Quotes about heady, page 15
Unser Gott
They held a great prayer-service in Berlin,
And augured German triumph from some words
Said to be spoken by the Jewish God
To Gideon, which signified that He
Was staunchly partial to the Israelites.
The aisles were thronged; and in the royal box
(I had it from a tourist who was there,
Clutching her passport, anxious, like the rest),
There sat the Kaiser, looking 'very sad.'
And then they sang; she said it shook the heart.
The women sobbed; tears salted bearded lips
Unheeded; and my friend looked back and saw
A young girl crumple in her mother's arms.
They carried out a score of them, she said,
While German hearts, through bursting German throats
Poured out, Ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott!
(Yea, 'Unser Gott! Our strength is Unser Gott!
Not that light-minded Bon Dieu of France!')
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poem by Karle Wilson Baker
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The Distracted Puritan
Am I mad, O noble Festus,
When zeal and godly knowledge
Have put me in hope
To deal with the Pope
As well as the best in the college?
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
In the house of pure Emanuel
I had my education,
Where my friends surmise
I dazel'd my eyes
With the sight of revelation.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
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poem by Richard Corbet
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Post-Modern Culture-Nile Trial in Denial
Post-modern culture lessons few has learned
Years stretched to centuries times forty-eight
Raising structures daring Time's 'dew' date.
Alas tide heralds dust to dust returned,
Mocks mankind's self-pollution coda earned.
Ice cap melt-down Giza, called the Great,
Dares threaten now, its powers bow to Fate,
As boom to bust bricks blow away, wind churned,
Leaves man at sea, too many bridges burned.
Polar pressures crack tectonic plate.
Open options exercised too late
Will mourn lost time when one dawn meets flood stern
Extending over reads, reeds, fern stems drowned,
Returning fallen pride to sea-slush mound.
Post-modern culture, pushy, churns ahead,
Yet spurred by institutions that remain
Resistant to internal change, which train
Ambassadors who vested-interest dread.
Mutant paradox is progress, fed
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Dante In The Laundromat Journeys Further Into Hell Beginning With Two Lines From The Book
At some false semblance in the twilight gloom
that from this terror you may free yourself
posthaste, gracelessly cast out, the closing
hour now come, caught in 'spin cycle' after
'hard rinse, ' an entire bottle of fabric softener
cannot unstiffen mythic threads,
the ancient weaves fray,
displace, are 'undone, so many'
beneath the winnowing rotors
that beat, beat with hope,
slosh, wash all sins away.
Yet gathers the dirt,
there's more sin ahead
heady in floral scents.
After midnight, beneath
bright florescence I read
Dante, his Inferno, of Hell's
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poem by Warren Falcon
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To The Author(s) Of Manimekhalai
'Apart from its popular conception of transmigration, (which is) sometimes almost humouristic, Manimekhalai offers a documentary contribution of immense value, under an easily accessible form, on the philosophical speculations of Ancient India. The cosmology of Sankya, the scientism of Vaisheshika, the logic of Nyaya, the materialism of Lokayata, originally related to the Ajivika tradition, (all of) which re-appeared with force in the Dravidian world following the Saivite renewal a little before the beginning of the Christian era. The(se) concepts which had little by little, during the course of centuries, influenced the Vedic tradition manifested themselves with force from then on in an autonomous way and went on to give birth to the philosophy of Mediaeval India.'
(From Alain Danielou's 'Preface' in his and T. V. Gopala Iyer's Manimékhalai)
To some the interest is in the reading hearing singing
To others in the Buddhist faith that moved the begetter(s)
To most the wondrous-unwonders of the story
born in the Cilappatikaram
To a few in the monstrous bending of the verse in
nilamantilavaciriyappa
To all time to parse in tongue-grinding heady rhymes
initial rhymes
end-rhymes
alliterations
antitheses
rigourous unsyntactic ellipses
double syllabic feet
four to the line
the exceptions in three
all a mnemonic scaffolding of repetitive sound
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poem by T. Wignesan
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Kadambs
When I see them so close from my terrace,
In sway, to and forth in the evening breeze,
Their brown leaves falling off, as if from grace,
With every little burst of monsoon squeeze,
Those yellowed waiting to fall in careless ease,
I wonder if man should learn from trees:
Their endless patience, their resigned frisson
To life, bowing to the will of Nature,
In tune with time, the mood of every season,
Standing tall still triumphant in stature;
Man but admiring from distance, and cool,
Remains the student of a condescending school.
There's something so peculiar of rains so rife,
Which do things strange to me, to trees alike;
It's not water, an elixir of life,
(Trees draw water through roots, through leaves from air,
(And plants can be watered in pots and pans.)
When I water my potted plants they smile,
My worry is o'er-watering,
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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Infatuation's All Hands On Stations Gig Antic_ipations
What's love? above all hand in glove,
with statement missionary,
twinned turtle dove, no pressure, shove,
precisions scission scary.
Infatuate calls bluff, seals fate,
romantic airy-fairy
from single state anticipate?
semantic se[a]men hairy?
Is limerence mind's self-defence
'gainst harsh realities,
as urge intense to merge makes sense,
what's real? weal’s wheel? reel tease!
With no offence from off the fence
analysis essential
of present tense, or past, immense
gap trap zaps existential.
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poem by Jonathan Robin (29 August 2009)
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Murder Me Again With Your Voice
Murder me again with your voice,
the moon, your maculate heart, the weapon of your choice.
I am space, light, water, air, stars beyond your reach.
Meteor showers have been looking for my species for years
And still I thrive like glass eyes with real tears,
in the shadows of your amorous extinctions.
You can snuff a thousand votive candles out.
You can desecrate the shrine where I bury my feelings
like the small bodies of gentle birds
beside the ashes of the dragons that burnt out
like solar flares returning to the source.
You stab at the wind. You can try to ruin the sun
with a pettiness that isn't worthy of the moon
that sends no night bird out to look for you
though my longing says you've been missing for years.
Nothing against you, nothing especially for,
though I thought I saw for a moment Bailey's Beads
peeking through the lunar valleys of your last eclipse.
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poem by Patrick White
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The Sundays of Satin-Legs Smith
Inamoratas, with an approbation,
Bestowed his title. Blessed his inclination.
He wakes, unwinds, elaborately: a cat
Tawny, reluctant, royal. He is fat
And fine this morning. Definite. Reimbursed.
He waits a moment, he designs his reign,
That no performance may be plain or vain.
Then rises in a clear delirium.
He sheds, with his pajamas, shabby days.
And his desertedness, his intricate fear, the
Postponed resentments and the prim precautions.
Now, at his bath, would you deny him lavender
Or take away the power of his pine?
What smelly substitute, heady as wine,
Would you provide? life must be aromatic.
There must be scent, somehow there must be some.
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poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
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The Mosque Of Cordoba
The succession of day and night
Is the architect of events.
The succession of day and night
Is the fountain-head of life and death.
The succession of day and night
Is a two-tone silken twine,
With which the Divine Essence
Prepares Its apparel of Attributes.
The succession of day and night
Is the reverberation of the symphony of
Creation.
Through its modulations, the Infinite
demonstrates
The parameters of possibilities.
The succession of day and night
Is the touchstone of the universe;
Now sitting in judgement on you,
Now setting a value on me.
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poem by Allama Muhammad Iqbal
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