The Martyr Poets—did not tell
544
The Martyr Poets—did not tell—
But wrought their Pang in syllable—
That when their mortal name be numb—
Their mortal fate—encourage Some—
The Martyr Painters—never spoke—
Bequeathing—rather—to their Work—
That when their conscious fingers cease—
Some seek in Art—the Art of Peace—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Related quotes
Mortal Love
mortality does
not ask for love eternal
mortal love
cannot outlive eternity’s edge
to an infinite span
mortal love
does not ask forever
never
mortal love
makes lies, makes changes,
twists and turns
mortal love is simple
like a dimple
one tongue
to one earthly word
nope
may do
may say something else
It is only asking
That you love
One day at a time
With all allowance for change
For a wider space
Leeways
Choices
Mortal love is free
frivolous
this love of mine
Today is just enough
mortal
And so rightly deserved
A mortal like me
Also bleeds
Weeds filled
No promises, just a hug, an embrace
And
A kiss, then could be, goodbye.
Because mortal love
Dies, like a wind passing by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Martyr
Why, why was I born to know what I must know
I can see the sky, but I cant see the ground below
Where do I go
Falling in a trap where traitors wait
Lost love is the bait
But the martyr never knows
He is caught in a dream of his own
When its over where does he go
Who really knows
Time stands between me and my home
So long ago
I cant stand to wait
But I cant force my body to go
Where do I go
Crying, he is blind to everyone
And thats how its done
And the martyr never knows
Who really knows
I know in my heart
I could change the world
With just this guitar
Who really knows
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Martyr
My martyr was also an epicure as a rich man,
Bold are the epithets to describe him, all a ban.
The job epitomizes good goals and strong life,
An epoch of calamities and casualties that were rife.
My understanding is of a fetish that spoke alarmingly,
It became a fetid smell, a sensible touch was the ability.
Most of the hankering became a mission,
To intercede on behalf of the demon.
Festal reactions described him fully,
As the honeydew pleased him abdominally.
It is the largesse, it is the probity of good singing,
Underneath the grand sea, that inspired the abandoning.
You have naught as a martyr, elsewhere there is naught,
All is morbid, and the scaring is dwindling, to be fought.
I can evangelize the youth into goodness,
Yet my breathing is harassing me like an actress.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Life is not A question, But It is an experience!
Life is not a question that to be
solved,
it should be experienced!
Life is that experience of facing
and solving problems,
toughest is to know the one who experience.
The evolution of life itself is story
of trial and error!
life itself is that greatest observer
of itself!
The vision of invisible viewing through mortal eyes,
hearing the silent eloquent by mortal ears,
touching the one beyond touch by mortal skin,
Smelling the one odourfree by mortal nose,
Tasting the one who is tastefree by mortal tongue
Immortal showing up as mortal!
Life is an experience between birth and death,
coming here as nothing,
Learning to love and hate,
Learning to work and expect fruits,
developing skill to use senses and devices,
Learning to use mind and intelligence,
Learning and conveying message,
The message of immortal to mortal,
The truth itself in pursuit of Truth!
Life itself is that truth,
looks like an experience
that constantly puts
its own existence
on trial...
The one who had born has to die,
But one who is eternal continues his eternal play!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Buhto Dear
Dear Buhto
A woman dressed as an angel
Benatheer
Meaning in English
Not like any other person
Meaning in Arabic
'Lais Laha Natheer'
Benatheer
Model
of Muslim
Eastern
woman
First
Prime
Muslim
Woman
First
but why
But politics is dangerous work
and you chose dangerous work
My love
My heart aches for you
No consolations
She is a martyr
My God please
Send her my greetings
Send her my sorrow and grief
No no grief
She is a martyr
God bless
(Curse her killers
Curse her killers)
And her new year
Will be
In Heaven
God wills
God bless
God bless
Good people
Please God
Bless
....
our world
poem by Eman Elbadawi
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Lovers Cross
Guess that it was bound to happen
Was just a matter of time
But now Ive come to my decision
And its a-one of the painful kind
cause now it seems that you wanted a martyr
Just a regular guy wouldnt do
But baby I cant hang upon no lovers cross for you
You really got to hand it to ya
cause girl you really tried
But for every time that we spent laughin
There were two times that I cried
And you were tryin to make me your martyr
And thats the one thing I just couldnt do
cause baby, I cant hang upon no lovers cross for you
cause tables are meant for turnin
And people are bound to change
And bridges are meant for burnin
When the people and memories they join arent the same
Still I hope that you can find
Another who can take what I could not
Hell have to be a super guy
Or maybe a super god
cause I never was much of a martyr before
And I aint bout to start nothin new
And baby, I cant hang upon no lovers cross for you
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Prologue To The University Of Oxford, 1674.
