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Being another character is more interesting than being yourself.

quote by John Gielgud
Added by Lucian Velea
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Nature

Weather constantly changes.
No character, only dynamic.
Dull and dreary,
Or bitter and cold,
Or bright and shiny.
This is mother nature.
She is of this world.
She dictates the mood.
She affects mine.

Emotions, constantly changing.
Personality has dynamic,
But lacks character.
It is constantly changing.
Bitter and resentful,
Frustrated and annoyed
Happy & joyous.
This is human nature.
It is of this world.
It dictates our mood.
It affects another.

Mother nature cannot be controlled.
For she is not ours.
Yet mother nature controls me,
Though I am not hers.
Together, we must exist.
We must accept each as we both are.
Though one affects the other.
Based on emotion, not character.

During the storm,
The sky is still the sky,
The ground, is still the ground
The sun is still the sun.
This is the character of mother nature.
The snow may cover the ground,
But the ground remains.
The clouds may cover the sun,
But the sun remains.
Character is always constant.

Nature affects character.
Character is patience, kindness,
Compassion, empathy, forgiving.
Plain and simple,
Our character is love.
Human nature covers human character,
Although it might not be seen,
It still remains.

[...] Read more

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Berenice by edgar allan poe

MISERY is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch, -as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness? -from the covenant of peace a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.

My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not mention. Yet there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of visionaries; and in many striking particulars -in the character of the family mansion -in the frescos of the chief saloon -in the tapestries of the dormitories -in the chiselling of some buttresses in the armory -but more especially in the gallery of antique paintings -in the fashion of the library chamber -and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library's contents, there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the belief.

The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that chamber, and with its volumes -of which latter I will say no more. Here died my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had not lived before -that the soul has no previous existence. You deny it? -let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. There is, however, a remembrance of aerial forms -of spiritual and meaning eyes -of sounds, musical yet sad -a remembrance which will not be excluded; a memory like a shadow, vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady; and like a shadow, too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it while the sunlight of my reason shall exist.

In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of what seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very regions of fairy-land -into a palace of imagination -into the wild dominions of monastic thought and erudition -it is not singular that I gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye -that I loitered away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie; but it is singular that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my fathers -it is wonderful what stagnation there fell upon the springs of my life -wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character of my commonest thought. The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn, -not the material of my every-day existence-but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself.

Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal halls. Yet differently we grew -I ill of health, and buried in gloom -she agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy; hers the ramble on the hill-side -mine the studies of the cloister -I living within my own heart, and addicted body and soul to the most intense and painful meditation -she roaming carelessly through life with no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours. Berenice! -I call upon her name -Berenice! -and from the gray ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound! Ah! vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh! gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh! sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! -Oh! Naiad among its fountains! -and then -then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which should not be told. Disease -a fatal disease -fell like the simoom upon her frame, and, even while I gazed upon her, the spirit of change swept, over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible, disturbing even the identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer came and went, and the victim -where was she, I knew her not -or knew her no longer as Berenice.

Among the numerous train of maladies superinduced by that fatal and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as the most distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in trance itself -trance very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery was in most instances, startlingly abrupt. In the mean time my own disease -for I have been told that I should call it by no other appelation -my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and assumed finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary form -hourly and momently gaining vigor -and at length obtaining over me the most incomprehensible ascendancy. This monomania, if I must so term it, consisted in a morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in metaphysical science termed the attentive. It is more than probable that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate idea of that nervous intensity of interest with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of the universe.

To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention riveted to some frivolous device on the margin, or in the topography of a book; to become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day, in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the door; to lose myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire; to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower; to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind; to lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in; -such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to anything like analysis or explanation.

Yet let me not be misapprehended. -The undue, earnest, and morbid attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must not be confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent imagination. It was not even, as might be at first supposed, an extreme condition or exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In the one instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested by an object usually not frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day dream often replete with luxury, he finds the incitamentum or first cause of his musings entirely vanished and forgotten. In my case the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. Few deductions, if any, were made; and those few pertinaciously returning in upon the original object as a centre. The meditations were never pleasurable; and, at the termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I have said before, the attentive, and are, with the day-dreamer, the speculative.

My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their imaginative and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the treatise of the noble Italian Coelius Secundus Curio 'de Amplitudine Beati Regni dei'; St. Austin's great work, the 'City of God'; and Tertullian 'de Carne Christi, ' in which the paradoxical sentence 'Mortuus est Dei filius; credible est quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile est' occupied my undivided time, for many weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.

Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the moral condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation whose nature I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not in any degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fall to ponder frequently and bitterly upon the wonder-working means by which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought to pass. But these reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more startling changes wrought in the physical frame of Berenice -in the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity.

During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me, had never been of the heart, and my passions always were of the mind. Through the gray of the early morning -among the trellised shadows of the forest at noonday -and in the silence of my library at night, she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her -not as the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a dream -not as a being of the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such a being-not as a thing to admire, but to analyze -not as an object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And now -now I shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her of marriage.

And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon an afternoon in the winter of the year, -one of those unseasonably warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon*, -I sat, (and sat, as I thought, alone,) in the inner apartment of the library. But uplifting my eyes I saw that Berenice stood before me.

*For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven days of warmth, men have called this clement and temperate time the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon -Simonides.

Was it my own excited imagination -or the misty influence of the atmosphere -or the uncertain twilight of the chamber -or the gray draperies which fell around her figure -that caused in it so vacillating and indistinct an outline? I could not tell. She spoke no word, I -not for worlds could I have uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted upon her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of the former being, lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning glances at length fell upon the face.

The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the once jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow temples with innumerable ringlets now of a vivid yellow, and Jarring discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and seemingly pupil-less, and I shrank involuntarily from their glassy stare to the contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted; and in a smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them, or that, having done so, I had died!

The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found that my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away, the white and ghastly spectrum of the teeth. Not a speck on their surface -not a shade on their enamel -not an indenture in their edges -but what that period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw them now even more unequivocally than I beheld them then. The teeth! -the teeth! -they were here, and there, and everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full fury of my monomania, and I struggled in vain against its strange and irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these I longed with a phrenzied desire. All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in their single contemplation. They -they alone were present to the mental eye, and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of my mental life. I held them in every light. I turned them in every attitude. I surveyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I mused upon the alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them in imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of Mad'selle Salle it has been well said, 'que tous ses pas etaient des sentiments, ' and of Berenice I more seriously believed que toutes ses dents etaient des idees. Des idees! -ah here was the idiotic thought that destroyed me! Des idees! -ah therefore it was that I coveted them so madly! I felt that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace, in giving me back to reason.

And the evening closed in upon me thus-and then the darkness came, and tarried, and went -and the day again dawned -and the mists of a second night were now gathering around -and still I sat motionless in that solitary room; and still I sat buried in meditation, and still the phantasma of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy as, with the most vivid hideous distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber. At length there broke in upon my dreams a cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow, or of pain. I arose from my seat and, throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out in the antechamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me that Berenice was -no more. She had been seized with epilepsy in the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the burial were completed.

I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware that since the setting of the sun Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary period which intervened I had no positive -at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory was replete with horror -horror more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed -what was it? I asked myself the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber answered me, 'what was it? '

On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box. It was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it frequently before, for it was the property of the family physician; but how came it there, upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding it? These things were in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. The words were the singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat, 'Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas.' Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become congealed within my veins?

There came a light tap at the library door, and pale as the tenant of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What said he? -some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night -of the gathering together of the household-of a search in the direction of the sound; -and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated grave -of a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing, still palpitating, still alive!

He pointed to garments; -they were muddy and clotted with gore. I spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand; -it was indented with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against the wall; -I looked at it for some minutes; -it was a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open; and in my tremor it slipped from my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with thirty-two small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor.

poem by Erie Morganmaples
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Anna Questions Razel puppet

Anna Likes Razel puppet
who has no pupils in her dark eyes
Razel has dark hair and can turn dolls to ice.
Anna is happy to see me and play pretend games
Anna waited for me and Razel puppet to play.
Once play acting Anna would change Razel's name
to a character in her fantasy game.
Anna was the director and would tell Razel what to say
Razel would be instructed to use certain powers
to overcome the villain of the day.
We would act out her Pokeman character
and then we would stop playing for a while-
Anna would ask Razel questions like
'Razel why don't you smile? '
Even Razel puppet was amazed-
as Anna asked questions with a inquisitive gaze.
Another questions Anna asked is-
'Razel why don't you like Birthdays? '
Razel of course replied a sqinting evil eye-
I'm sorry to say, because my mother died.
She died on my birthday when I was a little girl
it changed the way I thought about birthdays
in my world.'
Of course every villain has a back story
Razel puppet's is drama filled not gory.
Then we would go to the outside playground
where play equipment was all around.
Anna asked me to talk Razel
with Razel not on my hand
I said I couldn't but now today I can.
Razel says 'Hi, Anna how have you been?
It was fun playing with you in 'let's pretend'
I am still an evil puppet, but that's what I want to be-
There would be no interesting story to act out for you & me.
The story would be boring if you didn't have to find interesting clues-
Clues to unfreeze the missing character friend who I turned blue.
Where do we find them and what really happened-
are questions asked in this land of pretend.
'So Thank You Anna for finding me interesting-
and playing pretend once so long ago with me.'

