Plato
Who built in Plato into contemporary caves?
Ko je ugradio Platona u savremene pecine?
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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We Built This City
Chorus:
We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Say you dont know me or recognize my face
Say you dont care who goes to that kind of place
Knee deep in the hoopla sinking in your fight
Too many runaways eating up the night
Marconi plays the mamba, listen to the radio, dont you remember
We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Chorus:
We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Someone always playing corporation games
Who cares theyre always changing corporation names
We just want to dance here someone stole the stage
They call us irresponsible write us off the page
Marconi plays the mamba, listen to the radio, dont you remember
We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Its just another sunday, in a tired old street
Police have got the choke hold, oh then we just lost the beat
Who counts the money underneath the bar
Who rides the wrecking ball in two rock guitars
Dont tell us you need us, cos were the ship of fools
Looking for america, coming through your schools
(Im looking out over that golden gate bridge
Out on another gorgeous sunny saturday, not seein that bumper to bumper traffic)
Dont you remember (member)(member)
(whats your favorite radio station, in your favorite radio city
The city by the bay, the city that rocks, the city that never sleeps)
Marconi plays the mamba, listen to the radio, dont you remember
We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
We built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
Built this city, we built this city on rock and roll
(we built, we built this city) built this city (we built, we built this city)
(repeats out)
song performed by Starship
Added by Lucian Velea
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Built For Comfort
By willie james dixon
Arr. by howlin wolf (chester arthur burnett)
Some folk built like this, some folk built like that
But the way Im built, you shouldnt call me fat
Because Im built for comfort, I aint built for speed
But I got everything all the good girls need
I dont have no diamond, and I dont have no gold
But Ive got a lot of lovin and I want you to know
That Im built for comfort, I aint built for speed
But I got everything all the good girls need
Some folk built like this, some folk built like that
But the way Im built, you shouldnt call me fat
Because Im built for comfort, I aint built for speed
But I got everything all the good girls need
Some folk rip and roar, some folk blieve in signs
But if you want me, you got to take your time
Because Im built for comfort, I aint built for speed
But I got everything all the good girls need
But I got everything all the good girls need
I ... I love you baby
I ... I love you baby
But I got everything all of the good girls need
And I dont got no diamonds, dont have no gold
Got a lot of lovin to satisfy your soul
Im built for comfort, I aint built for speed
But I got everything all the good girls need
(lyrics as recorded in 1968 for the howlin wolf album)
song performed by Ufo
Added by Lucian Velea
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Contemporary Freedom
I am who I am
Because of what I am
I ask for freedom from love
I ask for freedom from slavery
I ask for freedom from hunger
I ask for freedom from desire
You know and I know
That not all seeds you sow
Will eventually grow
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
I read there was an old man
Who bade farewell to his only son
At the hands of his own gun
Where his actions contemporary?
Was his anger or concern temporary?
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
Vivid imagination leads to frustration
It could trigger a chain-reaction
Hence the concept of mass-killing
Is born out of an over-reacted feeling
There is no cure or process of healing
Once death is the meal we are dealing
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
We drink with intention to forget
We drink but later on regret
And the people are walking
And the people are talking
Talking about freedom, freedom
Talking about a heavenly kingdom
Talking about their great grandfathers and their moms
Talking about freedom in any shape or form
This is contemporary poem
Seeking for freedom with my pen
And it does not make any sense
Why we always speak first in defense
And it does not make any sense
[...] Read more
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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I Was A Bustlemaker Once, Girls
When I was a lad of twenty and was working in High Street, Ken.,
I made quite a pile in a very little while - I was a bustle maker then.
Then there was work in plenty, and I was a thriving man
But things have decayed in the bustle making trade, since the bustle making trade began.
I built bustles with a will then, I made bustles with a wit,
I made bustles as a Yankee hustles, simply for the love of it.
I built bustles with a skill then, surpassed, they say, by none,
But those were the days when bustles were the craze, and now those days are done.
I was a bustle maker once, girls, many many years ago,
I put my heart in the bustle maker's art and I don't mind saying so.
I may have had the brains of a dunce, girls, I may have had the mind of a muff,
I may have been plain and deficient in the brain but I did know a bustle maker's stuff.
I built bustles for the slender, I built bustles for the stout,
I built bustles for the girls with muscles, and bustles for the girls without.
