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You may not always end up where you thought you were going, but you will always end up where you are meant to be.

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The Ancient Profession

The Ancient Profession

Now that prostitution in Norway, has been outlawed
those who turn tricks have to work harder than before,
some of them dress grandmotherly, wait at a crossing
for a man to help them over, and the where and when
are agreed upon. Authentically older women too have
been agreeably surprised never thought they were
going to be touched by a man, and they are not going to
tell. Alas all good things must come to an end, the law
is recruiting pensioned policewomen who do not fear
to go all the way to catch their man.

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The Last Walk In Autumn

I.
O'er the bare woods, whose outstretched hands
Plead with the leaden heavens in vain,
I see, beyond the valley lands,
The sea's long level dim with rain.
Around me all things, stark and dumb,
Seem praying for the snows to come,
And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone,
With winter's sunset lights and dazzling morn atone.

II.
Along the river's summer walk,
The withered tufts of asters nod;
And trembles on its arid stalk
The boar plume of the golden-rod.
And on a ground of sombre fir,
And azure-studded juniper,
The silver birch its buds of purple shows,
And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!

III.
With mingled sound of horns and bells,
A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly,
Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fells,
Like a great arrow through the sky,
Two dusky lines converged in one,
Chasing the southward-flying sun;
While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay
Call to them from the pines, as if to bid them stay.

IV.
I passed this way a year ago
The wind blew south; the noon of day
Was warm as June's; and save that snow
Flecked the low mountains far away,
And that the vernal-seeming breeze
Mocked faded grass and leafless trees,
I might have dreamed of summer as I lay,
Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at play.

V.
Since then, the winter blasts have piled
The white pagodas of the snow
On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild,
Yon river, in its overflow
Of spring-time rain and sun, set free,
Crashed with its ices to the sea;
And over these gray fields, then green and gold,
The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ rolled.

VI.
Rich gift of God! A year of time
What pomp of rise and shut of day,
What hues wherewith our Northern clime
Makes autumn's dropping woodlands gay,
What airs outblown from ferny dells,
And clover-bloom and sweetbrier smells,
What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and flowers,
Green woods and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours!

VII.
I know not how, in other lands,
The changing seasons come and go;
What splendors fall on Syrian sands,
What purple lights on Alpine snow!
Nor how the pomp of sunrise waits
On Venice at her watery gates;
A dream alone to me is Arno's vale,
And the Alhambra's halls are but a traveller's tale.

VIII.
Yet, on life's current, he who drifts
Is one with him who rows or sails
And he who wanders widest lifts
No more of beauty's jealous veils
Than he who from his doorway sees
The miracle of flowers and trees,
Feels the warm Orient in the noonday air,
And from cloud minarets hears the sunset call to prayer!

IX.
The eye may well be glad that looks
Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall;
But he who sees his native brooks
Laugh in the sun, has seen them all.
The marble palaces of Ind
Rise round him in the snow and wind;
From his lone sweetbrier Persian Hafiz smiles,
And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodland aisles.

X.
And thus it is my fancy blends
The near at hand and far and rare;
And while the same horizon bends
Above the silver-sprinkled hair
Which flashed the light of morning skies
On childhood's wonder-lifted eyes,
Within its round of sea and sky and field,
Earth wheels with all her zones, the Kosmos stands revealed.

XI.
And thus the sick man on his bed,
The toiler to his task-work bound,
Behold their prison-walls outspread,
Their clipped horizon widen round!
While freedom-giving fancy waits,
Like Peter's angel at the gates,
The power is theirs to baffle care and pain,
To bring the lost world back, and make it theirs again!

XII.
What lack of goodly company,
When masters of the ancient lyre
Obey my call, and trace for me
Their words of mingled tears and fire!
I talk with Bacon, grave and wise,
I read the world with Pascal's eyes;
And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere,
And poets, garland-bound, the Lords of Thought, draw near.

XIII.
Methinks, O friend, I hear thee say,
'In vain the human heart we mock;
Bring living guests who love the day,
Not ghosts who fly at crow of cock!
The herbs we share with flesh and blood
Are better than ambrosial food
With laurelled shades.' I grant it, nothing loath,
But doubly blest is he who can partake of both.

