Quotes about riddle, page 4
Cut Without Hands
Present a riddle and speak a parable,
Write a proverb and learn a poem on this love;
Because, there is a hole in the wall.
Like mother like daughter,
Like father like son,
LIke aunty like niece,
Like uncle like nephew,
Like grandmother like granddaughter,
Like grandfather like grandson,
There is a hole in the wall which is between us.
The solving of riddles will finally bring us together,
With joy and the lovely peace on this love;
Like the chain of gold aorund your neck.
Joy and gladness is what you need to move on,
For i am the stone cut without hands;
Of iron, clay, bronze silver and gold;
Try to look well with your eyes like,
The riddle of your love on this wall.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Two Old Crows
Two old crows sat on a fence rail.
Two old crows sat on a fence rail,
Thinking of effect and cause,
Of weeds and flowers,
And nature's laws.
One of them muttered, one of them stuttered,
One of them stuttered, one of them muttered.
Each of them thought far more than he uttered.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle.
One crow asked the other crow a riddle:
The muttering crow
Asked the stuttering crow,
"Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?
Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?"
"Bee-cause," said the other crow,
"Bee-cause,
B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause."
Just then a bee flew close to their rail: --
"Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZ."
[...] Read more
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Egyptology
I am the Sphinx.
I am the woman buried in sand
up to her chin.
I am waiting for an archaeologist
to unearth me,
to dig out my neck & my nipples,
bare my claws
& solve my riddle.
No one has solved my riddle
since Oedipus.
I face the pyramids which rise
like angular breasts
from the dry body of Egypt.
My fertile river is flowing down below-
a lovely lower kingdom.
Every woman should have a delta
with such rich silt-
brown as the buttocks
[...] Read more
poem by Erica Jong
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Africa...my Africa
AFRICA, MY AFRICA
Back in the years of the b.c.
When I was but a spirit in the heavenlies
Spying over the happenings on this miraculous planet,
I majored on the study of continents…
I had special interest in this spectacular one
Traced back to Cush, a man of colour
Blessed by Eledua – the Creator of creation
Obviously vast, leading her equals
Her land expanded by the hours –
They called it Ethiopia and the Egyptian empire
She was first in making wonderful inventions
And not lagging behind in linguistics and education
Her map became a riddle for the WISE:
Looking at the map from the west,
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poem by Ola Joseph Kolawole
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The Creed of Old George Jones
A little of fretting, a little of getting,
A little of slaving and saving, may be;
A little of spending, a little of lending
And giving up living be easy and free:
But a man gathers, and all a man owns
Goes out at the finish (said old George Jones)
Like a spark in the dark, and the sum of his trying,
A name and a memory drifting and dying.
A little of blund'ring, a little of wond'ring,
A little of scheming and dreaming when young;
A little of grieving; a little believing,
In secret, strange things that come slow to the tongue;
For every man is a being apart,
And none may look deep in his fellow-man's heart
Scholars and strangers, chance met in life's college;
But tolerance grows with the sum of our knowledge.
And I, who have tarried o'er long with the living,
Have come to a creed that gives hope of content;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Riddle Master
The Riddle Master
asked
a woman struggling
in a lost
loveless marriage.
This paradoxical
necessary
philosophical
inquiring riddle!
“If the longed for lover
is of good honourable heart;
gave everything
while he had nothing;
gave all he had ever gotten
proving repeatedly;
how precious is a noble heart...
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Disarry is the sister of perplexity
Time changes, the world changes,
Changes every thing from beauty to truth,
This is a curse, this is bliss
This is tumultuous, up is down, and down is up
Black is white, white black
Wrong is right, right is wrong
The systematic nature breaks down in miracles
The greatest miracle is of one having the anti—rules
The reason is our pride
But the anti- reason is crushing it
The more crushing is our unlimited ignorance!
The logic is our foundation
But too weak to hold the large building of anti-logic.
The scattered and haphazard things are found in a point
The strangeness of things is that the point is scattered and expanding
If expanding from the point is the rule and signifies life
Anti-rule, of course, the shrinking to the point and signifies the final death...
Annihilating everything from vanity to super intellect.
The historical knowledge is our capital
But too short to run the biggest business of baffling life
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poem by Abdul Wahab
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Aurobindo 41-Savitri-Book -2
An appreciation on Savitri
Book II The Book of the Traveller of the Worlds
Canto VI The Kingdoms and Godheads of the Greater Life
Words within inverted commas are Aurobindo's
'Being felt being even when afar
And consciousness replied to consciousness.
And yet the ultimate oneness was not there.
There was a separateness of soul from soul: '
'All was imperfect still, half-known, half-done: '
'As forms they came of the formless Infinite,
As names lived of a nameless Eternity.'
Inseparable oneness, aham brahmmasmi yet to be..is that Guru
'A riddling answer met the riddle of things.'
'As he moved in this ether of ambiguous life,
Himself was soon a riddle to himself; '
A thousand baffling faces of the Truth
Looked at him from her forms with unknown eyes..'
'Embodied was there what we but think and feel,
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Ballad
A WONDERFUL age
Is now on the stage:
I'll sing you a song, if I can,
How modern Whigs,
Dance forty-one jigs,
But God bless our gracious Queen Anne.
The kirk with applause
Is established by laws
As the orthodox church of the nation.
The bishops do own
It's as good as their own.
And this, Sir, is call'd moderation.
It's no riddle now
To let you see how
A church by oppression may speed;
Nor is't banter or jest,
That the kirk faith is best
On the other side of the Tweed.
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Song Of The Squatter
The Commissioner bet me a pony—I won;
So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run;
For he said I was making a fortune too fast,
And profit gained slower the longer would last.
He remarked as devouring my mutton he sat,
That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat;
That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown,
And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;
That the creek that divided my station in two
Showed that Nature designed that two fees should be due.
Mr. Riddle assured me 'twas paid but for show;
But he kept it and spent it; that's all that I know.
The Commissioner fined me because I forgot
To return an old ewe that was ill of the rot,
And a poor wry-necked lamb that we kept for a pet;
And he said it was treason such things to forget.
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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