Lines On Reading Too Many Poets
Roses, rooted warm in earth,
Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep
Die; and so their song shall keep.
Wind that in Arcadia starts
In and out a couplet plays;
And the drums of bitter hearts
Beat the measure of a phrase.
Sweets and woes but come to print
Quae cum ita sint.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Related quotes
The Beat Goes On
Drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain
La-dee-da-dee-dee
La-dee-da-dee-da
Wait till you have reached the age
Blah blah
History has turned the page
Blah blah
We still want to hear a brand new thing
Uh huh
We still need a song to sing
Uh huh
And the beat goes on (6x)
Drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain
La-dee-da-dee-dee
La-dee-da-dee-da
Love is a thirsting, lasting on my mind
From tomorrow until the end of time
And the beat goes on (4x)
And the beat goes
And the beat goes
And the beat goes on
Drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain
La-dee-da-dee-dee
La-dee-da-dee-da
We still move to a rhythm just like this
We still dream of sharing our first kiss
And the beat goes on (4x)
Drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain
La-dee-da-dee-dee
La-dee-da-dee-da
Well our kids are turning faster everyday (everyday)
We still want to dance the night away
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on...
(to fade)
song performed by by Britney Spears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beat Goes On
Drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain
La-dee-da-dee-dee
La-dee-da-dee-da
Wait till you have reached the age Blah blah
History has turned the page Blah blah
We still want to hear a brand new thing Uh huh
We still need a song to sing Uh huh
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on
And the beat goes on
Drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain
La-dee-da-dee-dee
La-dee-da-dee-da
Love is a thirsting
song performed by by Britney Spears from ...Baby One More Time
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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King Creole
(words & music by jerry leiber - mike stoller)
Theres a man in new orleans
Who plays rock and roll
Hes a guitar man
With a great big soul
He lays down a beat
Like a ton of coal
He goes by the name of king creole
You know hes gone, gone, gone
Jumpin like a catfish on a pole
You know hes gone, gone, gone
Hip shaking king creole
When the king starts to do it
Its as good as done
He holds his guitar
Like a tommy gun
He starts to growl
From way down his throat
He bends a string
And thats all she wrote
Well, he sings a song about a crowded hole
He sings a song about a jelly roll
He sings a song about meat and greens
He wails some blues about new orleans
Well, he plays something evil
Then he plays something sweet
No matter what he plays
You got to get up on your feet
When he gets the rockin fever
Baby, heaven sakes
He dont stop playin
till his guitar breaks
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Malaysiana - The Cultures in the Maidens
The maiden of Malaya is full of romance
Her hair curls and flows the way the Straits of
Malacca meets the Andaman, stretches of love that
sweep onto The Golden Chersonese
Seeds from afar as the desert plain of Arabia, the
land of Taj Mahal, Asoka - you see them dancing in her
ebullient eyes, magical eyes with lashes so long they
flip into your heart to remain in warm quarters you
could savour in the dead of nights
Her finely arched eyebrows sweep you through the
swathes and swathes of Arab sand where you remember
the Prophet and all his sayings
Layer upon layer of her young passion is played out by
the sand that swirls with the wind the moment it
blows, turning the clear sky into a miasma of her
desires
Her curvaceous physique is made
more desirous by her lace embellished kebaya
Every inch inches into your fantasy, tugs at your
heartstrings, the way the golden threads are woven
into the figure hugging costumes
Her soft tapering fingers are coloured with henna when
she marries - two floral patterned hands that promise
a wonderland of cuisine to spice up your life in all
spheres
The maiden of Malaya is full of romance,
In her flows a potpourri of cultures that would melt
away a man's heart, cultures that shine with the
mesmerising mirage of Arabia, sway to the riveting
Indian drums and twirl and swirl to the gracefulness
of a ballet nubile
The Golden Chersonese, the golden land, golden culture
and the lady that is the essence of it all
