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If Catania had a port, Palermo would be dead.

Sicilian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Otto Di Catania

1:caris pettatori
2:cari spettatori
3:ladies and gentlemen
1:amitshi del variete
2:amici del varieta'
3:cabaret lovers
1:caror lissimo publiku
2:carissimo pubblico
3:distinguished audience
4:calorosissimo pubblico [I find this more correct -jk]
1:buanas sera gia stella matto
2:buona sera ?????????
3:good evening
1:della pina par ti del program
2:della prima parte del programma
3:of the first part of our program
1:venut di retta mente vel cairo
2:venuta direttamente dal Cairo
3:coming directly from Cairo
1:lafamosissiva
2:la famosissima
3:the famous
1:mo lita del sudan
2:?molita? del Sudan
3:^^^^^^^^ not an italian word...
3:song of Sudan
1:una tanza trishi del vento
2:una danza triste del vento
3:a sad dance of the wind
4:una danzatrice del ventre(?)
1:akompanjato come sempre
2:accompagnato come sempre
3:accompained as usual
1:bella no orchestra paul sileste
2:dalla nostra orchestra Paul ?Sileste?
3:by our orchestra, Paul Sileste
1:rego maestro, allee
2:prego maestro, vada
3:please maestro, go
1:suno otto, suno otto di catania
2:sono Otto, sono Otto di Catania
3:I am Otto, I am Otto from Catania
1:suno rivatto roma ventianiva
2:son arrivato a Roma vent'anni fa
3:I came to Rome 20 years ago
1:suno gui, perriveri
2:sono qui per vivere
3:I am here to live
1:perriveri la vita pervanjare
2:per vivere la vita, per viaggiare

[...] Read more

song performed by Yello
Added by Lucian Velea
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Otto Di Catania

1:caris pettatori
2:cari spettatori
3:ladies and gentlemen
1:amitshi del variete
2:amici del varieta'
3:cabaret lovers
1:caror lissimo publiku
2:carissimo pubblico
3:distinguished audience
4:calorosissimo pubblico [I find this more correct -jk]
1:buanas sera gia stella matto
2:buona sera ?????????
3:good evening
1:della pina par ti del program
2:della prima parte del programma
3:of the first part of our program
1:venut di retta mente vel cairo
2:venuta direttamente dal Cairo
3:coming directly from Cairo
1:lafamosissiva
2:la famosissima
3:the famous
1:mo lita del sudan
2:?molita? del Sudan
3:^^^^^^^^ not an italian word...
3:song of Sudan
1:una tanza trishi del vento
2:una danza triste del vento
3:a sad dance of the wind
4:una danzatrice del ventre(?)
1:akompanjato come sempre
2:accompagnato come sempre
3:accompained as usual
1:bella no orchestra paul sileste
2:dalla nostra orchestra Paul ?Sileste?
3:by our orchestra, Paul Sileste
1:rego maestro, allee
2:prego maestro, vada
3:please maestro, go
1:suno otto, suno otto di catania
2:sono Otto, sono Otto di Catania
3:I am Otto, I am Otto from Catania
1:suno rivatto roma ventianiva
2:son arrivato a Roma vent'anni fa
3:I came to Rome 20 years ago
1:suno gui, perriveri
2:sono qui per vivere
3:I am here to live
1:perriveri la vita pervanjare
2:per vivere la vita, per viaggiare

[...] Read more

song performed by Yello
Added by Lucian Velea
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Enoch Arden

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow'd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash'd away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play'd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
`This is my house and this my little wife.'
`Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Orlando Furioso Canto 19

ARGUMENT
Medoro, by Angelica's quaint hand,
Is healed, and weds, and bears her to Catay.
At length Marphisa, with the chosen band,
After long suffering, makes Laiazzi's bay.
Guido the savage, bondsman in the land,
Which impious women rule with civil sway,
With Marphisa strives in single fight,
And lodges her and hers at full of night.