I built bustles by the thousands, in the good old days of yore,
But things have decayed in the bustle making trade and I don't build bustles any more.
Many were the models worn once; but mine were unique, tis said,
No rival design was so elegant as mine; I was a bustle maker bred.
I was a bustle maker born once, an artist through and through,
But things have decayed in the bustle making trade
And what can a bustle maker do?
I built bustles to enchant, girls, I built bustles to amaze,
I built bustles for the skirt that rustles, and bustles for the skirt that sways.
I built bustles for my aunt, girls, when other business fled,
But a bustle maker can't make bustles for his aunt when a bustle maker's aunt is dead.
I was a bustle maker once, girls, once in the days gone by,
I lost my heart to the bustle maker's art, and that I don't deny.
I may have had the brains of a dunce, girls, as many men appear to suppose,
I may have been obtuse and of little other use
But I could make a bustle when I chose.
I built bustles for the bulging, I built bustles for the lithe,
I built bustles for the girls in Brussels and bustles for the girls in Hythe.
I built bustles for all Europe once, but I've been badly hit,
Things have decayed in the bustle making trade
And that it the truth of it.
poem by Patrick Barrington
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My father's Plato
And that’s not a claim to paternity –
it’s the possessive case; though to what degree
my father possessed Plato, or Plato, him,
remains one of those unsolved mysteries
stored in that little room of sadness in the hearts
of children of that more formal, distanced age…
Like so many self-made men, he’d never read
a novel before he retired; and then
set out to educate himself
as would befit the father of a son
he planned – God unwilling, at first – to have,
whom he would provide with all the advantages
he’d never had… alas; alas for both of us…
He’d read of course, Smiles’ ‘Self-Help’ – they all had;
moved on to Carlyle, Ruskin (briefly) , Emerson; wrote
in warm approval to George Bernard Shaw,
who responded with one of his printed pre-texted postcards…
then worked through those nicely-bound
sets of Hardy, Galsworthy, Dickens, Scott, and H.G.Wells,
offered cheaply by the Daily Mail or by Wills’ Cigarettes…
then – Plato; or at least, his Republic;
a yellow bound, standard Everyman; but this one
- I discovered far too late in life -
fiercely underlined in summary pencil lines…
and that was really, all he needed; busy
with his hens and chicks, his toddler son (at last…) :
later, novels of another sort crept up on him; he lived
a – no, don’t call it fantasy – a parallel life
in volume after volume of those yellow-covered
Wild West Club. (That’s where he would have flourished,
aggressive boss of bosses, if he had not been stone-deaf…)
So what was he to Plato, or Plato said to him?
Are the underlinings an extension of that angry, abrupt man
meaning, that’s my experience; so he’s right…;
or was there stunned admiration; or
was there a humility I never saw
until efficiency turned to eccentricity,
eccentricity to dementia…
a humility, perhaps, that took him to another world
of ancient Greece, and glories, virtues, and ideals,
where Spartans from the wild wild East
rode roughshod over democracy, and
where a good man must be sought,
to run them out of town…?
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sweet Sixteen
Ill do anything
For my sweet sixteen,
And Ill do anything
For little run away child
Gave my heart an engagement ring.
She took evrything.
Evrything I gave her,
Oh sweet sixteen.
Built a moon
For a rocking chair.
I never guessed it would
Rock her far from here
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
Someones built a candy castle
For my sweet sixteen.
Someones built a candy brain
And filled it in.
Well Ill do anything
For my sweet sixteen
Oh Ill do anything
For little runaway child
Well, memories will burn you.
Memories grow older as people can
They just get colder
Like sweet sixteen
Oh, I see its clear
Baby, that you are
All through here
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
Someones built a candy castle
For my sweet sixteen,
Someones built a candy house
To house her in.
Someones built a candy castle
For my sweet sixteen.
Someones built a candy brain
And filled it in.
And I do anything
For my sweet sixteen
Oh, I do anything
For little run away girl.
Yeah, sad and lonely and blue.
Yeah, gettin over you.
How, how do you think it feels
Yeah to get up in the morning, get over you.
Up in the morning, get over you.
Wipe away the tears, get over you,
Get over, get over...
