Coitus
The gilded phaloi of the crocuses
are thrusting at the spring air.
Here is there naught of dead gods
But a procession of festival,
A procession, Giulio Romano,
Fit for your spirit to dwell in.
Dione, your nights are upon us.
The dew is upon the leaf.
The night about us is restless.
poem by Ezra Pound
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A Great Procession of Priests and Laymen
A procession of priests and laymen—
each walk of life represented—
moves through streets, squares, and gates
of the famous city, Antioch.
At the head of this imposing procession
a handsome white-clad boy
carries the Cross, his arms raised—
our strength and hope, the holy Cross.
The pagans, lately so full of arrogance,
now reticent and cowardly,
quickly slink away from the procession.
Let them keep their distance, always keep their distance from us
(as long as they do not renounce their errors).
The holy Cross goes forward; it brings joy and consolation
to every quarter where Christians live;
and these God-fearing people, elated,
stand in their doorways and greet it reverently,
the strength, the salvation of the universe, the Cross.
This is an annual Christian festival.
But today, you see, it is more conspicuous.
The empire is delivered at last.
The vile, the appalling Julian
reigns no longer.
For most pious Jovian let us give our prayers.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Restless Nights
Wished we ran and lived as one
In another world my little one
Where strange trees and dark rivers run
I told a dream to you
Now outside the streets of pain
And the childhood games we play
Have faded away
But my baby, she has restless nights
She has restless nights
My baby, she has restless nights
On late night movie screens
Young lovers look so sure
Lost in wide awake dreams
That they cant afford
Once I held you in my arms
On a bed of stone
Now we have grown (but darling)
Well my baby she has restless nights
She has restless nights
My baby she has restless nights
Wished we ran and lived as one
A different world my little one
Where strange trees and dark rivers run
I told a dream to you
Now outside the streets of pain
But here inside my heart
It all falls apart
But my baby, she has restless nights
She has restless nights
My baby, she has restless nights
But my baby, she has restless nights
She has restless nights
My baby, she has restless nights\
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Bivouac's Fitful Flame
BY the bivouac's fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;--but first
I note,
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim outline,
The darkness, lit by spots of kindled fire--the silence;
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving;
The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily
watching me;)
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,
Of life and death--of home and the past and loved, and of those that
are far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac's fitful flame. 10
poem by Walt Whitman
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Unity Of The Elements
It was a pompous show,
For everyone should know,
The funeral procession
Of a rich man of the town.
Inch by Inch, the funeral cart moved.
Step by step, the mourners walked.
In black costumes, each one was dressed.
Front and back, march passed the crowd.
At the gate of the burning ghat,
The procession came to a halt.
Each one spoke, in praise of the dead
And tears flowed, for what they said.
On the sandalwood bed,
The body was laid,
And his son lit the fire,
That engulfed the funeral pyre.
The dead man's remains,
In the form of ash and bones,
To the sea, were consigned
As a finish, at the end.
At the bottom of the seabed
The bone of a poor man dead
Addressed his bone and said
'Welcome to this silent seabed.'
'The difference, when we were alive
Is no more with us, now let us live,
Not as poor or rich, but as one element,
No hatred feelings to foment.'
From the elements, man comes,
And back to the elements, he goes.
In between arises a low-high status,
That brings a world of differences.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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You May Have Obtained Nama
You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!
Lord resides within you, but you couldn't discern him;
You wander aimlessly thinking him to be afar;
You calculate about the One beyond the calculations;
You limit the Illimitable
And in this state of twoness, you count your futile beads!
You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!
You try to be Harijan without having Hari!
How can pangs of hunger subside by a bash of hollow words?
How can throes of separation subside by mere donning of ascetic clothes?
It is like the futile roaring of rainless clouds!
You may have obtainednama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!
You think you have become harijan by merely singing lord's praises,
You try to rival a swan, when your deeds are those of a crow!
The lord will indeed disregard you!
You may have obtainednama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is barren like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without groom!
Says Narsinh, only he is worth our obeisance,
Whose mind has dissolved into the formless;
In whom the delusion of the world of differences is shattered
And in whom the flame of renunciation is resplendent.
