Nothing ever fatigues me, but doing what I do not like.
Jane Austen in Mansfield Park
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Sing-sing
Les animaux sont arrivs
Jour par jour se travaille
Dans le train
En auto
Sur les bicyclettes
Les animaux sont arrivs
Jour par jour se travaille
Dans le train
Chaque semaine
Sur les bicyclettes
Dans les rues
Cest partout
Dans les places publiques
Toutes les btes de la cit
Toutes les personnes fatigues
A les maisons retournent
Les mtiers cest termin
Regardez regardez
Toutes les personnes fatigues
Quelle horreur quest ce que cest
Cest la vie juste la vie
Presque la vie
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The little dictator who went to Moscow in his green fatigues to receive a bear hug did not forsake the doctrine of Lenin when he returned to the West and appeared in a two-piece suit. (On Daniel Ortega Saavedra)
quote by Ronald Reagan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From A Dream (Irksome Pantoum 1)
With a whiff of plums, I wake
covered by George Washington's fatigues;
submerged in cherry blossoms,
unwanted sex.
Covered by George Washington's fatigues,
I lie on the floor, processing
unwanted sex.
After the fog of two parties,
I lie on the floor, processing:
I do not know where I am.
After the fog of two parties,
I do not feel liberated.
I do not know where I am
or remember how I got here.
I do not feel liberated.
I am too exhausted to feel
or remember how I got here.
Do not waste your declarations.
I am too exhausted to feel;
I am too exhausted to absolve you.
Do not waste your declarations.
Submerged in cherry blossoms,
I am too exhausted to absolve you.
With a whiff of plums, I wake…
poem by Indigo Hawkins
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For if that last day does not occasion an entire extinction, but a change of abode only, what can be more desirable And if it, on the other hand, destroys and absolutely puts an end to us, what can be preferable to having a deep sleep fall on us in the midst of the fatigues of life and, being thus overtaken, to sleep to eternity
In the career of glory one gains many things; the gout and medals, a pension and rheumatism.... And also frozen feet, an arm or leg the less, a bullet lodged between two bones which the surgeon cannot extract.... all of these fatigues experienced in your youth, you pay for when you grow old. Because one has suffered in years gone by, it is necessary to suffer more, which does not seem exactly fair.
quote by Elzear Blaze
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unknown Soldiers
Just beneath a grassy meadow
That one time was a battlefield
Lies the bones of two unknown men
Still clothed in their tattered fatigues
in a shallow unnatural grave.
Unnatural because if buried
With the customary honors
There would have been two separate
grave sites with much deeper holes.
One of the uniforms was gray
In color, the other one blue.
It’s fair to assume that both men
Prayed to god for his own safety
But god does not take sides in war.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Written at Lovere, October, 1736
If age and sickness, poverty and pain,
Should each assault me with alternate plagues,
I know mankind is destin'd to complain,
And I submit to torment and fatigues.
The pious farmer, who ne'er misses pray'rs,
With patience suffers unexpected rain;
He blesses Heav'n for what its bounty spares,
And sees, resign'd, a crop of blighted grain.
But, spite of sermons, farmers would blaspheme,
If a star fell to set their thatch on flame.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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How I Wish
Veins of black tar head for the mountains
Something beautiful about the plains
Something mysterious thru the badlands
Ghost Buffalo
Sacred beads
Tears
She burns sage like a shamans soul
Can you feel the eyes in old houses?
A New Jersey poet is racing in the street
American dream dying outside mansions
Fatigues
Camouflage
Wars in the American heart
How I wish these cages were open
How I wish these fences were gone
How I wish my dream catcher was filled
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Piano Practice
The summer hums. The afternoon fatigues;
she breathed her crisp white dress distractedly
and put into it that sharply etched etude
her impatience for a reality
that could come: tomorrow, this evening--,
that perhaps was there, was just kept hidden;
and at the window, tall and having everything,
she suddenly could feel the pampered park.
With that she broke off; gazed outside, locked
her hands together; wished for a long book--
and in a burst of anger shoved back
the jasmine scent. She found it sickened her.
Translated by Edward Snow
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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A Cab Drivers Confessions
And in the light
of dying day
your voice grew
strong
and boastful
as you showed me
your
celluloid past
pointing them out
One by One
telling me names
and dirty deeds done
and secrets shared
of
severed heads
landmine limbs
in treetops
and dried human ear
in key-ring
We raised our cups of whiskey
to abject adolescent atrocities
and
to you making it
out alive
when so many
armed lives for hire
hadn't
I took one
last long look
A group of grinning
boys in fatigues
posing
with guns
for the camera
who ALL
came back as
different
men
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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Red-Hook Talisman
'Either you are on our side,
Or you are our enemy.'
Fire can fall from the sky,
And death shall be plentiful.
There are machines.
