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Tradition is laziness.

quote by Gustav Mahler
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hind And The Panther, A Poem In Three Parts : Part II.

“Dame,” said the Panther, “times are mended well,
Since late among the Philistines you fell.
The toils were pitched, a spacious tract of ground
With expert huntsmen was encompassed round;
The inclosure narrowed; the sagacious power
Of hounds and death drew nearer every hour.
'Tis true, the younger lion 'scaped the snare,
But all your priestly calves lay struggling there,
As sacrifices on their altars laid;
While you, their careful mother, wisely fled,
Not trusting destiny to save your head.
For, whate'er promises you have applied
To your unfailing Church, the surer side
Is four fair legs in danger to provide;
And whate'er tales of Peter's chair you tell,
Yet, saving reverence of the miracle,
The better luck was yours to 'scape so well.”
“As I remember,” said the sober Hind,
“Those toils were for your own dear self designed,
As well as me; and with the selfsame throw,
To catch the quarry and the vermin too,—
Forgive the slanderous tongues that called you so.
Howe'er you take it now, the common cry
Then ran you down for your rank loyalty.
Besides, in Popery they thought you nurst,
As evil tongues will ever speak the worst,
Because some forms, and ceremonies some
You kept, and stood in the main question dumb.
Dumb you were born indeed; but, thinking long,
The test, it seems, at last has loosed your tongue:
And to explain what your forefathers meant,
By real presence in the sacrament,
After long fencing pushed against a wall,
Your salvo comes, that he's not there at all:
There changed your faith, and what may change may fall.
Who can believe what varies every day,
Nor ever was, nor will be at a stay?”
“Tortures may force the tongue untruths to tell,
And I ne'er owned myself infallible,”
Replied the Panther: “grant such presence were,
Yet in your sense I never owned it there.
A real virtue we by faith receive,
And that we in the sacrament believe.”
“Then,” said the Hind, “as you the matter state,
Not only Jesuits can equivocate;
For real, as you now the word expound,
From solid substance dwindles to a sound.
Methinks, an Æsop's fable you repeat;
You know who took the shadow for the meat:
Your Church's substance thus you change at will,

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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Religio Laici

(OR A LAYMAN'S FAITH)

Dim, as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars
To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers,
Is reason to the soul; and as on high,
Those rolling fires discover but the sky
Not light us here; so reason's glimmering ray
Was lent not to assure our doubtful way,
But guide us upward to a better day.
And as those nightly tapers disappear
When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere
So pale grows reason at religion's sight:
So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.
Some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have been led
From cause to cause, to Nature's secret head;
And found that one first principle must be:
But what, or who, that Universal He;
Whether some soul incompassing this ball
Unmade, unmov'd; yet making, moving all;
Or various atoms' interfering dance
Leapt into form (the noble work of chance
Or this great all was from eternity;
Not even the Stagirite himself could see;
And Epicurus guess'd as well as he:
As blindly grop'd they for a future state;
As rashly judg'd of Providence and Fate:
But least of all could their endeavours find
What most concern'd the good of human kind.
For happiness was never to be found;
But vanish'd from 'em, like enchanted ground.
One thought content the good to be enjoy'd:
This, every little accident destroy'd:
The wiser madmen did for virtue toil:
A thorny, or at best a barren soil:
In pleasure some their glutton souls would steep;
But found their line too short, the well too deep;
And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep.
Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll,
Without a centre where to fix the soul:
In this wild maze their vain endeavours end:
How can the less the greater comprehend?
Or finite reason reach infinity?
For what could fathom God were more than He.

The Deist thinks he stands on firmer ground;
Cries [lang g]eur{-e}ka[lang e] the mighty secret's found:
God is that spring of good; supreme, and best;
We, made to serve, and in that service blest;
If so, some rules of worship must be given;
Distributed alike to all by Heaven:

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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Red Skies

