The point is to expand the scope of what a movie can possibly mean or be, to get people involved because they're artistic or understand the point of the material, not just because they fit a certain bill aesthetically.
quote by Ryan Phillippe
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
Railroad Bill
Railroad bill were gonna railroad bill
He never works and he never will
Im gonna ride on a railroad bill
Im gonna ride on a railroad bill
Railroad bill he was a mighty bad man
Kill anybody that he think he can
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Im singin railroad bill,
Im talkin railroad bill, uh-huh-huh
He never worked and he never will
Im gonna ride on railroad bill, yeah
(cmon) Im gonna ride on railroad bill
Well old railroad bill he done stole my wife
Im gonna check him down Im gonna take his life
Gonna ride on railroad bill
Gonna ride railroad bill
Im singin railroad bill
On a railroad bill
He never worked and he never will
Im gonna ride on railroad bill
Im gonna ride on railroad bill
Railroad bill he was a mighty bad man
Kill anybody that he think he can
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Gonna ride railroad bill
Im talkin railroad bill
I love him railroad bill
Uh-huh-huh
He never worked and he never will
Gonna ride on railroad bill
Yeah, gonna ride on railroad bill
Well Im goin up the mountain
Yes Im goin out west
I got a mighty big pistol
Stickin out of my vest
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Gonna ride (alright)
Railroad bill, I love that railroad bill
Uh-huh-huh
He never works and he never will
Im gonna ride on a railroad bill
Im gonna ride on railroad bill
song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Living In The Material World
Im living in the material world
Living in the material world
Cant say what Im doing here
But I hope to see much clearer,
After living in the material world
I got born into the material world
Getting worn out in the material world
Use my body like a car,
Taking me both near and far
Met my friends all in the material world
Met them all there in the material world
John and paul here in the material world
Though we started out quite poor
We got richie on a tour
Got caught up in the material world
From the spiritual sky,
Such sweet memories have i
To the spiritual sky
How I pray
Yes I pray
That I wont get lost
Or go astray
As Im fated for the material world
Get frustrated in the material world
Senses never gratified
Only swelling like a tide
That could drown me in the
Material world
From the spiritual sky,
Such sweet memories have i
To the spiritual sky
How I pray
Yes I pray
That I wont get lost
Or go astray
While Im living in the material world
Not much giving in the material world
Got a lot of work to do
Try to get a message through
And get back out of this material world
Im living in the material world
Living in the material world
I hope to get out of this place
By the lord sri krsnas grace
My salvation from the material world
Big ending
song performed by George Harrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ghost - Book IV
Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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Washed Away Under Work Loads
artists feel frustrated
when achieving not
when producing art not
not realizing images
in shifting vision mind
artists should
be producing art
no time for cooking
no time for cleaning
no time for hair cut
artists should not
not be able to keep up
with fermenting ideas
rain weather changes
haunting wake up calls
not creating art
is wasting artistic souls
is wasting artistic lives
in dry season droughts
withering artistic minds
work income human activities
life necessity farming for wages
dependent on salary climates
fifty sixty wage slave hours
is change devastating for artists
this drought no time for artistic activities
is crop failure starvation of artistic minds
leading to artistic suffering on massive scales
droughts are caused by lack of fertility rains
extended over long periods of wage slave times
slight brief rains slight artistic showers
is normality artistic not enough spring rains
to ground absorb artistic evaporated minds
artist is dehydrated lacking soul rejuvenations
plants animals need sustaining life waters
artists need self generated creativity waters
least art dies death of artistic dehydrations
art is main ingredient in artistic food chains
plants die from lack of water therefore animals
eating these plants will also die in drought cycles
artists true artists deprived of art wither drought dies
in mind soul lacking artistic flowering rejuvenations
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Saltbush Bill's Second Flight
The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large,
That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge,
Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh;
And the squatters swore when they heard the news, and wished they were well away:
For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country-side
For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, and the dodges and tricks he tried.
He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, and stray to the squatters' grass;
He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass;
And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew,
If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through:
But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill,
And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill.
'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring,
When he started at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with a jaunty swing;
For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track
Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back.
So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut, to ask could he camp the night;
But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and called to him, "Can you fight?"
