Symmetry
There was so much symmetry
In the cemetary it just made you want to stay
As if planted in cement
the similitude was not in headstones
though order ruled there too
No it was the solitude...the silence
As if humans were really made for this
No crush of useless voices
No sniping...or complaints
No crying or ornate crooning
or baying at the moon
Just that blessed stillness
Mocking seminary thoughts
Maybe all this cemetery symmetry is heaven after all
poem by Boink Boink
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
So that ideas of sort of relaxed symmetry have been something for years that I have been concerned with because I think that symmetry is a neutral shape as opposed to a form of design.
quote by Robert Rauschenberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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El Dorado
The half-lit wilting and leafless white Birch
against the pink and gray Pinatubo sunset,
their fragile contrast to the skyline like haggard wraiths.
We sit on a cement bench on the shore of the artificial lake
made of gunite and filled with reclaimed water,
pitching choclate raisins at mud hens.
Watching them tip on end to
retrieve the morsels in the dark slurry.
There is a constant sound of rushing water in the distance,
as if the cement river of the San Gabriel,
became confused with the roar
of the river grade freeway.
Wandering out we came upon the perfect circle
of brown and tan goose feathers, laid like a wreath
or a fairy circle.
The content of this symmetry fed a hungry predator.
This thing construed to provide illusion.
This stand of planted trees and sewer streams
can’t in its failing exhibition,
replace the wild and natural country
which was once El Dorado.
It can only convince you for a while.
poem by George Murdock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Black Dog
A dark paranoia dogs my steps,
goes for the throat, leaps on my chest,
brings down it's prey and rips my flesh,
baying at the moon.
I am a tortured soul in hell,
flayed alive, not doing well.
A black dog obeying some primal spell,
baying at the moon.
Moods that shift from meek and mild,
to vile anger, all blast and bile,
courting danger and passions wild,
baying at the moon.
The hunt is savage and hard-pressed,
with gnashing teeth to stop my breath.
A scream of horror, mute in my breast,
baying at the moon.
My limber friends fawn and smile,
to render pity to the unruly child.
I curse their tenderness, I spit and snarl,
baying at the moon.
I drank the poison from the vial,
and saw my visions from exile.
An addict's life can be a trial,
baying at the moon.
Some arcane instinct, I cannot tell.
Repellant in it's ancient smell,
craven fear made visceral,
baying at the moon.
The jealous gods have unleashed the hounds.
The pack scent blood and my weeping wounds;
the chase is on, my life in ruins,
baying at the moon.
A gauntlet run that lasts for miles,
exhausts the body and the mind's denials.
Love is madness and we're all beguiled,
baying at the moon.
poem by David SmithWhite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Architecture depends on Order, Arrangement, Eurythmy, Symmetry, Propriety, and Economy.
Vitruvius in De architectura
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Tiger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And What shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
poem by William Blake
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I don't know if it's a sign of all the chaos that is happening out there or not, but I've lately craved the structure and order of classical music, the balance and symmetry.
quote by Helen Reddy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tiger by William Blake
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Tyger
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
poem by William Blake
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Man is in Heaven
Where is my house in heaven?
Is the mocking going on,
When the heavenly rage has become zero?
Truly the heresy has its faults,
And the apostate can argue with sin,
A sinful man or woman.
Too many times the leader of humans
Is against all lusts of humans,
And the living has happened all the time.
Humans have a right as much as Man,
And you offer Him a place in heaven
If you soon think he is good and ten too good.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It is the harmony of the diverse parts, their symmetry, their happy balance; in a word it is all that introduces order, all that gives unity, that permits us to see clearly and to comprehend at once both the ensemble and the details.
quote by Henri Poincare
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Blessed Am I
How blessed am I for being born
Of parents good and God-fearing!
How blessed am I for siblings nine
Who made my childhood truly great!
How blessed am I for being made
Handsome and healthy, fair and hale!
How blessed am I for gaining ken
And virtues, wisdom, fortitude!
How blessed am I for being reared
So well by parents dutiful!
How blessed am I for achievements
Quite praiseworthy in life on earth!
How blessed am I for having fared
So well in life in every field!
How blessed am I for talents, gifts
That most men cannot dream to have!
How blessed am I for miracles
That gave my life a newer lease!
How blessed am I for finding time
To thank and praise the Almighty!
How blessed am I for grace of God
That goads me on in heaven’s road!
How blessed am I for everything
God gave me amply in His time!
How blessed am I for love of God
That chose me to be Christian!
How blessed am I for hope and faith
That help me follow Jesus’ steps!
How blessed am I for poesy
That made my life stress-free, worthwhile!
How blessed am I for God’s with me
And I’m with Him in earthly life!
poem by John Celes
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A Memorial
Canonised when dead, cannonaded when in life,
Lofty your thoughts that savour of content
But loftier the craftmanship
More congruent in symmetry
Than ever are our warring senses-
All in silent watch -martyr.
Not your lust of martyrdom but the sculptor's chisel
Leaves a living name. world wonder made.
