Quotes about relics, page 12
The Funeral
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm,
Nor question much,
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch;
For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do 't; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.
Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me,
For since I am
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poem by John Donne
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The Relics, Ajantha and Ellora
The carvers
before and after Christ
had cut marvels
out of rocks
of Deccan Plateau,
in awing Ajantha
and enchanting Ellora.
The vaulted roof
above the nave,
the Viharas for the monks,
three storeys with chappels,
the stupas
and the mural paintings
on the walls and ceilings,
the rock-hewn doors
make us petrified with surprise.
We don’t turn renegades.
We fail to decipher
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Flat Harry
Flat harry
Held onto his ship of 'one dimensionals'
His poster dream was full of ruin
His passion was to be found in the wreckage
These relics of some ancient grief
Flat harry kept a piece of the 'Titanic'
Under his bed
With his darkest dream
Flat harry was full of flaws and held his scars well
In a mirror crowd
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poem by Yvette Smith
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In Broad Day Light
Immeasurable, raucous, incessant dreams;
you were not present when they were seen?
Rivers, overflowing and fish who had taken refuge;
on the walls were written, by sun rays
moon through the window,
that was known, seen, in blind dark nights.
Water had rained, from the seas.
every particle was hitting the head;
barbed wires, were some use
the flow perpetually adamant,
taking lives.
Ear marked, dusty and in loose pages
the lament so old
was begun many more years before;
the shroud of mystery, confused with romance
and some reverence for the dead long ago
the plaster on the walls, melting like honey,
this street carries no sweetness
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poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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This Year
This year
mixes spring and summer here,
a sharp wind chasing baking heat.
Hawthorn hangs like snow in clusters
with gorse and last year’s bracken at its feet,
turning the whole cliff into an in-between season.
Beyond the hills
lie great fields of daffodils
balancing organic gold against a leaden sky.
These the farmers grow
instead of food.
This they are paid to do
to keep abundance low
and prices high.
Below the cliff at Tregantle
another kind of fruit appears at low tide;
mines sown half a century ago,
relics of an earlier generation’s
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Relics From The Past
We never thought they'd disappear
We took them all for granted
But now long gone, it seems quite clear
They've been permanently supplanted
Carbon paper, remember it?
It copied printed matter
Creating files in triplicate
It helped us save our data
Fashion concious men
Covered shoes with spatz
Fashionable women
Wore millinery hats
Cars with rumble-seats
In our driving apparatus
Were driven by elites
As a way of showing status
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poem by Stanley Cooper
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The 11th commandment [A XI-a poruncă]
Hear closely, be watchful and shush!...
Hear closely, and learn how to speak,
Behold the construction technique.
And shush, grasp the things, do not rush...
Hear closely, be watchful and shush!
When sin clings to you like a vine,
And Mermaid's sweet song charms your soul
Shut up and remain in control
And pray to the relics in shrine –
When sin clings to you like a vine!...
When feel that your foe makes you sigh,
And faith slowly withers away,
Be patient, you'll triumph one day,
Don't let your mind's candle to die –
When feel that your foe makes you sigh!
When pain strikes your arms more and more,
Don't think that you start to get old,
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poem by Ion Minulescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Chimneys of Lime
I’ve walked at your ruins
To seek out your history,
Charted the runes of you
Stone upon stone,
I’m left with damp walls
And a sense of some mystery;
What tamed the pride
That led on to your fall?
Some spirit entangled you
Lived in you yesterday,
Drove you, dispersed, and then
Lay you down still,
Now all that is left
Is grim ruin and disarray,
Relics of life,
Strength of purpose, and will.
Cairns and old bones at
The granite-hard cemetery,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Stunned
Confused and wary like a
spermwhale, you are
nosediving; -
through the shadows
of terrible pain
ejecting ambergris.
Who was getting
the bribery
to fix the belly button?
This was not revolution.
It was evolution-
of a stinking city.
The gods were sleeping
on the lips of a pride.
Nurses were preparing the bed.
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poem by Satish Verma
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Christ hangs upon an iron cross.
Christ hangs upon an iron cross.
Rose thorns pierce his temple
As Our Mother Universal stands
Carved in solemn mourning.
Plated in polished brass
She holds her hands outwards from her form.
Below Christ lay in soft decay,
All around his people pray
Wishing away the days in anticipation
Of a heaven promised to them by a dream ideal.
Still as a testament to man the Cathedral stands
Un-piercing but resting gently upon the skyline.
His form dissolves untouched.
Fainted frescos reveal an aging Christ,
Beside angels all around.
As we stood, silent, staring at the relics
Of a fallen age. The Saint lay beneath.
Beyond he seal of the tomb.
Buried beside the head of a king.
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poem by David Lacey
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