"Why, what's the game?" said the clean-shaved tramp, as he looked at him up and down;
"If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown!
But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me -- it wouldn't be fair nor right;
I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight:
I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm trampin' back,
To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track."
"Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap," said Stingy Smith with glee,
"A bullying fellow called Saltbush Bill, and you are the man for me.
He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row,
For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow --
Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard,
And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard.
It's a five-pound job if you belt him well -- do anything short of kill,
For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill."
"I'll take the job," said the fighting man; "and, hot as this cove appears,
He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me, what's lived on the game for years;
For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so,
But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show;
They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds, and they tried for it every night.
In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight,
For they'd rush and clinch -- it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line;
And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine.
If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait
Till an opening came -- and it always came -- and I settled 'em, sure as fate;
Left on the ribs and right on the jaw -- and, when the chance comes, make sure!
And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur:
For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours,
That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs --"
"Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut," said Smith, "for you waste your breath;
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Artistic
Artistic
It's artistic
Grace in your movement
Is artistic.
Artistic
It's artistic
Sweetness in your voice
Is artistic.
Artistic
It's artistic
Gleam in your eye
Is artistic.
I'm filled with inspiration
In my dormant artistic pursuit...
With brush in hand
I'll paint your every move
With hidden treasure of words
I'll weave poems of what you say
And I'll move as you command
By the gleam of your eye.
poem by Tirupathi Chandrupatla
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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
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Marsupial Bill
1
IT was the time when geese despond,
And turkeys make their wills;
The time when Christians, to a man,
Forgive each other's bills;
It was the time when Christmas glee
The heart of childhood fills.
2
Alas! that, when the changing year
Brings round the blessed day,
The hearts of little Queensland boys
Wax keen to hunt and slay—
As if the chime of Christmas time
Were but a call to prey.
3
Alas! that when our dwellings teem
With comfits and with toys—
When bat and ball and wicket call
To yet sublimer joys—
Whatever can't be caught and killed
Is stale to certain boys.
4
Strange that, with such instructive things
From which to pick and choose,
With moral books and puzzle maps
That “teach while they amuse,”
Some boys can find no pleasure save
In killing kangaroos.
5
Where Quart Pot Creek to Severn's stream
Its mighty tribute rolls,
There stands a town—the happiest town,
I think, betwixt the poles;
And all around is holy ground;
In fact, it's full of holes.
6
And there, or thereabouts, there dwelt
(Still dwells, for aught I know)
A little boy, whose moral tone
Was lamentably low;
A shocking scamp, with just a speck
Of good in embryo.
7
[...] Read more
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Anna Hazare’s Crusade against Corruption in India
Anna wants a Lokpal bill strong
Anna wants a Lokpal bill fast
Anna wants a Lokpal bill full
Anna wants a Lokpal bill now
Anna wants a Lokpal bill by fast
Anna wants a Lokpal bill first
Anna wants a Lokpal bill for all
Anna wants a Lokpal bill – his call
Anna wants a Lokpal bill now
Anna wants a Lokpal bill without delay
Anna wants a Lokpal bill, come what may
Anna wants a Lokpal bill even if it means death.
There is no turning back
There is no giving up the fast
There is no fear of arrest
There is no worry about death
For,
India needs an anti-corruption bill
India is monetarily seriously ill
India needs the honesty drill
India has its wealth outside but inside will
Bring the bill
Heed people’s will
Give them the fill
Heal those hearts ill.
Victory to India; victory to Lokpal Bill; victory to Anna!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 22-08-11
poem by John Celes
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Bill the Bullock-Driver
The Leaders of millions, the lords of the lands,
Who sway the wide world with their will
And shake the great globe with the strength of their hands,
Flash past us—unnoticed by Bill.
The elders of science who measure the spheres
And weigh the vast bulk of the sun—
Who see the grand lights beyond aeons of years,
Are less than a bullock to one.
The singers that sweeten all time with their song—
Pure voices that make us forget
Humanity’s drama of marvellous wrong—
To Bill are as mysteries yet.
By thunders of battle and nations uphurled,
Bill’s sympathies never were stirred:
The helmsmen who stand at the wheel of the world
By him are unknown and unheard.
What trouble has Bill for the ruin of lands,
Or the quarrels of temple and throne,
So long as the whip that he holds in his hands
And the team that he drives are his own?
