A Flower To Auroville Mother-36
Zinnia, (Common zinnia
Botanical name: Zinnia elegans)
Zinnia, big and small and colours all
Single and double and semidouble
Zinnia of dwarf and medium and tall
For borders or pots cut and whole
Zinnia, no trouble in low, medium soil
With oval leaves rough yet beautiful
Zinnia, its essence to lighten the soul
For it's from sun's flowery sprawl
poem by Indira Renganathan
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-38
Decorative Dahlia (Dahlia)
They all parade to my awe
Chamomile, Cosmos, crysanthemum, Zinnia..
I need to set my vision right
'Best is who? ' I'm to elucidate
In vain I accept my inability
As all are queens of high beauty
Wonder what to do..'step back? '
'No'..a command takes me aback
Dahlia, all beauties in one..
With all her sisters in a run
Dahlia, Queen of queens by norm
As if Sun himself in her form
A discus of plentiful florets
Glowing illumed on her face
Leafy bracts helping her throng
No doubt she can be head-strong
So, I declare Dahlia the best
Smile leafing from her tuberous root
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Medium
Medium, medium.
Waking up I smell the scent of coffee on the brew,
And I think about the amount of the sweet,
Id like to have in my cup today.
One for the two lump, three lump, four.
No half of one, no less no more.
Just give me a chance, let me make it mine.
Id like a medium blend of that piece of pie.
Not too bitter, not too sweet... medium.
Just enough to ? ? ? ... medium.
Not too bitter, not too sweet... medium.
Just enough to ? ? ? ... medium.
Dinner time just rolls around,
And I think I crave a steak but,
Im not too partial to the meat,
When its cooked too long and Im made to wait.
Not too much of the parsony,
And just enough of the spice.
I think Id enjoy a medium-rare dish with a side of fries.
Not too tender, not too tough... medium.
Not too little, just enough... medium.
Not too tender, not too tough... medium.
Not too little, just enough... medium.
Medium. medium. medium. medium. just a medium. medium.
? ? ? and I smell the pits but ? ? ? ? ? .
I couldve sworn a ? ? ? last week and scrubbed like ? ? ? .
I like to stink just a little bit,
Just to keep you on your toes yes.
The more I stink the more I think,
That you smell like a rose.
Not too pleasant, not too bad... medium.
Just enough to hold my ? ? ? ... medium.
Not too pleasant, not too bad... medium.
Just enough to hold my ? ? ? ... medium.
Medium. medium. medium. medium. medium. medium.
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode to the end of Summer
Summer, adieu
Adieu gregarious season.
Goodbye, 'revoir, farewell.
Now day comes late; now chillier blows the breeze on
Forsaken beach and boarded-up hotel.
Now wild geese fly together in thin lines
And Tourist Homes take down their lettered signs.
It fades--this green this lavish interval
This time of flowers and fruits,
Of melon ripe along the orchard wall,
Of sun and sails and wrinkled linen suits;
Time when the world seems rather plus than minus
And pollen tickles the allergic sinus.
Now fugitives to farm and shore and highland
Cancel their brief escape.
The Ferris wheel is quiet at Coney Island
And quaintness trades no longer on the Cape;
While meek-eyed parents hasten down the ramps
To greet their offspring, terrible from camps.
Turn up the steam. The year is growing older.
The maple boughs are red.
Summer, farewell. Farewell the sunburnt shoulder
Farewell the peasant kerchief on the head.
Farewell the thunderstorm, complete with lightning,
And the white shoe that ever needeth whitening.
Farewell, vacation friendships, sweet but tenuous
Ditto to slacks and shorts,
Farewell, O strange compulsion to be strenuous
Which sends us forth to death on tennis courts.
Farewel, Mosquito, horror of our nights;
Clambakes, iced tea, and transatlantic flights.
The zinnia withers, mortal as the tulip.
Now from the dripping glass
I'll sip no more the amateur mint julep
Nor dine al fresco on the alien grass;
Nor scale the height nor breast the truculent billow
Nor lay my head on any weekend pillow.
Unstintingly I yield myself to Autumn
And Equinoctial sloth.
I hide my swim suit in the bureau's bottom
Nor fear the fury of the after-moth
Forswearing porch and pool and beetled garden,
My heart shall rest, my arteries shall harden.
Welcome, kind Fall, and every month with 'r' in
Whereto my mind is bent.
Come, sedentary season that I star in,
O fire-lit Winter of my deep content!
Amid the snow, the sleet, the blizzard's raw gust
I shall be cozier than I was in August.
Safe from the picnic sleeps the unlittered dell.
The last Good Humor sounds its final bell
And all is silence.
