Self-Deceit
My neighbour's curtain, well I see,
Is moving to and fin.
No doubt she's list'ning eagerly,
If I'm at home or no.
And if the jealous grudge I bore
And openly confess'd,
Is nourish'd by me as before,
Within my inmost breast.
Alas! no fancies such as these
E'er cross'd the dear child's thoughts.
I see 'tis but the ev'ning breeze
That with the curtain sports.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Related quotes
Theatricality
The curtain is blessed by the action of courts,
It is the court of law that we revere for law,
The laws are demonstrated again and always.
The curtain has bemoaned the activity of a theatre
And not a performance by the axioms of government,
It is the red curtain, great and glorious, beautiful.
My curtain is again a glamorous canvas so grand,
It hides all sight and hearing, as if spoken to by the grandness,
And the majesty of a queen is all that is good in this hall.
My theatricality is holy, all the time, aware are the king and queen
Who list their favourite actors and actresses, with their book,
Without a bias or grudge, without too much contemplation.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sonnet II. On A Discovery Made Too Late
Thou bleedest, my poor heart! and thy distress
Reas'ning I ponder with a scornful smile
And probe thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while
Swollen be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or list'ning, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with fev'rish fancies pale
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless!--Yet 'twas fair,
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of care,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir,
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Behind That Curtain
Let me show and tell you my people,
Behind that curtain,
where all the cooking can be attained,
that, all suprises are drowned,
yap'that, where our eyes directed.
Behind that curtain,
decorated with a colourful carpet,
with a big secret underneath,
yeah! that where every eye digging into it.
Behind that curtain,
sorroundedby curious walls,
walls with beautiful dolls,
yap! that every finger would like to touch.
Behind that curtain,
where all decisions are made,
decisions of power and trade,
that may stand years and decades.
Behind that curtain,
drafted with Tanzanite colour,
that may stand for years not hours,
yes, where every heart would like to mingle in.
Behind that curtain,
where I hear a smell,
something like a rotten hell,
yes, that every fly would be pleased to kiss.
that is where you belong and it is yiur home.
poem by Dickson Mseti
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On the Ning Nang Nong
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
poem by Spike Milligan
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O, Curtain Boy...my Curtain Boy!
i'm the stage
i'm the setting
i'm the play
i'm the actor
i'm the green room, too
but how's it you kept
the command ove the
curtain in your hands?
o, curtain boy!
my curtain boy...
don't you see
the stage's developing cracks?
the setting's getting ruined?
the lines're getting broken?
the actor's growing weary?
the greenroom floor is all smudged
with the colours of spent out emotions?
o, curtain boy...
my curtain boy!
30aug2009
00.40hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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An Ode, On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell
Late Servant to his Majesty, and Organist of the Chapel Royal, and of St. Peter's Westminster
I
Mark how the Lark and Linnet Sing,
With rival Notes
They strain their warbling Throats,
To welcome in the Spring.
But in the close of Night,
When Philomel begins her Heav'nly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her Music with delight,
And list'ning and silent, and silent and list'ning,
And list'ning and silent obey.
II
So ceas'd the rival Crew when Purcell came,
They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame.
Struck dumb they all admir'd the God-like Man,
The God-like Man,
Alas, too soon retir'd,
As He too late began.
We beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore,
Had He been there,
Their Sovereign's fear
Had sent Him back before.
The pow'r of Harmony too well they know,
He long e'er this had Tun'd their jarring Sphere,
And left no Hell below.
III
The Heav'nly Choir, who heard his Notes from high,
Let down the Scale of Music from the Sky:
They handed him along,
And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung.
Ye Brethren of the Lyre, and tuneful Voice,
Lament his Lot: but at your own rejoice.
Now live secure and linger out your days,
The Gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's Lays,
Nor know to mend their Choice.
poem by John Dryden
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Here will I take my rest
My lady, that did change this house of mine
Into a heaven when that she dwelt therein,
From head to foot an angel's grace divine
Enwrapped her; pure she was, spotless of sin;
Fair as the moon her countenance, and wise;
Lords of the kind and tender glance, her eyes
With an abounding loveliness did shine.