I
By whom he is beloved can no one know,
Who on the top of Fortune's wheel is seated;
Since he, by true and faithless friends, with show
Of equal faith, in glad estate is greeted.
But, should felicity be changed to woe,
The flattering multitude is turned and fleeted!
While he who loves his master from his heart,
Even after death performs his faithful part.

II
Were the heart seen as is the outward cheer,
He who at court is held in sovereign grace,
And he that to his lord is little dear,
With parts reversed, would fill each other's place;
The humble man the greater would appear,
And he, now first, be hindmost in the race.
But be Medoro's faithful story said,
The youth who loved his lord, alive or dead.

III
The closest path, amid the forest gray,
To save himself, pursued the youth forlorn;
But all his schemes were marred by the delay
Of that sore weight upon his shoulders born.
The place he knew not, and mistook the way,
And hid himself again in sheltering thorn.
Secure and distant was his mate, that through
The greenwood shade with lighter shoulders flew.

IV
So far was Cloridan advanced before,
He heard the boy no longer in the wind;
But when he marked the absence of Medore,
It seemed as if his heart was left behind.
'Ah! how was I so negligent,' (the Moor
Exclaimed) 'so far beside myself, and blind,
That I, Medoro, should without thee fare,
Nor know when I deserted thee or where?'

[...] Read more

poem by Ludovico Ariosto
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Le port

Toute la mer va vers la ville !

Son port est surmonté d'un million de croix :
Vergues transversales barrant de grands mâts droits.

Son port est pluvieux et suie à travers brumes,
Où le soleil comme un oeil rouge et colossal larmoie.

Son port est ameuté de steamers noirs qui fument
Et mugissent, au fond du soir, sans qu'on les voie.

Son port est fourmillant et musculeux de bras
Perdus en un fouillis dédalien d'amarres.

Son port est tourmenté de chocs et de fracas
Et de marteaux tournant dans l'air leurs tintamarres.

Toute la mer va vers la ville !

Les flots qui voyagent comme les vents,
Les flots légers, les flots vivants,
Pour que la ville en feu l'absorbe et le respire
Lui rapportent le monde en leurs navires.
Les Orients et les Midis tanguent vers elle
Et les Nords blancs et la folie universelle
Et tous les nombres dont le désir prévoit la somme.
Et tout ce qui s'invente et tout ce que les hommes
Tirent de leurs cerveaux puissants et volcaniques
Tend vers elle, cingle vers elle et vers ses luttes :
Elle est le brasier d'or des humaines disputes,
Elle est le réservoir des richesses uniques
Et les marins naïfs peignent son caducée
Sur leur peau rousse et crevassée,
A l'heure où l'ombre emplit les soirs océaniques.

Toute la mer va vers la ville !

Ô les Babels enfin réalisées !
Et cent peuples fondus dans la cité commune ;
Et les langues se dissolvant en une ;
Et la ville comme une main, les doigts ouverts,
Se refermant sur l'univers !

Dites ! les docks bondés jusques au faite
Et la montagne, et le désert, et les forêts,
Et leurs siècles captés comme en des rets ;
Dites ! leurs blocs d'éternité : marbres et bois,
Que l'on achète,
Et que l'on vend au poids ;
Et puis, dites ! les morts, les morts, les morts

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poem by Emile Verhaeren
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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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Dead End Street

Theres a crack up in the ceiling,
And the kitchen sink is leaking.
Out of work and got no money,
A sunday joint of bread and honey.
What are we living for?
Two-roomed apartment on the second floor.
No money coming in,
The rent collectors knocking, trying to get in.
We are strictly second class,
We dont understand,
(dead end!)
Why we should be on dead end street.
(dead end!)
People are living on dead end street.
(dead end!)
Gonna die on dead end street.
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
On a cold and frosty morning,
Wipe my eyes and stop me yawning.
And my feet are nearly frozen,
Boil the tea and put some toast on.
What are we living for?
Two-roomed apartment on the second floor.
No chance to emigrate,
Im deep in debt and now its much too late.
We both want to work so hard,
We cant get the chance,
(dead end!)
People live on dead end street.
(dead end!)
People are dying on dead end street.
(dead end!)
Gonna die on dead end street.
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
(dead end!)
People live on dead end street.
(dead end!)
People are dying on dead end street.
(dead end!)
Gonna die on dead end street.
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Head to my feet (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Hows it feel? (yeah)

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song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tamar

I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.