Summer, farewell, farewell.
poem by Phyllis McGinley
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Forlorn Riddles
On a piece of brown paper
The wild zinnia splattered
Among the porcelains and silvers
Like an ankle splintered
Of a once feral danseuse
Now embezzled by age
With the sun conquering west
The paper befallen a cage
Where the dribbled ink blots
Dangled like a hapless bait
And the sun punctures in a blotch
Eroding the scar with the faith
And the myths and the spellbound
That has never been found
On a desiccated ink blot
A grotesque silhouette incarnated
Reeking with a sanguinary plot
Of carnage that had sculpted
The stature a gilded sphinx's repose
The head vanished and garroted
Stolen by the vulpine onyx crows
For the chances are unpremeditated
It moored and towed and versified
Inebriated by the undulating patios
Groveling to be rectified
The sage's head rolled with peccadilloes
Of cursive scripts on a thread
Another poem left unsaid
On a hollow poetry
From the concluding drops of life
Rises an eccentric cypress tree
Envisaging the abeyance of strife
With the lacquer barks unsullied
And the bristly leaves gone
A farcical scene of the sapid
Frame of filth under the sun
The wind winnows the emaciated
Boughs and it stirred a tantrum
Darting trough the firmament's spread
Extemporizing in a hum
An enameled juvenile demise
Perched from where the moon pries
On a putrefying cypress tree
Entangles a swollen moon
Crooning with the luminaries
The northeastern winds swoon
In a violent gust of colossus deluge
That stirred the maladroit clock
To gyrate more raucously and fiddle
To send rapids in the perennial rock
Of Luna's frail cradle
Her phosphorescence wobbled
Staggering to be consoled
And the night had toppled
A spectator felt culpable
As she fell on the slithering pebbles
On a shattered Luna
The lights flickered in serrations
Rolling with the aurora
And slivering in the incisions
Of my palette's oppressed hue,
I descried a lily on the fragments
With leaves of laurel in lieu
Of the rowdy cabaret's redolent
Scent that always prevail to cajole
Yet, I plucked it from the concrete,
Threw it in a boiling casserole
And drank the venomous solute
Until there was nonentity
But a riddle on a poetry
On a labyrinthine verse
Was a fraction of brown paper
Banished to Stygian, the effect: adverse,
An origami bloomed in the river
While the looming trees watched
And my poetry skewed piercing
Deep in the burls of their latch
But they are benumbed and stifling
With apathy and nonchalance
And in that moment, the poem was gone
And you don't even lift a muscle in askance
Perhaps, to reckon the lyrics done
And it will never be found
Hands down, you have won
poem by Norman Santos
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The amount of sophistication varies according to the quality of the medium, and to the state of the same medium at different times; it must be attributed in the best cases physiologically to the medium, intellectually to the control.
quote by Oliver Joseph Lodge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the impulses which stir us to profound emotion are integrated with the medium of expression, every interview of the soul may become art. This is contingent upon mastery of the medium.
quote by Hans Hofmann
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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First, we will focus on the privatization of small and medium sized enterprises, followed by the medium size industry and then we will move on to the heavy industry.
quote by Ibrahim Rugova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Look Ahead At The Slice Of Light At The Opening Door
You look ahead to the slice of light at the opening door
and you're tempted to look back at what
you're not going to be anymore once you walk through it
without knowing whether it's an entrance or an exit.
A station of change. A bardo state that slipped between the lines
of the Tibetan Book Of The Dead you're karmically
sowing your way through to synchronize your seed to the harvest.
Dawn soon. False or otherwise blanching the nightblue
like any other day of life upon earth, into the starless hue
of waking up from the mystery of being alone in the dark
shining into a vast solitude of hidden insights
like the eyes of shy animals warily observing you walk
through the woods like a nightwatchman without a lantern
looking for a light to go by like lightning and fireflies.
In vino veritas, mystically speaking, I've been intoxicated
by the grails and skulls of life like a drunk for so long
I speak in the oracular voices of my own exhausted honesty.
I squandered my potential on the actual, applying
my imagination to the surrealistic factual aspects of life
like an oyster bed on the moon pearling whole new worlds
out of a grain of starmud. If work is a form of worship
as the Upanishads say, I've laboured long and hard creatively
like a heretic at play in the flames of the staked-out starfields.
And the shadows I've cast upon the earth like scarecrows
to look after things in my absence have never depended
upon a light source that wasn't sublimely human.
I've reflexively responded like a shapeshifter
to any fixed image it's been imperatively suggested
I was created in the name of to mimic like a dead metaphor
I was living like the lyric in the heart of a man
with nothing left to lose when I breached the boundary stones
of the usual taboos like a labyrinth of seawalls, locks and dams
in the liberation path of an emotional tsunami
of oceanic awareness after every earthquake that shook
my foundation stones into an avalanche of quicksand
sliding down the unstable slopes of the world mountain
like an otter down the mudbanks of my own mindstream.