XIV.
He who might Plato's banquet grace,
Have I not seen before me sit,
And watched his puritanic face,
With more than Eastern wisdom lit?
Shrewd mystic! who, upon the back
Of his Poor Richard's Almanac,
Writing the Sufi's song, the Gentoo's dream,
Links Manu's age of thought to Fulton's age of steam!

XV.
Here too, of answering love secure,
Have I not welcomed to my hearth
The gentle pilgrim troubadour,
Whose songs have girdled half the earth;
Whose pages, like the magic mat
Whereon the Eastern lover sat,
Have borne me over Rhine-land's purple vines,
And Nubia's tawny sands, and Phrygia's mountain pines!

XVI.
And he, who to the lettered wealth
Of ages adds the lore unpriced,
The wisdom and the moral health,
The ethics of the school of Christ;
The statesman to his holy trust,
As the Athenian archon, just,
Struck down, exiled like him for truth alone,
Has he not graced my home with beauty all his own?

XVII.
What greetings smile, what farewells wave,
What loved ones enter and depart!
The good, the beautiful, the brave,
The Heaven-lent treasures of the heart!
How conscious seems the frozen sod
And beechen slope whereon they trod
The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass bends
Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or absent friends.

XVIII.
Then ask not why to these bleak hills
I cling, as clings the tufted moss,
To bear the winter's lingering chills,
The mocking spring's perpetual loss.
I dream of lands where summer smiles,
And soft winds blow from spicy isles,
But scarce would Ceylon's breath of flowers be sweet,
Could I not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet!

XIX.
At times I long for gentler skies,
And bathe in dreams of softer air,
But homesick tears would fill the eyes
That saw the Cross without the Bear.
The pine must whisper to the palm,
The north-wind break the tropic calm;
And with the dreamy languor of the Line,
The North's keen virtue blend, and strength to beauty join.

XX.
Better to stem with heart and hand
The roaring tide of life, than lie,
Unmindful, on its flowery strand,
Of God's occasions drifting by
Better with naked nerve to bear
The needles of this goading air,
Than, in the lap of sensual ease, forego
The godlike power to do, the godlike aim to know.

XXI.
Home of my heart! to me more fair
Than gay Versailles or Windsor's halls,
The painted, shingly town-house where
The freeman's vote for Freedom falls!
The simple roof where prayer is made,
Than Gothic groin and colonnade;
The living temple of the heart of man,
Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired Milan!

XXII.
More dear thy equal village schools,
Where rich and poor the Bible read,
Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules,
And Learning wears the chains of Creed;
Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in
The scattered sheaves of home and kin,
Than the mad license ushering Lenten pains,
Or holidays of slaves who laugh and dance in chains.

XXIII.
And sweet homes nestle in these dales,
And perch along these wooded swells;
And, blest beyond Arcadian vales,
They hear the sound of Sabbath bells!
Here dwells no perfect man sublime,
Nor woman winged before her time,
But with the faults and follies of the race,
Old home-bred virtues hold their not unhonored place.

XXIV.
Here manhood struggles for the sake
Of mother, sister, daughter, wife,
The graces and the loves which make
The music of the march of life;
And woman, in her daily round
Of duty, walks on holy ground.
No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here
Is the bad lesson learned at human rights to sneer.

XXV.
Then let the icy north-wind blow
The trumpets of the coming storm,
To arrowy sleet and blinding snow
Yon slanting lines of rain transform.
Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold,
As gayly as I did of old;
And I, who watch them through the frosty pane,
Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again.

XXVI.
And I will trust that He who heeds
The life that hides in mead and wold,
Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads,
And stains these mosses green and gold,
Will still, as He hath done, incline
His gracious care to me and mine;
Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar,
And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every star!

XXVII.
I have not seen, I may not see,
My hopes for man take form in fact,
But God will give the victory
In due time; in that faith I act.
And lie who sees the future sure,
The baffling present may endure,
And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads
The heart's desires beyond the halting step of deeds.