The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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USS Zydecoldsmobile

You can feel the horses under the hood
Through thick and thin pull us out of the wood
She's the smoothest ride, yeah, you'll ever feel
She's the Delta slide of automobiles
Double clutchin' on the backseat
I hear you, yeah, with your main squeeze
Playing triple row accordian fills
In the USS ZydecOldsmobile
Port of Call Opelousas
Port of Call Lawtell
Port of Call Frilot Cove
In the USS ZydecOldsmobile
Mardi Gras run block the road
Park the car and join the show
Get up on the trunk and dance at will
Aboard the USS ZydecOldsmobile
Port of Call Opelousas
Port of Call Lawtell
Port of Call Frilot Cove
In the USS ZydecOldsmobile
Yeah, Spirit moves through everyone
We have faith and we have fun
God bless the turning wheel
Of my USS ZydecOldsmobile
Port of Call Opelousas
Port of Call Lawtell
Port of Call Frilot Cove
In the USS ZydecOldsmobile
Come ride with me in my ZydecOldsmobile
Double clutchin' with me in my ZydecOldsmobile
Hip shakin' with me in my ZydecOldsmobile
Come ride with me in my ZydecOldsmobile

song performed by Jimmy Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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Amsterdam

This song was first released on the take me to tomorrow album. it is the only album it has been released on.
Of the dreams that he brings from the wide open sea
In the port of amsterdam theres a sailor who sleeps
While the river bank sweeps to the old willow tree
In the port of amsterdam theres a sailor who dies
Full of beer, full of cries in a drunkin down fight
But in the port of amsterdam theres a sailor whos bom
On a muggy, hot mom by the dawns early light
In the port of amsterdam where the sailors all meet
Theres a sailor who eats only fish heads and tails
He will show you his teeth that have rotted too soon
That can swallow the moon that can haul up the I sails
And he asks to the cook with his amms open wide
Bring me more fish, put it down by my side
And he wants so to belch, but hes too full to try
So he gets up and he laughs, and he zips up his fty
In the port of amsterdam you can see sailors dance
Haunches bursting their pants, binding women to paunch
Theyve forgotten the tune that their whiskey voice croaks
And their splitting the night with the roar of their jokes
And they tum and they dance and they laugh and they lust
To the rats it sounds of the accordion burst
Then hes out into the night with their pride in their pants
With a slut that they tow undemeath the street lamps
In the port of amsterdam theres a sailor who drinks
And he drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks once again
He drinks to the health of the whores of amsterdam
Who have promised their love to a thousand other men
And they darken their bodies, and their virtue long gone
For a few dirty coins
And then when he cant go on
He plants his nose in the sky
And he wipes it up above
And he spits like to cry for an unfaithful love
In the port of amsterdam, in the port of amsterdam
In the port of amsterdam
Words and music by brel - shuman

song performed by John Denver
Added by Lucian Velea
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Port Adelaide

It is the great City of Port Adelaide
Where heroes are born and legends are made
In the Australian Football League they have their own football team
For to play for Port Adelaide many Port teens do dream.

A place where Indigenous and white Australia meet
And different races live on every street
The Indigenous tribes had their corroborees long ago
By the trees near the banks where the Port waters flow.

Many nineteenth century buildings in Port Adelaide remain
Which one does suppose goes in part to explain
Why so many visitors come to that Town
Port's history is far more than football renown.

The Port river dolphins are famed far and wide
One can see them surface from the harbour side
A tourist attraction and it would be fair to say
That seeing them has made many a vistor's day.

