Kincardine Bridge
I should have known the time would come
Sometimes emotions make no sense
I knew too well you were the one
Our love was always so intense
I tried to run, you tracked me down
And cornered me with all my dreams
I tried to hide but you'd bring round
A love that conjured all my fears
In Armadale and Whitburn town
We drank beneath the bloodstained roof
I played with all my cards face down
Your brother checked my eyes for proof
All through September we made love
Like making war against all doubt
But doubt was never real for us
It's just that I saw no way out
Looking hard into the night
I wonder what you loved in me
You left so much of you behind
And I'm still trying to get free
Afraid to turn in case the light
Falls full upon a kid in flight
Running from one last surprise
Into the distance in his eyes
The heatwave passed and I passed out
I kissed goodbye to Whitburn dreams
There was a hunger in my mouth
Your eyes had never looked so green
And I was free with one "but yet"
But still I didn't turn around
‘til later, on the Ardwell straight
Your Vauxhall Victor homeward bound
My folks were won without reserve
But I still had that freedom itch
Your love was more than I deserved
When we last crossed Kincardine Bridge
October flew; we cried our last
The morning after Burnside Inn
[...] Read more
poem by Jim Hogg
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Related quotes
The House Of Dust: Complete
I.
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
II.
[...] Read more
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Tale of Gamelyn
Fitt 1
Lithes and listneth and harkeneth aright,
And ye shul here of a doughty knyght;
Sire John of Boundes was his name,
He coude of norture and of mochel game.
Thre sones the knyght had and with his body he wan,
The eldest was a moche schrewe and sone bygan.
His brether loved wel her fader and of hym were agast,
The eldest deserved his faders curs and had it atte last.
The good knight his fadere lyved so yore,
That deth was comen hym to and handled hym ful sore.
The good knyght cared sore sik ther he lay,
How his children shuld lyven after his day.
He had bene wide where but non husbonde he was,
Al the londe that he had it was purchas.
Fayn he wold it were dressed amonge hem alle,
That eche of hem had his parte as it myght falle.
Thoo sente he in to contrey after wise knyghtes
To helpen delen his londes and dressen hem to-rightes.
He sent hem word by letters thei shul hie blyve,
If thei wolle speke with hym whilst he was alyve.
Whan the knyghtes harden sik that he lay,
Had thei no rest neither nyght ne day,
Til thei come to hym ther he lay stille
On his dethes bedde to abide goddys wille.
Than seide the good knyght seke ther he lay,
'Lordes, I you warne for soth, without nay,
I may no lenger lyven here in this stounde;
For thorgh goddis wille deth droueth me to grounde.'
Ther nas noon of hem alle that herd hym aright,
That thei ne had routh of that ilk knyght,
And seide, 'Sir, for goddes love dismay you nought;
God may don boote of bale that is now ywrought.'
Than speke the good knyght sik ther he lay,
'Boote of bale God may sende I wote it is no nay;
But I beseche you knyghtes for the love of me,
Goth and dresseth my londes amonge my sones thre.
And for the love of God deleth not amyss,
And forgeteth not Gamelyne my yonge sone that is.
Taketh hede to that oon as wel as to that other;
Seelde ye seen eny hier helpen his brother.'
Thoo lete thei the knyght lyen that was not in hele,
And wenten into counselle his londes for to dele;
For to delen hem alle to on that was her thought.
And for Gamelyn was yongest he shuld have nought.
All the londe that ther was thei dalten it in two,
And lete Gamelyne the yonge without londe goo,
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Car Crazy Cutie
Run a-run a doo run run
Wo run a-run a doo run run
Wo run a-run a doo run run
Wo run a-run a doo run run
Well my steady little doll is a real-live beauty
And everybody knows shes a car crazy cutie
Shes hip to everything man from customs to rails
And axel grease imbedded neath her fingernails
Wo yeah (run a-run a doo run run)
Wo oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh now cutie (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
A power shift in second and a-ridin the clutch
My car crazy cutie, man, shes just too much
I take her to the drags, man, and everyone flips
For her big blue eyes and her candy apple lips
Wo yeah (run a-run a doo run run)
Wo oh oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh now cutie (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Yeah oh
Car crazy cutie
Car crazy cutie
Car crazy cutie
Car crazy cutie
Well I guess you might say shes the rodders dream gal
Always there to help, man, when you need a pal
But when I talk of lovin man, some kisses and hugs
Says shes like to take em better clean and gap the plugs
Wo yeah (run a-run a doo run run)
Wo oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh now cutie (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Run a-run a doo run run
Wo run a-run a doo run run
Wo run a-run a doo run run
Wo oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Wo yeah (run a-run a doo run run)
Wo oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh now cutie (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run) [doo doo doo]
Wo yeah (run a-run a doo run run)
Wo oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh now cutie (wo run a-run a doo run run)
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh (wo run a-run a doo run run)
song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rockafeller Skank
Intro
DJ: WBCN who's this?
