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if you are on the same boat with me. Come.

as you read these lines
(let me tell you, there is nothing
significant, and i may advise you
to quit and may even ask
that you write your own
instead
it may be good for you
than continue to read
on the next line...

why not write
something about yourself and the
full moon and the lonely tree
that needs badly a
good company to pass the dark
night away)

why not just be
on your own,
solitude and self-introspection?
the secret journey to your heart
looking for
the place that is only for you

happiness, right?
eternal bliss, how about it?

you are curious about my boredom
the ennui of the century
perhaps you like to know how i deal
with the numbness of my being

every night every day
when slowly i die and feel so excited
about ending this ordeal and

how i cope with it

yes, the it.
this it. my it. this self....

attempting on
writing lines

whatever lines that come into my mind
words that try to please my senses
symbols that give me hope
figures of gods who may be able to say
something wise and
inspiring,
images. lots of images...

the image of the wind
on the wings of the seagulls

the colors changing on the horizon
like a swab of orange and red and black
or blood

or pastel green on the shadows of the hills
or the brightness of the sun when i stare at it and hurt my eyes
and then i close them
and see this world as all red
bursting red
like a sunset coming
and then fading away like a song
of a flute faraway


i wish i could stop writing
i wish that i could get a nice sleep
a restive mind
a peaceful state
a harmony of all my sense
up and down

but nothing seems to work right for me
i tried to sing the songs of love
but my ears say

liar! you do not have love in your heart
you do not know the feeling anymore

i tried drawing my thoughts and putting bright colors
on the images of green fields and blues skies
and stars and even seven moons of the other planets
but always they end up so displeasing

i am looking for the meaning of my life and if you are
on the same boat with me
then come and take the ride
on the stormy sea
no lamplight
no island to land
no north star to guide us


i ask you to quit reading but you are just like me
hardheaded human being insisting that there is meaning to all these
and the inability to stop
and be a quitter

quieter, i mean.
hopefully.

in the silence of the cat's feet
cautiously catching another prey
let me stop now. quit me.

Look at the sky. Do you see stars?

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Just you wait...! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Knock, knock
Whos there?

Its me the breeze
Want to caress your cheeks.

Knock, knock
Whos there?

Its me the full moon, roll up the blinds
Want to flood you with my silver light.

Knock, knock
Whos there?

Its me the pigeon, want you to know
I understand what its like to feel low.

Knock, knock
I just listen to tick tick of the clock.

Swallow some bile.
Don’t answer for a while.

It was very very still.
Got up to take a pill.

Felt I was not alone.
Stopped to moan.

He stood with his kind eyes.
I smiled, Lord a real good try

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Patrick White

I Love The World The Way A Mother Loves A Dead Child

I love the world the way a mother loves a dead child
and sees its ghost everywhere.
I look at the stars and more and more
I see the disappointment in their eyes.
We waste each other like clear cut forests.
In the sacred groves where the priests
are the birds of death, you're either
a chainsaw or a nail protesting a passion play.
Ever since the last lyric died an agonizing death
poems have become gadgets
in the hands of inventors without fingerprints.
No growth rings in the heartwood of a dead tree.
Tone-deaf door-knockers who write poetry
as a kind of white noise to drown out
the shrieking of the innocent in their crawl spaces.

Chronic renewal of one-eyed overviews.
Most people's lives are just big enough lies
they've told themselves often enough
to believe there may be something to it.
Wounded earth, I weep for you like a slayer
weeps for the slain. You were not my mother.
You were my child. Nemetic humanity
raises its own assassin in paranoid despair.

Measure of the mighty in the power of a dam,
how easy it is to forget the omnipotence
of a dropp of rain. It's still possible to open
cosmic gates of the aviaries and let
all the winged horses fly free and riderless
like the silk paratroopers of the milk weed pods
or the albino umbrellas of smouldering dandelions.
But for the most part
beauty and truth lost heart long ago
and were turned out like fashionistas
on the celebrity catwalks of surrealistic irreverence
and now the peony is wearing the thorns of the rose.