As straight and as sound as a slab without crack,
Our Bill is a king in his way;
Though he camps by the side of a shingle track,
And sleeps on the bed of his dray.
A whip-lash to him is as dear as a rose
Would be to a delicate maid;
He carries his darlings wherever he goes,
In a pocket-book tattered and frayed.
The joy of a bard when he happens to write
A song like the song of his dream
Is nothing at all to our hero’s delight
In the pluck and the strength of his team.
For the kings of the earth, for the faces august
Of princes, the millions may shout;
To Bill, as he lumbers along in the dust,
A bullock’s the grandest thing out.
His four-footed friends are the friends of his choice—
No lover is Bill of your dames;
But the cattle that turn at the sound of his voice
Have the sweetest of features and names.
A father’s chief joy is a favourite son,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Kendall
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The Woes of Bill
Once upon a recent even, as I lay in fitful slumber,
Weaving dreams and seeing visions vague and utterly absurd,
Suddenly I seemed to waken, somewhat scared and rather shaken,
For I thought my name was mentioned, coupled with - 'a certain word.'
'Twas the Adjective that roused me, sanguinary and familiar,
That embellishes the diction of my fellow countrymen,
When they do commune together in regard to crops or weather -
Such a word as never, never shall defile this pious pen.
Sitting, upright on my pillow, filled with weird, uncanny feelings,
Once again I heard, distinctly someone calling on my name.
And I gazed around me vainly as a voice exclaimed quite plainly:
'Strike me up a blessed wattle if it ain't a blessed shame!'
''Tis some idiotic joker, 't's some festive friend,' I muttered,
Gazing toward my chamber window where the moonlight faintly gleamed
Then, before my bedroom curtain, I beheld a shape uncertain,
Something vague and dim and doubtful, slowly taking form it seemed.
Then, all obvious before me stood a figure most familiar,
Clad in bushman's boots and breeches and a colored cotton shirt.
Said he: 'No, yer eyes don't fail yer: Here's yer cobber, BILL AUSTRALIER,
An' I've come to ask you plainly if this game ain't blessed dirt!'
'Pardon. BILL,' said I politely; 'but I hardly get your meaning.'
'Strewth!' said BILL. 'Dead crook, I call it!' But I stayed him with a smile.
'By your leave, my worthy bloke, we'll dropp these oaths and terms colloquial,
And just talk the matter over in a peaceful, friendly style.'
BILL choked back a warm expletive - for my smile was most engaging -
And, upon my invitation, sat beside me on the bed.
And, omitting decorations - fancy oaths and execrations
That his woeful story garnished, I shall tell you what he said.
'Now my name is BILL AUSTRALIER, just plain BILL without no trimmin's,
And you'll tumble that I'm ownin' quite a tidy bit o' land;
Land that needs a bit o' workin'; an' there ain't no time for shirkin',
An' there ain't no call for loafers on the job I got on hand.
'My selection is extensive; right from sea to sea it stretches;
An' I'm needin' willin' grafters for the toil there is to do:
So some blokes called politicians speaks for overseers' positions,
An' I hands 'em out the billets, thinkin' they would see things through.
''Strewth! They ain't signed on 10 minutes 'fore they downs their tools in anger,
An', without no word o' warnin', started fightin' tooth an' nail.
An' I yelled till I grew husky, an' me face with rage went dusky,
But me most expensive language wasn't of the least avail.
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!
It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!
Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lonesome Cowboy Bill
(reed)
Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Ever since he was a little lad,
Loves the rodeo.
Bucking broncs, yeah, sipping wine,
You got to see him go,
And all the ten-gallon girls
Love to hear him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Because
Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Oh, lonesome cowboy bill,
You still ride the rodeo.
Up round the colorado shore,
Down by the ohio.
Sometimes even new orleans,
Down by the mardi gras,
And all the ten-gallon girls
Love to hear him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Hes lonesome cowboy bill, he rides the rodeo.
Just a lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
You got to see him in the rodeo
When hes ridin, goin too darn fast.
You got to hear the people scream and shout
They call him,
Lonesome cowboy bill
Hes a
Lonesome cowboy bill
He goes...
Lonesome cowboy bill
Rides the rodeo.