Poets, your subjects have their parts assign'd
To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind:
When tired with following nature, you think fit
To seek repose in the cool shades of wit,
And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey
What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife
You view the various turns of human life:
Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go,
And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere[49] of crystal show'd the great.
Blest, sure, are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can suit your mind:
Content to see, and shun, those ills we show,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:
That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim,
May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;
For Muses so severe are worshipp'd here,
That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye,
And, as profane, from sacred places fly,
Rather than see the offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debased even to the level of their wit;
Disdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your knowledge all their power transcends,
As what _should be_ beyond what _is_ extends.
poem by John Dryden
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Martyr Material
Its different now
I feel that all those looks were just a game
You smoked and choked on cigarettes
And acted cute and lame-and lame
Your parting lips that wrapped me up
In promised company
Now mumble that each breath I take
Takes from the air you breathe-and breathe
You were to share these dreams
But from this bed its different than it seems
Youll have to drag me everywhere you go
And youre not martyr material
You fell in love, you fell so hard
You said it must be days
I said that I am not quite ready
For your newest phase-your face
Conceding, lying, cheating
Deceiving relentlessly
My voice got softer
You could no longer hear me-hear me
That ring you wear in fashion
Has a chain that pierces through my nose
Youll have to drag me everywhere you go
And youre not martyr material
My life is riding in this chair of wheels
With arms that move too slow
Youll have to drag me everywhere you go
And youre not martyr material
song performed by by Verve Pipe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If only my eyes do not pain
If only my eyes do not pain
If only these eyes do not get tired
Eyes they are of a human frailty
I could have written a thousand
More poems in
256 ghz
but I am just a man
a mere mortal
with mortal eyes
I am not Dracula
I am not God
I have eyes that pain
I have fingers that tremble
I have a body that is frail
I have a soul that once in a while
Falter and fall and stumble
So please bear with me
In my tiredness the words slow down
Like dying soldiers in the front
While the war rages on and on and on
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Today painters do not have to go to a subject matter outside of themselves. Most modern painters work from a different source. They work from within.
quote by Jackson Pollock
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Lamb Of God
There was Christ in the metal shell
there was blood on the pavement
The camera will make you god
that's how Jack became sainted
If you die when there's no one watching
and your ratings drop and you're forgotten
if they kill you on their TV
you're a martyr and a lamb of god
nothing's going to change
nothing's going to change the world
There was Lennon and a happy gun
There were words on the pavement
we were looking for the lamb of god
we were looking for Mark David
If you die when there's no one watching
and your ratings drop and you're forgotten
if they kill you on their TV
you're a martyr and a lamb of god
Nothing's going to change the world
nothing's going to change
Nothing's going to change the world
nothing's going to change
the world
it took three days for him to die
the born again could buy the serial rights
lamb of god have mercy on us
lamb of god won't you grant us
Nothing's going to change the world
nothing's going to change
Nothing's going to change the world
nothing's going to change
the world
If you die when there's no one watching
and your ratings drop and you're forgotten
if they kill you on their TV
you're a martyr and a lamb of god
nothing's going to change the world
song performed by by Marilyn Manson from Holy Wood (In The Shadow Of The Valley Of Death)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Two Sonnets In Memory
(Nicola Sacco -- Bartolomeo Vanzetti)
Executed August 23, 1927
I
As men have loved their lovers in times past
And sung their wit, their virtue and their grace,
So have we loved sweet Justice to the last,
That now lies here in an unseemly place.
The child will quit the cradle and grow wise
And stare on beauty till his senses drown;
Yet shall be seen no more by mortal eyes
Such beauty as here walked and here went down.
Like birds that hear the winter crying plain
Her courtiers leave to seek the clement south;
Many have praised her, we alone remain
To break a fist against the lying mouth
Of any man who says this was not so:
Though she be dead now, as indeed we know.
II
Where can the heart be hidden in the ground
And be at peace, and be at peace forever,
Under the world, untroubled by the sound
Of mortal tears, that cease from pouring never?
Well for the heart, by stern compassion harried,
If death be deeper than the churchmen say, --
Gone from this world indeed what's graveward carried,
And laid to rest indeed what's laid away.
