Et Arceo
ET ARCEO
When common herd pronounces poet sound
polysyllabic words seem seldom seen,
bland brands' bandwagon fanfare, asses crowned,
as genius starves, neglected quits stage scene.
Works wise despise perks, narrow critic's eyes,
jerks brash cash in on fan mail underwritten
by Sony, Fox, Time Warner PR guys
imitating teenage heart-throb smitten.
How many colours woven in pride's coat
needs needy scribe who weeds out base intents,
keeps creed from crowd’s pernicious floating vote,
finds wings, still laughing at his own expense?
What's writ, unshared, falls fallow, horn unheeded,
wit's titbit skits un-aired, seed corn unneeded.
8 September 2009 robi3_1913_robi3_0000 SXX_IJX
Et Arceo_20090709_When common herd pronounces poet sound robi03_1913_robi03_0000 SXX_IJX
For previous version AND NOTES see below
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
ET ARCEO
When common herd pronounces poet sound
polysyllabic words seem seldom seen,
brash fanfare cashes in on asses crowned,
while genius starves, neglected quits stage scene.
What wise proved, what was rash, needs hindsight's eye,
or else none held the fort at Marathon,
nor fought against great odds Thermopylae,
vain Agincourt’s plain, Tudor slain undone.
How many colours woven in pride's coat
needs needy scribe who weeds out base intents,
keeps creed from crowd’s pernicious floating vote,
finds wings, still laughing at his own expense?
What's writ, unshared, falls fallow, horn unheeded,
wit's titbit skits un-aired, seed corn unneeded. 7 September 2009
Odi profanum vulgus et arceo …
I detest the common herd, and ward them off Horace, liv. III, ode i, verse 1
Que j'ai toujours haï les pensers du vulgaire!
Qu'il me semble profane, injuste, téméraire! Jean de la Fontaine
Loin d'ici, profane vulgaire,
Apollon m'inspire et m'éclaire;
C'est lui, je le vois, je le sens,
Mon cœur cède à sa violence;
Mortels, respectez sa présence,
Prêtez l'oreille à mes accents! J.-B. Rousseau
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Szymborska 's Yearns
'Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.'
i do not have
the wish anymore
to be understood
by you or anybody
i belong to the
common things
you cannot see
me in the herd
i am in my
daily endeavors
unknown to you
i still write without
any wish that you
recognize my
voice or feel the
longings of my
hands or see the
scars in my heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Good Evening Mr. Waldheim
Good evening mr.waldheim
And pontiff how are you?
You have so much in common
In the things you do
And here comes jesse jackson
He talks of common ground
Does that common ground include me
Or is it just a sound
A sound that shakes
Oh jesse, you must watch the sounds you make
A sound that quakes
There are fears that still reverberate
Jesse you say common ground
Does that include the plo?
What about people right here right now
Who fought for you not so long ago?
The words that flow so freely
Falling dancing from your lips
I hope that you dont cheapen them
With a racist slip
Oh common ground
Is common ground a word or just a sound
Common ground
Remember those civil rights workers buried in the ground
If I ran for president
And once was a member of the klan
Wouldnt you call me on it
The way I call you on farrakhan
And pontiff, pretty pontiff
Can anyone shake your hand ?
Or is it just that you like uniforms
And someone kissing your hand
Or is it true
The common ground for me includes you too
Oh, oh, is it true
The common ground for me includes you too
Good evening mr.waldheim
Pontiff how are you
As you both stroll through the woods at night
Im thinking thoughts of you
And jesse youre inside my thoughts
As the rhythmic words subside
My common ground invites you in
Or do you prefer to wait outside
Or is it true
The common ground for me is without you
Or is it true
The common ground for me is without you
Oh is it true
Theres no ground common enough for me and you
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
One Of The Crowd
(lowe/tennant)
--------------------
When I go fishing with my rod
I often get that urge
To fall asleep a sleep so deep that
No-one notices me
Dont want anyone to know my name
Dont want to get a fax
Dont want to meet the royal family
Just cause Ive paid my tax
Dont wanna be seen or heard
Dont want to shout out loud
I want to be part of the herd
One of the crowd
Dressing individually doesnt impress me
I think that its pathetic
Following fashion, I just like it
Dont i?
Dont wanna be seen or heard
Dont want to shout out loud
I want to be part of the herd
One of the crowd
(one of the crowd)
(one of the crowd)
Fishing
Fishing
I never fight, but every night
I think its gonna be alright
I think I might think in spite of
Every - thing
Dont wanna be seen or heard
Dont want to shout out loud
I want to be part of the herd
One of the crowd
One of the crowd
One of the crowd
One of the crowd
One of the crowd
One of the crowd
(one of the crowd)
Fishing
(one of the crowd)
Fishing
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Poet Finds....
