Darius
The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes,
assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him
is descended our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here
philosophy is needed; he must analyze
the sentiments that Darius must have had:
maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather
like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.
But he is interrupted by his servant who enters
running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.
The poet is speechless. What a disaster!
No time now for our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator,
to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.
Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune!
Just when he was positive that with "Darius"
he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths
of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.
And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security
at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them
we Cappadocians? It is possible at all?
It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions?
Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.--
But in all his turmoil and trouble,
the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently--
the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness;
Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Related quotes
In a Township of Asia Minor
The news about the outcome of the sea-battle at Actium
was of course unexpected.
But there's no need for us to draft a new proclamation.
The name's the only thing that has to be changed.
There, in the concluding lines, instead of: "Having freed the Romans
from Octavius, that disaster,
that parody of a Caesar,"
we'll substitute: "Having freed the Romans
from Antony, that disaster,..."
The whole text fits very nicely.
"To the most glorious victor,
matchless in his military ventures,
prodigious in his political operations,
on whose behalf the township ardently wished
for Antony's triumph,..."
here, as we said, the substitution: "for Octavius Caesar's triumph,
regarding it as Zeus' finest gift—
to this mighty protector of the Greeks,
who graciously honors Greek customs,
who is beloved in every Greek domain,
who clearly deserves exalted praise,
and whose exploits should be recorded at length
in the Greek language, in both verse and prose,
in the Greek language, the vehicle of fame,"
et cetera, et cetera. It all fits brilliantly.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Convivial Book - Ye've Often, For Our Drunkenness,
Blamed us in ev'ry way,
And, in abuse of drunkenness,
Enough can never say.
Men, overcome by drunkenness,
Are wont to lie till day;
And yet I find my drunkenness
All night-time make me stray;
For, oh! 'tis Love's sweet drunkenness
That maketh me its prey,
Which night and day, and day and night,
My heart must needs obey,--
A heart that, in its drunkenness,
Pours forth full many a lay,
So that no trifling drunkenness
Can dare assert its sway.
Love, song, and wine's sweet drunkenness,
By night-time and by day,--
How god-like is the drunkenness
That maketh me its prey!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Alexander The Great
my son ask for thyself another
Kingdom for that wich I leave
Is too small for thee
(king philip of macedonia - 339 b.c.)
Near to the east
In a part of ancient greece
In an ancient land called macedonia
Was born a son
To philip of macedon
The legend his name was alexander
At the age of nineteen
He became the macedon king
And he swore to free all of asia minor
By the aegian sea
In 334 b.c.
He utterly beat the armies of persia
Alexander the great
His name struck fear into hearts of men
Alexander the great
Became a legend mongst mortal men
King darius the third
Defeated fled persia
The scythians fell by the river of jaxartes
Then egypt fell to the macedon king as well
And he founded the city called alexandria
By the tigris river
He met king darius again
And crushed him again at the battle of arbela
Entering babylon
And susa treasures he found
Took persepolis the capital of persia
Alexander the great
His name struck fear into hearts of men
Alexander the great
Became a God mongst mortal men
A phrygian king had bound a chariot yoke
And alexander cut the gordian knot
And the legend said that who untied the knot
He would become the master of asia
Helonism he spread far and wide
The macedonian learned mind
Their culture was a western way of life
He paved the way for christianity
Marching on marching on
The battle weary marching side by side
Alexanders army line by line
They wouldnt follow him to india
Tired of the combat, pain and the glory
Alexander the great
His name struck fear into hearts of men
Alexander the great
He died of fever in babylon
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alexander The Great[356 - 323 Bc]
(harris)
My son, ask for thyself another kingdom,
For that which I leave is to small for thee.
Near to the east, in a part of ancient greece,
In an ancient land called macedonia,
Was born a son to philip of macedon,
The legend his name was alexander.
At the age of nineteen, he became the macedon king,
And swore to free all of asia minor,
By the aegian sea in 334 bc,
He utterly beat the armies of persia.
Chorus:
Alexander the great,
His name struck fear into hearts of men,
Alexander the great,
Became a legend mongst mortal men.
King darius the third, defeated fled persia,
The scythians fell by the river jaxartes,
Then egypt fell to the macedon king as well,
And he founded the city called alexandria.
By the tigris river, he met king darius again,
And crushed him again in the battle of arbela,
Entering babylon and susa, treasures he found,
Took persepolis, the capital of persia.
Chorus:
Alexander the great,
His name struck fear into hearts of men,
Alexander the great,
Became a God amongst mortal men.
A phrygian king had bound a chariot yoke,
And alexander cut the gordion knot,
And legend said that who untied the knot,
He would become the master of asia.
Helonism he spread far and wide,
The macedonian learned mind,
Their culture was a western way of life,
He paved the way for christianity.
Marching on, marching on.
The battle weary marching side by side,
Alexanders army line by line,
They wouldnt follow him to india,
Tired of the combat, pain and the glory.
Chorus:
Alexander the great,
His name struck fear into hearts of men,
Alexander the great,
He died of fever in babylon.
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In 200 B.C.
"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--"
We can very well imagine
that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta
to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians",
but naturally. The Spartans were not
to be led and ordered about
as precious servants. Besides
a panhellenic campaign without
a Spartan king as a leader
would not have appeared very important.
O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians."
This too is a stand. Understandable.
Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus;
and then at Issus; and in the final
battle, where the formidable army was swept away
that the Persians had massed at Arbela:
which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away.
And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign,
victorious, brilliant,
celebrated, glorious
as no other had ever been glorified,
the incomparable: we emerged;
a great new Greek world.
