Psalm IV
Now I'll record my secret vision, impossible sight of the face of God:
It was no dream, I lay broad waking on a fabulous couch in Harlem
having masturbated for no love, and read half naked an open book of Blake
on my lap
Lo & behold! I was thoughtless and turned a page and gazed on the living
Sun-flower
and heard a voice, it was Blake's, reciting in earthen measure:
the voice rose out of the page to my secret ear never heard before-
I lifted my eyes to the window, red walls of buildings flashed outside,
endless sky sad Eternity
sunlight gazing on the world, apartments of Harlem standing in the
universe--
each brick and cornice stained with intelligence like a vast living face--
the great brain unfolding and brooding in wilderness!--Now speaking
aloud with Blake's voice--
Love! thou patient presence & bone of the body! Father! thy careful
watching and waiting over my soul!
My son! My son! the endless ages have remembered me! My son! My son!
Time howled in anguish in my ear!
My son! My son! my father wept and held me in his dead arms.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Some Said It Thundered
'Was that thunder that we heard then? ' They said,
looking at each other in fear and dread.
'Or God speaking in a thunderous tone
to His Belovèd Son from heavens' throne? '
For the voice they heard and thought was thunder
caused them to stand in awe and to wonder.
Though it was not heard by everyone
it was the Father speaking to His Son.
For my benefit God's great voice was heard
and I should listen to every word.
The time for judgement is upon the world
time for the wrath of God to be unfurled.
The Lord Jesus Christ will be lifted high
upon Calvary's cross where He will die
and all people shall be drawn to Him there
to His outstretched arms and His loving care.
The prince of this world will be driven out
and 'It is finished, ' the victorious shout.
There the battle for mankind will be won
by the sacrifice of God's Only Son.
In heaven there'll be thunderous applause
at the coming of peace and end of wars.
Then the Father's name will be glorified
through the life and death of the Son Who died.
Do Not Forget The Soul Of Blake
DO NOT FORGET THE SOUL OF BLAKE
Do not forget the tiger and the lamb
Do not forget the flower in the hand
The infinite in the grain of sand-
The pebble and the clod
The nobodaddy God-
The sickness of the rose
The secret love no one knows-
The bright and pleasant land
The self- forged manacles of man-
The visionary dream
Angelic wings drawn unseen-
Do not forget the soul of Blake,
Whose greatness God Alone dared make.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Harlem Woman
Written by orbison/melson
The woman is out on her own.
Walking the streets, sad and alone.
Yes she sells herself for nickles and dimes.
These are hard times for a harlem woman.
Harlem woman.
Yes you work at night.i have held you tight.
But youre not aware of how much I care.
No you cant see your babys been hungry and cold.
So long nights through, go on and do what you must do,
I love you.i love you harlem woman.
Harlem woman.
Sometimes I cry, but Ill get by till your mine alone.
So carry on to other arms,tender but strong.
Till you belong to me
Harlem woman hang on.
Ill take you away.
Someday Ill set you free to be with only me.
Till then Ill know,...
Lord knows, Ill know
They can buy the body
But not the soul of my harlem woman
Harlem woman, harlem woman
Hang on
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epic [trailer 2]
Amanda Seyfried (voice), Josh Hutcherson (voice), Beyonce Knowles (voice), Colin Farrell (voice), Jason Sudeikis (voice), Blake Anderson (voice), Aziz Ansari (voice), Johnny Knoxville (voice), Steven Tyler (voice), Pitbull (voice)
from Epic (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Epic
Amanda Seyfried (voice), Josh Hutcherson (voice), Beyonce Knowles (voice), Colin Farrell (voice), Jason Sudeikis (voice), Blake Anderson (voice), Aziz Ansari (voice), Johnny Knoxville (voice), Steven Tyler (voice), Pitbull (voice)
from Epic (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Voice In The Wilderness
My heart was so heavy with longing for you
My arms were so lonely, lonesome and blue
Alone in my sorrow, I heard a voice cry
A voice in the wilderness, a voice from the sky
Have faith in your darling, the voice seemed to say
Be true to her memory, shell come back one day
And though there was no-one, nobody to see
A voice in the wilderness brought comfort to me
We had a quarrel, I was unkind
Why did you leave me, love made me blind
Come back to me darling, I yearn for your touch
Have pity, come back now, I need you so much
Believe me and youll hear it, the voice from above
The voice in the wilderness, the voice of true love
Believe me and youll hear it, the voice from above
A voice in the wilderness, the voice of true love.
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Spanish Jew's Tale; The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi
Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read
A volume of the Law, in which it said,
'No man shall look upon my face and live.'
