En.Citatepedia^®.ro

With Mine Own Petard

Time was the local poets sang their songs
Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs
I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke
Bards, like the conies, are 'a feeble folk,'
Fearing all noises but the one they make
Themselves-at which all other mortals quake.
Now from their cracked and disobedient throats,
Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes
Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves,
If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves;
As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all
The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall.
A year's exemption from the critic's curse
Mends the bard's courage but impairs his verse.
Thus poolside frogs, when croaking in the night,
Are frayed to silence by a meteor's flight,
Or by the sudden plashing of a stone
From some adjacent cottage garden thrown,
But straight renew the song with double din
Whene'er the light goes out or man goes in.
Shall I with arms unbraced (my casque unlatched,
My falchion pawned, my buckler, too, attached)
Resume the cuishes and the broad cuirass,
Accomplishing my body all in brass,
And arm in battle royal to oppose
A village poet singing through the nose,
Or strolling troubadour his lyre who strums
With clumsy hand whose fingers all are thumbs?
No, let them rhyme; I fought them once before
And stilled their songs-but, Satan! how they swore!
Cuffed them upon the mouth whene'er their throats
They cleared for action with their sweetest notes;
Twisted their ears (they'd oft tormented mine)
And damned them roundly all along the line;
Clubbed the whole crew from the Parnassian slopes,
A wreck of broken heads and broken hopes!
What gained I so? I feathered every curse
Launched at the village bards with lilting verse.
The town approved and christened me (to show its
High admiration) Chief of Local Poets!

poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Woman Of Rhyme

She is not what you'd call beautiful though still in her prime
And to those who know her she is known as The Woman of Rhyme
In Local Literary circles not even one of note
As she does not fit the bill of the Modern Poet.

But the rhyme from her gushes and it races along
And in five minutes flat she can pen you a song
And though not classified as a poet her verse is not doggerel
And with her gift of rhyme one might say she does well.

Some fifty years ago she would have known fame
And her's would have been a great Literary name
But rhyme it would seem has passed it's use by date
And what's now seen as old fashioned was once seen as great.

Even the best of the Local modern poets seem strangers to renown
But then such is life in a football mad Town
In the pubs the names of famed poets and artists they never recall
Their small talk mostly of sports, footballers and football.

For what she is good at she is not recognized
But having said that I am not really surprised
since rhyme verse has long passed it's glorious time
And none to applaud the young Woman of Rhyme.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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L'audace

Daughter of God! Audacity divine
Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign
Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool,
Not thine of idiots the vocal drool:
Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass,
Presumption, actuates the charging ass.
Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings
Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings;
The notes should mount on pinions true and strong,
For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song,
Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng!
Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails,
They (notes, not angels) dropp and the hymn fails;
The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs
Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums.
Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand
For stronger voices and a harder hand:
Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire,
And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire!

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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To a Vers Librist

"Oh bard," I said, "your verse is free;
The shackles that encumber me,
The fetters that are my obsession,
Are never gyves to your expression.

"The fear of falsities in rhyme,
In metre, quantity, or time,
Is never yours; you sing along
Your unpremeditated song."

"Correct," the young vers librist said.
"Whatever pops into my head
I write, and have but one small fetter:
I start each line with a capital letter.

"But rhyme and metre--Ishkebibble!--
Are actually negligible.
I go ahead, like all my school,
Without a single silly rule."

Of rhyme I am so reverential
He made me feel quite inconsequential.
I shed some strongly saline tears
For bards I loved in younger years.

"If Keats had fallen for your fluff,"
I said, "he might have done good stuff.
If Burns had thrown his rhymes away,
His songs might still be sung to-day."

O bards of rhyme and metre free,
My gratitude goes out to ye
For all your deathless lines--ahem!
Let's see, now . . . What is one of them?