You may have obtained nama, but without Rama
Your title of Vaishnava is like a cradle in a childless home
Or a marriage procession without the groom!
poem by Narsinh Mehta
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In Spring groves they are to be found
Ponder the perfection that resides within reflection.
Wander is wonder. In Spring groves they are to be found.
The Good Folk, by twilight, as by the oak they dance.
Dressed for procession. They dance, oh joy, to such merry
A tune it doth make my heart wither in weeping.
As dreaming, as asleep
Within the Oak, dryads ancient joke
As outside their life is to be ended
Upon the turning of a leaf.
Within the hedgerow await the
Children Impish of the forest.
Awaiting to test those who seek to rest.
poem by David Lacey
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Dead
I returned a bag of groceries
Accidently taken off the shelf
Before the expiration date
I came back as a bag of groceries
Accidently taken off the shelf
Before the date stamped on myself
Did a large procession wave their (did a)
Torches as my head fell in the basket, (large pro-)
And was everybody dancing on the casket? (cession dance? )
Now its over Im dead and I havent done anything that I want (now its over)
Or, Im still alive and theres nothing I want to do
I will never say the word
Procrastinate again; Ill never
See myself in the mirror with my eyes closed
I didnt apologize for
When I was eight and I made my younger brother
Have to be my personal slave
Did a large procession wave their (did a)
Torches as my head fell in the basket, (large pro-)
And was everybody dancing on the casket? (cession dance? )
Now its over Im dead and I havent done anything that I want (now its over)
Or, Im still alive and theres nothing I want to do
(so) so I wont
(sit) sit at home
(and) anymore
(and) and you wont
(and) see my head in
(and) the window
(and) and I wont
(and) be around
(and) ever anymore
(and) and Ill be up there on the wall at the store
I returned a bag of groceries
Accidently taken off the shelf
Before the expiration date
I came back as a bag of groceries
Accidently taken off the shelf
Before the date stamped on myself
Did a large procession wave their (did a)
Torches as my head fell in the basket, (large pro-)
And was everybody dancing on the casket? (cession dance? )
Now its over Im dead and I havent done anything that I want (now its over)
Or, Im still alive and theres nothing I want to do
Now its over Im dead and I havent done anything that I want (now its over)
Or, Im still alive and theres nothing I want to do
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Burial of the Reverend Gilfillan
On the Gilfillan burial day,
In the Hill o' Balgay,
It was a most solemn sight to see,
Not fewer than thirty thousand people assembled in Dundee,
All watching the funeral procession of Gilfillan that day,
That death had suddenly taken away,
And was going to be buried in the Hill o' Balgay.
There were about three thousand people in the procession alone,
And many were shedding tears, and several did moan,
And their bosoms heaved with pain,
Because they knew they would never look upon his like again.
There could not be fewer than fifty carriages in the procession that day,
And gentlemen in some of them that had come from far away,
And in whispers some of them did say,
As the hearse bore the precious corpse away,
Along the Nethergate that day.
I'm sure he will be greatly missed by the poor,
For he never turned them empty-handed away from his door;
And to assist them in distress it didn't give him pain,
And I'm sure the poor will never look upon his like again.'
On the Gilfillan burial day, in the Hill o' Balgay,
There was a body of policemen marshalled in grand array
And marched in front of the procession all the way;
Also the relatives and friends of the deceas'd,
Whom I hope from all sorrows has been releas'd,
and whose soul I hope to heaven has fled away,
To sing with saints above for ever and aye.
The provost, magistrates, and town council were in the procession that day;
Also Mrs Gilfillan, who cried and sobbed all the way
For her kind husband, that was always affable and gay,
Which she will remember until her dying day.
When the procession arrived in the Hill o' Balgay,
The people were almost as hush as death, and many of them did say --
As long as we live we'll remember the day
That the great Gilfillan was buried in the Hill o'Balgay.
When the body of the great Gilfillan was lowered into the grave,
'Twas then the people's hearts with sorrow did heave;
And with tearful eyes and bated breath,
Mrs Gilfillan lamented her loving husband's death.
