To Mrs. D---
Dear Betsey now Pleasure the woodland has left,
Nor more in the water she laves,
Since winter the trees of their bloom has bereft,
And stiffen'd to crystal the waves.
Now clad all in fur our guest she appears,
By the fire-side a merry young grig;
She pours out the wine, our pensiveness cheers,
And at night leads us out to a jig.
Then venture among the tall pines if you dare,
Encounter the keen arctic wind;
Dare this for to meet with affection sincere,
And Pleasure untainted you'll find.
I know you have Pleasure, my sister, by whiles,
But then she appears in great state;
She is hard of access, and lofty her smiles,
While Envy and Pride on her wait.
Thro' drawing rooms, Betsey, you'll chase her in vain,
The Colonel may seek her in blood;
The Poets agree (and they cannot all feign)
That she's born and resides in the wood.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
It Was A Pleasure Then
It was a pleasure then
Could you just be here again
To know what there was to see
When all the sunday people
Where so quiet in the dark
Afraid to be better the next day
La la la ...
It was a pleasure then
When we could sit and stare again
Until the stars feel through the cloudy trees
Onto the grass
Stars to smile with us
Until they too had tears in their eyes
Tell us this and tell of how much we must not agree
It was a pleasure then
To see the dieing days again
In the horror of the night
Never, never, never, never, never, lise
Keep it secret
For to hide somewhere at last
As long as we could see
The sky confessed this crime
Of futile tasting hate romance
Above our shattered minds
It was a pleasure, it was a pleasure
La la la ...
song performed by by Velvet Underground
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pleasure Beach
(words & music by john oates)
Pleasure beach
You may look but never find
That neglected place in time
Like a dream just out of reach
Pleasure beach
Not a place you left behind
Or a place youll ever find
Its a dream just out of reach
Its a place called pleasure beach
There aint no waves in a swimming pool
There aint no fun til you break the rules
Were ever young but never free
I guess thats how it was meant to be
On the beach our thoughts were hot
But our hearts were cool
We fell in love
But we like to fool around with everyone we meet
Its you for you
And me for me
Pleasure beach
You make look but never find
That neglected place in time
Like a dream just out of reach
Pleasure beach
Not a place youll ever find
Its a dream just out of reach
Its a place called pleasure beach
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Betsey and I Are Out
Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout;
For things at home are crossways, and Betsey and I are out.
We, who have worked together so long as man and wife,
Must pull in single harness for the rest of our nat'ral life.
"What is the matter?" say you. I swan it's hard to tell!
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well;
I have no other woman, she has no other man—
Only we've lived together as long as we ever can.
So I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with me,
And so we've agreed together that we can't never agree;
Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime;
We've been a-gathering this for years, a little at a time.
There was a stock of temper we both had for a start,
Although we never suspected 'twould take us two apart;
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone;
And Betsey, like all good women, had a temper of her own.
The first thing I remember whereon we disagreed
Was something concerning heaven—a difference in our creed;
We arg'ed the thing at breakfast, we arg'ed the thing at tea,
And the more we arg'ed the question the more we didn't agree.
And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow;
She had kicked the bucket for certain, the question was only—How?
I held my own opinion, and Betsey another had;
And when we were done a-talkin', we both of us was mad.
And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;
But full for a week it lasted, and neither of us spoke.
And the next was when I scolded because she broke a bowl;
And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul.
And so that bowl kept pourin' dissensions in our cup;
And so that blamed cow-critter was always a-comin' up;
And so that heaven we arg'ed no nearer to us got,
But it gave us a taste of somethin' a thousand times as hot.
And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way;
Always somethin' to arg'e, and somethin' sharp to say;
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple dozen strong,
And lent their kindest sarvice for to help the thing along.
And there has been days together—and many a weary week—
We was both of us cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;
And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the winter and fall,
If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then, I won't at all.
And so I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with me,
And we have agreed together that we can't never agree;
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;
And I'll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.
Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first paragraph—
Of all the farm and live-stock that she shall have her half;
For she has helped to earn it, through many a weary day,
And it's nothing more than justice that Betsey has her pay.
Give her the house and homestead—a man can thrive and roam;
But women are skeery critters, unless they have a home;
And I have always determined, and never failed to say,
That Betsey never should want a home if I was taken away.
There is a little hard money that's drawin' tol'rable pay:
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day;
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;
Put in another clause there, and give her half of that.