XXVIII.
And thou, my song, I send thee forth,
Where harsher songs of mine have flown;
Go, find a place at home and hearth
Where'er thy singer's name is known;
Revive for him the kindly thought
Of friends; and they who love him not,
Touched by some strain of thine, perchance may take
The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake.

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Indifference may not wreck a man's life at any one turn, but it will destroy him with a kind of dry-rot in the long run.

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A New-Year’s Burden

ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown
Our way this day in Spring.
Of all the songs that we have known
Now which one shall we sing?
Not that, my love, ah no!—
Not this, my love? why, so!—
Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go.
The grove is all a pale frail mist,
The new year sucks the sun.
Of all the kisses that we kissed
Now which shall be the one?
Not that my love, ah no!—
Not this, my love?—heigh-ho
For all the sweets that all the winds can blow!
The branches cross above our eyes,
The skies are in a net:
And what's the thing beneath the skies
We two would most forget?
Not birth, my love, no, no,—
Not death, my love, no, no,—
The love once ours, but ours long hours ago.

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You Are Same

You are same but differently prayed
Your influence always stayed
That is why you are tolerant
All your acts are definitely apparent

You curse no one
You have hatred for none
Prayers come from all over
You provide them solace and cover

You are a sun and having light
You rise in a path very right
Go in direction where it should be
Path is set and you are not free

We too are guided by rules
If you divert then you are fools
How can day become night?
Even if you profess to be right

It will not change
It will end with age
Universe is not day old
Somewhere hot and somewhere cold

Seasons too cooperate
We only shake and vibrate
As we have nothing to relate
Fight among and only to hate

Why fight over something and spill the blood?
Why not grow more to provide the food?
All Gods may be pleased
New thoughts and positive energy may be released

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I Wish To Put A Discordant Note It May Not Find The Favorable Node Yet It Is Fact And Can't Be Ignored You May Dream Nicely But Not Allowed To Be Snored No One Can Be On Fire With

I wish to put a discordant note
It may not find the favorable node
Yet it is fact and can't be ignored
You may dream nicely but not allowed to be snored

No one can be on fire with creation
It is special bond with relation
Some of the women may only be lucky
Rest of them are still can be called unlucky

She is not as free as has been imagined
Lots of things are compromised and bargained
Where is she today with freedom in all spheres of life?
No safe passage, attack on modesty, and torture as wife?

Something more is needed to cheer up
Lots of awakening with active participation must be geared up
Then one may see the bright future at the tend of tunnel
There are various ways and means for females

Of course participation from all walks of life is must
Mutual respect and confidence along with the trust
I shall go by the respect alone shown to the women
They may be able to care by themselves from the men

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It is not Always May

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
Spanish Proverb

The sun is bright,--the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing.
And from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying Spring.

So blue you winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new;--the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves;--
There are no birds in last year's nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight!
And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh, it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest;
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!

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You are gone

Dare me and you are gone
Right thing for you to be undone
I am queen and can tolerate none
I am in class itself alone

I have enough of grace
Lovely figure and beautiful face
Everybody loves me and find them in race
I would not fall for it in any case

What others should read in me?
Lovely bird wishing always to be free
With only the sky should be the limit
Jumping happily on beautiful and lovely feet

Still you may find little bit of arrogance
If you properly examine or glance
It is challenge to whole world
Do not try to subdue me to bring in fold

I am free bird and would not want
Some of the things I hate or can’t
I belong to all and can not afford
This is final wish from lord

I shall suffer at cruel hands
Still I may take them as friends
Who know where can be awaited tragic end?
I shall wish them all the best with same trend

Mistake me not for any attachment
I can’t be any fortunate moment
I am wind and has no particular direction
My love and hate may speak the action

I shall rule the world in my own way
The happy moments may disappear any way
This is way of life and we are no exception
The concept is very clear from the inception

I am the world ambassador and love symbol
To love and to be loved is the simple call
I hope the message to reach to all
I shall help them to escape future fall


Love me for not what I look
Hate me not for what I print in book
They may be illusory things not for digestion
There are lot many unanswered questions

I may look rude and appear so
Let those moments pass by and go
Let gentle air flow in one direction
I must find the love without any reaction

I know beauty made fade
This is purely a show or trade
Flowers boom in garden
Not sure how much to last even!

