Related quotes: John S. Hittell, whose sovereign...

By False Pretenses

John S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wields
The quill his tributary body yields;
The author of an opera-that is,
All but the music and libretto's his:
A work renowned, whose formidable name,
Linked with his own, repels the assault of fame
From the high vantage of a dusty shelf,
Secure from all the world except himself;
Who told the tale of 'Culture' in a screed
That all might understand if some would read;
Master of poesy and lord of prose,
Dowered, like a setter, with a double nose;
That one for Erato, for Clio this;
He flushes both-not his fault if we miss;
Judge of the painter's art, who'll straight proclaim
The hue of any color you can name,
And knows a painting with a canvas back
Distinguished from a duck by the duck's quack;
This thinker and philosopher, whose work
Is famous from Commercial street to Turk,
Has got a fortune now, his talent's meed.
A woman left it him who could not read,
And so went down to death's eternal night
Sweetly unconscious that the wretch could write.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes

My shoes and my duck

My shoes and I are quite good friends you see
Often they have chats with me
They tell me things doesn’t matter when
Day or night
They ask me please to lace right
Tell me how to wear them right

I have many pair but only one do I love
They are blue and white
Just like the morning and its dove
That flies around with all their might

My shoes fight in my closet in the black of night
Over which one I will ware on my bike

But I can never forget my duck
To which I can always turn to trust
My friend that is always there
Telling me no lies
And awaiting my return home
From my eight hour chore

My duck can’t swim
my duck can’t quake
My duck just sinks
with a rock on his back
My duck can’t cry
my duck can’t sing
my duck just cant do anything
My ducks no duck and I know why
my duck is stuffed
my duck can’t fly...
I love my duck
Can’t you see why

So in the end
I wouldn’t trade my shoes for any red bull
Or my duck for any frog
Even though one might give me wings
Or one might make noise now and again
I love my blue shoes and my stuffed duck

P.S. the Saint helped me write parts of this, so I owe him a thank you, and just so you all know not all mine.

poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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That's Just Ducky

Passed by a duck
Driving a bright yellow car
I couldn't help but wonder
If she'd make it very far;
She went by perfectly
Never veering left or right
Straight and steady
As if in graceful flight;
Impressed was I
To say the very least, for
I've never known any birds to drive
Not even the great and amazing Canadian geese;
Now, ofcourse I have seen many a fowl
Fly right on by
But never a one
Not up in the clear blue sky;
Manys the time I've witnessed our fine feathered friends
Swiftly moving near and far
But oh no, never
At the wheel of a car;
Some things
A person does see, well
Now they just
Cannot be;
But there it was
Plain as rain
A duck driving a car
In the passing lane!
I grabbed
My cell phone
To get its picture
And call home;
It was then I got a closer look
At the feathered bloke
And came to decide
It all must be some sort of demented joke;
A lunatic's game
My mind was playing
An insane egg
My brain was laying;
For I noticed, as the crazy car passed
'PSYCHO-DUCK' read the license plate on the back...
Right then and there I lost all interest
As I realized, this duck was nothing more than a mere 'quack'.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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Dreaded Requests

I am not a rude or ignorant man,
but there are some things,
that I will not do.
Unfortunately, I do not like
to read a lot of what
I am politely requested to read.
I am often bombarded by people
asking me to read
and comment on their work.
I do not like to be rude
and ignore their pleas,
but I just read what I like,
not what I am asked to read.
I choose whom I like,
if I see a title I find interesting
I will take the time to read it
and make a mental note of the author.
If I like what I read,
I will dip into that author’s work
time and time again.
I do not care if they read my work or not
that is their choice and I have mine.
All I ask is let me make up my own mind.
Do not bombard me with notes
requesting that I read your work,
as I am likely to ignore them.
I am not being rude or ignorant
it is I just do not do requests.

poem by David Harris
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I Want A New Duck

Woh oh
I want a new duck
One that wont try to bite
One that wont chew a hole in my socks
One that wont quack all night
I want a new duck
One with big webbed feet
One that knows how to wash my car
And keep his room real neat
One that wont raid the ice box
One thatll stay in shape
One thats never gonna try to migrate or escape
Or Ill tie him up with duck tape
I want a new duck
A mallard I think
One that wont make a mess of my house
Or build a nest in the bathroom sink
I want a new duck
One that wont steal my beer
One that wont stick his bill in my mail
One that knows the duck stops here
One that wont drive me crazy waddling all around
One wholl teach me how to swim and help me not to drown
And show me how to get down
How to get down baby
Get it?
*****
*****
*** ****
****
*** ***
I want a new duck
Not a swan or a goose
Just a drake I can dress real cute
Think Im gonna name him bruce
I want a new duck
Not a quail or an owl
One that wont molt to much
One that wont smell too fowl
One that wont beg for breadcrumbs
Hangin around all day
Hed better mind his manners
Better do just what I say
Or hes gonna be duck patte, duck patte, yah, yah
*
*****
***** (*** ** **)
****
*******
(lots of quacking sounds)

