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Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.


Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.


Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.


Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.


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(Comparison Poem) As A Child

As a child I was picked on, tortured, and humiliated
A outcast of the worst sort.
A child who had no voice of his own
No say
No reason to celebrate
Yet I did every day

As a child I didn't know the way
As I don't even now
No guidance has ever been just given to me
I had to search for it to be found
Even now I prefer living alone
Over the fairytale home

As a child I failed
I dropped out of school
Only to work in a factory
No It wasn't to be cool
I didn't have choice
For my back was to be broken
And food needed to be put on the table
If not me, who would
Protecting my family as one should

As child I dreamed of the stars
Now I dream of the different
An alternate existence
One unknown
Something to just let me get by for the rest of life

As a child I thought I knew of love
Now I'm still searching for it
Like a dog after his favorite bone
I have my passions
Some would say their nothing more then dressed up fashions
But they are mine
And nobody can take them away from me

As I child I wanted be rich
Now I see fortune and fame as nothing more then a game
People play
People go
And people stay
For one discovers many hidden talents
In desperate times
I rather do something I love
Then love something I have

As a child I had very little friends
And now I have even less
None dependable as they use to be
Most want something from me.
It so hard to say sorry I just don't got any

As a child I was mild
Now I'm even more layed back.
Haven't got into a physical fight years
If it comes to that I'll just disappear
When whom ever is near
Avoidance above confrontation
A coward I'm not
For if it can be defused
I will give it all I got
Those I love are the only ones i'll fight for

It is as I was a child

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Passing Through Air

Passing through air.
You mix the stars with your arms.
Walking through there.
The doom of eternity balms.
Skies of grey are not today.
Oh! Don't you throw my love away,
I need your loving, I need your loving.
Oh! Don't you pour down rain today,
I need your love, I need your care
So much, so much, so much!
Laughing through smiles.
You lick my love with the years.
Walking for miles.
You cool my brow with your tears.
Skies of greay are not today.
Oh! Don't you throw my love away,
I need your loving, I need your loving.
Oh! Don't you pour down rain today,
I need your love, I need your care
So much, so much, so much!
Oh! Don't you throw my love away,
I need your loving, I need your loving.
Oh! Don't you pour down rain today,
I need your loving, I need your loving.
Oh! Don't you throw my love away,
I need your loving, I need your loving.
Oh! Don't you pour down rain today,
I need your loving, I need your loving.

song performed by Kate BushReport problemRelated quotes
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Wild Montana Skies

(john denver)
He was born in the bitteroot valley in the early morning rain
Wild geese over the water, heading north and home again
Bringin a warm wind from the south, bringin
The first taste of the spring
His mother took him to her breast and softly she did sing:
Oh, montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
His mother died that summer and he never learned to cry
He never knew his father and he never did ask why
He never knew the answers that would make an easy way
But he learned to know the wilderness and to be a man that way
His mothers brother took him in to his family and his home
Gave him a hand that he could lean on and a strength to call his own
And he learned to be a farmer and he learned to love the land
And he learned to read the seasons and he learned to make a stand
On the eve of his 21st birthday, he set out on his own
He was 30 years and runnin when he found his way back home
Ridin a storm across the mountains and an achin in his heart
Said he came to turn the pages and to make a brand new start
Now he never told the story of the time that he was gone
Some say he was a lawyer, some say he was a john
There was something in the city that he said he couldnt breathe
There was something in the country that he said he couldnt leave
Now some say he was crazy and some are glad hes gone
But some of us will miss him and well try to carry on
Giving a voice to the forest, giving a voice to the dawn
Giving a voice to the wilderness and the land that he lived on

song performed by Emmylou HarrisReport problemRelated quotes
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Wild Montana Skies (feat. John Denver)

(John Denver)
He was born in the Bitteroot Valley in the early morning rain
Wild geese over the water, heading north and home again
Bringin' a warm wind from the south, bringin'
the first taste of the spring
His mother took him to her breast and softly she did sing:
Oh, Montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild Montana skies
His mother died that summer and he never learned to cry
He never knew his father and he never did ask why
He never knew the answers that would make an easy way
But he learned to know the wilderness and to be a man that way
His mother's brother took him in to his family and his home
Gave him a hand that he could lean on and a strength to call his own
And he learned to be a farmer and he learned to love the land
And he learned to read the seasons and he learned to make a stand
On the eve of his 21st birthday, he set out on his own
He was 30 years and runnin' when he found his way back home
Ridin' a storm across the mountains and an achin' in his heart
Said he came to turn the pages and to make a brand new start
Now he never told the story of the time that he was gone
Some say he was a lawyer, some say he was a john
There was something in the city that he said he couldn't breathe
There was something in the country that he said he couldn't leave
Now some say he was crazy and some are glad he's gone
But some of us will miss him and we'll try to carry on
Giving a voice to the forest, giving a voice to the dawn
Giving a voice to the wilderness and the land that he lived on

song performed by Emmylou HarrisReport problemRelated quotes
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Wild Montana Skies

This song appears on nine albums, and was first released on the its about time album, and has also been released on the greatest hits vol 3, changes, the very best of john denver (double cd),
Ry classics, the country roads collection and the rocky mountain collection albums. a live version also appears on the wildlife concert and the best of john denver live albums.
He was born in the bitterroot valley in the early morning rain
Wild geese over the water headin north and home again
Bringin a warm wind from the south
Bringin the first taste of the spring
His mother took him to her breast and softly she did sing
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
His mother died that summer and he never learned to cry
He never knew his father and he never did ask why
He never knew the answers that would make an easy way
But he learned to know the wilderness and to be a man that way
His mothers brother took him in to family and his home
Gave him a hand that he could lean on and a strength to call his own
And he learned to be a farmer and he learned to love the land
And he learned to read the seasons and he learned to make a stand
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
On the eve of his 21st birthday he set out on his own
He was 30 years and runnin when he found his way back home
Ridin a storm across the mountains and an aching in his heart
Said he came to turn the pages and to make a brand new start
Now he never told a story of the time that he was gone
Some say he was a lawyer, some say he was a john
There was somethin in the city that he said he couldnt breathe
And there was somethin in the country that he said he couldnt leave
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
Now some say he was crazy and theyre glad that he is gone
But some of us miss him and well try to carry on
Giving a voice to the forest, giving a voice to the dawn
Giving a voice to the wilderness and the land that he lived on
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
Oh montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild montana skies
Words and music by john denver

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A Vision of Poesy - Part 01


In a far country, and a distant age,
Ere sprites and fays had bade farewell to earth,
A boy was born of humble parentage;
The stars that shone upon his lonely birth
Did seem to promise sovereignty and fame --
Yet no tradition hath preserved his name.


'T is said that on the night when he was born,
A beauteous shape swept slowly through the room;
Its eyes broke on the infant like a morn,
And his cheek brightened like a rose in bloom;
But as it passed away there followed after
A sigh of pain, and sounds of elvish laughter.


And so his parents deemed him to be blest
Beyond the lot of mortals; they were poor
As the most timid bird that stored its nest
With the stray gleanings at their cottage-door:
Yet they contrived to rear their little dove,
And he repaid them with the tenderest love.


The child was very beautiful in sooth,
And as he waxed in years grew lovelier still;
On his fair brow the aureole of truth
Beamed, and the purest maidens, with a thrill,
Looked in his eyes, and from their heaven of blue
Saw thoughts like sinless Angels peering through.


Need there was none of censure or of praise
To mould him to the kind parental hand;
Yet there was ever something in his ways,
Which those about him could not understand;
A self-withdrawn and independent bliss,
Beside the father's love, the mother's kiss.


For oft, when he believed himself alone,
They caught brief snatches of mysterious rhymes,
Which he would murmur in an undertone,
Like a pleased bee's in summer; and at times
A strange far look would come into his eyes,
As if he saw a vision in the skies.


And he upon a simple leaf would pore
As if its very texture unto him
Had some deep meaning; sometimes by the door,
From noon until a summer-day grew dim,
He lay and watched the clouds; and to his thought
Night with her stars but fitful slumbers brought.


In the long hours of twilight, when the breeze
Talked in low tones along the woodland rills,
Or the loud North its stormy minstrelsies
Blent with wild noises from the distant hills,
The boy -- his rosy hand against his ear
Curved like a sea-shell -- hushed as some rapt seer,


Followed the sounds, and ever and again,
As the wind came and went, in storm or play,
He seemed to hearken as to some far strain
Of mingled voices calling him away;
And they who watched him held their breath to trace
The still and fixed attention in his face.


Once, on a cold and loud-voiced winter night,
The three were seated by their cottage-fire --
The mother watching by its flickering light
The wakeful urchin, and the dozing sire;
There was a brief, quick motion like a bird's,
And the boy's thought thus rippled into words:


"O mother! thou hast taught me many things,
But none I think more beautiful than speech --
A nobler power than even those broad wings
I used to pray for, when I longed to reach
That distant peak which on our vale looks down,
And wears the star of evening for a crown.


"But, mother, while our human words are rife
To us with meaning, other sounds there be
Which seem, and are, the language of a life
Around, yet unlike ours: winds talk; the sea
Murmurs articulately, and the sky
Listens, and answers, though inaudibly.


