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Smart Men Who Cheat

When women see you’re smart they think you are a cheat,
and if you try to win their trust they’ll be dismissive.
If you don’t cheat you challenge women whom they meet,
and so be made to smart when they become derisive.

The problem is that if you want to be what you
are not you suffer an internal exile, and the drama
of insignificance you suffer is a cue
for women who can penetrate your cheating armor.

Inspired by a saying of Emile Cioran (1911–95) : “It’s awful to be Romanian: you never win the trust of any women, and serious people smile at you dismissively: when they see that you are smart, they think you are a cheat.” This piece of wisdom was quoted by Costica Bradatan in his review of Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston’s “Searching for Cioran” in the TLS, October 9,2009. Cioran, Bradatan writes, “suffered the drama of insignificance, ” and all his life wanted to be “something else: Spanish, Russian, German, cannibal––anything but what I was.” His dream, says Bradatan, was “to become a stranger” so that exile became his vocation, as he pointed out in his Sylogismes de l’amertume (1952) .

10/31/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Problems

Too many problems, oh why am I here?
I need to be me, cause youre all to clear
And I can see theres something wrong with you
Oh, what do you expect me to do?
At least I gotta know what I wanna be
Dont come to me if you need pity
Are you lonely, you got no-one
You got your body in suspension
Thats a problem, problem, problem
The problem is you
Eat your heart out on a plastic tray
You dont do what you want and you fade away
You work for me, youre working nine-to-five
Its too much fun of being alive
Im using my feet for my human machine
You work for me, living for the screen
Are you lonely, all needs catered
You got your brains dehydrated
Problem, problem, problem, the problem is you
Oh what what you gonna do, problem, problem
Problem, problem, problem, the problem is you
Well, what you gonna do with your problem
The problem is you, problem
I aint death trip, but I aint automatic
You work for me, just stay ecstatic
Dont you give me any orders
To people like me, there is no order
Bet you thought you had it all worked out
Bet you thought you knew what I was about
Bet you thought youd solved all your problems
But you are the problem
Problem, problem, problem, the problem is you
Oh, what you gonna do with your problem?
Ill leave it up to you, oh problem
The problem is you, you got a problem
Oh what you gonna do?
They know a doctor, gonna take you away
Thay take you away and they throw away the key
They dont want you and they dont want me
You got a problem the problem is you
Problem, well, what you gonna do?
Problem, have you got a problem?
Problem, well you got a problem
Problem (x17)

song performed by Megadeth
Added by Lucian Velea
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Too Long In Exile

Too long in exile
Too long not singing my song
Too long in exile
Too long like a rolling stone
Too long in exile
Too long in exile
Baby those people just aint, just aint your friends
Too long in exile my friend
You can never go home again
Well that isolated feeling
Drives you so close up against the wall
Till you feel like you cant go on
Youve been in the same place for too long
Too long in exile
Baby you can never go back home
Too long in exile
Anyway you want
Oh that isolated feeling
Drives you up against, up against the wall
cos youve been on the mainland baby
Been on the mainland, cominon strong
Too long in exile
Too long people keep hanging on
Too long in exile
Too long like a rolling stone
And the wheeling and the dealing
All takes up too much time
Check your better self baby
Youd better satisfy, satisfy your mind
Too long in exile
Too long youve been grinding at the mill
Too long in exile
Man, Ive really just had my fill
Too long in exile
You can never go back home again
Too long in exile
Youre about to drive me just insane
Too long in exile, been too long in exile
Just like james joyce, baby
Too long in exile
Just like samuel beckett baby
Too long in exile
Just like oscar wilde
Too long in exile
Just like george best, baby
Too long in exile
Just like alex higgins, baby
Too long in exile

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Trust Trust

Trust trust many have found
Trust trust no where around
Trust trust is what many say
Trust trust here i lay
Trust trust in my ear
Trust trust i cant find you my dear

