Idealna Zena
Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored Preverta, zeno
trebalo je da budes lijepa
kao njegove pjesme o tebi
Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored Sopena, zeno
trebalo je da budes lijepa
kao njegova muzika o tebi
Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored heroja, zeno
trebalo je da budes hrabra
i umres kao heroj, zeno
Sahranicu te na Pere Lachaise
pored...
uostalom svejedno mi je
gdje cu te sahraniti
moja lijepa IDEALNA ZENO.
poem by Jankovic Zoran
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Related quotes
Wellbeing is attained by little and little, and nevertheless is no little thing itself.
quote by Citium Zeno
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The goal of life is living in agreement with nature.
quote by Zeno
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The reason we have two ears and only one mouth, is that we may hear more and speak less.
quote by Zeno of Citium
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Fate is the endless chain of causation, whereby things are; the reason or formula by which the world goes on.
quote by Citium Zeno
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One ought to seek out virtue for its own sake, without being influenced by fear or hope, or by any external influence. Moreover, that in that does happiness consist.
Diogenes Laertius in Zeno
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Bubblegum
If you need a holiday somewhere in the sun
Let me show you something that is really fun
Take a sparkling holiday somewhere in bubblegum
You can lie down in the shadow of electric silver trees
You can play ferry sinking victim looking water-ski
And if you want excitement ask the poet kids
They all look like charly manson a bit
Take a sparkling holiday.. its such a fun
You might have a quite interesting sightseeing tour
Go to hangover purgatory nightmare shore
See the damned and the dead and the died for love
The commercial gurus, the artist and the stuff
And if you come to lovey church, sit down in second row
You can hear your sister screaming in the room below
And the priest will claim thus they might be sure
A girl can either be a saint or a whore
Take a sparkling holiday...
Come to the old bridge where the jokers juggle with your fears
Give them a penny and theyll show you how to exorcise
And under the bridge the junkies shoot sperm
Its so expensive these days and they substitute the yearning
And if you want to dine, go to loonys inn
They serve sweet, good collapse with trauma and gin
And afterwards you may need a rest
Then Ill tell you pere lachaise is the best
Take a sparkling holiday...
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alexandre Dumas And His Son
Although I work, and seldom cease,
At Dumas pere and Dumas fils,
Alas, I cannot make me care
For Dumas fils and Dumas pere.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Beaujolais Day
(DickKellyMosleyRotheryTrewavas)
I went to Morisson's grave at Pere Lachaise cemetery
The stony flowers and the matching graffiti were guiding me
To the steps inside of me
And what would you do if I got down on my knees to you
What would you do if I lied to your face
Could you still hold your dreams
Could you live with your silent face
So what would you do would you walk right through me
Would you stand in the way like the others before
Get in the way
Would you drink to me next Beaujolais day
Tell me the truth save a prayer for me
I would love to leave you but you would cry all night long
Eternal romantic victory failed on Beaujolais day
I heard a wheelchair whisper across a stale silent gymnasium
Trailing an ivy league jacket like a matador
Through the jitterbug steps of the night before
Through the chalk white chill and the tear fandango
Heading away to the inner wrangle
Do we cry for a cell
Do we need for a cell
What would you do would you cry for me
Could you set off ... could we go gently
Blame it away
Do you really want to head for the open door
Got to crack a bottle while you dream for me
Just an absent friend and a misery
Laying awake do we stay right there
'Till Beaujolais day
On Beaujolais day
So what would you do would you lie to me
Would you sit right back in a victory
Would you play for me
Could you die for me
So what would you do would you walk right through me
Heading away saying it's just another victory
This is Beaujolais day
song performed by by Marillion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Après la bataille
Mon père, ce héros au sourire si doux,
Suivi d'un seul housard qu'il aimait entre tous
Pour sa grande bravoure et pour sa haute taille,
Parcourait à cheval, le soir d'une bataille,
Le champ couvert de morts sur qui tombait la nuit.
Il lui sembla dans l'ombre entendre un faible bruit.
C'était un Espagnol de l'armée en déroute
Qui se traînait sanglant sur le bord de la route,
Râlant, brisé, livide, et mort plus qu'à moitié.