Yes, I see you smile, Sir, at my givin' her so much;
Yes, divorce is cheap, Sir, but I take no stock in such!
True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and young;
And Betsey was al'ays good to me, exceptin' with her tongue.
Once, when I was young as you, and not so smart, perhaps,
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;
And all of them was flustered, and fairly taken down,
And I for a time was counted the luckiest man in town.
Once when I had a fever—I won't forget it soon—
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon;
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight—
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.
And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen;
And I don't complain of Betsey, or any of her acts,
Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other facts.
So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to-night,
And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all right;
And then, in the mornin', I'll sell to a tradin' man I know,
And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go.
And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't occur:
That when I am dead at last she'll bring me back to her;
And lay me under the maples I planted years ago,
When she and I was happy before we quarreled so.
And when she dies I wish that she would be laid by me,
And, lyin' together in silence, perhaps we will agree;
And, if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer
If we loved each other the better because we quarreled here.
poem by Will Carleton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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OCEAN OF GAIETY Vavroovahana Patra
Mother Mahalaxmee appears with wealth;
In poor people’s mind plays waves of mirth.
Wealth comes with hard labour;
It provides peace, pleasure, contentment to all creatures;
Earth smiles with the appearance of Mother;
She is the operator of all creatures.
Plants smile with the desire of Mother;
People provided with food, garment, shelter live with pleasure.
Mother eradicates India’s poverty;
All citizens enchant with delight.
Mother shows devotees the right way;
In devotees’ mind plays waves of gay.
Mother smiles on the paddy plants;
Fulfils all people’s wants.
Appears on the green creepers;
She is the Deity of all creatures.
Mother blesses on the cosy rosy flowers;
Loves lotus flowers.
Loves flowers and fruits;
Her bliss is a brook of Delight.
Mother loves sanctity;
Loves purity.
Loves non-violence, love, fraternity;
She is an Ocean of Gaiety.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Opposite displeasure
Success gives pleasure.
Conquest gives pleasure.
Revenge gives pleasure.
Hunting gives pleasure.
Coveting gives pleasure.
Mind; every pleasure
Gives equal and opposite
Displeasure to others.
In a way we act as sadists
04.05.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Regret
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when
We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,
Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
Ourselves alone again.
Then, through the distant future's boundless space,
We seek the lost companion of our days:
'Return, return!' we cry, and lo, apace
Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place
Of that we mourn always.
I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,
Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, 'Begone!
Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,
Lost Happiness hath left regret--but _thou_
Leavest remorse, alone.'
Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,
O friends, that in your revelry appears!
With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire,
And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre
When it is wet with tears.
Each in his secret heart perchance doth own
Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;--
Sufferers alike together and alone
Are we; with many a grief to others known,
How many unrevealed!
Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,
For tender recollections, cherished long,
For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,
We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains
Only for sport and song!
Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:
In vain I strove their parting to delay;
Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,
Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face
Lightens, and fades away.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Accept if you like
If you desire a man
who has access to you,
and have some notion
that by him you can get
the elusive orgasm,
waste no time and find a way.
If you don’t open,
pleasure will not enter.
No gain to anyone
By denial of pleasure to you.
No loss to anyone
By admittance of pleasure by you.
A one time secret affair
16.05.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Song From An Evening's Love
After the pangs of a desperate lover,
When day and night I have sighed all in vain,
Ah, what a pleasure it is to discover
In her eyes pity, who causes my pain!
When with unkindness our love at a stand is,
And both have punished ourselves with the pain,
Ah, what a pleasure the touch of her hand is!
Ah, what a pleasure to touch it again!
When the denial comes fainter and fainter,
And her eyes give what her tongue does deny,
Ah, what a trembling I feel when I venture!
Ah, what a trembling does usher my joy!
When, with a sigh, she accords me the blessing,
And her eyes twinkle 'twixt pleasure and pain,
Ah, what a joy 'tis beyond all expressing!
Ah, what a joy to hear 'Shall we again!'
poem by John Dryden
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Poets Improvise
Pardon this poem's tale, warp w[r]it it be,
Old mind aims meets, binds word games into gear.
Ever scanned art, we let wise thoughts come clear,
Their end to share here, setting spirit free.
Some see spun verse with risibility.
I through revealed art relink lines sincere
Motifs realigning show in masked mots here, -
Pleasure discover in jest play, planned key.
