Ionic
That we've broken their statues,
that we've driven them out of their temples,
doesn't mean at all that the gods are dead.
O land of Ionia, they're still in love with you,
their souls still keep your memory.
When an August dawn wakes over you,
your atmosphere is potent with their life,
and sometimes a young ethereal figure
indistinct, in rapid flight,
wings across your hills.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Related quotes
Ionic
That we've broken their statues,
that we've driven them out of their temples,
doesn't mean at all that the gods are dead.
O land of Ionia, they're still in love with you,
their souls still keep your memory.
When an August dawn wakes over you,
your atmosphere is potent with their life,
and sometimes a young ethereal figure
indistinct, in rapid flight,
wings across your hills.
poem by Gaius Valerius Catullus
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Ionian
Just because we've torn their statues down,
and cast them from their temples,
doesn't for a moment mean the gods are dead.
Land of Ionia, they love you yet,
their spirits still remember you.
When an August morning breaks upon you
a vigour from their lives stabs through your air;
and sometimes an ethereal and youthful form
in swiftest passage, indistinct,
passes up above your hills.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Threshold
In their deepest caverns of limestone
They pictured the Gods of Food--
The Horse, the Elk, and the Bison
That the hunting might be good;
With the Gods of Death and Terror--
The Mammoth, Tiger, and Bear.
And the pictures moved in the torchlight
To show that the Gods were there!
But that was before Ionia--
(Or the Seven Holy Islands of Ionia)
Any of the Mountains of Ionia,
Had bared their peaks to the air.
The close years packed behind them,
As the glaciers bite and grind,
Filling the new-gouged valleys
With Gods of every kind.
Gods of all-reaching power--
Gods of all-searching eyes--
But each to be wooed by worship
And won by sacrifice.
Till, after many winters, rose Ionia--
(Strange men brooding in Ionia)
Crystal-eyed Sages of Ionia
Who said, "These tales are lies.
"We dream one Breath in all things,
"That blows all things between.
"We dream one Matter in all things--
"Eternal, changeless, unseen.
"'That the heart of the Matter is single
"Till the Breath shall bid it bring forth--
"By choosing or losing its neighbour--
"All things made upon Earth."
But Earth was wiser than Ionia
(Babylon and Egypt than Ionia)
And they overlaid the teaching of Ionia
And the Truth was choked at birth.
It died at the Gate of Knowledge--
The Key to the Gate in its hand--
And the anxious priests and wizards
Re-blinded the wakening land;
For they showed, by answering echoes,
And chasing clouds as they rose,
How shadows should stand for bulwarks
Between mankind and its woes.
It was then that men bethought them of Ionia
(The few that had not allforgot Ionia)
Or the Word that was whispered in Ionia;
And they turned from the shadows and the shows.
They found one Breath in all things,
That moves all things between.
They proved one Matter in all things--
Eternal, changeless, unseen;
That the heart of the Matter was single
Till the Breath should bid it bring forth--
Even as men whispered in Ionia,
(Resolute, unsatisfied Ionia)
Ere the Word was stifled in Ionia--
All things known upon earth!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Ortygia
IN Ortygia the Dawn land the old gods dwell,
And the silver’s yet a-quiver on the old wizard well
By the milk-white walls of the Temple of the Moon,
Where the Dawn Maids hallow the red gods’ tune,
And old grey Time is a nine-year child,
Back between the rivers ere man was ever ’guiled,
Or the knelling ‘Never, never!’ by the cherubim was rung.
It was there, there, there, in Ortygia the young,—
It was there, there, there, in the meadows of the sky
That first we went a-summering, my love of loves and I.
And well I wot the pleasaunce for them that thither go
Is litten with the beacons that the Dawn Maids know,
With their vigil at end in the Temple of the Moon,
And their prayer all prayer for the waked world’s boon.
The words they speak in that land are new as the dawn;
The rills that run in that land are diamond, drawn
From the old wizard well where the red gods croon.
