's,
Thy generous spirit with thy Bristol's pairs.
Gods! what would Burgum give to get a name,
And snatch his blundering dialect from shame!
What would he give, to hand his memory down
To time's remotest boundary?--A Crown.
Catcott, for thee, I know thy heart is good,
But ah! thy merit's seldom understood;
Too bigoted to whimsies, which thy youth
Received to venerate as Gospel truth,
Thy friendship never could be so dear to me,
Since all I am is opposite to thee.
If ever obligated to thy purse,
Rowley discharges all-- my first chief curse!
For had I never known the antique lore,
I ne'er had ventured from my peaceful shore,
To be the wreck of promises and hopes,
A Boy of Learning, and a Bard of Tropes;
But happy in my humble sphere had moved,
Untroubled, unsuspected, unbelov'd.
To Barrett next, he has my thanks sincere,
For all the little knowledge I had here.
But what was knowledge? Could it here succeed
When scarcely twenty in the town can read?
Could knowledge bring in interest to maintain
The wild expenses of a Poet's brain;
Disinterested Burgum never meant
To take my knowledge for his gain per cent.
When wildly squand'ring ev'ry thing I got,
On books and learning, and the Lord knows what,
Could Burgum then, my critic, patron, friend!
Without security attempt to lend?
No, that would be imprudent in the man;
Accuse him of imprudence if you can.
He promis'd, I confess, and seem'd sincere;
Few keep an honorary promise here.
I thank thee, Barrett-- thy advice was right,
But 'twas ordain'd by fate that I should write.
Spite of the prudence of this prudent place,
I wrote my mind, nor hid the author's face.
Harris ere long, when reeking from the press,
My numbers make his self-importance less,
Will wrinkle up his face, and damn the day,
And drag my body to the triple way--

This is the last Will and Testament of me, Thomas Chatterton, of the city of Bristol; being sound in body, or it is the fault of my last surgeon: the soundness of my mind, the coroner and jury are to be the judges of, desiring them to take notice, that the most perfect masters of human nature in Bristol distinguish me by the title of Mad Genius; therefore, if I do a mad action, it is conformable to every action of my life, which is all savoured of insanity.

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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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The Borough. Letter V: The Election

YES, our Election's past, and we've been free,
Somewhat as madmen without keepers be;
And such desire of Freedom has been shown,
That both the parties wish'd her all their own:
All our free smiths and cobblers in the town
Were loth to lay such pleasant freedom down;
To put the bludgeon and cockade aside,
And let us pass unhurt and undefied.
True! you might then your party's sign produce,
And so escape with only half th' abuse:
With half the danger as you walk'd along,
With rage and threat'ning but from half the throng.
This you might do, and not your fortune mend,
For where you lost a foe you gain'd a friend;
And to distress you, vex you, and expose,
Election-friends are worse than any foes;
The party-curse is with the canvass past,
But party-friendship, for jour grief, will last.
Friends of all kinds; the civil and the rude,
Who humbly wish, or boldly dare t'intrude:
These beg or take a liberty to come
(Friends should be free), and make your house their home;
They know that warmly you their cause espouse,
And come to make their boastings and their bows;
You scorn their manners, you their words mistrust,
But you must hear them, and they know you must.
One plainly sees a friendship firm and true,
Between the noble candidate and you;
So humbly begs (and states at large the case),
'You'll think of Bobby and the little place.'
Stifling his shame by drink, a wretch will come,
And prate your wife and daughter from the room:
In pain you hear him, and at heart despise,
Yet with heroic mind your pangs disguise;
And still in patience to the sot attend,
To show what man can bear to serve a friend.
One enters hungry--not to be denied,
And takes his place and jokes--'We're of a side.'
Yet worse, the proser who, upon the strength
Of his one vote, has tales of three hours' length;
This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise
Start at his oaths, and sicken at his lies.
Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way
What the opponents in their anger say;
All that through life has vex'd you, all abuse,
Will this kind friend in pure regard produce;
And having through your own offences run,
Adds (as appendage) what your friends have done,
Has any female cousin made a trip
To Gretna Green, or more vexatious slip?

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poem by George Crabbe
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A Map Of Culture

Culture

Contents

What is Culture?

The Importance of Culture

Culture Varies

Culture is Critical

The Sociobiology Debate

Values, Norms, and Social Control

Signs and Symbols

Language

Terms and Definitions

Approaches to the Study of Culture

Are We Prisoners of Our Culture?

What is Culture?

I prefer the definition used by Ian Robertson: 'all the shared products of society: material and nonmaterial' (Our text defines it in somewhat more ponderous terms- 'The totality of learned, socially transmitted behavior. It includes ideas, values, and customs (as well as the sailboats, comic books, and birth control devices) of groups of people' (p.32) .

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poem by Nyein Way
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