Anguish enough while yet the indignant breather
Have blood to spurt upon the oppressor's hand;
Who would eternal be, and hang in ether
A stuffless ghost above his struggling land,
Retching in vain to render up the groan
That is not there, being aching dust's alone?
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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This Should 'Click' In A Conscious Mind
When someone of your own kind,
Does their best to impress...
Those that have oppressed,
Any efforts to address an expressed suppression.
This should 'click' in a conscious mind.
Who really wants who to remain ignorant and left behind?
Why solidify with requests,
The becoming to be the next martyr?
And at who's benefit will this doing prove to be effective?
Yours? Mine?
Or those already declared nonconformists?
With a redefining of an implemented and intended stagnation.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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the modern martyr in the kingdom of God
i've just seen the picture of a man
devout catholic
gunned down in broad day,
falling to the ground,
and declared another martyr for
mother church,
sooner he becomes a saint
because he died
to the hands of the fanatics
the unbelievers,
sometimes i ask myself if this is the only way to become
a martyr, the only way to be a saint,
(does it really matter if one becomes a saint?)
i guess, there is another happy child of God
who has worked for the church
who cooked faith, who served beliefs,
who traveled far just to show how good God is,
the happy child does not have to die
for God wants him to be with his side,
smiling and alive,
He too is a saint. He sowed happiness.
He did not plant guilt. He did not grown scruples.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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O Love their Sits a Lion in the Gate
O Love their sits a Lion in the gate
My duty calls above my heart’s desire
Mortal conflict is for sure and cannot wait,
Speak not of peace amidst so great a fire.
Great winds from Eden burn the fair green land
Do we sit idly admits the boiling pot?
The approaching tempest will quickly be at hand,
And defiles the beauty of this very spot.
But my love your faith I will remember
And courage it gives against the lions might.
Your love for me preserves the burning ember,
Of courage growing strong throughout the fight.
Your faith in me will be my victory cry,
With you this mortal’s fear for now will die.
For you this mortal’s fear for now will die.
1982
poem by Gary Bryson
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When will the public cease to insult the teacher's calling with empty flattery When will men who would never for a moment encourage their own sons to enter the work of the public schools cease to tell us that education is the greatest and noblest of all human callings
quote by William C. Bagley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Martyr
Marley spoke against corruption
His soul was never up for barter
Death was but minor interruption
'Til "Son of Rasta" became martyr
ROTMS
View poems, image and video at;
ROTMS.blogspot.com
poem by Ray Lucero
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Acquiring a repertoire in these days, when the vocal literature is so immense, so overwhelming, that the student with sense will devote all his energies to work and not imagine himself a martyr to art.
quote by Alma Gluck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hex
Sleepless nights will soon emerge to be your blight,
As by right you relive your wrongs with contrite,
And I promise you this you cannot resist,
As fate begins to play out its unseen twist,
Those unfortunate to have died by your hand,
Whisper to you from beyond this mortal land,
They are soothed as your days left on earth run thin,
And unrelenting desperation sets in,
Comeuppance for your mortal sins is certain,
What at first starts out as bearable and tame,
Will rapidly grow into a searing pain,
Sores will emerge and grow to tarnish your skin,
The pain of which will mirror what's felt within,
Slowly your sight will fade until you are blind,
Only to be replaced by visions unkind,
This is a battle that you cannot ever win,
Death will arrive once you are withered and thin,
Comeuppance for your mortal sins is certain.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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A Dialogue
DEATH:
For my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave,
I come, care-worn tenant of life, from the grave,
Where Innocence sleeps 'neath the peace-giving sod,
And the good cease to tremble at Tyranny's nod;
I offer a calm habitation to thee,--
Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?
My mansion is damp, cold silence is there,
But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair;
Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath,
Dares dispute with grim Silence the empire of Death.
I offer a calm habitation to thee,--
Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?
MORTAL:
Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose,
It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes,
It longs in thy cells to deposit its load,
Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad,--
Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away,
And Bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent of their prey.
Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is o'er,
What awaits on Futurity's mist-covered shore?
DEATH:
Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil
The shadows that float o'er Eternity's vale;
Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love,
That will hail their blest advent to regions above.
For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of my sway,
And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray.
Hast thou loved?--Then depart from these regions of hate,
And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of fate.
I offer a calm habitation to thee.--
Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?
MORTAL:
Oh! sweet is thy slumber! oh! sweet is the ray
Which after thy night introduces the day;
How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest’s breath,
Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of Death!
I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all,
Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall,
And duty forbids, though I languish to die,
When departure might heave Virtue’s breast with a sigh.
O Death! O my friend! snatch this form to thy shrine,
And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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