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Malaysiana - The Maiden of Malaya
The maiden of Malaya
is full of romance
Her hair curls and flows
the way The Melaka Straits
meets the Andaman, stretches of love
that sweep onto The Golden Chersonese
Seeds from afar as the desert plain of Arabia,
the land of Taj Mahal, Asoka - you see them
dancing in her ebullient eyes, magical eyes
with lashes so long they flip into your heart
to remain in warm quarters you could
savour in the dead of nights
Her finely arched eyebrows sweep
you through the swathes and swathes of
Arab sand where you remember
the Prophet and all his sayings
Layer upon layer of her
passion is played out by
the sand that swirls with the wind
the moment it blows, turning the clear sky
into a miasma of desires and dreams
Her curvaceous physique
is made more desirous by
her lace embellished
gracious kebayas
Every inch inches into your fantasy,
tugs at your heartstrings, the way
the golden threads are woven
into the figure hugging costumes
Her soft tapering fingers
are coloured with henna
when she marries - two floral
patterned hands that promise
a wonderland of cuisine to spice up
your life in all spheres
The maiden of Malaya
is full of romance,
In her flows a potpourri of cultures
that would melt away a man's heart, cultures
that shine with the mesmerising mirage of Arabia,
sway to the riveting Indian drums and
twirl and swirl to the gracefulness of a ballet nubile
The Golden Chersonese, the golden land,
golden culture and the lady that is the essence of it all
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Stealthily, free verse
You sit on my desk,
Your legs, a sonnet's couplet,
Perfect in meter and rhyme.
You look at me and smile;
Your dimples brighten my room
Lit only by glitched browser's light.
You puff your cigarette, blow
Smoke that wafts soothing incense
On my face, weary of weaving
Words into flawless lines.
From the other room, we hear
Carefree soles pounding on the floor
In perfect jibe with the sensual beat
Of percussion and drums.
For one brief moment we stare
Deep into each other's eyes... then
Stealthily, we exchange verses
From the depths of our own souls
Passionately free of meter and rhyme.
poem by Fidel Arcenas
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The Drums of Battersea
They can’t hear in West o’ London, where the worst dine with the best—
Deaf to all save lies and laughter, they can’t hear in London West—
Tailored brutes and splendid harlots, and the parasites that be—
They can’t hear the warning thunder of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Misery—
Beating from the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
Where the hearses hurry ever, and where man lives like a beast,
They can feel the war-drums beating—men of Hell! and London East.
And the far-off foreign farmers, fighting fiercely to be free,
Found new courage in the echo of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Beating for the free—
Beating on the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
And the drummers! Ah! the drummers!—stern and haggard men are those
Standing grimly at their meetings; and their washed and mended clothes
Speak of worn-out wives behind them and of grinding poverty—
But the English of the English beat the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of agony—
The big bruised heart of England’s in the Drums of Battersea.
Where in fields slave Englishwomen, Oh! the sound of drums is there:
I have heard it in the laughter of the nights of Leicester Square—
Sailing southward with the summer, London but a dream to me,
Still I feel the distant thunder of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Liberty—
Rolling round the English world—the Drums of Battersea.
Oh! I heard them in the Queen’s Hall—aye! and London heard that night—
While we formed up round the leaders while they struck one blow for right!
And the old strength, that old fire, that I thought was dead in me,
Blazed up fiercely at the beating of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
They beat for victory—
When above the roar of Jingoes rolled the Drums of Battersea.
And where’er my feet may wander, and howe’er I lay my head,
I shall hear them while I’m dreaming—I shall hear them when I’m dead!
For they beat for men and women, beat for Christ, and you and me:
There is hope and there is terror in the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of destiny—
There’s hope!—there’s hope for England in the Drums of Battersea.
poem by Henry Lawson
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To Rhyme?