Brad: Hey this is Brad (this is Brad this is)
DJ: Now uh who's your favorite artist, who
do you want to hear?
Brad: Well m my favorite artist right now is
Fatboy Slim, that guy kicks ass.
DJ: How tremendous is Fatboy Slim?
Brad: The band of the 90's, if you want to call
it a band because it's a one man name.
DJ: Wow...fatboy, and you want to hear that
new fatboy song?
Brad: Absolutely.
DJ: Which one?
Brad: The um funk soul brother check it out.
DJ: Sing it, I don't know which one.
Brad: Right about now, the funk soul brother
check it out now, the funk soul brother.
Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
'bout now
'bout now
'bout now
Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother
Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother
Right About Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Check It Out Now
The Funk Soul Brother, Right About Now
[...] Read more
song performed by Fatboy Slim
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Rockafeller Skank
Intro
Dj: wbcn whos this?
Brad: hey this is brad (this is brad this is)
Dj: now uh whos your favorite artist, who
Do you want to hear?
Brad: well m my favorite artist right now is
Fatboy slim, that guy kicks ass.
Dj: how tremendous is fatboy slim?
Brad: the band of the 90s, if you want to call
It a band because its a one man name.
Dj: wow...fatboy, and you want to hear that
New fatboy song?
Brad: absolutely.
Dj: which one?
Brad: the um funk soul brother check it out.
Dj: sing it, I dont know which one.
Brad: right about now, the funk soul brother
Check it out now, the funk soul brother.
Right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, right about now
bout now
bout now
bout now
Right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother
Right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother
Right about now
The funk soul brother, check it out now
The funk soul brother, right about now
[...] Read more
song performed by Fatboy Slim
Added by Lucian Velea
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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Run, Run, Run
I was sitting in the field, feeling the grass.
Counting the stars as they come out.
Feeling (feeling) the breeze, (feeling the breeze)
Feeling (feeling) the spring. (feeling the spring)
Suddenly I noticed there wasnt light anymore.
Run, run, run, run, run to the light,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
I tumbled on roots, stumbled on stones.
Lost my marbles, stepped on my glasses.
Feeling (feeling) the air, (feeling the air)
Feeling (feeling) the wind. (feeling the wind)
Suddenly I noticed it wasnt fun anymore.
Run, run, run, run, run towards the light,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
I came out of the darkness into the house,
The lights were left on but nobody around.
Feeling (feeling) the room, (feeling the room)
Feeling (feeling) the space. (feeling the space)
Suddenly I noticed it wasnt spring anymore.
Run, run, run, run, run through your life,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
Run, run, run, run, run through your life,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
Run -
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
Run, run.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Run, Run, Run
I was sitting in the field, feeling the grass.
Counting the stars as they come out.
Feeling (feeling) the breeze, (feeling the breeze)
Feeling (feeling) the spring. (feeling the spring)
Suddenly I noticed there wasnt light anymore.
Run, run, run, run, run to the light,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
I tumbled on roots, stumbled on stones.
Lost my marbles, stepped on my glasses.
Feeling (feeling) the air, (feeling the air)
Feeling (feeling) the wind. (feeling the wind)
Suddenly I noticed it wasnt fun anymore.
Run, run, run, run, run towards the light,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
I came out of the darkness into the house,
The lights were left on but nobody around.
Feeling (feeling) the room, (feeling the room)
Feeling (feeling) the space. (feeling the space)
Suddenly I noticed it wasnt spring anymore.
Run, run, run, run, run through your life,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
Run, run, run, run, run through your life,
Run, run, run, run, run for your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
Run -
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
Run, run.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run through your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
For your life.
(run, run, run, run, run for your life)
song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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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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Tannhauser
The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering
Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours,
At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight,
Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard,
Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed
With apprehension and rare utterance
Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise
Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light,
And large repose, the peaceful valley lay,
In the late splendor of the afternoon,
And level sunbeams lit the serious face
Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west,
Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs,
Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms,
That in the distance loomed as soft and fair
And purple as their shadows on the grass.
The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air,
Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in,
Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light.
The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home,
In the near meadow, reverently knelt,
And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast,
Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard
The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight,
Unmindful of the sacred hour announced,
Disdainful or unconscious, held his course.
'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight,
Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!'
He murmured bitterly beneath his breath.
'Were I a pagan, riding to contend
For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal,
What fire of inspiration, would I sing
The praises of the gods! How may my lyre
Glorify these whose very life I doubt?
