The Conqueror Worm
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Related quotes
The Conqueror Worm
[Young Poe:]
Lo! 't is a gala night
A mystic throng bedecked
Sit in a theater to see
A play of hopes and fears
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres
Mimes, mutter and mumble low
Mere puppets they, who come and go
Disguised as gods
They shift the scenery to and fro
Inevitably trapped by invisible Wo
This motley drama
to be sure
Will not be forgotten
A phantom chased for evermore
Never seized by the crowd
Through they circle
Returning to the same spot
Circle and return to the selfsame spot
Always to the selfsame spot
With much of madness and more of sin
And horror and mimic rout
The soul of the plot
Out
out are the lights
out all
And over each dying form
The curtain a funeral pall
Comes with the rush of a storm
The angels haggard and wan
Unveiling and uprising affirm
That the play is the tragedy "Man"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The End of the Day
In all its raucous impudence
Life writhes, cavorts in pallid light,
With little cause or consequence;
And when, with darkling skies, the night
Casts over all its sensuous balm,
Quells hunger's pangs and, in like wise,
Quells shame beneath its pall of calm,
"Aha, at last!" the Poet sighs.
"My mind, my bones, yearn, clamoring
For sweet repose unburdening.
Heart full of dire, funeral thought,
I will lie out; your folds will cling
About me: veils of shadow wrought,
O darkness, cool and comforting!"
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Song Of The Harp
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it soft and clear.
If I listen long enough
maybe I will hear
all the tones that vibrate,
reaching through the spheres.
Angel play upon your harp
sweet music for my ears.
All the sounds that reach our young
are not too heavenly.
Their music is just so much noise,
I know it cannot be
music that an angel plays,
music that is sweet.
All they seem to want is
a steady throbbing beat.
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it night and day.
Maybe they might listen
to the silken tones you play.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Peace
AH, that Time could touch a form
That could show what Homer's age
Bred to be a hero's wage.
'Were not all her life but storm
Would not painters paint a form
Of such noble lines,' I said,
'Such a delicate high head,
All that sternness amid charm,
All that sweetness amid strength?'
Ah, but peace that comes at length,
Came when Time had touched her form.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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I'll Always Look Back
Sing pretty angel
Sing my soul away
Sing pretty angel
Lead me from astray
Play pretty angel
Play my soul to rest
Play pretty angel
To mark I failed my test
Cry pretty angel
Cry your tears of fey
Cry pretty angel
Your tears wash blood away
Reach out pretty angel
Reach me where I fell
Reach out to me my angel
Please drag me up from hell
poem by Methods Create Madness
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On The Life And Death Of Man
The world's a theatre. The earth, a stage
Placed in the midst: where both prince and page,
Both rich and poor, fool, wise man, base and high,
All act their parts in life's short tragedy.
Our life's a tragedy. Those secret rooms,
Wherein we 'tire us, are our mothers' wombs.
The music ushering in the play is mirth
To see a man-child brought upon the earth.
That fainting gasp of breath which first we vent,
Is a dumb show; presents the argument.
Our new-born cries, that new-born griefs bewray,
Are the sad prologue of the ensuing play.
False hopes, true fears, vain joys, and fierce distracts,
Are like the music that divides the Acts.
Time holds the glass, and when the hour's outrun,
Death strikes the epilogue, and the play is done.
poem by Francis Quarles
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Night--A Phantasy
Night! the horrible wizard Night!
The dumb and terrible Night
Hath drawn his circle of magic, round
Over the sky, and over the ground,
Without a sound.
Ah me, what woeful phantoms rise,
With ice-cold hands and pitiless eyes,
As stars grow out of the summer skies,
Tangible things to mortal sight,
Under the hands of the wizard Night!
Night! the mystical prophet, Night!
The haunted and awful Night!
With the trail of his garment's shadowy fall,
Soundless and black as a funeral pall,
Now enters his dread laboratory.
A wan, and faint, and wavering glory
Shines from a veiled lamp somewhere hidden.