And as he read, he prayed that God would give
His faithful servant grace with mortal eye
To look upon His face and yet not die.
Then fell a sudden shadow on the page,
And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age,
He saw the Angel of Death before him stand,
Holding a naked sword in his right hand.
Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man,
Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran.
With trembling voice he said, 'What wilt thou here?'
The angel answered, 'Lo! the time draws near
When thou must die; yet first, by God's decree,
Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee.'
Replied the Rabbi, 'Let these living eyes
First look upon my place in Paradise.'
Then said the Angel, 'Come with me and look.'
Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book,
And rising, and uplifting his gray head,
'Give me thy sword,' he to the Angel said,
'Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way.'
The angel smiled and hastened to obey,
Then led him forth to the Celestial Town,
And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down,
Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes,
Might look upon his place in Paradise.
Then straight into the city of the Lord
The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's sword,
And through the streets there swept a sudden breath
Of something there unknown, which men call death.
Meanwhile the Angel stayed without and cried,
'Come back!' To which the Rabbi's voice replied,
'No! in the name of God, whom I adore,
I swear that hence I will depart no more!'
Then all the Angels cried, 'O Holy One,
See what the son of Levi here hath done!
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence,
And in Thy name refuses to go hence!'
The Lord replied, 'My Angels, be not wroth;
Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath?
Let him remain; for he with mortal eye
Shall look upon my face and yet not die.'
Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death
Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath,
'Give back the sword, and let me go my way.'
Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, 'Nay!
Anguish enough already hath it caused
Among the sons of men.' And while he paused
He heard the awful mandate of the Lord
Resounding through the air, 'Give back the sword!'
The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer;
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, 'Swear,
No human eye shall look on it again;
But when thou takest away the souls of men,
Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword,
Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord.'
The Angel took the sword again, and swore,
And walks on earth unseen forevermore.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Spanish Harlem
There is a rose in spanish harlem
A rose that grows in spanish harlem
Its never seen the sun
It only comes up when the moon is on the run
And all the stars are leaving
Well, it grows right in the street
Up between the concrete
But soft and sweet, and (breathing? ? )
There is a rose in spanish harlem
A rose that grows in spanish harlem
Oh, with eyes as black as coal
That reach down in my soul
And start a fire I cant control
I beg your pardon
Well, I want to pick that rose
And watch her as she grows
In my garden
There is a rose in spanish harlem
There is a rose in spanish harlem
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Fragment
Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire
Careless of form and face.
Then whence this change, and why so oft
Dost smooth thy hazel hair?
And wherefore deck thy youthful form
With such unwearied care?
'Tell us - and cease to tire our ears
With yonder hackneyed strain -
Why wilt thou play those simple tunes
So often o'er again?'
'Nay, gentle friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone.
Each year its own new feelings brings
And years move swiftly on,
And for these little simple airs,
I love to play them o'er -
So much I dare not promise now
To play them never more.'
I answered and it was enough;
They turned them to depart;
They could not read my secret thoughts
Nor see my throbbing heart.
I've noticed many a youthful form
Upon whose changeful face
The inmost workings of the soul
The gazer's eye might trace.
The speaking eye, the changing lip,
The ready blushing cheek,
The smiling or beclouded brow
Their different feelings speak.
But, thank God! you might gaze on mine
For hours and never know
The secret changes of my soul
From joy to bitter woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire
Conversing merrily,
We heard without approaching steps
Of one well known to me.
There was no trembling in my voice,
No blush upon my cheek,
No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,
Of hope or joy to speak;
But O my spirit burned within,
My heart beat thick and fast.
He came not nigh - he went away
And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not,
My voice was still the same;
They saw me smile, and o'er my face -
No signs of sadness came;
They little knew my hidden thoughts
And they will never know
The anguish of my drooping heart,
The bitter aching woe!
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When Klopstock England Defied
When Klopstock England defied,
Uprose William Blake in his pride;
For old Nobodaddy aloft
. . . and belch'd and cough'd;
Then swore a great oath that made Heaven quake,
And call'd aloud to English Blake.
Blake was giving his body ease,
At Lambeth beneath the poplar trees.
From his seat then started he
And turn'd him round three times three.
The moon at that sight blush'd scarlet red,
The stars threw down their cups and fled,
And all the devils that were in hell,
Answerèd with a ninefold yell.
Klopstock felt the intripled turn,
And all his bowels began to churn,
And his bowels turn'd round three times three,
And lock'd in his soul with a ninefold key; . . .
Then again old Nobodaddy swore
He ne'er had seen such a thing before,
Since Noah was shut in the ark,
Since Eve first chose her hellfire spark,
Since 'twas the fashion to go naked,
Since the old Anything was created . . .
poem by William Blake
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The End Of The Chapter
Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day;
We even lay the book away;
But oh, how sweet the moments sped
Before the final page was read!
