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Wisdom finds its literary expression in wisdom literature.

quote by Paul Ricoeur
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Poet Sajid Khan's Background.

Our Background

We have figured out what is wisdom and how it can be created on a mass scale.

Wisdom is the wealth of intelligence and just like wealth, wisdom is
nothing on its own! Just like wealth has to be in something else like
gold, real estate, stocks, bank balance etc. Again wisdom is like a
house. A house is the sum of its parts. A house is nothing without its
building blocks. Similarly wisdom is nothing without/but its building
blocks. The building block of wisdom is selflessness. By creating
selflessness we create wisdom.

We have quantified the mind and now emotions can be measured. We are
founders of Wisdom Day, Pure Happiness Seminars, 'Who am I' seminars,
'Third Eye' seminars. We have developed the idea of 'WisdomLand',
'Brain Power Clubs', 'Shy Power Club' and The Wisdom Express. We even
have wisdom toys.

The world is at a loss of how to solve the economic mess. We have the
answers. The human self runs on two wheels. One is intelligence and
the other is emotional-intelligence/wisdom. For intelligence we have
hundreds of subjects and for emotional-intelligence/wisdom we have
zero subjects. As a result we educate only half our brains. Naturally
the wheel of emotional intelligence is punctured. And every time we
try to fix this education mess we go back to improving intelligence
education. Leaving emotional intelligence as punctured as ever;
resulting in developing imperfect minds and imperfect brains for over
80% of the population.

Michael Gazzaniga the foremost expert on the brain and mind concludes
in his latest best seller, for a call to arms. “Understanding how to
develop a vocabulary for these layered interactions (between the left
and right brain and between brain and mind) , for me, ” he writes,
“constitutes the scientific problem of the century.” This is exactly
the problem we recognized 40 years ago and we have now solved.

We have figured out the difference between brain and mind. The
education mess is due to the fact man has cutting edge education to
educate the mind and has no idea how to educate the brain. In simple
terms one can say that we keep our homes clean; we keep our cars and
our offices spic and span and when it comes to our own brains and
minds we keep them dirty; full of defective memories/knowledge. We
have developed education for cleaning up the brain.

We have invented this whole new wisdom industry that will generate
wisdom education, creation of text books, with exercises and lessons,
training for teachers and parents, and 'pure happiness' counselors
etc., wisdom coaching for adults, groups and countries, toys that
teach wisdom, wisdom computer games, comic books, children stories,
sitcoms, TV talk shows, movies etc.; and Wisdom Theme Parks, Wisdom

[...] Read more

poem by Sajid Khan
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Ode to the Great Unknown

'O breathe not his name!'
—Moore.

I

Thou Great Unknown!
I do not mean Eternity, nor Death,
That vast incog!
For I suppose thou hast a living breath,
Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown,
Thou man of fog!
Parent of many children—child of none!
Nobody's son!
Nobody's daughter—but a parent still!
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch
Of orphan eggs,—left to the world to hatch
Superlative Nil!
A vox and nothing more,—yet not Vauxhall;
A head in papers, yet without a curl!
Not the Invisible Girl!
No hand—but a handwriting on a wall—
A popular nonentity,
Still call'd the same,—without identity!
A lark, heard out of sight,—
A nothing shin'd upon,—invisibly bright,
'Dark with excess of light!'
Constable's literary John-a-nokes—
The real Scottish wizard—and not which,
Nobody—in a niche;
Every one's hoax!
Maybe Sir Walter Scott—
Perhaps not!
Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?

II

Thou,—whom the second-sighted never saw,
The Master Fiction of fictitious history!
Chief Nong-tong-paw!
No mister in the world—and yet all mystery!
The 'tricksy spirit' of a Scotch Cock Lane—
A novel Junius puzzling the world's brain—
A man of Magic—yet no talisman!
A man of clair obscure—not he o' the moon!
A star—at noon.
A non-descriptus in a caravan,
A private—of no corps—a northern light
In a dark lantern,—Bogie in a crape—
A figure—but no shape;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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Where Is The Beginning Of Wisdom?

