An Ancient Gesture
I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.
And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope...
Penelope, who really cried.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Gesture Of Happiness
GESTURE OF HAPPINESS
Gesture of happiness is not a crime,
so always spread happiness,
happiness is our birth right,
drive away all the tensions,
if you are engulfed in sadness,
try to find an excuse of happiness,
gesture of happiness
poem by Dr. Ram Sharma
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On a Close-up of Louis Esterhuizen, on His Poem “Winnie”
So tell me Louis, you allege:
“I went to look at the remarks
found in his biographical sketch:
“I love the work of various poets
and my favourites are AG Visser, Eugene Marais,
Ingrid Jonker, D.J. Opperman, N.P. Van Wyk Louw,
William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, John Keats,
Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, Yahuda Amichai,
Hannah Szenes, Stevie Smith, Dorothy Parker
and even Homer.””
Further you say: “With the exception of a few names
under the English favourites, all the Afrikaans poets are experts
whom he probably encountered at school,
if a person looks at the verses on his page
you realise that Mr. X has never grown past the incidental
school-contact...In this he is alas not unique.”
Still you are the great master
where it comes to the works of Homer,
as you make a comparison
in your poem “Winnie” between Me. Winnie Mandela
and Homer’s character Penelope,
where there are in reality flagrant contrasts
and the masters canonise this poem
in the “Great Verse Book”
without even being aware of the contrasts?
Let me as just a unfolding poet
who “has never grown past
the incidental school-contact, ”
point out the contrasts clearly:
The story of Penelope comes
out of Homer’s Odyssey where the title
indicates a long historical journey or adventure
or some wanderings
that the main character Odysseus / Ulysses
undertakes before again arriving
at the island Ithaca
where he rules as the king.
For only a very short while
Odysseus / Ulysses is with the nymph Circe
on a island, but the greatest part of the book
is about his wanderings.
In flagrant contrast you write:
”And Penelope comes forward, impatient
and rude as Ulysses is only moving rocks
on his island.”
Where you use the Roman name of Odysseus
to describe Nelson Mandela.
Your Ulysses is not wandering at that stage
or travelling on a historical journey full of adventure
he is busy “moving rocks.”
At that stage your Ulysses
isn’t a king, far less
your Penelope ever becomes a queen,
not even the wife of a president.
The original Odysseus / Ulysses
is only true to one goddess namely Athena
who at various times helps him,
even in his battles,
where your Ulysses divorces your Penelope,
takes another wife
and marries her as a Christian, a Moslem, a Hindu
and also as a Jew.
Still less the ”UDF, AZAPO and also COSATU;
then there’s also the Young Comrades -”
are princes and kings who are trying to seduce her.
Nevertheless you write:
“But while the crown-princes are wooing her
and the almost-princes gather around her
and rollick, the woman plays
in the three storey-mansion
with her last matches.”
The real wife of the real Odysseus / Ulysses
was not involved with a “Stompie” character
who disappeared without a sign
and in the Odyssey the property of Odysseus / Ulysses
is wasted and devoured,
while the princes are fornicating with the maids
and Odysseus / Ulysses
along with his son Telemachus destroys
all of those princes and kings
along with the fornicating maids
that contrasts flagrantly
with the acts of your Ulysses.
Your Ulysses is moving stones, only walks
on his way to freedom a few steps,
divorces your Penelope
and marries another wife.
Nonetheless the original Penelope remains true
to Odysseus / Ulysses,
under the pretext of completing a shroud
that she is weaving for her father in law Laertes,
of which she continually again frays out the thread
and later the two are again together and happy
and it is the nearest
that you come to the original story:
“to again fray out the dream-cloak:
Oh, the endless undoing
of the endless doing, she lisps.”
To my opinion your comparison
between Me. Winnie and Penelope
is rather shallow and totally ungrounded,
as their are just too many contrasts
that you did not think through
and now I am wondering
who is the person
that has “never grown past the incidental
school-contact” as far as Homer’s Odyssey is concerned?
(After Anthony Delius/References: The poem “Winnie” by Louis Esterhuizen, “The Odyssey” by Homer. “On a Close-up of Dirk Opperman, on the Jacket of his Komas” by Anthony Delius.)
poem by Gert Strydom
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I'm not the new Penelope Cruz. I'm Paz Vega. There's only one Penelope and she's marvellous.
I didn't think I had anything particular to say, but I thought I might have something to say to children.
quote by Penelope Lively
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 02: The Fulfilled Dream
More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed—
Great rocks hoisted in air;
And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight
With gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . .
And so he did not mention his dream of falling
But drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears
That horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath
Sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by
And the small tree swell beneath him . . .
He patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife,
Looked quickly around the room, to remember it,—
And so went out . . . For once, he forgot his pail.
Something had changed—but it was not the street—
The street was just the same—it was himself.
Puddles flashed in the sun. In the pawn-shop door
The same old black cat winked green amber eyes;
The butcher stood by his window tying his apron;
The same men walked beside him, smoking pipes,
Reading the morning paper . . .