We tried to read between the lines
The Author's deep-concealed designs;
But scant reward such search secures;
You saw my heart and I saw yours.
The Master,--He who penned the page
And bade us read it,--He is sage:
And what he orders, you and I
Can but obey, nor question why.
We read together and forgot
The world about us. Time was not.
Unheeded and unfelt, it fled.
We read and hardly knew we read.
Until beneath a sadder sun,
We came to know the book was done.
Then, as our minds were but new lit,
It dawned upon us what was writ;
And we were startled. In our eyes,
Looked forth the light of great surprise.
Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls,
A voice spoke forth: 'Behold your souls!'
I do, I do. I cannot look
Into your eyes: so close the book.
But brought it grief or brought it bliss,
No other page shall read like this!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Salted
The 14th day of Abib,
All offerings must be salted;
Between the two rivers,
Between the two walls,
Between the two evenings,
Between the two cities,
Two horns like a lamb and the voice of many waters.
Life after childbirth,
The voice of a great thunder to share a view;
But the grain and the drink offerings are written in the Book.
And i heard a voice from heaven,
'Try to understand the vision of man';
Like two thousand thousand thousand!
Of a woman clothed with the sun and,
White like a wool.
In my sleep,
In my vision,
In my mind,
In my dream,
White like snow;
But into her wilderness of love to write this poem.
Of the great winepress and a pair of shoes,
Of your friuts of love and the sins of man,
She being with a child is about to give birth;
Like a woman sitting on the moon clothed with the cloud of love.
My mind is to lure you on this love,
My work is to lure you on this act,
Better from the top with impressions on her sweet love;
But the disciplined mind will lead the truth always like,
The unborn fetus waiting for its time to come into the world.
There is no smoke without fire,
And perfect love casts out fear!
So it must be salted before eating,
For this love is on all the offerings.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Spanish Harlem
There is a rose in Spanish Harlem
A red rose up in Spanish Harlem
It is a special one, it's never seen the sun
It only comes out when the moon is on the run And all the stars are gleaming
It's growing in the street right up through the concrete
But soft and sweet and dreamin'
There is a rose in Spanish Harlem
A red rose up in Spanish Harlem
With eyes as black as coal that look down in my soul
And starts a fire there and then I lose control I have to beg your pardon
I'm going to pick that rose and watch her as she grows in my garden
I'm going to pick that rose and watch her as she grows in my garden
There is a rose in Spanish Harlem
There is a rose in Spanish Harlem
song performed by by Tom Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Absence
I speak to you over cities
I speak to you over plains
My mouth is against your ear
The two sides of the walls face
my voice which acknowledges you.
I speak to you of eternity.
O cities memories of cities
cities draped with our desires
cities early and late
cities strong cities intimate
stripped of all their makers
their thinkers their phantoms
Landscape ruled by emerald
live living ever-living
the wheat of the sky on our earth
nourishes my voice I dream and cry
I laugh and dream between the flames
between the clusters of sunlight
And over my body your body extends
the layer of its clear mirror.
poem by Paul Eluard
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The Letter
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887
I held his letter in my hand,
And even while I read
The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
How strange it seemed! His living voice
Was speaking from the page
Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
Light-hearted, witty, sage.
I wondered what it was that died!
The man himself was here,
His modesty, his scholar's pride,
His soul serene and clear.
These neither death nor time shall dim,
Still this sad thing must be--
Henceforth I may not speak to him,
Though he can speak to me!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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A Bedtime Story
It was just after midnight and I’d been reading in bed for an hour
when a sweet sickly smell wafted in, which turned horribly sour.
Cursing, I got out of bed and opened the window some more,
which seemed to cause a draft that slammed shut the door.
I reopened the door much wider this time and returned to my bed,
a draught blew the pages losing the place to where I’d read.
The temperature dropped so I again got out of bed and closed the door,
and also the window slightly, but it was still cold, so I closed it more.
Large goose bumps formed along my arms as I got back into bed,
I picked up the book and tried to find the last page that I’d read.
It was warmer now, but I still pulled the covers up to my chest;
I found my page and carried on reading with keen interest.
The atmosphere in the room seemed somehow unusual and strange
with an unpleasant smell and sudden coldness change.
Above the top of my page I saw a movement at the foot of the bed
and I saw someone standing there, so I raised my head.
The hairs on the back of my neck stiffened and sent a shiver down my spine,
for a second I was speechless; it was an apparition the colour of lime.
Motionless he just stood with his face towards the floor with nothing to say,
his lifeless body sagged wearing a worn out coat that had seen a better day.