Fear of God
is the beginning
of Wisdom.

Where is truth
where is wisdom?

Who has
knows hears
can discern
true wisdom?

The truth
true Wisdom
is crying out

aloud in the very
street in public squares
true Wisdom keeps
giving forth its voice.

Who has wisdom
who receives wisdom
who treasures wisdom?

Who indeed
is a seeker
of the moral

benefits
of Wisdom

in contemporary
scientific
unprecedented age?

From what source
does true wisdom come?
Who gives teaches
precious wisdom freely?

Adonai the LORD
himself gives wisdom
from out of God’s

mouth come
knowledge understanding
discernment.

Who did God

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Without Expression

Written by: Terry Reid 1968
Have you ever ridden horses through a rainstorm?
Or a lion through a busy street bazarre?
There are many things I'd love to turn you on to
But somehow I feel they're safer where they are
Yes, there's a man I know
With no expression
He's got none at all
Yes, there's a man that I know
With no expression, darling
He's got none at all
Well, some people are inbound with infatuation
And some others spill depression as the law
From one's mother getting at no imagination
So beware then, maybe sin is at your door
Yes, there's a man that I know
With no expression
He's got none at all
Yes, there's a man I know
With no expression
He's got none at all
But you may never, never
See this man laughing
Come to think of it,
I've never seen him cry
But he might be sitting
And you hear him singing
And by and by he'll stop and sigh
Before his voice would even begin to speak
And he'd just cry
Yes, There's a man I know
With no expression, darling
He's got none at all
Yes, There's a man that I know
With no expression
He's got none at all
Have you ever, ever ridden horses through a rainstorm?
Or a lion through a busy street bazarre?
There are many things I'd love to turn you on to
But somehow I feel they're safer where they are
Yes, There's a man that I know
With no expression
He's got none at all
There's a man that I know
With no expression
He's got none at all

song performed by John Mellencamp
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The Library

When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,
Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;
When every object that appears in view
Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too;
Where shall affliction from itself retire?
Where fade away and placidly expire?
Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain;
Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain:
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,
Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the stream;
For when the soul is labouring in despair,
In vain the body breathes a purer air:
No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas,-
He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;
On the smooth mirror of the deep resides
Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides
The ghost of every former danger glides.
Thus, in the calms of life, we only see
A steadier image of our misery;
But lively gales and gently clouded skies
Disperse the sad reflections as they rise;
And busy thoughts and little cares avail
To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.
When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,
Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,
We bleed anew in every former grief,
And joys departed furnish no relief.
Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,
Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart:
The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,
And anxious searches for congenial cares;
Those lenient cares, which with our own combined,
By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind,
And steal our grief away, and leave their own

behind;
A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure
Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure.
But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woes?
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see
Others more wretched, more undone than we?
This BOOKS can do;--nor this alone; they give
New views to life, and teach us how to live;
They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they

chastise,
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise:
Their aid they yield to all: they never shun
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone:

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Oh The Poems

OH THE POEMS AND THE POEMS AND THE POEMS

Oh the poems and the poems and the poems
Oh the love of Literature
Oh all that stuff
I have given my life to-
Words and meanings and feelings
Pages and pages and pages –

What it is all this literary life for?
When out the window out the door
With our eyes we see in an instant other worlds other dreams?