Written By Suzae Chevalier on February 21,2011

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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What's most interesting and most real to me in my work is to never make the role a complete character, because then you lose a part of the truth. I can't say that this person is just like this or like that. Because you can never do that with real people in real life, so if you try that on stage you lose the truth. Since I myself strive to be able to be a great many things, I also want my character to have that very same liberty. Eventually in that way it will add to a sort of completeness. But it is the story that is told that is the interesting thing and the situations the character is in. And as we humans always are shaped by a special situation or given circumstances, I can never ever say: Thus is my character.

quote by Lena Olin
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Injustice

God knows how much I love her
Though she has loose character!
God knows how much I want her
Though she has loose character!

God knows how much I need her
Though she has loose character!
I can’t even walk with her
Though she has loose character!

I can’t even talk to her
Though she has loose character!
I can’t even look at her
Though she has loose character!

poem by Asif Andalib
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Character

One should exert character,
For character exhibits your soul
And the soul has a murky appearance,
It decided to be mysterious
But not when you gain character.

The character is an infinity, a logic
For the soul to create, so it does.
My soul worked like yours,
Once it even behaved like a saint
Opening the life around, then virtues surround.

My character is to be a mathematical puzzle,
My character is grand, my grand puzzle.
I have been this achievement from that achievement.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Echo

Theres something about
The look in your eyes
Something I noticed when
The light was just right
It reminded me twice
That I was alive
And it reminded me that
Youre so worth the fight
My biggest fear will be
The rescue of me
Strange how it turns out
That way, yeah
Could you show me dear?
Something Im not seeing
Something infinitely interesting
Could you show me dear?
Something Im not seeing
Something infinitely interesting
Theres something about
The way you move
I see your mouth in slow motion
When you sing
More subtle than something
Someone contrives
Your movements echo that
I have seen the real thing
Your biggest fear will be
The rescue of you
Strange how it turns out
That way, yeah
Could you show me dear?
Something Im not seeing
Something infinitely interesting
Could you show me dear?
Something Im not seeing
Something infinitely interesting

song performed by Incubus
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Interesting Drug

There are some bad people on the rise
There are some bad people on the rise
Theyre saving their own skins by
Ruining other peoples lives
Bad, bad people on the rise
Young married couple in debt
- ever felt had ?
Young married couple in debt
- ever felt had ?
On a government scheme
Designed to kill your dream
Oh mum, oh dad
Once poor, always poor
La la la la la
Interesting drug
The one that you took
Tell the truth - it really helped you
An interesting drug
The one that you took
God, it really really helped you
You wonder why were only half-ashamed ?
Because enough is too much!
...and look around ...
...can you blame us ? can you blame us ?
On a government scheme
Designed to kill your dream
Oh mum, oh dad
Once poor, always poor
La la la la la
Interesting drug
The one that you took
Tell the truth - it really helped you
An interesting drug
The one that you took
God, it really really helped you
You wonder why were only half-ashamed ?
Because enough is too much!
...and look around ...
...can you blame us ? can you blame us ?

song performed by Morrissey
Added by Lucian Velea
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In this business, my business, I get to meet all kinds of incredible people, fascinating people, glamorous people and sexy people and highly intellectual people. And you meet them and you go 'interesting, interesting, interesting'. They're interesting, but not very many people stop you in your tracks.