Why can't people just understand
money's something in the nature of the hand
now as we need something to help us with
all used up and nothing more to give
Change for the better
no more laziness kills like murder
help another you want for someday
you cant hide while I'm running
And all these people they don't comprehend
all those obscure animals aren't even in their pen
along the wheels comes the pain and strife,
(???)
Change for the better
no more laziness kills like murder
help another you want for someday
you cant hide while I'm running
And all these people they don't comprehend
all those obscure animals aren't even in their pen
along the wheels comes the pain and strife,
(???)
Change for the better
no more laziness kills like murder
help another you want for someday
you cant hide while I'm running
Change for the better
no more laziness kills like murder
help another you want for someday
you cant hide while I'm running

song performed by Blink 182
Added by Lucian Velea
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The African Tradition

Libation! It is the African tradition;
It is the centre culture of our tradition;
The power of the African child,
The network of the information from the household gods
And the gods of kingdom, the gods of our identity.
We libate with schnapps, awake the spirits
Of our ancestors so speed us in action an' reaction
But done upon the gad at ease we no longer
For our centre culture active no more as things fell apart
But who is he that makes our minds troubled?
And walk we abroad and forgot our tradition,
Our culture, belief, our vehicle and our tradition
Woe to you foreigner for deception is you;
The betweeness between us took you away from us
And our offspring you turned rebels with your foreign ideas.
The networks of our wise ones you intercepted
And your strange God now we serve with you
While our wise ones slave for your topless.
No to you foreigner, for me, myself and I shall awake
And maintain my fathers' beliefs, culture and tradition
Which I have come and seen, for it is my true identity,
For I am a true African child.

poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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Valley Forge

Close your eyes and imagine
the soldier at Valley Forge
The suffering that he endured was real
starvation, total war.
Yet in has eyes the iron will to win
and for the cause, he won't relent
(Chorus)
Would he look upon us now in anger and disgust
His politics a birthright and our creed
Will we let ignorance and laziness bring our demise
Complacency, we're blinded by our greed
Standing barefoot, frozen bloody hands
his musket clutched, an iron grip
and for the cause, he has but one regret,
he's only got one life to give
(Chorus)
Would he look upon us now in anger and disgust
His politics a birthright and our creed
Will we let ignorance and laziness bring our demise
Complacency, we're blinded by our greed
It's time for us, to open up our eyes,
and cherish the lives we all can have
and to the ones who kept our freedom free
words can't express all that you've done
(Chorus)
Would he look upon us now in anger and disgust
His politics a birthright and our creed
Will we let ignorance and laziness bring our demise
Complacency, we're blinded by our greed

song performed by Iced Earth
Added by Lucian Velea
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When they talk about family values, it's in a repressive way, as if our American tradition were only the Puritan tradition or the 19th century oppressive tradition. The Christian tradition.

quote by James Hillman
Added by Lucian Velea
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The epic poet has behind him a tradition of matter and a tradition of style; and that is what every other poet has behind him too; only, for the epic poet, tradition is rather narrower, rather more strictly compelling.

quote by Lascelles Abercrombie
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mother-child rotation

Tradition breeds revolution
Revolution grows to tradition.
Tradition breeds revolution again.
They are like mother child rotation.
29.10.2007.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Cruelty

Standing on the top of the world (4x)
Standing on the top of the world
Standing on the top of the world
Standing on the top it's a long way down.
It's too easy to feel conceit
Its too easy to feel elite
The propaganda that you're fed.
Don't think you can count on it
When you judge yourself.
Supremacy means there's no conscience here
Supremacy means there's no compassion here.
Tradition rules
Despite the rotten truth.
Despite the atrophy
Despite the waste and greed.
It's too easy to feel conceit
Its too easy to feel elite
The propaganda that you're fed.
Don't think you can count on it
When you judge yourself.
It's a risky thought reinforced from youth.
Everything's a resource that's fit for abuse.
Tradition rules in the hearts of stubborn fools
Tradition rules no matter how cruel.
It's just their arrogance
Arrogance that fuels their cruelty.
Arrogance
Arrogance that fuels their cruelty.
Arrogance is stupidity
When its surrounded in our frailty
Arrogance is stupidity
When its surrounded in our frailty
Knock them down

song performed by Sick Of It All from Yours Truly
Added by Lucian Velea
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God