I wonder now and again
whether or not
my poems should rhyme
if they should have a rhythmic
pentameter that catches the readers
like small fish out by the moonlit lake
where they jump for joy
when the humans have gone
For the world is filled of rhyme
as we whittle down our time
we spend it all down on this earth
the flesh decays and brings new birth
But then I realize
to rhyme is not my style
for at times, I feel that
more so than a line
the rhyme is a trap
more of a bear than a mouse
and I wonder if with my first couplet
where there begins a sort of catchy scheme
the readers bob their head to
-dah dah dah dah dah dah dah
and then they realize
that I've lost most of my flare
for my expression has been limited
by this beautiful
yet altogether mortal language
so with that
I continue to roll my tongue
as my fingers clatter on the keyboard
and I tell you stories
instead of singing you songs
poem by Jorge Garcia
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Lady of the Stars
Fondled in moss and warm ferns
Earth invites the soul too gratitude
Let the wind speak its deep heart
Replenished by waters of joy
She is a forest filled with song
Moonlight swirls on the serene river
Her eyes of star roses glow
Under the boughs of mystic oaks
Streams chant with wood gnomes
Sky clasps the earth’s supple breasts
Lovers in meadows of elves and lilies
Lovers like the ancient tides of time
Waters sparkle like eternal diamonds
Her hair sings like sweet songbirds
My Lady of the stars smiles
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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My Friend
'He is my friend,' I said,--
'Be patient!' Overhead
The skies were drear and dim;
And lo! the thought of him
Smited on my heart--and then
The sun shone out again!
'He is my friend!' The words
Brought summer and the birds;
And all my winter-time
Thawed into running rhyme
And rippled into song,
Warm, tender, brave, and strong.
And so it sings to-day.--
So may it sing alway!
Though waving grasses grow
Between, and lilies blow
Their trills of perfume clear
As laughter to the ear,
Let each mute measure end
With 'Still he is thy friend.'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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She Bangs The Drums
I can feel the earth begin to move
I hear my needle hit the groove
And spiral through another day
I hear my song begin to say
Kiss me where the sun don't shine
The past was yours
But the future's mine
You're all out of time
I don't feel too steady on my feet
I feel hollow I feel weak
Passion fruit and holy bread
Fill my guts and ease my head
Through the early morning sun
I can see her here she comes
She bangs the drums
Have you seen her have you heard
The way she plays there are no words
To describe the way I feel
How could it ever come to pass
She'll be the first she'll be the last
To describe the way I feel
The way I feel
Have you seen her have you heard
The way she plays there are no words
To describe the way I feel
How could it ever come to pass
She'll be the first she'll be the last
To describe the way I feel
The way I feel
Have you seen her have you heard
The way she plays there are no words
To describe the way I feel
How could it ever come to pass
She'll be the first she'll be the last
To describe the way I feel
The way I feel
song performed by by The Stone Roses from The Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Modern Day Mariana (Cavatina Sequence)
At times sinister, other times placid,
just sweeping on
far over the horizon of the flat earth,
all life seems gone
in the arid landscape of the Karoo,
stone upon stone
shimmers in the great scorching noontime heat
while wild pigeons walk the roof with small feet.
Two old rusting wind-pumps guard the kingdom,
they are lifeless
and when the light wind passes they creak to life;
somewhat careless
rusting tools are strewn all around the grange,
quite purposeless
she pages through a very old magazine,
around her life and the world does decline.
Every day she picks a marigold
from the garden,
continually plays the 'he loves me' game,
a passing warden
is at times the only male company,
she does pardon
her fiancé for not coming to visit,
but she does not really understand it.
As time passes she grows somewhat older,
time moves slowly,
the old wooden floor creaks under her feet,
far too lowly
her life seems while old portraits watches her
and gradually
she starts to live in a kind of strange dream,
at night inhuman voices laugh, cry and scream.
[References: 'Mariana in the moated grange' in the play 'Measure for Measure' by William Shakespeare and 'Mariana' by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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How Sweet I Roam'd
How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride
'Til the prince of love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide!