I still go out at night far from town by myself
to amuse the stars with my humanity,
the dents in my shining, the legends of light
I turned into black farces of self-righteous fallibility
as if I had acquired the power to reverse
a diamond back into coal. The mourning dove
studies the occult magic of the crow
and the sacred clowns look for enlightenment
in their shame, in the irrelevant antics
of the painted tears that fall from their eyes
whenever they address themselves
like mirrors in a green room putting their make-up on.

Been in the tide of this night sea of awareness
so long now, I've developed a tendency
to round the sharp corners of the crucials
out into more spherically embrasive wavelengths,
kinder pieces of sand-blasted glass
to insulate myself exponentially from the details
as if a full moon were some kind of antidote
to its own fangs and the harvest wasn't toxic.
But I know I'm only trying to divine my way
by white lightning on the moon illuminating a road
as wide as everywhere. And my childhood rage
is stilling tearing down gates and fences
around open fields where the wildflowers bloom
without starmaps, and the bounty of the earth
isn't a menu that determines your place in the foodchain.

Poetry's been the longest good night I've ever experienced
and life the deepest, most gracious bow
to all the people, events, and things I've ever cherished.
Not too hard to see the lowest common denominator
of all values has become a quantum mechanical lottery
and physics is just a screening myth
for what gets murdered along the way to the promised land.
Enculturated to our own pollution like fish,
though we swim out as far as the spring equinox in Pisces
to pour the universe out of the universe,
worlds waterclocking into worlds, still
after washing ourselves off in stars like water and sand
seeping into our graves like the mirage of an oil spill,
we're still recognized immediately among the worlds
by the indelibility of our filth, having yet to learn
not to track our identity in after us into the house of life.

The ululation of the loons wailing like Arab widows
reverberating across the lake sounds more
like an angry plea, than a call to prayer,
but who could lament the immensity
of that kind of tragic absence in a single lifetime
without emptying their spirits out like dry wells in a desert
that navigates like a madman by the full moon?
When I was young, I opened up a night school
to explain what a human was to the stars,
but now my soul's a lot more illiterate than it was
and it's me that's asking them to teach me to read.


Even if you look at it like a leather boot
that's walked down one too many roads
not to feel the pebble of the world bruise its heel,
even though we've made a great mess of it,
it's still a great mystery, yes? Give your assent
without hesitation, or the moon will know you're lying.
The mysterium tremendum et fascinans of the Romans.
The bright vacancy in the dark abundance
of the ore of our unknowing. Even the hardest heart
bleeds like iron out of the sacred rock
transformed in the forges of the fireflies of mystic insight
into a sword of moonlight worthy of being
laid down upon the waters of life in tribute.
Even if you had to fall upon it more than once
to get the point before you returned it in gratitude.

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Song, Poverty Parts Good Company

WHEN my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow an brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.
How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight,
When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright,
And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holy-day gear!
Woe is me; and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic company?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk;
And the sound o'her voice, and the blinks o'her een,
The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been.
Leaves frae the tree, at Mertimass flee,
And poverty parts sweet company.
At bridal and infare, I braced me wi' pride,
The bruise I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride;
And loud was the laughter good fellows among,
As I uttered my banter or chorused my song;
Dowie and dree are jestin and glee,
When poverty spoils good company.
Wherever I gaed kindly lasses looked sweet,
And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;
While kebbuck and beeker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word!
Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee
Wi' poverty keep nae company.
But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart,
And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart,
For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Though cruelly we may ilka day see
How poverty parts dear company.

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In my next life, I want to be tall and thin, parallel park and make good coffee. But for now, I have lots of stuff to work out in my life, but I'll have that until the day I die. I want to write more books.