And walk you in Ortygia or late or soon,
It is but lovers only that ever you will see;
For every silver wood-king’s a trysting tree,
And the dream-flowers are keeping their first high May
For the glad and the glamoured who walk yon way;
And to the summit etherous the track you cannot miss,
Though the hills are dim and sheeny with the rainbow’s kiss.
O, we walked the road of iris, my love of loves and I
In Ortygia the young with the red gods by!
poem by Jessie Mackay
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Pigeons
Pigeons land on statues
as though they do not care
about the figure they've landed on.
They only know that where they are
is better than on the ground.
For the sight they see is grander
as they look around.
Statues with the droppings
also do not care.
They stand in silent memory,
usually in a square.
They do not see the droppings.
They're unaffected by the stare
of people unaware
of anything but the pigeoins
that have landed there.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A brief tribute to George Seferis, poet
When the gods allot
a time, a place, to those so mortal
mortals whom they love to test,
is it a greater gift they give to poets,
to live in a land of honeybees
and sun and sea and heroes sung, a land
assured, content, of gods and marble,
temples, amphitheatres, history,
or in that land in times of tragedy,
starvation, misery, division,
internal war and conquered servitude?
Ultimate, the irony – how can the gods
think up such things? – to be
ambassador, to represent a land
from which to have been exiled half a life;
exiled from within and exiled from without.
The love the gods bestow (the Chorus cries)
is terrifying; strange; to be hard learned.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Avalanche-the White Death
The land is white
The name of the land brings you
to the land of nothing
The name is white
The white is dead
Sun shines pale, the land shades full of pain
Avalea doesn't bloom and fall in this drain
I'm going back alive again
But no one's crying for the dead
The land is still white
Ice and snow are still the same as yesterday
But the wind is stronger in the sorrow
The land is white
The white is dead
They weep wherever they blow
Forever love, cursed land
Forever goodbye, my lovely land
No more tears falling in this land
Even the sand doesn't know
why he doesn't round to anywhere
The land has frozen like stone
The air is blowed dead
The land is white
The name is white
The land called white is dead
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Angel with the Broken Wings
Angel fallen from sky,
Watching as life passed her by,
Filled with the worlds horrid things,
The angel with broken wings.
No one helps, no one prays,
For the girl who shows the black and grays,
Why does all the bad cling?
To the angel with the broken wings.
Sometimes she flies in her dreams,
But that doesn’t stop her screams,
When will they stop the sting?
For the angel with the broken wings.
One day this angel will fly above,
And fill the world with lots of love,
One day she’ll help to heal the dings,
In another angel with the broken wings.
poem by Belle Potter
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Gas Hed Goes West
If I was half alive
Then you were dead
Subsistin' on that same old bread
It's the memory that hides
The whole wide world
It's the gas hed's love of america
It's the memory that hides
Take your photographs back
For the love of all gods
Our gas hed marches on
Our gas hed marches on
He's a bonified man
A star amongst his clan
And the only one that let me ride
It's the memory that dies
Our gas hed was right
When they lanced his skull
There was puss and light
It's the memory that dies
So take your photographs back
For the love of all gods
Our gas hed marches on
Our gas hed marches
It's the memory that dies
And make your photographs black
For the love of all gods
Our gas hed marches on
Our gas hed marches on
It's the memory that dies
So take your photographs back
For the love of all gods
Our gas hed marches on
Our gas hed marches
Gas hed is on the radio
song performed by by Live from Secret Samadhi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dead And Broken
Too many things I've never spoken
I'm not feeling fine
I never told you what to do
I never made you a promise that you could hold me to
That'll be the day you see me crying
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
How many different faces can you show me?
How many times can you be right?
Another world of fantasy
Another reason for dramatizing everything
Taking it all in just one more time
I'm dying
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
Sorry to see that you're underestimated lately
I'd rather be dead and broken than living in your grace
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
Everyday, I still say you're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
You're dead and broken
song performed by by Godsmack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem (‘It Doesn’t Look Like A Finger...’)
