Related quotes
Concentrate, don't embroider.
quote by Spencer Tracy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The job of the novelist is to invent: to embroider, to color, to embellish, to make things up.
quote by Donna Tartt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Very Simple Poem
once you say
do not write poetry
because
you do not understand
whereas
you like
to embroider
which
thread
you
keep a good
in a little
hole
no wrong
so
you have
embroidered
a poem
(2009)
poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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Portsmouth's Looking Glass
Methinks I see you, newly risen
From your embroider'd Bed and pissing,
With studied mien and much grimace,
Present yourself before your glass,
To vanish and smooth o'er those graces,
You rubb'd off in your Night Embraces.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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The Floating Feeling
this world is
not a boat at sea
where we
wait for the ports
of our
known destinations
i try sleeping
one day
on the 20th floor
of the hotel
in the city
i feel the floating
distance
above the earth and
the roads
have become simply
threads
of the needle
the world has
become
a cloth where i
embroider
all my longings
for the sky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mambucal
this is the place
of seven
waterfalls
below it is the
hot springs
beside the pool
is the river where
we can
go boating
we climb the stone
stairs at the apex
where clouds
kiss the cliff
as we watch the
seven water falls
we begin
to see the meanings
of our lives
as the noise of the waters
still try to
embroider
the tapestries of
our inner
peace
always there is something
more than those
pictures can give
there is always more
to presence
that absence can
never fill
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Vision Nigh
Fiddling swallows never cease to fly
Eagles indomitably seize the sky
winds embroider our sins to pray;
Nymphical deities subdue in brines,
foggy knot distances, my form enshrine,
Nautilus scopes there parallel lay;
Flying next to Eagles, your vision nigh,
in ample Oceans Nymphs dove to die
lonely encomium the winds will play.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Kartini
Kartini Mesh by hand own
Cowl make dear mother
In silent solid angle
In its liver angle; corner vacuous
Because have to embroider her destiny
In shadow of the hand of her father
With the pen
and tear ink
the writing of letter
above have sheet to white paper
handcuff the custom poorness
putting in the stocks expression space
woman of the same nation
opening darkness screen, searching bold
to continent dream
poem by Prasetya Utama
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A Contemplation upon Flowers
BRAVE flowers--that I could gallant it like you,
And be as little vain!
You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
And to your beds of earth again.
You are not proud: you know your birth:
For your embroider'd garments are from earth.
You do obey your months and times, but I
Would have it ever Spring:
My fate would know no Winter, never die,
Nor think of such a thing.
O that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!
O teach me to see Death and not to fear,
But rather to take truce!
How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.
poem by Henry King
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Embroider Visions
My heart as light as a feather, already
planning on sharing domestic moments
while visiting my dad, yes, it has been
decided, the kids will go with me
Nici shall drive the Jeep, Tiaan navigate,
I shall sleep, four hundred kilometres to
see mom and dad - tuck mom in, stroll
with dad on the farm, enjoy his garden
Listen to his music and favourite stories,
admire the big trucks that inspire him so
much, also look at mum's sewing, com-
miserate with aches and pains
Spending time together doing nothing
while the kids shall accompany my sis
on field trips, she loves entertaining -
what felicity, what bliss
I shall enjoy my dreams and embroider
visions till then!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Scandalmonger
Good Morrow gossip art thou well?
Methinks thou hast some news to tell,
what scandal now has reached thine ears.
Must thou believe all that thou hears?
And must thou then embroider it
to make a tastier tidbit.
Thou spreadest rumour cheerfully
shouldst thou not tremble fearfully
Does not thy conscience bother thee.
Art thou so blind thou canst not see,
thy flapping tongue doth cause distress
to honest folk who are helpless.
Against thy tongue there’s no defence.
None can proclaim their innocence.