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What gives Buddha the eternal bliss

was it the last temptation
for him to give up?

that nirvana is nothingness, nothingness
absolute nothingness

and to get there you even have
to give up the desire for it

oh thank God buddha he passes
he plods on even when absolute
nothingness is the reward

what the devil fails puts buddha
in an eternal bliss

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I Have Attained The Eternal Bliss

I have attained the Eternal Bliss.
There is no time for sorrow or pain,
for now I enjoy singing His glory.

The tree of His pleasure has neither root, nor seed,
as revealed by the grace of the true Guru.

Now there is effulgence of a million suns,
my swan has dipped in the lake of His knowledge.

Says Kabir, listen, O wise brother,
Now comings and goings have come to an end.

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Eternal Bliss

floor of the moon, silvery white
someone dancing, cant be seen.
glimpse of shadow, unveils
a dark spot on the bright,
stars, unseenlives and the sea
sing sweetly: a spritual chorus
Hymn it should be...........
at the seashore,
unutterred whisper like prayer
with the tighten lips roars
lovers gather unconsciously
like a dream....
my soul flies, body lay asleep
an eternal bliss...
I am dreaming.....silently

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Passtime with good company

1 Pastime with good company
2 I love and shall unto I die.
3 Grudge whoso will, but none deny,
4 So God be pleased, this live will I.
5 For my pastance
6 Hunt, sing, and dance.
7 My heart is set
8 All godely sport
9 To my comfort.
10 Who shall me let?

11 Youth will have needs daliance,
12 Of good or ill some pastance.
13 Company me thinketh then best
14 All thoftes and fantasies to digest.
15 For idleness
16 Is chief mistress
17 Of vices all.
18 Than who can say
19 But "pass the day"
20 Is best of all?

21 Company with honesty
22 Is virtue, and vice to flee.
23 Company is good or ill
24 But every man hath his free will.
25 The best ensue,
26 The worst eschew,
27 My mind shall be.
28 Virtue to use,
29 Vice to refuse,
30 I shall use me.

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Don't Wonder Why

(Verse 1)
You never see, the little sparkle, in my eye
I wonder why
Sometimes I wish, you stop and hold me, but you pass right by
I wonder why
I tried, everything I could, I even change my walk, the way that I stood
But you, pass by me, and pretend that you don't, even see me
But I want you to know (Uuuummmm)
If one day you decide to smile, and say hello and I say goodbye (Uuuummmm)
Don't wonder why my baby (no) Don't wonder why my baby
(Verse 2)
When I think of how you hurt me, it brings the tears, to my eyes
I just can't seem to make you happy, no matter how hard I try
I wonder why
Seems like, no matter what I do, it's never good, enough for you
My pain, it shows loud, but it still can't let go now, but I want you to know,
now
Nights grow old and winds blow cold, so old if my loves grows cold
And I, don't wonder why my baby (woooo)baby don't wonder why
Oh yeah!
(Instrumental)
(Yeaaahhh) Seems like, no matter what I do, i'am never, never, never, never,
never good enough for you
My pain it shows loud, oh you know I still just no matter I just can't let go
now, but I want you to know!!!
Love me bab
Nights grow old and winds blow cold, and so old, if my love grows cold
And I've, don't wonder why bab
No, no, no, no, don't wonder why my baby
Baby don't wonder why, don't wonder why my baby
Don't wonder why ,my baby
No, no, no, no don't wonder why my baby (Ooohhh)
don't wonder why my baby
Can you hear me, can you hear me

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Tomorrow Will Be A Good Day To Die

Buckskin brown eyes stare deep into the fire
Leathery brown faces turn up toward the sky
Sinewy brown muscles tensed up like wire
Tomorrow will be a good day to die

Shell necklace enclosed in long brown fingers
Aquiline nose streaked with red ocher dye
On his brave brown brothers, his gaze achingly lingers
Tomorrow will be a good day to die

Crackling mesquite, sparks rush into the night
Great horned Owl glides over, wind thru wings giving sigh
Wizened warriors look up, brown eyes reflecting firelight
Tomorrow will be a good day to die

