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Time And Its Daughter

Time and its Daughter
I love your face and your face loves itself
For its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure.

The way you walk pavements adore you
rain shies away as not to make your hair wet
I love your face and your face loves itself.

When you cross the street car horn blears
All by themselves and white cars turn pink
And your fragrance has a Narcissistic allure

Sun doesn´t burn your skin, makes it golden.
Till, one day, the mirror tells of a wrinkle, and
you know years are ganging up on you.

You only enemy is time it waits in the wings.
As furrows settle on your forehead.
I love you face, your face doesn´t love itself

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poem by Oskar Hansen
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La Regina Avrillouse

Lady of rich allure,
Queen of the spring's embrace,
Your arms are long like boughs of ash,
Mid laugh-broken streams, spirit of rain unsure,
Breath of the poppy flower,
All the wood thy bower
And the hills thy dwelling-place.

This will I no more dream;
Warm is thy arm's allure,
Warm is the gust of breath
That ere thy lips meet mine
Kisseth my cheek and saith:
"This is the joy of earth,
Here is the wine of mirth
Drain ye one goblet sure,

Take ye the honey cup
The honied song raise up,
Drink of the spring's allure,

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poem by Ezra Pound
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French - La Folle Allure

LA FOLLE ALLURE

La folle allure de notre danse,
Nulle balance ne la pondère
Elle donne à la vie sa cadence
Son souffle intense, son regard fier.

La branche offerte par la Chance
saisie sans regard arrière,
donne à notre cadence intense
l'assurance qu'on peut tout faire.

Ce regard de la confiance
est partagé, la joie s'avère
sans bornes, aussi sans réticence,
inconnue mais point étrangère.

Un tourbillon, un incendie,
Le flot rapide d'une rivière,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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All Cried Out

[Allure]
All alone on a Sunday morning
Outside I see the rain is falling
Inside I'm slowly dying
But the rain will hide my crying, crying, crying
And you
Don't you know my tears will burn the pillow
Set this place on fire
'Cause I'm tired of your lie
All I needed was a simple "Hello"
But the traffic was so noisy that you could not hear me cry
(I) I gave you my love in vain
My body never knew such pleasure,
My heart never knew such pain
(And you) You leave me so confused
Now I'm all cried out, over you.
[112]
Cryin' over you, yeah
Never wanted to see things your way,
Had to go astray

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song performed by 112
Added by Lucian Velea
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From Epidermal Taxidermy to Internal Epiphany

FROM EPIDERMAL TAXIDERMY TO INTERNAL EPIPHANY

Portrait of fair mind is neither, nor!
neither mastered nor in pieces shred,
displayed to touring tourists - Turrell's bore -
whose dreams no themes of genius hint ahead.
Could paint drip down to mop pain's vail of tears,
unveiling pooled oasis to exchange,
past wraith, fresh faith to grace remaining years,
then fears would fade before excitement strange.
From monochrome to rainbow glow display
“we are such stuff as dreams are made of” shows,
no lifeless stuffing, feathers drooping, fray;
vitality surpasses surface glows
to put to shame greyed taxidermist’s skills
forever fixed in time: true talent spills.

True talent overflows as curiousity
channels potential, recent acquisitions,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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II. The Quest Of Silence

Secreta Silvarum: Prelude

Oh yon, when Holda leaves her hill
of winter, on the quest of June,
black oaks with emerald lamplets thrill
that flicker forth to her magic tune.
At dawn the forest shivers whist
and all the hidden glades awake;
then sunshine gems the milk-white mist
and the soft-swaying branches make
along its edge a woven sound
of legends that allure and flit
and horns wound towards the enchanted ground
where, in the light moon-vapours lit,
all night, while the black woods in mass,
serried, forbid with goblin fear,
fay-revels gleam o'er the pale grass
till shrill-throats ring the matins near.
Oh there, oh there in the sweet o' the year,
adventurous in the witching green,

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poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Guilt and Sorrow

I

A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain
Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;
Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain
Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air
Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care
Both of the time to come, and time long fled:
Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair;
A coat he wore of military red
But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred.

II

While thus he journeyed, step by step led on,
He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure
That welcome in such house for him was none.
No board inscribed the needy to allure
Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor
And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!"

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poem by William Wordsworth
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Don Juan: Canto The Thirteenth

I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
And critically held as deleterious:
Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.

The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain - which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

I'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;
I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best:

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poem by Byron
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Canto the Thirteenth

I
I now mean to be serious; -- it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
And critically held as deleterious:
Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.

II
The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('T is an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain -- which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

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poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Colin Clouts Come Home Againe

Colin Clouts Come Home Againe
THe shepheards boy (best knowen by that name)
That after Tityrus first sung his lay,
Laies of sweet loue, without rebuke or blame,
Sate (as his custome was) vpon a day,
Charming his oaten pipe vnto his peres,
The shepheard swaines, that did about him play:
Who all the while with greedie listfull eares,
Did stand astonisht at his curious skill,
Like hartlesse deare, dismayed with thunders sound.
At last when as he piped had his fill,
He rested him: and sitting then around,
One of those groomes (a iolly groome was he,
As euer piped on an oaten reed,
And lou'd this shepheard dearest in degree,
Hight Hobbinol) gan thus to him areed.
Colin my liefe, my life, how great a losse
Had all the shepheards nation by thy lacke?
And I poore swaine of many greatest crosse:
That sith thy Muse first since thy turning backe

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poem by Edmund Spenser
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