Leave not me alone but hold in esteem
The situation may not be same or may seem
I may go away for ever when time comes
Still I shall rule and find the welcome

Do you listen to me all?
Respond to me and my call
I am here to rule and stay
So think over it and be away

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Patrick White

You May. You May Not Come. Maybe Tonight. Or Not

You may. You may not come. Maybe tonight. Or not.
When it's not cooking cosmic eggs, boiling heretics
in the hot oil of bubbling cauldrons, the hourglass
is sandpainting sidereal mandalas with stars
to empower the wind to blow them away,
bones of grey chalk watergilding my flesh in ash.

What did I say? What did I say that was so unorthodox
all the bells of your body were left speechless
at the sight of so many grails trashed like empties
from a car window like a litter of roadkill
along the side of the highway? Did I transit
the zenith of the burning bridge of your last loveletter,
or should I have jumped, or fell, or cannonballed in
to make a bigger splash in the blood vats of your heart?
Maybe a meteor to render your old lovers extinct?

I watch the cold windows until they begin to percolate
in an unexpected thaw of disciplined sorrows.
It's getting late. Your absence, a glacial waterclock
followed by a lot of patronymic colons about who
begat what upon whom. I don't want to meet your father.
I'd kill him on the spot. I don't want to prove
to your mother I'm going to be good to you
in ways that she was not as she soaks
the blood from the carpet like gouts
of insincere candlewax. The price you pay
for three meals a day and a creative finishing school
where you can afford the kind of problems
the poor don't make enough to imitate.

They worry about where the next meal
is coming from. You were born knowing
how far out the soup spoon was supposed
to be aligned from the begging bowl
like a shepherd moon in orbit around Neptune.
And me? I eat out of my skull on the run
whenever I'm writing poetry to the moon
in one long howl of anguished wanting.

Were the diamonds too hard? Wasn't I
bituminous enough when I entered the dark
to show you how I could shine out of
my own inner resources like two hundred million
urns of light gathered from the firepits of the stars
by the crows that keep pecking out my eyes
like jackhammers looking for the motherlode?
And when I watched you slicing the throats
of your long-necked swans like ballet dancers
and black daffodils on an angle to preserve them longer
as cut flowers on the coffee table, didn't I
make a Zen comment on the way you'd arranged them?

I've been scarred by love like a clay tablet in cuneiform
in the library of Ashurbanipal. The crow
has scratched at my flesh to show me where to bury
my dismembered body parts to guarantee
a higher yield over the ensuing light years.
The cat claw of the moon has caught my eye
more than once. Fireflies in a bird net,
I've cauterized my optic nerves on the constellations
of my own signage to keep my brain from seeing
what my heart was afraid to reveal to itself.
I was a blind prophet being led away by a child.

I could witness on the dark side of my seeing
the bird eating arachnids with two red stars for eyes
weaving their wavelengths into low frequency webs
like the bass strings of a slack guitar
to catch the fire of the morning dew in a false dawn
like Cherokee water spiders with hairy down
and scarlet stripes casting magical spells
like the geoglyph on the Nazca pampas
with Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka
in the hourglass waist of Orion trying to squeeze
its abdomen into a whalebone corset
before the Arabs changed its sex
into the belt of a less subtle Hunter
with a trophy line of scalps for wampum.

One of them mine. My eyes transfixed
by the paradigm of an eclipse being peeled back
like a black eyelid of time, or raven tresses
from the skull of the moon. I've known
the innocence of the crow when its feathers
were albino white before its failure turned sinister
as a starless night. A penury of insight
pearl diving for diamonds in a tarpit of love
that swore the new moon would last forever
like apple bloom and silver on the inside of the ore.

