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A knife and a shaving-knife are alike.

Bajan proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Knife Party

My knife - its sharp and chrome
Come see inside my bones
All of the fiends are on the block
Im the new king, Ill take the queen
cause in here were all anemic
In here - anemic and sweet...so...
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And come in
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And lay down
Go get your knife, go get your knife
Now kiss me
Oooh...well I can float here forever
In this room we cant touch the floor
In here were all anemic
In here - anemic and sweet...so...
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And come in
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And lay down
Go get your knife, go get your knife
Now kiss me
Ohh... I could float here forever
Ohh... anemic and sweet
Ohh... I could float here forever
Ohh... anemic and sweet...so...
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And come in
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And lay down
Go get your knife, go get your knife
Get filthy
Go get your knife, go get your knife
And kiss me...

song performed by Deftones
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bleeding

Stop bleeding said the knife
I would if I could said the cut.
Stop bleeding you make me messy with the blood.
I'm sorry said the cut.
Stop or I will sink in farther said the knife.
Don't said the cut.
The knife did not say it couldn't help it but
it sank in farther.
If only you didn't bleed said the knife I wouldn't
have to do this.
I know said the cut I bleed too easily I hate
that I can't help it I wish I were a knife like
you and didn't have to bleed.
Well meanwhile stop bleeding will you said the knife.
Yes you are a mess and sinking in deeper said the cut I
will have to stop.
Have you stopped by now said the knife.
I've almost stopped I think.
Why must you bleed in the first place said the knife.
For the same reason maybe that you must do what you
must do said the cut.
I can't stand bleeding said the knife and sank in farther.
I hate it too said the cut I know it isn't you it's
me you're lucky to be a knife you ought to be glad about that.
Too many cuts around said the knife they're
messy I don't know how they stand themselves.
They don't said the cut.
You're bleeding again.
No I've stopped said the cut see you are coming out now the
blood is drying it will rub off you'll be shiny again and clean.
If only cuts wouldn't bleed so much said the knife coming
out a little.
But then knives might become dull said the cut.
Aren't you still bleeding a little said the knife.
I hope not said the cut.
I feel you are just a little.
Maybe just a little but I can stop now.
I feel a little wetness still said the knife sinking in a
little but then coming out a little.
Just a little maybe just enough said the cut.
That's enough now stop now do you feel better now said the knife.
I feel I have to bleed to feel I think said the cut.
I don't I don't have to feel said the knife drying now
becoming shiny.

poem by May Swenson
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Cry Freedom

How can I turn away
Brother/sister go dancing
Through my head
Human as to human
The future is no place
To place your better days
Cry freedom, cry
From a crowd 10,000 wide
Hope laid upon hope
That this crowd will not subside
Let this flag burn to dust
And a new a fair design be raised
While we wait head in hands,
Hands in prayer
And fall into a dreamless sleep again
And we wave our hands
Hands and feet are all alike
But gold between divide us
Hands and feet are all alike
But fear between divide us
All slip away
There was a window and by it stood
A mirror in which
He could see himself
He thought of something
Something he had never had but
Hoped would come along
Cry freedom, cry
From deep inside
Where we are all confined
While we wave hands in fire
Wave our hands
Hands and feet are all alike
But gold between divide us
Hands and feet are all alike
But fear between divide us,
Slip away
In this room stood a little child
And in this room this little child
She would remain
Until someone might decide
To dance this little child
Across this hall
Into a cold, dark, space
Where she might never trace her
Way across this crooked mile
Across this crooked page
Cry freedom, cry
From deep inside where
We are all confined

[...] Read more

song performed by Dave Matthews Band
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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Picture Picture by Tanya Markova

Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...

Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...

Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture

Picture picture ohh...

Nang gabing masilayan ka...
Dala-dala ko pa
Ang aking lumang camera

Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture

Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture

Picture picture ohh...