Piebald and pinto ponies, ripping sparse desert fare
For pitiful provenance from land so desolate and dry
Long manes brushed by gentle strokes of sage scented air
Tomorrow will be a good day to die

moon light on barrels of heavy, Henry rifles
Pried from stiffened, cold fingers of the whites where they lie
Shiny forty caliber cartridges, and from bloody pockets, bloody bibles
Tomorrow will be a good day to die

Rattlesnake rattle in hand of shriveled old Shaman
Deep, aged Brows wrinkled as if in quest of the why
Old wise man, in curling smoke, sees omens uncommon
Tomorrow will be a good day to die

Ashes to embers, fire sleeps, as do warriors slumber
Sentries seen in silhouette, hear the killdeer’s predawn cry
Warriors rise, apply bold battle stripes of umber
Tomorrow will be a good day to die

Solemn homage to the sun god, the wind and the earth
Monotone prayer with bows held up on high
War pony mounted, adorned with feathery girth
Today…yes today…….
Is a good day to die

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Poking At Truth

Avoiding Truth comes with cost, but this is the choice of the lost.
Oppose God through evil desire and you will live in the Lake of Fire.
Continue ignoring The Blessed Cross and you’ll suffer eternal loss.
Believing that they do believe, but New Life is just a joke you see.

They say theres no absolutes anymore, but are they absolutely sure?
Theres no sin its in your head, this proves your spiritually dead.
Sin is real, its in your heart and without The Lord you will depart.
Theres no God, thats a joke, but on these very words they’ll choke.

Man did fall as it was written, for the forbidden fruit was bitten.
All have sinned, this you know, but He’ll wash you whiter than snow.
Christ died for you and for me, my friend He died for us upon a tree.
He died so you may see His face and save you from eternal disgrace.

If you think that all men are saved, why are so many still depraved?
If you think that all men are well, why is there a place called Hell?
Hell is not a place of eternal fun, instead a place to fear and shun.
But Heaven you don’t want to miss, for its a place of Eternal Bliss.

The fool says there is no God, but this poor soul will see His rod.
Men have boasted of empty pride, many of whom have long since died.
A fool once said God is dead, but who wound up in the grave instead?
Choosing the steps in life to trod they now must face The Living God.

The Bible is just another book, but you need to take another look.
Just take a look and you will see God’s divinely fulfilled prophecy.
If The Bible is from men not seers, how was it done over 1500 years?
My friend, have you not heard that Jesus Himself is The Living Word.

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The Bishop Orders His Tomb

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews - sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well--
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
--Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up into the aery dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk:
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.
--Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,
Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
Draw close: that conflagration of my church
--What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sink,
And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! ...
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ...
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
That brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,
Like God the Father's globe on both His hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black--
'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables . . . but I know
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.
My bath must needs be left behind, alas!
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world--
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?
--That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line--
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!
And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life before I lived this life,
And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,
Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,
--Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?
No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.
All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,
They glitter like your mother's for my soul,
Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,
To comfort me on my entablature
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone--
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat
As if the corpse they keep were oozing through--
And no more lapis to delight the world!
Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
But in a row: and, going, turn your backs
--Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
And leave me in my church, the church for peace,
That I may watch at leisure if he leers--
Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,
As still he envied me, so fair she was!

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The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Ssaint Praxed's Church, Rome

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews--sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well--
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
Do I live, am I dead?' Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
--Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up into the aery dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.
--Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,
Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
Draw close: that conflagration of my church
--What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sink,
And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! ...
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ...
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
That brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,
Like God the Father's globe on both His hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black--
'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables . . . but I know
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.
My bath must needs be left behind, alas!
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world--
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?
--That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line--
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!
And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life before I lived this life,
And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,
Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,
--Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?
No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.
All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,
They glitter like your mother's for my soul,
Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,
To comfort me on my entablature
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
'Do I live, am I dead?' There, leave me, there!
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone--
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat
As if the corpse they keep were oozing through--
And no more lapis to delight the world!
Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
But in a row: and, going, turn your backs
--Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
And leave me in my church, the church for peace,
That I may watch at leisure if he leers--
Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,
As still he envied me, so fair she was!

