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Fluke

A successful stroke of luck?
Bestowed upon someone...
Who is both surprised and amazed,
By a sudden fuss stirred up?

Oh. Is that what that is?

Perhaps that would be true...
For those finding something new,
To chew on or 'seep' to brew about!
However...
What is being witnessed here,
Is far from the definition of a fluke!
This 'fluke' has been in preparation...
For many, many, many years!

A lifetime spent in spinning 'flukeness'
To perfection!
And that is why the attention,
Does not excite the one who has sacrificed!

See that blood on the trail?
To whom do you think it belongs?

Fluke my...
Aspirations!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Chew Chew Chew (Your Bubble Gum)

Ella Fitzgerald - Chew Chew Chew
[Instrumental Intro 55 seconds approx.]
[Ella]
Chew Chew Chew Chew
Your Bubble Gum
Chew Chew Chew Chew
Your Bubble Gum
Chew Chew Chew Chew
Your Bubble Gum
Chew Chew Chew Baby
[Repeated x2]
First you pop, then you stop
The gum gets big and round.
Blow your troubles,
Way like bubbles
When you hear that
Funny little sound [pop noise]
Chew Chew Chew Chew
Your Bubble Gum
Chew Chew Chew Chew
Your Bubble Gum
Chew Chew Chew Chew
Your Bubble Gum
Chew Chew Chew Chew Your Bubble Gum!
[Boys]
Listen Sis your havin fun,
Chewing on your bubble gum
Give us some and we shall see,
Just what fills your heart with glee
[Ella]
Boys your right Im havin fun
Chewin on my bubble gum
Bubble gum it makes me sing,
Here chew some to make you swing!
[Instrumental]
First you pop, then you stop
The gum gets big and round.
Blow your troubles,
Way like bubbles
When you hear that
Funny little sound [pop noise]

song performed by Ella Fitzgerald
Added by Lucian Velea
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Better Luck Next Time

Black is for the nighttime
Preys upon the day
Red is for the blood that flows like rivers in our veins
Gray is for betrayal
What you did to me
White is for the blinding light
That I know Ill never see, know Ill never see
Found you in the gutter
You needed tenderness
I gave you everything I had
I gave you all my trust
Handed out so neatly
Caught me in your trap
When I needed you the most
You stab me in the back, stab me in the back
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
If you do it once therell never be a second time
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
Find somebody else, youre never gonna be mine
How do you find the nerve
To lie right to me face
How do you find the nerve
Black is for the nighttime
Preys upon the day
Red is for the blood that flows like rivers in our veins
I try and find excuses
For what you did to me
Cant forget that burning rage
When I wake up thinking of your face
For the blinding swiftness of revenge
That I know Ill never see, know Ill never see
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
If you do it once therell never be a second time
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
Find somebody else, youre never gonna be mine
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
How do you find the nerve
To lie right to me face
How did you find the nerve
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)

song performed by Oingo Boingo
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Head Is Spinning

(lowe/tennant)
----------------------
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning
My head is spinning

song performed by Pet Shop Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Never, Ever And Luck

never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck

prayers are answered

need repetitions

poem by Nyein Way
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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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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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Dead Ringer For Love (feat. Meat Loaf)

