The School
I WAS not drowsy though the scholars droned.
Hearing the music that they made of Greek,
Whenever Helen's unforgotten face
Sent other young men whisking off to war;
Hearing much mention of the hecatombs,
And Pericles, and fishes that were purple,
Temples in white, and trees that they named olive;
And thinking always of proud Athens shining
Upon her hill, that slanted to her sea:
Equipped with Grecian thoughts, how could I live
Among my father's folk? My father's house
Was narrow and his fields were nauseous.
I kicked his clods for being common dirt,
Worthy a world which never could be Greek;
Cursed the paternity that planted me
One green leaf in a wilderness of autumn;
And wept, as fitting such a fruitful spirit
Sealed in a yellow tomb.
The Lord preserves his saints for Christian uses.
He sent a pair of providential eyes.
They would have sat in any witless head,
Although I deemed them deep as classic seas,
As strange as any woman written smiling,
And much more near; the merest modern eyes,
The first my Athens faced; and yet her lamp,
It flickered rather low.
Then he commanded me to scrutiny
As to a fingered thing of no great matter,
A circumstantial sorry little coin.
A friendly thing, I owned, to lie so warm
Against the side of any friendless man;
And in the hand--O if the happy hand
Accommodate the cunning rounded scepter,
Then is dominion seated in that palm,
And coveting is seated in men's eyes.
Make haste, my hands, about your own inclosures!
And what were dead Greek empires to me then?
Dishonored, by Apollo, and forgot.
poem by John Crowe Ransom
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Related quotes
The Sound Of Grecian Music
The sound of Grecian music where the Greek diners eat
From the Athenian restaurant it floats across the street
And a beautiful Greek songstress with the music sings along
One could listen to the music and the singer all night long.
Greek music and Greek poetry is in a class of it's own
And the legends of Greek history by history not outgrown
And there is life in Greek music it has a bubbling sound
It makes you want to shake your feet and to it dance around.
And when the diners have drunk and eaten the dining tables are put away
And the dancers will be dancing till the small hours of the new day
They sing as they dance in a Greek ring around the timbered floor
And enjoy themselves as the Greeks do for three hours or even more.
The marvellous sound of Grecian music from the Athenian restaurant nearby
Is food to the soul and senses and something to enjoy
To the quiet street on a friday night such happiness they bring
Till the small hours of the morning they laugh and dance and sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poseidonians
The Poseidonians forgot the Greek language
after so many centuries of mingling
with Tyrrhenians, Latins, and other foreigners.
The only thing surviving from their ancestors
was a Greek festival, with beautiful rites,
with lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.
And it was their habit toward the festival's end
to tell each other about their ancient customs
and once again to speak Greek names
that only few of them still recognized.
And so their festival always had a melancholy ending
because they remebered that they too were Greeks,
they too once upon a time were citizens of Magna Graecia;
and how low they'd fallen now, what they'd become,
living and speaking like barbarians,
cut off so disastrously from the Greek way of life.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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It Is Finished
“It is finished” as Christ was done, were the words of God’s Own Son.
It was finished and some knew that Christ had died for me and you.
He was born the man Jesus Christ, for He was to be God’s Sacrifice.
Jesus was the name given Him as He’d save His people from their sin.
Christ was the name of God’s Son, as He was The Lord’s Anointed One.
Thinking they were done with Him, the people only added to their sin.
But Christ would not be denied, even though they pierced His side.
They had Him then sealed in a tomb, which only added to their doom.
In the ground as the scripture said, for three days amongst the dead.
But The Lord God was not done, for the grave could not hold His Son.
On the third day to much surprise, The Lord from the tomb would rise.
The stone of the tomb was rolled away, for He was not there to stay.
For the temple that He did raise, was His body to The Father’s praise.
And Jesus did just what He said, as He raised his body from the dead.
He was dead, but is now alive, and He is seated at His Father’s side.
This is the Gospel of Jesus Christ, that for us He became a sacrifice.
On the cross He bore the sins of all to redeem man from Adam’s fall.
Christ tasted death for you and me, so we could live through eternity.
Believe that for you Christ died and you my friend will be justified.
And confess your Lord is Jesus Christ and you will have Eternal Life.
(Copyright ©10/2004)
Godlike
So you're scrolling fast
down a page of
yeah yeah
those old Greek guys
did they spend their time
dreaming up quotes?
there goes
Democritus (460 - 370BC)
(though of course he didn't know
it was BC did he...?)
saying
'It is godlike
ever
to think
on something beautiful and
on something new.'
and just for a moment
your mind stops mid-scroll:
what was he wearing
that day, was it warm,
was he wearing the standard toga
in off-white or Persil white,
sandals I guess,
writing with some kinda
Greek reed-pen on some kinda
tablet thing
what he had mulled over, polished
fit for posterity
if there would be a posterity
or had he just had
this beautiful, new thought
come to him in his
beautiful, bright mind,
the sun shining on
the Acropolis up there,
the scent of herbs from
the sides of the hills,
still green and wooded,
feeling himself yes godlike
and maybe saying
a grateful thankyou
to the Muse
in Greek of course.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Depressed Bubble
His eyes twinkled,
When water bowled along,
With a heavy heart full of grief he stood there,
Feeling out of sorts.