I don’t know and I will never know
And Literature is certainly far more than I can say it is-

Oh the poems and this poem and this day turning grey
And all my life old and old and more old and more old-

Oh why oh why oh why
And always back to God
My last rescue and refuge and escape
I who have read so much Great Literature
And can only write this-

Oh the why and the oh oh oh and the words
And the whole world of Literature
I would belong to and do not.
Oh the words oh the world oh the Literature
Oh God help me please can’t you please help me a little or not?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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The Task: Book III. -- The Garden

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes
Entangled, winds now this way and now that
His devious course uncertain, seeking home;
Or, having long in miry ways been foil’d,
And sore discomfited, from slough to slough
Plunging, and half despairing of escape;
If chance at length he finds a greensward smooth
And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise,
He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,
And winds his way with pleasure and with ease:
So I, designing other themes, and call’d
To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,
To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams,
Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat
Of academic fame (howe’er deserved),
Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last.
But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road
I mean to tread. I feel myself at large,
Courageous, and refresh’d for future toil,
If toil awaits me, or if dangers new.

Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflect
Most part an empty ineffectual sound,
What chance that I, to fame so little known,
Nor conversant with men or manners much,
Should speak to purpose, or with better hope
Crack the satiric thong? ‘Twere wiser far
For me, enamour’d of sequester’d scenes,
And charm’d with rural beauty, to repose,
Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine,
My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains;
Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft
And shelter’d Sofa, while the nitrous air
Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth;
There, undisturb’d by Folly, and apprised
How great the danger of disturbing her,
To muse in silence, or at least confine
Remarks that gall so many to the few,
My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal’d
Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.

Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the fall!
Though few now taste thee unimpair’d and pure,
Or tasting long enjoy thee! too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets
Unmix’d with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup;
Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Most Of The So Called Literary Experts

Most of the so called literary experts are dismissive of rhyme
They say 'tis the poetry of a long gone time
Yet the poets that they laud the poems they do write
Cannot be put to music and are hard to read and recite
The rhymer of today is not looked on as a poet
Or is not seen as one worthy of literary note
By the so called literary experts with literary degrees
Though their judgement on what is or is not poetry not everyone does please
They never will convince the old style rhyme buff
To him or her well written rhyme is not throw away stuff
In well written rhyme are the words to a song
And good rhyming poetry to music belong
Yet the degreed literary experts who on poetry like to have their say
Dismiss rhyming poets and their poetry as of yesterday.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Edgar Allan Poe

An American literary icon but what caused his death none seem to know
He was more than a man of words the great Edgar Allan Poe
He died when in his forties his best writing years of him ahead
His fame has attained greatness and he is widely read.

Most writers in their forties have scarcely reached their writing prime
His marvellous poem 'The Raven' has not faded out in time
A writer for all ages and one of literary note
And many who love literature have him as their favourite poet.

In life he was quite famous in death greatness he did attain
As an immortal literary gem 'The Raven' does remain
In the English speaking Countries of the World from North to Southern shore
His writings remain popular and his readers now far more

Than he had in his lifetime his genius is living on
Whilst millions of his contemporaries to obscurity have gone
Despite the passing of time his literary legend grow
Though in his too brief life span few him did wish to know.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Man With No Expression

There's a man I know with no expression no not none at all
Have you ever ridden horses through a rainstorm
or led a lion through a busy street bazaar
There are many things I'd like to turn you on to
but somehow I feel you're safer where you are
If you're looking for examples to refer to
take a look around yourself I'm sure you'll find
there are many things to make your life much brighter
and I'd bet there's many more inside your mind
There's a man I know with no expression no not none at all
There's a man I know with no expression no not none at all
But I've never seen this man laughing
and come to think of it I've never seen him cry
But I might by sitting hear him singing
By and by he'll stop and sigh
he'll feel a breeze and then begin to freeze
as he thinks goodbye
Have you ever ridden horses through a rainstorm
or led a lion through a busy street bazaar
There are many things I'd like to turn you on to
but somehow I feel you're safer where you are
There's a man I know with no expression no not none at all
There's a man with no expression
man with no expression
man with no expression

song performed by Hollies
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Wisdom's Way

Wisdom is calling souls today, to come to God in Wisdom's way,
While Wisdom sends forth her call, upon this world, to every soul,
For Wisdom has prepared for us, a house built on Righteousness,
Built up with seven pillars strong; being complete for every throng.

