Prologue to Albumazar
To say this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece:
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
Here he was fashioned, and we may suppose,
He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead, becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well which he unjustly gains.
But this our age such authors does afford,
As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word;
Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all,
And what's their plunder, their possession call;
Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,
But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:
Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
Of, “Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;”
But knock the poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
They strip the living, but these rob the dead;
Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,
And make love to them the Egyptian way;
Or, as a rhyming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the licence, though they want the art;
And might, where theft was praised, for laureats stand,
Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.
They make the benefits of others' studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;
'Tis all his own, when once he has spit i'the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concerned in this;
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
For they their thefts still undiscovered think,
And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
They should refund,—but that can never be;
For, should you letters of reprisal seal,
These men write that which no man else would steal.
poem by John Dryden
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Related quotes
Tutorial for David de Santis
I read some poetry today
by long dead poets from the past,
which I enjoyed I have to say.
Their golden words were meant to last
.
Though they long since returned to dust.
The legacy they left behind
for poetry students is a must.
It is as if they were designed.
To act as templates we can use
as we learn to write poetry
It would be foolish to refuse
to benefit from history.
So find a poet you admire
from the past or present day
You might just find his works inspire
you to write a different way.
Experiment with every kind,
free form, free verse, formality
then in due course you’re sure to find
which one of these is your forte
The time you spend to learn the rules
is one investment you must make
Like any trade you need the tools,
Before you can attempt to make
your claim to be a master bard.
The road to fame is long and hard
with very little cash reward.
you have to try, no one is barred.
30-May-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Start Living
(Steven Dale Jones/Amy Powers)
He just can't wait to graduate
He's marking time and counting days
He'll toss that cap and watch that tassel fly
So he can start living
Yeah, finally start living
'Cause he's got big plans
And he'll have time on his hands
To start living
Before he knows ten years are gone
A dead-end job, a mortgage loan
He wonders where the chances passed him by
To really start living
Yeah he wants to start living
And soon he's sure
He can finally afford
To start living
He'll read more books
He'll make more love
He'll talk more to the man above
He'll watch the sunset in the west
And visit Mexico
He'll learn to cook, he'll play some ball
He'll write that book, he'll make that call
He'll take the time
Some other time
Someday he'll do it all
Well sittin' in the barber chair
He sees the silver in his hair
Those golden years are comin' right behind
And then he'll start living
He'll really start living
Yeah he feels tired
Ah, but soon he'll retire
And start living
He'll read more books
He'll make more love
He'll talk more to the man above
He'll watch the sunset in the west
And visit Mexico
He'll learn to cook, he'll play some ball
He'll write that book, he'll make that call
He'll take the time
Some other time
Someday he'll do it all
Well the doctor says, I've got bad news
Afraid there's nothing we can do
And all at once the tears are in his eys
He'll never start living
Never really start living
Yeah he had big plans
But there's no time on his hands
To start living
When he sees the pearly gates
He'll really start living
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Can't Stand Losing You
I've called you so many times today
And I guess it's all true what your girl-friends say
That you don't ever want to see me again
And your brother's gonna kill me and he's six feet ten
I guess you'd call it cowardice
But I'm not prepared to go on like this
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing you
I can't stand losing you
I can't stand losing you
I can't stand losing you
I see you sent my letters back
And my L.P. records and they're all scratched
I can't see the point in another day
When nobody listens to a word I say
You can call it lack of confidence
But to carry on living doesn't make no sense
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I can't, I can't stand losing you
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I guess this is our last goodbye
And you don't care, so I won't cry
But you'll be sorry when I'm dead
And all this guilt will be on your head
I guess you'd call it suicide
But I'm too full to swallow my pride
I can't, I can't, I can't stand losing
I can't, I can't...
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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11 Million Gigabyte
Hungry lane,
You don't have to steal to make a living;
For the dead are already begging to return!
And like the rum and the coke on your table.
Tainted love,
Have you seen her once again in your neighbourhood? ! !
For they can't stop me from living a better life with my muse,
Because you've stolen enough from me!
On the road of love and,
On the next track;
But do not steal because of your hunger!
For the thief will be caught by the law one day.