Compassion's a ruby. Innocence, an emerald. Insight,
a star sapphire. And I wore those like the corona
of an eclipsed crown on the head of a pauper prince,
but it was the diamonds that intensified out of the darkness
like coal in the furnaces of the star clusters I beheld
like luminaries in the black mirrors on the far side of my eyes
that intrigued me the most as an adamantine example
of how to live my life in the midst of decay
with feet of clay and my head among the stars
like the catalytic agent of my own transformations,
the mercury and sulphur of the royal quaternion
of the philosopher's stone I was enthroned upon
like a beggar king with a dynastic history of self-abdications.
I got down in the dirt under my fingernails
where Neruda says the poetry is. I planted
the withered crescent moons of zinnia seeds
in the furrows of my brow like terraced gardens
I ploughed with the needle of a boustrophic lp
like a palindrome that sang the same
whether you were coming or going either way.
A Satanic message from the angel in the mirror
trying to play both sides of the fence in reverse.
Like the moon, I've never lingered in the window
of enlightenment for long, without looking
for an unlocked, backdoor I could enter with effortless ease
like a thief returning what had been taken from me.
poem by Patrick White
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Next In Line, Please
You see,
I think you and I are not communica...
'Will that be light, medium or dark roast? '
...ting!
You see,
I am not like the others.
And I am see...
'Would you like light, medium or dark roast? '
...king something not so tart.
Less bitter with a more swee...
'Light! Medium or...
Dark roast.
That's it!
No if's ands or others.'
...tened taste. I don't like your attitude one bit.
I demand to see your supervisor.
Immediately.
'No problem.
Would you like 'your' truth...
Dark, light or medium? '
You did absolutely nothing but change hats.
'And guess what?
You either take that truth light, medium OR dark.
And...
Where is your authorization to stand in this line? '
I need no 'authorization'.
My name is...
'Next in line, please.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Squashing Others Doesn't End Their Troubles
Where there's always trouble,
That trouble never leaves.
And many live to double up their troubles.
Where there's always trouble,
That trouble never leaves.
And many live to double up their troubles.
Gangbangers like to take their hanging into the streets,
To heat them up with stirring up their troubles.
Beat boppers from the 70's tote up on their weed.
To drift away and up above their troubles.
As hip hoppers and the rappers with their slang done,
Think they have the key to end their troubles.
Rap packers 'spit' their chatter,
As if nothing matters.
With a squashing done to others double troubles.
And squashing others doesn't end their troubles.
No!
Where there's always trouble,
That trouble never leaves.
And many live to double up their troubles.
Where there's always trouble,
That trouble never leaves.
And many live to double up their troubles.
Many live to double up their troubles.
And squashing others doesn't end their troubles.
No.
A squashing others always starts the trouble.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Death of the 25$ HEB Coffee Cup Experiment
I have not investigated with Holmes like certainty
Why it is gone but it is no more.
The honor system box to recive my quarter has disappeared
and with it the supply of small styrofoam cups.
'You can purchase a medium or large coffee, ' the nice clerk
informs me.
I have refill privileges and take the medium.
Will the annonymous woman with the travel mug ever return
to discover her retribution?
Will the nice lady with the travel mug inquire of the nice clerk
which size is this - medium or large?
I do not know.
This is why I do not sell poetry but it is not free.
poem by Bill Grace
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I think film and television are really a director's medium, whereas theatre is the actor's medium.
quote by Christopher Eccleston
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The movie medium will eventually take its place as art because there is no other medium of interest to so many people.
quote by Irving Thalberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I believe that music is a force in itself. It is there and it needs an outlet, a medium. In a way, we are just the medium.
quote by Maynard James Keenan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never in the history of cinema has a medium entertained an audience. It's what you do with the medium.
quote by John Lasseter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Me in a Nutshell! ! !
I have been told that I am beautiful, smart, tall and innocent;
But that is what other people who don't know me well say.
From those who know me and they can back me up,
I am as innocent as a sharp knife, meaning I am not innocent at all.
I may be smart in which I am.
I am pretty not beautiful.
And I am not tall at all,
I am more of a medium height.
I am the doom of my sanity.
This is me according to me;
No-one else!
poem by MaddiiAnne O'Leary
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In and exit are painful.
You cry when you are born.
You cry when you die.
The one for entering the medium.
The other for leaving the medium.
It is applicable to every dislocation.
4.11.2001, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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TV - a clever contraction derived from the words Terrible Vaudeville. However, it is our latest medium - we call it a medium because nothing's well done.
quote by Goodman Ace
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I think the wonderful thing about doing theater is that it's more of an actor's medium. I think that film is more of a director's medium. You can't edit something out on stage. It's there.
quote by Kim Cattrall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Single Is Fair
Single
I am single
Question of double
Does not arise.
I am single
Only single.
Single sun
Single moon
Single earth
Single air
Single sky
Sngle water
Single fire
Single soul
Single body
All are there
All are fair.
Single is single
Single is beautiful
Single is fair.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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