Like a lily in a grave:
And things unholy, and things forbidden,-
Hands that have long been the earth-worm's prey,
And shrouded faces out of the clay.
Rise and fill the enchanted cave
With a pale and deathly light,-
The haunted and awful Night!
Night! the abhorred magician Night!
The black astrologer Night!
Night is the world!-I shiver with fright:-
The air is full of evil things,
The coil and glitter of snaky rings,
And, the tremor of vast invisible wings,
That are not heard but felt:
They touch my hair, my hand, my cheek,
They mope and mouth, but they never speak
To utter their awful history.
Oh, when will the darkness break and melt,
Like blocks of ice on a golden reef,
And little by little, as leaf by leaf,
In light and color and form increased,
The rose of morning blooms in the east,-
The old yet ever new mystery!
And I fall on my knees to worship the light
That casts out the evil demon of Night,
And hallows with blossoms, like prayers, the way
Of another new day.
poem by Kate Seymour Maclean
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We are mimes tonight
We are mimes tonight
Not minding if we burn alive
Clothes are useless
Enemies of our thoughts
This blanket is a good friend though
But could betray us well if it could
Our chests collide with vigor
Heart beats dangerously
Our bodies are borders
And we are both free
Skin to skin
Hair against hair
Breath crashes breath
We are mimes I say
Erupting with emotions
Explosions in our sky
We are mimes tonight
Not minding if we burn alive.
poem by Jeffrey Regullano
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Le Jardin Des Tuileries
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square,
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band -
And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
And children climbed me, for their sake
Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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You, to whom I am myself
O You Who Are - the formless, nameless One,
more real than all forms and names can speak:
You for whom we seek to find a name
and yet who has no name, who needs no name;
You for whom we seek to shape a form
and yet who has no form, who needs no form;
Yet whom we name in every name we speak,
and whom we see in every form we seek:
is there some name bestowed for nameless name,
a form imagined for a formless form,
by which all hearts today that seek themselves
may shape their search as if for One unknown?
may kneel in front of their own golden throne?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Hearts,
who’s spoken of in heartfelt praise of glorious human brilliance,
endeavour, art, achievement and discovery;
the Lord who gave us hearts to know we love?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Self,
whom we all know when we relax, become
more our known self, in silence, rest, or company
that sparkles round a table built of happiness?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Consciousness
in whom we live and move, and be; yet never see
for you’re the seeing in ourself; to whom we wake
and know, and stand securely, watching all?
I ask You for the sound of some new yet eternal name;
that sound by which all quickly know themself
and talk once more from hearts forever free,
of what we are, and know, and love to be.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sleeping with the angels
sleeps keep the immortal soul at peace with
the eternity calls, the tranquility of our warm
heart recalls
as angels watch our deep snoring, every
breath wakes our imagination of what we want
in the most astonishing super hero of our dreams
the sole witness of our moving spirit to venture
beyond our human faculty, of being more than
we come to guide our steps for only
by following our strings of aspiration our mortal
body reaches beyond human satisfaction
lives not the fears of every immortal of tears, for
the night comes like lightning of the sky, swifting
thunders of the angels fury where echo of souls
cried for mercy, of the slaying angels of darkness
let every sleeps be a moment of unifying souls of
beauty, lying with angels memory, where each
stay is with in heaven's nest of rest, for every day
is a good sleep with an angel’s best
as you sleep, always make yourself happy, for in
every snoring, lying the angel’s touch of cooled
sleep, leaving you its angelic breath ready
to wake and see angels sleep
then you come to know that it’s the angels who sleep
with you...until Today
poem by Antonio Liao
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The response gives pleasure.
The speaker knows the story he narrates.
His enjoyment is not in its contents
But in the responses the story evokes.
In a fore play, a man is in action.
His enjoyment is not in his action
But in the writhes it stimulates.
07.09.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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This Will Not Win Him
Reason says,
I will win him with my eloquence.
Love says,
I will win him with my silence.
Soul says,
How can I ever win him
When all I have is already his?