But sometimes the Artesian springs we plant
in the starmud of our hearts come up like black holes
and flowers of oil and what's left of the shining
is the tinfoil of a trickster shaman substituting
his hunting magic to gratify the eyes of fools
that revel in their amorous delusions and spurn
the astringencies of enlightenment that burn
like circumpolar suns at midnight illuminating
nothing but the skins we shed to let the snake
out the box like Draco, without getting bit
by the picture-music of our own motives
trying to charm the serpent fire with backbone flutes
jamming with the downed powerlines
of our badly tuned spinal cords riffing
with the cosmic spiders writing the lyrics
of our myth of origins like electrical dreamcatchers
with toxic pincers like the tuning forks of splintered stars.

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When you are Old

Sonnet XXXII

Should you survive the number of my days,
Attest to buried bones and grounded hope,
Nervous, by chance, perhaps this book you'll ope,
Grave hand re-reading, when fast passed my ways.
Tender friend recall our comet blaze,
Openly with instinct's gyroscope
Mark, nurture, sight and sound, bright chromascope,
Able to distill implicit ph[r]ase.
Methinks fond thoughts might share this paraphrase:
“As rainbow bridge strips off coarse envelope
Underdeveloped were poor poet’s plays -
Death forced him far too early to elope.
E’er since he died, have other poets flourished.
Competent their works, I’ll read his, who love nourished.”

[c] Jonathan Robin

Shakespeare Sonnet XXXII
(cf Ronsard: When you are old and grey)


If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shall by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,
Exceeded by the heights of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'?

Quand vous serez bien vieille

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant:
'Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j'étais belle.'

Lors vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de Ronsard ne s'aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

Je serai sous la terre, et fantôme sans os,
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos;
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,

Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m'en croyez, n'attendez à demain;
Cueillez dès aujourd'hui les rose de la vie.


Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 – 1578


RONSARD Pierre de 1524_1585 rons1_0014_rons1_0000 PFS_DLZ Quand vous serez bien vielle_Quand vous serez bien vielle

RONSARD Pierre de 1524_1585 rons1_0014_FRANC_0000 PFS_DLZ
Quand vous serez bien vielle_Quand vous serez bien vielle


“When you are very old...”

When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”

Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name’s cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name — immortalised by my desire.

I’ll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you’ll be an old woman, nodding towards life’s close,

regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won’t come again.
Come, pluck now — today — life’s so quickly-fading rose.


Tide and Undertow Anthony WEIR Belfast 1975
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle
and William Butler YEATS – To His Book


WEIR Anthony 19_20 weir1_0001_wear1_0000 PST_LZX When you are very old_When you are very old at even by the fire

WEIR Anthony 19_20 weir1_0001_yeat1_0000 PST_LZX When you are very old_When you are very old at even by the fire

WEIR Anthony 19_20 weir1_0001_rons1_0014 PST_LZX When you are very old_When you are very old at even by the fire



When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And, nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountain overhead
And his his face amid a crowd of stars.


William Butler YEATS 1893 - The Rose
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle

YEATS William Butler 1865_1939 yeat1_0011_yeat1_0000 PTX_DLZ When you are old_When you are old and gray and full of sleep

YEATS William Butler 1865_1939 yeat1_0011_rons1_0014 PTX_DLZ When you are old_When you are old and gray and full of sleep


Candlelight Blues


When yore gitten old at candlelight
Sittin’ at the fire gonna spin all night,
You’ll say sorta marvelin’ as y’sing my song,
“Good old Ronsard sang when Ah was young.”

Then y’won’t have a maid what hears that soun’,
Jist about t’fall asleep an’ all tired down,
Who ain’t gonna wake when she hears ma name
An’ start praisin’ yore name of immortal fame.

Ah’ll be six foot under, no skeleton,
‘Neath the myrtle groves is where my soul will run;

You’ll be dreamin’ at the hearth in a messy ole way,
Sorry you was proud, now Ah’ve gone away.

Better saddle up yore horse, don’t wait all night,
Pick yore roses today, then you’ll be all right.