Et qui disait: ' A boire! à boire par pitié ! '
Mon père, ému, tendit à son housard fidèle
Une gourde de rhum qui pendait à sa selle,
Et dit: 'Tiens, donne à boire à ce pauvre blessé. '
Tout à coup, au moment où le housard baissé
Se penchait vers lui, l'homme, une espèce de maure,
Saisit un pistolet qu'il étreignait encore,
Et vise au front mon père en criant: 'Caramba! '
Le coup passa si près que le chapeau tomba
Et que le cheval fit un écart en arrière.
' Donne-lui tout de même à boire ', dit mon père.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Zen
and then he
asked about all these things:
must you
have heard about the
ten deaf
dwarfs of
the islands of Acidophiles?
the sound of one hand
clapping on the
hills of
Pedophilisimones?
in his innocence he
prostrates himself upon the ground
and listens
to the ears of the earth
the hands of some roots
buried underneath
it is Zen
and the doZen
and the
froZen moments of
ZenO
He shakes his head
rising up and that is what happens
when he finally gets
his much deserved
Zero, the illegitimate brother
of Zorro.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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O tebi
O tebi ne govorim ljudima jer shvatili ne bi
O tebi govorim
Tek listu kad lomno padne na tlo
Sumraku kad te razlije u boje
I rubu ponornog sjećanja mog
Tek tmini kada progovori glasno
Suzu prolomljenu u dnu crnog oka
Što kanuti neće nikad
Tek vratima odškrinutim i odjeku koraka
Zalutalim pragovima što kuće svoje traže
Otkucaju srca i posljednjom mrežom
Zahvaćenu vodu što kroz konope
Nazad u izvor lije
O tebi ljepoto moja
Ne govorim ni tebi
Jer čak ni ti shvatio ne bi
Da s površine riječi ništa se ne kreće
I ništa u dubine vratiti se neće
©Miroslava Odalović
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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0361 Over My Dead Body..
The central aisle – more, an asphalted roadway –
of Brompton Cemetery would be hard to beat.
It’s no Forest Lawns, Pere Lachaise, but great
for passing trade, of all peculiar sorts – a
constant stream of cyclists,
rollerskaters, boardies, headphoned joggers, even
snowboards briefly – tourists,
lovers, quaintly; and all, as in
John Donne’s verse or Stanley Spencer’s paintings,
shoulderbone to shoulderbone
desperately calling for our attention
to that which we least wish to
attend to right now, while there is
a now.
And since the undergrowth
between the aisles grows
like the fireweed of desire,
it’s Dangerous Liaison Central
fit to make some of these turn in their graves.
On that central Park Lane, Wienerstrasse,
Broadway, of departed spirits,
the black marble, gold-lettered plot
of Richard Tauber, heart-throb tenor
of years gone by (I do a great imitation,
forgive me, Vienna mine…) is never
without fresh flowers. He must have
touched some hearts; or got around.
A last message to the world.
Gold letters on black marble?
appropriate perhaps for
the theatrical; yet on
the other hand, if deep engraved,
if not so gravely,
‘Where was I when I needed me? ’
(the title of a Broadway memoir
which cheers me mindless, frequently)
might make some passers-by to pause; a
last laugh and a longest testament.
(Inspired by Spike Milligan’s tombstone)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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L’ Étranger
-Qui aimes-tu le mieux, homme énigmatique, dis? ton père,
ta mère, ta s«ur ou ton frère?
—Je n’ai ni père, ni mère, ni s«ur, ni frère.
—Tes amis?
—Vous vous servez là d’une parole dont le sens m’est resté
jusqu’à ce jour inconnu.
—Ta patrie?
—J’ignore sous quelle latitude elle est située.
—La beauté?
—Je l’aimerais volontiers, déesse et immortelle.
—L’or?
—Je le hais comme vous haïssez Dieu.
—Eh! qu’aimes-tu donc, extraordinaire étranger?
—J’aime les nuages… les nuages qui passent… là-bas… là-bas…
les merveilleux nuages!
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Chanson du bol de punch
Je suis la flamme bleue.
J'habite la banlieue,
Le vallon, le coteau ;
Sous l'if et le mélèze,
J'erre au Père-Lachaise,
J'erre au Campo-Santo.
