Quotes about Joyce
The Canon Of Aughrim
You ask me of English honour, whether your Nation is just?
Justice for us is a word divine, a name we revere,
Alas, no more than a name, a thing laid by in the dust.
The world shall know it again, but not in this month or year.
Honour? Oh no, you profane it. Justice? What words! What deeds!
Look at the suppliant Earth with its living burden of men.
Here and to Hindostan the nations and kings and creeds
Praise your name as a god's, the god of their children slain.
Which of us doubts your justice? It is not here in the West,
After six hundred years of pitiless legal war,
The sons of our soil are in doubt. They know, who have borne it, best:
The world is famished for justice. You give us a stone, your law.
These are its fruits. Yet, think you, the Ireland where men weep
Once was a jubilant land and dear to the Saints of God.
All you have made it to--day is a hell to conquer and keep,
Yours by the right of the strongest hand, the right of the rod.
[...] Read more
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Red Mist
SHE thinks aloud as she sits alone,
And the magpies call in the evening grey —
Oh, sorrow to her with the heart of stone
Who stole my lover away, away!
There is no peace in the light of the moon,
And little enough in the shine of the sun;
And it's grieving and grieving that darkens the noon,
And troubles me sore till the salt tears run.
There's Joyce with the red cheeks says to me,
Herself as gay as a crowned young queen:
'It's pale you are, and it's sick, maybe;
And what is it ails your heart, Noreen?'
At that I say, with a laugh in my voice
(For grief is an ill, dark thing to show):
'It's you with your tricks and your capers, Joyce,
And the imp in your eyes that makes me so.'
There's one and another from near and far
Who come with their kind, sweet neighbour-speech;
'It's sick you look, and it's pale you are;
And what have you done with your bloom of the peach?'
[...] Read more
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Beauty-Defined~
I can't remember tuna sanwiches
Ever tasting so good
Or chicken noodle soup, so tasty;
Must have always been the cook;
The company that i was blessed
To keep...
Back in the day when big-hearted
People were scarce;
When their smiles and uplifting
Words raised me up out of the
Dodrums of sad and confused;
She was like that you know-my Joyce...
A ray of blessed sunshine in the
Cold Seattle rain; And her laughter-
Her laughter was contagious-
And even after all of these years
I can still remember it! ;
What a gift she was-
A best friend, confidant and an
Angel in disguise;
[...] Read more
poem by Theodora Onken
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Theory of Naas
In times of yore in Ireland
The jokes came thick and fast
About the town of Naas.
They changed the way they said it.
Instead of rhyming Naas with arse
They rhymed it with a face-
Sounds like the queen says 'nice'.
Irish jokers agreed to wipe
Anal-rhyming with old Naas.
Till Joyce-he couldn't stop himself,
Insinuating smarty-arse.
Why did Joyce call the guy Athy
When he could have called him Naas?
On a map of Kildare
Two towns at a glance
Rhyme with what's found
In a character's pants.
[...] Read more
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Amazing Joyce
On such rare and marvellous talent how can one put a price
She surely is amazing the one and only Joyce
She has tried every form of poetry one must say with success
And to lovers of poetry Worldwide she brings great happiness.
The marvellous Joyce Hemsley a poetic legend of our time
The internet queen of haiku and senryu and the internet queen of rhyme
Six thousand poems to her name she just goes on and on
One cannot say about her that her better days are gone.
In every one of her poems one can detect her poetic voice
The poet for all Seasons is the amazing Joyce
What can be said about her that has not been said before
Six thousand poems to her name and from her expect many more.
She waves the literary banner for England a true poetic great
The amazing poet from Sunderland we ought to celebrate
A legendary online poet by example she leads the way
And surely a great mentor to all young poets of today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Missionary Man
Im on my way to the other side
Ive broken doors and shattered glass
Ive derailed from the joyrider train
And listened to the sounds of the insane
Ive looked for wisdom every hour
Searched for decay in every flower
Ionized all the sacred schemes
And killed the prophets in my dreams
Ive torn james joyce to pieces to make the puzzle fit
Ive looked for secret messages in every little bit
Ive travelled through the craters of despair
Grabbed the holy signs in every nightmare
Broke on through to the other side
Paid the one way fare, paid the one way fare
Im on my way to the other side, theres nothing I can do about
I tried to hide behind perfection and starred in mirrors of deception
Theres no escape in any way, nowhere to run, nowhere to stay
As long as I cant see the light I got to go to the other side
Ive torn james joyce to pieces...
Ive torn james joyce to pieces to make the puzzle fit
[...] Read more
song performed by Alphaville
Added by Lucian Velea
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Chuck Norris doesn't need to understand the work of James Joyce; James Joyce needs to understand the work of Chuck Norris.
quote by Brian Celio
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You Are So Kind
To all my poetic friends
on The Hunter Site:
This is just a little rhyme
to thank all poets
who have given their time
to comment on my rhyme
with words of truth and
honesty...Joyce Hemsley.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Education, Education.
How very well I remember
The Second World War
And Winston Churchill's Coalition.
Parents of grammar school children
Seeked assistance with their mission.
Education was the Act of the day...
School fees were no more,
Great news for the poor.
The school leaving age was increased,
Slightly higher than before.
Yes, an important Act calmed all fears
During those memorable wartime years.
By Joyce Hemsley
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Bellow Can Only Be Bellow
BELLOW CAN BE ONLY BELLOW
Bellow can only be Bellow
Kierkegaard-Kierkegaard
Kafka- Kafka
Joyce- Joyce
Borges- Borges
Pessoa-Pessoa
There is only one of each of us-
And no matter how many pages we write
And how many names we give ourselves and our own characters
No matter how many styles we invent
Each one is only one-
And so this small poem too
Will not be for anyone else
Any more or other
Than so much else
Which has already failed to give me the kind of name
Only the truly great have-.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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