Thinking what would happen to his mother,
When she'll know he got a D,
Thinking what would happen to his father,
Knowing his son couldn't reach his expectations.
Hearing his father's footsteps the boy ran away,
How would he face his father,
How would he face his mother,
What would he say to them?
Only this that they shouldn't have expected much from him,
Or rather blame himself?
His father called out his name,
He couldn't bare the pain,
It was the third time his hard work had went in vain,
The boy thought of nothing,
And while the father reached,
He was horrified for he saw blood stains on the floor,
And no sign of his child.
Teardrops wetted his clothes,
And all that he cited was,
Did you came to see me,
Or did you wished me to go with just tears in my eyes and blood on my hands.....
Written on 10/20/10
poem by Ayesha Riaz
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Phantasmagoria: (The Nightmare)
O what a horrid dream that was!
(though not quite sure)
I found myself in an ancient tomb-
pyramid perhaps-
where reigned a mystery all around;
what a place it was!
yes a grave it was!
the terror of the atmosphere
ceased my thinking faculties...
when suddenly
my eyes were bound to see that scene:
in a box of glass-clear and clean
(from dust of time) i saw something...
but what was that much ugly thing?
a man perhaps?
and dead perhaps?
O what was that?
was he moving?
yes he was!
And then changed
that gruesome vision...
HE was back to life again
to rule, to kill, to fight again-
I found Him couched on a gold throne
placed on human skulls and bones;
He was dressed in a pharoah's dress
o yes, infact, He was a pharoah
everybody there was harrowed.
people were so mute and dumb
on hearing the sound of beating drums.
And who was that?
O goodness heart! yes, that was I
in stranglehold of iron chains,
in endless pain'''
His court was full of savage creatures-
men perhaps...
with frightened, dismal, downcast eyes.
and then I heard
the shrill voice of kingly man;
but what He ordered to His slave
was greek to me...
then suddenly
the sound of drums grew more intense-
and then...O God! ! !
a tall and savage slave,
whose eye-balls threw the flames of fire,
raised an odd but savage slogan
came to me...
drew his bare and deadly sword
and raised his giant-like hands
to cut my head...
I tried to cry:
O goodness heart!
help me in distress my God!
have mercy God!
I cried
and wept
and prayed to him:
just spare my life
don't cut my head,
don't take my life...
Aye what is this?
who pressed my head
and fingered hair with gentle love?
My gracious Maa?
yes, no one else but gracious Maa...do i live?
O yes I do-
am I saved?
O yes i am...
that slave with deadly sword was gone...
thank goodness the dream was gone...
and I am in my mother's room,
free of horror, free of gloom...
my dear Maa!
my gentle, kind and loving Maa!
give your blessed hand again!
take me in your lap again!
thank God
I am back again...
poem by Shahzia Batool
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This is my Father’s World
This is my Father’s world, and to my listening ears
All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world: I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
His hand the wonders wrought.
This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.
This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done:
Jesus Who died shall be satisfied,
And earth and Heav’n be one.
This is my Father’s world, dreaming, I see His face.
I ope my eyes, and in glad surprise cry, “The Lord is in this place.”
This is my Father’s world, from the shining courts above,
The Beloved One, His Only Son,
Came—a pledge of deathless love.
This is my Father’s world, should my heart be ever sad?
The lord is King—let the heavens ring. God reigns—let the earth be glad.
This is my Father’s world. Now closer to Heaven bound,
For dear to God is the earth Christ trod.
No place but is holy ground.
This is my Father’s world. I walk a desert lone.
In a bush ablaze to my wondering gaze God makes His glory known.
This is my Father’s world, a wanderer I may roam
Whate’er my lot, it matters not,
My heart is still at home.
poem by Maltbie Davenport Babcock
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Hand Of Love
The young woman intertwines her hands with her older man
Smiling laughing at his funny charming jokes
The cool rain is the only relief her boiling heart has
His hand softly squeezes hers
He smiles, she smiles
The sun in both of their eyes
Warming them from the inside out
He touches the side of her face
With the hands of steal
But the touch of silk
With stars in her eyes
And the rain soak their innocents
He gently presses his lips to her hand
Baby you are me unspoken princess
She sighs
Has he’s still holding her delicate hand
He be believes that is made out of gold
He knows she is the other half of his soul
He says I love you to her heart as no words are spoken
Looking into her green eyes
That night in the warm rain of mystery
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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The Book
I have found myself searching for a book in my father's attic.