21-May-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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379
how small and far can we be
when love
breaks,
how small is our way of looking
at love's other possibilities
when love is lost
and gone away,
we shrink in pain
and we become so insignificant like a
dropp of rain to the ocean
or a granule of sand
on the shore
yet love is vast
its domain is encompassing the earth
and space
the whole of this expansive universe
so why cry
when one love is gone when this or that love leaves you
it is just one moment
come to think
a little higher and be lighter to reach the feelings of the stars
the foresightings of the moon
learn to love again
and be stronger in every loss
rise higher from every fall
mend that broken heart
and embroider in there the golden threads
of another love
even lovelier than before
because for once you know what love is
when it dies
it is reborn
resurrects itself always lovelier that ever before.....
wipe your tears and let you eyes glow
brightly to another soul
another face waiting for you,
he loves you so....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How Small And Far Can We Be
how small and far can we be
when love
breaks,
how small is our way of looking
at love's other possibilities
when love is lost
and gone away,
we shrink in pain
and we become so insignificant like a
rain dropping to the ocean
or a granule of sand
on the shore
yet love is vast
its domain is encompassing the earth
and space
the whole of this expansive universe
so why cry
when one love is gone when this or that love leaves you
it is just one moment
come to think
a little higher and be lighter to reach the feelings of the stars
the fore sightings of the moon
learn to love again
and be stronger in every loss
rise higher from every fall
mend that broken heart
and embroider in there the golden threads
of another love
even lovelier than before
because for once you know what love is
when it dies
it is reborn
resurrects itself always lovelier that ever before.....
wipe your tears and let you eyes glow
brightly to another soul
another face waiting for you,
he loves you so....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Art of Cloth
From fiber, to spinning wheel
From thread, to weaving mill
From textile, to sewing machine
Cloth is continuous ceremony
Whether knitting, whether embroider
Whether patchwork, whether bead work
The beautiful batik, the intricate songket
Cloth is concentration lesson
The strata symbol, the politeness norm
The body art, the cover part
Wedding dress, black tie suit
Cloth is human civilization
From skin, to fabric
From corset, to mini skirt
From blue jeans, to legging
Cloth is history record
Classic style, replied fashion
Color play, motif trend
Mismatch mode, big bang accessories
Cloth is social adaptation
Conservative nerd, ethnic vintage
Religion veil, punk rebel
Costume play, Gothic Lolita
Cloth is identity crisis
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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My Zithers Sang No Melody
Like an arachnid, I constantly weave a web
as I swing across transatlantic roofs and trellises
to catch little mildews and a menagerie on the latticework,
I knit the metallic sheen of their wings and armors -
these little quasars of my sundered oceans
and the nebulous framework creates the quintessence
of every single thread I veer and embroider from drudgery
Like how a marionette is played by strings, I tethered myself
into these lissome rivulets running behind our old hills
but when these bridges are toppled from the constitutions
all these filament enshrouds my void, flimsy frame
like a folder of daggers puncturing the tiny vessels of the blood
that shall deluge me from the inside to suffocation
Without these manifold stairs of escalation, I remain
riveted into a seamless sea - a glacial rock standing amidst
the turbulent lashing of the waves, washed by setting suns,
all the muses assailed into a furtive sculling away from me
Without these laconic multitude, I am small, I am little,
a little notch in the fringeless world of shadows
zithering myriad of strings that sang for nobody
I capitulate before these inverted bastion where inside
I incarcerated myself, bereaved of the network
that extends my breath into your mornings and
sent forth my frothing eyes upon your breaking,
and like a dragonfly in a drying quagmire
my wings hurriedly beat on to reconnoiter
the drought of the air as you slowly dissipate from me
and I shall not halt, for I have none to lose,
until I am finally suspended in my own famished cord.
poem by Norman Santos
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Playing At Priests
WITHIN a town where parity
According to old form we see,--
That is to say, where Catholic
And Protestant no quarrels pick,
And where, as in his father's day,
Each worships God in his own way,
We Luth'ran children used to dwell,
By songs and sermons taught as well.
