A Song
Persuade me not, there is a Grace
Proceeds from Silvia's Voice or Lute,
Against Miranda's charming Face
To make her hold the least Dispute.
Musick, which tunes the Soul for Love,
And stirs up all our soft Desires,
Do's but the glowing Flame improve,
Which pow'rful Beauty first inspires.
Thus, whilst with Art she plays, and sings
I to Miranda, standing by,
Impute the Music of the Strings,
And all the melting Words apply
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Miranda
At the end of the day
The end of the light
She remains of all of her foes
Miranda is dying with all of her might
She never comes
She always goes
She sticks the camera right into her arm
Anything to forget what the troubles about
It causes her pain
Thats part of the charm
Shes down for the count
And finally out
Miranda is taking the stars down
A little something to call her own
By the light there still goes miranda
And miranda is always alone
She sees her face in another magazine
And the walls all close in
As the fancy takes flight
Cant stand to be loved
But she loves to be seen
She slips headlong into the night
Miranda is taking the stars down
A little something to call her own
By the light there still goes miranda
And miranda is always alone
And then all at once
The sun starts to rise
She sees her father holding her down
All the daylight is poison to her eyes
She slips down the shade
And lets herself drown
Miranda is taking the stars down
A little something to call her own
By the light there still goes miranda
And miranda is always alone
The lights shot down in the arena
All across the safety zone
Loneliness follows miranda
And miranda is always alone
Miranda is always alone
Miranda is always alone
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty
Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.
Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.
Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.
Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?
Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?
poem by Ogden Nash
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Inside Silvia
I love that look comes in your eyes when were all alone
And its much too late for friends to come calling
I disconnect the phone
And I put on the radio and I take her and I talk real low
And I hold her tight and soon Im dancing in the night
Inside silvia, oh silvia, yeah, yeah, silvia
I know my love is alive
Inside silvia, yeah silvia, oh silvia, oh
Sometimes you get so crazy and I know its all in your mind
And right in the middle of the night, I see just what you need
And they say that love is blind
And I hold you till the feelings come
But sometimes when the lovins done I see the scared little girl
Afraid of the woman
Inside silvia, oh silvia, yeah, yeah, silvia
I know my love is alive
Inside silvia, yeah silvia, oh silvia, oh
Though the world may rage and storm
Theres still one harbor where Im safe and warm
Its when Im inside silvia, yeah silvia, oh silvia, oh
Inside silvia, oh silvia, yeah, yeah, silvia
I know my love is alive
Inside silvia, yeah silvia, oh silvia, oh
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet LX. To An Amiable Girl
MIRANDA! mark where shrinking from the gale,
Its silken leaves yet moist with early dew,
That fair faint flower, the Lily of the vale
Droops its meek head, and looks, methinks, like you!
Wrapp'd in a shadowy veil of tender green,
Its snowy bells a soft perfume dispense,
And bending as reluctant to be seen,
In simple loveliness it sooths the sense.
With bosom bared to meet the garish day,
The glaring Tulip, gaudy, undismay'd,
Offends the eye of taste; that turns away
To seek the Lily in her fragrant shade.
With such unconscious beauty, pensive, mild,
Miranda charms--Nature's soft modest child.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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The Future
Miranda July, Hamish Linklater, David Warshofsky, Isabella Acres, Joe Putterlik, Angela Trimbur, Mary Passeri, Kathleen Gati
by Miranda July from The Future (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Beauty in Islam,
Beauty in Islam,
The Beauty is all a Reality in the Soul of a man,
Whilst from History great Prophets had great Foreseen Events,
The Living men that wrote had an Impact in Purity,
Whilst Islam hold's Beauty in Morals and Grace,
We realised that in Society,
There is more than Religion when you Understand the Word,
It is in Love and Good Intentions that Mankind Prosper,
Whilst the New World Emerges,
Islam hold's a great Source to Human Prosperity,
Since the Book taught mankind alot of Lessons from Science to Spiritual,
Beauty agains't Ugly and Immorality,
It plays a major role in Human Emotions and agains't whispers of bad men and Unbelievers.