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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The Superb Lyrebird's Song

Amongst the songbirds of Australia with the superb lyrebird as a mimic there is none to compare
He can incorporate the songs of the local songbirds in his song something that is quite rare
The voices of the kookaburra, blackbird, butcherbird and currawong
Are just three of the many voices in the master mimic's song
With the World's best songbird mimics the lyrebird he does rate
The voices of the cockatoos, rosellas, whipbirds and shrike thrush he can easily imitate
The songs of the robins, magpies and scrubwrens in his song you can recognize
Yes the lyrebird is a mimic who never ceases to surprise,
His varied song is beauitiful and his voice it carries far
He can imitate the noise of a chainsaw or the horn of a motor car,
On his display mound with his lyre shaped tail feathers above his back fanned out in a great display
He imitates the songs of the other birds in the woodland every day
And in his breeding Season he gushes forth in miming song
And the notes of any local bird he never does get wrong.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Word from the Bards

IT IS New Year’s Day and I rise to state that here on the Sydney side
The Bards have commenced to fill out of late and they’re showing their binjies with pride
They’re patting their binjies with pride, old man, and I want you to understand,
That a binjied bard is a bard indeed when he sings in the Southern Land,
Old chaps,
When he sings in the Southern Land.

For the Southern Land is the Poet’s Home, and over the world’s wide roam,
There was never till now a binjied bard that lived in a poet’s home, old man;
For the poet’s home was a hell on earth, and I want you to understand,
That it isn’t exactly a paradise down here in the Southern Land,
Old chap,
Down here in the Southern Land.

The Beer and the Bailiff were gone last night and the “temple” doorstep clean,
And our heads are clear and our hearts are light with wine from the Riverine—
With wine from the Riverine, old man, and I want you to understand
That Bard, Beer and Bailiff too long were kin down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.

It is not because of a larger fee, nor yet that the bards are free,
For the bards I know and the bards I see are married enough for three;
Are married enough for three, old man, and I want you to understand,
They’ve a right to be married enough for four, down here in the Southern Land,
My girl,
Down here in the Southern Land.

But I think it’s because a bird went round and twittered in ears of men
That bards have care and the world seems bare as seen from the rhyming den,
And twittered in ears of men, old chaps, and got folks to understand
That a poet is something more than a joke down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.

poem by Henry Lawson
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To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring

(For Kenton)

An iron hand has stilled the throats
That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
That drenched the world in melody.
The blosmy apple boughs are yearning
For their wild choristers' returning,
But no swift wings flash through the tree.

Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,
Shall Silence take you in her net?
And shall Death quell that radiant song
Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?
Burst the frail web about you clinging
And charm Death's cruel heart with singing
Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.

The scented morning of the year
Is old and stale now ye are gone.
No friendly songs the children hear
Among the bushes on the lawn.
When babies wander out a-Maying
Will ye, their bards, afar be straying?
Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?

Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.
Above the stars is set your nest.
Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly
And in the trees of Heaven rest.
And little children in their dreaming
Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming
And smile, by your clear music blest.

poem by Joyce Kilmer
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The Cosmic Orchestra

With the break of dawning day,
The feathered folks greet the world,
In resonant notes of alluring songs,
They fill the hearts with rapturous glee.

Far or near a church bell sings,
Vibrant notes of chiming verse,
It floats around in rambling waves,
Urging the world to wake and work.

On fluttering wings the gentle breeze,
Comes down, to tickle the tender leaves,
Together do they sing and dance,
In delightful chorus to thrill the hearts.

Later sometime the falling rain,
Sings a song in rhythmic notes,
With rising strains and falling lilts,
The music goes on high and low.

Far away from mountain slopes,
Flow down, narrow glistening streams,
Spiralling over pebbles and rocks,
They muse a melody so sweet to hear.

As the setting Sun in Western sky,
Paints the clouds in crimson shades,
‘The frayed nerves' stroll to the beach,
To feast on the song of surging waves.

When darkness spreads and wraps the earth,
Beasts and birds - they together sing,
The Grand Finale to the Great Concert,
Played in league with the Cosmic Band.

