I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like child stringing beads in kindergarten--happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.
quote by Brenda Ueland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like child stringing beads in kindergarten, - happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.
quote by Brenda Ueland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Quietly Making Noise
Quietly making noise
By: jimmy buffett, michael tschudin
1993
Oscar wilde died in bed
Several floors above my head
Living well beyond his means
In that crazy paris scene
Rain falls down in sheets so clear
And no one ever calls me hear
Travelin by myself these days
Im into jazz and felt berets
Far from that old eastern shore
Searchin for strange metaphors
I dont want to be another victim of fashion
No I dont want to see my name in the paper each day
Hey you can leave that to the young turks
Theyre handsome and dashing
Posing for paparazzis down laguna way
Now down in the metro I feel the world start to multiply
Bastille, rubber wheels, spiked heels
Subterranean lullaby
Met an african prancer, a hemisphere dancer
Spied the ghost of brassens
We smiled at the secret we shared
And I hid it like contraband
Quietly making noise (quietly making noise)
Starts with kindergarten toys
Not too soft, not too loud
Just enough to draw a crowd
Quietly, quietly, quietly making noise
Followed the beat
Hey I found myself in this patois spot
Outside a blizzard was blowin
But inside the joint was hot
Zouk songs, rubber thongs, sing-a-longs
The words flew right by my face
You know rhythm and motions a blamma jamma potion
You cannot erase
Quietly making noise (quietly making noise)
Pissin off the old kill-joys
Glasspacks on an hot mustang
A telecaster with a twang
Quietly, quietly, quietly making noise
Yes
Singers and writers and poets
Have flocked here for centuries
The city of light is built upon mountains of memories
Baritone saxophones, monotones
Speak with a voice Ive heard before
Its a lasting impression
A gypsy expression you cannot ignore
Were quietly making noise (quietly making noise)
Starts with kindergarten toys
Not too soft, not too loud
Just enough to draw a crowd
Quietly, quietly, quietly making noise
Yeah, were quietly making noise (quietly making noise)
Pissin off the old kill-joys
Not too soft, not too loud
Just enough to draw a crowd
Were quietly, quietly, quietly
Quietly, quietly, quietly
Quietly, quietly, quietly making noise
Thats right, ooh yeah
A whole lot of beautiful noise
--spoken:
Oh come on children, play those, play those kindergarten toys.
Everybodys a drummer tonight. all right. let it ring now, let
It ring.
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sketch of Lord Byron's Life
"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
Was poorly received.
Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault
And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
Ah, strange was his lot.
The character of "Lord Byron"
Was of a low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
By his own misdeeds.
Generous and tender hearted,
Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah, he was a handsome fellow
With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
He could use at his will.
He was a sad child of nature,
Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
Throughout his native land.
Thus the "poet of the passions,"
Lived, unappreciated, man.
Yet at the age of 24,
"Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest, pinacle
Of literary fame.
Ah, he had such violent passions
They was beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice,
Sometimes would him extol.
Sometimes again "Lord Byron"
Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
This great unhappy man;
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
He might die, sword in hand.
He had joined the Grecian Army;
This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
Of the nineteenth century.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Witt
heard of the man
who after writing a treatise
about the
philosophy of language
regressed into
teaching kindergarten
because he wants
to discover
how language is learned
by kids
perhaps in learning how to live
we shall do the same
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mountain Top
I love to sing and I love to pray,
Worship the lord most every day.
I go to the temple, and I just want to stay
To hide from the hustle of the world and its ways.
And id
Love to live on a mountain top,
Fellowshipping with the lord.
Id love to stand on a mountain top,
cause I love to feel my spirit
Soar....
But Ive got to come down
>from the mountain top
To the people in the valley below;
Theyll never know
That they can go
To the mountain of the lord.
Now praising the father is a good thing to do,
To worship the trinity in spirit and truth.
But if we worshipped all of the time,
Well, there would be no one to lead the blind.
But id
Love to live on a mountain top,
Just fellowshipping with the lord.
And Id love to stand on a mountain top,
cause I love to feel my spirit
Soar.... (soar....)
But Ive got to come down
>from the mountain top
To the people in the valley below;
Theyll never know
That they can go
To the mountain of the lord.
I am not saying that worship is wrong,
But worship is more than just singin some songs,
cause its all that we say and everything that we do;
Its letting gods spirit live through you.
Still, id
Love to live on a mountain top
Fellowshipping with the lord.