G. R. TEJADA-FLORES,1961
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle


TEJADA-FLORES G. R.19_20 teja1_0001_teja1_0000 PST_LZX Candlelight Blues_When yore gitten old at candlelight

TEJADA-FLORES G. R.19_20 teja1_0001_rons1_0014 PST_LZX Candlelight Blues_When yore gitten old at candlelight

When You are Old


Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend,
Assise auprès du box with knitting and teapot,
Say, kid, chantant mes vers, my God, that man was hot!
Ron était stuck on me quand my face was mon friend.

Pauvr’old bag, quelle façon d’arriver à your end,
Dozant par le TV en watchant Golden Shot!
N’assumez pas, ma chère, que déjà that’s your lot –
Comme Ronnie’s has-been poule you’re always dans le trend.

Puis quand j’ai snuffed it, sqweet, vous serez rien du tout.
Alors, écoutez-moi très bien, vous silly moo;
Ne turne me down pas now – trop soon vous trouverez

Qu’on a toujours besoin d’un tel terrific chap,
Un super-poet, qui vous met bien sur le map;
Les roses de Ron son best – so cueillez while you may.


Alison PRINCE 1931_20
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle

PRINCE Alison 1931_20 prin1_0001_prin1_0000 PSW_LZW When you are Old_Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend

PRINCE Alison 1931_20 prin1_0001_FRANC_0000 PSW_LZW When you are Old_Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend

PRINCE Alison 1931_20 prin1_0001_rons1_0014 PSW_LZW When you are Old_Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend

Quand vous serez bien vieille

When you are old, one night while candles flare,
Spinning before the fire you’ll sit and say,
Speaking my lines and wondering in your way:
‘Once Ronsard praised me: I was young and fair.’
If any maid should hear you, though her share
Of the day’s work like sleep upon her lay,
Ronsard’s renown would wake her, she would pray
A benediction on your name: her prayer

I shall not hear; buried, a boneless ghost,
At peace I’ll be among the myrtled host;
Muddled about the fire you still will stay,
Feeling remorse at heart for your disdain.
Let’s live, my love; to-morrow waits in vain!
Gather the roses of life; begin today!


Author Unknown 0182 Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle


Author Unknown 0182 AuUnM_0182_AuUnM_0000 TSX_LZX Quand Vous serez bien Vieille_When you are old, one night

Author Unknown 0182 AuUnM_0182_rons1_0014 TSX_LZX Quand Vous serez bien Vieille_When you are old, one night

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A Poem Is Not Always A Prayer

A poem is not always a prayer
A poem can merely describe.
A prayer cries from the heart.
It calls from the soul.
It does not live by Beauty alone.

A prayer may be a poem
And a poem a prayer.
Not always do they say as one
“Oh God, ‘Where Aren’t You? ’
And ‘Where Are You? ’ ”

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Into A Place Where You Are Not Welcome

when you find yourself
in such a place
you imagine yourself
in the middle of the fire

the fire burns all day
you may not get charred
but you finally find your body
without nerves

you walk with them
and you feel that you have no more heart
that beats inside your
chest

why stay in that place for long?
inflicting death to the very pulse
of your arm

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You Are At

You are where you are supposed to
Try to find put whatever is true
Love is where it should be
You can have it cost free

Love can not be had for simple reasons
It can be difficult for any person
No one can claim on the basis of wealth
You should look good also with health

Win the heart with your sincerity
Prove you’re honest with good quality
You may hold hand till the end
Maintain it till last as friend

You will get it without even try
Many people feel very shy
But it is one time affair in beautiful span
One must thrive for and simply plan

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Belong where you are appreciated.

Not wise to oppose or fight
Be diplomatic from the heart.
So many people walks in misery,
Hate their job, their life, live in slavery.
Need to wake up and know opposing is futile,
Doing everything cheerfully from the heart is triumphal.

Go with the flow, became humble,
Doing everything from the heart never get you into trouble
Same time keep your mind open for the best,
Take what come, solve problems, be a good quest.

Go where you are happy, talk to people you like,
Always be open for a better tomorrow, job and home,
Your life will be calm, happy and became like a nature's hike.