Run round rhyme lines, read riddle's energy
Opens up house, home, renews one’s cheer.
Voyage take, see thread wed verse appear
In enchanted ave twine, idyll see!
So rhyme dare meet, as all bestirs joy's pleasure
NET treasure to men awe, as we spend leisure
© Jonathan Robin Polyacrostic wrriten 12 September 2005 and revised 3 June 2007
external acrostic: Poets Improvise
internal acrostics
ABLE WAS I ERE I SAW ELBA
Poets Improvise
HANDS HEED HANDS
TREASURE PLEASURE MEASURE
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Pleasure's fun. It's great, but you can't keep it going forever; just accept the fact that it's here and it's gone, and maybe then again, it will come back, and you'll get to do it again. Joy lasts forever. Pleasure is purely self-centered. It's all about your pleasure: it's about you. It's a selfish, self-centered emotion, that is created by a self-centered motive of greed. Joy is compassion. Joy is giving yourself to somebody else, or something else. And it's a kind of thing that is, in its subtlety and lowness, much more powerful than pleasure. You gethung up on pleasure; you're doomed. If you pursue joy, you will find everlasting happiness.
quote by George Lucas
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Pleasure Is The Bait
Excitement gives pleasure;
Exploration gives pleasure;
Sexual love gives pleasure.
Pleasures are momentary.
Pleasure can peak the happiness
Or cause the valley of sorrow.
Pleasure is the bait one's after
Not minding the after-effects.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Pleasure Spot
Pleasure is given up for pride
And pride is given up for pleasure.
When senses or ego is fed
The pleasure spot in the brain is trickled.
(09.06.2011)
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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pleassure - The Pin Cushion
'PLEASSURE - THE PIN CUSHION'
esspeecee …08.12.04.
# Compound of -
Pleasure is labile,
But of
Pain is stable
In mind lab. [1]
# Pleasure poses
Neutrino heaviness
Pain up-pulls
Tachyonic buoyancy. [2]
# Pleasure is
Entry to eventuality
Pain is
Exit from eventuality. [3]
# Pleasure is -
Snow ball
Ache-fully swells,
Pain is -
Metal ball
Anesthetically dwindles,
With the friction of life. [4]
# Pleasure is,
The pin cushion -
For de-phonetization,
Pain is pen cushion –
For vocabularization. [5]
# Pleasure is -
Compulsion,
Pleasure is -
Impulsion. [6]
# Pleasure is -
Gourmand ‘give-in’-izer,
Pain is-
Valorous valedictori-zer. [7]
# Pleasure is -
Fate maker,
Pain is -
Fate eraser. [8]
# Pleasure rewrites
Rupture,
Pain rouleaus
Rapture. [9]
# Pleasure is -
Fathomless fear,
Pain is -
Endless cheer. [10]
# Pleasure is
Insolvensization,
Pain is
Capitalization. [11]
# Pleasure is
Insoluble,
But to
Pain solvent. [12]
# Pleasure enjoys short
Muon-ic life,
But pain extends galore
Like giraffe neck. [13]
# Pleasure makes
Beside oneself,
Pain hibernates
Within oneself. [14]
# Pleasure fossilizes
Lo, pain
Evolutionizes. [15]
# Pain is the riches
To be bosomed
With pride,
Pleasure as pollution
To be purged. [16]
# Pleasure is
Allegianced alienations
Pain is
Concreted conglomeration. [17]
~: ANTICLIMAX: ~
Thro’ the spects of
Mundane vision and
In world of relativity,
Pure feeling
All doodles are but
DELUSION!
DELIRIUM! !
DREAM! !
NON-EXITANT! !
CIPHER VALUE! ! !
# PARADOX #
We’re prey,
Puppet
To both ‘P’s,
Pondering ‘P’s as
Perfect.
Copyright reserved by the Author
poem by Dr. Sakti P. Chakravorty
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Pleasure for one hour, a bottle of wine. Pleasure for one year a marriage; but pleasure for a lifetime, a garden.
To Mary Who Died In This Opinion
I.
Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow
Struggling in thine haggard eye:
Firmness dare to borrow
From the wreck of destiny;
For the ray morn’s bloom revealing
Can never boast so bright an hue
As that which mocks concealing,
And sheds its loveliest light on you.
II.
Yet is the tie departed
Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss?
Has it left thee broken-hearted
In a world so cold as this?