Wisdom has prepared her feast, for those with plenty, to the least,
While she has set her table for all, for both the great and the small,
Wisdom has sent out her invitation, to all souls without reservation,
Her invitation for all to come, regardless of where are you are from.

She calls the simple to partake, but foolishness they must forsake,
As wicked ways all must spurn, to come to Wisdom and truly learn,
With wisdom being their selection, they must be open to correction,
Learning from every past mistake, as Wisdom's feast, they partake.

As scoffers come along our way, rejecting what Wisdom has to say.
All filled with arrogance and pride, by them, wisdom shall be denied,
Correcting then in Wisdom's name, brings upon one hurt and shame,
For hate the scoffer will project, toward one who chooses to correct.

Will you today heed Wisdom's call, to seek The Lord Who's over all?
Leaving old ways, that you know, so through Wisdom you can grow,
Changing to a life of Righteousness, this as you follow Christ Jesus,
As Wisdom shall multiply your days; with a long life, to God's praise.

(Copyright ©07/2012)

poem by Bob Gotti
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Vision Of Columbus - Book 8

And now the Angel, from the trembling sight,
Veil'd the wide world–when sudden shades of night
Move o'er the ethereal vault; the starry train
Paint their dim forms beneath the placid main;
While earth and heaven, around the hero's eye,
Seem arch'd immense, like one surrounding sky.
Still, from the Power superior splendors shone,
The height emblazing like a radiant throne;
To converse sweet the soothing shades invite,
And on the guide the hero fix'd his sight.
Kind messenger of Heaven, he thus began,
Why this progressive labouring search of man?
If man by wisdom form'd hath power to reach
These opening truths that following ages teach,
Step after step, thro' devious mazes, wind,
And fill at last the measure of the mind,
Why did not Heaven, with one unclouded ray,
All human arts and reason's powers display?
That mad opinions, sects and party strife
Might find no place t'imbitter human life.
To whom the Angelic Power; to thee 'tis given,
To hold high converse, and enquire of heaven,
To mark uncircled ages and to trace
The unfolding truths that wait thy kindred race.
Know then, the counsels of th'unchanging Mind,
Thro' nature's range, progressive paths design'd,
Unfinish'd works th'harmonious system grace,
Thro' all duration and around all space;
Thus beauty, wisdom, power, their parts unroll,
Till full perfection joins the accordant whole.
So the first week, beheld the progress rise,
Which form'd the earth and arch'd th'incumbant skies.
Dark and imperfect first, the unbeauteous frame,
From vacant night, to crude existence came;
Light starr'd the heavens and suns were taught their bound,
Winds woke their force, and floods their centre found;
Earth's kindred elements, in joyous strife,
Warm'd the glad glebe to vegetable life,
Till sense and power and action claim'd their place,
And godlike reason crown'd the imperial race.
Progressive thus, from that great source above,
Flows the fair fountain of redeeming love.
Dark harbingers of hope, at first bestow'd,
Taught early faith to feel her path to God:
Down the prophetic, brightening train of years,
Consenting voices rose of different seers,
In shadowy types display'd the accomplish'd plan,
When filial Godhead should assume the man,
When the pure Church should stretch her arms abroad,
Fair as a bride and liberal as her God;

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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Conversation