song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Duck and the Kangaroo

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo,
'Good gracious! how you hop!
Over the fields and the water too,
As if you never would stop!
My life is a bore in this nasty pond,
And I long to go out in the world beyond!
I wish I could hop like you!'
Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

'Please give me a ride on your back!'
Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.
'I would sit quite still, and say nothing but 'Quack',
The whole of the long day through!
And we'd go to the Dee, and the Jelly Bo Lee,
Over the land, and over the sea;
Please take me a ride! O do!'
Said the Duck to the Kangaroo.

Said the Kangaroo to the Duck,
'This requires some little reflection;
Perhaps on the whole it might bring me luck,
And there seems but one objection,
Which is, if you'll let me speak so bold,
Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold,
And would probably give me the roo-
Matiz!' said the Kangaroo.

Said the Duck, 'As I sat on the rocks,
I have thought over that completely,
And I bought four pairs of worsted socks
Which fit my web-feet neatly.
And to keep out the cold I've bought a cloak,
And every day a cigar I'll smoke,
All to follow my own dear true
Love of a Kangaroo!'

Said the Kangaroo, 'I'm ready!
'All in the moonlight pale;
'But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady!
'And quite at the end of my tail!'
So away they went with a hop and a bound,
And they hopped the whole world three times round;
And who so happy - O who,
As the Duck and the Kangaroo?

poem by Edward Lear
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Duck & Run

To this world Im unimportant just
Because I have nothing to give
So you call this your free country
Tell me why it cost so much to live
Tell me why
This world can turn me down
But I wont turn away, oh no
And I wont turn around
All my work and endless measures
Never seem to get me very far
Walk a mile just to move an inch
Now even though Im trying so
Damn hard
Im trying so hard
This world can turn me down but i
Wont turn away
And I wont duck and run, cause
Im not built that way
When everything is gone there is
Nothing there to fear
This world cannot bring me down
No cause Im already here, oh no!
I am already here, down
On my knees
I am already here, on no, I am
Already here
I must have told you a thousand
Times I am not running away
I wont duck and run
I wont duck and run
I wont duck and run
No, no pass away
This world can turn me down but i
Wont turn away
And I wont duck and run, cause
Im not built that way
When everything is gone there is
Nothing there to fear
This world cannot bring me down
No cause Im already here
This world can turn me down
But I wont turn away
And I wont duck away
Cause Im not built that way
When everything is gone there
Is nothing there to fear
This world cannot
Bring me down
No cause Im already here

song performed by by 3 Doors Down
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pure Music

Pure music tells no clichéd tale
concerning God or love or conquering sword;
it is composed in that fair higher scale
of consciousness where facts may be ignored.

Opera is music that’s adulterated
by literature we call scenario and libretto;
like music we should keep our feelings understated,
not trading them like merchants in a Venice ghetto.

Edmund White writes about the way he prefers to write to the accompaniment of music in the NYT, June 18,2001 (“Before as Rendezvous with the muse, First Select the Music”) . He writes:

Unlike fiction, music is not about mothers-in-law or failed marriages. Of course opera and ballet and program music can be narrative but only because they are adulterated by literature, the libretto or scenario.

6/18/01,11/6/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Duck! Don't Stick Your Neck Out

How many quacks does a quack quack quack
before he ducks for fish?
How many ducks does a quack quack duck
before his fish is fished?

How many geese's goose is cooked
because they ate up all the fish?
How many cooks cook geese
before their goose is cooked?

How many fowl fall foul
of fowl hunting cooks?
How many fowls' geese are cooked
before they flew from a foul hunting cook?

How many ducks' goose is cooked
because he didn't duck duck duck
when a fowl cook reached for his neck?

poem by David Taylor
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Music Is Philosophy

MUSIC IS PHILOSOPHY

Music is philosophy that's understood
without a need to read the book.
While Judaism is the Jews' religion, statehood
won't fully let them off the hook.