Yet, though, fainting fair one,
Sorrow’s self thy cup has given,
Dream thou’lt meet thy dear one,
Never more to part, in Heaven.
III.
Existence would I barter
For a dream so dear as thine,
And smile to die a martyr
On affection's bloodless shrine.
Nor would I change for pleasure
That withered hand and ashy cheek,
If my heart enshrined a treasure
Such as forces thine to break.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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And I Lounged and Lay on Their Beds
When I went to that house of pleasure
I didn't stay in the front rooms where they celebrate,
with some decorum, the accepted modes of love.
I went into the secret rooms
and lounged and lay on their beds.
I went into the secret rooms
considered shameful even to name.
But not shameful to me -because if they were,
what kind of poet, what kind of artist would I be?
I'd rather be an ascetic. That would be more in keeping,
much more in keeping with my poetry,
than for me to find pleasure in the commonplace rooms.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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I write...
How badly a poet feels when his articles go unread?
Get no cooperation from fellow poets for further lead
How narrow interest has shadowed the real talent?
Old poets did so much but today we can only resent
There may be many reasons and probably the time factor
Who has the time to come out in and see the moon in sector?
The moon, stars, and sky have permanence in feature
So nothing to look at them as they don't make our future
What do we find when look at some of the creations?
Lot of confusion with innumerable questions
I find hard going with concept and logic behind
Even so much eagerness on their part but approach very unkind
I blame none but changing scenes
No one can exactly predict and prefer to be seen
Even though they may be interested and very keen
The confinement nature hunts mind or appears to have been
Poet may go on writing but may not find favor
Not that those articles are bad or find no natural flavor
Still some of the poets may go out of the way and appreciate
This gesture somewhat appears to be managing and relate
I would love if little time is spared for emerging poets
They come with full force but find no favor and then remain quiet
It is like river flow in monsoon when in spate
Nothing is sure about and left everything to fate
If stage is decorated for the performance of the artists
And find is no audience to clap each one among the lists
Then no one may dare and ever attempt for another show
The movement comes to standstill and restricts the flow
The creations may certainly find favor if not day then tomorrow
Yet mind should not disturbed and released free or allowed
There is substance in it and it may pull magnetic way
Sun may shine again and find the promising rays
I write with no reservation or wait for applaud
The work itself may speak in volume and very loud
Ears may refuse to believe when one day you may find surprises
The world may clap over your achievements and suddenly rise
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Pleasure is a by-product of doing something that is worth doing. Therefore, do not seek pleasure as such. Pleasure comes of seeking something else, and comes by the way.
quote by A. Lawrence Lowell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pain - II
If we couldn't be partners in pleasure,
Let us be partners in pain.
Let's stop pleasing each other,
And become a source of
Perpetual pain...
For in this loss of
Our mutual pleasure,
None of us have anything to gain.
We went in search of sanity
In a complaisant relationship
But now our animosity
Is driving us Insane.
We thought that the Sun
Would always shine -
Whatever be the weather,
We'll wait for the sunshine.
But now it seems,
After all these years,
The sunny side of our relationship
Has been overshadowed
By the clouds, the rain, the storm
And the hurricane -
Of immense pain.
We thought this relationship
Is a blessing from God
But we realized too late
That it's a curse on us,
Our life's evil bane.
And now, there is no need to feign
Trying to be happy and gay -
When we know of the deep pain
Engulfing us, deep down below -
Alas! We tried too much, too long,
Yet our time and efforts
All went in vain.
And what now remains in us -
Is not even a dropp of pleasure
Yet plentiful of rain -
The raining pain.
And we are drowning...
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Red Ribbon
The Red Ribbon is all the go;
It's the temperance sign, you know;
It is seen wherever you go,
On men who dare do right.
CHORUS:
Dare to do right,
Dare to do right,
Let your motto ever be
Dare to do right.
It's no disgrace to wear that badge
Of red ribbon, dear youthful lad,
Your mother's heart it will make glad
To see you dare do right.
Young friend, don't fail to sign the pledge,
And don the badge of ribbon red,
And leave some ways you have led,
Always dare do right.
Friends that love you is glad to see
That you can let vile strong drink be;
Their hearts rejoice in highest glee
To see you dare do right.
Three cheers for all red ribbon men,
And also those that is their friend;
God will be with you to the end,
He's ever on the right.
poem by Julia A Moore
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