Campus gig noon at nag-aya ang tropa
Maraming bebot ang nagsasayaw
Nang biglang mapansin kita

What a beautiful face
At kinunan kita
What a beautiful face
Angat ka sa iba

Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture

Picture picture ohh...
Picture picture

What a beautiful
What a beautiful face

I saw her face
Mukha syang taga-a a outerspace
Si Mang Roger ako'y kinalabit
Ang sabi
Halika na balot muna

[...] Read more

poem by Shi Yelami
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Paradise Knife & Gun Club

(chick rains)
Joe bob was rough as a cob
And prone to blow his stack
Kenny dean was in a suicide scene
Sneaking behind joes back
Sneaking around with joes girl, june
She liked the boys in the band
And when they all got together on saturday night
It was easy to understand why
They called it saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
And theres drinking and dancing to the music of bobby lee and the blackjacks
It was saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
Now the only other place was a man named jack
And he wouldnt take talking back
He was married to a woman named may
She took up the slack
Well he knocked you out and shed drag you out
And leave you in the parking lot
And when you wake up in the morning with a busted head
Youre just happy that was all you got
On saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
And theres drinking and dancing to the music of bobby lee and the blackjacks
It was saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
Well the night joe bob found out
That kenny dean was sneaking around with june
He caught bobby lee and the band
In the middle of an old hank williams tune
Bobby lee cried out your cheatin heart
And that was just the spark it took
And when the fighting got started
Everybody took part and that whole damn building shook
Until the sheriff came out and stopped the bout
Hauled everybody to jail
When the judge saw the blood and the chewed up ears
He turned a whiter shade of pale
He said, good God yall
Whats happened here, somebody start a wwiii
Well kenny dean just grinned the best he could
Said your honor it seems to me
Like it was just another saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
And theres drinking and dancing to the music of bobby lee and the blackjacks
It was saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
On saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
And theres drinking and dancing to the music of bobby lee and the blackjacks
It was saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
On saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club

[...] Read more

song performed by Lonestar
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mogg Megone - Part I.

Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone,
Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky,
Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high,
Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone?
Close to the verge of the rock is he,
While beneath him the Saco its work is doing,
Hurrying down to its grave, the sea,
And slow through the rock its pathway hewing!
Far down, through the mist of the falling river,
Which rises up like an incense ever,
The splintered points of the crags are seen,
With water howling and vexed between,
While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath
Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth!

But Mogg Megone never trembled yet
Wherever his eye or his foot was set.
He is watchful: each form in the moonlight dim,
Of rock or of tree, is seen of him:
He listens; each sound from afar is caught,
The faintest shiver of leaf and limb:
But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret,
Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, -
And the roar of their rushing, he bears it not.

The moonlight, through the open bough
Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked root
Coils like a serpent at his foot,
Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow.
His head is bare, save only where
Waves in the wind one lock of hair,
Reserved for him, whoe'er he be,
More mighty than Megone in strife,
When breast to breast and knee to knee,
Above the fallen warrior's life
Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife.

Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun,
And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on:
His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,
And magic words on its polished blade, -
'Twas the gift of Castine to Mogg Megone,
For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn:
His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine,
And Modocawando's wives had strung
The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine
On the polished breach, and broad bright line
Of beaded wampum around it hung.
What seeks Megone? His foes are near, -
Grey Jocelyn's eye is never sleeping,

[...] Read more

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Two Alike

Two Alike

Two Entities
Pulsating alike—

Two hearts
Beating alike—

Two minds
Throbbing alike—

Two souls
Singing alike!

Has anyone seen
Such a like

In this world
Where nothing is alike?

poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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We Must Be Thinking Alike

So many nights we didn't fight but never talked much
We just lost touch
I think we knew our dream come true was slowly dying
No denying
Now comes the time we must decide to go or stay
To get it back somehow or throw it all away
We must be thinking alike
You never held me so tight
We must be finally doing something right
I'm not about to give in
This is a fight we can win and after all this time
We must be thinking alike
Let's just stay home
I'll get a pizza and a movie we both wanna see
And later on who knows what we'll find to agree on
It's been so long
Dim down the lights, turn off the phone and the TV
I can tell the way you're smiling back at me that
We must be thinking alike
You never held me so tight
We must be finally doing something right
I'm not about to give in
This is a fight we can win and after all this time
We must be thinking alike
We must be thinking alike
Holding aech other so tight
We must be finally doing something right
I'm not about to give in
This is a fight we can win and after all this time
We must be thinking alike

song performed by Pam Tillis
Added by Lucian Velea
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

