The greatness of man is great in that he knows himself to be wretched. A tree does not know itself to be wretched.
quote by Blaise Pascal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode to the Modern Work-Man
O, wretched modern work-man
The years, they pass you by
Everything you believe
Is nothing but a lie.
O, wretched modern work-man
From your neckties to your socks
You’re nothing but a slave
To pictures in a box.
O, wretched modern work-man
You live for the Public Eye
Your life is but a parody
Whose foundation is a lie.
O, wretched modern work-man
You strive, and save, and yearn
To keep up with the Kamaus
Spending more than you earn.
O, wretched modern work-man
You’re nothing but a slave
Your dreams are dead and buried
Lying in a shallow grave.
O, wretched modern work-man
You strangled your own dreams
You smothered your own happiness
Your hand stifled its screams.
O, wretched modern work-man
For the camera so aesthetic
Beneath the plastic smile
You’re pitiful and pathetic.
O, wretched modern work-man
You work yourself half to death
Chasing pounds and shillings
To swell another’s wealth.
O, wretched modern work-man
You lived your whole life as a show
Yet the only Watcher who mattered
Didn’t like what He saw.
O, wretched modern work-man
When you finally died
Your surname, and hospital bill
Were all you left behind…
O wretched man, wretched not just because of what you are, but also because you do not know how wretched you are!
quote by Marcus Tullius Cicero
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: On Greatness
Greatness is not a thing, much like an art;
Some man turns great if on it he stumbles;
His greatness ceases, if he thinks, he's great;
Great is he truly who tho' great, humbles.
Greatness is not true greatness, self-proclaimed;
Greatness is not what world showers on us;
Greatness is neither got by being claimed.
Greatness is not achieved by making fuss.
Greatness could come if world decides to give;
Greatness will stay if God blesses our work;
Such greatness, God-destined comes while men live;
Greatness can grow even without much luck.
Greatness doesn't come to everyone on earth;
Some men are made great; some are great by birth.
poem by John Celes
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A wretched society
A wretched society-
I don’t sing love;
Instead I chant Krishn.
I don’t play romance;
Instead, I dance as Radha.
A wretched society-
I don’t keep men’s photos;
Instead, I keep their gifts.
I don’t befriend men;
Instead, I visit their wives.
A wretched society-
I don’t move with men;
Instead, I acquaint with cousins.
I don’t seek heroes;
Instead, I frequent seers.
A good daughter, a good sister,
A chaste wife, a good mother,
And a woman of modesty,
I have lived me to my peril.
A wretched society.
04.02.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Friendship's the privilege of private men; for wretched greatness knows no blessing so substantial.
quote by Nahum Tate
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Ballad
In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
In a costly palace Youth is still carest
By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;
In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:
Does Age begin to prattle?-no man heark'neth to his tales.
In a costly palace if the child with a pin
Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;
In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.
In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
Think upon the former days, when he was well to do,
Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.
In a costly palace Youth his temples hides
With a new devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,
With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,
To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
That none to do them injury may have pretence;
Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.
poem by Charles Lamb
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For Janet
Death
Terrible wretched death
See how she suffered
Pain all over her body
Wretched wretched death
Pain
Unspeakable pain
Life sucked right out of her
She died unmercifully
Satan is a terrible deceiver
She doesn't hurt anymore
She doesn't ache all over
She is smiles
All full of smiles now
Can't you see her smiling
She finally defeated the enemy
She's so pretty
Long wavy brown hair
Pulled to the side
She's running with a smile on her face
Running to her Jesus
To our Jesus
Pretty pretty lady
We'll see you soon
Date of death August 22,1993
poem by TerriJo James
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Mad Dogs Feast Upon The Weak
Only mad dogs
power insatiable
will prey upon
the wretched
forsaken
of the earth.
Only mad dogs
will boast
of exploiting
the wretched
down trodden
of the earth.
Hopelessness
faith
devouring
hopelessness...
is a cancer
mastered cured
true disciples
live by faith alone...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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When I am asleep and crumbling in the tomb
When I am asleep and crumbling in the tomb, should you come
to visit me, I will come forth with speed.
You are for me the blast of the trumpet and the resurrection,
so what shall I do? Dead or living, wherever you are, there am I.
Without your lip I am a frozen and silent reed; what melodies
I play the moment you breathe on my reed!
Your wretched reed has become accustomed to your sugar lip;
remember wretched me, for I am seeking you.
When I do not find the moon of your countenance, I bind up
my head [veil myself in your mourning]; when I do not find your
sweet lip, gnaw my own hand.
The Signature Of Angels...
he said:
'you are a wretched man,
and bound for hell.
for you are not a disciple
of our creed...
i cannot pray for you,
you wear the mark of Cain! '
i smiled, and replied:
'ah, but i read the scriptures
of the human heart,
written by the indelible hands
of passion and time.
i lift in prayer the sweat and the tears
of hungry souls struggling to survive.
i sing the hymns of the naked body,
my offering, myself, without restraint.
if i be wretched,
then stoke the fires!
the mark on my forehead,
tis the signature of angels! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hot Wretched Coals
Unfurled winds in the bed of desire
Your stars are no longer in my arms
You have gone to the anchors of ideals
Gone past religion
I loved your silk stockings with belts
Your heels with straps like the deep sea
Remember when our bed was moonlight
Remember when theology had passion
Souls are bowls of incense
Change is mortality
We have changed
Passion like a bipolar night
Broken down into a good girl bad girl
Is it wrong for me to want both?