Stay like bees and be safe and protected,
And from hand to mouth for the house cleaning exercise;
For you may be judged when being caught by the law.
11 Million Gigabyte!
For the opening track of your mind is always negative;
That is why you lack the experiences of life,
For stealing will surely lead you to hell.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Cant Stand Losing You
Ive called you so many times today
And I guess its all true what your girlfriends say
That you dont ever want to see me again
And your brothers going to kill me and hes six feet ten
I guess youd call it cowardice
But Im not prepared to go on like this
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant
I cant stand losing you
I cant stand losing you
I cant stand losing you
I cant stand losing you
I see youve sent my letters back
And my lp records and theyre all scratched
I cant see the point in another day
When nobody listens to a word I say
You can call it lack of confidence
But to carry on living doesnt make no sense
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I guess this is our last goodbye
And you dont care, so I wont cry
But youll be sorry when Im dead
And all this guilt will be on your head
I guess youd call it suicide
But Im too full to swallow my pride
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing
I cant, I cant, I cant stand losing...
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poet 2 Poet
We all have different writing styles, and we
May not all have grace and poise.
But when we do write, it’s all to make some noise.
We want to be recognized by the co-poets
All fair and true.
For writing our poetry is what we all like to do.
So I welcome all my co-poets who take this beautiful ride
And all their dreams and visions, they do find.
We do not only write what comes into our minds
But we write from the heart
And this is where poetry gets its start.
So continue to write all that you see and feel
Because these are human emotions.
That from us, no one can steal.
WELCOME ABOARD THIS TRAIN OF POETRY.
poem by Louis Rams
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Can't Stand Losing You
I've called you so many times today
And I guess it's all true what your girlfriends say
That you don't ever want to see me again
And your brother's gonna kill me and he's six feet ten
I guess you'd call it cowardice
But I'm not prepared to go on like this
I can't, I can't
I can't stand losing
I can't stand losing you
I see you've sent my letters back
And my LP records and they're all scratched
I can't see the point in another day
When nobody listens to a word I say
You can call it lack of confidence
But to carry on living doesn't make no sense
I can't, I can't
I can't stand losing
I guess this is our last goodbye
And you don't care so I won't cry
But you'll be sorry when I'm dead
And all this guilt will be on your head
I guess you'd call it suicide
But I'm too full to swallow my pride
I can't, I can't
I can't stand losing
I can't stand losing you
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epilogue to The Husband His Own Cuckold
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care;
For authors, such as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare;
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more,
That if his play be dull, he's damned all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose,
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux.
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beauship says, but what he wears;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears.
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on 't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
Fools change in England, and new fools arise;
For, though the immortal species never dies,
Yet every year new maggots make new flies.
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.
poem by John Dryden
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Why I Write?
I write poems for myself and I write for the readers
I write for the masses and I write for the leaders
I write to imprint my thoughts in people's mind
I write to make the bad guys helpful and kind
I write to light up our path to Great God
I write for everyone home and abroad
I write to preserve values new and old
I write to make my ink precious like gold
I write for peace and I write for progress
I write to make the world a better place
All major issues I want to address
I write to see smile on God's face
poem by Asif Andalib
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The Lost Battle
It is not over yet-the fight
Where those immortal dreamers failed.
They stormed the citadels of night,
And the night praised them-and prevailed.
So long ago the cause was lost
We scarce distinguish friend from foe;
But-if the dead can help it most-
The armies of the dead will grow.
The world has all our banners now,
And filched our watchwords for its own.
The world has crowned the ' rebel's ' brow
And millions crowd his lordly throne.
The masks have altered. Names are names.
They praise the 'truth' that is not true.
The ' rebel' that the world acclaims
Is not the rebel Shelley knew.
We may not build that Commonweal,
We may not reach the goal we set;
But there's a flag they dare not steal.
Forward! It is not over yet.
We shall be dust and under dust,
Before we end that ancient wrong;
But there's a sword that cannot rust,
And where's the death can touch a song?
So, when our bodies rot in earth,
The singing souls that once were ours,
Weaponed with light and helmed with mirth,
Shall front the kingdoms and the powers.