Then she dropped a ringlet of immortelles into his grave,
Then took one last fond look, and in sorrow did leave;
And all the people left with sad hearts that day,
And that ended the Gilfillan burial in the Hill o' Balgay.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Last Spring
THIS morning at the door
I heard the Spring.
Quickly I set it wide
And, welcoming,
'Come in, sweet Spring,' I cried,
'The winter ash, long dried,
Waits but your breath to rise
On phantom wing.'
A brown leaf shivered by,
A soulless thing--
My heart in quick dismay
Forgot to sing--
Twisted and grim it lay,
Kin to the ghost-ash gray,
Dead, dead--strange herald this
Of jocund Spring!
I spurned it from the door.
I longed that Spring
Should come with song and glow
And rush of wing,
Not this, not this!--But O
Dead leaf, a year ago
You were the dear first-born
Of Hope and Spring!
poem by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
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Horns of Hattin
Identified with beatitudes
The plains will reveal ancient feuds
Corresponds with the text narrative
There lacks no other comparative
Karnei Hittin, Victory Dome
A holy battle for their procession for home
A sermon was mounting onto the site
And Christian Crusades were claiming their right
Send the shell down the cast-iron barrel
Saladin and tinder staging imperil
The Horns of Hattin, Victory Dome
A holy battle for their procession for home
poem by Mason Maestro
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Obscene Procession
Cant you see em, in obscene procession?
Clad in fox fur all cocky, theyre violent and insane
Pink and wobbling with all their possessions
They live on junk food and tv and booze
And bottles of pain relief pills and all.
Dont you love them?
They make life hell here
And think theres heaven above em.
Cant you hear em in obscene procession?
Its called talking, its how they betray their closest friends.
Cough and wheezing, they dribble pretension,
Slimy tongues tell the truth which they love to bash and bend.
Cant you smell em in obscene procession?
Stink of bacon, defoliants, [fear/beer] and [small cigars/swastikas]
Whips and semen, adulterous confessions,
Mixed with money and those little refreshments
Hung in their cars and wardrobes and all
Dont you hate
Those full of hot air
They need their warfare
To deflate em.
Animals beware
Knives and forks that glare
Never trust those staring humans
Being the worst
Especially when theyre hungry.
Animals beware
Knives and forks so bare
Never trust those staring humans
Being the worst
Especially when theyre hungry
They make each other hungry
Theres no need to be hungry
Not today.
Cant you see em, in obscene procession?
Fat and pompous, they crush their only children to the floor
Arent you glad that I told you about them?
Arent you glad you never evolved up any more?
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Obscene Procession
Cant you see em, in obscene procession?
Clad in fox fur all cocky, theyre violent and insane
Pink and wobbling with all their possessions
They live on junk food and tv and booze
And bottles of pain relief pills and all.
Dont you love them?
They make life hell here
And think theres heaven above em.
Cant you hear em in obscene procession?
Its called talking, its how they betray their closest friends.
Cough and wheezing, they dribble pretension,
Slimy tongues tell the truth which they love to bash and bend.
Cant you smell em in obscene procession?
Stink of bacon, defoliants, [fear/beer] and [small cigars/swastikas]
Whips and semen, adulterous confessions,
Mixed with money and those little refreshments
Hung in their cars and wardrobes and all
Dont you hate
Those full of hot air
They need their warfare
To deflate em.
Animals beware
Knives and forks that glare
Never trust those staring humans
Being the worst
Especially when theyre hungry.
Animals beware
Knives and forks so bare
Never trust those staring humans
Being the worst
Especially when theyre hungry
They make each other hungry
Theres no need to be hungry
Not today.
Cant you see em, in obscene procession?
Fat and pompous, they crush their only children to the floor
Arent you glad that I told you about them?
Arent you glad you never evolved up any more?