My sweet sixteen
Oh runaway child
[...] Read more
song performed by Billy Idol
Added by Lucian Velea
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This House
(nile rodgers)
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
On a foundation of love
Our toys are in the attic baby
Pictures on the wall
We can see our memories
From the days past in the mirror
Down the hall, oh yeah
Our love will survive in our own little paradise
So inspired, so inspired
Palatial it may not be
But its a home and a castle to me
A dream from a magazine
And well never give it up cause
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
On a foundation of love
Ill try to comfort you baby
You try to comfort me yeah
I know you love me
With all your heart, oh yeah
cause you say you do
You know that when you are sad
Ill be there in a flash
At the drop of a hat, oh yeah
cause I want you to feel love
And you dont have to say a thing
You dont have to ask, cause baby
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
On a foundation of love
Maybe well strike it rich
One day really make it big
And I know because our love is so strong
Well always have a home
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
On a foundation of love
This house is built
[...] Read more
song performed by Diana Ross
Added by Lucian Velea
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We Built This City
CHORUS
We built this city we built this city on rock an' roll
Built this city we built this city on rock an' roll
Say you don't know me or recognize my face
Say you don't care who goes to that kind of place
Knee deep in the hoopla sinking in your fight
Too many runaways eating up the night
BRIDGE
Marconi plays the mamba listen to the radio
Don't you remember
We built this city we built this city on rock an' roll
REPEAT CHORUS
Someone's always playing corporation games
Who cares they're always changing corporation names
We just want to dance here someone stole the stage
They call us irresponsible write us off the page
REPEAT BRIDGE
REPEAT CHORUS
It's just another Sunday in a tired old street
Police have got the choke hold oh and we just lost the beat
Who counts the money underneath the bar
Who rides the wrecking ball into our guitars
Don't tell us you need us 'cos we're just simple fools
Looking for America crawling through your schools
(I'm looking out over that Golden Gate bridge
Out on a gorgeous sunny Saturday I've seen that bumper-to-bumper traffic)
Don't you remember (remember)
(Here's your favorite radio station in your favorite radio city
The city by the bay the city that rocks the city that never sleeps)
REPEAT BRIDGE
REPEAT CHORUS TWICE
(We built we built this city) built this city (we built we built this city)
REPEAT TO FADE
song performed by Jefferson Starship
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A Child’s Toy
a whirl of sunshine and cup of blue
within a single line of poetry
our world becomes a spinning top
First prime line written by Miroslava Odalovic.
Title, second and third lines written by Terence George Craddock
Copyright © Miroslava Odalovic and Terence George Craddock
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Child’s Unique Insight: Free Drawing
Terence Craddock said
“Rachael studies pictures
with an eye for detail,
like story books, always
picks me, younger Hesti,
no; too many changes.”
Miroslava Odalovic replied
“Both my daughters
have a great talent for art
which will be systematically
destroyed throughout their
education.” Interesting?
And Terence Craddock replied
“studied that once,
(for personal curiosity
interesting research data
a child’s unique insight)
at free original drawing,
then adult drawn examples,
one change, each creeps
into their work, their originality
goes, the introduced becomes
their work, ” primary normality.
And Miroslava Odalovic replied
“Blaza could draw for hours
(once measured the time
as I was worried, it was 4 hours)
when small, now she's too lazy
to finish a drawing at school,
as it is a homework.” Work?
Key word work establishes
dictates perceptions controlled,
it is fun to independent childhood
play, when framework superimposed
is rigid, staff inflexibility adhered
to; options abilities are limited boxed.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Weaving Shadow Into Wingbeats
kingfisher spread your wings
in sudden flight above the water
be your perch rock or branches
fly free launch faith above water
“a soulhunter upon water”
plumage sparkles dazzles
soul soaring upon water
dream sharing dart visions
binocular vision colour vision
irises perceive distance piercing
compensate refraction of water
underwater reflection in hunting
able to judge underwater depths
accurately perceiving heartbeats
weaving shadow into wingbeats
fly with me swift healer of souls
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Inspired by ‘You're my fisherman’ by Miroslava Odalovic. The above quoted line is also from ‘You're my fisherman’ by Miroslava Odalovic.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Tower
SAILING TO BYZANTIUM
I
THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out Of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
WHAT shall I do with this absurdity --
O heart, O troubled heart -- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible --
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
[...] Read more
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Making Sense Of Sound
SENSE OF SOUND
In Plato’s time fools used to say
there are no rules for music that you play.