Music hides in every heart,
Its celestial strains nourish the lives,
Tune it right with prudent care,
Lest it die in the cacophony of sounds.

poem by Valsa George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Town Poets

They have the ticket draw for the football club
But never a poets hour at the local pub
'Twould seem that cricket and football are the in thing
And horse racing at the back end of the Spring
But of course the Town poets have their own poetry night
On saturday evenings at the bowling club rooms their poems they recite
The local lovers of poetry their night out enjoy
To watch local favourite poets such as Rina, Kate and Roy
Reciting their poetry and strutting their stuff
It cannot be said of them not quite good enough
Quite talented poets the tops of the Town
Young poets in their thirties who dream of renown
And recite their poems in the rooms of the bowling club
Whilst it's a different scene at the Town's biggest pub.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Song Of A Rhyming Man

I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
This modern verse too much for me it's way above my head
Though modern poets are now the rage and Rhyme is with the dead.

I love the sound of rhyming words, I love the verse that rhyme
To blank or free or non rhyme verse prefer it every time
And there's many who will disagree and most will say I'm wrong
But give me ballad or rhyme verse or good old rhyming song.

You may say I am limited and with you most will agree
That I'm not into modern verse of twenty first century
But I've been an old style rhyming man since nineteen seventy three
And I am in my sixties now and there's no changing me.

I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
And I am guilty of no sin and I can't see no crime
In liking sound of rhyming verse and loving words that rhyme

poem by Francis Duggan
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It's up to you for M lady Flora

The mist that crept in from the sea.
Advancing inexorably,
enveloped first the sandy beach.
Then well beyond the high tides reach

Invaded streets and avenues
the thoroughfares that people use.
To go about their business.
A wet and cold unpleasantness.

Which nobody had seen before
at least along that friendly shore.
Exuding sheer hostility
as if the demons of the sea.

Deciding that humanity.
had forfeited their right to be.
Had gathered there with one intent
to prove the sea omniscient.

The villagers were sore afraid
some cursed and swore while others prayed.
Though neither made much difference.
Against such mist there’s no defence.

The village disappeared from sight.
Hid by a mist as black as night.
When morning broke there was no one.
No body left to greet the sun.

Now to this day the village stands
although nobody understands.
What happened on that dreadful night
when the sea fret absorbed the light.

No one survived to tell the tale.
Enough to make the bravest quail.
Perhaps you think I’m telling lies
But you will find to your surprise.

If you should choose to visit me
from my front window you can see.
The evidence that what say
A village empty to this day.

Nobody dares to move into
the empty village and renew
a single house in which to live.
Because of legends kept alive.

By older folks who can recall
the night the demons came to call.
If you should wish to you could buy
the whole village and you could try.

To sell the houses one by one
if you’re convinced it can be done.
I think your work would be in vain
What happened once could come again.

To local folks it is taboo
and there is nothing you can do.
but try to sell to foreigners
Who do not know about the curse.

I own the site and I would sell
quite cheaply and I’d wish you well
If you’re prepared to take the chance
There’s been a change of circumstance.

For there are profits to be made.
Maybe the mist will not invade
maybe the tales I tell aren’t true
what you believe is up to you.

I am too old to change my ways
and I prefer to end my days
believing as I’ve always done.
This village should left alone.

24-Jul-08

http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Last Line

The last line
By: keith sykes
1977
Given my life for songs that I sing
Matter of fact, Ive given everything
Time has come to not make a sound
Time has come to lay my burdens down
Whoa oh oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Whoa oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Its come from behind
Now is the time
For the last line (last line)
Managed to keep some friends on my side
To live through the times of the rumors and lies
Now its time to rest my heart
Let some other innocent fool take my part
Whoa oh oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Whoa oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Its come from behind
Now is the time
For the last line (last line)
( saxophone solo)
Whoa oh oh oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Whoa oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Its come from behind
Now its the time
For the last line (last line)
So dont pay me no mind, Im walkin away
Youll see me again on some other day
Youll see me again, Ill be ready to go
And pour out my songs with my heart and my soul
Whoa oh oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Whoa oh (woe oh woe oh woe oh)
Its come from behind
Now is the time
For the last line (last line)
Yes its come from behind
Now is the time
For the last line (last line)
Ah the last line (last line)
- notes:
Background vocals: deborah mccoll, penny nichols
Tenor sax solo: harvey thompson

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Mr. Henry Lawes, Who Had Then Newly Set a Song of Mine

Verse makes heroic virtue live;
But you can life to verses give.
As, when in open air we blow,
The breath, though strained, sounds flat and low;
But if a trumpet take the blast,
It lifts it high, and makes it last:
So in your airs and our numbers dressed,
Make a shrill sally from the breast
Of nymphs, who, singing what we penned,
Our passions to themselves commend;
While love, victorious with thy art,
Governs at once their voice and heart.