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of sense,
And Conversation in its better part
May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller’s toil,
On culture, and the sowing of the soil.
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.
As alphabets in ivory employ,
Hour after hour, the yet unletter’d boy,
Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee
Those seeds of science call’d his a b c;
So language in the mouths of the adult,
Witness its insignificant result,
Too often proves an implement of play,
A toy to sport with, and pass time away.
Collect at evening what the day brought forth,
Compress the sum into its solid worth,
And if it weigh the importance of a fly,
The scales are false, or algebra a lie.
Sacred interpreter of human thought,
How few respect or use thee as they ought!
But all shall give account of every wrong,
Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue;
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,
Or sell their glory at a market-price;
Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,
The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.
There is a prurience in the speech of some,
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb;
His wise forbearance has their end in view,
They fill their measure and receive their due.
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days,
Names almost worthy of a Christian’s praise,
Would drive them forth from the resort of men,
And shut up every satyr in his den.
Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth,
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!
Infectious as impure, your blighting power
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower;
Its odour perish’d, and its charming hue,
Thenceforth ‘tis hateful, for it smells of you.
Not e’en the vigorous and headlong rage
Of adolescence, or a firmer age,
Affords a plea allowable or just
For making speech the pamperer of lust;
But when the breath of age commits the fault,
‘Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault.

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Telephone Conversation

Wednesday, January 23,2008
Week 10: Telephone Conversation by Wole Soyinka

Week 10 Dividing lines: Differences in Class, race, Gender and Ideology

Telephone Conversation
by Wole Soyinka

The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. 'Madam, ' I warned,
'I hate a wasted journey—I am African.'
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
'HOW DARK? '... I had not misheard... 'ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK? ' Button B, Button A.* Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis-
'ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT? ' Revelation came.
'You mean-like plain or milk chocolate? '
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. 'West African sepia'-and as afterthought,
'Down in my passport.' Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. 'WHAT'S THAT? ' conceding
'DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.' 'Like brunette.'
'THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT? ' 'Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused-

[...] Read more

poem by Tamilarasi Shalu
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The Task: Book VI. -- The Winter Walk at Noon

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;
And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleased
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch’d within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Short as in retrospect the journey seems,
It seem’d not always short; the rugged path,
And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,
Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length.
Yet, feeling present evils, while the past
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revoked,
That we might try the ground again, where once
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)
We miss’d that happiness we might have found!
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son’s best friend,
A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and mustering all its force,
Was but the graver countenance of love:
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,
And utter now and then an awful voice,
But had a blessing in its darkest frown,
Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.
We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear’d us. At a thoughtless age, allured
By every gilded folly, we renounced
His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent
That converse, which we now in vain regret.
How gladly would the man recall to life
The boy’s neglected sire! a mother too,
That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed
The playful humour; he could now endure
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)
And feel a parent’s presence no restraint.
But not to understand a treasure’s worth

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Grave Retrospective

Possessions' progression obsession
poor more, more than best less, must draw
conclusions mistaken, impression
that wealth over health sets the score
for worth on our earth where aggression's
too often condoned by the law,
where success seems a sterile succession
of trangressions that ravage rapports.

This seems tantamount to retrogression
where blunderbuss plunder makes war
where arrogant ego expression
is excuse for abuse all abhor.
Who lusts for a trophy procession
to celebrate, victory's roar,
finds vain remains reign, dispossession,
cyclic atrophy squanders life's store.

Where vice is held virtue, concession
signals weakness, destruction in store,
where thinly disguised indiscretion
pours rewards upon traitor or whore,
where equity's lacks intercession
from power base raw's bloody maw
it is hard to ignore the suppression
of freedom, true rue rotten core.

Where equity finds no reflection
in the eyes of corrupt judge explore
when and how most lost sense of direction,
surrendered control, and deplore
political moral defection,
dereliction of duty, closed door,
or puppet string rigging election,
democracy hard to restore.

Once life's flow more than permanence counted,
Nature guided intemporal tide,
no need for race, steed to be mounted,
no seed but would blossom beside
scheme stream of unconscious connections
as each was in all, all in each, -
no need for trace, gain, greed, projections,
for constrictive force frontiers of speech.

Once no part of the whole was discounted
as second-class link in life's chain,
each link was completely accounted
as interdependent to gain
from Time time to evolve, never static,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Speranza's Son

His poems and plays are literary gems his quotes popular today
A genius and a great poet with words he had a way
Incarcerated in Reading Jail he lived at a time
When for a man to love another man was looked on as a crime.