Then said my heart: Here will I take my rest!
This city breathes her love in every part.
But to a distant bourne was she addressed,
Alas! he knew it not, alas, poor heart!
The influence of some cold malignant star
Has loosed my hand that held her, lone and far
She joumeyeth that lay upon my breast.
Not only did she lift my bosom's veil,
Reveal its inmost secret, but her grace
Drew back the curtain from Heaven's mansions pale,
And gave her there an eternal dwelling-place.
The flower-strewn river lip and meadows fair,
The rose herself but fleeting treasures were,
Regret and Winter follow in their trail.
Dear were the days which perished with my friend--
Ah, what is left of life, now she is dead,
All wisdomless and profitless I spend!
The nightingale his own life's blood doth shed,
When, to the kisses of the wind, the morn
Unveils the rose's splendour-with his torn
And jealous breast he dyes her petals red.
Yet pardon her, oh Heart, for poor wert thou,
A humble dervish on the dusty way;
Crowned with the crown of empire was her brow,
And in the realms of beauty she bore sway.
But all the joy that Hafiz' hand might hold,
Lay in the beads that morn and eve he told,
Worn with God's praise; and see! he holds it now.
poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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Séance ordering…
Séance ordering…
There is, there is
This ice curtain
Of silent conversation
A séance ordering…
Watch and you'll learn.
{Understanding, unspoken}…
How it works I've no idea.
I speak to her in thoughts,
Your coffee is going cold. Dear.
And then she picks it up.
I think of a Merlot red wine
Punctually the glass arrives.
I then picture a sandwich
Promptly, I'm asked.
Cheese or ham my love.
I think of a friend's name.
They're mentioned in passing…
I think soon what I shall buy.
Then it's Googled in a millisecond!
There is, there is
There is an ice curtain. Dear.
That only applies, when we speak!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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I Am Coming Home
Take my hand
and I will close my eyes
guide me home
and as a child
I will eagerly fantasize
Its been along time since I've been home
and I hope I am nearly there
no matter how far you are, they say
home knows no race, no distance
home is fair
home is at the end of war
home is in the peacfull sun
home is in the mornings breeze
home is where it all began
they say, even if you run away
home can still find you
they say you cant have it all
but occasionaly you deserve do
home is in a Child's laughter
home is in a lover's arms
home is in a new chapter
home is where you make it yours
poem by Ayesha Sartawi
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Homeless.
At the midnight, when street lights make
chiaroscuro on the face of unknown straggler,
someone raps on the door 'are you home, my sweetheart? '
He stands-like a lonely tree on meditation,
like a wind rustling through the leaves,
like an old refrain 'are you home? '
The sweet pain numbs my heart for a while-
the moon with pale face rises behind the curtain,
someone plays a note of my saddest dream,
a high wind from the sea blows away the curtain-
I stood naked before the night with awful question,
' are you home, my dear? '
poem by Aloke Mukherjee
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Deep Darkness Spread Throughout All The Land
Deep darkness spread throughout all the land that day
as men nailed You to the cross and had their way.
There full atonement for all mankind was made
as our sins upon the Lamb of God were laid.
Sin divided the Triune Godhead that day
for as You hung there The Father looked away.
'My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? '
You cried when hanging on that accursèd tree.
Alone there upon the cross You bore my shame
and beneath the wrath of God took all the blame.
Then into the Holiest place You ventured
drawing back the great curtain as You entered.
There in that inner sanctuary You stood
And cleansed this poor sinner with Your precious blood.
A never to be repeated sacrifice
as my scapegoat by Your death You paid the price.
From the top to bottom the curtain was torn.
The penalty for sin in Your body borne
Now with reverence and awe I can approach
the throne of God without rebuke or reproach.
Written as prelude to Easter and based on Matthew 27: 45-56
The Saddest Fate
To touch a broken lute,
To strike a jangled string,
To strive with tones forever mute
The dear old tunes to sing--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, never to sing at all.