The ancient lie is on its throne,
And half the living still forget;
But, since the dead are all our own,
Courage, it is not over yet.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Buried Treasure
Now if the aim in your life is to settle me down
I couldnt change my point of view
I got a lady in red at the back of my head
But the women in white is you
Do you wanna be the only one
Fade away in the morning sun
I could love you all of my life
You are my wife
Havent I let you know
We dont need no buried treasure
No buried treasure - we dont need it
We dont stand on ceremony
I love you only - Im proud of it
You can never be all you wanna be
When youre living for gold
We dont need no buried treasure
I still got you
I still go you in my soul
Well its a long way down and you gotta get up
You got to figure on a master plan
You couldnt do it if you dont get ready
When youre beaten by the other man
Do you wanna be the last one in
Play the game that you just dont win
I can see me making you cry
Saying goodbye
But I could never let you go
We dont need no buried treasure
No buried treasure - we dont need it
We dont stand on ceremony
I love you only - Im proud of it
You can never be all you wanna be
When youre living for gold
We dont need no buried treasure
I still got you
I still got you in my soul
Well youre taking my life in the palm of your hand
Make you mine for another day
Aint nobody doesnt need anybody
When the good times turn away
I dont wanna be the lonely one
Fade away in the evening sun
I could love you all of my life
You are my wife
Havent I told you so
We dont need no buried treasure
No, buried treasure - we dont need it
We dont stand on ceremony
I love you only - Im proud of it
You can never be all you wanna be
When youre living for gold
We dont need no buried treasure
I still got you
I still got you in my soul
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Preference
Modern proponents of free form.
Do not accept that poetry
has certain rules and must conform.
Or it becomes mere anarchy.
Anything goes just will not do.
It’s either poetry or prose.
One must give credit where it’s due
They both have merit I suppose.
Prose poetry cannot exist.
An oxymoron obviously
but modern writers will insist
that what they write is poetry.
They aren’t content to call it prose
well written and quite beautiful.
Care taken with the words they chose
describing something wonderful.
Although so many writers try.
There’s very few achieve their aim.
They do not stop to wonder why
But simply write more of the same.
Make no attempt to learn the rules
Meter and rhyme a mystery
they lack the simple basic tools
You need for writing poetry.
A poem is a message to
transmit your ideas and your thoughts.
So other folks can share them too.
If you can write them as you ought.
Simplicity and clarity
are prerequisites for our art.
The finest kinds of poetry
are written from the poets heart.
Mere strings of words in random lines
are neither prose nor poetry.
Each of us knows what he defines
as being his idea of poesy.
I rest my case I make no plea
I merely state my preference.
Applicable only to me
I do not wish to cause offence.
6-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Beyond
It seemeth such a little way to me
Across to that strange country – the Beyond;
And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
The home of those whom I am so fond,
They make it seem familiar and most dear,
As journeying friends bring distant regions near.
So close it lies, that when my sight is clear
I think I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those who have gone from here
Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand.
I often think, but for our veiled eyes,
We should find heaven right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem a day to dread,
When from this dear earth I shall journey out
To that still dear country of the dead,
And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.
I love this world, yet shall I love to go
And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above a bier and see
The seal of death set on some well-loved face
But that I think ‘One more to welcome me,
When I shall cross the intervening space
Between this land and that one “over there”;
One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair.’
And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing – with a bated breath,
And white, set face – a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Fun Or Fate Poetry Writing?
Poetry writing has become a matter of fun!
With play of words many indulge in this fun;
Fun without fact will make poetry quite inept.
Fun or fate, some write poetry with true fact!
There are many things for them to have fun,
But it has become easy to play in poetry sites.
Also there are comments, voting and ranking;
These make them play this game regularly!
Fact is some are born poets in these sites also!
It is quite true some become poets sooner here!
Also it happens that some are branded as poets!
So goes the survival of these sites by this fun!
No poetry can survive long without fun and fact;
Fun or fate, poetry has become a part of life ever!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Prologue To The University Of Oxford, 1674.
Poets, your subjects have their parts assign'd
To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind:
When tired with following nature, you think fit
To seek repose in the cool shades of wit,
And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey
What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and strife
You view the various turns of human life:
Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go,
And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere[49] of crystal show'd the great.
