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Genetic Racism

A lightning bolt thought
caused in his mind prism
a shift... a May schism..
He was to work against
geneaological and
genetic racism.

poem by Saiom Shriver
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The Shift

Check out the chick with the new dress on
(wearin a shift and it looks real fine)
The call it a shift and it comes on strong
(wearin a shift and it looks real fine)
When shes got it on, well she cant do no wrong
(wearin a shift, wearin a shift)
You may think a dress cant do very much
(wearin a shift really turns me on)
With the slit up the side, you cant resist that touch
(wearin a shift really turns me on)
Its tighter than a moo-moo and its just too much
(wearin a shift, wearin a shift)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)
(cant go wrong now) (go wrong now)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)
(turns me on now) (turns me on now)
Get your girl a shift and shell look real fine
(wearin a shift and its just too much)
It fits like a glove and drives you outta your mind
(wearin a shift and its just too much)
Shell ball it with her shift on and well have a good time
(wearin a shift, wearin a shift)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)
(turns me on now) (get a shift now)

song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Working The Midnight Shift

Im just a working girl, just earning a living
When the citys waking up, Im going home
Working the midnight shift
While my friends are all out
Theyve all gone out dancing
Theyre out having fun
Working that midnight shift
For that extra little something
The things that are out of my reach
I need so bad
So bad, so bad
Seems like Im always leaving
When all the others arrive
My body still carries on
But Im dying inside
Working the midnight shift
While my friends are all out
Theyve all gone out dancing
Theyre out having fun
Working that midnight shift
For that extra little something
The things that are out of my reach
I need so bad
I need so bad, need so bad
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Im just a working girl
Just earning a living
When the citys waking up
Im going home
Working the midnight shift
While my friends are all out
Theyve all gone out dancing
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift
Midnight shift, midnight shift

song performed by Donna Summer
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Work To Make It Work

(r palmer)
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve it
Push it along
It's all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you can't deal with
Ain't no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy
Ah push
Work work work to make it work push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
Don't confine your dreams to bed
You'll get scared if you get lazy
If you can't take enough to satisfy yourself
Then you'll go crazy
Wont do no good thinking
You got to do it
So it don't come easy the first time
Practice makes perfect, you know that i'll try hard
Use it or lose it
You got to put your heart and soul into it
Yeaheheh
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to move it
Push it along
Work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
It's all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you can't deal with
Ain't no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy forget wishful thinking
You can do it
You just need a push to make a start
If you don't succeed the first time
Try and try again
Use it or lose it
You got to put your back into it
Work work work to make it work
Push it along

[...] Read more

song performed by Robert Palmer
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Payment

A tortuous path of neurons arced a call: ‘Awake! ’
I did; in rising, peering, stretching, bearing,
Pained anticipation saw it all:
Foretold, another filthy day.

I drew the drape: diluvian lay the ground
Beneath a lazy leaden cloud – apissing out
The puddles; irksome on the roof –
The drumming drops of bitter glee
Were hounding out a hapless me –
Reinforcing doubt that I am sound.

I left the house
to go to work
to earn a crust
without a perk
then on to bust
another straining vessel.

Trudging on thro’ mud and clay, I pondered:
‘Why a drought of happy times?
Auspicious climes were
Old and fusty books
Atop a dusty shelf
Inside a morgue-of-a-room,
Somewhere in a long-forgotten library
Down a lane without a way.’

I thought again: ‘And still I pay.’

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The racism

The racism erases
the beautiful memories
and it believes
in the perfect
world
The racism is
a too big
and horrible problem
It is a
wrong and impure
mistake
The racism is
a bad and
public thought
The racism is
played by the
poors of reasons
The racism doesn't
live in the
jungle but it
lives in the
modern society
I'm against the
racism
The racists are
cursed because they
are false
For me the
racism resides in
the hate
For the innocents
the racism is
lost war
For me the
racism doesn't exist
in a citizen
world
For me the
racism is a
terrible suffering
It can't stand
the harmony and
the heart of
a bay
It survives in
the evident darkness
The racism hates
the comfortable and
hospitable villa
The racism serves

[...] Read more

poem by Laura arwen
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Work To Make It Work 99

Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve it
Push it along
Its all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you cant deal with
Aint no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy
Ah push
Work work work to make it work push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
Dont confine your dreams to bed
Youll get scared if you get lazy
If you cant take enough to satisfy yourself
Then youll go crazy
Wont do no good thinking
You got to do it
So it dont come easy the first time
Practice makes perfect, you know that Ill try hard
Use it or lose it
You got to put your heart and soul into it
Yeaheheh
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to move it
Push it along
Work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
Its all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you cant deal with
Aint no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy forget wishful thinking
You can do it
You just need a push to make a start
If you dont succeed the first time
Try and try again
Use it or lose it
You got to put your back into it
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to move it

[...] Read more

song performed by Robert Palmer
Added by Lucian Velea
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racism- A Game Of Colour

I give you a set of colours
Red, blue, green, yellow, pink, brown, black and white
And you would say red and blue are complement complimentary,
and that contemporary brown and green are supplementary
And white is elementary,
and that black is voluntary
I would say its the adjective of racism
For racism is a game of colour
For racism is trauma of complexion

You argue black is obscurity,
white is dazzling and brown poverty
with yellow as footling
But i withstand your considerations
I would say they are the adjectives of racism
For racism is a game of colour
For racism is shame humanitarian

Tired! wanna defend?
Well, i give you some more parameters:
Demography, shape, education, economy, gender
You would say demography is fortune
And shape is good trait
That economy is brained brawn power
While gender supporting the theory of magnetism-'Unlike poles attract each other'
I would say they suffice for adjectives of racism
For racism is a game of colour
For racism is as despicable as a heinous odour

Hither and thither,
helter skeleter,
far and near,
thereover, hereunder,
I find, you see, we have colours blaming each other
Some colours say they are souvenirs
And that rest are samaritans
Some colours say they are absolute riches
And that others are dumped ditches

Hypothetically colours have some limitations
Like the dimensions in a piece of paper
And once it is replete
There is no need for scribbling black and blue
Like in reality some job agencies tag some skilled candidates to be obsolete-
Only coz' they don't match a colour of their tape-the bureaucratic red tape,
Or, they do not have blue references for a lush green outcome as future
Here ironically, one should really ponder
The world around us would have been a sheer monotony
Bereft of all hues considered as under

[...] Read more

poem by Amit Ray
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Second Book

TIMES followed one another. Came a morn
I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
And looked before and after, as I stood
Woman and artist,–either incomplete,
Both credulous of completion. There I held
The whole creation in my little cup,
And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,
'Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine
And all these peoples.'
I was glad, that day;
The June was in me, with its multitudes
Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
My childhood backward in a childish jest
To see the face of't once more, and farewell!
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
At early morning,–would not wait so long
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
With my gown in the dew, took will and way
Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
To fly my fancies in the open air
And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;
'The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,
And so with me it must be, unless I prove
Unworthy of the grand adversity,–
And certainly I would not fail so much.
What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
Before my brows be numb as Dante's own
To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
Such leaves? what leaves?'
I pulled the branches down,
To choose from.
'Not the bay! I choose no bay;
The fates deny us if we are overbold:
Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dare not touch
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
Ah–there's my choice,–that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lightning Jack

The air was still, the eve was chill
And the Elders forecast rain,
They looked to the distant rolling hills
At the ominous cloud that came,
The doors and shutters of cottage folk
Were slammed and barred in the dark,
With the first of the lightning forking down
On its way to the village of Stark.

A figure stood at the crossroads there,
And stared at the cloud in dread,
His boots were muddied, his topcoat wet
And his hat just drooped on his head,
With thunder rumbling like a growl
At the back of the Devil's throat,
The figure dropped to his knees and howled,
In a long and a high pitched note.

The crossroad gibbet was made of oak,
Had carried a hundred moans,
Had hung its felons from each of its arms
'Til the flesh had peeled from their bones,
It stood like a force of nature, poised
To point three ways in the dark,
To the towns of Taye, of Ath and Brahe
And fourth, to the village of Stark.

The thunder had rolled relentlessly,
The rain, it was pelting down,
A villager saw the figure there
As he halted a while, and frowned,
The lightning forked from the darkening cloud
And it struck the figure in black,
As the oak exploded in one brief flash
By the figure of Lightning Jack.