The Catholic clingclang in truth
Sounded more pleasing to our youth,
For all that we encounter'd there,
To us seem'd varied, joyous, fair.
As children, monkeys, and mankind
To ape each other are inclin'd,
We soon, the time to while away,
A game at priests resolved to play.
Their aprons all our sisters lent
For copes, which gave us great content;
And handkerchiefs, embroider'd o'er,
Instead of stoles we also wore;
Gold paper, whereon beasts were traced,
The bishop's brow as mitre graced.
Through house and garden thus in state
We strutted early, strutted late,
Repeating with all proper unction,
Incessantly each holy function.
The best was wanting to the game;
We knew that a sonorous ring
Was here a most important thing;
But Fortune to our rescue came,
For on the ground a halter lay;
We were delighted, and at once
Made it a bellrope for the nonce,
And kept it moving all the day;
In turns each sister and each brother
Acted as sexton to another;
All help'd to swell the joyous throng;
The whole proceeded swimmingly,
And since no actual bell had we,
We all in chorus sang, Ding dong!
*
Our guileless child's-sport long was hush'd
In memory's tomb, like some old lay;
And yet across my mind it rush'd
With pristine force the other day.
The New-Poetic Catholics
In ev'ry point its aptness fix!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Taoiseach’s New Clothes
(or How the Celtic Tiger Became Extinct)
A long time ago, when the Taoiseach
once again didn’t know what to do,
his advisors came up with an answer
and brought him to Dublin Zoo.
At a cage which he thought was empty
they stopped. ‘Now here’s our surprise:
he’s called the Celtic Tiger
and can only be seen by the wise.
‘Just look at his beautiful pelage,
his clear eyes and strong sturdy neck -
you will see that in no time or faster
he’ll get things on this isle back on track.’
And people came from the four corners
of the world to see and festoon
the Tiger that came out of nowhere
and was to return there quite soon.
‘How he’s grinding that bone like a cupcake! ’ -
‘My gosh, what a beautiful brute! ’ –
‘Watch, he’s dancing the tarantella
in a skirt on two paws; ain’t he cute? ’
And the Tiger grew bigger and stronger,
and soon he came of age.
‘He’s been growing a lot’, said the keeper,
‘and he’ll need a bigger cage.’
‘He is right’, the advisors admitted.
‘I think I will give it a miss’,
said the Taoiseach. ‘He’s only a keeper,
what the hell would he know about this? ’
But then, on the following morning,
the keeper was hanging his head,
and he went to the Taoiseach and told him:
‘I’m afraid the Tiger is dead! ’
‘That can’t be’, cried the Taoiseach and hurried
to the cage where he asked for the key
and leaned over his pet and caressed him:
‘Quick, bring me an AED! ’
The keeper looked slightly bewildered
and lit a cigarette:
‘With his head being cut off so neatly,
I can’t see much point in that.’
The advisors soon found a solution:
‘If you wear his fur as your new
cloak I’m sure you’ll convince all your voters
that his power has passed on to you! ’
So the Taoiseach called tailors and watched them
sew, gather, embroider and soak
it in spirit of turpentine, anxious
to try out his amazing new cloak.
He first wore it to Mass on a Sunday
where some loyal supporters did perch
on the wall, donned their heads and saluted
as the Taoiseach entered the church.
But as he sat down for the service,
a girl pulled her mother aside:
‘Look Mum, the Taoiseach is naked! ’,
and everyone laughed till they cried.
poem by Frank L. Ludwig
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The Yankee Volunteers
'A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring of
the Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the men
had enlisted on account of some female difficulty.'—Morning Paper.
Ye Yankee Volunteers!
It makes my bosom bleed
When I your story read,
Though oft 'tis told one.
So—in both hemispheres
The women are untrue,
And cruel in the New,
As in the Old one!
What—in this company
Of sixty sons of Mars,
Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,
With fife and horn,
Nine-tenths of all we see
Along the warlike line
Had but one cause to join
This Hope Forlorn?