Where the cultures meet Indigenous and European
Port Adelaide a Town where all races are seen
When in South Australia I feel at home there
Few Towns with Port Adelaide can hope to compare.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Dead Guy Stickers

In the USA,
They want to put dead guy pictures on cigarette packs.
With that brilliant logic in mind, I say put dead guy stickers on:
car windshields(dead guys in wrecks)
pistol and rifle handles (dead guys shot)
marriage licenses (dead spouses)
hamburger and hot dog wrappers (dead fat guys)
pies, cakes (more dead fat guys)
bathroom doors (thousands of dead guys in bathrooms every year)
bicycles (road kill dead guys)
fire places (burnt dead guys)
swimming pools (drown dead guys)
every electrical outlet (fried dead guys)
air plane tickets (dead passenger guys)
the beach (shark bit dead guys)
cities (shot dead guys)
air (blue dead guys)
fish (poisoned dead guys)
motorcycles (more road kill dead guys)
scarfs (strangled dead guys)
football helmets (brain dead guys)
hot tubs (more drowned dead guys)
and so on.
Just about everything can kill you, such as:
Mothers (dead baby guys plus dead fathers)
Fathers (dead baby guys plus dead mothers)
Police(multiple dead guys and chicks)
Drugs (multiple dead guys and chicks)
and so on.
Once everything has a dead guy sticker on it,
You've been warned and the world will be safer, right?
It shows we care, right?

poem by Richard Jarboe
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dead Or Alive

Well the new sheriff sent me a letter
Yes the new sheriff sent me a letter
He said, come up and see me dead or alive,
Come up and see me dead or alive.
Well its a hard road dead or alive
Its a hard road dead or alive
Well its a hard road dead or alive
Its a hard road dead or alive
Well I really dont like your hard rock hotel (yeah) sheriff
Well I really dont like your hard rock hotel, sheriff
Dead or alive, no sheriff
Dead or alive, no sheriff
Well its a hard road dead or alive
And its a hard road dead or alive
And its a hard road dead or alive
And its a hard road dead or alive
Well he even sent me my picture
(oh yeah, and hello)
He even sent me my picture
(yeah yeah)
Hey, how do I look boy (wonderful)
Dead or alive?
How do I look boy (sweet) dead or alive?
Its a hard road dead or alive
Its a hard road dead or alive
Well, its a hard road dead or alive
And its a hard road dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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M'Andrew's Hymn

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
An', taught by time, I tak' it so -- exceptin' always Steam.
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God --
Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod.
John Calvin might ha' forged the same -- enorrmous, certain, slow --
Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame -- ~my~ "Institutio".
I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;
I'll stand the middle watch up here -- alone wi' God an' these
My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain
Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again.
Slam-bang too much -- they knock a wee -- the crosshead-gibs are loose;
But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse. . . .
Fine, clear an' dark -- a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight,
An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night!
His wife's at Plymouth. . . . Seventy --
One -- Two -- Three since he began --
Three turns for Mistress Ferguson. . .and who's to blame the man?
There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow,
Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.
(The year the ~Sarah Sands~ was burned. Oh roads we used to tread,
Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws -- fra' Govan to Parkhead!)
Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say:
"Good-morrn, M'Andrew! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?"
Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair
To drink Madeira wi' three Earls -- the auld Fleet Engineer,
That started as a boiler-whelp -- when steam and he were low.
I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow.
Ten pound was all the pressure then -- Eh! Eh! -- a man wad drive;
An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder fifty-five!
We're creepin' on wi' each new rig -- less weight an' larger power:
There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty knots an hour!
Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man?
The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea:
Four time the span from earth to moon. . . . How far, O Lord, from Thee?
That wast beside him night an' day. Ye mind my first typhoon?
It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon.
Three feet were on the stokehold-floor -- just slappin' to an' fro --
An' cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.
Marks! I ha' marks o' more than burns -- deep in my soul an' black,
An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.
The sins o' four and forty years, all up an' down the seas,
Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed. . . . Forgie's our trespasses.
Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze,
The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel stays;
Years when I raked the ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong --
Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!
Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode --
Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Reddick an' Grant Road!
An' waur than all -- my crownin' sin -- rank blasphemy an' wild.