He shew'd me lilies for my hair
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his garden fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
poem by William Blake
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Three Songs
I
Where love is life
The roses blow,
Though winds be rude
And cold the snow,
The roses climb
Serenely slow,
They nod in rhyme
We know--we know
Where love is life
The roses blow.
Where life is love
The roses blow,
Though care be quick
And sorrows grow,
Their roots are twined
With rose-roots so
That rosebuds find
A way to show
Where life is love
The roses blow.
II
Nothing came here but sunlight,
Nothing fell here but rain,
Nothing blew but the mellow wind,
Here are the flowers again!
No one came here but you, dear,
You with your magic train
Of brightness and laughter and lightness,
Here is my joy again!
III
I have songs of dancing pleasure,
I have songs of happy heart,
Songs are mine that pulse in measure
To the throbbing of the mart.
Songs are mine of magic seeming,
In a land of love forlorn,
Where the joys are had for dreaming,
At a summons from the horn.
But my sad songs come unbidden,
Rising with a wilder zest,
From the bitter pool that's hidden,
Deep--deep--deep within my breast.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Dirge Without Music
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Dreams
A DREAM of lilies: all the blooming earth,
A garden full of fairies and of flowers;
Its only music the glad cry of mirth,
While the warm sun weaves golden-tissued hours;
Hope a bright angel, beautiful and true
As Truth herself, and life a lovely toy,
Which ne'er will weary us, ne'er break, a new
Eternal source of pleasure and of joy.
A dream of roses: vision of Loves tree,
Of beauty and of madness, and as bright
As naught on earth save only dreams can be,
Made fair and odorous with flower and light;
A dream that Love is strong to outlast Time,
That hearts are stronger than forgetfulness,
The slippery sand than changeful waves that climb,
The wind-blown foam than mighty waters' stress.
A dream of laurels: after much is gone,
Much buried, much lamented, much forgot,
With what remains to do and what is done,
With what yet is, and what, alas! is not,
Man dreams a dream of laurel and of bays,
A dream of crowns and guerdons and rewards,
Wherein sounds sweet the hollow voice of praise,
And bright appears the wreath that it awards.
A dream of poppies, sad and true as Truth,—
That all these dreams were dreams of vanity;
And full of bitter penitence and ruth,
In his last dream, man deems 'twere good to die;
And weeping o'er the visions vain of yore,
In the sad vigils he doth nightly keep,
He dreams it may be good to dream no more,
And life has nothing like Death's dreamless sleep.
poem by Emma Lazarus
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Golden Roses
Golden Roses just for you,
anyone can give red roses,
theres plenty around,
for you white roses,
won't do.
Golden Roses just for you,
none other will do,
for someone special
so rare and true.
Golden Roses just for you,
dipped in pure gold,
just as your heart
has dipped your love into mine,
and shall not depart.
wrote 1-2-07
What a Dilemma
“What a dilemma” exclaimed the poet
“a Shakespearean sonnet I must write.
If I succeeded I would not know it
Or have a clue if I had done it right.”
“Fourteen lines, iambic pentameter…
Of course, a carefully patterned rhyme scheme.”
The idea truly enamored her,
as she prudently pursued this pipe dream.
“First, three quatrains to show complication,
a final couplet to tie up loose ends.”
Sure result was an abomination…
Certain ridicule from all of her friends.
After hours of counting syllables, it
turned into way too much silly bullshit.
poem by Maggie Signaigo
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What a Dilemma (a Shakespearean sonnet?)
What a dilemma” exclaimed the poet
“a Shakespearean sonnet I must write.
If I succeeded I would not know it
Or have a clue if I had done it right.”
“Fourteen lines, iambic pentameter…
Of course, a carefully patterned rhyme scheme.”
The idea truly enamored her,
as she prudently pursued this pipe dream.
“First, three quatrains to show complication,
a final couplet to tie up loose ends.”
Sure result was an abomination…
Certain ridicule from all of her friends.
After hours of counting syllables, it
turned into way too much silly bullshit.
poem by Maggie Signaigo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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