It doesn’t look like a finger it looks like a feather of broken glass
It doesn’t look like something to eat it looks like something eaten
It doesn’t look like an empty chair it looks like an old woman
searching in a heap of stones
It doesn’t look like a heap of stones it looks like an estuary where
the drifting filth is swept to and fro on the tide
It doesn’t look like a finger it looks like a feather with broken teeth
The spaces between the stones are made of stone
It doesn’t look like a revolver it looks like a convolvulus
It doesn’t look like a living convolvulus it looks like a dead one
KEEP YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY FRIENDS USE THEM ON
YOUR BITCHES OR
YOURSELVES BUT KEEP THEM OFF MY FRIENDS
The faces between the stones are made of bone
It doesn’t look like an eye it looks like a bowl of rotten fruit
It doesn’t look like my mother in the garden it looks like my father
when he came up from the sea covered in shells and tangle
It doesn’t look like a feather it looks like a finger with broken wings
It doesn’t look like the old woman’s mouth it looks like a handful
of broken feathers or a revolver buried in cinders
The faces beneath the stones are made of stone
It doesn’t look like a broken cup it looks like a cut lip
It doesn’t look like yours it looks like mine
BUT IT IS YOURS NOW
SOON IT WILL LOOK LIKE YOURS
AND ANYTHING YOU SEE WILL BE USED AGAINST YOU
London Bulletin, No. 2 (May 1938), 7.
poem by Hugh Sykes Davies
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Gas Head Goes West
If I was half alive
and you were dead
subsisiting on that same old bread
it's the memory that hides
the whole wide world
it's the gas hed's love of america
it's the memory that hides
take your photographs back
for the love of all gods
our gas hed marches on
our gas hed marches on
he's a bona fide man
a star amongst his clan
and the only one that let me ride
it's the memory that dies
our gas hed was right
when they lanced his skull
there was puss and light
it's the memory that dies
so take your photographs back
for the love of all gods
our gas hed marches on
our gas hed marches on
it's the memory that dies
and make your photographs black
for the love all gods
gas hed marches on
gas hed marches on
it's the memory that dies
so take your photographs back
for the love of all gods
our gas hed marches on
our gas hed marches on
gas hed is on the radio, radio, radio
song performed by by Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Broken Wings
Broken wings
Broken wings
Twirls in ballroom gowns
Echos of glory
And reminders of things lost
Broken wings
Broken wings
Only feet to help carry on now
A thousand voices
Singing the same song
Broken wings
Broken wings
Feathers litter the ground
Where the proud used to stand
Where only broken wings remain
poem by Autumn Winds
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Do you want to hear the hills groan
Do you want to hear the hills groan?
Have a walk along the uphill and downhill road
That zigzags around one hill and thenanother
Till it reaches you to an altitude of 11000 feet
All along the way you will see
The forest cover of the hills are being torn off
The stony bones of the hills are being hit hard by dynamite
And any one who has ears can hear the mountains
Writhing in silent pain
The p ilgrim walking along the winding road
Which mounts to the shrine of Lord Siva
Doesnot know that gods have taken flight
From hills and dales
Nature is being made a parking place
For pleasurehunting cars
They have not only made the tigers and the pythons homeless
They have made the gods flee
Hence out of the day and night
Ajoy has taken flight
With the surging pleasure seeking of man
And the diabolic brain of the scientists
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Dead & Broken
Too many things Ive never spoken
Im not feeling fine
I never told you what to do
I never made you a promise that you could hold me to
Thatll be the day you see me crying
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
How many faces can you show me?
How many times can you be right?
Another world of fantasy
Another reason for dramatizing everything
Taking it all in just one more time
Im dying
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Sorry to see that youre underestimated lately
Id rather be dead and broken than living in your grace
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Everyday, I still say youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
Youre dead and broken
song performed by by Godsmack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: After Death
A dead person never requires praise,
Nor does rebuking help to change his ways;
What if he wins or loses any case?
His earthly tenure, none can ev’r efface.
The soul that’s dead needs no awards/rewards,
Or posthumous citations, or birthdays;
What does it matter if they be kings/ bards?
No monument, his achievements repays.
