Things That Thrill You
Nothing to read for escapism or dreams,
only Arthur Mee's Encyclopaedia printed
before World War II taken with me when
I went for coffee - printed in 1933 - joy in
Britain about Broadcasting House and the
BBC, commemorate listening to news of
the King's demise, marvelling at the new
technology, the main announcer being the
most loved voice in the British Isles
Told commiserating colleagues of my dire
lack of reading matter - An outrage - they
exclaimed, having to read that old book -
I described a new scene in my Government
opera where former official's souls are stuck
in an eternal Indaba held in the Government
Valhalla, all stoppering their ghostly ears with
ectoplasm as a long-winded Chief Director
delivers an interminable speech
This is a scene in hell! - they exclaimed and
ran away - My point exactly - I told their re-
treating backs; returned to my desk to read
my guru's advice - ‘Being happy is the cor-
nerstone of your being, choose things that
thrill you' - writing my Opera thrills me, but
anglicising French texts on how politicians
bankrupted a country in Africa does not,
they destroyed their own soul
Like a snake swallowing itself
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
Music Is Philosophy
MUSIC IS PHILOSOPHY
Music is philosophy that's understood
without a need to read the book.
While Judaism is the Jews' religion, statehood
won't fully let them off the hook.
John Maseng in the Los Angeles Jewish Journal,5/25-31, writes about a production of Osvaldo Golijov's "Ainadamar, " an opera that tells the story of Garcia Lorca's life, and his death at the hand of the Falangists, through the eyes of his mistress, the actress Margarita Xirgu. The opera is being produced by the Long Beach Opera Company. Golijov told Maseng:
Jewish music is a point of view, it's a way of experiencing the world that at is translated into the music…There is something about music that transcends any need for explanation. I always feel that music is a sort of philosophy that's understood without a need to read the book. Not all music is universal, but all good music is universal."
5/28/12 #10336
poem by Gershon Hepner
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I See A New Scene
Physiotherapist advice, neck to be fixed,
moving like an Egyptian backwards only
I See A New Scene for the Government
Service Opera; a line of civil servants in
front of computers - a bell rings and all
move their heads in Egyptian style
Wagner's Valkyries arrive on their flying
steeds singing ho-to-jo - and when civil
servants fall forward, dead in their chair,
a Valkyrie flies them to a special Govern-
mental Valhalla where they are treated
to an eternal Governmental Indaba
A Vision and Mission Statement event
at a dusty lodge, endless speeches fol-
lowed by team-building games; all acted
out with great gusto to warn civil servants
not to die in their chairs…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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You Don't Read Africa
Never have you ever sat
Or beneath African Suns lay flat
You insist on rumours fat
Liken to a rainy day's door mat
To judge where you haven't testified
And judge what ain't justified
You don't read Africa
You heard it is Hell's replica
With an oasis of virtual bliss
Where on semi-humans and snakes hiss
You watched him report
On a continent he hasn't rapport!
Why do you believe:
That which you perceive?
As Gospel-truth lies you receive?
Those that only your mind deceive?
Making you think 'Africa' is synonym to 'grieve'?
You don't read Africa
You only read about Africa
The cradle of mankind
You believe is to mankind unkind
You help in protests
Against nothing on your list of detests
You call it charity when you commission inquests!
Can a reader read a book here
When he is only there
There where he doesn't know where,
Where he feels and thinks is nowhere?
Read Africa from your heart
Not just when Africans hurt
You cannot read Africa miles apart
You read of Africa
You read about Africa
You read about Africa
You have read about Africa
You Don't Read Africa
poem by David Munene wa Kimberly
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People Who Read People Magazin
(Kinky Friedman)
Well, I'm here to say I got turned away from Studio 54
Back to neon lights and lonely nights and saw-dust on the floor
And if she ever loved me, she don't love me anymore,
And if anyone should ask me, here's who I'm singing for:
For the people who read People Magazine,
For the soap opera lovers, for the home-town bowling team,
For everybody everywhere who's ever lost a dream,
For the people who read people who read People Magazine.
Now if you're too New York for Texas, too Texas for L.A.
You been chasing trends like rainbow ends but you're always just a song away
And if the White House wouldn't have ya, play in every little honky-tonk and bar
The good Lord made the Heavens, ah but He never made a star.
No, its the people who read People Magazine,
It's the soap opera lovers, its the home-town bowling team,
It's everybody everywhere who's ever lost a dream,
For the people who read people who read People Magazine.
And to tell you the truth this telephone booth gets lonesome in the rain,
But son, I'm 21 in Nashville and I'm 43 in Maine.
And when your mama gets home, would you tell her I phoned, it'd take a life-time to explain
That I'm a country-picker with a bumper-sticker that says: ?God Bless John Wayne?.
And bless the people who read People Magazine,
Bless the soap opera lovers, bless the home-town bowling team,
Bless everybody everywhere who's ever lost a dream,
For the people who read people who read People Magazine.
Bless the people who read people who read People Magazine.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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People Who Read People Magazine
(kinky friedman)
Well, Im here to say I got turned away from studio 54
Back to neon lights and lonely nights and saw-dust on the floor
And if she ever loved me, she dont love me anymore,
And if anyone should ask me, heres who Im singing for:
For the people who read people magazine,
For the soap opera lovers, for the home-town bowling team,
For everybody everywhere whos ever lost a dream,
For the people who read people who read people magazine.
Now if youre too new york for texas, too texas for l.a.
You been chasing trends like rainbow ends but youre always just a song away
And if the white house wouldnt have ya, play in every little honky-tonk and bar
The good lord made the heavens, ah but he never made a star.