The poet finds whatever the moon could not see,
The poet finds whatever the earth does not know,
The poet finds whatever the sun could not see,
The poet finds whatever others do not know,
The poet finds whatever the stars could not see,
So why do the heathen rage and the people plot vanity? !
For she who is pregnant is closer to us,
And the hart pants after streams of water.
Your tears have been your food night and day,
And like your inner self in the lan dof your muse;
But the poet finds whatever the sun could not see.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Receiving A Book From Dante Rossetti
Since he is Poet of whom gods ordain
Some most anthropic and perhuman act
Whereby his manhood shall so man his fact
That but his man of man is born again,
And since humanity is most humane,
Not at our pyramid's base, where we have tact
Of dust and supersurge the common tract
Of being, but up there, where form doth reign
To apex, let a Poet ask no fame
But that which, high o'er floods of Life and Death
From singing arks Ararat echoeth
To Ararat, and let him rather be,
Oh Poet, writ on yonder page by thee
Than hear what vulgar breath should make his world-wide name.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Eye to Eye
A poet with an artist’s eye
can conjure words to set the scene.
Then with the words that he’ll supply
his reader feels as though he’s seen.
The same scene which the poet saw
Draws on his own experience
of things that he has seen before
though it makes little difference.
The message that the poet sent
is perhaps not the one received
The reader senses the intent
and finds the poem well conceived.
The picture which the reader gets
is the scene his own mind sets
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sympathy
My Muse is simple,--yet it's nice
To think you don't need to think twice
On words I write.
I reckon I've a common touch
And if you say I cuss too much
I answer: 'Quite!'
I envy not the poet's lot;
He has something I haven't got,
Alas, I know.
But I have something maybe he
Would envy just a mite in me,--
I'm rather low.
For I am cast of common clay,
And from a ditch I fought my way,
And that is why
The while the poet scans the skies,
My gaze is grimly gutterwise,
Earthy am I.
And yet I have a gift, perhaps
Denied to proud poetic chaps
Who scoff at me;
I know the hearts of humble folk;
I too have bowed beneath the yoke:
So let my verse for them evoke
Your sympathy.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Generic
whether to dress proper or bold
allow mimicry to be your pilot
(individuality is overrated)
acceptance is dependent on this.
absorb the influences of your comrades
the stamp of approval depends on the delivery
once the club is joined,
words are heard.
follow the herd to the slaughterhouse
(never mind asking what's going on)
be grateful:
you are of a healthy disposition,
and of greatest use;
another number.
at least free will remains;
without fat unneeded,
without bones unneeded,
to be swallowed
in one
single
bite.
poem by Chris Jelens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To see victory only when it is within the ken of the common herd is not the acme of excellence.
Lightning Rod
A poet is merely a lightning rod,
For passing through him the words of God!
He opens up his mind, receives,
Then passes on the message, grieves!
The words erupt from deep within him
That God has stored before, verbatim.
Line upon line of schemes, ideas,
When left to man, left man in tears.
Words left in trust at the Creation
Mankind would waste in dissipation.
Before, when Adam walked with Eve
In Eden's den of make-believe
Were knowledge trees and friendly serpents
As God composed the Ten Commandments!
And every verse of every poem
Was writ before the truth was known;
That nothing is ever achieved by man
Without the seal of God's own hand.
So laud me not, the poet's in me,
But deep within, the poet's empty.
A poet is merely a lightning rod
For passing through him the words of God!
9 November 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song Of A Rhyming Man
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
This modern verse too much for me it's way above my head
Though modern poets are now the rage and Rhyme is with the dead.
I love the sound of rhyming words, I love the verse that rhyme
To blank or free or non rhyme verse prefer it every time
And there's many who will disagree and most will say I'm wrong
But give me ballad or rhyme verse or good old rhyming song.
You may say I am limited and with you most will agree
That I'm not into modern verse of twenty first century
But I've been an old style rhyming man since nineteen seventy three
And I am in my sixties now and there's no changing me.
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
And I am guilty of no sin and I can't see no crime
In liking sound of rhyming verse and loving words that rhyme
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Letter To A Young Poet Revised
Letter to a young Poet
Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent pass time it doesn’t
change anything, no one reads it, other than cranky people. Should
a poet writes something nationalistic that resonance with, a nation’s
pride, like: “my country is the best in the world.” He will get a medal.
So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the common man a poet is regarded as a figure of
fun who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make
sense of a world he doesn’t understand. As my father said, when my first
poem was published: “How much did they pay you? ” If my words have
not scared you off, you’re a poet. The only tool you’ll need is honesty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To An Old Quill Of Lord Dunsany's
Before you leave my hands' abuses
To lie where many odd things meet you,
Neglected darkling of the Muses,
I, the last of singers, greet you.