Lonesome cowboy bill,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
I said,
You got to see him yodel ay-hee-ho!
Oh hes a lonesome cowboy bill, lonesome cowboy bill...
song performed by Velvet Underground
Added by Lucian Velea
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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) .
Back to Contents
[...] Read more
poem by Nyein Way
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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There Is A Needed Reason
There is a needed reason to keep your attention involved.
There is a needed reason to keep your attention involved.
A needed reason to keep your attention involved.
There is a needed reason!
A needed reason.
There is a...
Needed reason to keep your attention involved.
A needed reason to keep your attention involved.
There is a needed reason to keep your attention involved.
A needed reason.
A needed reason.
If your mind is not here,
It may be focused somewhere else.
If your mind is not on fear...
It poses threats,
To those...
Who want it for themselves.
And if its too clear...
Fear will disappear!
There is a needed reason to keep your attention involved.
There is a needed reason to keep your attention involved.
A needed reason to keep your attention involved.
A needed reason.
A needed reason.
If your mind is not here,
It may be focused somewhere else.
If your mind is not on fear...
It poses threats,
To those...
Who want it for themselves.
And if its too clear...
Fear will disappear!
There is a needed reason to keep your attention involved.
There is a needed reason to keep your attention involved.
A needed reason to keep your attention involved.
A needed reason.
A needed reason.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Fit In
Written by kim wilde
Fit in, fit in
Im spending nights just dreaming
And playing the music loud
Theyre banging on the ceiling
Theyre praying that Ill soon be out
I almost thought of leaving
Get away from the glares and their unfriendly stares
And now Im all alone
And the telephone teases and dares
Ill get away from them all (oh oh)
So pride comes before a fall
But Im not for giving in
Fit in, fit in
Theyre kicking up a storm in ...
Some strange place they know out of town
Why wont I go along there
Its crazy theyre all doing it now
But right now its the last place
That I wanna see - its my way to be free
And Im getting bored
Of the way they expect me to be
You gotta be, you gotta be
Ill get away from them all (oh oh)
So pride comes before a fall
But Im not for giving in
Fit in, fit in
Fit in, fit in
Im holding on so tightly
But I dont want to take any more
cos what they say just bites me
And gets to me down to the core
A ring and kids invite me
Or a house and a home
And a car and a phone
And a video
Wont they ever leave it alone
You gotta ring, you gotta ring
Ill get away from them all (oh oh)
So pride comes before a fall
But Im not for giving in
I wont fit in, fit in
I dont fit in, fit in
I dont fit in, fit in
I dont fit in, fit in
Oh no, I dont fit in, fit in
song performed by Kim Wilde
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Bar-Room Patriot
Why, 'ow's she goin', Bill, ole sport?
I thort I knoo your dile!
My oath! You look the proper sort!
That khaki soots your style.
I never 'eard you'd joined, yeh know
It makes me feel I want to go.
Must be a year or more, I s'pose,
Since last time we two met!
An' then, to see you in them clothes
Can't realise it yet!
I'm proud to think a friend o' mine
Is off to biff the German swine!
You look slap-up in that rig-out.
We ort to celebrate
I fell it's up to me to shout!
But - can't be done, ole mate!
For I 'ave took a solemn vow
I never shout for soldiers now.
No, Bill; you mustn't take offence;
You'll undertsand, I thnk.
I've come to see there ain't no sense
In buyin' soldiers drink.
I loves me country an' me king;
An' boozin' soldiers ain't the thing.
An' yet it's sich a time ago
Since you an' me 'ave met,
It's sorter 'ard to let you go
Without one little wet.
Say, come in 'ere, an' you can take
A soft'un, jist fer ole time's sake.
Well, Bill - 'ere MIss! Don't you attend
To customers in 'ere?
A lime-an'-soder fer me friend:
And' mine's a long, cool beer.
Ah, Bill, you stick to that soft stuff;
Chuck booze, an' you'll be right enough.
Well, 'ere's a go!...My oath, that's goo!
Bets beer I've 'ad to-day....
Yes, Bill, I 'olds no soldier should
Drink all 'is brains away.
I'm patriotic, that I am;
To fight on beer ain't worth a damn.
Now, Bill, look 'ere, you take my tip
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
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