Trust trust is hard to find
Trust trust are you apart of mankind
Trust trust im calling to you
Trust trust please give me a clue
Trust trust i need my love
Trust trust she came from up above

Trust trust what do i do
Trust trust do i believe my boo
Trust trust am i right
Trust trust please show me the light
Trust trust your driving me crazy
Trust trust your just to hazy

Trust trust i will find you
Trust trust i will never find anew
Trust trust help me out
Trust trust cause with this love i dont want to wipeout
Trust trust sarah's is my heart
Trust trust she's a beauty of art

poem by Cody Fortner
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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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I Cant Win

(l. johnson/d. richardson/c. knight)
Ive been trying so hard to find a way to your heart
I cant win, I cant win, I cant win, I cant win
Win your love, win your love
I gave you my love, I gave you my heart
Instead of taking it, keeping it, baby, you tore it apart
But I cant win, I cant win, I cant win, no, I cant win
Win your love, win your love
I go to church every sunday [and there aint nothing wrong with that]
I stand work on time, every monday [i do the best I can]
I cant win, I cant win, I cant win, oh, no, I cant win
Win your love,
Cant seem to win your love, baby
Win your love
No matter how hard I try
Win your love, cant win your love, baby
Win your love, oh-hoo, I cant win
I just cant win, baby
I cant win
I try hard enough, girl
I cant win, I still cant win
I work eight days a week, baby
What more, what more you want me to do ?
Im down on my knees, baby, I do that
I cant win, please, please, please
Just cant seem to win your love
Come on, and bring it to me, girl
Win your love, win your love

song performed by Ry Cooder
Added by Lucian Velea
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Salut Au Monde

O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!
Such join'd unended links, each hook'd to the next!
Each answering all--each sharing the earth with all.

What widens within you, Walt Whitman?
What waves and soils exuding?
What climes? what persons and lands are here?
Who are the infants? some playing, some slumbering?
Who are the girls? who are the married women?
Who are the groups of old men going slowly with their arms about each
other's necks?
What rivers are these? what forests and fruits are these?
What are the mountains call'd that rise so high in the mists?
What myriads of dwellings are they, fill'd with dwellers?

Within me latitude widens, longitude lengthens;
Asia, Africa, Europe, are to the east--America is provided for in the
west;
Banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equator,
Curiously north and south turn the axis-ends;
Within me is the longest day--the sun wheels in slanting rings--it
does not set for months;
Stretch'd in due time within me the midnight sun just rises above the
horizon, and sinks again;
Within me zones, seas, cataracts, plants, volcanoes, groups,
Malaysia, Polynesia, and the great West Indian islands.

What do you hear, Walt Whitman?

I hear the workman singing, and the farmer's wife singing;
I hear in the distance the sounds of children, and of animals early
in the day;
I hear quick rifle-cracks from the riflemen of East Tennessee and
Kentucky, hunting on hills;
I hear emulous shouts of Australians, pursuing the wild horse;
I hear the Spanish dance, with castanets, in the chestnut shade, to
the rebeck and guitar;
I hear continual echoes from the Thames;
I hear fierce French liberty songs;
I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of old
poems;
I hear the Virginia plantation-chorus of negroes, of a harvest night,
in the glare of pine-knots;
I hear the strong baritone of the 'long-shore-men of Mannahatta;
I hear the stevedores unlading the cargoes, and singing;
I hear the screams of the water-fowl of solitary north-west lakes;
I hear the rustling pattering of locusts, as they strike the grain
and grass with the showers of their terrible clouds;
I hear the Coptic refrain, toward sundown, pensively falling on the

[...] Read more

poem by Walt Whitman
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)

Introduction

In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.

Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.

Prologue

The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain

mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact

that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals

becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,

who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight

in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.

Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God

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poem by Gert Strydom
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IV. Tertium Quid

True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Im Gonna Win

Another dark night, in the city
And my prospects lookin thin
The survival, of the fittest
Is the law, in the world that I live in
I was not born, to be a fighter
But nows the time I have to learn
To keep my head, above the water
Gotta play with fire, but not get burned
I gotta stand up, I gotta face it
Dont want to lose it
I want to taste it while its hot
Dont want to waste it, I need it so bad
Im gonna win, yeah
Im gonna win
You see its a matter of pride
Deep down inside
Im gonna win, yeah
Im gonna win
I got no time, to sit and wonder
I got myself, to reckon with
Yeah and life wont drag me under
Even if it takes, all I have to give
Ill give it all
I gotta stand up, I gotta face it
Dont want to lose it
Ooh I want to taste it while its hot
Dont want to waste it, my minds made up
Im gonna win
Im gonna win
I tell you, see when it comes down to the crunch
Ive gotta beat life to the punch
Im gonna win
Somehow I know Im gonna win
You know
Ive got to fight to stay alive
Kick it in to overdrive
Im gonna win, ooh, ooh, ooh
Im gonna win
Im gonna win
Im gonna win
You see its a matter of pride
Deep down inside
Im gonna win
Gonna win, gonna win
Ooh, Ill pay the price
Gonna win
No more mr. nice
Gonna win
Hey, just watch me roll the dice
Im gonna win, win, win

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song performed by Foreigner
Added by Lucian Velea
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2 Pieces Of Drama

2 pieces of drama
The hammer's bout' to fall
2 pieces of drama
there's gunplay in the hall
2 pieces of drama
Make peace with your momma, the consequence is dire
2 pieces of drama
Boy you know not to play with fire
He rocks a big ??? caber
A ping pong table for a ring
He's mentally unstable
To him murder it ain't no thing
He'll do you dirty style
He's holding dirty bile
He's out pumping on the corner
Trying to stay warm
And keep it cool like Miles
He keeps it fundamental
He's got the jeans and the bubblegoose on
There's murder on his mental
He's got the deuce deuce in his palm
And y'all know the fable
How cain did able
Ever since the beginning
The world keeps pinning just like a turntable
2 pieces of drama
The hammer's bout' to fall
2 pieces of drama
there's gunplay in the hall
2 pieces of drama
Make peace with your momma, the consequence is dire
2 pieces of drama
Boy you know not to play with fire
La la la la la la la la (B Real Hand on the Pump sample)
When it's selling out back
Likes to pump crack
To the fiends that be getting high
He keeps his hand on the pump
He's ready to dump
On any chump that would even try
He got a finger on the trigger
He ain't scared to pull it
Head full of liquor
Boy you might catch a bullet
They're holes in stable
Drugs on the table
Everybody's sitting round
Watching cops on the cable
Dressed like a slob
Keeps his hair braided

[...] Read more

song performed by Everlast
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Emu Of Whroo

WE’VE a tale to tell you of a spavined emit,
A bird with a smile like a crack in a hat,
Who was owned by M‘Cue, of the township of Whroo,
The county of Rodney—his front name was Pat.
The bird was a dandy, although a bit bandy,
Her knees, too, were queer and her neck out of gauge—
She’d eat what was handy, from crowbars to candy,
Was tall, too, and tough for a chick of her age.
But her taste and her height, and her figure and smile,
Were the smallest potatoes compared with her guile.

M‘Cue’s bird had a name, Arabella that same—
A name that was given by Pat, we may say,
To the memory and fame of a red-headed flame,
Because, as he said, ‘she wuz builded that way.’
The bird Arabella let nothing compel her,
Her temper was bad when disturbed, as a rule.
She’d rupture the smeller of any young ‘feller’
Who teased, with a kick that would honor a mule.
And the boys and the girls who were then living near
Were all minus an eye—those with luck had one ear.