He does not want, he does not worry,
He does not seek a sublime state of euphoria -
How then can I win him
With sweet wine or gold?
He is not bound by the senses -
How then can I win him
With all the riches of China?
He is an angel,
Though he appears in the form of a man.
Even angels cannot fly in his presence -
How then can I win him
By assuming a heavenly form?
He flies on the wings of God,
His food is pure light -
How then can I win him
With a loaf of baked bread?
He is neither a merchant, nor a tradesman -
How then can I win him
With a plan of great profit?
He is not blind, nor easily fooled -
How then can I win him
By lying in bed as if gravely ill?
I will go mad, pull out my hair,
Grind my face in the dirt -
How will this win him?
He sees everything -
how can I ever fool him?
He is not a seeker of fame,
A prince addicted to the praise of poets -
How then can I win him
With flowing rhymes and poetic verses?
The glory of his unseen form
Fills the whole universe
How then can I win him
With a mere promise of paradise?
I may cover the earth with roses,
I may fill the ocean with tears,
I may shake the heavens with praises -
none of this will win him.
There is only one way to win him,
this Beloved of mine -
Become his.
Contemplation of Sorrow
I am sorry for the readers
and the writers with much to say
On sorrow,
For it seems sorrow
Weighs much more heavily on the soul
Than any form of joy I've known
It is sorrow that paces
And sorrow that writhes,
Drawing attention to itself,
Magnetizing thoughts,
A gravitational pull
Equivocal to that of the moon
On the tide
Once you notice that pitiful little lump
Of sorrow
You cant help but to revolve around it,
Contemplate it
Like a little black hole
In a rented recess of the mind
It draws upon mental
and emotional energies
Until you drive yourself crazy
I am sorry for the readers
and the writers with much to say
On sorrow,
For it weighs so heavily on the soul
poem by Faustina Marie
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Let It All Be Music
Music is a mirror
Near around my soul
Music is the spirit
Come on let it roll
Music is my nature
People have you heard
Music is my future
Music is the world
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
Music isnt somewhere
Music turns you right
Music is a fever
Leads you day and night
Music is like heaven
Where you wanna be
Music is religion
Music sets you free
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
Music is tomorrow
Music is today
Music is forever
Music is the way
Music is for women
Music is for men
Music is for children
Sing it all again
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
I can feel it, in my soul
I can feel it, in my heart
Sweet sweet sweet music
Music
Sweet sweet sweet music
Sweet music
Play it on
Play it on
My my my my my kind of music
Play it
Play the music
My my my my my kind of music
Play it
I said play it
On and on and on and on
Music
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Morning in North Sligo
Slowly back the mist cloud moves,
as if drawn, like a duvet,
from a sleepers dream.
Like a stage curtain in
a drama, opens a play.
The moving mists the day.
Birds, thrushes and starlings
play on air, swoop and dip,
like scouts in early summer river,
dammed up beside their summer tent.
The mountains, awaken the ferns,
purple colored pall.
Rocks as if giants spoons,
turned upside down.
Old pigeons coughing a sound
on branches of trees,
observing, just that.
The others swoop and dive
upon the air,
await another time,
when tents rolled up,
and curtain closes over,
and drama is complete,
the story acted out
of generations,
another night.
poem by Bernard Kennedy
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Death Remains My Enemy (A Riff)
Death remains my Enemy
I've known it since a boy,
The shadow in my garden
The monster I avoid.
It slithers in the darkness
Just above my head,
It whispers of the starkness
As I go to bed.
Survival at its source
Is desperate against death
It writhes and bites and coils,
Just for added breaths.
No anodyne of Angels
Nor ghosts trapped on the earth
Nor hopes of resurrection
Nor promise of rebirth
Can effectively assuage
The lonely deafening silence
The feebleness of age
The tired hands of violence.
poem by David McLansky
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Playing Music Is Like Making Love
PLAYING MUSIC IS LIKE MAKING LOVE
Many people who insist that they enjoy
music known as classical merely say
they do, pretending. Far more serious is the ploy
planned by LSO, who'll just pretend to play.