He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly,
As if he knew for certain he walked to death:
But with his usual pace,—deliberate, firm,
Looking about him calmly, watching the world,
Taking his ease . . . Yet, when he thought again
Of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times,
Always the same, and heard that whistling wind,
And saw the windows flashing upward past him,—
He slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror
How monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . .
He slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife.
Was forty, then, too old for work like this?
Why should it be? He'd never been afraid—
His eye was sure, his hand was steady . . .
But dreams had meanings.
He walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs,
All built by men, and saw the pale blue sky;
And suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it,
It seemed to whirl and swim,
It seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . .
He lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly;
His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves;
He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten?
Because he would not need it?
Then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again
About that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp,
Where first he met the girl whom he would marry,—
That blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,—
He waved his hand for signal, and up he went
In the dusty chute that hugged the wall;
Above the tree; from girdered floor to floor;
Above the flattening roofs, until the sea
Lay wide and waved before him . . . And then he stepped
Giddily out, from that security,
To the red rib of iron against the sky,
And walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble;
And looking down one instant, saw the tree
Just as he dreamed it was; and looked away,
And up again, feeling his blood go wild.
He gave the signal; the long girder swung
Closer to him, dropped clanging into place,
Almost pushing him off. Pneumatic hammers
Began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets
Were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails;
He signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought
A place so high in the air should be more quiet.
The tree, far down below, teased at his eyes,
Teased at the corners of them, until he looked,
And felt his body go suddenly small and light;
Felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor;
And heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree
Come plunging up to him, and thought to himself,
'By God—I'm done for now, the dream was right . . .'
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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This World is not Conclusion
501
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music—
But positive, as Sound—
It beckons, and it baffles—
Philosophy—don't know—
And through a Riddle, at the last—
Sagacity, must go—
To guess it, puzzles scholars—
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown—
Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—
Blushes, if any see—
Plucks at a twig of Evidence—
And asks a Vane, the way—
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—
Strong Hallelujahs roll—
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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We read Greek and Norse mythology until it came out of our ears. And the Bible.
quote by Penelope Lively
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Miss Arkle's Wart
Miss Arkle had a wart on
The back of her neck.
Miss Arkle taught maths
And smelt of lemons.
You wiped the blackboard
As she had instructed
Wiping away her handwritten
Workouts which made no
Sense to your tired brain.
The wart on her neck like
A dried brown prune caught
Your eyes. It sat above her
Pink scarf. It kind of spoilt
Her beauty like a bruised apple.
You wanted to slice it off
And flick it away. Having wiped
The blackboard clear you
Returned to your seat.
You carried the image in
Your mind like a damaged fruit.
Maybe you thought she should
Grow her hair and hide it there.
Miss Arkle had beautiful breasts
Like melons on show in a store.
You and other boys enjoyed
Your secret stare. Shame about
The wart now out of sight. You’d
Take both images of Miss Arkle
To your lusty bed that night.
poem by Terry Collett
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Always a woman
Late at night when I tuck them tight
I am a mother
Morning breaks and I have eggs to bake
I am a nurturer
But always with me the thought
I am a woman
Suit, heals and briefcase
I am a lawyer
Lace, stockings and champagne
I am a lover
But always with me the thought
I am a woman
Tears and stories of regret
I am a friend
Teachings and homework
I am a mentor
But always with me the thought
I am a woman
Apron and dinner to make
I am a cook
Stolen cookies and milk
I am an accomplice
But always with me the thought
I am a woman
Alone at last with chocolate to indulge
I am me
Pages of a book to entice
I am me
All roles rolled into one
But … always a woman
poem by Jenna Wolf
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When we did Wayne's World, it was 14 million dollars and they didn't bug us too much because they just thought it was some little movie that nobody was ever going to see. We showed them.
quote by Penelope Spheeris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love The Poor
Lead the line and show the way
Over all gesture for their comfortable say
Voice against their suppression of rights
Element of humanity is to be shown with light
Today may not be favorable to their cause
Hearts may still sing for them because
Efforts must be on for alleviation
Poverty must be wiped out
Over all rehabilitation must be talked about
Oral promises may now be discarded
Resettlement with honor must be started
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Lesson
Our love has chosen its appropriate gesture
Which when viewed in the midst of all the gestures
It didn't choose seems almost insignificant.
The gesture our love has chosen is appropriate
We both agree not that we have any choice but
Amidst all those others does seem insignificant.
Is it incumbent on us thus to therefore obliterate
All of the gestures except this insignificant one
Chosen by our love for its own no doubt reasons.
It is up to us to obliterate all other gestures
Though they cluster round thick as presentations
Of war and sacrifice in a gradeschool classroom.
Use of our love's chosen gesture for the obliteration
Of all those foreign gestures is forbidden however
We must find something else to erase them with.