John Maseng in the Los Angeles Jewish Journal,5/25-31, writes about a production of Osvaldo Golijov's "Ainadamar, " an opera that tells the story of Garcia Lorca's life, and his death at the hand of the Falangists, through the eyes of his mistress, the actress Margarita Xirgu. The opera is being produced by the Long Beach Opera Company. Golijov told Maseng:

Jewish music is a point of view, it's a way of experiencing the world that at is translated into the music…There is something about music that transcends any need for explanation. I always feel that music is a sort of philosophy that's understood without a need to read the book. Not all music is universal, but all good music is universal."

5/28/12 #10336

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Duck

It is a white duck

During the rains a band of ducks afloat

against the cloud laden skies

only remind of the duck

The duck that wings unseen in the morning

and in the night

carrying the sunbeams and moonbeams

in its roseate beaks

The duck that lives on light

The duck that is the mount of Knowledge and Wisdom

Knowledge and wisdom always fights with one another

But when they ride the duck

they hold each other with loving arms

Or else they might fall from the shoulders of the duck

and break into pieces

In that case no one will be able to bring the pieces together

Alas! Alas!

poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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The Master's Hand

The painter was a genius,
His pupil knew this well,
For in the times that they discuss
They bond as in a spell...
They think such thoughts that change their art,
Their purpose and their style,
Such that new wisdom can impart
Its reasons for a smile...

The pupil spent a whole weekend
Within the studio,
Together with his brand new friend,
Who seemed all things to know...
The painting pupil's Easter scene
Was called The Cross of Christ.
Behold the Man... The Nazarene...
God's Lamb here sacrificed...

The pupil thought his painting done
When Sunday night came round,
He smiled as if a war was won,
As if a treasure found...
The master painter let him leave
So he could travel home
And yet Christ's painting made him grieve
The cruelty of Rome...

And in the night, he painted on,
Transforming here and there,
A stream of light to shine upon
The Saviour's bleeding hair...
With Pilate's words now coloured gold,
For all the world to see
The greatest story ever told...
Christ died for you and me...

When morning came, he painted still,
The gamblers at Christ's feet,
The thieves who died there on that hill,
The sort you'd hate to meet...
The scoffers in the crowd below
And Mary full of tears...
The crown of thorns, Christ's blood in flow,
While Satan stares and cheers...

Then something new the painter felt
That he should add that day...
A weeping angel humbly knelt
At Christ's feet there to pray...
He was Death's angel sent ahead
To see Christ crucified
And then to wait till Christ was dead
Before His blood had dried...

Then all was done... the painter wept...
The masterpiece complete...
He went to sleep and gently slept
And felt a peace so sweet...
That night, the pupil had returned,
He saw the work of art
And thus a new respect was earned
That stayed within his heart...

The exhibition hall was filled
The day it was on show
And everybody there was thrilled
With faces all aglow...
The Cross of Christ is famous now,
With posters sold worldwide,
For God was in that work somehow,
Just like when Jesus died...

Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.

We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...

poem by Denis Martindale
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Choose the work for worthy time

The work, linked with profit is not boring.
The work, linked with reward is interesting.
The work, linked with the ego is untiring.
The work, linked with love is inspiring
The work linked with sex is tempting

Other than these, what work you do
amounts to the waste of life.
23.03.2001, Pmdi

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Payment

A tortuous path of neurons arced a call: ‘Awake! ’
I did; in rising, peering, stretching, bearing,
Pained anticipation saw it all:
Foretold, another filthy day.

I drew the drape: diluvian lay the ground
Beneath a lazy leaden cloud – apissing out
The puddles; irksome on the roof –
The drumming drops of bitter glee
Were hounding out a hapless me –
Reinforcing doubt that I am sound.

I left the house
to go to work
to earn a crust
without a perk
then on to bust
another straining vessel.

Trudging on thro’ mud and clay, I pondered:
‘Why a drought of happy times?
Auspicious climes were
Old and fusty books
Atop a dusty shelf
Inside a morgue-of-a-room,
Somewhere in a long-forgotten library
Down a lane without a way.’

I thought again: ‘And still I pay.’

O how I
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work work work

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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All Day

Well Im hiding my eyes from the morning sun
And I keep on working till the work is all done
But a voice in my head keeps ticking away
As the sweats hosed down from yet another day
Well he works hard
And he lives hard
And he breaks his back without nothing to gain
While the boss man sits around and drinks champagne
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision
Well Im peeling the blisters off my working hand
Is that what it takes to make you understand?
That its something you read, not something you meant
To be slaving away without a shred of integrity
He worked hard
And he lived hard
And he broke his back without nothing to say
While the man in control was just laughing away
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision
Was it something you read?
Was it something you meant?
Was it something you said?
Or was it heaven sent?
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one transition
All day (you work and you work and you work and)
In life, theres just one decision

song performed by by Ministry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ballade Of Modest Confession

My reading is extremely deep and wide;
And as our modern education goes—
Unique I think, and skilfully applied
To Art and Industry and Autres Choses
Through many years of scholarly repose.
But there is one thing where I disappoint
My numerous admirers (and my foes).
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.