"By stream and spring, in glades and woodlands lone,
Beside our very cot I've gathered flowers
Inscribed with signs and characters unknown;
But the frail scrolls still baffle all my powers:
What is this language and where is the key
That opes its weird and wondrous mystery?


"The forests know it, and the mountains know,
And it is written in the sunset's dyes;
A revelation to the world below
Is daily going on before our eyes;
And, but for sinful thoughts, I do not doubt
That we could spell the thrilling secret out.


"O mother! somewhere on this lovely earth
I lived, and understood that mystic tongue,
But, for some reason, to my second birth
Only the dullest memories have clung,
Like that fair tree that even while blossoming
Keeps the dead berries of a former spring.


"Who shall put life in these? -- my nightly dreams
Some teacher of supernal powers foretell;
A fair and stately shape appears, which seems
Bright with all truth; and once, in a dark dell
Within the forest, unto me there came
A voice that must be hers, which called my name."


Puzzled and frightened, wondering more and more,
The mother heard, but did not comprehend;
"So early dallying with forbidden lore!
Oh, what will chance, and wherein will it end?
My child! my child!" she caught him to her breast,
"Oh, let me kiss these wildering thoughts to rest!


"They cannot come from God, who freely gives
All that we need to have, or ought to know;
Beware, my son! some evil influence strives
To grieve thy parents, and to work thee woe;
Alas! the vision I misunderstood!
It could not be an angel fair and good."


And then, in low and tremulous tones, she told
The story of his birth-night; the boy's eyes,
As the wild tale went on, were bright and bold,
With a weird look that did not seem surprise:
"Perhaps," he said, "this lady and her elves
Will one day come, and take me to themselves."


"And wouldst thou leave us?" "Dearest mother, no!
Hush! I will check these thoughts that give thee pain;
Or, if they flow, as they perchance must flow,
At least I will not utter them again;
Hark! didst thou hear a voice like many streams?
Mother! it is the spirit of my dreams!"


Thenceforth, whatever impulse stirred below,
In the deep heart beneath that childish breast,
Those lips were sealed, and though the eye would glow,
Yet the brow wore an air of perfect rest;
Cheerful, content, with calm though strong control
He shut the temple-portals of his soul.


And when too restlessly the mighty throng
Of fancies woke within his teeming mind,
All silently they formed in glorious song,
And floated off unheard, and undivined,
Perchance not lost -- with many a voiceless prayer
They reached the sky, and found some record there.


Softly and swiftly sped the quiet days;
The thoughtful boy has blossomed into youth,
And still no maiden would have feared his gaze,
And still his brow was noble with the truth:
Yet, though he masks the pain with pious art,
There burns a restless fever in his heart.


A childish dream is now a deathless need
Which drives him to far hills and distant wilds;
The solemn faith and fervor of his creed
Bold as a martyr's, simple as a child's;
The eagle knew him as she knew the blast,
And the deer did not flee him as he passed.


But gentle even in his wildest mood,
Always, and most, he loved the bluest weather,
And in some soft and sunny solitude
Couched like a milder sunshine on the heather,
He communed with the winds, and with the birds,
As if they might have answered him in words.


Deep buried in the forest was a nook
Remote and quiet as its quiet skies;
He knew it, sought it, loved it as a book
Full of his own sweet thoughts and memories;
Dark oaks and fluted chestnuts gathering round,
Pillared and greenly domed a sloping mound.


Whereof -- white, purple, azure, golden, red,
Confused like hues of sunset -- the wild flowers
Wove a rich dais; through crosslights overhead
Glanced the clear sunshine, fell the fruitful showers,
And here the shyest bird would fold her wings;
Here fled the fairest and the gentlest things.


Thither, one night of mist and moonlight, came
The youth, with nothing deeper in his thoughts
Than to behold beneath the silver flame
New aspects of his fair and favorite spot;
A single ray attained the ground, and shed
Just light enough to guide the wanderer's tread.


And high and hushed arose the stately trees,
Yet shut within themselves, like dungeons, where
Lay fettered all the secrets of the breeze;
Silent, but not as slumbering, all things there
Wore to the youth's aroused imagination
An air of deep and solemn expectation.


"Hath Heaven," the youth exclaimed, "a sweeter spot,
Or Earth another like it? -- yet even here
The old mystery dwells! and though I read it not,
Here most I hope -- it is, or seems so near;
So many hints come to me, but, alas!
I cannot grasp the shadows as they pass.


"Here, from the very turf beneath me, I
Catch, but just catch, I know not what faint sound,
And darkly guess that from yon silent sky
Float starry emanations to the ground;
These ears are deaf, these human eyes are blind,
I want a purer heart, a subtler mind.


"Sometimes -- could it be fancy? -- I have felt
The presence of a spirit who might speak;
As down in lowly reverence I knelt,
Its very breath hath kissed my burning cheek;
But I in vain have hushed my own to hear
A wing or whisper stir the silent air!"


Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, hark!
A distant murmur, like a voice of floods;
And onward sweeping slowly through the dark,
Bursts like a call the night-wind from the woods!
Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose their dreams,
And through the waving roof a fresher moonlight streams.


"Mortal!" -- the word crept slowly round the place
As if that wind had breathed it! From no star
Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer's face.
Again a hushing calm! while faint and far
The breeze goes calling onward through the night.
Dear God! what vision chains that wide-strained sight?


Over the grass and flowers, and up the slope
Glides a white cloud of mist, self-moved and slow,
That, pausing at the hillock's moonlit cope,
Swayed like a flame of silver; from below
The breathless youth with beating heart beholds
A mystic motion in its argent folds.


Yet his young soul is bold, and hope grows warm,
As flashing through that cloud of shadowy crape,
With sweep of robes, and then a gleaming arm,
Slowly developing, at last took shape
A face and form unutterably bright,
That cast a golden glamour on the night.


But for the glory round it it would seem
Almost a mortal maiden; and the boy,
Unto whom love was yet an innocent dream,
Shivered and crimsoned with an unknown joy;
As to the young Spring bounds the passionate South,
He could have clasped and kissed her mouth to mouth.


Yet something checked, that was and was not dread,
Till in a low sweet voice the maiden spake;
She was the Fairy of his dreams, she said,
And loved him simply for his human sake;
And that in heaven, wherefrom she took her birth,
They called her Poesy, the angel of the earth.


"And ever since that immemorial hour,
When the glad morning-stars together sung,
My task hath been, beneath a mightier Power,
To keep the world forever fresh and young;
I give it not its fruitage and its green,
But clothe it with a glory all unseen.


"I sow the germ which buds in human art,
And, with my sister, Science, I explore
With light the dark recesses of the heart,
And nerve the will, and teach the wish to soar;
I touch with grace the body's meanest clay,
While noble souls are nobler for my sway.


"Before my power the kings of earth have bowed;
I am the voice of Freedom, and the sword
Leaps from its scabbard when I call aloud;
Wherever life in sacrifice is poured,
Wherever martyrs die or patriots bleed,
I weave the chaplet and award the meed.


"Where Passion stoops, or strays, is cold, or dead,
I lift from error, or to action thrill!
Or if it rage too madly in its bed,
The tempest hushes at my `Peace! be still!'
I know how far its tides should sink or swell,
And they obey my sceptre and my spell.


"All lovely things, and gentle -- the sweet laugh
Of children, Girlhood's kiss, and Friendship's clasp,
The boy that sporteth with the old man's staff,
The baby, and the breast its fingers grasp --
All that exalts the grounds of happiness,
All griefs that hallow, and all joys that bless,


"To me are sacred; at my holy shrine
Love breathes its latest dreams, its earliest hints;
I turn life's tasteless waters into wine,
And flush them through and through with purple tints.
Wherever Earth is fair, and Heaven looks down,
I rear my altars, and I wear my crown.


"I am the unseen spirit thou hast sought,
I woke those shadowy questionings that vex
Thy young mind, lost in its own cloud of thought,
And rouse the soul they trouble and perplex;
I filled thy days with visions, and thy nights
Blessed with all sweetest sounds and fairy sights.


"Not here, not in this world, may I disclose
The mysteries in which this life is hearsed;
Some doubts there be that, with some earthly woes,
By Death alone shall wholly be dispersed;
Yet on those very doubts from this low sod
Thy soul shall pass beyond the stars to God.


"And so to knowledge, climbing grade by grade,
Thou shalt attain whatever mortals can,
And what thou mayst discover by my aid
Thou shalt translate unto thy brother man;
And men shall bless the power that flings a ray
Into their night from thy diviner day.


"For, from thy lofty height, thy words shall fall
Upon their spirits like bright cataracts
That front a sunrise; thou shalt hear them call
Amid their endless waste of arid facts,
As wearily they plod their way along,
Upon the rhythmic zephyrs of thy song.


"All this is in thy reach, but much depends
Upon thyself -- thy future I await;
I give the genius, point the proper ends,
But the true bard is his own only Fate;
Into thy soul my soul have I infused;
Take care thy lofty powers be wisely used.