poem by Abdul Karim
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The Music Comes And Goes
by: Tripp
the soothing sounds of a piano to a guitar the sounds they make
the feeling It brings when the piano sings playing the strings of a guitar
the times come and goes as the music grows
in the heart of those who play
thinking of that one thing that brings epiphany to that instrument you play
as you hold and take care playing with hopes and dreams the music slips through
and sings
i can't get enough of what it does to me
when i hear that sound that voice
the music she brings to my heart when I'm with her
her voice is the epiphany to my heart
holding on to her the music keeps playing
my heart keeps beating as the music plays
i keep dreaming dreaming holding on hoping this song will never end
dreaming to fall in love with this instrument forever
she is my instrument
poem by Preston Trip
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On Huntingdon's "Miranda"
The storm hath blown thee a lover, sweet,
And laid him kneeling at thy feet.
But, -- guerdon rich for favor rare!
The wind hath all thy holy hair
To kiss and to sing through and to flare
Like torch-flames in the passionate air,
About thee, O Miranda.
Eyes in a blaze, eyes in a daze,
Bold with love, cold with amaze,
Chaste-thrilling eyes, fast-filling eyes
With daintiest tears of love's surprise,
Ye draw my soul unto your blue
As warm skies draw the exhaling dew,
Divine eyes of Miranda.
And if I were yon stolid stone,
Thy tender arm doth lean upon,
Thy touch would turn me to a heart,
And I would palpitate and start,
-- Content, when thou wert gone, to be
A dumb rock by the lonesome sea
Forever, O Miranda.
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in --
And the ting, tong, tang, of the guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more; Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.
poem by Hilaire Belloc (31 December 1929)
Submitted by anonym
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Corinna
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear.
But when she doth of mourning speak,
Even with her sighs the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die;
Led by her passion, so must I.
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring;
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
Even from my heart the strings do break.
poem by Thomas Campion
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When to her Lute Corinna Sings
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear,
As any challenged echo clear;
But when she doth of mourning speak,
E'en with her sighs, the strings do break,
And as her lute doth live or die,
Led by her passion, so must I:
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring,
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
E'en from my heart the strings do break
poem by Thomas Campion
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Sweet Music Man
I didn't listen, and I couldn't see,
And all I have left now,
Are words she gave to me
Sing me a song sweet music man,
'Cause I won't be there to hold your hand
Like I used to,
I'm through with you
You touched my soul with your beautiful song
You even had me singing along right with you
You said "I needed you"
But then you changed the words and that harmony
And you sang that song you'd written for me
To someone new
But nobody sings a love song quite like you do,
And nobody else can make me sing along,
And nobody else can make me feel
That things are right when they're wrong,
Nobody sings a love song quite like you.
Sing me a song sweet music man,
Your making a living doing one night stands
that do for you what you need them to
Your still a hell of a singer but a broken man
And you surround yourself with people who demand
So little of you
But nobody sings a love song quite like you do,
And nobody else can make me sing along,
And nobody else can make me feel,
That things are right when they're wrong
with a song,
Nobody sings a love song quite like you.
So sing me a song sad music man,
I believe in you
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some guitarists I know
Casey hides behind an Elvis swagger
And a marlboro red
He's small and charming
He has a smile that is velvet
He wants to live in a comic book
When he sings
Emotion hangs on his guitar strings
And He plays beautiful guitar
Green likes the blues
Johnny Lang, Stevie Ray
He has the style of Bruce Willis
Charms the pants off of most women
Sometimes he wants to be in love
But wonders why he cant love them
Like Jade and his mom
And He plays beautiful guitar
Dirty Kurt
Tall and lanky
Can write an enviable lyric in a second
Manipulates strings that makes girls weep
He has hearts in his eyes
Because He's in love with love
He has a radiant smile but his teeth are fake
And He plays beautiful guitar
John is solid as cement
Tall and expansive with big shoulders
With a big voice to match
Writes simple lyrics with complexity
He loves Iggy and the Stooges
And Mike Watt, Captain Sensible
John Lennon, Frank Black
Sometimes Eno
And He plays beautiful guitar
poem by Wanda Swim Strunk
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Three Songs
LOVE, thou art best of Human Joys,
Our chiefest Happiness below;
All other Pleasures are but Toys,
Musick without Thee is but Noise,
And Beauty but an empty Show.