The emu with her smile would the new-chum beguile
To step up and study the great, gawky bird,
And then let out in style, and she’d hoist him a mile—
The sound of his wailing would never be heard.
At which she’d look stately, and mild, and sedately,
And seem to be steeped in some deep inward woe,
Or wondering greatly what happened there lately
That people found need to go tearing round so.
P. M‘Cue overlooked his long bird’s little craze,
He declared it was only her emusing ways.

Is it strange that in time these outrages should prime
The neighbours with ire and profanity dread?
And at every crime, with good reason and rhyme,
They’d bombard the bird with old iron and lead;
Their weapons would whistle by Bella and hiss ill,
The bird only smiled as they yearned for her gore;
They wasted their gristle, she ate up each missile,
And placidly looked on and waited for more,
Her digestion not stones nor old nails could upset,
So it’s strange that the men disagreed with the pet.

The late Mr. M‘Cue, of the township of Whroo,
Would hear no complaints of his biped absurd,
And with little ado put the biggest man through
Who’d lay ’e’er a finger on Bella, the bird.
If father or teacher came flaunting a feature
Removed from a boy, say, an eyelid or ear,

[...] Read more

poem by Edward George Dyson
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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What's In It For Me?

THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE HAVE TIME FOR TWITTER AND FACEBOOK, BUT NONE FOR THEMSELVES OR OTHERS,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE HAVE A HUNDRED 'FRIENDS' ON FACEBOOK,
BUT NOT EVEN TEN IN REAL LIFE
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE EMOTE WITH EMOTICONS BUT NOT WITH THEIR FACES,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE PREFER TO WRITE 'LOL' RATHER THAN ACTUALLY LAUGHING OUT LOUD,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE LOVE THEIR COMPUTER MORE THAN THEIR FRIENDS,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE LIVE THEIR LIVES MORE ONLINE THAN OFF IT,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE CAN SPOT THE ERROR IN SOMEONE'S TYPING BUT CANNOT SPOT A TEAR IN A FRIEND'S EYE,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE CAN GROW ANY CROP ONLINE BUT CANNOT EVEN PICK UP A SPADE IN REAL LIFE,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE RELISH THE FOOD AT MCDONALDS AND DOMINOS, BUT CRIB OVER HOME COOKED FOOD,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE ARE READY TO KILL FOR A FEW SHREDS OF PAPER,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE KILL IN THE NAME OF RELIGION,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE A MAN IS READY TO KILL HIS BROTHER OVER PROPERTY AND MONEY,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE THE VALUE OF MONEY IS MORE THAN THE VALUE OF LIFE,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE LIVING A LIFE IS TOUGHER THAN KILLING A LIFE,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE IT'S EASIER TO EARN MONEY BY CHEATING THAN BY WORKING HONESTLY,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE THE VALUE OF A GIFT IS THROUGH ITS PRICE AND NOT ITS EMOTIONS,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE THE MEASURE OF A MAN IS THROUGH HIS CAR AND HOUSE RATHER THAN HIS CHARACTER,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE LOVE THEIR POSSESSIONS MORE THAN THEIR FRIENDS AND PARENTS,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE THINGS ARE LOVED AND PEOPLE ARE USED,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD WHERE PEOPLE DO ANYTHING FOR A BETTER PAY BUT NOTHING FOR A BETTER CONSCIENCE,
EVEN IF I WIN THIS WORLD WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?
THE WORLD IS BAD AND I KNOW THAT BUT SILL IF I WIN THIS WORLD,
WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?

poem by Deepak Hariharan
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666

1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.

2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.

3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;
Each waxing moon supplied her watery store,
To swell those tides, which from the line did bear
Their brimful vessels to the Belgian shore.

5
Thus mighty in her ships, stood Carthage long,
And swept the riches of the world from far;
Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong:
And this may prove our second Punic war.

6
What peace can be, where both to one pretend?
(But they more diligent, and we more strong)
Or if a peace, it soon must have an end;
For they would grow too powerful, were it long.