"The Poet owes a high and holy debt,
Which, if he feel, he craves not to be heard
For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor yet
Does the mere joy of song, as with the bird
Of many voices, prompt the choral lay
That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way.


"Nor may he always sweep the passionate lyre,
Which is his heart, only for such relief
As an impatient spirit may desire,
Lest, from the grave which hides a private grief,
The spells of song call up some pallid wraith
To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith.


"Yet over his deep soul, with all its crowd
Of varying hopes and fears, he still must brood;
As from its azure height a tranquil cloud
Watches its own bright changes in the flood;
Self-reading, not self-loving -- they are twain --
And sounding, while he mourns, the depths of pain.


"Thus shall his songs attain the common breast,
Dyed in his own life's blood, the sign and seal,
Even as the thorns which are the martyr's crest,
That do attest his office, and appeal
Unto the universal human heart
In sanction of his mission and his art.


"Much yet remains unsaid -- pure must he be;
Oh, blessed are the pure! for they shall hear
Where others hear not, see where others see
With a dazed vision: who have drawn most near
My shrine, have ever brought a spirit cased
And mailed in a body clean and chaste.


"The Poet to the whole wide world belongs,
Even as the teacher is the child's -- I said
No selfish aim should ever mar his songs,
But self wears many guises; men may wed
Self in another, and the soul may be
Self to its centre, all unconsciously.


"And therefore must the Poet watch, lest he,
In the dark struggle of this life, should take
Stains which he might not notice; he must flee
Falsehood, however winsome, and forsake
All for the Truth, assured that Truth alone
Is Beauty, and can make him all my own.


"And he must be as arm|"ed warrior strong,
And he must be as gentle as a girl,
And he must front, and sometimes suffer wrong,
With brow unbent, and lip untaught to curl;
For wrath, and scorn, and pride, however just,
Fill the clear spirit's eyes with earthly dust."


The story came to me -- it recks not whence --
In fragments. Oh! if I could tell it all,
If human speech indeed could tell it all,
'T were not a whit less wondrous, than if I
Should find, untouched in leaf and stem, and bright,
As when it bloomed three thousand years ago,
On some Idalian slope, a perfect rose.
Alas! a leaf or two, and they perchance
Scarce worth the hiving, one or two dead leaves
Are the sole harvest of a summer's toil.
There was a moment, ne'er to be recalled,
When to the Poet's hope within my heart,
They wore a tint like life's, but in my hand,
I know not why, they withered. I have heard
Somewhere, of some dead monarch, from the tomb,
Where he had slept a century and more,
Brought forth, that when the coffin was laid bare,
Albeit the body in its mouldering robes
Was fleshless, yet one feature still remained
Perfect, or perfect seemed at least; the eyes
Gleamed for a second on the startled crowd,
And then went out in ashes. Even thus
The story, when I drew it from the grave
Where it had lain so long, did seem, I thought,
Not wholly lifeless; but even while I gazed
To fix its features on my heart, and called
The world to wonder with me, lo! it proved
I looked upon a corpse!
What further fell
In that lone forest nook, how much was taught,
How much was only hinted, what the youth
Promised, if promise were required, to do
Or strive for, what the gifts he bore away --
Or added powers or blessings -- how at last,
The vision ended and he sought his home,
How lived there, and how long, and when he passed
Into the busy world to seek his fate,
I know not, and if any ever knew,
The tale hath perished from the earth; for here
The slender thread on which my song is strung
Breaks off, and many after years of life
Are lost to sight, the life to reappear
Only towards its close -- as of a dream
We catch the end and opening, but forget
That which had joined them in the dreaming brain;
Or as a mountain with a belt of mist
That shows his base, and far above, a peak
With a blue plume of pines.
But turn the page
And read the only hints that yet remain.

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Whats Music? !

Music can change you
Can change your ways
Can change your life.

It's a special thing
We like for more that tunes
And for more than popularity.

we love it for happiness
It does make us happy
In more than one way.

It's taste to listen to it
It's fun to listen to it
It's cool to listen to it.

You enjoy it, you love it
I enjoy it
And I also love it.

Music can change you
Change your ways
Change your life.

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Oh Mother

ho mother your the best my life
look upon to you real mother
you not like who kill their baby
your love is forever between me
and you, you loved so much oh
i think if you die way from me
my life will reach to the end of world
Many hugs
Only luv never anger
Teaching me
Helping me
Every smile when I was sad
Raising me to be strong
It spells Mother. Thanks for being u.
Happy Mother's Day
means more than flowers and gifts
It means saying thank you
It means I love you
You are my mother, my friend
Today is your day
love you mother ikeruth

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Aurobindo 87 Savitri Book 6

An appreciation on Savitri-
Book Six: The Book of Fate
Canto One: The Word of Fate
Words within inverted commas are Aurobindo's

All her wedding beatitude in Thou adorable words
'Reveal, O winged with light, whence thou hast flown
Hastening bright-hued through the green tangled earth,
Thy body rhythmical with the spring-bird's call.'
'Thou comest like a silver deer through groves
Of coral flowers and buds of glowing dreams,
Or fleest like a wind-goddess through leaves,
Or roamst, O ruby-eyed and snow-winged dove, ...'

'He spoke but held his knowledge back from words.'
'As a cloud plays with lightnings' vivid laugh,
But still holds back the thunder in its heart,
Only he let bright images escape.'
'His speech like glimmering music veiled his thoughts; ''
'To those who hearkened to his celestial voice,
The veil heaven's pity throws on future pain
The Immortals' sanction seemed of endless joy.'

'But Aswapati answered to the seer; -'
'He answered covert thought with guarded speech: '
''O deathless sage who knowest all things here, 'Line220 to
'Once let unwounded pass a mortal life.'Line 304
Should be read to be felt her godliness
And her father's love for her...wonderful
'But Narad answered not; silent he sat,
Knowing that words are vain and Fate is lord.'

'Like one who knows not, questioning, he cried:
'On what high mission went her hastening wheels?
Whence came she with this glory in her heart
And Paradise made visible in her eyes?
What sudden God has met, what face supreme? '
Fate of misery sown that Narad could read......

............My consciousness this moment,
O'Guru, I'm in invincible heights
Ineffable Thee embellishing poetic creation
My inquisitive apprehension, erring Thee may opine
May thereso, let Savitri in my self arise
Aroused thereso be knowledge and fortune

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A Poet Who Can Think Only Of Poetry


A poet who can think only of Poetry
And write only of Poems
Is another fanatic
Another nut, obsessive
Another slave of his own idea.

Why can’t I be free
And see the world before me
As ‘A land of dreams
With joy, light, love,
Certainty, peace,
And help from pain’?

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My World Of Poetry That Muses

But mused up in the world of poetry! !
However, do get it right all day long,
And like my world of püoetry that muses;
For, i do learn always from the teacher of the faith.

If you don't know how to rule your own house,
How then can you rule a nation? !
For, i am able to teacgh with the humility of my mind;
And, step by step along the same route of love.

Whistle, hustle, bustle, thistle, bristle. gristle, rustle;
And like a novice deceived by your acts!
However, try to ve a light to the ones in darkness and a guide to the blind.

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Caprice [Bad Poetry]

