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Entreaty
O LOVE, let us part now!
Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow,
Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes.
The first, involuntary, sacred kiss
Still on our lips in benediction lies.
O Love, be wise!
Love at its best is worth no more than this--
Let us part now!
O Love, let us part now!
Ere yet the roses wither on my brow,
Ere yet the lilies wither in your breast,
Ere the implacable hour shall flower to bear
The seeds of deathless anguish and unrest.
To part is best.
Between us still the drawn sword flameth fair--
Let us part now!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Your spoken voice is a part of it - not a big part of it, but it's something. It puts people at ease, and once again kind of reaches out and makes a bridge for what's otherwise difficult music.
quote by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He that has a muckle nose thinks ilk ane speaks o't.
Ne'er lippen ower muckle to a new friend or an auld enemy.
Soshana
i have spoken my lines
that is what i am told to do
and you have spoken your lines too
and that is what they are telling you to do
you cannot be my comfort
distance are not arms and distance is cold like ice
your words are mere words like faces without names
i have spoken and you have spoken
now i am going back to sleep
it is done.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Great Calamity
MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst
When summer days were hot,
And bided there wi' Jock MacThirst,
A brawny brother Scot.
Good faith! They made the whisky fly
Like Highland chieftains true,
And when they'd drunk the beaker dry
They sang, 'We are nae fou!
There's nae folk like oor ain folk,
Sae gallant and sae true.'
They sang the only Scottish joke
Which is, 'We are nae fou'.
Said bold MacThirst, 'Let Saxons jaw
Aboot their great concerns,
But Bonnie Scotland beats them a',
The Land o' Cakes and Burns,
The land of pairtridge, deer, and grouse;
Fill up your glass, I beg,
There's muckle whiskey i' the house,
Forbye what's in the keg.'
And here a hearty laugh he laughed,
'Just come wi' me, I beg.'
MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft
A fifty-gallon keg.
'Losh, man, that's graund,' MacFierce'un cried,
'Saw ever man the like,
Moo, wi' the daylicht, I maun ride
To meet a Southron tyke,
But I'll be back ere summer's gone,
So bide for me, I beg;
We'll mak' a graund assault upon
Yon deevil of a keg.'
MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst
When summer days were gone,
And there he met with Jock MacThirst
Was greetin' all alone.
'MacThirst, what gars ye look sae blank?
Hae all your wuts gane daft?
Has that accursed Southron bank
Called up your overdraft?
Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth?
Is wool and hides gane flat?'
MacThirst replied, 'Guid friend, in truth,
'Tis muckle waur than that.'
'Has sair misfortune cursed your life
That you should weep sae free?
Is harm upon your bonnie wife,
The children at your knee?
Is scaith upon your house and hame?'
MacThirst upraised his head:
'My bairns hae done the deed of shame,
'Twere better they were dead.
To think my bonnie infant son
Should do the deed o' guilt,
He let the whiskey spigot run,
And a' the whiskey's spilt!'
Upon them both these words did bring
A solemn silence deep;
Good faith, it is a fearsome thing
To see two strong men weep.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Freedom is walking
It is spoken man is born equal and free
To a degree the world disagrees
Some foresee what others cannot see
Freedom is walking away with glee
We have a right to Christmas with a tree
We have a right to enjoy a shopping spree
We have a right to travel the land and the sea
We have the right to an educational degree
Stop the silly talking
Whilst Freedom is walking
Freedom is not a jubilee
Freedom is not a guarantee
Who says Freedom is free?
It is spoken man is free of thought
Without the need to fear higher courts
Some have spoken and finally resorted
To hide their thoughts from being reported
We have a right to a chosen culture
We have a right not to be tortured
We have a right to nationality and security
We have a right to be part of a minority
Stop the silly talking
Whilst Freedom is walking
Freedom is not part of community
Freedom is never an informality
Who says Freedom is immunity?
We want opinion without distinction
We want a world without discrimination
We want a kingdom of utter freedom
We want it in all shapes and form
Stop the silly talking
Whilst Freedom is walking
Stop the silly talking
Whilst Freedom is mocking
www.sylviachidi.co.uk
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Young Goals
Young goals massively exist,
Like the wombs of the mothers.
Never in the happy world is darkness
A void, but a night of holy silence.
A womb spilt blood when in darkness
As it is darkness that is spilt by the day.
Each and every day carries warmth of the stars,
No matter when the day stops.
The goals of youth are like these days and nights,
Why do young men and women exist?
poem by Naveed Akram
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Rotten Apple
Hey ah na na
Ignorance is spoken
Spoken
Confidence is broken
Broken
Sustenance is stolen
Stolen
Arrogance is potent
What I see is unreal
Ive written my own part
Eat of the apple, so young
Im crawling back to start
Hey ah na na
A romance is fallen
Fallen
I repent tomorrow
Tomorrow
Is suspended my sorrow
Sorrow
Recommend you borrow
song performed by by Alice In Chains
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unspoken Words
In the deepest of your mind
Resides words that have never been spoken
Never been writen and never been whispered.
They are kept in the dark,
You hide them,
But they know what you think.
They watch your movements.
They will never come out:
Not for love and not for hatered,
You may wonder why they will never come out
Well, keep on wondering
Maybe
If spoken can heal the broken hearts,
Who knows.......
Maybe
If spoken can split the bond between love and care
You will leave and walk with them.
But unspoken forever they will remain.
poem by Moffat Mbuzi
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Not a hundredth part of the thoughts in my head have ever been or ever will be spoken or written -- as long as I keep my senses, at least.
quote by Jane Welsh Carlyle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Part Of Speech
...and when "the future" is uttered, swarms of mice
rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece
of ripened memory which is twice
as hole-ridden as real cheese.
After all these years it hardly matters who
or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes,
and your mind resounds not with a seraphic "doh",
only their rustle. Life, that no one dares
to appraise, like that gift horse's mouth,
bares its teeth in a grin at each
encounter. What gets left of a man amounts
to a part. To his spoken part. To a part of speech.
Translated by Author
Anonymous submission.
poem by Joseph Brodsky
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