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

[...] Read more

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

1
I am a great American
I am almost nationalistic about it!
I love America like a madness!
But I am afraid to return to America
I'm even afraid to go into the American Express—

2
They are frankensteining Christ in America
in their Sunday campaigns
They are putting the fear of Christ in America
under their tents in their Sunday campaigns
They are driving old ladies mad with Christ in America
They are televising the gift of healing and the fear of hell
in America under their tents in their Sunday
campaigns
They are leaving their tents and are bringing their Christ
to the stadiums of America in their Sunday
campaigns
They are asking for a full house an all get out
for their Christ in the stadiums of America
They are getting them in their Sunday and Saturday
campaigns
They are asking them to come forward and fall on their
knees
because they are all guilty and they are coming
forward
in guilt and are falling on their knees weeping their
guilt
begging to be saved O Lord O Lord in their Monday
Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday
and Sunday campaigns

3
It is a time in which no man is extremely wondrous
It is a time in which rock stupidity
outsteps the 5th Column as the sole enemy in America
It is a time in which ignorance is a good Ameri-cun
ignorance is excused only where it is so
it is not so in America
Man is not guilty Christ is not to be feared
I am telling you the American Way is a hideous monster
eating Christ making Him into Oreos and Dr. Pepper
the sacrament of its foul mouth
I am telling you the devil is impersonating Christ in America
America's educators & preachers are the mental-dictators
of false intelligence they will not allow America
to be smart
they will only allow death to make America smart

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Corso
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Black And White So Alike

In my journey in life, I met many people and many issues
and I used many tissues, cried many tears thru the years.
I found people of color are similar to white and alike
in so many ways, they have feelings like white people
and maybe even more, people say to me why you bother
with people of color, I say people are people, color
and white are so alike, have feelings so alike and they
can bond like anyone else, talk for hours and laughs
about little things and big things.

People of color and white are so alike I am greatful to have
met special people in my life, make me feel good when I am down,
make me laugh when I cry, tell me its okay to feel sad, and thats
not bad to feel down sometimes because thats how it is, People of color and white so alike in many ways, they share sorrow and pain, cry
and laugh together, have long or short lunch or just walk
around corner its still something to talk about.

People of color and white so alike in many ways and thats what I say
and I will miss my friend now that she moved on, but our friendship stayed on....

poem by Hedi Vlacich
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Paradise Knife And Gun Club

Joe Bob was as rough as they come and prone to blow his stack
Kenny Dean was in the suicide scene and sneakin' behind Joe's back
Sneakin' around with Joe's girl June she liked the boys in the band
And when they all got together on Saturday night it was easy to understand why
They called it Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
There's drinking and dancing to the music of Bobby Lee and The Blackjacks
It was Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
Now the owner of the place was a man named Jack and he wouldn't take talking back
He was married to a woman named Mae she took up the slack
He knocked ya out and she'd drag ya out and leave ya in the parking lot
And when you'd wake up in the mornin' with a busted head you're just happy that was all you got
Come Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
There's was drinking and dancing to the music of Bobby Lee and The Blackjacks
It was Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
Well the night that Joe Bob found out that Kenny Dean was sneakin' around with June
He caught Bobby Lee in the band in the middle of an old Hank William's tune
Bobby Lee cried out your cheatin' heart that was just the spark it took
And when the fighting got started everybody took part and that whole damn building shook
Till the sheriff came out and he stopped the bout hauled everybody to jail
When the judge saw the blood and the chewed up ears he turned a whiter shade of pale
He said good God ya'll what's happened here somebody started World War III
Kenny Dean just grinned the best he could and said your Honor it seems to me like it was just another
Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
They was drinking and dancing to the music of Bobby Lee and The Blackjacks
It was Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
They was drinking and dancing to the music of Bobby Lee and The Blackjacks
It was Saturday night at the paradise knife and gun club
If you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee
Lord if you was looking for some trouble you could find it I guarantee

song performed by Lonestar
Added by Lucian Velea
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One On One