His mother was a great poet Speranza was her name
In the Dublin literary circles of her time she was one who knew fame
She gave to the World Oscar Wilde the truly enlightened one
What woman would not feel proud to give birth to such a son.

His father the antiquarian and gifted writer became famed far and wide
And as an expert on human diseases his worth could not be denied
But nowadays he is better known as Oscar's father the wit and literary great
A legend for the ages and one to celebrate.

The Importance of Being Earnest, The Ballad of Reading Jail
and Lady Windermere's Fan
From the pen of Speranza's son the renowned literary man
And though he died as a pauper in Paris from Dublin far away
Through his humorous quotes and insightful writings his legend lives today.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Columbiad: Book VIII

The Argument

Hymn to Peace. Eulogy on the heroes slain in the war; in which the Author finds occasion to mention his Brother. Address to the patriots who have survived the conflict; exhorting them to preserve liberty they have established. The danger of losing it by inattention illustrated in the rape of the Golden Fleece. Freedom succeeding to Despotism in the moral world, like Order succeeding to Chaos in the physical world. Atlas, the guardian Genius of Africa, denounces to Hesper the crimes of his people in the slavery of the Afripans. The Author addresses his countrymen on that subject, and on the principles of their government.

Hesper, recurring to his object of showing Columbus the importance of his discoveries, reverses the order of time, and exhibits the continent again in its savage state. He then displays the progress of arts in America. Fur-trade. Fisheries. Productions. Commerce. Education. Philosophical discoveries. Painting. Poetry.

Hail, holy Peace, from thy sublime abode
Mid circling saints that grace the throne of God!
Before his arm around our embryon earth
Stretch'd the dim void, and gave to nature birth.
Ere morning stars his glowing chambers hung,
Or songs of gladness woke an angel's tongue,
Veil'd in the splendors of his beamful mind,
In blest repose thy placid form reclined,
Lived in his life, his inward sapience caught,
And traced and toned his universe of thought.
Borne thro the expanse with his creating voice
Thy presence bade the unfolding worlds rejoice,
Led forth the systems on their bright career,
Shaped all their curves and fashion'd every sphere,
Spaced out their suns, and round each radiant goal,
Orb over orb, compell'd their train to roll,
Bade heaven's own harmony their force combine.
Taught all their host symphonious strains to join,
Gave to seraphic harps their sounding lays,
Their joys to angels, and to men their praise.

From scenes of blood, these verdant shores that stain,
From numerous friends in recent battle slain,
From blazing towns that scorch the purple sky,
From houseless hordes their smoking walls that fly,
From the black prison ships, those groaning graves,
From warring fleets that vex the gory waves,
From a storm'd world, long taught thy flight to mourn,
I rise, delightful Peace, and greet thy glad return.

For now the untuneful trump shall grate no more;
Ye silver streams, no longer swell with gore,
Bear from your war-beat banks the guilty stain
With yon retiring navies to the main.
While other views, unfolding on my eyes,
And happier themes bid bolder numbers rise;
Bring, bounteous Peace, in thy celestial throng.
Life to my soul, and rapture to my song;
Give me to trace, with pure unclouded ray,
The arts and virtues that attend thy sway,
To see thy blissful charms, that here descend,
Thro distant realms and endless years extend.

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poem by Joel Barlow
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The Task: Book V. -- The Winter Morning Walk

‘Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From every herb and every spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion’d limb
Transform’d to a lean shank. The shapeless pair
As they design’d to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster’d wall,
Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents
And coarser grass, upspearing o’er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hungering man,
Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay.
He from the stack carves out the accustom’d load,
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern’d
The cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axe
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,
From morn to eve his solitary task.
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears
And tail cropp’d short, half lurcher and half cur,
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel
Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk
Wide scampering, snatches up the driften snow
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;

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poem by William Cowper
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