Elegy
The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Glosa
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
The lowing herd winds solely o’er the lea.
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
and leaves the world to darkness and to me
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
A hush descends upon the countryside,
now is the hour when owls come out to prey.
Like ghosts on silent feathered wings they glide
The lowing herds winds slowly oe’r the lea.
Quite soon they will be relieved of their distress.
The bursting udders emptied easily.
Their heightened pace betrays their eagerness.
The ploughman homewards plods his weary way.
He’s more than ready for his evening meal,
he and his horse have worked along hard day
and both were glad to hear the tocsin bell.
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
I wait and watch for the stars to appear
and marvel at their punctuality.
I wonder if they too some signal hear
Poeticpiers aka ivor
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Britain's Slough and Upton
Brief Synopsis:
Just prior to German air raids on Slough
in World War Two, Thames Valley was
progressing with a new industrial plan,
which could have brought distress to
the peaceful rural land...John Betjeman,
the poet, wrote rhyming words to disapprove;
what more could a disappointed Laureate do?
'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough,
it isn't fit for humans now'. John Betjeman.
But Slough today is a pleasant town,
where every amenity can be found...
and yew trees surround the graveyard
of the Norman Church of renown.
'Twas here ~ in his own Slough garden
Sir William Hershall of astronomy fame
built the world's large telescope,
for which stargazers honour his name.
And Sir Thomas Gray, poet supreme,
wrote a most delightful theme:
I now quote the first four lines of a very
long poem from historical times:
'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard'
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
the lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
the plowman homeward plods his weary way
and leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Thomas Gray.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Ilusion
under mango tree
every evening
a spell of
in front of my house
father fiddle faddle until night
still converse its dreams
very rich country dream
from money which is taken care of
from nymph, genie, and other smooth creature
without job
that empty
dream always twist
and offer the sham bliss
even so
they do not bored
conversing of it until today
and just still be [of] people got taken
with illusion.
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Fiddle About
Uncle ernie:
Uncle ernie:
Im your wicked uncle ernie
Im your wicked uncle ernie
Im glad you wont see or hear me
Im glad you wont see or hear me
As I fiddle about
As I fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about !
Fiddle about !
Your mother left me here to mind you
Your mother left me here to mind you
Now Im doing what I want to
Now Im doing what I want to
Fiddling about
Fiddling about
Fiddling about
Fiddling about
Fiddle about!
Fiddle about!
Down with the bedclothes
Down with the bedclothes
Up with the nightshirt!
Up with the nightshirt!
Fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about !
Fiddle about !
You wont shout as I fiddle about
You wont shout as I fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about
Fiddle about !
Fiddle about !
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle.
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle.
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once you are labeled 'the best' you want to stay up there, and you can't do it by loafing around.
quote by Larry Bird
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Itching Heels
FU' de peace o' my eachin' heels, set down;
Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'.
Don' you see how dat melody stuhs me up
An' baigs me to tek to de flo'?
You knows I's a Christian, good an' strong;
I wusship f'om June to June;
My pra'ahs dey ah loud an' my hymns ah long:
I baig you don' fiddle dat chune.
I's a crick in my back an' a misery hyeah
Whaih de j'ints's gittin' ol' an' stiff,
But hit seems lak you brings me de bref o' my youf;
W'y, I's suttain I noticed a w'iff.
Don' fiddle dat chune no mo', my chile,
Don' fiddle dat chune no mo';
I'll git up an' taih up dis groun' fu' a mile,
An' den I'll be chu'ched fu' it, sho'.
Oh, fiddle dat chune some mo', I say,
An' fiddle it loud an' fas':
I's a youngstah ergin in de mi'st o' my sin;
De p'esent's gone back to de pas'.
I'll dance to dat chune, so des fiddle erway;
I knows how de backslidah feels;
So fiddle it on 'twell de break o' de day
Fu' de sake o' my eachin' heels.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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A Minor Key
A minor key, a minor key
has really taken over me.
It's got me low, so darned low
as low as I can ever go.
Those saddened tones with its minor 3rds
have influenced what I say with words.
So many days have passed me by
when the minor 3rds have made me cry.
Tomorrow I'll raise them a half tone
to stop the pain that seems to have grown.