Verse one:
In the rotten apple, take a bite taste the worm
Embrace the world of reality were faced to learn
Coke connection drug bust, graveyards where thugs rest
I keep my mug blessed, the evil is illegal substance sold
Roll mob deep, guns in the black jeep
Mac-11s and legends, cracks in the streets
Patroller, gold money-folder, gun happy soldiers
Never sober takin over, my blood is colder
Niggaz respect violence so I become it
Im from it, I even done it blunted so run it
Yeah son, you know what this is
Take it off [come on dunn, dont even come at me like that]
[dunn, come on dunn]
Chorus:
Imagine this, no guns no knife
Its a one on one so now we gots to fight, son
Imagine this, no gun no knife
Its a one on one now we got to fight, yeah
Imagine that, no gun no knife
Its a one on one now we got to fight, yeah
Imagine this, no gun no knife
Its a one on one, son
Verse two:
Yo Im a cream fiend, with a mean dream
Brain full of schemes, my crews rollin fresh out the greens
Give you what you never seen, the ips on the mac-10
Its 2:10 in the a.m. in the streets of queens
Try hard and die hard
Chances of survivin the game is like tryin to feed allah lard
A walk a piece with a deadly shadow
They want to blow me with the double barrel, found no sorrow
I brawl with blanka, caught bison in a thinker
Dont make hell your new home, with the blue chrome
Mistakes want me, sauve fellow but raunchy
The soul of a cold body haunts me, I flee the country
But only to shed tears for years
Too wild for my own self, hopin help is near
Street fightin was cool but in school I brought a new tool
Toolin with the devil, a rebel, a fool
Chorus:
Imagine this no guns no knife
Just a one on one where we got to fight, yeah
Imagine this no gun no knife
Just a one on one where we got to fight, yeah
Imagine this no gun no knife
Just a one on one where we got to fight, yeah
Imagine this no gun no knife
Just a one on one, a one on one
Yeah, take it to the bridge -- queensbridge

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song performed by Nas
Added by Lucian Velea
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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—

Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire

'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare

'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.

Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

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poem by Byron
Added by Poetry Lover
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Retirement

Hackney'd in business, wearied at that oar,
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having lived a trifler, die a man.
Thus conscience pleads her cause within the breast,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,
Where works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker’s power and love.
'Tis well, if look’d for at so late a day,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth,
Their wishes all impregnated with earth,
For threescore years employ’d with ceaseless care,
In catching smoke, and feeding upon air,
Conversant only with the ways of men,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part,
And, draining its nutritious power to feed
Their noxious growth, starve every better seed.
Happy, if full of days—but happier far,
If, ere we yet discern life’s evening star,
Sick of the service of a world that feeds
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
We can escape from custom’s idiot sway,
To serve the sovereign we were born to obey.

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poem by William Cowper
Added by Poetry Lover
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Argemone

The terrible night-watch is over,
I turn where I lie,
To eastward my dim eyes discover
Faint streaks in the sky ;
Faint streaks on a faint light that dapples
And dawns like the ripening of apples,
Closes with darkness and grapples,
And darkness must die.

And the dawn finds us where the dusk found us—
The quick and the dead ;
Thou dawn-slaying darkness around us,
Oh ! slay me instead !
Thou pitiless earth that would sever
Twain souls, reuniting them never,
Oh, gape and engulf me for ever,
Oh, cover my head !

The toils that men strive with stout-hearted,
The fears that men fly,
I have known them, but they have departed,
And thou hast gone by.
Men toiling, and straining, and striving,
Are glad, peradventure, for living ;
I render for life no thanksgiving,
Glad only to die.

Too alike to me now are all changes,
Naught gladdens, naught grieves.
Alike, now, pale snow on the ranges,
Pale gold on the sheaves.
Alike now the hum of glad bees on
Green boughs, and the sigh of sad trees on
Sere uplands, the fall of the season,
The fall of the leaves.

Alike now each wind blows the breezes
That kiss where they roam,
The breath of the March wind that freezes
In the rime of the loam ;
The storm-blast that lashes and scourges,
And rends the white crests of the surges,
As it sweeps with the thunder of dirges
Across the sea foam.

Alike now all rainfall and down-fall,
Foul seasons and fair ;
Let the rose on my patch or the thorn fall,
I heed not, nor care ;
Nor for grey light of dawn, nor for dun light

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
Added by Poetry Lover
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