Meat Loaf feat. Cher - Dead Ringer For Love
Meatloaf: Every night I grab some money and I go down to the bar
I got my buddies and a beer, I got a dream, I need a car
You got me begging on my knees, c'mon and throw the dog a bone
A man he doesn't live by rock 'n roll and brew alone
Baby baby, baby baby
Rock 'n roll and brew, rock 'n roll and brew
They don't mean a thing when I compare 'em next to you
Rock 'n roll and brew, rock 'n roll and brew
I know that you and I we got better things to do
I don't know who you are or what you do, or where you go when you're not around
I don't know anything about you baby, but you're everything I'm dreaming of
I don't know who you are, but you're a real dead ringer for love
A real dead ringer for love
Cher: Ever since I can remember you been hanging 'round this joint
You been trying to look away but now you finally got the point
I don't have to know your name and I won't tell you what to do
But a girl she doesn't live by only rock 'n roll and brew
Baby baby, baby baby
Cher and Meatloaf: Rock 'n roll and brew, rock 'n roll and brew
They don't mean a thing when I compare 'em next to you
Rock 'n roll and brew, rock 'n roll and brew
I know that you and I we got better things to do
I don't know who you are or what you do, or where you go when you're not around
I don't know anything about you baby, but you're everything I'm dreaming of
I don't know who you are, but you're a real dead ringer for love
A real dead ringer for love
Meatloaf: Ooh you got the kind of legs that do more than walk
Cher: I don't have to listen to your whimpering talk
Meatloaf: Listen you got the kind of eyes that do more than see
Cher: You got a lotta nerve to come on to me
Meatloaf: You got the kind of lips that do more than drink
Cher:You got the kind of mind that does less than think
But since I'm feeling kinda lonely and my defenses are low
Why don't we give it a shot and get it ready to go
I'm looking for anonymous and fleeting satisfaction
I want to tell my daddy I'll be missing in action
Ever since I can remember I've been hanging 'round this joint
My daddy never noticed, now he'll finally get the point
Meatloaf: You got me beggin' on my knees, c'mon and throw the dog a bone
A man he doesn't live by rock 'n roll and brew alone
Baby baby, baby, baby
Cher and Meatloaf: Rock 'n roll and brew, rock 'n roll and brew
I know that you and I we got better things to do
Rock 'n roll and brew, rock 'n roll and brew
They don?t mean a thing when I compare ?em next to you
I don't know who you are or what you do, or where you go when you're not around
I don't know anything about you baby, but you're everything I'm dreaming of
I don't know who you are, but you're a real dead ringer for love
A real dead ringer for love

[...] Read more

song performed by Cher
Added by Lucian Velea
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Anchorless and Engulfed

Two who each other barely knew -
though both drew down delinquency
some streets apart, are past, and few
shall etch sketch wretched memory.
Two travelled on lines parallel
while wheeled real reel of history,
banned reel ran out span's tocsin bell
tolled once to tell eternity

‘Bonjour, ma mie, je t'aime, adieu! '
The mocking bird of Destiny
nests but a moment. All falls through
before each earth-bound entity
grasp pain's pain glass a second, spell
life's sensitivity to see
things in perspective ere Death's knell
engulfs hopes in Styx misery.

Confined upon Earth's ark our zoo
builds up its bars too readily.
Why all the fuss and bother to
paint rosy hues enticingly
when threescore ten years pass pell-mell,
too few attain vain century,
and those that do weak souls would sell
for one more week's dichotomy.

Upon Life's cruise a motley crew
free choice demands, yet few feel free,
awash with superstitious spew,
how few refuse to bend the knee?
The ‘finger writes' and then farewell!
A door to which there is no key
was ever veiled when curtains fell,
'and then no more of thee and me.'

'Time out! ' Reflection's hard to chew
in context where modernity
accelerates change [st]range most rue,
soon redefines autonomy,
confines empowerment to brew
disinformation debility,
losing second thoughts' review
of truth till last breath's verity
renders verdict curlicue
on humankind's inanity.

Climate out of kilter new
climactic catastrophe
prepares, ice-melt sends shockwaves through

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Courtship of Miles Standish

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—

Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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,

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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II. Half-Rome

What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)

Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,

[...] 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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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Parish Register - Part III: Burials

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time
When humble Christians died with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
But few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;
When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,
And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.
Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,
'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate;
Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,
They labour hard and struggle to the last;
'Hope against hope,' and wildly gaze around
In search of help that never shall be found:
Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,
Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!
When these my Records I reflecting read,
And find what ills these numerous births succeed;
What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend;
With what regret these painful journeys end;
When from the cradle to the grave I look,
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.
Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas! it is not on the village-green: -
I've seldom known, though I have often read,
Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;
Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast,
That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.
What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;
At best a sad submission to the doom,
Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.
Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,
His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd;
No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend -
'Call then a priest, and fit him for his end.'
A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;
Or time allow'd--he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.
'True I'm a sinner,' feebly he begins,
'But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:'
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)
'I know mankind are frail, that God is just,
And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Spinning On An Axis