quote by Madonna Ciccone
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My World Is Not Interesting After All

what you do not know yet
of course
is interesting and so
since you have not known
much of me
you find me
a subject
of interest

you keep on tracking me
like a path
that may lead you to
a certain
discovery, and you followed
me
religiously, and i
did not ask you to stop
or refuse
your insistence,

i have nothing to hide
somehow
you have only to know
every part
of me and then
you have reached
my world

surveyed every word
object, thought,
aspirations,
dreams

yes even my dreams
and
you figure out
some possibilities
in symbols
like a dot
or a scribble in stones
or veins
on leaves
and their meanings
and hear
all their claims for
a certain nuance

and then
you finally find that
there is nothing

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Good Character

I once sojourned in a land,
Seeking for solution to my bewildermernt.
The more I probed, the more I was confused.
Why do some fail where others succeed?
I called upon the deep to open my eyes
Suddenly, I found honour as the offspring
Of good character,
I also discorvered that success
Is embeded in good attitude
I then concluded that:
Good character is the torchlight to our paths
Good attitude is like a garment we wear daily
Through which people measure us
It is the mirror of our lives
I now know that good character
Is the backbone of success
Your father may have plenty
Like the Altilantic ocean
Your mother may have fleet of ships
You may have great inheritance
If you lacked good character
Your success will be like putrefied eggs
People will run away from
Like an isolated leper.
So, in all your ways
Be of good character

poem by Babatunde Aremu
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Character

There is a secret
no one talks about;
one that we have mystified
and camouflaged.

Simply put
it begins with
the Morning Test,

which is
no one but you
can get out of bed.

That you have to do
for your self.

Others may call;
alarms may ring;
but in the end
you have only you

to motivate
to get yourself
out of bed.

This is the secret.

While we gain comfort
with faith, and kin

the sad news is
that while
this offers succor;
no one can feel the pain
that's yours;

no one can die in your place
put on your face
be inside you
really, deeply understand you.

No one can love another but you;
there is no love that is proxy love.

We humans paper this over
we don't tell the children-
we obscure this;
whole societies take the premise
that we are not

[...] Read more

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Na Tian Piet's Sha'er Of The Late Sultan Abu Bakar Of Johor

In the name of God, let his word begin:
Praise be to God, let praises clear ring;
May our Lord, Jesus Christ's[8] blessings
Guide my pen through these poetizings!

This sha'er is an entirely new composition
Composed by myself, no fear of imitation.
It's Allah's name, I will keep calling out
While creating this poem to avoid confusion.

This story I'm relating at the present moment
I copy not, nor is it by other hands wrought;
Nothing whatsoever is here laid out
That hereunder is not clearly put forth.

Not that I am able to create with much ease,
To all that's to come I'm yet not accustomed;
Why, this sha'er at this time is being composed
Only to console my heart which is heavily laden.

I'm a peranakan[9], of Chinese origin,
Hardly perfect in character and mind;
I find much that I can not comprehend,
I'm not a man given to much wisdom.

Na Tian Piet[10] is what I go by name
I have in the past composed stories and poems;
Even when explained to - most stupid I remain
The more I keep talking the less I understand.

I was born in times gone by
In the country known as Bencoolen[11];
Indeed, I am more than stupid:
Ashamed am I composing this lay.

Twenty-four years have gone by
Since I moved to the island of Singapore;
My wife and children accompanied me
To Singapore, a most lovely country.

I stayed in Riau[12] for some time
Together with my wife and children;
Two full years in Riau territory,
Back to Singapore my legs carried me.

At the time when Acheh[13] was waging war
I went there with goods to trade,
I managed to sell them at exhorbitant prices:
Great indeed were the profits I made.

[...] Read more

poem by T. Wignesan
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In Answer To Pirandello's Question

if the character steps inside my room
i will perhaps choose the
character

honestly, i still don't have it
i mean,
character, not that character of
your play

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 3

For a Man is to be looked upon in that which he excells as on a prospect.

For there be twelve cardinal virtues -- three to the East -- Greatness, Valour, Piety.

For there be three to the West -- Goodness, Purity and Sublimity.

For there be three to the North -- Meditation, Happiness, Strength.

For there be three to the South -- Constancy, Pleasantry and Wisdom.

For the Argument A PRIORI is GOD in every man's CONSCIENCE.

For the Argument A POSTERIORI is God before every man's eyes.

For the Four and Twenty Elders of the Revelation are Four and Twenty Eternities.

For their Four and Twenty Crowns are their respective Consummations.

For a CHARACTER is the votes of the Worldlings, but the seal is of Almighty GOD alone.

For there is no musick in flats and sharps which are not in God's natural key.

For where Accusation takes the place of encouragement a man of Genius is driven to act the vices of a fool.