And statues, paintings too will not suffice,
To glorify his works or laud great souls;
Just prayers for the dead souls will be wise,
And pleas to God to save souls from hell’s coals.
Death is a full-stop to our life’s sentence!
Where use we must, our sense and common sense.
9-12-2002
poem by John Celes
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Purer Than Pure Gold
O brother, purer than pure gold
Is the soil of my land.
Her soil and water
Her fruits and flowers
Quench our thirst and hunger.
as we drink from her milk-pot
To have the blessings of this Mother
Taking leftovers from her temples
Pilgrims are gratified, coming from various castes.
O brother prostrating on the dust of this land
Jewels fall down and welter,
O brother slumber of all in the world
Is broken by the touch of her magic stick.
Coating this soil and this mud
Learning from this land's good conduct
the whole world became civilized all the way
O brother this ascetic in every land
Put on the light out of love,
Mother wakes up alone through the dark night
Watching from the post of crematorium.
poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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Last Living Souls
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Take a gun
Or how you say
That's no way you behave
Just a law, a new begin
Sing a song that doesn't sin
And it grows
Hey, you know
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last to get away to some another day?
Do we know
Well, we know
Doesn't seem to be complete
Are we, are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Are we the last living souls?
Get up, get up, get up, get up...
What you say?
Cause all I was on
I got it down wrong
I see myself to get
And the Lord, seeing all now
Can you take us in
The part that comin' on
The coldest man doesn't see it's all
We go to the car
I see you walk to the far
And when you get there do you see
You fit the last you need on me
Cause we're the last living souls
We're the last living souls
Yeah, we're the last living souls
We're the last living souls
song performed by by Gorillaz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Already Open!
are we called to love?
or driven, by an unseen hand?
are we the fire,
or the memory of?
is it he who plants the seed,
or the seed itself?
are we alone,
or do we walk with the dead?
concepts! mental cages.
who builds the cage?
who fights against the latch?
in lonliness we struggle,
never knowing ourselves.
painting the picture
of the bird in flight...
not knowing we are the bird,
the flapping of wings,
and the sky!
not knowing, not knowing...
still we dream,
dreams that taste and smell!
are we dreaming?
or part of the dream?
abstract and vague,
we fumble for the key.
never knowing, never knowing,
the door is already open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Orophernis
The figure on this four drachma coin
who seems to have a smile on his face
his beautiful, delicate face
this figure is Orophernis, son of Ariarathis.
A child, they threw him out of Cappadocia,
out of his great ancestral palace,
and sent him to grow up in Ionia,
to be forgotten there among foreigners.
Oh those exquisite Ionian nights
when fearlessly, and entirely in a Greek way,
he came to know sensual pleasure totally.
In his heart, Asiatic always,
but in manners and language, a Greek;
with his turquoise jewellery, his Greek clothes,
his body perfumed with oil of jasmine,
he was the most handsome, the most perfect
of Ionia's handsome young men.
Later, when the Syrians entered Cappadocia
and made him king,
he became fully engrossed in his kingship
so as to enjoy himself in a new way each day,
greedily hoarding gold and silver,
delightedly gloating over
the piles of wealth glittering before his eyes.
As for worrying about the country and running it-
he had no idea what was going on.
The Cappadocians quickly got rid of him,
and he ended up in Syria, at the palace of Dimitrios,
where he spent his time amusing himself and loafing.
But one day unfamiliar thoughts
broke in on his completely idle life:
he remembered how through his mother Antiochis
and that old grandmother Stratoniki
he too was connected with the Syrian crown,
he too almost a Selefkid.
For a while he gave up lechery and drink
and ineptly, half dazed,
tried to start an intrigue,
do something, come up with a plan;
but he failed pitifully and that was that.
His end must have been recorded somewhere only to be lost;
or maybe history passed over it
and rightly didn't bother to notice
anything so trivial.
The figure on this four drachma coin,
something of whose young charm can still be seen,
a ray of his poetic beauty
this sensuous image of an Ionian boy,
this is Orophernis, son of Ariarathis.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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