World spinning round
To the next revolution
Sun going down
Gonna rise up again
I watch the sun go down
With some sorrow
And now I know its gonna come back tomorrow
Aint no reason
It has to do that
Its the season of the culture bat
Spinning on an axis
Spinning on an axis
Staring in the face
Of time and space
Spinning on an axis
World spinning round
To the next revolution
Sun going down
Gonna rise up again
Hear me rising
Rise up and sing, rise up, rise up
Although Im curious
It isnt a crime
I want to know if ill
Find out in time
A lot of people busy doing their thing
Gonna wake up and sing
Spinning on an axis
Spinning on an axis
We ask the question
And the answers yes
Spinning on an axis
I watch the sun go down
With some sorrow
And now I know its gonna come back tomorrow
Aint no reason why
It has to do that
Its the season of the culture bat
I watch the sun go down
Wonder if its gonna come back
Certainly theres no guarantee
But I got a feeling it will be
Spinning on an axis
Spinning on an axis
Spinning on an axis
Spinning on, spinning on an axis
Spinning on an axis
World spinning round
To the next revolution
Sun going down

[...] Read more

song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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One Night In A Lifetime

There's more to question than answers
and sand will slip through your hands
and love is faster than lightning
so grab it while you can mm, mm, mm...
Well I've been searching forever
between the bad and the good
but now I know what I'm missing
and I wanna make it with you
One night in a lifetime
one life in a night
one night in a lifetime
and babe it's gotta be tonight
babe it's gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
one life in a night
one night in a lifetime
and baby it should be tonight
baby it should be tonight
One night in a lifetime
one night, one night, one night
in a lifetime, one night
They say that love is a gamble
and luck will play a trick or two
but I'll risk all of my loving
I'd put my last buck on you
One night in a lifetime
one life in a night
one night in a lifetime
and baby it's gotta be tonight
baby it's gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
one life in a night
one night in a lifetime
and baby it's gotta be tonight
baby it's gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
one night, one night, one night
in a lifetime, one night
One night in a lifetime
one life in a night
one night in a lifetime
and baby it's gotta be tonight
baby it's gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
one life in a night
one night in a lifetime
and baby it should be tonight
baby it should be tonight

song performed by Donna Summer
Added by Lucian Velea
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One Night Life In A Lifetime

Theres more to question than answers
And sand will slip through your hands
And love is faster than lightning
So grab it while you can mm, mm, mm...
Well Ive been searching forever
Between the bad and the good
But now I know what Im missing
And I wanna make it with you
One night in a lifetime
One life in a night
One night in a lifetime
And babe its gotta be tonight
Babe its gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
One life in a night
One night in a lifetime
And baby it should be tonight
Baby it should be tonight
One night in a lifetime
One night, one night, one night
In a lifetime, one night
They say that love is a gamble
And luck will play a trick or two
But Ill risk all of my loving
Id put my last buck on you
One night in a lifetime
One life in a night
One night in a lifetime
And baby its gotta be tonight
Baby its gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
One life in a night
One night in a lifetime
And baby its gotta be tonight
Baby its gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
One night, one night, one night
In a lifetime, one night
One night in a lifetime
One life in a night
One night in a lifetime
And baby its gotta be tonight
Baby its gotta be tonight
One night in a lifetime
One life in a night
One night in a lifetime
And baby it should be tonight
Baby it should be tonight

song performed by Donna Summer
Added by Lucian Velea
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Good Luck, Bad Luck

The film script lies ahead
Change the future, change the past
Choose the players, choose the role
Cast of thousands, cast of few
Imagination decides the plot
Play the good guy, play the bad
Heres the victim, heres the saint
Heres the canvas, heres the paint
Good luck bad luck who knows
Good luck bad luck who knows
The world is peopled by many winds
Whirling faster than the wind
Solving a dilemma of life and death
Trying to make some sense of it all
No good blaming the outside world
Pleasure and pain are in the mind
Whether we like it or whether we dont
We found as much as we wanted to find
Good luck, bad luck who knows
Good luck, bad luck
Good luck, bad luck who knows
Good luck, bad luck
Good luck, bad luck who knows
Good luck, bad luck
We can make it horror we can make it blue
We can make it slow time, make it move
The director sits behind those eyes
Play it straight or in disguise
Imagination decides the plot
Play the good guy play the bad
Heres the victim, heres the saint
Heres the canvas and heres the paint
Good luck, good
Good luck bad luck who knows
Good luck bad luck who knows?

song performed by Howard Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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