Being law-abiding when you write
a piece of music often won’t excite
the fools who will demand of you to break
its laws, while claiming that the word mistake
doe not apply to music. It is pleasure
that’s their bottom line, every measure
composed in any manner the composer
may wish. I do not want to be imposer
of any law that may inhibit your
ability to write, but I feel sure
that ultimately it is only fools
who break in music, as in life, all rules.
In music as in life there’s right and wrong,
and both of them, in order to last long,
must follow norms, as Plato once declared.
a view that by this poet now is shared,
while hoping antinomians are not friendless,
like Wagner making melody that’s endless.
Music is a stock that never should be shorted.
Like any lover that you may have courted,
it follows rules on which you should go long,
avoiding dissonances that sound wrong,
except for all the ones that are resolved
like problems that in life that have been solved.
Only by preventing disappearance
of rules can life-like music reach coherence.
Inspired by Plato, cited in “Making Sense of Sound, ” by James F. Penrose in the WSJ, January 27,2010, reviewing Ruth Katz’s “A Language of Its Own, ” describing a grammar of music that evolved over the centuries without any overt instruction, giving an internal coherence to music and allowing it to adapt to cultural and social change, with a shared understanding between musicians and audiences. Penrose writes;
“Through foolishness they deceived themselves into thinking that there was no right or wrong way in music, that it was to be judged good or bad by the pleasure that it gave.” With these words Plato complained about the “promiscuous cleverness and a spirit of law-breaking” that characterized the music of the time—the fourth century B.C. Even then, it seems, music had a form and structure that guided its composition and performance, for “law-abiding” musicians anyway…. Beethoven, in Mr. Katz’s view, never damaged the system of harmonic tonality and “integrated” form, for all his iconoclasm. But a succession of composers––including Schumann, Liszt and, above all, Wagner––chipped away at coherence by preparing unprepared and unresolved chords, chromatic alterations, and above all modulations into remote keys. With his “unendlische Melodie (infinite melody) and other devices, Wagner savaged traditional musical structures even as he created astonishingly beautiful music. The gulf between past and present widened as the 20th century progressed––but there were pockets of resistance, Ms. Katz observes. Debussy joined the moderns in rebelling against the constraints of harmonic tonality but found coherence in modal forms and in melodic tonality. Composers like Bartok, Ravel and Janacek, though also pushing the boundaries of traditional harmony, appealed to the ear by retaining crucial elements of traditional tonality… [Ms Katz] is hopeful that musical tradition can regain its footing, perhaps by recreating the “abstracting” process that allowed Wesstern music, despite its inability to describe what it does, to beguile and fascinate us for so long.
1/27/10
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Over There
The fence is long and high where we love
You cant see the other side where they live
Ive spied with my little eye
And Ive sighed with my little sigh
But it seems Ive give all that I can give
Every hour I have to count to ten
And a thousand times Ive thought again
But it seems Ive given all that I can give
Is there anyone there
Here is the fence that they built
{over there}
This is the fence that hate built
Is anyone there
{over there}
This is the fence that turns one into two
I want to break through but Im though if I do
Ive tried with my little try
And Ive cried with my little cry
But it seems that the gate holds the only clue
Every hour I have to count to ten
And a thousand times Ive though again
But it seems Ive given all that I can give
Is there anyone there
Here is the fence that they built
{over there}
This is the fence that hate built
Is anyone there
{over there}
[brilliant solo from stan the man]
Every hour I have to count to ten
And a thousand times Ive thought again
Is there anyone there
Here is the fence that they built
{over there}
This is the fence that hate built
Is anyone there
{over there}
Is there anyone there
Here is the fence that they built
{over there}
This is the fence that hate built
Is anyone there
{over there}
But it seems Ive give all that I can give
Is there anyone there
Here is the fence that they built
{over there}
This is the fence that hate built
Is anyone there
{over there}
song performed by Housemartins
Added by Lucian Velea
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
PART THE FIRST
I
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Palace of Art
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well."
A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.
Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.
And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
"Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring."
To which my soul made answer readily:
"Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide."* * * * *
Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
A flood of fountain-foam.
And round the cool green courts there ran a row
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.
And round the roofs a gilded gallery
That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
Dipt down to sea and sands.
From those four jets four currents in one swell
Across the mountain stream'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.
And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.