There are machines with magic eyes;
They curl and coil
And whip up a striking angle,
A desperate death to you all;
Summery death before the Fall.
This joker thought the Marines
Should not defend the right for our kids
To puncture themselves,
With studs and metal clips (or whatever they do) ,
You would rather they wear fatigues? I asked.
What's wrong with that, the fool questioned.
He is military might,
Blind of sight,
Parading as a poet;
Look him up and soundly ignore him.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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My Brother Loved Hendrix
Can I reach for you like a palm tree?
Moonlight on this sea of dreams
He had a letter in his fatigues
Dead at twenty two
My romance is heavy
My poetry edgy
The cold wind never seems gone
Baby maybe some things don’t go
I just can’t shine like the dawn
Too many clouds
The letter in his pocket was from me
I loved the way Hendrix played the blues
All these stairways crossing
These young graves
Wait a minute some things wrong
We all know some things wrong
Machine Gun gritty as a battlefield
My brother loved Hendrix
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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A Whispered Tale
I’d heard fool-heroes brag of where they’d been,
With stories of the glories that they’d seen.
But you, good simple soldier, seasoned well
In woods and posts and crater-lines of hell,
Who dodge remembered ‘crumps’ with wry grimace,
Endured experience in your queer, kind face,
Fatigues and vigils haunting nerve-strained eyes,
And both your brothers killed to make you wise;
You had no babbling phrases; what you said
Was like a message from the maimed and dead.
But memory brought the voice I knew, whose note
Was muted when they shot you in the throat;
And still you whisper of the war, and find
Sour jokes for all those horrors left behind.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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My Shy Hand
My shy hand shades a hermitage apart, -
O large enough for thee, and thy brief hours.
Life there is sweeter held than in God's heart,
Stiller than in the heavens of hollow flowers.
The wine is gladder there than in gold bowls.
And Time shall not drain thence, nor trouble spill.
Sources between my fingers feed all souls,
Where thou mayest cool thy lips, and draw thy fill.
Five cushions hath my hand, for reveries;
And one deep pillow for thy brow's fatigues;
Languor of June all winterlong, and ease
For ever from the vain untravelled leagues.
Thither your years may gather in from storm,
And Love, that sleepeth there, will keep thee warm.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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Olney Hymn 34: The Waiting Soul
Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord,
And cheer me from the north;
Blow on the treasures of thy word,
And call the spices forth!
I wish, Thou knowest, to be resign'd,
And wait with patient hope;
But hope delay'd fatigues the mind,
And drinks the spirits up.
Help me to reach the distant goal;
Confirm my feeble knee;
Pity the sickness of a soul
That faints for love of Thee!
Cold as I feel this heart of mine,
Yet, since I feel it so,
It yields some hope of life divine
Within, however low.
I seem forsaken and alone,
I hear the lion roar;
And every door is shut but one,
And that is Mercy's door.
There, till the dear Deliverer come,
I'll wait with humble prayer;
And when He calls His exile home,
The Lord shall find him there.
poem by William Cowper
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The Waiting Soul
Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord,
And cheer me from the north;
Blow on the treasures of thy word,
And call the spices forth!
I wish, Thou knowest, to be resign'd,
And wait with patient hope;
But hope delay'd fatigues the mind,
And drinks the spirits up.
Help me to reach the distant goal;
Confirm my feeble knee;
Pity the sickness of a soul
That faints for love of Thee!
Cold as I feel this heart of mine,
Yet, since I feel it so,
It yields some hope of life divine
Within, however low.
I seem forsaken and alone,
I hear the lion roar;
And every door is shut but one,
And that is Mercy's door.
There, till the dear Deliverer come,
I'll wait with humble prayer;
And when He calls His exile home,
The Lord shall find him there.
poem by William Cowper
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La Pipe (The Pipe)
Je suis la pipe d'un auteur;
On voit, à contempler ma mine
D'Abyssinienne ou de Cafrine,
Que mon maître est un grand fumeur.
Quand il est comblé de douleur,
Je fume comme la chaumine
Où se prépare la cuisine
Pour le retour du laboureur.
J'enlace et je berce son âme
Dans le réseau mobile et bleu
Qui monte de ma bouche en feu,
Et je roule un puissant dictame
Qui charme son coeur et guérit
De ses fatigues son esprit.
The Pipe
I am the pipe of an author;
One sees by my color,
Abyssinian or Kaffir,
That my master's a great smoker.
When he is laden with sorrow,
I smoke like a cottage
Where they are preparing dinner
For the return of the ploughman.
I clasp and lull his soul
In the wavy blue web
That rises from my fiery mouth.
I give forth clouds of dittany
That warm his heart and cure
His mind of its fatigue.
— Translated by William Aggeler
The Author's Pipe
I am an author's pipe. To see me
And my outlandish shape to heed,
You'd know my master was a dreamy
Inveterate smoker of the weed.