There is surely nothing wrong with those who fake
enjoyment, like a woman faking an orgasm,
but pretense of playing music's a mistake,
since music needs not only sound, but ectoplasm.
Orchestras and lovemakers should never mimic:
they should always show their skin when they perform,
and should not be, although poetic, metonymic:
the use of any substitute is rotten form.
Denis Bartel reported the news about the London Symphony Orchestra's decision to mimic their playing while a performance is broadcast to visits at the Olympic Games. David Ng writes in the LA Times:
Musicians with the London Symphony Orchestra are reportedly going to have to pull a Milli Vanilli when they appear at the opening ceremony of the Summer Olympic Games in London. Reports from Britain state that the orchestra will mimic playing to prerecorded music due to concerns about the weather and the shape of the performing venue - a large, oval-shaped arena whose scale would apparently make a live-music performance tricky….
The London Symphony has reportedly recorded the music that is scheduled to be played during the July 27 ceremony. The Daily Mail reports that Boyle wanted the orchestra to perform live, but that he was overruled by the organizing committee for the Games. When viewers around the world tune in for the ceremony, they can expect to see the conductor and musicians from the renowned orchestra going through the motions while a soundtrack plays.
This wouldn't be the first time that the mimicking of live music was used at an Olympics ceremony. In 2008, a mini-controversy developed during the Beijing Games when it was revealed that a 9-year-old singer lip-synced to the voice of another young girl whom officials had deemed less telegenic. Similarly, at President Obama's inauguration, the musical performance by cellist Yo-Yo Ma, violinistItzhak Perlman, pianist Gabriella Montero and clarinetist Anthony McGill played, unamplified, to a recording. The decision to use a recording was made over fears that the cold weather that day could damage the instruments.
6/4/12 #10403
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Angel An Echo Of My Soul
behold! an angel in the high above is in me,
.......a cloth of aura covers the whole area, an angel
has come, welcome a visitor that
brings good news, with a band of trumpet,
flute and lyre
alleluia let my soul rejoice, for a special winged human forms
......has turn in me a halos of wisdom and knowledge to
see more than i saw, believe more than i believed
and trust that leads my soul to the heaven i
adore
lou! my spirit move to the highest echelon of joy, an extraordinary
.....beauty that brings me to see beyond this universe as
i live, like a superhuman in a spirit form glows as
it touches in our human faculties, its the spirit
of God they brings
as the holy hosts of heaven, celestially lives with us, angels wings make
......its fast, to lead us near to God we trust, seraphim and
cherubim singing with us, where our beatific vision
be in one to the angel shall we stand, when the
heaven and earth will be gone
angels as we live, dear us always to God, to thy throne we are glad in
.....the most holy one we give our precious life i leave, oh!
messenger in many form, prophetic kingdom you
belong, gather us in the assembly of saints,
and be counted us.......One
poem by Antonio Liao
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Wilde Angel....Doc Wilde
Wilde Angel the sun that brightens my every day
Wilde Angel the brightest star that lights up my darkest night
Wilde Angel my divine super hero
Wilde Angel chases away the scary monsters from under my bed
Wilde Angel big soft cuddly teady bear
Wilde Angel with outstreched wings ready to break my every fall
Wilde Angel with invisible wings
Wings that lift my spirits
Make them soar high above the heavens
Wilde Angel you graced my life and made it worth living
You heard my thoughts my inner voice
The silent pain
The deafening silence
Wilde Angel your voice sings a lullaby to my heart
Sweeter than any chocolate kiss
Cradles my pain and rocks my world
Wilde Angel your heart brought forth and did lay before me a gift
A gift of friendship unconditional
Lily white and pure
Wilde Angel you wipe away the tears even before they fall
Turning them into pearls of wisdom
Wilde Angel......you are the answer to my every prayer
You are the love, the blind faith, the healing friend my strenght and my joy
You are Doc Wilde......Leila's very own Wilde Angel
Don't ever tuck away those wings Doc.......Love LeilaXXXX