Sad, Time and with it, centuries fail to see
Not light of fulfilment in your eyes
But hollow worn in stone,
History's daintily cut lies.
poem by Yoonoos Peerbocus
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The Mocking Bird On The Tree Fronting The House...
a mocking bird
sits on a branch of a tree
that fronts the house that
papa made
papa is gone.
a mocking bird left but one
sunny day
after the heavy rains for months
the mocking bird comes back
it is bringing silence
unlike all the other mocking birds
in town
the mocking bird is dead
a boy abandoned by his mother
stoned it
now the window if you walk a little
distant from the house
and sit on a bench across the road
looks like a Cheshire cat
giving Alice that fable smile.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lilydale
[ music: robert buck/lyric: natalie merchant ]
Come as we go far away
From the noise of the street
Walk a path so narrow
To a place where we feel at ease
Some think it is haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Theres a stillness here
Thankful found
Childs pose angelic
A stone lamb at her feet
Part the matted overgrowth
To read the carven elegy
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Theres a stillness here
Thankful found
Born in new albion
Of rice family elite
Wed to myron bilowe
Thrice with sons
Blessed was she
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Gods acre is a fenced in
Hollow ground
Here soon to rise up
Amelia tender and sweet
Her last words spoke
All is well
All is peace
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Gods acre is a fenced in
Hollow ground
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Voices
Blames of my existence are just increasing
Being blamed for something which I never did do
Never did I commit a sin knowingly, although sins are really never known while committing
Everyone just passes out while being alive
The senses just fade, while living
Nothing is present, it is complete stillness
Voices I cannot hear
Complete silence from now, life is going to have
The stillness is going to take a course which will forever be
In this life where everything is temporary, quietness is the only thing eternal
Living in a cage, nobody does like
Sometimes, the heart just desires to break the shackles in every way possible
Nobody can restrain my views
My real thoughts, no longer will be held
I am free, voices are going to be unheard.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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If either man or woman would realize that the full power of personal beauty, it must be by cherishing noble thoughts and hopes and purposes; by having something to do and something to live for that is worthy of humanity, and which, by expanding and symmetry to the body which contains it.
Made In Heaven
Im taking my right with destiny
Willing to play my part
Living with painful memories
Loving with all my heart
Made in heaven, made in heaven
It was all meant to be, yeah
Made in heaven, made in heaven
Thats what they say
Cant you see
Thats what everybody says to me
Cant you see
Oh I know, I know, I know, that its true
Yes its really meant to be
Deep in my heart
Im having to learn to pay the price
Theyre turning me upside down
Waiting for possibilities
Dont see too many around
Made in heaven, yes made in heaven
Its for all to see
Made in heaven, made in heaven
Thats what everybody says
Everybody says to me
It was really meant to be
Oh cant you see
Yeah, everybody, everybody says
Yes it was meant to be
Yeah, yeah
When stormy weather comes around
It was made in heaven
When sunny skies break through behind the clouds
I wish it could last forever, yeah
Wish it could last forever, forever
Im playing my role in history
Looking to find my goal
Taking in all this misery
But giving it all my soul
Made in heaven, made in heaven
It was all meant to be
Made in heaven, made in heaven
Thats what everybody says
Wait and see, it was really meant to be
So plain to see
Yeah, everybody, everybody, everybody tells me so
Yes it was plain to see, yes it was meant to be
Written in the stars...
Written in the stars...
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hope Sonnet
I write all my songs, all my poetry,
Hoping I may be able to escape
Reality by means of symmetry,
In rhythmic schemes and with metrical shape.
I distort my surroundings in the glass—
Convex and past, covering my iris
Where the amorphous images amass,
Contaminating thoughts like a virus.
My dirtied spectacles, a petri dish,
Hold onto diseased cultures of fancy:
Glowing germs—cell stars made to take a wish
And transpose it where I might blindly see.
Then beautiful things coalesce and transcend
Beyond my imagined world of pretend.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Choir And Music Of Solitude And Silence
Silence is a great blue bell
Swinging and ringing, tinkling and singing,
In measure’s pleasure, and in the supple symmetry
of the soaring of the immense intense wings
glinting against
All the blue radiance above us and within us, hidden
Save for the stars sparking, distant and unheard in their
singing.
And this is the first meaning of the famous saying,
The stars sang. They are the white birds of silence
And the meaning of the difficult famous saying that the
sons and daughters of morning sang,
Meant and means that they were and they are the children
of God and morning,
Delighting in the lights of becoming and the houses of
being,
Taking pleasure in measure and excess, in listening as in
seeing.
Love is the most difficult and dangerous form of courage.
Courage is the most desperate, admirable and noble kind of
love.
So that when the great blue bell of silence is stilled and
stopped or broken
By the babel and chaos of desire unrequited, irritated and
frustrated,
When the heart has opened and when the heart has spoken
Not of the purity and symmetry of gratification, but action
of insatiable distraction’s dissatisfaction,
Then the heart says, in all its blindness and faltering
emptiness:
There is no God. Because I am hope. And hope must be
fed.
And then the great blue bell of silence is deafened, dumbed,
and has become the tomb of the living dead.
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Easton's Beach
LAST night I saw a city by the sea,
Outlined in sparks of fire;
Those wreathed lamps made all a fantasy -
Arch, dome and spire.
I saw above the waters pale and gray,
The pale moon stand,
I heard, but faint and sweet and far away,
A martial band.
The distant voices in the streets, the sound
Of laughter from the towers
Made where we swam the solitude profound:
The sea was ours.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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