A book that he meant to burn, but instead hid away.
On his deathbed he told me categorically to destroy it,
by burning each page come what may.
The book was a Greek translation from ancient Aramaic text,
which was discovered in eastern Turkey in 1886.
The goat herder that found it sold it for a few Turkish lira
to a Greek mountain climber and archaeologist.
In Athens he read it and told a learned friend about its contents,
his so called friend told someone else and so did he.
This inevitably led to the book being stolen and repeatedly sold,
until my father bought it from a French soldier in 1943.
As a young man my father studied ancient Greek at university
and soon realised what the book contained.
It was a powder keg of mind blowing revelations about the psyche,
its development and expansion were explained.
It detailed the mind control of others, mysticism, and the occult.
The practice of spiritual and angelic communication.
The transportation of the body to other dimensions,
and life's process of perpetuation.
My father read the book though didn't practice it's teachings,
he realised the enormous threats to life it contained.
But for many reasons he found its destruction impossible,
so it's fate with me remained.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Good Deed Done.
The old woman
was lying
on the path
from her
ground floor flat
along Harper Road
when you and Helen
walked by
on your way
from the shop
with your penny drinks
you both ran to her
and she said she'd fallen
so Helen
ran across
to the surgery
on the other side
of the road
while you knelt
by the woman
placing your
short sleeved pullover
under her head
you're a good boy
she said
but you'll have blood on it now
don't matter
you said
you stroked her head
and pushed
her grey hair
out of her white blue eyes
when Helen returned
with a doctor
he examined
the old woman
and said
he had called
an ambulance
Helen stood
next to you
her eyes tearful
her hand
touching yours
the woman said
thank you both
I don't know
what I'd have done
if you hadn't come along
it's the least we could do
Helen said
you waited
until the ambulance came
and took her away
and disappeared
off along Harper Road
look at your pullover
Helen said
it's got blood on it
don't matter
gives it colour
you replied
anyway Mum'll wash it out
she gazed at you
through her thick lens
her eyes awash
with tears
her small hand
still in yours
the path
from the old lady's flat
had a small stain
of dark red
where blood had seeped
where she'd laid her head
a bit like an abstract
pavement artist's work
you said
the white stone canvas
with that touch of red.
poem by Terry Collett
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Epigram III: Spirit of Plato
From the Greek.
Eagle! why soarest thou above that tomb?
To what sublime and star-ypaven home
Floatest thou?--
I am the image of swift Plato’s spirit,
Ascending heaven; Athens doth inherit
His corpse below.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Save Them Father
Father you are always on my mind, I love you Father and trust
in you with all my heart. I have no questions for your decisions,
my faith is strong and true.
Father I’m in awe when I look around this world, when I stand
and take in the awesome views, I know this is the work of the
Master, and that Master for certain is you.
This morning Father I pray for those without faith, who can not
see pass their noses. They have eyes that function, but they
truly can not see.
Father give these blind people the ability to come out from their
deadened shells, touch them with your spirit, let them see the
light.
Oh Father God, drench them with your love so they make no
mistake. Take them by the hand so some day they too will
walk through Heaven’s Gate.
Father sometime young people are taken in by those who have
no interest in their soul but only in the money that they hold.
The devil’s people live among us, taking advantage of many.
Your children need your guidance Father and your continued
patience for I truly believe some day they will come out of the
darkness, walk into the light and face the truth.
Father I leave these people to you, in your caring hands. May
they make Jesus the center of their lives and join their brothers
and sisters who know the truth, save them Father.
I Love you Father and I ask this Lord in the name of your only
Son Jesus.-Amen
Written: Sept.30,2007
poem by Melvina Germain
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where is A? (for A)
he sent me a video
of himself humming in
Greek
not the literal Greek
language that you understand
it is strange and
(my heart cries perhaps
there is this
indescribable sympathy for
one in pain)
i may be out of frame
attributing pain to one who has not
experience pain
outside this small world of
indifference
it is the distance that understands
and i am definite about it
i dream of someone who fell upon a cliff
deep into the blue ocean beneath
and for one thing
i have not heard any cry for help
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Maid of Athens, Ere We Part
The Greek Refrain at the end of each stanza was translated by the author as "My life, I love thee."
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Aegean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
poem by Byron (1810)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Please do not break my little Christmas tree
I hung my loved ones photographs over there.
Oh! They are very far away, on the top
My beloved and myself of teary eyes tangled with jingle bells.
Oh! My Landlord gatecrashed, the Greek,
I nicknamed him as 'Socrates'
He called me on my pseudonym 'Don'.
'Merry Christmas' We both greeted simultaneously.
Secretly I winked to my wife tune the radio little louder
There the music of 'Zorba's dance' goes on.
And I offered him a Greek drink 'Ouzo'.