Written by ugly kid joe
God, please push me in the right direction
God, Im hoping that youll understand
God, Im trying to make amends now
God, Im asking for your guiding hand
Everybodys got the wrong opinion
Everybody says whats on their mind
Everybodys got the wrong tradition
Everybody pray to the man
God, Im reading in your holy books now
God, Im singing and Im not afraid
God, Im looking for the only way out now
God, Im hoping that I can be saved
Everybodys got the wrong religion
You wont say whats on your mind
Some wont hear why others listen
Everybody pray to the man
Why dont you ever answer questions
Now my faith is slipping away
Im looking in a different direction
Believing is the only way
Everybodys got their own tradition
(everybodys got the wrong religion)
Everybodys got their own salvation
(everybodys got the wrong submission)
Everybodys got their own religion
(everybodys got the wrong tradition)
Everybody pray to the man

song performed by Ugly Kid Joe
Added by Lucian Velea
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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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Dear Lorca

Dear Lorca,

These letters are to be as temporary as our poetry is to be permanent. They will establish the bulk, the wastage that my sour-stomached contemporaries demand to help them swallow and digest the pure word. We will use up our rhetoric here so that it will not appear in our poems. Let it be consumed paragraph by paragraph, day by day, until nothing of it is left in our poetry and nothing of our poetry is left in it. It is precisely because these letters are unnecessary that they must be written.
In my last letter I spoke of the tradition. The fools that read these letters will think by this we mean what tradition seems to have meant lately—an historical patchwork (whether made up of Elizabethan quotations, guide books of the poet’s home town, or obscure bits of magic published by Pantheon) which is used to cover up the nakedness of the bare word. Tradition means much more than that. It means generations of different poets in different countries patiently telling the same story, writing the same poem, gaining and losing something with each transformation—but, of course, never really losing anything. This has nothing to do with calmness, classicism, temperament, or anything else. Invention is merely the enemy of poetry.
See how weak prose is. I invent a word like invention. These paragraphs could be translated, transformed by a chain of fifty poets in fifty languages, and they still would be temporary, untrue, unable to yield the substance of a single image. Prose invents—poetry discloses.
A mad man is talking to himself in the room next to mine. He speaks in prose. Presently I shall go to a bar and there one or two poets will speak to me and I to them and we will try to destroy each other or attract each other or even listen to each other and nothing will happen because we will be speaking in prose. I will go home, drunken and dissatisfied, and sleep—and my dreams will be prose. Even the subconscious is not patient enough for poetry.
You are dead and the dead are very patient.

Love,
Jack

poem by Jack Spicer
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Time - Acrostic Palindrome Revisited

Titan Chronos wields sharp sickle, fickle Fate dictates gifts Gods
In second thoughts withdraw to pour cold water on fond hope,
Margin call all castles in the air to dust bring 'neath the sods,
Entropy replaces order, chaos borders balance, scope.

Time seeds seconds that it swallows as each follows each to teach
Idyll; Golden Age; soon harvests, rapeseed reaped with scarce a nod,
Mortality is empty dream, nothing living's out of reach
Ever will grim reaper gather what was given, trod to clod.

Time spins headlong, helter-skelter, alpha omega its hum,
Innate energy refocussed, hocus-pocus drawing blind,
Merging, surging, fresh emerging each dimension is assigned
Extra frequencies as harmonies seek equilibrium.

Thrust of course is force attraction contradictions overcome,
If upset the great equation's recreated, recombined,
Musters flux, reflux ethereal, in many ways declined,
Echo-systems spectra spectral, strata senses tuned as one.

Time from nano into nano ages stages fossil fuelled
Interspersing glaciation, dehydration, round and round
Myths upon examination show their roots as underground
Emerges, surface surges, strata cooled, their sense retooled.

Thus what once anticipation seemed probation turns as, schooled,
Independent thought's adopted as tradition sound, profound,
Marred by nations renovation bar, or scar with strict surround
Emphasizing naught surprising, innovations overruled

Though new cycle spins unpin past wins while progress must address
Inventively the challenges its choices stimulate
Migrating through some voices, denigrating other traits,
Eliminating those which probleme pose to those whose maladdress

Tends to influence trends 'safety' 'prudence' spendthrift short-term stress.
Interests vested often soften tracks orginal, contest
Modus operandi handy which could status quo divest,
Elevating into icons past emoticon success.

Time together birds of feather nests, two nurturing four more,
In addition for perdition they're included in Life's count,
Marking more for Death to tally, soon all rally scaffold mount,
Ever higher populations soar, regenerating core.

