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The Only Way To Control Things

The only way to control things is with an open hand.
Water on rock
a fist can't do anything to stop the rain
that keeps washing its bloody knuckles
by kissing the raw red buds
of the pain-killing poppies clean.
Anger grows ashamed of itself
in the presence of unopposable compassion
just as planets are humbled by their atmospheres.
The soft supple things of life insist
and the hard brittle ones comply.
Bullies are the broken toys of wimps.
Power limps.
But space is an open hand.
Mass may shape it
but it teaches matter how to move
just as the sky converts its openness
into a cloud and a bird
or the silence nurtures
the embryo of a blue word

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poem by Patrick White
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Brain Washing

Ooh-ooh
Old mr. joe, he build a house away
On top of some hill
Old mr. joe knew he had to go, so he
He got right down and wrote bank will
He say now, heres to mother hen
And her chicken, lord have mercy now
Master, will you take a roll in the mud
Like you know you should?
The old barnyard, the old barnyard
Birds and the chick, ooh-wee
Whos got to watch out for brother mongoose
With his top hap and walking-stick?
Its just the poors brain washing
(poors ...) they told me a long time ago,
Its just the poors brain washing, ooh-wee
(poors brain washing) now look at a thing like this
Cinderella and her long lost fellow
In the midnight hour, she lost her silver slipper
Humpty dumpty sat on a wall

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song performed by Bob Marley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Take Me To The River

I dont know why I love her like I do
All the changes you put me through
Take my money, my cigarettes
I havent seen the worst of it yet
I wanna know that youll tell me
I love to stay
Take me to the river, drop me in the water
Take me to the river, dip me in the water
Washing me down, washing me down
I dont know why you treat me so bad
Think of all the things we could have had
Love is an ocean that I cant forget
My sweet sixteen I would never regret
I wanna know that youll tell me
I love to stay
Take me to the river, drop me in the water
Push me in the river, dip me in the water
Washing me down, washing me
Hug me, squeeze me, love me, tease me
Till I cant, till I cant, till I cant take no more of it

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song performed by Talking Heads
Added by Lucian Velea
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Washing Machine Albeit So Weird

I do not trust the long rinse and spin cycle of the
washing machine, loud and insane, scrunch up
the washing, making careful hanging to obviate
ironing impossible; I always interfere in rinsing-
spinning since washing machines have been
designed by demons bent on torturing humans

My distrust of all kinds of machines; except my
adorable laptop who takes every word it is fed
and returns it to me in the script I like; led to my
never using a dishwasher, an evil device that
runs in unfathomable cycles driving me crazy
with uncertainty about objects and motives

And degree of cleanliness; therefore I turn the
kitchen radio to Radio Pretoria (because they
play German music, the bedroom radio stays
tuned to FM Classic, TV alternating between
Nat Geo Wild and Deutsche Welle while the
big screen TV remains on sports channels)

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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12

WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Put Your Hand In The Hand

(words & music by g. maclellan)
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who stilled the water
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who calmed the sea
Take a look at yourself
And you can look at others differently
Put your hand in the hand of the man
From galilee
My momma taught me how to pray
Before I reached the age of seven
When Im down on my knees
Thats when Im closest to heaven
Daddy lived his life, two kids and a wife
Well you do what you must do
But he showed me enough of what it takes
To get me through, oh yeh!
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who stilled the water
Put your hand in the hand of the man

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song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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The Iliad: Book 13

Now when Jove had thus brought Hector and the Trojans to the
ships, he left them to their never-ending toil, and turned his keen
eyes away, looking elsewhither towards the horse-breeders of Thrace,
the Mysians, fighters at close quarters, the noble Hippemolgi, who
live on milk, and the Abians, justest of mankind. He no longer
turned so much as a glance towards Troy, for he did not think that any
of the immortals would go and help either Trojans or Danaans.
But King Neptune had kept no blind look-out; he had been looking
admiringly on the battle from his seat on the topmost crests of wooded
Samothrace, whence he could see all Ida, with the city of Priam and
the ships of the Achaeans. He had come from under the sea and taken
his place here, for he pitied the Achaeans who were being overcome
by the Trojans; and he was furiously angry with Jove.
Presently he came down from his post on the mountain top, and as
he strode swiftly onwards the high hills and the forest quaked beneath
the tread of his immortal feet. Three strides he took, and with the
fourth he reached his goal- Aegae, where is his glittering golden
palace, imperishable, in the depths of the sea. When he got there,
he yoked his fleet brazen-footed steeds with their manes of gold all
flying in the wind; he clothed himself in raiment of gold, grasped his

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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11

SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: 5
He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10
Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15
Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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My Other Hand...

the black man's hand,
the poor man's hand.
the Muslim hand, the Jewish hand...
the gay man's hand,
the working man's hand,
the ex-convict's hand,
the farmer's hand, the garbage man's hand...
the Christian's hand, the atheist's hand,
the father's hand, the soldier's hand,
the peacemaker's hand,
the healer's hand, the teacher's hand,
the prodigal's hand, even the murderer's hand...
the victim's hand, the broken hand,
the praying hand, the touching hand...
all, when extended,
feel like my other hand!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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