He had two gulps faster and we danced together to the tune of Zorba.
He left with a friendly smile and thank God he didn't grumble of the rent this time.
I murmured to myself 'Long live my Greek God'.
* To the President, I dreamed him last night he disguised as a Santa Claus and distributed some leaflets door to door regarding the health care reform it seems.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Narrow Your Eyes
I dont want to change your mind
I dont want to think about your mind
They say love is blind
I dont think youre blind
You dont want to understand
And I dont want to shake your fathers hand
And walk in the sand
And act like a man
I get on the bus
And ride past our stop
And though Im late
I cant get off
I just cant bear to tell you some lies
And narrow your eyes
Narrow your eyes
Well take back every thing we said
Split up all the things and move ahead
Forgot how you said
Well split the side off the bed
I get on my bike
Ride down our block
Ride through the world
Through the green lights
But when I think of all your advice
I narrow my eyes
Narrow my eyes
I dont want to change your mind
I dont want to think about your mind
They say love is blind
I dont think youre blind
I get on the bus
Ride past our stop
And though Im late
I cant get off
I just cant bear to tell you some lies
And narrow your eyes
Narrow your eyes
Now lets toast the sad cold fact
Our loves never coming back
And well race to the bottom of a glass
So narrow your eyes
Narrow your eyes
Narrow your eyes
Narrow your eyes
Narrow your eyes
Narrow your eyes
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Child Dying
Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.
You are so great, and I so small:
I am nothing, you are all:
Being nothing, I can take this way.
Oh I need neither rise nor fall,
For when I do not move at all
I shall be out of all your day.
It's said some memory will remain
In the other place, grass in the rain,
Light on the land, sun on the sea,
A flitting grace, a phantom face,
But the world is out. There is not place
Where it and its ghost can ever be.
Father, father, I dread this air
Blown from the far side of despair
The cold cold corner. What house, what hold,
What hand is there? I look and see
Nothing-filled eternity,
And the great round world grows weak and old.
Hold my hand, oh hold it fast-
I am changing! - until at last
My hand in yours no more will change,
Though yours change on. You here, I there,
So hand in hand, twin-leafed despair -
I did not know death was so strange.
poem by Edwin Muir
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Blind Bartimeus
Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits;
He hears the crowd;--he hears a breath
Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth!"
And calls, in tones of agony,
The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!"
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?"
And he replies, "O give me light!
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight.
And Jesus answers, '(GREEK)'
(GREEK)!
Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
(GREEK)!
(GREEK)!
(GREEK)!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Greek Tragedy (A Tale Of Horror)
1
He'd love her
and then the coldness
of marriage took love
away from him
and the coldness turned into suspicion
and then into an obsession:
and she was an inconvenience
he murdered her a Friday
night
suffocated her with her pillows
it was easy;
and he heard her whisper with her last breath:
'I'll have your eyes'
he cut her up in manageable parts,
and buried her below the floorboards
in the study
2
It is a year later
and he is at the computer
and far below lies parts of his wife
but now his wife is smiling
she's on screen
smiling like a Greek Goddess
and he sits transfixed
and she says:
'You are Oedipus, darling -
I will have your eyes'
She is smiling
He is willing
Beside the printer are paperclips
He undoes two
She beckons; she smiles
and she whispers
that same deathbed whisper:
'I'll have your eyes'
And he is Oedipus
Just paperclips will do
He gouges one eye out
And he gouges the other
It is easy
She lies deep below
below the floorboards;
She need whisper no longer
And he is become Oedipus,
eyes gouged,
blind like the Greek Homer
poem by Raj Arumugam
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oh yes, Mr. Shaun, the Bible was not written in English
The Gospel of Christ and, in general,
the Holy Bible are written with the inspiration of God.
The Prophets and the Apostles
have recorded in written form
a portion of the oral teaching of the Old Testament
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
These are the original languages of the Holy Bible from' which all the translations have been derived. God's inspiration is confined to the original languages and utterances, not the many translations. There are 1,300 languages and dialects into which the Holy Bible, in its entirety or in portions, has been
translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.
This does not mean that the translations do not convey the meaning of the Bible for spiritual uprightness of the readers in their own language. On the contrary the Bible should be spread and preached to 'all nations'. The missionaries in foreign lands learn the language or the dialect of. the new area into which they bring the Bible and other religious teachings. For example, the missionaries from Constantinople, Saints Cyril and Methodios, sent to Christianize the Slavic peoples in the 9th century, first translated the Bible and the ritual books into the language of the people.
yes, Mr. Shaun, my friend the Bible was not written in English.IT was written in HEBREW, ARAMAIC, and GREEK....
But i like it written in English too, how i wish it were written in such a
language,
with a sense of class
and fashionable disguise,
for without it, how could i ever understand, God,
oh, my, God!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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