To sigh for pleasures flown,
To weep for withered flowers,
To count the blessings we have known,
Lost with the vanished hours--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them at all.
To dream of love and rest,
To know the dream has past,
To bear within an aching breast
Only a void at last--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all.
To trust an unknown good,
To hope, but all in vain,
Over a far-off bliss to brood,
Only to find it pain--
What sadder fate could any soul befall?
Alas! dear child, never to hope at all.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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On the other side of the blue curtain
Every day
the blue curtain appears,
unless white clouds
linen it off.
At dusk
the blue curtain,
disappears when it becomes transparent.
On the other side of the blue curtain
lies lights of ruby, sapphire and emerald
which appears in the heaven
and the black becomes full of dots
that twinkles and sparkles
and disappear
when the sun rises.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Full Moon behind the Curtain
The Full Moon behind the Curtain
After half a decade in absentia,
One night we met again
By luck, a few miles from Florentia,
Where the moon was beaming behind the curtain,
Observing and spying
On us. Destiny has a way of showing
Its sparkling teeth and its dazzling face.
We stared at each other and embraced
Amicably. We smiled at each other
And behaved like it has been an hour
Since we last chatted.
To my amaze, you were not convoluted;
You were simply admirable,
Courteous and affable.
We were untying the knot of our past
And everything was moving like a blast.
In the garden of our hearts, it was spring
And the bells were ringing.
Hours had slipped by unnoticed,
We were laughing and giggling
Like two nightly doves; we were amiss,
And thrilled that we found each other again,
With the help of the moon hiding,
Behind the white curtain.
poem by Hebert Logerie (October 2011)
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I Love It All
(John Michael Montgomery/Blair Daly)
Another night on this interstate
Seems like I've been on it everyday for years now
Does it ever end
On my way to another show
Where I'll end up, I don't even know where I'm going
Or where I've been
Don't know why, don't know how
But I keep comin' back for more
It's my life, there's no doubt
Guess I'll never know for sure
But when I stand on that stage, and the curtain falls
I love it all
It's getting late, I think I'll lay it down
Then I'll wake up in some other town and I'll wander
To my hotel room
I'll walk around just a-wastin' time
Lookin' for a little peace of mind I bet I'll find it
On an ole barstool
Don't know why, don't know how
But I keep comin' back for more
It's my life, there's no doubt
Guess I'll never know for sure
But when I stand on that stage, and the curtain falls
I love it all
Don't know why, don't know how
But I keep comin' back for more
It's my life, there's no doubt
Guess I'll never know for sure
But when I stand on that stage and the curtain falls
And the crowd wants to stay for one more song
I love it all
Another night on this interstate
Seems like I've been on it everyday for years now
I hope it never ends
song performed by by John Michael Montgomery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Curtain and mattress
Sun seeping through an hourglass
Sleep inside, dear child
haiku by Norman Santos
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A good essay must have this permanent quality about it; it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that shuts us in not out.
quote by Virginia Woolf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God Gave To Me A Child In Part
GOD gave to me a child in part,
Yet wholly gave the father's heart:
Child of my soul, O whither now,
Unborn, unmothered, goest thou?
You came, you went, and no man wist;
Hapless, my child, no breast you kist;
On no dear knees, a privileged babbler, clomb,
Nor knew the kindly feel of home.
My voice may reach you, O my dear-
A father's voice perhaps the child may hear;
And, pitying, you may turn your view
On that poor father whom you never knew.
Alas! alone he sits, who then,
Immortal among mortal men,
Sat hand in hand with love, and all day through
With your dear mother wondered over you.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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To Lesbia
Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed,
I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And, Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
Two years have lingering past away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
At least I feel disposed to stray, love!
'Tis I that am alone to blame,
I, that am guilty of love's treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
No, no, my flame was not pretended,
For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely;
And--though our dream at last is ended--
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpeair'd,
New beauties still are daily bright'ning,
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
The forge of love's resistless lightning.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!
Stanzas To A Lady, On Leaving England
'Tis done---and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen---
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest---
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,'
Because I cannot love but one.
I go---but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe---
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear lov'd one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.