Our love has chosen its appropriate gesture
Which when viewed in the absence of all other gestures
Seems to spell the opposite of insignificant.
poem by Bill Knott
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She lay as if at play
369
She lay as if at play
Her life had leaped away—
Intending to return—
But not so soon—
Her merry Arms, half dropt—
As if for lull of sport—
An instant had forgot—
The Trick to start—
Her dancing Eyes—ajar—
As if their Owner were
Still sparkling through
For fun—at you—
Her Morning at the door—
Devising, I am sure—
To force her sleep—
So light—so deep—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Farewell Visit to Ulysses -2
After twenty years, Ulysses has come back. He must realize a transformed world. And also he must understand his wife.
You wanted to return and find your world again,
Nature would have been the same, people couldn't refrain.
Your solitude breaks off and on, we like your feelings
Don't like your action, and this journey is over.
More than returning, more than finding, meeting means:
That wasn't your anniversary, Penelope loves new teams.
poem by Paolo Giuseppe Mazzarello
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The most important lesson I've learned in this business is how to say no. I have said no to a lot of temptations, and I am glad I did.
quote by Penelope Cruz
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Too Many Nights
(nick martinelli/a.brown/b.wayy)
Too many nights
Too many tears
Too many years
Too many nights Ive waited around for you
As the nights turn into weeks, I couldnt even sleep
Too many tears Ive cried but now Im through
Im ready to dry my eyes again, this time I wont pretend
I thought that I could make it on my own
And the thought of starting over again
Scared me into staying here with you
Long after all the heartache began
Im through with waiting in an empty bed
One for dinner when it should be two
Im tired of holding back what should be said
Im gonna let it go and stand up to you
Hey, too many nights Ive waited around for you
As the nights turn into weeks, I couldnt even sleep
Too many tears Ive cried but now Im through
Im ready to dry my eyes again, this time I wont pretend
My pride was swallowed one too many times
Ive kept on turning my back on the truth
Now Im as serious as a heart attack
coz Ive decided baby, were through
Im growing stronger from experience
The woman in mes taking a stand
You taught me good, I learned my lesson well
And Im never gonna let it happen again, no
Too many nights Ive waited around for you
As the nights turn into weeks, I couldnt even sleep
Too many tears Ive cried but now Im through
Im ready to dry my eyes again, this time I wont pretend
Im gonna turn the page
Put heartache in the past
I gotta think about getting strong
And Ill put all those memories on the shelf
And make the space for someone else
(too many nights Ive waited around for you)
Too many nights
(too many nights)
Too many nights
Hey, too many tears Ive cried but now Im through
(Im through)
Im ready to dry my eyes again, this time I wont pretend
Too many nights Ive waited around for you
Ive waited around for you
As the nights turn into weeks, I couldnt even sleep
Too many tears Ive cried but now Im through
I cried, cried, cried
Too many nights
Too many tears
Too many years
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Every gesture is a gesture from the blood, every expression a symbolic utterance... Everything is of the blood, of the senses.
quote by Henry Williamson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Over the fence
251
Over the fence—
Strawberries—grow—
Over the fence—
I could climb—if I tried, I know—
Berries are nice!
But—if I stained my Apron—
God would certainly scold!
Oh, dear,—I guess if He were a Boy—
He'd—climb—if He could!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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For the most part, studio movies have huge budgets. They don't do anything under 30 to 40 million. When you have that much money at stake, you have so many people breathing down your neck.
quote by Penelope Spheeris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Messenger
She rose up in the early dawn,
And white and silently she moved
About the house. Four men had gone
To battle for the land they loved,
And she, the mother and the wife,
Waited for tidings from the strife.
How still the house seemed! and her tread
Was like the footsteps of the dead.
The long day passed; the dark night came.
She had not seen a human face.
Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
How loud it echoed in that place,
Where, day on day, no sound was heard
But her own footsteps. 'Bring you word,'
She cried to whom she could not see,
'Word from the battle-plain to me?'
A soldier entered at the door,
And stood within the dim firelight;
'I bring you tidings of the four,'
He said, 'who left you for the fight.'
'God bless you, friend,' she cried, 'speak on!
For I can bear it. One is gone?'
'Ay, one is gone!' he said. 'Which one?'
'Dear lady, he, your eldest son.'
A deathly pallor shot across
Her withered face; she did not weep.
She said: 'It is a grievous loss,
But God gives His belovèd sleep.
What of the living-of the three?
And when can they come back to me?'
The soldier turned away his head:
'Lady, your husband, too, is dead.'
She put her hand upon her brow;
A wild, sharp pain was in her eyes.
'My husband! Oh, God, help me now!'
The soldier heard her shuddering sighs.
The task was harder than he thought.
'Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Close at his father's side; both fell
Dead, by the bursting of a shell.'
She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
Her face had paled to ashen gray:
'Then one is left me-one alone,'
She said, 'of four who marched away.
Oh, overruling, All-wise God,
How can I pass beneath Thy rod!'
The soldier walked across the floor,
Paused at the window, at the door,
Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek
And sought the mourner's side again.
'Once more, dear lady, I must speak:
Your last remaining son was slain
Just at the closing of the fight,
'Twas he who sent me here to-night.'
'God knows,' the man said afterward,
'The fight itself was not so hard.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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