I ride superbly. When I say I 'ride'
The word's too feeble. I am one of those
That dominate a horse. It is my pride
To tame the fiercest with tremendous blows
Of heel and knee. The while my handling shows
Such lightness as a lady's. But Aroint
Thee! Human frailty with thy secret woes!
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.

Painting on Vellum: not on silk or hide
Or ordinary Canvas: I suppose
No painter of the present day has tried
So many mediums with success, or knows
As well as I do how the subject grows
Beneath the hands of genius, that anoint
With balm. But I have something to disclose—
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.

Envoi
Prince! do not let your Nose, your royal Nose,
Your large imperial Nose get out of Joint.
For though you cannot touch my golden Prose,
Painting on Vellum is my weakest point.

poem by Hilaire Belloc
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You'll Never Work In Dis Bidness Again

By: jimmy buffett, michael utley, vince melamed, josh leo,
Willie weeks, matt betton
For all of those who have dared to try, made it, and lived to tell about it.
-- spoken:
"he told it to the monkeys and they didn't talk back"
"then he told the old iguana and he didn't attack"
They told me before i started
That it never ever would work out
Stay in school, don't be a fool
But i had to see what life was about
So i went to biloxi seekin' fortune and fame
I got hired, i got fired, i got called dirty names
You'll never (never), never (never), work in dis bidness again
You'll never (never), no never (never)
Never work in dis bidness again
I knew i needed representation
And i found it one night in a bar
He was a bondsman and a part-time agent
And he said that he would make me a star
He said', "aaaah, you don't have to be that good
To make it out in hollywood
You just have to change and complain"
Or you'll never (never), never (never), work in dis bidness again
You'll never (never), no never (never)
Never work in dis bidness again
(synth and horn instrumental)
I parked cars at the rainbow
I sold maps of the stars
I got my nose broke in spago's
When i puked on the bar
And all i played's a double barmitzvah
(bubba played a double barmitzvah!)
It's a jungle out there (we love it)
Hell, i don't care
I'm going back to my predator friends
I will never (never), never (never), work in this bidness again
No i'll never (never), no never (never)
Never work in this bidness again
You'll never (never), never (never), work in this bidness again
-- spoken:
"ah, relax, vhere do you tink you're going vit dat suitcase?"
"i'm outta here!"
"you're leaving?! vat about my fifteen percent?"
"fifteen percent of nothin' is nothin'!"
"young man, you leave now and you'll never..."
"i'll never..."
"you'll never..."
"work in dis..."
"bizness..."
"bidness..."
"again!!"
- notes:
The parts of jimmy buffett and his manager played by vince melamed

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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a neighbor named tony somewhere in the Philippines

a neighbor named tony
is a Filipino and he just arrived yesterday
from the U S of A

we're happy to have him back
so the neighborhood can have his music and art back
(for he is a musician and a
visual artist
sculpture and painting
his skill
beside his expertise
in flowers and
gardening)

he says he is coming for good
in the US of A
he lost his work
and his Jewish master
has finally let him go
due to recession

he brings no money
and he meets no honey

his wife left him and took
all his children

at night he drinks himself
almost to death
he takes rock
and rocks himself all night

we have no way stopping him
we understand
what sorrow is
what life is
we wait how tony shall explain
his own death

we wish somehow
that he recovers
and then we may never
have any peace
in the Philippines.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Does Not Really Want To Write The Best Poem In The World?

yes, a five-star poem.
the one fit for first prize
awards, the one that will
make you famous
worldwide,
who does not like to
go on tv? read that famous
poem personally.

me? sorry i don't.
i am tired writing the best poem
of my life
been writing for years
i can imagine
trying to fit in
with the most famous ones
dead and alive
but i know i can never write it
because i can't
because i don't
because i do not have any reason
to write it.

i love to write.
AND that is foremost.
that is final. nothing ambitious.
nothing to change your world
or this world or that world
nothing to influence another
indonesian or turk
or swedish or
anybody or anything

what advantage do i get
when i say i just love to write
when i say i do not want to write the best poem in the world?

nothing, except the joy of having
to make the deep breath
in my life.

air that fills my lungs
and make me dream and make me sleep
longer than you do.