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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McAndrew's Hymn

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
An', taught by time, I tak' it so -- exceptin' always Steam.
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God --
Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod.
John Calvin might ha' forged the same -- enorrmous, certain, slow --
Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame -- ~my~ "Institutio".
I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;
I'll stand the middle watch up here -- alone wi' God an' these
My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain
Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again.
Slam-bang too much -- they knock a wee -- the crosshead-gibs are loose;
But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse. . . .
Fine, clear an' dark -- a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight,
An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night!
His wife's at Plymouth. . . . Seventy --
One -- Two -- Three since he began --
Three turns for Mistress Ferguson. . .and who's to blame the man?
There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow,
Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.
(The year the ~Sarah Sands~ was burned. Oh roads we used to tread,
Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws -- fra' Govan to Parkhead!)
Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say:
"Good-morrn, M'Andrew! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?"
Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair
To drink Madeira wi' three Earls -- the auld Fleet Engineer,
That started as a boiler-whelp -- when steam and he were low.
I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow.
Ten pound was all the pressure then -- Eh! Eh! -- a man wad drive;
An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder fifty-five!
We're creepin' on wi' each new rig -- less weight an' larger power:
There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty knots an hour!
Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man?
The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea:
Four time the span from earth to moon. . . . How far, O Lord, from Thee?
That wast beside him night an' day. Ye mind my first typhoon?
It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon.
Three feet were on the stokehold-floor -- just slappin' to an' fro --
An' cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.
Marks! I ha' marks o' more than burns -- deep in my soul an' black,
An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.
The sins o' four and forty years, all up an' down the seas,
Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed. . . . Forgie's our trespasses.
Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze,
The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel stays;
Years when I raked the ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong --
Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!
Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode --
Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Reddick an' Grant Road!
An' waur than all -- my crownin' sin -- rank blasphemy an' wild.

[...] Read more

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Stop Dead

Stop!
Stop!
Stop dead,
Stop stop stop stop stop stop
I pulled up at a west end junction (seeker of attention)
A full body kit and bass bins pumping (size up competition)
Come on red light, get into green,
I hit the brake, I must be dreaming..
Im stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Got to fix on you.
Dont wanna loose you, from my sight
Where ya going to?
Gotta know now..
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Got to fix on you.
Dont wanna loose, you from my sight
Where ya going to?
Oh-oh-oh
Ive got my eyes on the action (killer reputation)
Heat crazed in full satisfaction (become a phaser? )
Do what you do and do it to me,
Body in motion, now you see me
(chorus)
Gotta know know.. stop!
Come on now, come on now
Come on now, come on now
Wise up to remain young victim (come on, ways of attraction)
A full scale attack on the system (come on, no one visor? )
Do what you do and do it to me,
Im into red line territory
And im..
(chorus)
Stop!, dead in my tracks again,
Im stop dead in my tracks
Stop!, in my tracks (yeah)
Im stop dead in my tracks
(oh-oh) gotta know know..
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)
Stop! (stop), dead! (dead), in my tracks (in my tracks)

song performed by Duran Duran
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Turtle And Sparrow. An Elegiac Tale

Behind an unfrequented glade,
Where yew and myrtle mix their shade,
A widow Turtle pensive sat,
And wept her murder'd lover's fate.
The Sparrow chanced that way to walk,
(A bird that loves to chirp and talk)
Be sure he did the Turtle greet,
She answer'd him as she thought meet.
Sparrows and Turtles, by the bye,
Can think as well as you or I;
But how they did their thoughts express
The margin shows by T. and S.

T. My hopes are lost, my joys are fled,
Alas! I weep Columbo dead:
Come, all ye winged Lovers, come,
Drop pinks and daisies on his tomb;
Sing, Philomel, his funeral verse,
Ye pious Redbreasts deck his hearse;
Fair Swans, extend your dying throats,
Columbo's death requires your notes;
For him, my friend, for him I moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

Stretch'd on the bier Columbo lies,
Pale are his cheeks, and closed his eyes;
Those eyes, where beauty smiling lay,
Those eyes, where Love was used to play;
Ah! cruel Fate, alas how soon
That beauty and those joys are flown!