or Capricious,
I'm ferocious
not delicious
taste me
I bet you want to spit me
kiss me
I'm salty
not funky
that's miss duckie.
I hate sundays
hypocrites all over the places
I prefer mondays,
my workdays.
Who's Becky
just too freaky for my liking.
apprientice magic
could have killed Mogana
but that would end the drama
he smelled like fish
Taban said it.
Man to man
Othello beat Iago
who started the trouble.
I wanna beat Paris too
take Chidinma to moon
yes, she's Shakespeare's sister too,
she's my first
who's my first?
a preacher's daughter
Becky can burn in hell
yes, you heard me well
burn in hell.
I miss you miss
beautyful miss of my dreams
you steal my dreams
will you marry me?
my dad,
he did not love me
he did the did and went to sleep
life's so difficult, we could barly feed.
she did not murder me
I love you mum
you are my all.
Yes, Tricia, Sandra or Felicia
who are you?
where are you?
clear that fog I can't see you
you love me?
sorry I don't love you
I love Chidinma,
you're a gold digger
yes, a coal miner
dig deeper
I'm a gold mine.
Wish I could make her mine,
but I'm scared
her dad may object
will they trust me?
her mum may disagree
but my love is so real
at least she knows my feelin.
thou lecherous goat-god,
Echo did scorn thy love,
cut out that reed for thy syrix
her sisters may bring her back.
I'm on my way to America
please don't love me Franscisca
I may not return back
find another in Africa.
Prometheus, dear Prometheus
where art thy fire?
light up thy heavenly flame on my skull
flame on enlightenment
we need sophistication in government.
I don't smile
you know why?
I don't want to start a fight
Angels may come from sky
devils may say he's tight
boulders and mountains may shed a tear.
First lady,
like dummy,
fled past granny
she's cookin in kitchen,
I'm famished,
what's cooking?
politicians with empty promises
we must estrange them from students
else we condemn them to mediocrity.
good job Man U
beat Liverpool in a pool
take a second look,
don't be fooled
Aluu will blodgeon you,
they're a bunch of fools
lo, that's not cool,
I call them poo.
mind you
I love her
I'll never tell her I do
else I upset her father
I'm not that rude,
I must find my root,
my mother love me too
dad screamed with excitement
I bought a car
yes it's for mum
she deserves more.
My last name Benjamin,
never liked politics,
makes me sick.
I want to be rich;
help the sick
the hungry,
the needy,
I'm never greedy.
Why why why
why is it
I love poetry?
it gives me entry
into my world of uncertainty
and gives me voice to say what I see
this is what I see
I see you want to change me;
you wanna change the world,
should we spare the rod?
What is love?
love is God,
God is love,
make a change in your self
I'll make a change in my self.
I love you
do you love me too?
you're my brother;
my sister
let's come together
who can cut us asunder?
let's see them try
together we'll fight
together we'll die
with Christ we'll rise.
Christ has given us home
he has a throne
we're not alone.
In chess,
pawns go first
I'm not a pawn
not above the law.
you are a bard,
We know you're not bad
play us a song,
from Hades,
let's bring back Euridice,
Odysseus and Penelope
Pluto and Persephone
they're just too greedy
let's depopulate Tartarus
unbound Prometheus
enthrone him in Olympus.
like actors
rant like parrots:
where art thy offerings
forget their sufferings
I mean the ones who are hungry,
let's fly in jets,
lo, they're sick in the head
hope they don't fret
when they burn in hell.
and Hector
fought like hell
thou deceptive horse
outwit them without a rue
they don't have a clue
Neptune shall devour laocoon,
and his two sons too.
thou lesser Ajax
ravish Casssandra
Athena is a betrayer,
Aphrodite a panderer.
you are welcome to my wedding
restrain thy golden apples
let's avert the trouble
Aphrodite is stupid?
Paris is crazy,
give him no judgement
else he ruins our government.
is dead
Nietzsche shouted it
Taban took it up,
I take it in,
Love is dead
God is love
who killed love?
you have killed God
Church has buried him,
but I brought him back
now he lives in my heart
love lives in my heart
let's revive God,
as we revive love.
I love my God
I love my neighbour
you are my all,
without you
there would be no world.
this is not end of my thoughts.

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Poetry: A Metrical Essay, Read Before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, Harvard

To Charles Wentworth Upham, the Following Metrical Essay is Affectionately Inscribed.

Scenes of my youth! awake its slumbering fire!
Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!
Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear,
Break through the clouds of Fancy’s waning year;
Chase from her breast the thin autumnal snow,
If leaf or blossom still is fresh below!

Long have I wandered; the returning tide
Brought back an exile to his cradle’s side;
And as my bark her time-worn flag unrolled,
To greet the land-breeze with its faded fold,
So, in remembrance of my boyhood’s time,
I lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme;
Oh, more than blest, that, all my wanderings through,
My anchor falls where first my pennons flew!
The morning light, which rains its quivering beams
Wide o’er the plains, the summits, and the streams,
In one broad blaze expands its golden glow
On all that answers to its glance below;
Yet, changed on earth, each far reflected ray
Braids with fresh hues the shining brow of day;
Now, clothed in blushes by the painted flowers,
Tracks on their cheeks the rosy-fingered hours;
Now, lost in shades, whose dark entangled leaves
Drip at the noontide from their pendent eaves,
Fades into gloom, or gleams in light again
From every dew-drop on the jewelled plain.

We, like the leaf, the summit, or the wave,
Reflect the light our common nature gave,
But every sunbeam, falling from her throne,
Wears on our hearts some coloring of our own
Chilled in the slave, and burning in the free,
Like the sealed cavern by the sparkling sea;
Lost, like the lightning in the sullen clod,
Or shedding radiance, like the smiles of God;
Pure, pale in Virtue, as the star above,
Or quivering roseate on the leaves of Love;
Glaring like noontide, where it glows upon
Ambition’s sands,—­the desert in the sun,—­
Or soft suffusing o’er the varied scene
Life’s common coloring,—­intellectual green.

Thus Heaven, repeating its material plan,
Arched over all the rainbow mind of man;
But he who, blind to universal laws,
Sees but effects, unconscious of their cause,—­
Believes each image in itself is bright,
Not robed in drapery of reflected light,—­
Is like the rustic who, amidst his toil,
Has found some crystal in his meagre soil,
And, lost in rapture, thinks for him alone
Earth worked her wonders on the sparkling stone,
Nor dreams that Nature, with as nice a line,
Carved countless angles through the boundless mine.

Thus err the many, who, entranced to find
Unwonted lustre in some clearer mind,
Believe that Genius sets the laws at naught
Which chain the pinions of our wildest thought;
Untaught to measure, with the eye of art,
The wandering fancy or the wayward heart;
Who match the little only with the less,
And gaze in rapture at its slight excess,
Proud of a pebble, as the brightest gem
Whose light might crown an emperor’s diadem.

And, most of all, the pure ethereal fire
Which seems to radiate from the poet’s lyre
Is to the world a mystery and a charm,
An AEgis wielded on a mortal’s arm,
While Reason turns her dazzled eye away,
And bows her sceptre to her subject’s sway;
And thus the poet, clothed with godlike state,
Usurped his Maker’s title—­to create;
He, whose thoughts differing not in shape, but dress,
What others feel more fitly can express,
Sits like the maniac on his fancied throne,
Peeps through the bars, and calls the world his own.

There breathes no being but has some pretence
To that fine instinct called poetic sense
The rudest savage, roaming through the wild;
The simplest rustic, bending o’er his child;
The infant, listening to the warbling bird;
The mother, smiling at its half-formed word;
The boy uncaged, who tracks the fields at large;
The girl, turned matron to her babe-like charge;
The freeman, casting with unpurchased hand
The vote that shakes the turret of the land;
The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted chain,
Dreams of the palm-trees on his burning plain;
The hot-cheeked reveller, tossing down the wine,
To join the chorus pealing “Auld lang syne”;
The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows dim,
While Heaven is listening to her evening hymn;
The jewelled beauty, when her steps draw near
The circling dance and dazzling chandelier;
E’en trembling age, when Spring’s renewing air
Waves the thin ringlets of his silvered hair;—­
All, all are glowing with the inward flame,
Whose wider halo wreathes the poet’s name,
While, unenbalmed, the silent dreamer dies,
His memory passing with his smiles and sighs!

If glorious visions, born for all mankind,
The bright auroras of our twilight mind;
If fancies, varying as the shapes that lie
Stained on the windows of the sunset sky;
If hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams,
Till the eye dances in the void of dreams;
If passions, following with the winds that urge
Earth’s wildest wanderer to her farthest verge;—­
If these on all some transient hours bestow
Of rapture tingling with its hectic glow,
Then all are poets; and if earth had rolled
Her myriad centuries, and her doom were told,
Each moaning billow of her shoreless wave
Would wail its requiem o’er a poet’s grave!

If to embody in a breathing word
Tones that the spirit trembled when it heard;
To fix the image all unveiled and warm,
And carve in language its ethereal form,
So pure, so perfect, that the lines express
No meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess;
To feel that art, in living truth, has taught
Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured thought;—­
If this alone bestow the right to claim
The deathless garland and the sacred name,
Then none are poets save the saints on high,
Whose harps can murmur all that words deny!

But though to none is granted to reveal
In perfect semblance all that each may feel,
As withered flowers recall forgotten love,
So, warmed to life, our faded passions move
In every line, where kindling fancy throws
The gleam of pleasures or the shade of woes.

When, schooled by time, the stately queen of art
Had smoothed the pathways leading to the heart,
Assumed her measured tread, her solemn tone,
And round her courts the clouds of fable thrown,
The wreaths of heaven descended on her shrine,
And wondering earth proclaimed the Muse divine.
Yet if her votaries had but dared profane
The mystic symbols of her sacred reign,
How had they smiled beneath the veil to find
What slender threads can chain the mighty mind!

Poets, like painters, their machinery claim,
And verse bestows the varnish and the frame;
Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar
Shakes the racked axle of Art’s rattling car,
Fits like mosaic in the lines that gird
Fast in its place each many-angled word;
From Saxon lips Anacreon’s numbers glide,
As once they melted on the Teian tide,
And, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills again
From Albion’s cliffs as o’er Achaia’s plain
The proud heroic, with, its pulse-like beat,
Rings like the cymbals clashing as they meet;
The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it flows,
Sweeps gently onward to its dying close,
Where waves on waves in long succession pour,
Till the ninth billow melts along the shore;
The lonely spirit of the mournful lay,
Which lives immortal as the verse of Gray,
In sable plumage slowly drifts along,
On eagle pinion, through the air of song;
The glittering lyric bounds elastic by,
With flashing ringlets and exulting eye,
While every image, in her airy whirl,
Gleams like a diamond on a dancing girl!

Born with mankind, with man’s expanded range
And varying fates the poet’s numbers change;
Thus in his history may we hope to find
Some clearer epochs of the poet’s mind,
As from the cradle of its birth we trace,
Slow wandering forth, the patriarchal race.