Blest, sure, are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can suit your mind:
Content to see, and shun, those ills we show,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:
That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's claim,
May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;
For Muses so severe are worshipp'd here,
That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye,
And, as profane, from sacred places fly,
Rather than see the offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debased even to the level of their wit;
Disdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher.
So far your knowledge all their power transcends,
As what _should be_ beyond what _is_ extends.
poem by John Dryden
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The Actor
O man, with your wonderful dower,
O woman, with genius and grace,
You can teach the whole world with your power,
If you are but worthy the place.
The stage is a force and a factor
In moulding the thought of the day,
If only the heart of the actor
Is high as the theme of the play.
No discourse or sermon can reach us
Through feeling to reason like you;
No author can stir us and teach us
With lessons as subtle and true.
Your words and your gestures obeying
We weep or rejoice with your part,
And the player, behind all his playing,
He ought to be great at his art.
No matter what role you are giving,
No matter what skill you betray,
The everyday life you are living
Is certain to colour the play.
The thoughts we call secret and hidden
Are creatures of malice, in fact;
They steal forth unseen and unbidden,
And permeate motive and act.
The genius that shines like a comet
Fills only one part of God’s plan,
If the lesson the word derives from it
Is marred by the life of the man.
Be worthy your work if you love it;
The king should be fit for the crown;
Stand high as your art, or above it,
And make us look up and not down.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Dead Or Alive
There in the shadows, looks like a hand
Without its owner, to give it a command
Its got a purpose but I dont know what it is
Im in trouble
There in the streets, looks like a man
But something wrong that I dont understand
His eyes are open but he dont see a thing
His skin is peeling off, his bones are sticking out
Im getting scared
Oh my God (is it dead? )
Is it living? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
(is it dead? ), is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
Hiding in the cupboards, like little mice
Hiding in the frigerator, that isnt nice
Its not an animal, it dont have legs
No one else can see it
It moves so fast, corner of my eye
Look again its gone, its hiding
Wont somebody help me, doesnt anybody care?
It waits so patiently, for me to lose my guard
Im getting scared
Is it dead, is it
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead or alive
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead, is it
I remember there was a time
When dead and buried meant just that
Underneath the cold dark ground
Things stay put!
Oh them bones they make them bodies walk
Them bones, them bones
If they could only talk!
Is it dead (fade)
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(V – 2010) The Poet’s Nature
Reflecting Nature’s various hues
Poets write colourfully.
Echoing Nature’s innate songs
Poets write musically.
Learning from Nature’s righteous laws
Poets write more sensibly.
Drawing from Nature’s spotless love
Poets write more humanely.
Living with Nature’s poetic life
Poets write living poetry.
Night Of The Living Dead
Before I lay my head I say my prayers
My future starts when I see the first light of day
When I woke up today, I didnt really feel ok
I wasnt myself, I couldnt be no one else
Night of the living dead, thats what my momma said
Thats what she said, dont let them in your head
If you want to hang around
Please dont you bring me down
A zombie will steal your soul
Dont let them take control
Control, control, control
Night of the living dead, thats what my momma said
Thats what she said, dont let them in your head
Do you know who you are?
I know who I am
Dont know where Im going
But I can tell you where Ive been
Where I am right now
Is where I want to be
Nothing you can do or say
Can take me away from me
Night of the living dead, thats what my momma said
Thats what she said, dont let them in your head
No no
song performed by by G. Love & Special Sauce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I never said I was a poet just a man
dear francis,
do not call yourself
'just a man',
do not deprive yourself
the laurels of
'a poet'
you are a man, and a man is more than a poet
the man with the urge to write is more than a man without an urge
even just to write
and be this 'poet'
the poets (those taking the top charts) either have died
(and take the fame posthumously) or they have rested
on laurel
leaves, or they have confined themselves on
some
writers' block
but you francis
behold the stars and the other suns
has written more
and toiled more, your fruits are many
and more have eaten them
tasted how sweet what wisdom you have
i crown you the true laurels
these living laurels of poetry
moving, alive, toiling, working, always thinking
about those that must come
next for generations to come
i crown you,
Francis Duggan
the true laurels of working, moving, living poetry
i give you the title,
the true, living poet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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