The world is governed by one cruel God,
Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ,
Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold,
They give us for a heaven of living gods,
Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song;
A creed of suffering and despair, walled in
On every side by brazen boundaries,
That limit the soul's vision and her hope
To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven.
Yea, I am lost already,-even now
Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts.
O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?'
He raised his wan face to the faded skies,
Now shadowing into twilight; no response
Came from their sunless heights; no miracle,
As in the ancient days of answering gods.
[...] Read more
poem by Emma Lazarus
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks
1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,
That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass
Under the old trees with rosy fruit.
In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a
basket,
The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.
Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.
Fayne snatched for it and missed;
Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small
Finely cut features in a dance of delight;
Fayne with one sweep flung at his face
All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Loves of the Angels
'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.
Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!
One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!
Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Moore
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Three Women
My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.
Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.
Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.
Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.
1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.
Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Gebir
FIRST BOOK.
I sing the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt
Among those mountain-caverns which retain
His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells,
Nor have forgotten their old master's name
Though severed from his people here, incensed
By meditating on primeval wrongs,
He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose
Whole nations; here, ten thousand of most might
He called aloud, and soon Charoba saw
His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile,
What should the virgin do? should royal knees
Bend suppliant, or defenceless hands engage
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms?
For 'twas reported that nor sword sufficed,
Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail,
But that upon their towering heads they bore
Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars.
This told she Dalica, then cried aloud:
'If on your bosom laying down my head
I sobbed away the sorrows of a child,
If I have always, and Heaven knows I have,
Next to a mother's held a nurse's name,
Succour this one distress, recall those days,
Love me, though 'twere because you loved me then.'
But whether confident in magic rites
Or touched with sexual pride to stand implored,
Dalica smiled, then spake: 'Away those fears.
Though stronger than the strongest of his kind,
He falls-on me devolve that charge; he falls.
Rather than fly him, stoop thou to allure;
Nay, journey to his tents: a city stood
Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad built,
Whose father Gad built Gadir; on this ground
Perhaps he sees an ample room for war.
Persuade him to restore the walls himself
In honour of his ancestors, persuade -
But wherefore this advice? young, unespoused,
Charoba want persuasions! and a queen!'
'O Dalica!' the shuddering maid exclaimed,
'Could I encounter that fierce, frightful man?
Could I speak? no, nor sigh!'
'And canst thou reign?'
Cried Dalica; 'yield empire or comply.'
Unfixed though seeming fixed, her eyes downcast,
The wonted buzz and bustle of the court
From far through sculptured galleries met her ear;
Then lifting up her head, the evening sun
Poured a fresh splendour on her burnished throne-
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poem by Walter Savage Landor
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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!
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Canto the Second
I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.
II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.
IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.
V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:
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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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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,—
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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[9] O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!
O, Moon, My Sweet-heart!
[LOVE POEMS]
POET: MAHENDRA BHATNAGAR
POEMS
1 Passion And Compassion / 1
2 Affection
3 Willing To Live
4 Passion And Compassion / 2
5 Boon
6 Remembrance
7 Pretext
8 To A Distant Person
9 Perception
10 Conclusion
10 You (1)
11 Symbol
12 You (2)
13 In Vain
14 One Night
15 Suddenly
16 Meeting
17 Touch
18 Face To Face
19 Co-Traveller
20 Once And Once only
21 Touchstone
22 In Chorus
23 Good Omens
24 Even Then
25 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (1)
26 An Evening At ‘Tighiraa’ (2)
27 Life Aspirant
28 To The Condemned Woman
29 A Submission
30 At Midday
31 I Accept
32 Who Are You?
33 Solicitation
34 Accept Me
35 Again After Ages …
36 Day-Dreaming
37 Who Are You?
38 You Embellished In Song
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poem by Mahendra Bhatnagar
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Randall
1, 2, 3, 4,
My name is Randall,
No I don't think I've met you before my friend,
I don't really know you,
But I heard your message on the answering machine,
Think it went something like this,
"Hello Randall,
Heard that you wrote a big hit,
And you're rich now,
Hope you remember the promise you made,
When I taught you everything that you know"
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come.
My name is rock star,
Tell me aren't you sick of me yet, my friends,
Cos I am the asshole,
Who thinks that his advise is all you need to survive,
Give me the sound of the crowd,
Give me the people who know all the lyrics,
Give me the face of the kid in the front,
When he realises what the song is about.
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Here they come.
Time to tell the truth now Randall,
Time to give it up now Randall,
Time to let us know now Randall,
Please, Randall please,
My name is Randall,
And that can be anything you want it to be,
Woo!
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
Randall here they come,
Do run run, do run run,
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song performed by Wheatus
Added by Lucian Velea
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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
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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