Oh sweet music take me back
to a major sound. It's what I lack.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Immortalize Lameness
mother gang at elbow worker of vegetable salesgirl
at the same time fiddle faddle
how its stomach is price in this time
and how the husband do not visit to add the
their expense money
at elbow its boost the high rise physical plant
what its dweller is incoming exit of car
pass in front of the them
they expense have never here
they expense of through phoning
goods is ushering
in their priest enquire
whether this Iameness as God destiny
or there is invisible hand
making them lame
or intellectual result the best craft of the brain
to immortalize Iameness.
poem by Prasetya Utama
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To Vanessa Mae
after the fiddle in the wildest harmonies
of your classical violin
please come to my room and fiddle
the best of all the best songs
the base, the tip of my top, the
giggle of the gigs inside my
underwear, there is this fire
that damns me to an eternal longing
this madness not anymore bound
to a second fiddle. play me, please.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Song Of Spring
The Spring comes slowly up this way,
Slowly, slowly,
Under a snood of hodden grey.
The black and white for her array,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
Where is her green that was so gay?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
Unto a world too sick for May,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
Where are the lads that used to play?
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
She has no heart for holiday,
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up this way.
The trees are out in Heaven they say.
Slowly, slowly,
The Spring comes slowly up our way.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Are These Not Our Choices?
we are sometimes
as human beings
as inferior beings
too smart
too sharp
too insolent
for our own good
for the good of others
for the good of community
the quick wit
the ready wit
the sharp tack
may be entertaining
may be a joy to behold
may be a blessing to friends
may be a blessing to us all
or is usually of good heart
or is relatively harmless
or is a minor inconvenience at worst
a minor discomfort
a minor difficulty
a minor annoyance
the clever
possessing intelligence
mental alertness
can be witty amusing
or disrespectful
impertinent abusive
but the shrewd
calculating
in business
other dealings
may bless aid us!
or fleece curse us!
the sharp minds
may perceive protect us
or cause sharp
stinging sensations
as they cut into our senses
the sharp minds
may cause mild
embarrassment
or even acute
shame humiliation
the choice may range
from creative witticism
to unpleasant criticism
a spoken or written
opinion expressed
may be right or wrong
may encourage
or point out find fault
considered judgment
assessment of qualities
is a moral obligation!
analysis
appreciation
uplifting praise
caring intentions
or censure
disapproval
disparagement
condem nation
which are your choices?
the smart asses
are less dangerous
than the con artists
and the stalkers
the insolent
may be disrespectful
in speech or behaviour
may be aggressive
but this is not wise!
in life it is not possible
to ever be too wise!
we do not see
we do not perceive enough
know enough
to always fully realize
the consequences of our choices
we are never wise enough
for the deceptive shadows of this world
we can never be too wise
sadly none of us are perceptive
enough wise enough often enough
but classic dumb ass
seems to be
always a dime a dozen!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Song
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple trees,
Where the gay winds do most desire
To run in companies.
There, where the gay winds stay to woo
The young leaves as they pass,
My love goes slowly, bending to
Her shadow on the grass.
And where the sky’s a pale blue cup
Over the laughing land,
My love goes lightly, holding up
Her dress with dainty hand.
poem by James Joyce
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My Love Is in a Light Attire
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple-trees,
Where the gay winds do most desire
To run in companies.
There, where the gay winds stay to woo
The young leaves as they pass,
My love goes slowly, bending to
Her shadow on the grass;
And where the sky's a pale blue cup
Over the laughing land,
My love goes lightly, holding up
Her dress with dainty hand.
poem by James Joyce
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Perhaps I Will Never More See Him
Perhaps I will never more see him we shook hands in saying goodbye
He seems to be getting quite feeble he turned seventy four last July
He suffers of asthma and emphysema the years on him are taking toll
Time does not wait for anybody and growing old is beyond our control,
A generous and kind hearted old fellow and one who
has a 'heart of gold'
And wise in the ways of the World 'tis sad to see him growing frail and old
I am leaving soon for to live elsewhere and him I may never more meet
The old bloke who lives in the one room flat in the retirement Village off of the Main Street
On shaking hands with him in parting the tears I struggled to contain
Perhaps this goodbye is forever and perhaps I won't see him again
He smiled and said see you soon I answered surely at such a time one has to pretend
For his sake I hid from him the way I was feeling to me he is such a dear friend
I must say he looks rather feeble and is showing every one of his years
We shook hands and as I walked homewards my eyes misted over with tears.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To Be Free
Staring at an empty screen
I can sometimes
Feel like dying
Doing what I have to do
I can almost
Hear you crying
This is how it feels
Funny how its all so real
This is how it feels
To be free
To be free
Figures slowly come to life
Almost always
They are having
Minor problems minor strife
I can almost
Hear you laughing
This is how it feels
Using up the time we steal
This is how it feels
To be free
So this is how it feels to be free
song performed by by Information Society
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Youth and Age
Youth and Age
Oh! Such glorious evening!
