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Voi Che Sapete...

Many levels interface to sing
A magic tune which links heart, mind, may chart
Unexplored hope's map as, à la carte,
Dreams complement sole soul-search, somehow bring
Exquisite happiness to everything.
Mundanity shines gilt, guilt shed, - fresh start
As 'Art for Art's sake' links two held apart,
United parts sews destiny whose spring
Draws threads together, weaving spells to string
EMotions into wave bands Cupid's dart
Arrows over buttressed walled rampart,
Under defensive moats, to salve Time's sting.
Dew laden wings may greet new dawn, find flight,
Enchantment conjur, bearing trust's true light.

Author notes

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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French Kissing Life

And any minute she's gonna blow
I need a shave and I need some rest
I know some people are worried about me
But I'm french kissing life square in the mouth
Sailing out on the sea
Went through customs and immigration
Still this feels like home
I'm floating 'round through Gorda Sound
With a cooler and a bong
Maybe I could've been a pirate
Maybe in my next life that's what I'll be
French kissing life square in the mouth
Sailing out on the sea
Tonight I don't need to feel famous
Out here all I feel is free
French kissing life square in the mouth
Sailing out on the sea
Maybe I could've been a pirate
Maybe in my next life that's what I'll be
French kissing life square in the mouth

song performed by Kenny Chesney
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hot Potatoes

My baby woke me up this mornin
She said get down that labour exchange,
And if you dont come home with a job son,
Youll get no dinner to-day.
You gotta secure me a weekly workin wage.
Youll get no more fancy cookin,
Youll get no more apple pie,
Youll just get those plain hot potatoes
To satisfy your appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, yeh,
I want your lovin every single day.
I said I dont need your fancy cooking,
I like the simple things in life,
Just give me those plain hot potatoes
And Ill be well satisfied,
Theyll satisfy my appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.

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song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bad For Good

BAD FOR GOOD
Music: Rudolf Schenker
Lyrics: Klaus Meine, Dieter Dierks
Bad for good
She tells it like it is
The french word of a kiss
She's so bad for good to me
She's so bad for good
She wants more of this
You can feel it with a kiss
She's as bad as she can be
The thoughts in my head
Where would they be going ?
Seems to me
It's a tough call for one to imagine
They're saying they do when I win
I look in the mirror
Reflect from the ceiling
She wears next to nothin
Next to nothin but only

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song performed by Scorpions
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Birth Of Rain

Drifting on a drab Sunday in Perth among the ashtrays and leftover sublimities of the church bells. My studio window above the rooftops a smear of willow and wet pine undulating gently in the stillness that followed the rain. Wolves on the easel, waiting to pay the rent. May of the fifth year into the twenty-first century, fifty-six, I sit in a blizzard of tobacco crumbs because I'm too poor to buy tailor-mades, coughing at the computer, wiping small drops of water like pygmy tears from the Cyclopean eye of the screen that glows with the same effulgence as the dirty sheet of the sky. The main migrations are over, but maybe these words are rosaries of late-returning birds. Two anthracite, boat-tailed grackles on a branch just beyond the grimy glass and a gust of sparrows chirrup like squeaky alternator-belts, manically elated in the wake of the storm that has just passed. My freedoms are more sober, my resurgencies probably less profound than the gray roses I give birth to here at my desk, waiting for one of these terminal urgencies of insight to sway me like a bell.

Maybe Louise later today with her Cola and cassettes, and her rough, voluptuous, laughing humanity scorning the random acids of the vulgar world that schools her, a muse who doesn't take requests, a generous longing that's been through a lot. So I sublimate the root-fires of my leafless batons into an auto-de-fe of white canes tired of trying to tap their way through a maze of sexual creeds, blind. The result? A novel and dozens of poems apples above the worms. And I keep her cats, Morgan and Rain, mother and kitten almost fully grown. There are no humans Louise loves more.

The kitten was born beside me on the couch at one-thirty in the morning while Louise was in the hospital and I read La Mettrie, d'Holbach, Diderot, d'Alembert, Voltaire, Rousseau and Helvetius, eighteenth century French les philosophes. Two days ago, remembering, she asked me to write a poem to celebrate the birth. And it's two hundred and fifteen years since the French revolution went into convulsions and mothered daggers out of its wounds, and we are neither free, nor equal, nor brothers, and the birth of Rain, by association, is only the smallest of iota subscripts below the voluminous pretext of that slaughter, hardly, if at all, a mote that matters; but in a way she was born while the peasants stormed the Bastille, and time sent corpses and ideas floating facedown on one of its more famous rivers of blood all the way to the embryonic comma of this tender, contrary event. And there was honour in being a witness when Morgan jumped up beside me

and lay her head upon my right arm as a pillow, the great red text
with ivory pages open to the public like the Vatican before me
as the soft, gray satchel of her body shuddered with the natal lightning
of a different storm, the quickening eruptions of a different riddle
than the one that dropped its answer like a blade
on the necks of the cropped carnations as I kept on reading, thinking
to run for a towel before deciding not to disturb her,
that a little blood on the couch wouldn't hurt anything
compared to the streams of gore that caked the pages of my book.

And there was a humility in the act of watching, and a trust,
as if a great secret were demanding something of her
she was willing to go through hell to give. And my heart
laboured with her like a sympathetic strawberry, convinced of a miracle,

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poem by Patrick White
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Freeways

Pre>oh ah oh oh ah ahhh
Ah ahhh
Oh ah oh oh ah ahhh
Ah haaa
On the freeways, freeways
On the freeways, freeways
On the freeways,
On the freeways,
Oh ah oh oh ah ahhh
Oh ah oh oh ah ahhh
Oh ah oh oh ah ahhh
American radio in your homes and bars
Its music to my ears in a foreign car
Pop radio stars [abba, roxy, t-rex]
My seatbelts fastened tight, I feel secure
Both hands upon the wheel, my lifes insured
If youre feeling low, drivings the cure
Oh ah oh oh ah ahhh
Oh ah oh oh ah ahhh
Oh ah oh oh ah ahhh

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song performed by Men Without Hats
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Tower

SAILING TO BYZANTIUM
I

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire

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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Vae Victis parody Gilles Menage Thomas Hood Faithless Nellie Gray

Vae Victis

Good people all, with one accord
lament for David Wren,
who never wanted a good word –
from those his praise did pen.

He strove all of this House to please
with manners wondrous winning;
and never followed wicked ways –
except when he was sinning.

At meals, in slacks and jackets neat,
with smile of monstrous size;
he sat up straight upon his seat –

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Amours de Voyage, Canto II

Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,
Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide?
Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not,
Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?
Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single,
Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine,
E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin,
E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not?
Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine,
Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare?
Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger,
Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate?

I. Claude to Eustace.

What do the people say, and what does the government do?--you
Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; and
I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it.

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poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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The Bagman's Dog, : Mr. Peters's Story

Stant littore Puppies!-- Virgil.

It was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drown'd and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive;
And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup.

The Bagman taught him many a trick;
He would carry and fetch, and run after a stick,
Could well understand
The word of command,
And appear to doze
With a crust on his nose,
Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand:
Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.
Never was puppy so bien instruit,
Or possess'd of such natural talent as he;

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poem by Richard Harris Barham
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