Can you be both?
Can you wet like a sweet whore?
Have you become to pure?
To ideal to saintly
I am wretched
Hot wretched coals
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
quote by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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A Crier At Hora
A crier, dripping and dripping
A crier at Hora
Tears of bees overflow the bucket
And rivers over popular at Hora
And lead to the elephant water body
Arms in akimble and legs
Falling from heaven like snow
Oh, why? why? why? why?
Wretched and wretched at Hora
And feeling very doodling sorry
And tears are cooking bread
And that nose says yes
Yes my slippery road at hora
And the face adorned with ridges
And so huge that sparks inside Hora
The essence, at Hora?
Is folded and rolled
In this crier's memory at Hora
poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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Acquaintance Of The Wretched
No one is benefited,
From acquaintance of the wretched,
Just like a vine as if
One trails upon the acacia tree
And gets each bunch of grapes
Wounded.
By Mian Muhammad Translation by Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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0162 Greatness
How great is greatness? asks my questing soul:
scenting behind that quest, eternity;
that dark which, studied, lights the dazzling whole
and brings to finite thought, infinity;
as when great singers sing, all hearts can sing;
great dancers give us sense that all can dance;
great actors speak for all of us; we think
to know all painted greatness at one glance:
we know already, greatness' unfenced whole,
we know that boundless place, the human heart;
Creation is no secret to our soul;
all being sings its song in every part.
How glorious those sages who can see
in everything that lives, totality!
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Change
POOR River, now thou'rt almost dry,
What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie?
Since brought, alas! to sad Decay,
What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee stay?
The Swans, that sought thee in thy Pride,
Now on new Streams forgetful ride:
And Fish, that in thy Bosom lay,
Chuse in more prosp'rous Floods to play.
All leave thee, now thy Ebb appears,
To waste thy sad Remains in Tears;
Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed.
Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy speed,
Amongst those solid Rocks thy Griefs bestow;
For Friends, like those alas! thou ne'er did'st know.
And thou, poor Sun! that sat'st on high;
But late, the Splendour of the Sky;
What Flow'r, tho' by thy Influence born,
Now Clouds prevail, will tow'rds thee turn?
Now Darkness sits upon thy Brow,
What Persian Votary will bow?
What River will her Smiles reflect,
Now that no Beams thou can'st direct?
By watry Vapours overcast,
Who thinks upon thy Glories past?
If present Light, nor Heat we get,
Unheeded thou may'st rise, and set.
Not all the past can one Adorer keep,
Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep.
Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boast,
Since undermin'd by Time and Frost:
Since thou canst no Reception give,
In untrod Meadows thou may'st live.
None from his ready Road will turn,
With thee thy wretched Change to mourn.
Not the soft Nights, or chearful Days
Thou hast bestow'd, can give thee Praise.
No lusty Tree that near thee grows,
(Tho' it beneath thy Shelter rose)
Will to thy Age a Staff become.
Fall, wretched Building! to thy Tomb.
Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt,
Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt.
The same, poor Man, the same must be
Thy Fate, now Fortune frowns on thee.
Her Favour ev'ry one pursues,
And losing Her, thou all must lose.
No Love, sown in thy prosp'rous Days,
Can Fruit in this cold Season raise:
No Benefit, by thee conferr'd,
Can in this time of Storms be heard.
All from thy troubl'd Waters run;
Thy stooping Fabrick all Men shun.
All do thy clouded Looks decline,
As if thou ne'er did'st on them shine.
O wretched Man! to other World's repair;
For Faith and Gratitude are only there.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Intangible Things
I have thought devoted
more than twenty years
to intangible things
solid materialists would devalue.
Ephemeral ennobling ideals
sourcing spiritual morality
materialism's destitute junkies
would consider frivolous.
Surmountable enlightened ideals
that will spiritually revolutionize
fundamental world still locked within
frozen wastes fearing an ice age.
A lost product consuming
world still locked within
a fear or faithless insecurity
abhorring poverty still fears.
Only mad dogs
will insatiable prey upon
the wretched
forsaken of the earth.
Only mad dogs
will boast of exploiting
the wretched
down trodden of the earth.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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In the Country
This life is sweetest; in this wood
I hear no children cry for food;
I see no woman, white with care;
No man, with muscled wasting here.
No doubt it is a selfish thing
To fly from human suffering;
No doubt he is a selfish man,
Who shuns poor creatures, sad and wan.
But 'tis a wretched life to face
Hunger in almost every place;
Cursed with a hand that's empty, when
The heart is full to help all men.
Can I admire the statue great,
When living men starve at its feet!
Can I admire the park's green tree,
A roof for homeless misery!
poem by William Henry Davies
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The great tree chooses where to grow and we find it there, so it is with the greatness in men.
Woodman
Ax and partly because of the aristocratic nose geothermal
History's history all the dust
Saturday deep sleep suddenly lost air.
Tree pond water touches remain apathetic, wretched memories bind
Music sounds bitter defeat us
I have the pulse of the overhang kankabati cloud, long tears
We were sleeping in the yard at night
It's the sound of wood broken away in the dark.
Enter a name inscribed on the chest and tree feller
Who has cheated death at the platter of rice.
poem by Shafi Sumodro
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