The figure staggered and howled once more
Then he shook his fist at the sky,
He'd been lit by the bright blue thunderbolt
That had crisped his hat, bone dry,
But now he was mad as he raised his voice
And he screamed by the wreck of the tree:
'You can burst the gibbet and scorch the earth
But by God, you can't get me! '

He made his way to the village of Stark
Took a room at the village Inn,
But news had spread of his near escape
From the lightning bolt of sin,
The villagers took to crossing themselves

[...] Read more

poem by David Lewis Paget
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A Bushman's Song

I’M travellin’ down the Castlereagh, and I’m a station hand,
I’m handy with the ropin’ pole, I’m handy with the brand,
And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,
But there’s no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. +

So it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt
That we’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out,
With the pack-horse runnin’ after, for he follows like a dog,
We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.

This old black horse I’m riding—if you’ll notice what’s his brand,
He wears the crooked R, you see—none better in the land.
He takes a lot of beatin’, and the other day we tried,
For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt
That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out;
But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog—
He’s a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.

I asked a cove for shearin’ once along the Marthaguy:
“We shear non-union here,” says he. “I call it scab,” says I.
I looked along the shearin’ floor before I turned to go—
There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin’ in a row.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt
It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about.
So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog,
And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.

I went to Illawarra, where my brother’s got a farm,
He has to ask his landlord’s leave before he lifts his arm;
The landlord owns the country side—man, woman, dog, and cat,
They haven’t the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn’t the slightest doubt
Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out;
Was I to touch my hat to him?—was I his bloomin’ dog?
So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.

But it’s time that I was movin’, I’ve a mighty way to go
Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below;
Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin’ down,
And I’ll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.

So, it’s shift, boys, shift, for there isn’t the slightest doubt
We’ve got to make a shift to the stations further out;
The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog,
And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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III. The Other Half-Rome

Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Racism and the Culture Of Racism

We must be aware…..,
Of the Culture Of Racism….,
It’s a slur and a swear….,
The Culture Of Racism….! ! !

Can’t turn your back….,
On the Culture Of Racism….,
Or you’ll feel the whack…,
Of the Culture Of Racism….! ! !

It’s hard to believe….
The Culture Of Racism….,
That’s why we all grieve….,
The Culture Of Racism…! ! !

We must face the facts….,
On the Culture Of Racism ….! ! !
Cause we’ve seen the attacks…..,
Of the Culture Of Racism….,

It follows us all…,
The Culture Of Racism….,
But we must stand tall….,
Against the Culture Of Racism….! ! !

Can we control or stop it….,
As long as it’s been livin’….? ? ?
That’s the priceless question….,
On the Culture Of Racism…! ! !

poem by Trade Martin
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Racism Still Sadly Continues...

Racism comes in many different shapes and forms
Sadly I have had my fair share since I’ve been born
Judged before I have been even given a chance
Delaying my future and for my career to advance

My parents tell me of stories they have had to endure
I wish racism was a sickness with a dose of medication to cure
Thankfully there are good hearted and educated people
Who can look beyond skin colour and treat us all as an equal

Why would another person’s skin colour be such an issue?
Get to know them; they might have things in common just like you
I am so fed up of hearing “They from so and so, they all the same”
Everyone has differences but skin colour is not to blame

I wonder sometimes is it because the racist themselves are afraid to mix
Who knows, I am only looking for a solution to get it fixed
It’s a major problem none of us like or need,
How sad to hear, a racist sees skin colour the only reason to want to make you bleed
You see films like ‘Mississippi Burning’
I think to myself that was then but when are racist going to start learning?

If humans never saw in colour, what would it be like then?
I am sure everyone would get along and call each other friend
I hope my kids and the next generation never get to witness racism first hand
Lets pray for them racism was a issue in the past that no longer stands

Life is hard as it is, without the need of racism
Like supporting our family and giving our kids a good education
Ways to stop racism should begin at home and school
Getting along will be our biggest advantage, our strongest tool
I did have people who I did call friends
But their own racist views meant our friendship had to end

It does not matter, if your white, black or brown
You should feel safe to walk and talk in any town
Racism has to be erased from every country and every street
Knowing racism is not an issue when theirs someone new we meet
Everyone has the right to go anywhere they choose
Because whilst racism is still alive, no one wins, everybody lose