Tortoise Time of able fable, snide greed, pride, speed, overcome,
Is it justice? Is it balance? Those ahead dropp d[r]ead behind,
Making room through swift disposals for proposals less confined,
Express need for further testing, jesting, questing, inquest dumb.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Why Those Battles Between Them Persist Without End

I am not one to analyze or bring to judgement,
The misdeeds done by those now dead.
Or correct with facts those deceits done,
To shed bright light upon that which has been said.
There is nothing in it for me,
To declare a victory.

However,
I am one to speak from my own experiences...
About those implications that were fed to devastate.
And reason and causes of those effects,
That have left divisions needing mending...
From an implementing by those dead,
To have those they disliked...
Tossing without sleep in their beds at night.

A healing from wrongs to make them right,
Has to take place to stop needless fights.
And what is there to gain to maintain conflicts?
By the ones living unable to comprehend...
Why those battles between them persist without end.

I am not one to analyze or bring to judgement,
The misdeeds done by those now dead.
Or correct with facts those deceits done,
To shed bright light upon that which has been said.
There is nothing in it for me,
To declare a victory.

'Why are you fighting?
And what purpose does it serve? '

~Because it's...
Because it is a,
Well...
Because! ~

And there is absolutely nothing in it for you,
To continue blindly doing those things you do...
Because of tradition?

What is your definition of that tradition?
And those living to defend it?
Why can't you respond for a meaning of it to mention.
Or know where to begin.
Since many traditions held today...
Have proven to make little if any sense!

To declare what is your tradition?
To maintain one's right to remain ignorant?

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Vision of Don Roderick

Introduction.

I.
Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire
May rise distinguished o'er the din of war;
Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre
Who sung beleaguered Ilion's evil star?
Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar,
Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's range;
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar,
All, as it swelled 'twixt each loud trumpet-change,
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!

II.
Yes! such a strain, with all o'er-pouring measure,
Might melodise with each tumultuous sound
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores around;
The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crowned,
The female shriek, the ruined peasant's moan,
The shout of captives from their chains unbound,
The foiled oppressor's deep and sullen groan,
A Nation's choral hymn, for tyranny o'erthrown.

III.
But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day
Skilled but to imitate an elder page,
Timid and raptureless, can we repay
The debt thou claim'st in this exhausted age?
Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage
Those that could send thy name o'er sea and land,
While sea and land shall last; for Homer's rage
A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty hand -
How much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!

IV.
Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast
The friends of Scottish freedom found repose;
Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,
Returning from the field of vanquished foes;
Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung,
What time their hymn of victory arose,
And Cattraeth's glens with voice of triumph rung,
And mystic Merlin harped, and grey-haired Llywarch sung?

V.
Oh! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,
As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say,
When sweeping wild and sinking soft again,

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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To The Author(s) Of Manimekhalai

'Apart from its popular conception of transmigration, (which is) sometimes almost humouristic, Manimekhalai offers a documentary contribution of immense value, under an easily accessible form, on the philosophical speculations of Ancient India. The cosmology of Sankya, the scientism of Vaisheshika, the logic of Nyaya, the materialism of Lokayata, originally related to the Ajivika tradition, (all of) which re-appeared with force in the Dravidian world following the Saivite renewal a little before the beginning of the Christian era. The(se) concepts which had little by little, during the course of centuries, influenced the Vedic tradition manifested themselves with force from then on in an autonomous way and went on to give birth to the philosophy of Mediaeval India.'
(From Alain Danielou's 'Preface' in his and T. V. Gopala Iyer's Manimékhalai)

To some the interest is in the reading hearing singing
To others in the Buddhist faith that moved the begetter(s)
To most the wondrous-unwonders of the story
born in the Cilappatikaram
To a few in the monstrous bending of the verse in
nilamantilavaciriyappa
To all time to parse in tongue-grinding heady rhymes
initial rhymes
end-rhymes
alliterations
antitheses
rigourous unsyntactic ellipses
double syllabic feet
four to the line
the exceptions in three
all a mnemonic scaffolding of repetitive sound

