Quotes about vintage, page 16
Mare Rubrum
FLASH out a stream of blood-red wine,
For I would drink to other days,
And brighter shall their memory shine,
Seen flaming through its crimson blaze!
The roses die, the summers fade,
But every ghost of boyhood's dream
By nature's magic power is laid
To sleep beneath this blood-red stream!
It filled the purple grapes that lay,
And drank the splendors of the sun,
Where the long summer's cloudless day
Is mirrored in the broad Garonne;
It pictures still the bacchant shapes
That saw their hoarded sunlight shed,--
The maidens dancing on the grapes,--
Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.
Beneath these waves of crimson lie,
In rosy fetters prisoned fast,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Judith Of Bethulia
Beautiful as the flying legend of some leopard
She had not chosen yet her captain, nor Prince
Depositary to her flesh, and our defense;
A wandering beauty is a blade out of its scabbard.
You know how dangerous, gentlemen of threescore?
May you know it yet ten more.
Nor by process of veiling she grew less fabulous.
Grey or blue veils, we were desperate to study
The invincible emanations of her white body,
And the winds at her ordered raiment were ominous.
Might she walk in the market, sit in the council of soldiers?
Only of the extreme elders.
But a rare chance was the girl’s then, when the Invader
Trumpeted from the South, and rumbled from the North,
Beleaguered the city from four quarters of the earth,
Our soldiery too craven and sick to aid her—
Where were the arms could countervail this horde?
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poem by John Crowe Ransom
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Morning After Revelation
A UFO silently landing on Woodward avenue
shall spur herald hippie cosmic greeting event
from star spaceship shall rock and roll emerge
the original vintage Beatles to perform an impromptu concert
singing galactic latest trendy pirated no royalties paid Earth hit
assuring awaiting universe the world "all you need is love"
accompanied by legions of angels singing back up (major version inclusions)
angelic chorus "what the world needs now is love
sweet love it's the only thing there is just too little of"
Beatles caused a riot angels being neutral gender beautiful
meant vast crowds of straights were passion competing with
gays lesbians in efforts to grope feel touch angelic heart throbs? ? ?
destruction of the world begins with our world's wildest party
while it's happening no one in groove will be anxious or fearful
birds shall become angelic beings presenting earth children
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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July Fugitive
Can you tell me where has hid her
Pretty Maid July?
I would swear one day ago
She passed by,
I would swear that I do know
The blue bliss of her eye:
'Tarry, maid, maid,' I bid her;
But she hastened by.
Do you know where she has hid her,
Maid July?
Yet in truth it needs must be
The flight of her is old;
Yet in truth it needs must be,
For her nest, the earth, is cold.
No more in the pool-ed Even
Wade her rosy feet,
Dawn-flakes no more plash from them
To poppies 'mid the wheat.
She has muddied the day's oozes
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poem by Francis Thompson
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What next?
We fall victims to our own thinking
World moves on without our making
Why not move ahead and take along
Any set back may prove us wrong
Why should they bank on your obsolete views?
When there are no serious takers except few
It is highly unacceptable in modern world
Where it needs dynamic approach and hold
Modern day think may not be influenced by morality
It may lack or doesn’t have any ethics or durability
Still it will find its way with wide recognition
They want result without use of any ammunition
High rise buildings with their points touching to the sky
Who would want to wait for asking any question, why?
It is marvelous piece of architectural theory and feat
Any logic may fail and continuously go on to beat
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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As Outcast and Forecast
As some surf sculptured flotsam flung
from shore to stormy sea,
as jetsam leaf on life’s tree hung
from fate’s branch hinge, torn free.
As date, as anniversary,
from calendar expunged,
as sailor smit by siren’s see
in swirling ocean plunged.
As broken toy, forgotten, cast
aside some summer day,
abandoned by spite’s child who fast
found other ploy to play.
As voter, duty done, expelled
by politician snide
who cared more for positions held
than bridging deep divide.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Wilfred
What of these tender feet
That have never toddled yet?
What dances shall they beat,
With what red vintage wet?
In what wild way will they march or stray, by what sly paynims met?
The toil of it none may share;
By yourself must the way be won
Through fervid or frozen air
Till the overland journey's done;
And I would not take, for your own dear sake, one thorn from your track,
my son.
Go forth to your hill and dale,
Yet take in your hand from me
A staff when your footsteps fail,
A weapon if need there be;
'Twill hum in your ear when the foeman's near, athirst for the victory.
In the desert of dusty death
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poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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Ode to Winter
When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race begun to run;
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel grace;
Rosy summer next advancing,
Rushed into her sire's embrace:-
Her blue-haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smile,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
On India's citron-covered isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne,
A rich pomegranate gemmed her gown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And lives on deer-borne car to ride
With barren darkness at his side,
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poem by Thomas Campbell
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Elegy I. He Arrives at His Retirement in the Country
He Arrives at His Retirement in the Country, and Takes Occasion To Expatiate in Praise of Simplicity.
To a Friend
For rural virtues, and for native skies,
I bade Augusta's venal sons farewell;
Now 'mid the trees I see my smoke arise,
Now hear the fountains bubbling round my cell.
O may that Genius, which secures my rest,
Preserve this villa for a friend that's dear!
Ne'er may my vintage glad the sordid breast,
Ne'er tinge the lip that dares be insincere!
Far from these paths, ye faithless Friends, depart!
Fly my plain board, abhor my hostile name!
Hence the faint verse that flows not from the heart,
But mourns, in labour'd strains, the price of fame!
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poem by William Shenstone
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Tale Of Violins
The Mongols used the hair of horses’ tails
to make the ancestors of bows of violins
which move across the strings when playing scales
like fish that skim through water with their fins.
Music that’s the food of love has forces
which move men with its airs, all made of Luft,
to love far more than any long-maned horses,
as I do, lucky Luftmensch who's not hoofed.
Edward Rothstein writes about horses in the NYT, May 16,2008 (“Man’s Best Friend, Hoofed Division”) :
Without horses, where would we be? Trousers might never have become fashionable. The violin might never have come into existence. The Aztecs might have thrived another few centuries. The Industrial Revolution might have sputtered out before its time. No one would have to get off his high horse, and no political race would have a dark horse candidate. And the American Museum of Natural History would have had to find another subject for its sprawling, charming and illuminating exhibition that is opening on Saturday: “The Horse.” The opening festivities will include demonstrations of horseshoeing and horse grooming; an appearance by Thumbelina, a creature billed as the world’s smallest horse (17 1/2 inches tall) : and a visit by a vintage horse-drawn ambulance. But the exhibition itself relies far less on country fair spectacle and far more on a provocative history of the ways in which humans and horses became, as the show says, “powerfully linked.” Those links may be as slight as fashions in clothing (trousers, we are told, developed specifically for the riding of horses) and as important as the fate of empires (“Next to God, ” Cortés is supposed to have said about the conquest of Mexico, “we owed our victory to the horses”) . The exhibition is suggestive about the evolution of the arts. (The 13th- and 14th-century Mongols, who held their immense empire together with the aid of the horse, also used hair from its tail to create the ancestor of the modern violin bow.) And it invites speculation about the course of technology. (The Industrial Revolution ultimately displaced horse power with horsepower, but not before horses shared the burden with machines: on display is a horse-drawn, steam-powered firetruck from 19th-century Pennsylvania.)
5/16/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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