You, by the help of tune and time,
Can make that song which was but rhyme.
Noy pleading, no man doubts the cause;
Or questions verses set by Lawes.

As a Church window, thick with paint,
Lets in a light but dim and faint,
So others, with division, hide
The light of sense, the poet's pride;
But you alone may truly boast
That not a syllable is lost:
The writer's and the setter's skill
At once the ravished ears do fill.
Let those which only warble long,
And gargle in their throats a song,
Content themselves with
ut, re, mi
:
Let words, and sense, be set by thee.

poem by Edmund Waller
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A Parody

When first, Philander, first I came
Where Avon rolls his winding stream,
The nymphs, how brisk, the swains, how gay,
To see Asteria, queen of May!
The parsons round her praises sung!
The steeples with her praises rung!-
I thought no sight that e'er was seen
Could match the sight of Barel's Green!

But now, since old Eugenio died-
The chief of poets, and the pride-
Now, meaner bards in vain aspire
To raise their voice, to tune their lyre!
Their lovely season now is o'er;
Thy notes, Florelio, please no more!
Nor more Asteria's smiles are seen-
Adieu!-the sweets of Barel's Green!

poem by William Shenstone
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PH, To Me

When I joined the ranks of poets
At PH a few months hence
I found a group of people
Whom I now consider friends

Though, as a poet, I suspect,
I’ll ne'er be thought renowned
Still I love to show my work
Where it’s seen the world around

This site has been a boon to me,
Writing more than I used to,
And I think, by reading other bards
My own work’s been improved

I see this site as a privilege
And, one not to be abused
When angry tensions oft arise
It leaves me quite confused

Each item I submit in verse
Though meaningful to me
I suspect that, not, to all who read
Twill be their cup of tea

At times, much better poets
Than I, their work, submit
And even though, I know it’s great
I just can’t “get into” it

But if, alas, I take offense
At values, different than my own
I, simply, note the poet’s name
Click the mouse and move along

If a rude and contentious poet
Should offend enough, on site
Their work, no longer, would be read
Which would be their ultimate price

Copyright C R Clark-4/28/2008

poem by C.R. Clark
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In The City Of Poets,12/26/09

in the city
of poets
all men
are equals
and stride about
congratulating
one another
on their genius.

in the city
of poets
the statistics
of attentive readers
exceed
all expectations
and the bookstores
burst
like fat silos
with their harvest
of rhyme.

in the city
of poets
passports
to immortality
are issued
with abandon,
frontiers
evaporate,
and customs gates
are thrown open
by exuberant
and trusting
guards.

The city of poets
is a classless
society
where no one
dares admit
the existence
of aristocrats
or kings
and everyone
shamelessly
lays claim
to successful
expression.

In the city of poets
bad verse
drives out good
or rather
drowns it
in a sea
of mediocrity,
a conspiracy
of equality,
a brotherhood
of banality,
and every man
is his own
best
bard.

poem by Percy Dovetonsils
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The literary life

We went to the house
of Afrikaans poetry together
on weekends and spent hours there
and listened to the master lecture
and met some poet friends
around a table
with a drink or two.

Sometimes the poetry was Afrikaans,
English, Dutch or even German
and we learnt form poets
around the globe.

We discussed what we had
just learned,
asked about his views
of certain things,
or what people in the group think,
discussed poetry, life,
sometimes even politics
and philosophy
as individuals of a group.

We read our poems,
listened to other poets,
reading their own,
analysed every word, every line
comprehending meaning, impact
and sharpened our art.