“Who the Dickens are you and what do you want? ” I nervously said.
He stared straight through me when he slowly raised his head.
His aged gaunt tired face seemed to stare far beyond my body,
so I turned to see, but there was only the wall behind me.
“Why don’t you answer me, ” I said, “are you unable to speak? ”
Then with a voice that was deep and certainly not meek,
said, “Oh yes I can speak when and if it suits me to,
but what makes you think that I want to speak with you? ”
“Well excuse me, you came into my room and stood by my bed
and you looked as though something just ought to be said.”
“You don’t mean anything to me, I didn’t even notice you
until you broke my spiritual flow, like all you living do.
I don’t think you living realise that restless spirits come and go,
we roam the dead space of time just as the four winds blow.
We didn’t ask to be here, abandoned to wander forever more,
we’re trapped and forgotten spirits behind heaven’s door.
And don’t bother to ask me how I got here because I don’t know,
I never harmed anyone when I was alive and that is truly so.
I freely admit that some of the spirits have become evil and sour
and like the living, insanity becomes worse by the hour.
You the living remind us of how it was when we were there,
but we are enraged by the many who abuse and don’t care.
It is possible that you could end up here in this dead space,
and then with me you’ll be wearing my kind of face.”
As I was about to ask a question he quickly faded out of sight,
the smell and coldness went with him into the night.
I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I know it’s true
and perhaps one day a similar experience might happen to you.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Trumpet Voice
I live to hear my father sing
People come
Far and wide
Gathering like anchovies in a can
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father burns a record
Neighbors and friends
Float from their lonely birdhouses
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father records a tape
The family sits in the living room
Under the golden chandelier
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father has a CD
My brother and I sit in my room
Playing Parcheesi
We open the player
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
I lie on the city bus
One seat for my head
The other for my feet
I turn on my small, silver iPod
And zone out from the world
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
poem by Aury Cecile
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Thou Shalt Not Kill a Certain Evening
I had grown weary of him; of his breath
And hands and features I was sick to death.
Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;
I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.
And he must with his blank face fill my life -
Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.
But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts through
A voice cried, 'Know at least what thing you do.'
'This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,
What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll
There is some living thing for whom this man
Is as seven heavens girt into a span,
For some one soul you take the world away -
Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!'
Then I cast down the knife upon the ground
And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.
I turned and laughed: for there was no one by -
The man that I had sought to slay was I.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Nothing Anymore
When I once looked into your eyes,
I saw honesty lying there.
When I once looked into your eyes,
I saw loyalty with love and care.
When I once looked into your eyes,
I saw life and love forever more.
When I now look into your eyes,
I see darkness, and nothing anymore.
When I once held onto your hand,
I felt compassion, kindness and love.
When I once held onto your hand,
I felt the warmth from GOD above.
When I once held onto your hand,
I felt a joy from the person I adored.
When I now hold onto your hand,
I feel coldness, and nothing anymore.
When I use to listen to your voice,
I once heard it with vigor and excitement.
When I use to listen to your voice,
I once heard it with warmth and fulfillment.
When I use to listened to your voice,
I once heard it with truth which I swore.
When I now listen to your voice.
I go dumb, as I hear nothing anymore.
When I once looked upon your face,
I would always look with pride and a smile.
When I once looked upon your face,
I would always thank GOD your with me now
When I once looked upon your face,
I would always be there to open your door.
When I now look upon your face,
I go blind, as I see nothing anymore.
When I once kissed your lips,
I tasted myself and also your flavor.
When I once kissed your lips,
I tasted life as you were my savior.
When I once kissed your lips,
I tasted excitement and your love in store.
When I now think of kissing your lips,
I now bite them shut, I taste nothing anymore.
poem by Randy McClave
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Endless Sleep
The night was black rain fallin down
I looked my baby shes no where aroun
Chased her footsteps down to the shore
Afraid shes gone for ever more
Well I looked at the sea, seemed to say
I took your baby from you away
I heard a voice cry in the deep
Come join me baby in my endless sleep
Why did we quarrel why did we fight
Why did I leave her alone last night
Thats why her foot steps ran down to the sea
Thats wy my baby has gone from me
Well I looked at the sea seemed to say
I took your baby from you away
Well I heard a voice cry in the deep
Come join me baby in my endless sleep
Endless sleep
Out in the water heart full of fear
There in the breaker I saw her near
Reached for my darlin held her to me
Dragged her away from the angry sea
Well I looked at the sea seemed to say
I took your baby from you away
I heard a voice cryin in the deep
I took your baby from the endless sleep
I grabbed my baby from the endless sleep
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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