Columbo is no more: ye floods,
Bear the sad sound to distant woods;
The sound let echo's voice restore,
And say, Columbo is no more.
Ye floods, ye woods, ye echoes, moan
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

The Dryads all forsook the wood,
And mournful Naiads round me stood,
The tripping Fawns and Fairies came,
All conscious of our mutual flame,
To sigh for him, with me to moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.

Venus disdain'd not to appear,
To lend my grief a friendly ear;
But what avails her kindness now?
She ne'er shall hear my second vow:
The Loves that round their mother flow

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poem by Matthew Prior
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Orlando Furioso Canto 20

ARGUMENT
Guido and his from that foul haunt retire,
While all Astolpho chases with his horn,
Who to all quarters of the town sets fire,
Then roving singly round the world is borne.
Marphisa, for Gabrina's cause, in ire
Puts upon young Zerbino scathe and scorn,
And makes him guardian of Gabrina fell,
From whom he first learns news of Isabel.

I
Great fears the women of antiquity
In arms and hallowed arts as well have done,
And of their worthy works the memory
And lustre through this ample world has shone.
Praised is Camilla, with Harpalice,
For the fair course which they in battle run.
Corinna and Sappho, famous for their lore,
Shine two illustrious light, to set no more.

II
Women have reached the pinnacle of glory,
In every art by them professed, well seen;
And whosoever turns the leaf of story,
Finds record of them, neither dim nor mean.
The evil influence will be transitory,
If long deprived of such the world had been;
And envious men, and those that never knew
Their worth, have haply hid their honours due.

III
To me it plainly seems, in this our age
Of women such is the celebrity,
That it may furnish matter to the page,
Whence this dispersed to future years shall be;
And you, ye evil tongues which foully rage,
Be tied to your eternal infamy,
And women's praises so resplendent show,
They shall, by much, Marphisa's worth outgo.

IV
To her returning yet again; the dame
To him who showed to her such courteous lore,
Refused not to disclose her martial name,
Since he agreed to tell the style be bore.
She quickly satisfied the warrior's claim;
To learn his title she desired so sore.
'I am Marphisa,' the virago cried:
All else was known, as bruited far and wide.

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poem by Ludovico Ariosto
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The Eve Of Revolution

The trumpets of the four winds of the world
From the ends of the earth blow battle; the night heaves,
With breasts palpitating and wings refurled,
With passion of couched limbs, as one who grieves
Sleeping, and in her sleep she sees uncurled
Dreams serpent-shapen, such as sickness weaves,
Down the wild wind of vision caught and whirled,
Dead leaves of sleep, thicker than autumn leaves,
Shadows of storm-shaped things,
Flights of dim tribes of kings,
The reaping men that reap men for their sheaves,
And, without grain to yield,
Their scythe-swept harvest-field
Thronged thick with men pursuing and fugitives,
Dead foliage of the tree of sleep,
Leaves blood-coloured and golden, blown from deep to deep.

I hear the midnight on the mountains cry
With many tongues of thunders, and I hear
Sound and resound the hollow shield of sky
With trumpet-throated winds that charge and cheer,
And through the roar of the hours that fighting fly,
Through flight and fight and all the fluctuant fear,
A sound sublimer than the heavens are high,
A voice more instant than the winds are clear,
Say to my spirit, "Take
Thy trumpet too, and make
A rallying music in the void night's ear,
Till the storm lose its track,
And all the night go back;
Till, as through sleep false life knows true life near,
Thou know the morning through the night,
And through the thunder silence, and through darkness light."

I set the trumpet to my lips and blow.
The height of night is shaken, the skies break,
The winds and stars and waters come and go
By fits of breath and light and sound, that wake
As out of sleep, and perish as the show
Built up of sleep, when all her strengths forsake
The sense-compelling spirit; the depths glow,
The heights flash, and the roots and summits shake
Of earth in all her mountains,
And the inner foamless fountains
And wellsprings of her fast-bound forces quake;
Yea, the whole air of life

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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