When the green earth, beneath the zephyr’s wing,
Wears on her breast the varnished buds of Spring;
When the loosed current, as its folds uncoil,
Slides in the channels of the mellowed soil;
When the young hyacinth returns to seek
The air and sunshine with her emerald beak;
When the light snowdrops, starting from their cells,
Hang each pagoda with its silver bells;
When the frail willow twines her trailing bow
With pallid leaves that sweep the soil below;
When the broad elm, sole empress of the plain,
Whose circling shadow speaks a century’s reign,
Wreathes in the clouds her regal diadem,—­
A forest waving on a single stem;—­
Then mark the poet; though to him unknown
The quaint-mouthed titles, such as scholars own,
See how his eye in ecstasy pursues
The steps of Nature tracked in radiant hues;
Nay, in thyself, whate’er may be thy fate,
Pallid with toil or surfeited with state,
Mark how thy fancies, with the vernal rose,
Awake, all sweetness, from their long repose;
Then turn to ponder o’er the classic page,
Traced with the idyls of a greener age,
And learn the instinct which arose to warm
Art’s earliest essay and her simplest form.

To themes like these her narrow path confined
The first-born impulse moving in the mind;
In vales unshaken by the trumpet’s sound,
Where peaceful Labor tills his fertile ground,
The silent changes of the rolling years,
Marked on the soil or dialled on the spheres,
The crested forests and the colored flowers,
The dewy grottos and the blushing bowers,—­
These, and their guardians, who, with liquid names,
Strephons and Chloes, melt in mutual flames,
Woo the young Muses from their mountain shade,
To make Arcadias in the lonely glade.

Nor think they visit only with their smiles
The fabled valleys and Elysian isles;
He who is wearied of his village plain
May roam the Edens of the world in vain.
’T is not the star-crowned cliff, the cataract’s flow,
The softer foliage or the greener glow,
The lake of sapphire or the spar-hung cave,
The brighter sunset or the broader wave,
Can warm his heart whom every wind has blown
To every shore, forgetful of his own.

Home of our childhood! how affection clings
And hovers round thee with her seraph wings!
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown,
Than fairest summits which the cedars crown!
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas!
The stranger’s gale wafts home the exile’s sigh,
For the heart’s temple is its own blue sky!

Oh happiest they, whose early love unchanged,
Hopes undissolved, and friendship unestranged,
Tired of their wanderings, still can deign to see
Love, hopes, and friendship, centring all in thee!

And thou, my village! as again I tread
Amidst thy living and above thy dead;
Though some fair playmates guard with charter fears
Their cheeks, grown holy with the lapse of years;
Though with the dust some reverend locks may blend,
Where life’s last mile-stone marks the journey’s end;
On every bud the changing year recalls,
The brightening glance of morning memory falls,
Still following onward as the months unclose
The balmy lilac or the bridal rose;
And still shall follow, till they sink once more
Beneath the snow-drifts of the frozen shore,
As when my bark, long tossing in the gale,
Furled in her port her tempest-rended sail!

What shall I give thee? Can a simple lay,
Flung on thy bosom like a girl’s bouquet,
Do more than deck thee for an idle hour,
Then fall unheeded, fading like the flower?
Yet, when I trod, with footsteps wild and free,
The crackling leaves beneath yon linden-tree,
Panting from play or dripping from the stream,
How bright the visions of my boyish dream
Or, modest Charles, along thy broken edge,
Black with soft ooze and fringed with arrowy sedge,
As once I wandered in the morning sun,
With reeking sandal and superfluous gun,
How oft, as Fancy whispered in the gale,
Thou wast the Avon of her flattering tale!
Ye hills, whose foliage, fretted on the skies,
Prints shadowy arches on their evening dyes,
How should my song with holiest charm invest
Each dark ravine and forest-lifting crest!
How clothe in beauty each familiar scene,
Till all was classic on my native green!

As the drained fountain, filled with autumn leaves,
The field swept naked of its garnered sheaves,
So wastes at noon the promise of our dawn,
The springs all choking, and the harvest gone.

Yet hear the lay of one whose natal star
Still seemed the brightest when it shone afar;
Whose cheek, grown pallid with ungracious toil,
Glows in the welcome of his parent soil;
And ask no garlands sought beyond the tide,
But take the leaflets gathered at your side.

But times were changed; the torch of terror came,
To light the summits with the beacon’s flame;
The streams ran crimson, the tall mountain pines
Rose a new forest o’er embattled lines;
The bloodless sickle lent the warrior’s steel,
The harvest bowed beneath his chariot wheel;
Where late the wood-dove sheltered her repose
The raven waited for the conflict’s close;
The cuirassed sentry walked his sleepless round
Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis frowned;
Where timid minstrels sung their blushing charms,
Some wild Tyrtaeus called aloud, “To arms!”

When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits leap,
Roused by her accents from their tranquil sleep,
The ray that flashes from the soldier’s crest
Lights, as it glances, in the poet’s breast;—­
Not in pale dreamers, whose fantastic lay
Toys with smooth trifles like a child at play,
But men, who act the passions they inspire,
Who wave the sabre as they sweep the lyre!

Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific frowns
Are lost like dew-drops caught in burning towns,
Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of fame,
Break Caesar’s bust to make yourselves a name;
But if your country bares the avenger’s blade
For wrongs unpunished or for debts unpaid,
When the roused nation bids her armies form,
And screams her eagle through the gathering storm,
When from your ports the bannered frigate rides,
Her black bows scowling to the crested tides,
Your hour has past; in vain your feeble cry
As the babe’s wailings to the thundering sky!

Scourge of mankind! with all the dread array
That wraps in wrath thy desolating way,
As the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea,
Thou only teachest all that man can be.
Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm
The toil-knit sinews of the rustic’s arm,
Or swell the pulses in the poet’s veins,
And bid the nations tremble at his strains.

The city slept beneath the moonbeam’s glance,
Her white walls gleaming through the vines of France,
And all was hushed, save where the footsteps fell,
On some high tower, of midnight sentinel.
But one still watched; no self-encircled woes
Chased from his lids the angel of repose;
He watched, he wept, for thoughts of bitter years
Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning tears
His country’s sufferings and her children’s shame
Streamed o’er his memory like a forest’s flame;
Each treasured insult, each remembered wrong,
Rolled through his heart and kindled into song.
His taper faded; and the morning gales
Swept through the world the war-song of Marseilles!

Now, while around the smiles of Peace expand,
And Plenty’s wreaths festoon the laughing land;
While France ships outward her reluctant ore,
And half our navy basks upon the shore;
From ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses turn
To crown with roses their enamelled urn.

If e’er again return those awful days
Whose clouds were crimsoned with the beacon’s blaze,
Whose grass was trampled by the soldier’s heel,
Whose tides were reddened round the rushing keel,
God grant some lyre may wake a nobler strain
To rend the silence of our tented plain!
When Gallia’s flag its triple fold displays,
Her marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise;
When round the German close the war-clouds dim,
Far through their shadows floats his battle-hymn;
When, crowned with joy, the camps’ of England ring,
A thousand voices shout, “God save the King!”
When victory follows with our eagle’s glance,
Our nation’s anthem pipes a country dance!

Some prouder Muse, when comes the hour at last,
May shake our hillsides with her bugle-blast;
Not ours the task; but since the lyric dress
Relieves the statelier with its sprightliness,
Hear an old song, which some, perchance, have seen
In stale gazette or cobwebbed magazine.
There was an hour when patriots dared profane
The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain;
And one, who listened to the tale of shame,
Whose heart still answered to that sacred name,
Whose eye still followed o’er his country’s tides
Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides
From yon lone attic, on a smiling morn,
Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn.

When florid Peace resumed her golden reign,
And arts revived, and valleys bloomed again,
While War still panted on his-broken blade,
Once more the Muse her heavenly wing essayed.
Rude was the song: some ballad, stern and wild,
Lulled the light slumbers of the soldier’s child;
Or young romancer, with his threatening glance
And fearful fables of his bloodless lance,
Scared the soft fancy of the clinging girls,
Whose snowy fingers smoothed his raven curls.
But when long years the stately form had bent,
And faithless Memory her illusions lent,
So vast the outlines of Tradition grew
That History wondered at the shapes she drew,
And veiled at length their too ambitious hues
Beneath the pinions of the Epic Muse.

Far swept her wing; for stormier days had brought
With darker passions deeper tides of thought.
The camp’s harsh tumult and the conflict’s glow,
The thrill of triumph and the gasp of woe,
The tender parting and the glad return,
The festal banquet and the funeral urn,
And all the drama which at once uprears
Its spectral shadows through the clash of spears,
From camp and field to echoing verse transferred,
Swelled the proud song that listening nations heard.
Why floats the amaranth in eternal bloom
O’er Ilium’s turrets and Achilles’ tomb?
Why lingers fancy where the sunbeams smile
On Circe’s gardens and Calypso’s isle?
Why follows memory to the gate of Troy
Her plumed defender and his trembling boy?
Lo! the blind dreamer, kneeling on the sand
To trace these records with his doubtful hand;
In fabled tones his own emotion flows,
And other lips repeat his silent woes;
In Hector’s infant see the babes that shun
Those deathlike eyes, unconscious of the sun,
Or in his hero hear himself implore,
“Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more!”