Heav'n, who knew best what Man wou'd move,
And raise his Thoughts above the Brute;
Said, Let him Be, and let him Love;
That must alone his Soul improve,
Howe'er Philosophers dispute.
II
Quickly, Delia, Learn my Passion,
Lose not Pleasure, to be Proud;
Courtship draws on Observation,
And the Whispers of the Croud.
Soon or late you'll hear a Lover,
Nor by Time his Truth can prove;
Ages won't a Heart discover,
Trust, and so secure my Love
III
'TIS strange, this Heart within my breast,
Reason opposing, and her Pow'rs,
Cannot one gentle Moment rest,
Unless it knows what's done in Yours.
In vain I ask it of your Eyes,
Which subt'ly would my Fears controul;
For Art has taught them to disguise,
Which Nature made t' explain the Soul.
In vain that Sound, your Voice affords,
Flatters sometimes my easy Mind;
But of too vast Extent are Words
In them the Jewel Truth to find.
Then let my fond Enquiries cease,
And so let all my Troubles end:
For, sure, that Heart shall ne'er know Peace,
Which on Anothers do's depend.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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My Definition Of Beauty
Beauty are the roses
Mixed with beauty within
Not just a pretty face
Or pleasures it brings
But lives it beautify
Beauty are the flowers
Blessed with faithfulness
Honesty stains it's plate
Its kindness fills lakes
Its love cannot break
Beauty isn't I love you
But giving love that's true
Beauty isn't sweet words
But words that inspires lives
Beauty isn't what you say
But the way it's said
The rainbows in the sky
The angels from up high
Beauty can lighten eyes
But true beauty lives
Very deep inside
It's grace can bring joy
To Hundreds of hearts.
copyright ©
All rights Eyan Desir)
poem by Eyan Desir
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Music
Music
to my ears is like pillows cases on pillows
Music
smooths my pain
Music
is my life
Music
is something I listen to everyday
Music
is music
poem by Miranda Brewer
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Sonnet 16
when words will not you move
nor my heart persuade to unfortify,
but as stone your image proves
against words image must qualify,
when music, the speech of soul,
and poetry, the soul of speech,
by you will not my mind school
nor my soul new poetry teach,
when love, the cultivation of heart,
struck by your love to heart strings,
will not from you new poetry impart
what surety of trust does love bring?
departed, these words to you ascend:
so departed, will you new words send?
poem by Doug Bentley
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Face Of Love
Until tonight
My heart was just half full
Id never known the fruit which fed the soul
But now I see what may put to rest my longing
For I have seen, the face of love
The grace of god, the face of love
In silence I feared my heart
Would remain words unheard
Inside a seperate mess of skin
But now I know that the skin just veils the soul
For I have seen, the face of love
The grace of god, the face of love
So take my hand and knowing
With it I also give my heart
Wanting to never be seperate again
Let eternity begin
If you were flame
Id allow myself to be consumed completely
Were you wind Id wish you to pass through me
But now I know that the skin just veils the soul
For I have seen, the face of love
The grace of god, the face of love
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tin-Whistle Player
'Tis long since, long since, since I heard
A tin-whistle played,
And heard the tunes, the ha'penny tunes
That nobody made!
The tunes that were before Cendfind
And Cir went Ireland's rounds
That were before the surety
That strings have given sounds!
And now is standing in the mist,
And jigging backward there,
Shrilling with fingers and with breath,
A tin-whistle player!
He has hare's eyes, a long face rimmed
Around with badger-grey;
Aimless, like cries of mountain birds
The tunes he has to play
The tunes that are for stretches bare,
And men whose lives are lone
And I had seen that face of his
Sculptured on cross of stone,
That long face, in a place of graves
With nettles overgrown.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Strings Of My Heart
On the keys of a piano,
your fingers play upon the strings of my heart.
Such music fills my soul,
with your sweet notes.
You are the central 'essence' of me,
although we are, so far apart.
Your love vibrates with clarity,
as if a great concerto, is playing, in some vast auditorium.
A symphony floats within my head,
and I hear this 'love' of yours,
it plays my tunes,
and resounds around my 'staccato' afternoons.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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