L'eau brille au crépuscule ;
Le passant sur sa mule
Fait un signe de croix ;
Son chien baisse la queue ;
Je suis la flamme bleue
Qui danse au fond des bois.
La nuit étend son aile ;
De Profundis se mêle
A Traderidera ;
Les morts ouvrent leur bière.
Spectres, au cimetière !
Masques, à l'Opéra !
Garçon, du punch ! j'arrive !
Je suis le bleu convive,
L'esprit des lacs blafards,
Le nain des joncs moroses ;
Je viens baiser les roses
Après les nénuphars.
Buvez, fils et donzelles !
D'autres ont été belles,
D'autres ont été beaux ;
Riez, joyeuses troupes !
Pour danser sur vos coupes
Je sors de leurs tombeaux.
Monte à ta chambre, apporte
Ton charbon, clos ta porte,
Allume ; c'est le soir.
Regarde dans ton bouge,
Comme un masque à l'oeil rouge,
Flamber ton réchaud noir.
D'autres boivent ; dans l'ombre,
Toi, tu meurs ; ton oeil sombre
S'éteint, ton front pâlit ;
Je suis là, je t'éclaire,
Et j'ai quitté leur verre
Pour danser sur ton lit.
poem by Victor Hugo
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No evil is honorable: but death is honorable; therefore death is not evil.
quote by Citium Zeno
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mon Papa, Mon Meilleur Ami
(Dédié à Tous Les Papas, Birago I.Diop et à Gustave)
Mon papa était plus qu'un père,
Il était plus qu'un bon ami, plus qu'un frère.
Pour ne pas minorer les douleurs des mères
Qui nous ont portés pour plus de neuf mois,
Ses sacrifices pouvaient rivaliser les poids
Et les lourds fardeaux mémorables de l'émoi.
Mon père n'est plus, depuis plus d'une décennie;
Jusqu'à présent, je ne veux pas le mettre au passé simple de la vie.
Son sang coule dans mes veines le jour et la nuit,
Quand je rie, il rie aussi.
Quand je pleure, il me réconforte,
Il m'encourage, il m'emporte
Chaque jour vers un destin où les portes
Ne sont jamais fermées; ses dévotions ne sont pas mortes.
J'ai bien expliqué, mon papa n'est pas mort,
Son esprit est dans l'air, parmi les vivants et les morts.
Mon papa est retourné à la chaumière,
Au fonds de la poussière, dans la terre,
Parmi les graviers sablonneux de l'océan
Et dans le lent courant du vent.
Mon papa était pour moi plus qu'un père,
Il était mon meilleur ami et le meilleur de mes frères.
poem by Hebert Logerie
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There was a mad artist named Ben
Who painted a pretty white hen;
Then o'er it he pored
And, seemingly bored,
Proceeded to paint it again.
(Written Nov 2012)
quote by by John Carter Brown
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Terre, Terre,Cherie
...Terre, terre chérie
Que la liberté sainte appelle sa patrie;
Père du grand sénat, ô sénat de Romans,
Qui de la liberté jetas les fondements;
Romans, berceau des lois, vous, Grenoble et Valence,
Vienne; toutes enfin! monts sacrés d'où la France
Vit naître le soleil avec la liberté!
Un jour le voyageur par le Rhône emporté,
Arrêtant l'aviron dans la main de son guide,
En silence, debout sur sa barque rapide,
Fixant vers l'Orient un oeil religieux,
Contemplera longtemps ces sommets glorieux;
Car son vieux père, ému de transports magnanimes,
Lui dira: 'Vois, mon fils, vois ces augustes cimes.'
poem by Andre Marie de Chenier
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Elizabeth
Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Two Arrows and a Bolt
ZENO
Travelling Travelling
arrow in space,
when does it move if it's fixed place to place?
Chance and uncertainty mend arrow's plight,
nature's duality sanctions its flight.
TIME
Entropy Entropy
woman or man,
how many fruits can you fit in a flan?
Pique at a simmer, add zest of a rhyme,
stirred from without by the arrow of time.
TELL
William William
poor diplomat,
failed to bow to the overlord's hat.
Son wore the apple the father must shoot,
Tell aimed his crossbow and bolt split the fruit.
poem by Diane Hine
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