So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
My palace with unblinded eyes,
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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A Tale of Bhimbetka
Bhim-bait-ka
Bheem sat on these rocks
the name is derived from
Sanskrit epic Mahabharata
largest collection of prehistoric art
discovered and explored
by Dr.V.S.Wakankar
a great archaeologist
from train he noticed caves
dotting the hills in distance
he cut through deep forest
climbed up to the caves
surrounded by northern fringe
of the Vindhyan ranges
lies 46 km south of Bhopal
in State of Madhya Pradesh
continuous habitation
from Early Stone Age
biggest repository
of Indian prehistoric art
one of earliest dwellings
of human beings
will take you back
to 35,000 years old history
prehistoric caves
fascinating paintings
to Paleolithic times
a cultural sequences
stone floors
hand-axes
hard quartz
tiny needles
cleavers, scrapers
stone hand mills
colored earth
called Ochre
a woman with a child
household chores
hunt documentation
raid during warfare
[...] Read more
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Built To Last
There are times when you must beckon,
There are times when you must fall.
You can take a lot of wrecking,
But you cant take it all.
There are times when I can help you out,
And times when you must fall.
There are times when you must live in doubt,
And I cant help at all.
Two blue stars, shine oer the hill.
Plead no more, now just be still.
Through the night, now safely there.
Show me something built to last.
Been held by the fire,
Yes and im, held by the ring.
You can walk on balls of fire,
But sometimes you might bleed.
There are times when I have begged you
And you do the same to me.
If you cant or wont admit it,
At least we pulled you through.
Three blue stars, set oer the hill.
Call them back; you never will.
All these trials, soon be dead.
We all need something built to last.
Built to last till time of seven,
Falls tumbling from the sky.
Built to last till lightness fades,
And darkness falls on all.
Built to last till years roll back
Our couch perched in the sky
Show me something different,
Or something built to try.
There are times when you get hit up on,
Try hard but you cannot give.
Other times, youd gladly go
With what you need to give.
Dont be afraid to save your face,
When you have done your best
Now I wont forget,
Next day try the rest.
All the stars, are gone but one.
Morning dreams, we found the sun.
Show me something built to last
Two blue stones, shine oer the hill.
Call it back; you never will
All these trials, now are dead.
Show me something built to last.
All the stars, are gone but one.
Morning dreams. here comes the sun.
Through the night, now sinking fast.
[...] Read more
song performed by Grateful Dead
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Idols
An Ode
Luce intellettual, piena d' amore
Prelude
Lo, the spirit of a pulsing star within a stone
Born of earth, sprung from night!
Prisoned with the profound fires of the light
That lives like all the tongues of eloquence
Locked in a speech unknown!
The crystal, cold and hard as innocence,
Immures the flame; and yet as if it knew
Raptures or pangs it could not but betray,
As if the light could feel changes of blood and breath
And all--but--human quiverings of the sense,
Throbs of a sudden rose, a frosty blue,
Shoot thrilling in its ray,
Like the far longings of the intellect
Restless in clouding clay.
Who has confined the Light? Who has held it a slave,
Sold and bought, bought and sold?
Who has made of it a mystery to be doled,
Or trophy, to awe with legendary fire,
Where regal banners wave?
And still into the dark it sends Desire.
In the heart's darkness it sows cruelties.
The bright jewel becomes a beacon to the vile,
A lodestar to corruption, envy's own:
Soiled with blood, fought for, clutched at; this world's prize,
Captive Authority. Oh, the star is stone
To all that outward sight,
Yet still, like truth that none has ever used,
Lives lost in its own light.
Troubled I fly. O let me wander again at will
(Far from cries, far from these
Hard blindnesses and frozen certainties!)
Where life proceeds in vastness unaware
And stirs profound and still:
Where leafing thoughts at shy touch of the air
Tremble, and gleams come seeking to be mine,
Or dart, like suddenly remembered youth,
Like the ache of love, a light, lost, found, and lost again.
Surely in the dusk some messenger was there!
But, haunted in the heart, I thirst, I pine.--
Oh, how can truth be truth
Except I taste it close and sweet and sharp
As an apple to the tooth?
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Laurence Binyon
Added by Poetry Lover
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Alastor: or, the Spirit of Solitude
Earth, Ocean, Air, belovèd brotherhood!
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs;
If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses,--have been dear to me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherished these my kindred; then forgive
This boast, belovèd brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favor now!
Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmèd night
To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Added by Poetry Lover
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