Is it melted gold
Poured
Across the skies?
Or
Is it from an artist's
Giant Palette
Splashed so bright?
My spirit bounces
At the enchanting reflection
In the shimmering waters;
At the twitter of the birds
From the swinging branches;
At the colourful flowers
Gently swaying in the breeze.
I dance
To the tune of my mind,
With the bells jingling;
It's soulful music ringing,
I am caught in a trance!
I emerge slowly—
Very slowly—
Only to find
Darkness
Having enveloped me!
Groping,
I shiver and shudder!
Alas! Youth has passed away! !
Age has come to stay!
Hark! Is it the bell jingling?
Nay! It is the death-knell tolling!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Dum Dum Diddle
I can hear how you work, practising hard
Playing night and day, woah-oh
And it sounds better now
Yes, you improve every time you play, woah-oh
But its bad
Youre so sad
And youre only smiling
When you play your violin
Dum-dum-diddle, to be your fiddle
To be so near you and not just hear you
Dum-dum-diddle, to be your fiddle
I think then maybe youd see me, baby
Youd be mine
And wed be together all the time
Wish I was, dum-dum-diddle, your darling fiddle
But I think you dont know that I exist
Im the quiet kind, woah-oh
From the day when I first listened to you
Youve been on my mind, woah-oh
You dont care
Its not fair
And youre only smiling
When you play your violin
Dum-dum-diddle, to be your fiddle
To be so near you and not just hear you
Dum-dum-diddle, to be your fiddle
I think then maybe youd see me, baby
Youd be mine
And wed be together all the time
Dum-dum-diddle, to be your fiddle
To be so near you and not just hear you
Dum-dum-diddle, to be your fiddle
I think then maybe youd see me, baby
Youd be mine
And wed be together all the time
Wish I was, dum-dum-diddle, your darling fiddle
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Melancholly
Hence, hence, all you vaine delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly:
Ther's nought in this life sweete,
If men were wise to see'te
But only Melancholly:
O sweetest Melancholly!
Welcome folded armes and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A looke that's fastned to the ground,
A tongue chayned upp without a sound.
Fountains heads, and pathlesse groves,
Places which pale Passion loves:
Moonlike wakes, when all the Fowles
Are warmly housde, save Batts and Owles:
A midnight knell: a parting groane:
These are the sounds wee feede upon.
Then, stretch your bones in a still gloomy vally,
Ther's nothing daynty, sweete, save Melancholly.
poem by William Strode
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Untitled 22
been quite a time
i stayed inside of myself
probing what i am, and then
the time comes for change
i must go out of myself
and find who i am, i must
answer the questions of my heart
without the help of my mind
letting go what i feel, and
not telling, just like puffing smoke
to the air, alone, without you,
not saying anything, to the sun
it is like sitting on the side of the road
where all others stand and wait, and
you ask me, 'what are you doing? '
and i tell you, 'Nothing! ', and then
you go your way as i stay merely
looking, loafing, nothing to do.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We Are All The Snow Men
WE ARE ALL THE SNOW MEN
(Homage to Wallace Stevens)
We are all the snow men
Minor would- be Poets
Listening in the distant glitter
To the poem someone else has written
Far better than us.
We are all the quiet readers
Connecting our eyes and ears with images
Finer than those
We can ourselves fantasize:
The ‘junipers shagged with ice’
And ‘the spruces rough in the distant glitter’
We are all minor makers of our own nothingness
Beside the Great Poets who find a music of the soul
We seek and strive for and never find.
We are all the lesser snow men
Out in the cold of our own small minds
Shivering to death in the unending winter
of our own frosted souls
While the great long-lines rise up in flight
And go by
Beyond ‘ambiguous undulations’
A fierce parting light
Our bare selves
strain to surmise and survive.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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