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Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church, Rome, The

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews--sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well--
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
--Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up into the aery dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.
--Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,
Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
Draw close: that conflagration of my church
--What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sink,
And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! ...
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ...
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
That brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,
Like God the Father's globe on both His hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black--
'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables . . . but I know
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.
My bath must needs be left behind, alas!
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world--
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?
--That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line--
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!
And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life before I lived this life,
And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,
Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,
--Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?
No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.
All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,
They glitter like your mother's for my soul,
Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,
To comfort me on my entablature
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone--
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat
As if the corpse they keep were oozing through--
And no more lapis to delight the world!
Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
But in a row: and, going, turn your backs
--Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
And leave me in my church, the church for peace,
That I may watch at leisure if he leers--
Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,
As still he envied me, so fair she was!

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The Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church

Rome, 15—

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews—sons mine...ah God, I know not! Well—
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died and so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
—Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrews was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
ANd up into the aery dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk:
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.
—Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,
Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
Draw close: that conflagration of my church
—What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sink,
And if ye find...Ah God, I know not, I!...
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast...
Sons, all I have bequeathed you, villas, all,
That brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,
Like God the Father's globe on both his hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black
'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables...but I know
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
Nay, boys, ye love meall of jasper, then!
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve
My bath must needs be left behind, alas!
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?
That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!
And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life before I lived this life,
And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,
Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,
—Aha, elucescebat quoth our friend?
No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.
All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,
They glitter like your mother's for my soul,
Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,
To comfort me on my entablature
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" THere, leave me, there!
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
To death—ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone—
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat
As if the corpse they keep were oozing through—
And no more lapis to delight the world!
Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
But in a row: and, going, turn your backs
—Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
And leave me in my church, the church for peace,
That I may watch at leisure if he leers—
Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,
As still he envied me, so fair she was!

poem by from Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)Report problemRelated quotes
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Henri Frederic Amiel

Tell me what you feel in your room when the full moon is shining in upon you and your lamp is dying out, and I will tell you how old you are, and I shall know if you are happy.

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Today we thank God for all the blessings He has bestowed upon this great Country and ask Him to continue to heal our land and meet our needs - and we do so through the power of prayer.

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who Was Your Hero

'WHO WAS YOUR HERO'

Well mine was not an hero, an heroine she was to me,
She was my Grandma Ada, I loved her as much as can be,
She really was an angel I loved her with all my might.
She loved us and she kissed us she was a gentle soul,
I know she is now an Angel for that I have been told,
She cared for us when times were hard, she was a faultless Gran,
I really did love her so, and tell her when I can.
She left us in 1980 and I still miss her so,
She was a character Gran Ada and I loved her so!
So my dear granny Ada I just want you to know,
That till the day I die and we meet again I will love you so.

David Bennett.

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Further Than You

Come to wind, carry it from the sun.
Come to rain, turns up the corners of my mouth.
And I like this wide open view
But Im not looking further than you
Come to stranger, wants to know my name.
Come tomorrow, I still feel the same.
And I like this wide open view
But Im not looking further than you
Oh, on a day like this you can see forever but thats okay.
And I like this wide open view
But Im not looking further than you
Come to moon, floating like a fish.
Come to first star, whod have thought itd come to this.
And I like this wide open view
But Im not looking further than you
And I like this wide open view
But Im not looking further than you

song performed by Heather NovaReport problemRelated quotes
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A Fixation

between two islands
of my life
i set upon a swim
this middle portion
of clear calm waters

it is not deep
no storms not even a wave
it is crystal clear
and beneath
a white sandy floor

some fish lick my legs
and tickle my pelvis
some sea grass massage
the soles of my feet

and so i like it here
and i am not going somewhere
or anywhere

the other island
which they call eternal bliss
for a while
can wait

it is between day and night
it is between heaven and earth
it is between life and death
it is what you call
my sinfulness.

in here i am very happy
and that is all enough for me

the sky blue waters are so cool
& the surroundings simply beautiful

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