Id love to stand on a mountain top,
cause I love to feel my spirit
Soar.... (soar....)
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature
The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn't impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Claim it
You should be honest and right
If wants to feel happy slight
Got to dive at in depth of sea
Many wonders to feel and see
You may feel whole world as such
Everything is around to feel and touch
Love thy nature and feel secured
Rest everything is yours and assured
Days are reality and not to be lived
In dreams or in unreality and believed
Love others if you can and enjoy
Day will be filled with enough of joy
Everything around gives happiness with delight
Enjoy quietly without putting up fight
Say it to all and proclaim loudly
You are here to claim it proudly
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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2010/07/26 Auric Light
An invisible string to thread my small crystal
beads, even Tiaan helping because I cannot
see to do it myself, it would take me a hundred
years at least to complete one string
I wanted to make many strings to represent my
vision of auric light shining out, but after an epic
struggle I gave up and upended the beads in
crystal glasses to enjoy the pristine shine
Without destroying my eyes, Tiaan commenting
‘After suffering for many years to string beads, I
found the solution, dumping beads everywhere’
and I laughed, Nici only shaking her head
While busy with her bead-making craft - I also love
the effect of beads in sea-shells, resembling coarse
salt but with a new shine, no more threading for me
I cannot see, it felt too much like torture
My new system brings us miniature rainbows with-
out the heartache of threading invisible strings
with translucent beads!
poem by Margaret Alice
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Black Mountain Blues
Out in black mountain a child will smack your face.
Im saying out on black mountain a child will smack your face.
The babies cryin for liquor, and all the birds sing bass.
Well, those people in black mountain are mean as they can be.
And those people in black mountain are mean as they can be.
Now they uses gun powder just to sweeten up their tea.
Well, out in black mountain you cant keep a good man in jail.
Yeah, out in black mountain you cant keep a good man in jail
cause if the jury convicts him, the judge will pay his bail.
I had a man in black mountain, the sweetest man in town.
I had a man in black mountain, the sweetest man in the town.
But then he met a city gal, thats when he throwed me down.
Lord, Im bound for black mountain, me and my razor and my gun,
Im going back to black mountain, me and my razor and my gun.
Im gonna fire him if he stands still, Ill just cut him if he runs.
Lord, now youve heard my story, now youve heard my news.
Lord, now youve heard my story, now youve heard my news.
Now my man can clear off, Ive got the blackest mountain blues.
song performed by by Janis Joplin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Letter From A Writer Searching For Her Soul And Wanting To Feel Not With Her Hands
Hello (to whom it may concern) ,
It's been awhile since we exchanged messages. Sorry, I'm not much of an |'onliner' these days. I resigned from my job. I'm, in the process of soul searching. Funny but I don't really know why I'm looking for a soul, my soul, when I cannot even see it. I'm on an unplanned vacation in some quaint town some miles outside the city while writing this email.
I guess I never had the chance to tell you how you took the glint from my eye. To write from the soul and not for the awards. I have overlook that writing is an Art. Thus it is priceless. A gold medal does not define you as an artist. Write until it ceases to become a craft.But more than just stringing words after words, conscious of your weary grammar, punctuations, right words, and subject matter. To write is to turn your heart inside out.
Beyond 'writing' and its technical definitions, it is actually a journey - a self surrender - towards the oblivion you are willing to traverse with your pen. And you find yourself in another state.
To write is to 'see' but not with your eyes. To 'feel' but not with your hands. And at the end of it all, you know that it's there. Writing takes over you. Thus, I often wonder: am i writing with the pen? Or is it the pen using me to write? But I know somewhere deep inside, there is a thing mightier than the pen that prompts me to write. And that is the soul.
I want to find my center. My creative process in writing. Ironic, but to find it, I must loose myself.
hahahahaha. whew. I know i sound stupid. Sorry. Thanks for bearing with me. Hope it's not too late to greet you a Happy New Year! ! ! ! =)
Always,
(name witheld, but this could be you)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I've learned
Ive learned that to love someone doesnt have to involve pain,
Ive learned that to have a friend you must be a friend first,
Ive learned that in time youll see your mistakes and learn from them,
Ive learned that to be alone sometimes is the best thing for you,
Ive learned that in order to love a person you must feel loved,
Ive learned that if your wrong admit it or youll never forgive yourself,
Ive learned that your first love will be a part of you and you may never forget,
Ive learned that in order to move on you must fix what was first wrong,
Ive learned that if you ever mess up, you can always start over again,
Ive learned that to be 'cool' doesnt involve pressure,
Ive learned to accept what I have and be happy,
Ive learned that people will come and go so tell the ones you love how you feel,
Ive learned that to respect yourself you must respect others,
Ive learned that your actions always involve consequences whether it be good or bad,
Ive learned that priceless words can mean the world to someone,
Ive learned that sometimes being silent is the best solution,
Ive learned to expect the unexpected,
Ive learned that healing a broken heart involves tears and pain,
Ive learned to see the world in the eyes of others,
And Ive learned that each new day is a day to touch a life.