For yet others after Catanar's warehouses in Puhar were long empty
the task of interpretation arose
Some sought to impute his motives to caste-enhancing kingly favours
Some as Aravana Atigal's hagiographer
Some as a bodhisattva-feat acquirer
Some as the anthologiser of myth and tradition
Some as the poet-laureate of a people's ancient lore
Some as a collective grass-roots inspirational catalyser
Some as the hindu kings' proselytiser
Some as a patron of a ghost-writer
Some perhaps as the first ecstatic copyist
Some who knows as an unrepenting plagiarist

Who should care after all these years
Who wrote what and why
no image rests of him
nor the jetties and godowns of the Cola entrepôt
nor whether some Yavana read to him
during the long monsoonal wait back for Rome
the feisty encounters of a Ulysses
or the airy goings and comings of the Olympian pantheon
nor whether he cared to listen
being full of a pride of his own

To have written is to leave but a mark
nothing stands for the proud rhyming syllables
more than his acquired business acumen
a Vaishya karmic hope

[...] Read more

poem by T. Wignesan
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Heritage, You Spin

Beauty is verily rediscovered
In nature's resplendent hues
As she taps spaces in my lonely heart
Those that have not yet been awakened
To the langoured looks of her sensuality
As she lies untouched and waiting
To be embraced and owned as one more
Of god's creation, unrivalled jewel since time

Culture is fruitfully unfolded
In mankind's channelled behaviour
As she rips spaces in my bruised heart
That has only often seen her cruel side
As painful actions of her ruthlessness
Beam larger in comparison to her appealing ways
To be endorsed and sanctified as yet another
Of the Maker's endowment since mankind's birth

Tradition is carefully unveiled
In bountiful streaks of concern
As she clings unwittingly to my heart
In those ridges that grope for miracles
While bounden immaculate mercies lie unharnessed
As they zoom past as if on flying wheels
To be accepted, unsuspected and unchallenged
As His mastery spans creatures great and small

In time we shall decidedly know!
That beauty discards its mask to be rediscovered
That culture instills spirituality to be unfolded
That tradition abandons its scent to be unveiled
In time, we shall surely come to know!

By aryaindia

Author's comments:
The value of beauty, culture and tradition should never be underestimated

poem by Aryaindia India
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Our questions and answers are in part determined by the historical tradition in which we find ourselves. We apprehend truth from our own source within the historical tradition. The content of our truth depends upon our appropriating the historical foundation. Our own power of generation lies in the rebirth of what has been handed down to us. If we do not wish to slip back, nothing must be forgotten; but if
philosophising is to be genuine our thoughts must arise from our own source. Hence all appropriation of tradition proceeds from the intentness of our own life. The more determinedly I exist, as myself, within the conditions of the time, the more clearly I shall hear the language of the past, the nearer I shall feel the glow of its life.

quote by Karl Jaspers
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Small laziness leads to big laziness.

Tywa proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; III:

Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; III: On Laziness And Its Resultant Ills
There was a man in New York City
(His name was George Adolphus Knight)
So soft of heart he wept with pity
To see our language and its plight.

He mourned to see it sorely goaded
With silent letters left and right;
These from his own name he unloaded
And wrote it Georg Adolfus Nit.

Six other men in that same city
Who longed to see a Spelling Heaven
Formed of themselves a strong committee
And asked Georg Nit to make it seven.

He joined the other six with pleasure,
Proud such important men to know,
Agreeing that their first great measure
Should be to shorten the word though.

But G. Adolfus Nit was lazy;
He dilly-dallied every day;
His life was dreamy, slow and hazy,
And indolent in every way.

On Monday morn at nine precisely
The six reformers (Nit not there)
Prepared to simplify though nicely,
And each was eager for his share.

Smith bit the h off short and ate it;
Griggs from the thoug chewed off the g;
Brown snapped off u to masticate it,
And tho alone was left for three.

Delancy’s teeth broke o off quickly;
From th Billings took his t,
And then the h, albeit prickly,
Was shortly swallowed by McGee.

This done, the six lay back in plenty,
Well fed, they picked their teeth and smiled,
And lazy Nit, about 10:20,
Strolled in, as careless as a child.

'Well, boys,' he said, 'where’s the collation?
I’m hungry, let us eat some though.'
'All gone!' they said, and then Starvation,
(Who is not lazy) laid Nit low.

[...] Read more

poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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