Thus live undying through the lapse of time
The solemn legends of the warrior’s clime;
Like Egypt’s pyramid or Paestum’s fane,
They stand the heralds of the voiceless plain.
Yet not like them, for Time, by slow degrees,
Saps the gray stone and wears the embroidered frieze,
And Isis sleeps beneath her subject Nile,
And crumbled Neptune strews his Dorian pile;
But Art’s fair fabric, strengthening as it rears
Its laurelled columns through the mist of years,
As the blue arches of the bending skies
Still gird the torrent, following as it flies,
Spreads, with the surges bearing on mankind,
Its starred pavilion o’er the tides of mind!

In vain the patriot asks some lofty lay
To dress in state our wars of yesterday.
The classic days, those mothers of romance,
That roused a nation for a woman’s glance;
The age of mystery, with its hoarded power,
That girt the tyrant in his storied tower,
Have passed and faded like a dream of youth,
And riper eras ask for history’s truth.

On other shores, above their mouldering towns,
In sullen pomp the tall cathedral frowns,
Pride in its aisles and paupers at the door,
Which feeds the beggars whom it fleeced of yore.
Simple and frail, our lowly temples throw
Their slender shadows on the paths below;
Scarce steal the winds, that sweep his woodland tracks,
The larch’s perfume from the settler’s axe,
Ere, like a vision of the morning air,
His slight—­framed steeple marks the house of prayer;
Its planks all reeking and its paint undried,
Its rafters sprouting on the shady side,
It sheds the raindrops from its shingled eaves
Ere its green brothers once have changed their leaves.

Yet Faith’s pure hymn, beneath its shelter rude,
Breathes out as sweetly to the tangled wood
As where the rays through pictured glories pour
On marble shaft and tessellated floor;—­
Heaven asks no surplice round the heart that feels,
And all is holy where devotion kneels.
Thus on the soil the patriot’s knee should bend
Which holds the dust once living to defend;
Where’er the hireling shrinks before the free,
Each pass becomes “a new Thermopylae”!
Where’er the battles of the brave are won,
There every mountain “looks on Marathon”!

Our fathers live; they guard in glory still
The grass-grown bastions of the fortressed hill;
Still ring the echoes of the trampled gorge,
With God and Freedom. England and Saint George!
The royal cipher on the captured gun
Mocks the sharp night-dews and the blistering sun;
The red-cross banner shades its captor’s bust,
Its folds still loaded with the conflict’s dust;
The drum, suspended by its tattered marge,
Once rolled and rattled to the Hessian’s charge;
The stars have floated from Britannia’s mast,
The redcoat’s trumpets blown the rebel’s blast.

Point to the summits where the brave have bled,
Where every village claims its glorious dead;
Say, when their bosoms met the bayonet’s shock,
Their only corselet was the rustic frock;
Say, when they mustered to the gathering horn,
The titled chieftain curled his lip in scorn,
Yet, when their leader bade his lines advance,
No musket wavered in the lion’s glance;
Say, when they fainted in the forced retreat,
They tracked the snow-drifts with their bleeding feet,
Yet still their banners, tossing in the blast,
Bore Ever Ready, faithful to the last,
Through storm and battle, till they waved again
On Yorktown’s hills and Saratoga’s plain.

Then, if so fierce the insatiate patriot’s flame,
Truth looks too pale and history seems too tame,
Bid him await some new Columbiad’s page,
To gild the tablets of an iron age,
And save his tears, which yet may fall upon
Some fabled field, some fancied Washington!

But once again, from their AEolian cave,
The winds of Genius wandered on the wave.
Tired of the scenes the timid pencil drew,
Sick of the notes the sounding clarion blew,
Sated with heroes who had worn so long
The shadowy plumage of historic song,
The new-born poet left the beaten course,
To track the passions to their living source.

Then rose the Drama;—­and the world admired
Her varied page with deeper thought inspired
Bound to no clime, for Passion’s throb is one
In Greenland’s twilight or in India’s sun;
Born for no age, for all the thoughts that roll
In the dark vortex of the stormy soul,
Unchained in song, no freezing years can tame;
God gave them birth, and man is still the same.
So full on life her magic mirror shone,
Her sister Arts paid tribute to her throne;
One reared her temple, one her canvas warmed,
And Music thrilled, while Eloquence informed.
The weary rustic left his stinted task
For smiles and tears, the dagger and the mask;
The sage, turned scholar, half forgot his lore,
To be the woman he despised before.
O’er sense and thought she threw her golden chain,
And Time, the anarch, spares her deathless reign.

Thus lives Medea, in our tamer age,
As when her buskin pressed the Grecian stage;
Not in the cells where frigid learning delves
In Aldine folios mouldering on their shelves,
But breathing, burning in the glittering throng,
Whose thousand bravoes roll untired along,
Circling and spreading through the gilded halls,
From London’s galleries to San Carlo’s walls!

Thus shall he live whose more than mortal name
Mocks with its ray the pallid torch of Fame;
So proudly lifted that it seems afar
No earthly Pharos, but a heavenly star,
Who, unconfined to Art’s diurnal bound,
Girds her whole zodiac in his flaming round,
And leads the passions, like the orb that guides,
From pole to pole, the palpitating tides!

Though round the Muse the robe of song is thrown,
Think not the poet lives in verse alone.
Long ere the chisel of the sculptor taught
The lifeless stone to mock the living thought;
Long ere the painter bade the canvas glow
With every line the forms of beauty know;
Long ere the iris of the Muses threw
On every leaf its own celestial hue,
In fable’s dress the breath of genius poured,
And warmed the shapes that later times adored.

Untaught by Science how to forge the keys
That loose the gates of Nature’s mysteries;
Unschooled by Faith, who, with her angel tread,
Leads through the labyrinth with a single thread,
His fancy, hovering round her guarded tower,
Rained through its bars like Danae’s golden shower.

He spoke; the sea-nymph answered from her cave
He called; the naiad left her mountain wave
He dreamed of beauty; lo, amidst his dream,
Narcissus, mirrored in the breathless stream;
And night’s chaste empress, in her bridal play,
Laughed through the foliage where Endymion lay;
And ocean dimpled, as the languid swell
Kissed the red lip of Cytherea’s shell.

Of power,—­Bellona swept the crimson field,
And blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gorgon shield;
O’er the hushed waves their mightier monarch drove,
And Ida trembled to the tread of Jove!

So every grace that plastic language knows
To nameless poets its perfection owes.
The rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts confined
Were cut and polished in their nicer mind;
Caught on their edge, imagination’s ray
Splits into rainbows, shooting far away;—­
From sense to soul, from soul to sense, it flies,
And through all nature links analogies;
He who reads right will rarely look upon
A better poet than his lexicon!

There is a race which cold, ungenial skies
Breed from decay, as fungous growths arise;
Though dying fast, yet springing fast again,
Which still usurps an unsubstantial reign,
With frames too languid for the charms of sense,
And minds worn down with action too intense;
Tired of a world whose joys they never knew,
Themselves deceived, yet thinking all untrue;
Scarce men without, and less than girls within,
Sick of their life before its cares begin;—­
The dull disease, which drains their feeble hearts,
To life’s decay some hectic thrill’s imparts,
And lends a force which, like the maniac’s power,
Pays with blank years the frenzy of an hour.

And this is Genius! Say, does Heaven degrade
The manly frame, for health, for action made?
Break down the sinews, rack the brow with pains,
Blanch the right cheek and drain the purple veins,
To clothe the mind with more extended sway,
Thus faintly struggling in degenerate clay?

No! gentle maid, too ready to admire,
Though false its notes, the pale enthusiast’s lyre;
If this be genius, though its bitter springs
Glowed like the morn beneath Aurora’s wings,
Seek not the source whose sullen bosom feeds
But fruitless flowers and dark, envenomed weeds.

But, if so bright the dear illusion seems,
Thou wouldst be partner of thy poet’s dreams,
And hang in rapture on his bloodless charms,
Or die, like Raphael, in his angel arms,
Go and enjoy thy blessed lot,—­to share
In Cowper’s gloom or Chatterton’s despair!

Not such were they whom, wandering o’er the waves,
I looked to meet, but only found their graves;
If friendship’s smile, the better part of fame,
Should lend my song the only wreath I claim,
Whose voice would greet me with a sweeter tone,
Whose living hand more kindly press my own,
Than theirs,—­could Memory, as her silent tread
Prints the pale flowers that blossom o’er the dead,
Those breathless lips, now closed in peace, restore,
Or wake those pulses hushed to beat no more?

Thou calm, chaste scholar! I can see thee now,
The first young laurels on thy pallid brow,
O’er thy slight figure floating lightly down
In graceful folds the academic gown,
On thy curled lip the classic lines that taught
How nice the mind that sculptured them with thought,
And triumph glistening in the clear blue eye,
Too bright to live,—­but oh, too fair to die!