Your poetry was really great,
from when I read the very first line,
but mine had still to grow
from rhyme into free verse.

At times I hated comments
that forced me to move,
but realized that it was meant
with great goodwill
and even though I was in pain
I sharpened my verse
and free verse brought
a clearer ear, making it
much easier to write
great rhyme.

Now that I had to leave Pretoria,
weekends I really miss
that great writing school,
new poems from great poets,
learning something there,
experiencing poetry at its core,
lectures from that great master
and verses of his own,
but much more
your poems.

poem by Gert Strydom
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By The Way

Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Dani the girl
is singing songs to me
Beneath the marquee... overload

Steak Knife Caro Shark
Con Job Boot Cut

Skin that flick
She's such a little DJ
Get there quick
By street but not the freeway
turn that trick
to make a little leeway
Beat that nic
But not the way that we play

Dog Town Blood Bath
Rib Cage Soft Tail

Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for

Black Jack Dope Dick
Pawn Shop Quick Pick

Kiss that Dyke
I know you want to hold one
Not on strike
But I'm about to bowl one
Bite that mic
I know you never stole one
Girls that like
A story so I told one

Song Bird Main Line
Cash Back Hard top

Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Dani the girl
is singing songs to me
Beneath the marquee... of her soul
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for

Chant

Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Dani the girl
is singing songs to me
Beneath the marquee... of her soul
By the way I tried to say
I know you
Looking for
Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for

song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers from By The Way
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Way (live Acoustic)

Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Dani the girl
is singing songs to me
Beneath the marquee... overload
Steak Knife Card Shark
Con Job Boot Cut
Skin that flick
She's such a little DJ
Get there quick
By street but not the freeway
turn that trick
to make a little leeway
Beat that nic
But not the way that we play
Dog Town Blood Bath
Rib Cage Soft Tail
Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Black Jack Dope Dick
Pawn Shop Quick Pick
Kiss that Dyke
I know you want to hold one
Not on strike
But I'm about to bowl one
Bite that mic
I know you never stole one
Girls that like
A story so I told one
Song Bird Main Line
Cash Back Hard top
Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Dani the girl
is singing songs to me
Beneath the marquee... of her soul
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Chant
Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for
Dani the girl
is singing songs to me
Beneath the marquee... of her soul
By the way I tried to say
I know you
From before
Standing in line
To see the show tonight
And there's a light on
Heavy glow
By the way I tried to say
I'd be there... waiting for

song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time Mends A Broken Heart

(jeff lynn/ kiki dee)
Producer for bonnie: christopher neil
Im living in another time another place
I knew you then
It used to be a different world
And now I start to live again
A sight of heaven in a grain of sand
Leading me on taking me by the hand
Time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Love tears it all apart
But time mends a broken heart
I see you in another life
Theres someone else that I didnt know
Theres someone else that I dont know
It used to hurt me deep inside
I had to learn to let you go
I thought that happiness was by your side
I didnt know that it was here in me
And still alive
Time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Love tears it all apart
But time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Love tears it all apart
But time mends a broken heart

song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Its Croaking Shows Its Presence! !

The croaking echoes through the neighborhood,
the blasting croaking echoes as braying,
sometimes as barking, another time as whistling,
the sounds of croaking may crack our heads,
in the tropical region where it rains,
every other day and musical begins,
with the mono syllabic cricket,
house lizards join them occasionally,
The frogs repeats one day and one night,
as the Native American folklore says,
brother sun agreed and the bear hibernated,
the frogs repeat one day and one night,
it may not be alive the next day,
unnecessary croaking,
is being heard by something,
that slithers and hungry,
its croaking showed its presence,
right to the mouth of that reptile.
In the middle of the meetings,
some of us croak to show our presence,
Croak the wrong information,
out of our peanut brains,
sometimes we croak in the viva verse,
mostly something the invigilators unaware,
fail us then and there,
keeping quiet, sometimes good,
people assume that we know many things,
Politicians croak,
clergies croak,
our teachers croak,
our parents croak,
our children croak,
you and I croak,
our nature make us to croak,
most of the times we get caught,
because we croak a lot.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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