To those facing racism, all I can say is be brave and stay strong
To those racist, deep down in your heart you must know it’s wrong?
God blessed us by putting us here, giving us all different shades of colour
Were not meant to have the same colour skin, but we all can respect one another

Martin Luther King Jr said in 1963 “I have a dream”
But up to now it has yet to be seen

Amit Chubbah - 21.04.2008

poem by Amit Chubbah
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The Angry Soup Of Racism

ain't it a shame:

when hate lynches

a 14 year old, Colored boy

in 1955, Mississippi,

and blows away the dreams of

(four innocent little Negroe girls) ,

in 1963, Birmingham, Alabama.

yeah,

bus that to your segregated thoughts:

as I “interracially” walk you,

through Little Rock, Arkansas

with Daisy Bates & nine Black Children,

to march along side the National Guard,

on their way to a lily white school,

as the message of this-

un-segregates & un-tangles

the history of hate;

attackin’ Negroes in 1957,

whose only desire was to be educated;

and schooled too.

racism & hate

doesn’t try to guide,

the white citizen council back,

to their good senses,

‘cause racism-

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poem by Ronald Stroman
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Carrolling II-Parody Lewis CARROLL–The Mad Gardener’s Song

Carolling II

He Thought He Saw

He thought he saw new Internet
exchanging peer to peer,
he looked again and found it was
a mirage for each year
sees more control, “what rôle, ” he said,
“for values once held dear?
Some track to trace attack and get
convictions based on fear.'

He dreamt he saw spam disappear,
all consultations free,
he looked again and found it was
a spybot lottery.
“Is net neutrality”, he said,
“from rash risks viral clear? ”

He dreamt that Microsoft would steer
all trash deleted fast,
then woke to find world insincere
where independence past
was sacrificed throughout the year
to biometrics ghast.

He thought he saw a friend’s hello,
with an attachment piece,
he looked again and found it was
the porno scanning police.
“Politically correct”, he said,
“can’t guarantee release.”

He opened it, discovered though,
a trojan horse to fleece –
he looked again as data flow
declined, - mind not at peace -
and whispered with voice hoarse and low:
'when will our worries cease? ”

He thought he saw a hierophant,
who’d deal successful life,
he looked again and found it was
subpoena from ex-wife
demanding child support, he said,
“cards are cut by Time’s knife.”

He looked once more with rage and rant
and swore like a fishwife

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Peter Bell The Third

BY MICHING MALLECHO, Esq.

Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent, and all-damned!

Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth.

Ophelia.-What means this, my lord?
Hamlet.-Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.
~Shakespeare.

PROLOGUE
Pet er Bells, one, two and three,
O'er the wide world wandering be.-
First, the antenatal Peter,
Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,
The so-long-predestined raiment
Clothed in which to walk his way meant
The second Peter; whose ambition
Is to link the proposition,
As the mean of two extremes-
(This was learned from Aldric's themes)
Shielding from the guilt of schism
The orthodoxal syllogism;
The First Peter-he who was
Like the shadow in the glass
Of the second, yet unripe,
His substantial antitype.-
Then came Peter Bell the Second,
Who henceforward must be reckoned
The body of a double soul,
And that portion of the whole
Without which the rest would seem
Ends of a disjointed dream.-
And the Third is he who has
O'er the grave been forced to pass
To the other side, which is,-
Go and try else,-just like this.
Peter Bell the First was Peter
Smugger, milder, softer, neater,
Like the soul before it is
Born from that world into this.
The next Peter Bell was he,
Predevote, like you and me,
To good or evil as may come;
His was the severer doom,-

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Canto the Fourth

I.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

II.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

III.

In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

V.

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poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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A Map Of Culture

Culture

Contents

What is Culture?

The Importance of Culture

Culture Varies

Culture is Critical

The Sociobiology Debate

Values, Norms, and Social Control

Signs and Symbols

Language

Terms and Definitions

Approaches to the Study of Culture

Are We Prisoners of Our Culture?

What is Culture?

I prefer the definition used by Ian Robertson: 'all the shared products of society: material and nonmaterial' (Our text defines it in somewhat more ponderous terms- 'The totality of learned, socially transmitted behavior. It includes ideas, values, and customs (as well as the sailboats, comic books, and birth control devices) of groups of people' (p.32) .

Back to Contents

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poem by Nyein Way
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