poem by Carly Almonde
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Sounds from kindergarten kids
Kindergarten kids
Running, shouting, playing, chasing
Wild, cheering, mocking
and quarreling and befriending
In such short span
From where you are writing
And studying, thick files, and big books
And you look into these things
Taking notes
Through your thick reading glasses
You look at time
How time passed so quickly?
Once, the kindergarten in you
and your mama telling you she will always be watching you
and on that first day, you did not cry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Brook Leaps Riotous
The brook leaps riotous with its life just found,
That freshets from the mountain rains have fed,
Beats at the boulders in its hindered bed,
And fills the valley with its triumphing sound.
The strong unthirsty tarn sunk in deep ground
Has never a sigh wherewith its wealth is said,
Has no more ripples than the May-flies tread:
Silence of waters is where they abound.
And love, whatever love, sure, makes small boast:
'Tis the new lovers tell, in wonder yet.
Oh happy need! Enriched stream's jubilant gush!
But who being spouses well have learned love's most,
Being child and mother learned not nor forget,
These in their joyfulness feel the tarn's strong hush.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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I like to think about stringing songs together like a string of pearls, or a string of beads, but ultimately it has to be stuff that really works with the band, and gives a spin to the older material.
quote by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inside The Blue Kindergarten Bus
inside the blue kindergarten bus
that stopped a while in front of our old house
the kids are shouting
'leo! leo! leo! leo! '
on their blue dresses and red neckties
and black shoes and white sock
they keep on cheering
'leo! leo! leo! loe! '
honestly, i do not know what they mean
they look so excited
and happy
they wave their hands and then the bus speeds away.
who is leo? you ask me? how would i know.
I don't have a kid inside that blue kindergarten bus.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned--the biggest word of all--look.
quote by Robert Fulghum
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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First Year University Expereinces
I learned why it is not wise to skip class often
I learned that skipping homework in university is not the same as skipping homework in high school
I learned what it feels like to be awake for over 2 days
I learned how to smoke pot from a bong
I learned how to compose an essay the day before it's due
I learned that the Freshman 15 is no joke
I learned how to do laundry
I learned to pretend to be happy
I learned to multitask
I learned to be more sociable
I learned why my parents and teachers warned me about the difficulty of university
I learned that failing is expensive
I learned small things, like freshly washed bed sheets, make me happy
I learned to lie
I learned how expensive alcohol is
I learned what it feels like to be a failure
I type this rant while skipping my business ethics class as I further delay the composition of my psychology term paper
poem by Michelle Cow
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All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned--the biggest word of all--look.
The Statues And The Tear
All night a fountain pleads,
Telling her beads,
Her tinkling beads monotonous 'neath the moon;
And where she springs atween,
Two statues lean--
Two Kings, their marble beards with moonlight strewn.
Till hate had frozen speech,
Each hated each,
Hated and died, and went unto his place:
And still inveterate
They lean and hate
With glare of stone implacable, face to face.
One, who bade set them here
In stone austere,
To both was dear, and did not guess at all:
Yet with her new-wed lord
Walking the sward
Paused, and for two dead friends a tear let all.
She turn'd and went her way.
Yet in the spray
The shining tear attempts, but cannot lie.
Night-long the fountain drips,
But even slips
Untold that one bead of her rosary:
While they, who know it would
Lie if it could,
Lean on and hate, watching it, eye to eye.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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A Picture at Newstead
What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swel? --
'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry
Stormily sweet, his Titan agony;
It was the sight of that Lord Arundelv
Who struck, in heat, the child he loved so well,
And the child's reason flickered, and did die.
Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery
They hang; the picture doth the story tell.
Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand!
The little fair-hair'd son, with vacant gaze, 10
Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!
Methinks the woe which made that father stand
Baring his dumb remorse to future days,
Was woe than Byron's woe more tragic far.
poem by Matthew Arnold from Sonnets (1867)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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