Quotes about relics, page 8
Religious Table
A table wooden to the bone cushions my side of the bone,
Tables and chairs, chairs and tables work hands and feet.
My real furnished appearance stages a welcome,
By talismans so religious and bold, and also stronger than the furniture.
The bones of a skeleton are brittle when time takes time,
Bone is sacred, bone is like a table of splendid nature.
My body is furnished with eyes and ears, faces so dear,
Letting light be knightly on the skin, with skin and skin.
The bones of religion collect by night and day,
Relics of the past demand recollection, everyday.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Amoretti XXII: This Holy Season
This holy season, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclin'd:
Therefore I likewise on so holy day,
For my sweet saint some service fit will find.
Her temple fair is built within my mind,
In which her glorious image placed is,
On which my thoughts do day and night attend,
Like sacred priests that never think amiss.
There I to her as th' author of my bliss,
Will build an altar to appease her ire:
And on the same my heart will sacrifice,
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire:
The which vouchsafe, O goddess, to accept,
Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Then Fly Away
They fly away on thinking doubts,
With celebrations that relish the relics
They have worshipped, that their sound can concoct.
Days come by the edge of a river,
As if startled were the animals when too late
To run from the moon’s spirit
That awakens by night, always by night.
It is now silence. The water mutters all the pulses of washing,
coming from the water’s gauge,
He lives with the instruments and the gauge
To live with him, and doubts do shape his skull
When the water is not dirty and when dirty he admits
What the river wanted.
The flies are around.
The river is never around.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Epitaph For Joseph Blackett, Late Poet And Shoemaker
Stranger! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly -- where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phobus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only 'leather and prunella?'
For character - he did not lack it
And if he did, 'twere shame to 'Black it.
Malta, May 16, 1811.
Death And Apollo
Honeymoon with history was over.
A two headed snake was sitting on a coin
of leather in grass. Blue tongued
jewel was going to serve the enormity
of destination. Disquietingly, decomposed
relics were coming out of the rubble. Coil
of thoughts becomes a vector of violence.
Cobwebs of increased blood supply to
malignant battle. You die in your own
vision. The awns of oblivion pierce the
wings of dumbfounding words. Offering
shows the fear unlimited. Prices
crash in a meltdown. Poverty holds you
in doorway. Feathers understand the boundary.
A flock of sheep was butchered by a wild beast.
poem by Satish Verma
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For A Cause
Do not talk of unhealing wounds,
talk of the weapons.
Talk of the hands which used the arms
and talk of the brain which pressed the trigger.
Violence was primitive
but the cruel eyes had a new glint,
At night they ransacked, stamped and burned
the relics.
Is it the retrovirus of a new menace
dreaming the feast of thousands of corpses
choking the drains?
Why are we heading for the slaughter
of earth, pure vengeance
to turn the sun gloomy and black?
This time the river will turn aside and not meet
the ocean.
[...] Read more
poem by Satish Verma
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Virginibus Puerisque . . .
I care not that one listen if he lives
For aught but life's romance, nor puts above
All life's necessities the need to love,
Nor counts his greatest wealth what Beauty gives.
But sometime on an afternoon in spring,
When dandelions dot the fields with gold,
And under rustling shade a few weeks old
'Tis sweet to stroll and hear the bluebirds sing,
Do you, blond head, whom beauty and the power
Of being young and winsome have prepared
For life's last privilege that really pays,
Make the companion of an idle hour
These relics of the time when I too fared
Across the sweet fifth lustrum of my days.
poem by Alan Seeger
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Purify the Mind
From Mt. Kailas,
birthplace of Shiva,
Lord of All,
the snow slides down the Himalayas
melting into pure water
and becomes Ganga
the holiest of rivers.
Absorbing the works of nature
and of man, it flows
past temples, villages,
rice fields, factories,
Calcutta slums,
and becomes,
at last, the sea
in the Bay of Bengal.
On its way
it purifies the faithful,
accepts the bodies of the dead
[...] Read more
poem by Brian Taylor
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The Face
Even more is the face, the face saddens,
Fortunate relics, finding some in fossils
Is a good rewarding experience of replicating
And owning and loving, whatever it is you like or fancy.
Your legitimate business may attract attention,
Since understanding it will ruin it, while the people listen
To their faces on television, on radio they hear voices
Of alert nature, so embroiled in weak events.
The former boss inquires on the colour of success,
And the new one is a royal person with poshness.
I resent faces that are obviously triumphant with job,
The career is like a fountain of youth or age.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Rebuild your Desecrated Life
Lost her precious flower
in some circumstance.
To salve her guilty conscience,
difficult she finds!
Desire pushed her into
a sea of pleasure.
Her false meaning of love
made lose her treasure.
Pulling down of a structure
happens in haste.
Rebuilding a wonder
isn’t easy from waste.
Desecrated relics are
remade at our behest.
The birds too rebuild
their damaged nests.
[...] Read more
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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