7
Behold two nations, then, engaged so far
That each seven years the fit must shake each land:
Where France will side to weaken us by war,
Who only can his vast designs withstand.

8
See how he feeds the Iberian with delays,
To render us his timely friendship vain:
And while his secret soul on Flanders preys,
He rocks the cradle of the babe of Spain.

9
Such deep designs of empire does he lay

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poem by John Dryden
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 10

THE GATES of heav’n unfold: Jove summons all
The gods to council in the common hall.
Sublimely seated, he surveys from far
The fields, the camp, the fortune of the war,
And all th’ inferior world. From first to last, 5
The sov’reign senate in degrees are plac’d.
Then thus th’ almighty sire began: “Ye gods,
Natives or denizens of blest abodes,
From whence these murmurs, and this change of mind,
This backward fate from what was first design’d? 10
Why this protracted war, when my commands
Pronounc’d a peace, and gave the Latian lands?
What fear or hope on either part divides
Our heav’ns, and arms our powers on diff’rent sides?
A lawful time of war at length will come, 15
(Nor need your haste anticipate the doom),
When Carthage shall contend the world with Rome,
Shall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains,
And, like a flood, come pouring on the plains.
Then is your time for faction and debate, 20
For partial favor, and permitted hate.
Let now your immature dissension cease;
Sit quiet, and compose your souls to peace.”
Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge;
But lovely Venus thus replies at large: 25
“O pow’r immense, eternal energy,
(For to what else protection can we fly?)
Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare
In fields, unpunish’d, and insult my care?
How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train, 30
In shining arms, triumphant on the plain?
Ev’n in their lines and trenches they contend,
And scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend:
The town is fill’d with slaughter, and o’erfloats,
With a red deluge, their increasing moats. 35
Æneas, ignorant, and far from thence,
Has left a camp expos’d, without defense.
This endless outrage shall they still sustain?
Shall Troy renew’d be forc’d and fir’d again?
A second siege my banish’d issue fears, 40
And a new Diomede in arms appears.
One more audacious mortal will be found;
And I, thy daughter, wait another wound.
Yet, if with fates averse, without thy leave,
The Latian lands my progeny receive, 45
Bear they the pains of violated law,
And thy protection from their aid withdraw.
But, if the gods their sure success foretell;
If those of heav’n consent with those of hell,
To promise Italy; who dare debate 50

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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II. Half-Rome

What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)

Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto I

THE ARGUMENT

The Knight and Squire resolve, at once,
The one the other to renounce.
They both approach the Lady's Bower;
The Squire t'inform, the Knight to woo her.
She treats them with a Masquerade,
By Furies and Hobgoblins made;
From which the Squire conveys the Knight,
And steals him from himself, by Night.

'Tis true, no lover has that pow'r
T' enforce a desperate amour,
As he that has two strings t' his bow,
And burns for love and money too;
For then he's brave and resolute,
Disdains to render in his suit,
Has all his flames and raptures double,
And hangs or drowns with half the trouble,
While those who sillily pursue,
The simple, downright way, and true,
Make as unlucky applications,
And steer against the stream their passions.
Some forge their mistresses of stars,
And when the ladies prove averse,
And more untoward to be won
Than by CALIGULA the Moon,
Cry out upon the stars, for doing
Ill offices to cross their wooing;
When only by themselves they're hindred,
For trusting those they made her kindred;
And still, the harsher and hide-bounder
The damsels prove, become the fonder.
For what mad lover ever dy'd
To gain a soft and gentle bride?
Or for a lady tender-hearted,
In purling streams or hemp departed?
Leap'd headlong int' Elysium,
Through th' windows of a dazzling room?
But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,
The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.
This to the Knight could be no news,
With all mankind so much in use;
Who therefore took the wiser course,
To make the most of his amours,
Resolv'd to try all sorts of ways,
As follows in due time and place

No sooner was the bloody fight,
Between the Wizard, and the Knight,

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poem by Samuel Butler
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