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When You Are Old

When you are old, and I am passed away –
Passed, and your face, your golden face is gray –
I think, what’er the end, this dream of mine,
Comforting you, a friendly star will shine
Down the dim slope where you still stumble and stray.
So may it be: that so dead yesterday,
Not sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay,
May serve your memories like almighty wine,
When you are old!

Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway
Of death the past’s enormous disarray
Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign,
Live on well pleased: immortal and divine
Love shall still tend you, as God’s angels may,
When you are old.

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I Wonder Where You Are

Often we are not apart,
And needing.
With our hearts too near,
And accessible to feel.

We have not been many times distant,
To miss what is wished...
For us that is clear.

I wonder where you are,
When I am here wanting you.
I fear I do,
Someone new you might meet.

I am that insecure.
And this only you can do to me.
When I am not sure,
If I satisfy your needs completely.

We have not been many times distant,
To miss what is wished...
For us that is clear.

Often we are not apart,
And needing.
With our hearts too near,
And accessible to feel.

I wonder where you are,
When I am here wanting you.
And I fear...
I do.
Someday you may not find,
I satisfy your needs completely.

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You May Not Be Able to Feel My Pinch

My reality lived,
Is not yours to claim.
My insights are not like another.
Neither are yours.
But we both can agree...
However we are looking at reality,
There is little room to fantasize
The sting of its clarity.
You may not be able to feel my pinch,
As it is self inflicted.
But I am sure...
You have experienced a kick in the butt!
And that comes to us without description.
Or an invitation you solicit to kiss...
When the kicking of it has been missed!
Either way,
I recommend as a hint...
Do not make neither of those actions,
An accepted routine.
You will just get stuck going nowhere...
Seeking an increase of volunteers.
And many will have their boots tied and ready.
Tempers are on the edge!
So I would step lightly.

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I Wanna Be Where You Are

Can it be I stayed away too long
Did I leave your mind when I was gone
Its not my thing trying to get back
But this time let me tell you where Im at
You dont have to worry cause Im coming
Back to where I should have always stayed
And now Ive heard the maybe to your story
And its enough love for me to stay
Can it be I stayed away too long
Did I leave your mind when I was gone
Its not my thing trying to get back
But this time let me tell you where Im at
Chorus:
I wanna, wanna be where you are
Anywhere you are
I wanna, wanna be where you are
Everywhere you are
Bridge:
Please dont close the door to our future
Theres so many things we havent tried
I could love you better than I used to
And give you all the love I have inside
Chorus:
I wanna, wanna be where you are
Any, any, anywhere you are
I wanna, wanna be where you are
I gotta be where you are

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If You Are Not God

With a perishable faith
I was guided towards you for love
where I come to you like a blank paper
where desire wants to see success
and not a darkness of uncertainty
but after a long journey of
my aesthetic sense of soul
where all the theories and notions are failed
in front of visual imaginations
I find a new visionary status
that there's an illusion of faith..
which is the reason of my perplexity
i need to know the existence of love
But, the condition is 'if you are not God'
not to be the God is only my reliable source
it may be humane or something else but not God
which can lead to the glory of my heart not God
and if you are not God
I am ready to follow you whatever you say
this is heart to heart not heart to unknown
where my origen is a reflecting mirror
and the hidden combination of soul and body,
with a large canvas of aspirations

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You May Not Remember Me. But...

The best advice ever given to someone,
Was probably solicited.
With a promise not to become offended,
When the decision was made to deliver it.
To eventually despise the one who was direct.
Yes?

And after years of being upset...
The one given the advice once in denial,
Recognizes the advice to be the best.
Right?
And then with a doing...
There is an attempt to make amends.
Hoping to be forgiven.

'Hello...
You may not remember me.
But...
I was the one who asked for your advice.
And after you gave it to me...
I accused you of being mean and cruel.
And did everything I could to ruin your life.
Do you remember me?

Hello?

Hello? '

Well...
In 'some' cases when asking for advice,
And that advice is disliked?
It is highly recommended,
To leave one's mother out of it.
With an insinuating of one's preference.

Or disgracing someone,
Because of something you've done!
Since it is hard to overcome,
An impression made left as a reference.

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