Deserters from the realm
Where tyrant Venus reigns,
You slipp'd her wicked chains,
Fled and out-ran her.
And now, with sword and helm,
Together banded are
Beneath the Stripe and Star
Embroider'd banner!
And is it so with all
The warriors ranged in line,
With lace bedizen'd fine
And swords gold-hilted—
Yon lusty corporal,
Yon color-man who gripes
The flag of Stars and Stripes—
Has each been jilted?
Come, each man of this line,
The privates strong and tall,
'The pioneers and all,'
The fifer nimble—
Lieutenant and Ensign,
Captain with epaulets,
And Blacky there, who beats
The clanging cymbal—
O cymbal-beating black,
Tell us, as thou canst feel,
Was it some Lucy Neal
Who caused thy ruin?
O nimble fifing Jack,
And drummer making din
So deftly on the skin,
With thy rat-tattooing—
Confess, ye volunteers,
Lieutenant and Ensign,
And Captain of the line,
As bold as Roman—
Confess, ye grenadiers,
However strong and tall,
The Conqueror of you all
Is Woman, Woman!
No corselet is so proof
But through it from her bow
The shafts that she can throw
Will pierce and rankle.
No champion e'er so tough,
But's in the struggle thrown,
And tripp'd and trodden down
By her slim ankle.
Thus always it was ruled:
And when a woman smiled,
The strong man was a child,
The sage a noodle.
Alcides was befool'd,
And silly Samson shorn,
Long, long ere you were horn,
Poor Yankee Doodle!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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To a Lady Before Marriage
Oh! form'd by Nature, and refin'd by Art,
With charms to win, and sense to fix the heart!
By thousands sought, Clotilda, canst thou free
Thy croud of captives and descend to me?
Content in shades obscure to waste thy life,
A hidden beauty and a country wife.
O! listen while thy summers are my theme,
Ah! sooth thy partner in his waking dream!
In some small hamlet on the lonely plain,
Where Thames, through meadows, rolls his mazy train;
Or where high Windsor, thick with greens array'd,
Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade,
Fancy has figur'd out our calm retreat;
Already round the visionary seat
Our limes begin to shoot, our flowers to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing.
Where dost thou lie, thou thinly-peopled green?
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen?
Where sons, contented with their native ground,
Ne'er travell'd further than ten furlongs round;
And the tann'd peasant, and his ruddy bride,
Were born together, and together died.
Where early larks best tell the morning light,
And only Philomel disturbs the night,
'Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rise,
With sweets surrounded of ten thousand dies;
All savage where th' embroider'd gardens end,
The haunt of echoes, shall my woods ascend;
And oh! if Heaven th' ambitious thought approve,
A rill shall warble cross the gloomy grove,
A little rill, o'er pebbly beds convey'd,
Gush down the steep, and glitter through the glade.
What chearing scents those bordering banks exhale!
How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!
That thrush how shrill! his note so clear, so high,
He drowns each feather'd minstrel of the sky.
Here let me trace beneath the purpled morn,
The deep-mouth'd beagle, and the sprightly horn;
Or lure the trout with well dissembled flies,
Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the skies.
Nor shall thy hand disdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach, or flavour'd nectarine;
Or rob the bee-hive of its golden hoard,
And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours,
While from thy needle rise the silken flowers,
And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble sight,
Resume the volume, and deceive the night.
Oh! when I mark thy twinkling eyes opprest,
Soft whispering, let me warn my love to rest;
Then watch thee, charm'd, while sleep locks every sense,
And to sweet Heaven commend thy innocence.
Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wise, hale, and honest in the days of old;
Till courts arose, where substance pays for show,
And specious joys are bought with real woe.