And thou, dear friend, whom Science still deplores,
And Love still mourns, on ocean-severed shores,
Though the bleak forest twice has bowed with snow
Since thou wast laid its budding leaves below,
Thine image mingles with my closing strain,
As when we wandered by the turbid Seine,
Both blessed with hopes, which revelled, bright and free,
On all we longed or all we dreamed to be;
To thee the amaranth and the cypress fell,—­
And I was spared to breathe this last farewell!

But lived there one in unremembered days,
Or lives there still, who spurns the poet’s bays,
Whose fingers, dewy from Castalia’s springs,
Rest on the lyre, yet scorn to touch the strings?
Who shakes the senate with the silver tone
The groves of Pindus might have sighed to own?
Have such e’er been? Remember Canning’s name!
Do such still live? Let “Alaric’s Dirge” proclaim!

Immortal Art! where’er the rounded sky
Bends o’er the cradle where thy children lie,
Their home is earth, their herald every tongue
Whose accents echo to the voice that sung.
One leap of Ocean scatters on the sand
The quarried bulwarks of the loosening land;
One thrill of earth dissolves a century’s toil
Strewed like the leaves that vanish in the soil;
One hill o’erflows, and cities sink below,
Their marbles splintering in the lava’s glow;
But one sweet tone, scarce whispered to the air,
From shore to shore the blasts of ages bear;
One humble name, which oft, perchance, has borne
The tyrant’s mockery and the courtier’s scorn,
Towers o’er the dust of earth’s forgotten graves,
As once, emerging through the waste of waves,
The rocky Titan, round whose shattered spear
Coiled the last whirlpool of the drowning sphere!

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Unwritten love

Heavenly music choral,
In my soul
Memories start to roll.
A film of life.

Dancing in the kitchen
With my mother on Christmas Eve.
Feelings like no other.
Unwritten love will weave.

That unwritten music
While golden caresses
Wait at the gates.
Earthly tears then dissipate
To send rain for our thirst
Emotion's buds dispersed.

Beautiful music
Unwritten love
Heaven's lights kiss clouds above.
Then sun on our face
Pleasing to the eye.
Unwritten love
Across an open sky.

Poetry unwritten music to our ears
A life of rhyme to wipe away the tears.
And though memories mime
We scribe our souvenirs.
Unwritten love
Sweet music from above.
Plays in our soul.
Like morning star
On Heaven's scroll.

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My Stepmother (for Edgar Andrade Baguio)

When my stepmother first came, her eyes were sharp and bright as little
knives. Her youth and my childhood ran into each other - she was the victor.
Although my father was still alive, I felt orphaned, depressed and alone,
crying by myself, grew up alone. In the first year of peace, everyone drifted.
My father went out - returned with gray hair. I have my father to compensate
me for the loss of my childhood. Sometimes vague envy found father sitting
in silent expectation...

A decade goes by. My stepmother is still as beautiful as at first, though older.
She returns to ask my father to forgive her mistake: My half sister has
another half sister. My heart was no longer jealous - I only felt sorry for my
half sister, who was really too young... I hoped she would not find herself
once more on a tipping wagon. My father died, rain poured down in the
courtyard. My tears gleaned some contentment: Mother and father together
now, forever.

After that she aged quickly, solitary, silent as a shadow, her eyes no longer
sharp as knives. When my son entered the world, she was the first to carry
him, she who changed him the first time, placed him in the gently rocking
hammock. My half-sister asked her mother, only half-joking, Will you favor
my first child this way? Lullabies contain no riddles and tears run down
forever. My stepmothers silent eyes smiled brightly when my son threw
himself into her arms: 'Grandma! '

- Thanh Nguyen's narrative poetry

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Bible in Poetry: 1 John 5

All who believe Jesus is Christ,
Is born of Father and love Him,
And love His child as well, in truth;
We know we love children of God,
By love and obeying commands,
Which are not burdensome at all.

God-born, all overcome the world-
The victory of our faith and world;
He who believes Jesus as Christ,
God’s Son, has overcome the world.

He came by water and of blood;
He did not come by water just,
But by both and spirit proves that;
Because the spirit is the truth,
It testifies about Jesus, .
For, there are three that testify:
The Spirit, water and the blood;
And the three are in agreement.

We accept man’s testimony;
God’s testimony is greater,
For, it is about His own Son!
He has given eternal life;
And this life is in Jesus Christ,
His only begotten Son, Lord;
Whoever has the Son has life;
He who doesn’t, does not have the life!

Concluding Remarks:

I write these things to you who know,
And do believe in Son of God,
And know you have eternal life;
This is the confidence we have
When approaching God for something,
If according to His will, then,
It will be heard and granted too.

If you see your brother in sin,
That does not lead to death, then pray,
That God give him eternal life.
This is when sin doesn’t lead to death;
There is a sin that leads to death;
I don’t say he should pray for that;
All kinds of wrong-doings are sin.

One born of God will not sin on,
And so, he keeps himself quite safe;
The evil one cannot harm him;
We know we are children of God.

The evil one controls the world;
We know the Son of God has come,
And given us understanding,
So that, we know Him who is true.

We are in Him who is the truth,
And in His Son, Jesus Christ;
He’s true God, and eternal Life!
Keep away from idols, children.

Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-25-2007

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Every Walk Of Life

From every walk of life
One a child just wanting to play games
And making funny faces to make everyone laugh
One a young adult maybe of 20
Showing her beauty to the world
With every stride of her black high heals
One a gentlemen writing of his charismatic ways
Passing the miracle of poetry on to
Anyone his words color the taste of
a magician which he surly is
The other a bit more aged and
Seasoned within lifes steak
Trying to teach the children even at
The bottom of her pool of life
That without an education you are nothing
Will be noting and can be nothing
Not only in her eyes but nor in any one else’s

Each telling a story within their unique way
Maybe in the innocent smile he brings to your face
The drawings of chalk that will just be erased in the rain
Maybe in the way she walks along the path of ambition
The gliding motion that clicks with every impulse
To have all the world desires her to have
But knows she has only what she has
Her black high heals
Or maybe in the writing of an unselfish poet
That writes for his many readers not for himself
And the filtering needs of his overflowing mind
And maybe even someone that shows us in a very different way
Within the lines on her face
The stories we long to hear that she tells

Each giving something to the world
One his future so brightly lit
With fresh colors of innocents
But only a dimmed light shows the path he will take
One with her black high heals to guide her
Gives only the flicker of an eyelash to the world
With an empty mind and careless soul she tells no story of wisdom
Another his words of wisdom and self assurance
Float onto the golden paper to welcome his wand of mystery
He shows you are more then what everyone sees in you
You are his reader and without you he would just be a man

With every walk of life there is
A beginning and an end
A start and a finish
A story to tell and one to listen to
Something to give and something to take
The proof is within the wrinkles of an old woman’s face
Because every walk of life has
A start to start and a finish to finish

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Bible in Poetry: 1 John 2

I write to you my dear children,
So that you must not commit sin;
And if someone does commit it,
Our defense is Lord Jesus Christ,
The Righteous One, Holy Spirit,
Who’ll speak to Father for our sake.

The Lamb of God, sins did He take,
He paid the price in atonement,
For mankind’s sins and punishment.

If we obey His commands all,
We’ve come to know and heard His call;
The man who says, ‘I know him, ’ but
Does not follow His commands, yet,
Remains a liar, without doubt.

By obeying, we’re made complete,
And know His word and feel His love,
And walk with Him to heav’n above!

I write to you no new command,
But old an one, just to remind,
A message that you have all heard,
The need to listen to His word,
Because the darkness is passing,
And true light is on you shining.

Someone who claims to be in light,
And hates his brother, is in dark;
Whoever loves his brother, ‘mark,
‘He won’t stumble, he lives in light.’

He who hates still, walks in darkness,
And has been blinded, in sureness,
And does not know to where he goes!

‘I write to you dear children, know,
Your sins have been forgiven now;
On account of His Holy Name.

I write to you dear fathers all,
You’ve known Him and have heard His call,
He, who is from the beginning.

I write to you young men, women,
You’ve overcome the evil one.

I write to you dear children then,
Because the Father, you have known.

I write to you young men on earth,
Because you’re kept strong by His birth,
By word of God that lives in you,
The evil one, you’ve o’ercome too.’

Do Not Love the World:

Don’t love the world and things in it;
Lest love of Father, you forfeit;
The things that are found in this world,
Do not belong to God, the Lord,
But cravings of the sinful man,
Of what he does in his life-span,
The lust of eyes and one’s boasting,
And do not come from Father King,
But have their origin in world.

Warning against Antichrists:

This is the last hour, dear children,
The Antichrist is coming then,
Many such ones have come by now,
By this, this is last hour, we know.

They went away from us only;
They didn’t belong to us truly;
If they had, they would have remained,
And not left us or abandoned.

You have the holy anointing;
And so, you know the truth so well;
The righteous get the Lord’s blessing;
Knowing the truth, you can’t lies tell.

Who is the liar, can you tell?
One who denies Jesus is Christ;
Such men will surely go to hell;
Such men are called as antichrist.

He denies Father and the Son;
The Father can’t be with such one;
Whoever acknowledges Son,
In him has Father and has won.