When be is loaded down with care,
I like a stove will smoke and burn
Wherein the supper they prepare
Against the labourer's return.
I nurse his spirit with my charm
Swaying it in a soft, uncertain,
And vaguely-moving azure curtain.
I roll a potent cloud of balm
To lull his spirit into rest
And cure the sorrows in his breast.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
A Poet's Pipe
A poet's pipe am I,
And my Abyssinian tint
Is an unmistakable hint
That he lays me not often by.
When his soul is with grief o'erworn
I smoke like the cottage where
They are cooking the evening fare
For the laborer's return.
I enfold and cradle his soul
In the vapors moving and blue
That mount from my fiery mouth;
And there is power in my bowl
To charm his spirit and soothe,
And heal his weariness too.
Translated by Richard Herne Shepherd
The Pipe
I am an author's pipe;
From examining my Abyssinian
Or Kaffir countenance, one sees
That my master is a great smoker.
When he is laden with sorrow,
I smoke like a cottage
When the cooking is being prepared
Against the laborer's return
I entwine and I cradle his soul
In the drifting, blue film
That climbs from my fiery mouth,
And I turn a powerful balm
Which charms his heart and heals
His spirit of fatigues.
— Translated by Geoffrey Wagner
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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The First Line is the Deepest
I have been one acquainted with the spatula,
the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula
that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate,
acquainted with the vibrator known as the Pocket Rocket
and the dildo that goes by Tex,
and I have gone out, a drunken bitch,
in order to ruin
what love I was given,
and also I have measured out
my life in little pills—Zoloft,
Restoril, Celexa,
Xanax.
I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty
of this degraded body,
or maybe
it's the degradation in the beautiful body,
the ugly me
groping back to my desk to piss
on perfection, to lay my kiss
of mortal confusion
upon the mouth of infinite wisdom.
My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says
America is charged with the madness
of God. Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-
black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—
Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can't they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best
gamers of your generation, joysticking their M1 tanks through
the sewage-filled streets. Whose
world this is I think I know.
poem by Kim Addonizio
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Man Down
Man down...
On urban streets,
Dredging trenches
In wars that heat!
Man down...
Too aware he belongs in numbers rare!
A species who would rather stand,
Than to crawl upon the Earth...
To be thought less than the grains of sand!
Man down...
Packed to defend
Who he is from within.
Protecting in 'his' mind what's his.
Fighting back without shedding tears!
Unsatisfied he must run and hide,
From those who deny him even rights to cry!
Just to keep his 'spirits' up...
He must show he has the guts!
Man down...
Struggling as he does to remain positive!
In battle fatigues or business suits,
Discarding who feels his 'moves' are negative.
He's reminded who he is whether in loafers
Or in boots!
And all that he gives...
He has no options completely his.
When he's called to shield and shelter others,
Sacrificing an image so that all may live!
Man down...
On urban streets,
Dredging trenches
In wars that heat!
Man down...
Too aware he belongs in numbers rare!
A species who would rather stand,
Than to crawl upon the Earth...
To be thought less than the grains of sand!
And even sand blows and drifts away.
No matter who he was
When he took his stance to stay!
A man down that has gone...
Is remembered if he demands his way!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To Edward Jenkinson, Esq
Fair Youth! who wish the Wars may cease,
We own you better form'd for Peace.
Nor Pallas you, nor Mars shou'd follow;
Your Gods are Cupid and Apollo;
Who give sweet Looks, and early Rhimes,
Bespeaking Joys, and Halcyon Times.
Your Face, which We, as yet, may praise,
Calls for the Myrtle, and the Bays.
The Martial Crowns Fatigues demand,
And laurell'd Heroes must be tann'd;
A Fate, we never can allow
Shou'd reach your pleasing, polish'd Brow.
But granting what so young you've writ,
From Nature flow'd, as well as Wit;
And that indeed you Peace pursue,
We must begin to Treat with you.
We Females, Sir, it is I mean:
Whilst I, like BRISTOL for the QUEEN,
For all the Ladies of your Age
As Plenipo' betimes engage;
And as first Article declare,
You shall be Faithful as you're Fair:
No Sighs, when you shall know their Use,
Shall be discharg'd in Love's Abuse;
Nor kindling Words shall undermine,
Till you in equal Passion join.
Nor Money be alone your Aim,
Tho' you an Over-weight may claim,
And fairly build on your Desert,
If with your Person goes your Heart.
But when this Barrier I have gain'd,
And trust it will be well maintain'd;
Who knows, but some imprudent She
Betraying what's secur'd by me,
Shall yield thro' Verse, or stronger Charms,
To Treat anew on easier Terms?
And I be negligently told–
You was too Young, and I too Old,
To have our distant Maxims hold.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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