See Flavia's pendants, large, well-spread, and right,
The ear that wears them hears a fool each night:
Mark how the embroider'd colonel sneaks away,
To shun the withering dame that made him gay;
That knave, to gain a title, lost his fame;
That rais'd his credit by a daughter's shame;
This coxcomb's ribband cost him half his land,
And oaks, unnumber'd, bought that fool a wand.
Fond man, as all his sorrows were too few,
Acquires strange wants that nature never knew,
By midnight lamps he emulates the day,
And sleeps, perverse, the chearful suns away;
From goblets high-embost, his wine must glide,
Found his clos'd sight the gorgeous curtain slide;
Fruits ere their time to grace his pomp must rise,
And three untasted courses glut his eyes.
For this are nature's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of conscience, and the bonds of blood;
This wisdom thy reward for every pain,
And this gay glory all thy mighty gain.
Fair phantoms woo'd and scorn'd from age to age,
Since bards began to laugh, and priests to rage.
And yet, just curse on man's aspiring kind,
Prone to ambition, to example blind,
Our children's children shall our steps pursue,
And the same errours be for ever new.
Mean while in hope a guiltless country swain,
My reed with warblings chears the imagin'd plain.
Hail humble shades, where truth and silence dwell!
The noisy town and faithless court farewell!
Farewell ambition, once my darling flame!
The thirst of lucre, and the charm of fame!
In life's by-road, that winds through paths unknown,
My days, though number'd, shall be all my own.
Here shall they end, (O! might they twice begin)
And all be white the Fates intend to spin.
poem by Thomas Tickell
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I Don't Want To Embroider This Straitjacket Of Killer Bees
I don't want to embroider this straitjacket of killer bees
with threads of blood, honey and toxin. I can't stand
the agony, but I don't want to lie nostalgically
about what's happening to me as it is everyone
to dull the pain with the delusional sugars
of an artificial paradise where all the stars are tinfoil.
Sooner succumb with integrity, than subsist
in the shadow of a lie that buffs the experience
as if churning coke in a hive of angry wildflowers.
Half mad with pain I've become so accustomed to,
enculturated by out of the corner of my third eye
as if this were a state of affairs normal as oxygen
for everything that lives, and everything, even the rocks
I've been pushing up this hill since I was born
like Sisyphus to build a pyramid out of an avalanche
of meteoric cornerstones that keep getting away from me
like the quicksand and mercury that have tainted my sacred pools,
I don't want to lose my marbles in this game of Russian roulette.
I don't want to give up like gravity on any habitable planet
and come unravelled like a lunar cloud of unknowing
or an atmosphere evaporating into the abyss
of a vast space as if I couldn't hold on to my breath long enough
to bubble up from the bottom again like a pearl diver
with a new moon in his hand and a knife in his teeth
he bites down hard on to ensure its not a counterfeit smile.
Anyone can walk their mile standing up
but who knows how to fall for light years
and never come to a stop within themselves
where their hearts are exposed to the stingers of the stars
that approach them like tattoo artists on a binge.
Whether I'm waning or waxing, or just being taken in again
by a snake oil salesmen promoting a dragon of bliss
with stitches in his eyes, I don't want to be unhinged
like a gate that thinks it's a bird without a flight feather.
O I dream, I speculate, I ruminate and scry.
I wonder what it would be like to live in a world
where nothing cries out for anything it's missing,
or counts its blessings on a rosary of tears and skulls
that know all ninety-nine names of God, but not the one
she likes to go by when she's slumming with you personally.
It's far too crucial to me, to the spiritual footing
of this palace of stars I'm trying to raise like a tent in the sky
of an hourglass sharing drinks with itself
like housewells in a mirage inspired by life in the desert.
It's easy to be kind-hearted to your delusions,
but it's altogether another mode of upended discipline
to be brutal about enlightenment until your eyes thaw
and your glacial heart begins to move on its own melting
and unnamed fathomless lakes are gouged out of your mindscape
like a new cosmology of seeing that perfectly reflects
your being like stars in a firmament of illuminating flaws.
poem by Patrick White
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