Ensure what you have heard at first,
Remains in you and Father, Christ;
For, Eternal life, He’as promised.

Beware of being led astray;
By ones who oppose righteousness;
Your anointing will show your way,
You need no one to teach or say.
The anointing is so real;
Remain in Him and He will heal.

Children of God:

So, continue in Him, children,
So that, when He comes from heaven,
We stay confident, without shame,
And stand before Him, without blame.
If you know He’s the Righteous One,
Who does aright, of Him are born.

Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-23-2007

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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. Matthew (Chapter 12)

It was the Sabbath day, when Jesus walked,
Through a field of grain with His disciples,
Who being hungry, picked some heads of grain,
And ate them while the Pharisees had watched.

They then remarked to Jesus about them.
On Sabbath day, his disciples had done
An act, unlawful, according to them.

Then Jesus asked them, ‘Haven’t you read
How David and his friends had fed,
When hungry they became one day,
And ate the offered bread that lay,
Inside the House of God which he
Ought not to eat but ones priestly! ’

‘Have you not read the Sabbath Law?
That priests that serve in temples are
Violating, though innocent? ’

‘There’s something more than temple here.
If you had known what was meant by
Not sacrifice, I desire mercy,
You would not condemn such things done.
The Son of Man’s, Lord of Sabbath! ’

Then, Jesus went into the synagogue.
There was a man with withered hand;
Is it right curing on Sabbath?
They asked to accuse Him therefore.

Then Jesus asked, ‘If your sheep fell
On Sabbath day, into a pit,
Would you not lift it out at once? ’
Is not man’s life more valuable?
’Tis lawful doing good on Sabbath day.’

He told the man, ‘Stretch out your hand.’
The man did so and was restored.
The Pharisees then decided
To wait and then, put Him to death.

As Jesus knew their evil plan,
He left that place to another.
And many followed Him with faith
And Jesus cured their illnesses.
He warned them not to publicize.

This was to fulfill what was said
By prophet Isaiah before:
‘Behold my servant I’ve chosen
My beloved, in whom I delight
I’ll place my Spirit upon Him;
He’ll bestow justice to Gentiles.’

‘He’ll not contend or cry out and
His voice will not echo in streets;
A bruised reed, He will not break;
A burning wick, He’ll not put out,
Until He turns victorious,
And in His name, Gentiles will hope.’

They brought to Him, a demoniac,
Who was blind too and also mute.
He cured the person immediately;
He started speaking and could see.
The crowd was astounded and asked,
‘Could this be perhaps, David’s Son? ’

But Pharisees remarked, ‘This man
Drives out the demons by the pow’r
Of Beelzebul, prince of demons! ’

As Jesus knew what they had thought,
He said to them, ‘A kingdom that’s
Divided will be laid to waste;
A house divided cannot stand;
If Satan can drive out one more,
How can his kingdom ever stand?
And if I drive the demons out
Through Beelzebul, by whom do you?
I drive out demons with God’s help,
The Holy Spirit assists me!
God’s kingdom shall be upon you.’

‘How can one steal a strong man’s house unless,
He ties the man up before he plunders?
Whoev’r is not with me is against me;
Whoev’r that does not gather, then scatters.
Every sin will be forgiven people,
But sin against the spirit will not be.
Whoever speaks against the Son of Man
Will also be forgiven without fuss;
Who speaks against the Holy Spirit won’t
Be forgiven now or in age to come.’

The tree is known by fruits, it shall put forth;
Either the tree is good and so is fruit
Or rotten tree producing just bad fruits.’

‘You brood of vipers, how can you talk good
Things when your heart is filled with evil-hood?
For, speaks the mouth from fullness of the heart.’

The good from good person comes from like store.
An evil person delivers evil;
On Judgment Day, each one renders account
For every careless word, he spoke in life;
By your words, you’ll be acquitted, condemned.’

Some of the scribes and Pharisees then said,
‘Teacher, we wish to see a sign from you.’
Then Jesus told, ‘A sign, an unfaithful
And evil generation seeks but then,
They will be given none except the one:
The sign of Jonah, prophet that all know;
Just as how Jonah stayed in fish’s belly,
For three days and three nights, so will the Son
Of man, be inside the heart of the earth.’

‘On Judgment day, Nineveh’s men will rise,
Because they heard Jonah and repented;
The queen of south will likewise then arise,
Because she heard King Solomon’s wisdom.’

‘When unclean spirit leaves a person, then
It roams through regions but cannot find rest,
And so returns to home that it had left;
It finds it empty, clean and in order;
It goes to bring back seven worse spirits,
And thus the person’s condition worsens;
Thus will this evil generation be.’

While speaking thus, his mother, brothers came,
And wished to speak to Him most urgently;
But Jesus asked, ‘Who’s my mother, brothers? ’

‘He showed His hand at His own disciples
And said, ‘Here are my brothers and mother!
Whoever does the will of my Father,
Is my mother, my sister and brother! ’

Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-1-2007

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Patrick White

O Little Sister

O little sister you're an alley-cat alto-sax
howling on the fire escape
under a blue moon
that's driven you into heat
just outside my window
for that arsonist boyfriend of yours
who used to puke in my potted geraniums
every time the two of you got drunk enough
to crash across my coffee-table laughing
even with each other for a crutch
you haven't got a leg to stand on.
I was charmed by your romantic desolation.
I was intrigued by how much original sincerity
you both saw fit to squander on a cliche.
C'est la vie, c'est l'amor, c'est le guerre.
Elvis Presley is well and living in Tweed.
And Arthur Rimbaud is running guns
with Jim Morrison in Ethiopia for Al-Shabab.
Most people work harder at hope
than they do at achieving their downfall
and you were a fire hydrant
and now you haven't got a hose.
No pun intended
I've known you too long
to see you this upended slurring your words
like the simultaneous translator
of an hourglass speaking
out of both sides of its mouth at once.
I don't know why he left you.
Maybe there was nothing left to put out.
You burned out.
A piece flew off your heat shield upon re-entry.
Maybe any man who couldn't hold his liquor
realizes sooner than later he couldn't hold you.
I don't know.
Go ask my geraniums.
They've got more to say about him than I do.
You make your death bed.
You got to die in it.
Next time build your house on stilts
in Stanthorpe Queensland
to keep the snakes away from your pillow.
What can I say?
He had a shoulder on his chip
that just couldn't hold his end of the world up?
And don't get me wrong.
I'm not laughing at your pain.
I don't laugh at pain.
Pain is pain.
Different planets.
Different moons.
Who hasn't gone swimming with dolphins
in the saturnine seas of Titan
or dropped a comet like a match
on a methane moon of Neptune?
Endomorphs and dopamines
can make you do a lot of funny things
that love is at a loss for words to justify.
Even if just for one wild night
of occult hunting magic
everyone longs to run with the wolves.
And howl, o little sister, you can hear them howling
in their blood agony at the waxing moon
as if something had died within them
that was so deep and crucial
it tore their hearts out
in an ecstasy of unrepentant pain.
And many many years later
when the solid abyss and hollowness of life
has grown even greater
you can still hear their voices
screaming like winter winds
above the timber-line
so high-pitched no echo
has ever been able to reach that high again
without shattering like a night bird
against the mirage of the open sky in the window.
Like you, little sister, now.
I'm not a sump-pump for anybody's tears
not even my own
but I've been known
to throw a little heavy water
on a nuclear meltdown every now and again.
Pain. Separation. Loss. Dream death
you keep reliving like an afterlife in your sleep
you're dying to wake up from
like a coma that's lost everything worth waking up to.
Not two. Not two. Not two.
That's the way it is here.
That's as far as words go.
That's where Statius takes over
from Vergil on the nightshift
and the stars nod off like children
who couldn't finish the story
and the quality of the poetry drops
as dark genius opts out
of the company of bright mediocrities
trying too hard to make it a better world
than it needs to be.
For things it didn't do.
And in a merciful world
that lived up to its teachings
and didn't shrink the heart
with fear of its own extremes
while everything else is expanding
shouldn't be asked to suffer like a placebo
in the glands of spurious cure.
And, yes, I know sometimes
it's hard to keep up with the mysteries
like the elements of life on a geometric scale.
How many jugulars does a woman have
for someone to cut
like the downed powerlines
of the Medusa's head
for having cast the first stone at herself?
You can wake the serpent fire
at the base of your spine
just above your coccyx
the hardest bone in your body
the little throne
the modest gravestone
you'll be resurrected on
when you're summoned from the dead,
but you can't train love
to bite the people you want it too
and run like an antidote to the rescue.
That's why you're getting high
on your own poison right now.
That's why your drunken tears
oscillate between a broken chandelier
that's bleeding out
and acid rain that burns like love
congealing into a new ice age.
However deep you dig the grave
to bury someone you once really loved
even a desert at night
when the stars weren't looking
wouldn't be enough to fill it in.
It's a wound without scar tissue
for the rest of your life.
The ghosts keep being pulled out of the box
like that kleenex you keep using
to dry your eyes at this seance
you've called on the spur of the moment
to be appalled by how lonely it is
to plead with the dead for severance.

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