We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans,
the Seleucians, and the numerous
rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria,
and of Media, and Persia, and the many others.
With our extensive territories,
with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations.
And the Common Greek Language
we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians.
As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Euphrion’s Son
On the Plain at Marathon
We stood in Darius’ way.
An outnumbered band of Athenians
who the Medians sought to slay.
They had first crushed the Ionians
Then put Eretria to the Torch.
Wherever Darius conquered
the bleeding earth was scorched.
Our Hoplites held the high Ground
and penned the Persians in.
For several days a stalemate reigned.
Neither side could win.
But when the Persians spit their force
and sailed on a friendly tide.
Our hand was forced
there was but one course
if Athens was not to die.
Our Phalanx moved against each wing
of the Median horde.
Though numerous, they were lightly armed
against our spears and swords.
We burned their ships and slew their men
Their Panic turned the tide.
Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere
urging on our side.
A Legend holds Pheidippides
To Athens then made haste
to proclaim: “Rejoice, We conquer! ”
at the end of his last race.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Time Rules Carved Out Empire Journeys
Darius I of Persia earlier standout stars;
having attacked conquered Ancient Egypt
built a canal linking his Persian Red Sea?
To the Mediterranean through desert sands;
Darius's canal wide enough for two triremes
to pass each other with all oars extended?
Required mere four days to canal traverse;
history turns Persian Roman Empires are extinct?
No Eastern Roman Empire now time rules?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Rejoice, We conquer
They sent a man from Marathon
To tell the Greeks the News:
That Darius’ army had been smashed
His plans for conquest ruined.
Pheidippides, the runner,
in full battle armor dressed,
ran all the way from Marathon
to Athens’s temple steps.
The city elders waited there,
Fearing tidings grim.
He said: ” Rejoice, we Conquer”
It took the last of him.
These days we don’t give battle
With an army at the shore
Our enemy is cancer
Hear our army roar.
We’re marching twenty miles a day
To put that tyrant down
To hear: “Rejoice, we Conquer! ”
would be the sweetest sound.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Elizabeth
Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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It was important to me to find a label that wouldn't back out after a first single. Everyone's so used to hearing me with Hootie, they're going to be skeptical.
quote by Darius Rucker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We can't thank Dave enough. He could call me if my wife was about to have a baby and tell me he needed tonight for his show and I'd find some way to get her to let me head to New York.
quote by Darius Rucker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Amazing Joyce
On such rare and marvellous talent how can one put a price
She surely is amazing the one and only Joyce
She has tried every form of poetry one must say with success
And to lovers of poetry Worldwide she brings great happiness.
The marvellous Joyce Hemsley a poetic legend of our time
The internet queen of haiku and senryu and the internet queen of rhyme
Six thousand poems to her name she just goes on and on
One cannot say about her that her better days are gone.
In every one of her poems one can detect her poetic voice
The poet for all Seasons is the amazing Joyce
What can be said about her that has not been said before
Six thousand poems to her name and from her expect many more.
She waves the literary banner for England a true poetic great
The amazing poet from Sunderland we ought to celebrate
A legendary online poet by example she leads the way
And surely a great mentor to all young poets of today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To Be An Anthology Poet
To be an anthology poet whose work
Children hate to read in school
And re-discover in later life as meaningful and beautiful-
To be an anthology poet
And have generations know one’s poems
As part of the eternal canon-
To be an anthology poet
One of the few names
That has survived
When thousands of one’s contemporaries’ have not-
To be an anthology poet
To have written a few of the great and the memorable poems-
To be an anthology poet
To be what I am not
And most likely never will be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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We went to church every Sunday. When I was a kid, the only time I sang was around my family.
quote by Darius Rucker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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where are your powers Babylon?
Illustrious Babylon
where are your powers now?
city of fame
city of gold and silver
city of a famous name
where are your powers now?
city of wonders
empire of sin
Babylon
city of ruins
mighty Babylon
city of prowess
empire of old
empire of supremacy
rich with stolen gold
where are you now?
city of the hanging gardens
city holding the righteous captive
where are your powers Babylon?
city of desolate wastes
ferocious Babylon
look out over the valley
Cyrus the great of Persia
with his army of men
and Darius the Mede
with his army of men
diverting the great river Euphrates
and sneaking under your walls
your 'impenetrible walls
Babylon
city of ruins
Where are your powers
King Nebuchadnezzar?
your colossal gate is open
your subjects are drunk
drunk with wine and blood
unaware of approaching destruction
living their normal course of life
where are you now Babylon?
heaped in ruin and desolation
...forever
now just a dry desert plain
and the wind goes...hush...
poem by Allen Steble
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Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
poem by Frank O'Hara
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poet Is A Poet/Wherever He Goes
A POET IS A POET/ WHEREVER HE GOES
A poet is a poet
Wherever he goes
He can stop and sit on a bench anywhere
And write a poem
The poems come from without often
But what is within is the poetry-
Like a dream like a fire like a small light
That never goes out
A poet sits anywhere and writes his dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Fears Failure
The poet fears failure
& so she says
"Hold on pen--
what if the critics
hate me?"
& with that question
she blots out more lines
than any critic could.
The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.
It's in his doggy nature.
If he didn't know the poet
for the boss,
he wouldn't bark so loud.
& the poet?
It's in her nature
to fear failure
but not to let that fear
blot out
her lines.
poem by Erica Jong
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Blind Bartimeus
Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits;
He hears the crowd;--he hears a breath
Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!"
And calls, in tones of agony,
The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!"
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?"
And he replies, "O give me light!
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight.
And Jesus answers, '(GREEK)'
(GREEK)!
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
(GREEK)!
(GREEK)!
(GREEK)!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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