For the Devil can set a house on fire, when the inhabitants find combustibles.

For the old account of time is the true -- Decr 28th 1759-60 -- -- --

For Faith as a grain of mustard seed is to believe, as I do, that an Eternity is such in respect to the power and magnitude of Almighty God.

For a DREAM is a good thing from GOD.

For there is a dream from the adversary which is terror.

For the phenomenon of dreaming is not of one solution, but many.

For Eternity is like a grain of mustard as a growing body and improving spirit.

For the malignancy of fire is oweing to the Devil's hiding of light, till it became visible darkness.

For the Circle may be SQUARED by swelling and flattening.

For the Life of God is in the body of man and his spirit in the Soul.

For there was no rain in Paradise because of the delicate construction of the spiritual herbs and flowers.

For the Planet Mercury is the WORD DISCERNMENT.

For the Scotchman seeks for truth at the bottom of a well, the Englishman in the Heavn of Heavens.

[...] Read more

poem by Christopher Smart
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A Blob On Four Wheels (Fun Poem 71)

Whatever happened to
the car designers out there?
Does there mind go blank
when they are designing cars.
It must do
because from what I’ve seen on the road.
Round blobs on wheels with no character at all.
There is nothing to distinguish
one car from another.
Years ago, you could pick a model,
which would have a character
of its own for years.
Now they churn them out
with increasing numbers,
car with no distinctive character.
Moreover, when you look at them
what do you see
nothing but a blob on four wheels.
A real sad state of affairs.
They may have super duper engines
and can travel fast,
but the bodywork leaves a lot to be desired.
Rounded bits here and there.
It is like someone driving
a bubble blown in chewing gum.
No character, not at all.
Just a blob on four wheels.
So what have to the designers,
did they loose their creativity?

29 March 2008

poem by David Harris
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Charactered Nature

Keeping my soul is like keeping faith,
Character is important, like the balls of fire
That rage on in the very halls of fame.
They have fame as a grace, they have ugly traits
But beautiful on the outside.
The fire is strange, of keeping the soul,
Character is important.
May the goodness of life strike rich with success,
Too much success is developed with the character built.
May the outer happiness be an inner happiness,
Keeping the soul is like keeping character.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Damon Runyon In A Past Life?

Maybe I was Damon Runyon in a past time
he died at age 66 which was the year I began my life.
I also write about someone I call the 'Guy'
who maybe is kind of shy.
Damon wrote a play with Dolls & Guys
which was acted out in NYC—very true-not a lie.
I write about a Doll
who is cute and kind of small.
Damon also named his pet _____
almost like mine.
I write about a character with letter
beginning with N—
he was only a sponsor to me—
he wanted to be more than friends—
Just like Damon-
who writes about characters where
he actually supported them
in his writing he actually defends.
Damon also writes about baseball
I don't know baseball at all.
I am more of a poet who story-tells-
I write of the doll character nicknamed Mel.
See baseball is not my cup of tea—
but to Damon he was famous for
being a reporter known around the country.
He even wrote a character named Sarah Brown
I have a character Sarah who lives by a clown.
Little Miss Marker was a play he wrote-
I wrote a poem Little Miss Melodie who sings a note.
His grandfather was from New Jersey just like me
I see a lot of similarities-

Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 17,2012
www.suzae.com

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Maybe I Was Damon In A Past Life

Maybe I was Damon Runyon in a past time
he died at age 66 which was the year I began my life.
I also write about someone I call the 'Guy'
who maybe is kind of shy.
Damon wrote a play with Dolls & Guys
which was acted out in NYC—very true-not a lie.
I write about a Doll
who is cute and kind of small.
Damon also named his pet _____
almost like mine.
I write about a character with letter
beginning with N—
he was only a sponsor to me—
he wanted to be more than friends—
Just like Damon-
who writes about characters where
he actually supported them
in his writing he actually defends.
Damon also writes about baseball
I don't know baseball at all.
I am more of a poet who story-tells-
I write of the doll character nicknamed Mel.
See baseball is not my cup of tea—
but to Damon he was famous for
being a reporter known around the country.
He even wrote a character named Sarah Brown
I have a character Sarah who lives by a clown.
Little Miss Marker was a play he wrote-
I wrote a poem Little Miss Melodie who sings a note.
His grandfather was from New Jersey just like me
I see a lot of similarities-

Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 17,2012

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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