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When a procession marches by
When a procession marches by
with shrilling trumpets, horns
and drums with a muttering beat
and cheer to an unknown god
repeating its name
time and time again
until it resounds in my ear,
I have no fear
and my spirit is clear,
my eye is set
on the sky
to watch if the coming
of Christ draws near.
poem by Gert Strydom
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King Bibler's Army
It was ten years ago when the belle of the village
Gave here her hand to the young millionaire,
Every toungue (even those of the bells in the steeple)
Saying "Joy to the Heav'n-blest pair!"
She was sweet as the rosebud that blooms in the valley;
He was manly, and noble, and brave.
Tell me, where are they now?
In the sad-eyed procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.
Hark! hark! a pageant passes
(tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp):
I hear the tread of moving masses
(tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp)
O Heaven save our young men --
'tis King Bibler's Army,
Marching down, down, down to the grave.
At the head of the boat are the dashing lieutenants
Who entice young recruits into line;
Arm in arm, three abreast, they keep step with the music,
Bearing goblets of blood red wine.
In the rear, by and by, we shall see them together,
As they stagger along on the pave,
With their wives and their children, a rag-robed procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.
From the front to the rear is the rule of promotion
In the army King Bibler commands;
And the pension is pov'rty, disease and dishonor,
With a forfeit of home and lands.
So the friend that was treated to cordials and juleps,
Will be treated at last like a slave,
As he fags at the end of the chaingang procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.
Would you fill up the ranks? let your town send its quota:
Seventy thousand recruits must be found,
For the gravediggers reckon they bury that number
Every year in the cold, cold ground.
Yet the rest hobble on, and the colors they carry,
Though in tatters, triumphantly wave,
For they vanquish themselves in this madman's procession,
Marching, down, down, down to the grave.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Little Green
Born with the moon in cancer
Choose her a name she will answer to
Call her green and the winters cannot fade her
Call her green for the children whove made her
Little green, be a gypsy dancer
He went to california
Hearing that everythings warmer there
So you write him a letter and say, her eyes are blue.
He sends you a poem and shes lost to you
Little green, hes a non-conformer
Ch0rus:
Just a little green
Like the color when the spring is born
Therell be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow
Just a little green
Like the nights when the northern lights perform
Therell be icicles and birthday clothes
And sometimes therell be sorrow
Child with a child pretending
Weary of lies you are sending home
So you sign all the papers in the family name
Youre sad and youre sorry, but youre not ashamed
Little green, have a happy ending
Chorus:
Just a little green
Like the color when the spring is born
Therell be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow
Just a little green
Like the nights when the northern lights perform
Therell be icicles and birthday clothes
And sometimes therell be sorrow
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dead Leaf
between these two shores
i float like a dead leaf
am not dead either..
if i was i will not feel the pain
budded flowered and became a fruit
on one shore
eaten and as a bare stray seed laid
at the other shore
as a seed i did germinate
the mother root grew into a tree
an off spring flower and fruit came by
all along as a seed i thought i was the tree itself
I NEVER THOUGHT I WILL LOOSE
MY IDENTITY AS A SEED
CAN A TREE SHOW ITS SEED
EVEN IF IT WANTS TO
ALL ALONG...
I thought i was the tree itself
may be i was a part of each part
the stem to hold, the leaf to nourish
till fate wind blew me down as a dead leaf
today as a dead leaf i float
wanting a living from one shore
wanting relationship from the other
as a dead leaf i float..am not dead with pain
ALL ALONG....
I DID THINK I WAS THE TREE ITSELF
BEING JUST A SEED
poem by Samanyan Lakshminarayanan
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Dreams
There is naught in the pathless reach
Of the pale, blue sky above,
There is naught that the stars tell, each to each,
As over the heavens they rove;
That I have not felt, or have not seen
Clad in dull earth or fancy's sheen.
There is naught, in the still, mauve twilight
When the dreams come flitting by,
From lands afar of eternal night,
Or lands of the sunswept sky,
For countless spirits within me dwell
With heaven's efflugence or dark hell.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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The wit knows that his place is at the tail of a procession.
quote by Mark Twain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He is like a deaf man at a wedding procession.
That Funeral Procession
That funeral procession
Was very long
And sad also
poem by Aldo Kraas
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