Snug in some white wing they found you,
On the Common bleak and muddy,
Noisy goslings gobbling round you .
In the pools of sunset, ruddy.
Have you sighed in wings untravelled
For the heights where others view the
Bluer widths of heaven, and marvelled
At the utmost top of Beauty ?
No ! it cannot be ; the soul you
Sigh with craves nor begs of us.
From such heights a poet stole you
From a wing of Pegasus.
You have been where gods were sleeping
In the dawn of new creations,
Ere they woke to woman's weeping
At the broken thrones of nations.
You have seen this old world shattered
By old gods it disappointed,
Lying up in darkness, battered
By wild comets, unanointed.
But for Beauty unmolested
Have you still the sighing olden ?
I know mountains heather-crested,
Waters white, and waters golden.
There I'd keep you, in the lowly
Beauty-haunts of bird and poet,
Sailing in a wing, the holy
Silences of lakes below it.
But I leave you by where no man
Finds you, when I too be gone
From the puddles on this common
Over the dark Rubicon.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I have thought there was some advantage even in death, by which we mingle with the herd of common men.
quote by Henry David Thoreau
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Alas, A Bard’s a Bruised Reed!
They make me mad- some people, known/ unknown;
They make me sad- their wiliness / ego;
They’re after money’s comfort on this earth!
Sense/ common-sense are things that’re a dearth.
They know how poets have suffered in life!
They know how poets land in utter strife!
They stay unmoved/ inert- husband or wife:
They wound my heart with words akin a knife.
Oh how I wish I should be, never me!
Oh how I wish I were akin to them;
Yet, I can’t simply change: I’m thus destined;
To Poesy must Bards always well bind.
Poetry isn’t something that pays at once;
It isn’t something that gives plenty returns;
A Poet seeks the truth without/ within;
And Truth is God: God abhors only sin!
Being like earthlings is not always right;
The destiny of world, poets do fight;
Most Bards cannot be dishonest, may be;
Their minds are fixed to Eternity.
And if they change, could they God realize?
Good Bards prefer to be always soul-wise;
And like a phoenix die, again arise;
And show the world to be heavenly-wise!
Oh, one can’t take me for an easy ride;
I can’t my emotions and passions hide;
I can’t live on with ego great and pride;
My thoughts to be aright, God helps decide.
The superfluous from the thing that’s deep;
The virtual/ surreal from real;
The transient from what is permanent;
God help me to know and my soul to keep.
Alas, a Poet is a bruised reed!
His works on earth are immortal indeed;
His heart of love is uniquely his creed;
His mind wants peace and never yearns for greed!
Alas, a Bard’s a bruised reed!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poets
an old woman poet,
stood behind the table,
doling out plate after plate,
to the line of faces...
taking the time...
to ask each their name.
a young student poet,
jerked from the picket line,
beaten, and arrested...
now sits in jail.
the young man poet,
just home after a 12 hour shift,
went next door and mowed
his elderly neighbor's grass.
a young girl poet,
took in the stray cat,
fed it, and held it...
and rocked it to sleep.
the poor poet,
makes a pallot on the floor
of his empty room,
for the homeless to sleep on.
the old man poet,
goes to work again,
minimum wage with a smile,
to feed his sick wife...
the common poet,
build houses, works on machines,
tills gardens, works on cars...
treats everyone the same...
and no one knows his name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Vive la Difference
Rewarded who, through independent soul,
contributes towards the common good,
free, adds a tree to evolution's wood,
which thrives regardless, whether common goal
is shared by all, or if it stands a pole
apart, awaiting recognition. Should
the base be sound, where one once lonely stood
will many come and thrive, half-hopes make whole.
But woe betide who copied or who stole,
or who coerced, as 'truth will out'! Withstood
should be temptation's mirage, self-made hood,
depriving self from self, from freedom's scroll.
Look into, through and under surface scene
until, true focus found, new scope is seen.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Two Minutes Till Showtime
With as much fanfare
As could possibly be expected
The crowds gathered as one
In a flurry of excitement
The noise of chatter grew loud
Filling every corner of the room
The lights dimmed and shone
Across the empty stage
The final sound checks played out
While the performers waited in the wings
The fever of tension grew and built
For all the rehearsals would it be a hit
The songs and the story would it be enough
To answer the anticipation of the crowd
The nervous smiles and looks exchanged
Silence fell and filled the room
Time had come to take to the stage
The lights are up and the show is on
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Choice
the choice
of wearing back
the dancing
shoes tonight
leaves me
with your
implied
admission
you have chosen
to live
like a common man
than die
like a miserable
poet
deprived
of the most common
need
the loss of love
the shortness of words
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.
quote by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!