No, its the people who read people magazine,
Its the soap opera lovers, its the home-town bowling team,
Its everybody everywhere whos ever lost a dream,
For the people who read people who read people magazine.
And to tell you the truth this telephone booth gets lonesome in the rain,
But son, Im 21 in nashville and Im 43 in maine.
And when your mama gets home, would you tell her I phoned, itd take a life-time to explain
That Im a country-picker with a bumper-sticker that says: god bless john wayne.
And bless the people who read people magazine,
Bless the soap opera lovers, bless the home-town bowling team,
Bless everybody everywhere whos ever lost a dream,
For the people who read people who read people magazine.
Bless the people who read people who read people magazine.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I read a book
I read a book
Not to enhance my looks
I read a book
Maybe to avoid being a crook
I read a book
Not just to learn how to cook
I read a book
To ascertain how to defend my rights
Not just to acquire knowledge
Reading a book I pledge,
Is one of the roads to the light
I read a book
To understand how a kings territory
Is defended with pieces such as the rook
I read a book
So there will be no questions asked
When I count correctly what you took
I read a book
So that I play not ignorant
Now on life I’ve a different outlook
I read a book
So if I come up with all the right answers
I will know for sure it is not merely a fluke
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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I Was So Happy With Myself
I WAS SO HAPPY WITH MYSELF
I was so happy with myself
That I forgot who I am-
I am only one person one voice
And now matter how good or strong that voice
It is only one voice
And the world has so many voices different from mine
More beautiful and more insightful in so many ways-
No matter how long I go on writing
There will really only be one of me
Even I most often love to read others
Far more than I love to read myself.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Kings Cross
The man at the back of the queue was sent
To feel the smack of firm government
Linger by the flyposter, for a fight
Its the same story every night
Ive been hurt and weve been had
You leave home, and you dont go back
Someone told me monday, someone told me saturday
Wait until tomorrow and theres still no way
Read it in a book or write it in a letter
Wake up in the morning and theres still no guarantee
Only last night I found myself lost
By the station called kings cross
Dead and wounded on either side
You know its only a matter of time
Ive been good and Ive been bad
Ive been guilty of hanging around
Someone told me monday, someone told me saturday
Wait until tomorrow and theres still no way
Read it in a book or write it in a letter
Wake up in the morning and theres still no guarantee
So I went looking out today
For the one who got away
Murder walking round the block
Ending up in kings cross
Good luck, bad luck waiting in a line
It takes more than the matter of time
Someone told me monday, someone told me saturday
Wait until tomorrow and theres still no way
Read it in a book or write it in a letter
Wake up in the morning and theres still no guarantee
Someone told me monday, someone told me saturday
Wait until tomorrow and theres still no way
Read it in a book or write it in a letter
Wake up in the morning and theres still no guarantee
And theres still no guarantee
There is still no guarantee
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With Kafka.
Kafka would have liked
the way you said that.
You kept his books on
the shelf next to those
of Burroughs and Joyce.
You like the painting on
the book’s paper cover.
Paperbacks are cheap
and soon worn out,
Thornton used to say.
He liked hard covered
books, first editions if
he could afford. He said
Kafka was too morbid
for you. You need a lighter
read, he said, something
that doesn’t mess with
your female head. You
take down the Kafka and
read again where you read
before, the whole drama
unfolding, the printed words
bringing a different world,
and ghostly by the window
with steady stare, Franz Kafka
in silence just sitting there.
poem by Terry Collett
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Lost In A Book
SHHH!
don't bother me
I'm lost in a book
mixed up with
the complicated plots
and outrageous characters
when i'm lost in a book
I don't have to think
about my life
I'll get stuck in
a fantasy world
and never
have to come back
home again
one book
after another
I read, read, read
different places
different people
a new world
I start fresh
each time
I open up a new book
when i'm lost in a book
I am safe
no one can hurt me
I'm happy
when I'm lost
in a book
poem by Annie Janine
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In Hell
You live by the book of wonders,
The book has hell on it when opened.
The inferno carries pits too grilling,
The grills are offered by devils,
Contagious diseases are handed over
To the body and bones, full of hatred.
A hell of books is opened by the librarian,
You choose a simple verb to read,
Then this verb is read, the verb that signals death.
Your death must never come by reading books,
Long scrolls so wonderful,
Of books the world is made
And the reason for books is reading,
Not living in Hell.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Rest To Read
Read any...
Any thing read...
Read...
Day with night...
Read...
Reading is
Happy...
Reading
Is boor...
Reading
Is Knolage...
Read...
Reading is
One of body
Rest...
Rest is
One of the reading
Time...
Read daily
Take rest daily
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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I'm Not Like You
I sit here now,
Writing this poem.
You read it now,
No matter what’s goin.
Sometimes it’s rainy,
Sometimes it’s not.
You read this poem now,
Go do you the homework you forgot.
Life can be simple,
It can also be complicated.
Be when read this now,
Please don’t get frustrated.
Thanks for reading this,
You’re a cool person that much is true.
But to spend the time and read,
I’m probably not much like you.
Kaleidoscope and Harpsichord
As I've told my wife too many times,
the meaning of any poem hides
in the marriage of cadence and sound.
Vowels on a carousel,
consonants on a calliope,
whistles and bells,
we need them all
tickling our ears.
Otherwise, the lines
are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then,
my wife has a problem
with any poem I give her to read
for a second opinion, especially
when the poem has no message
and I'm simply trying to hear
what I'm saying and don't care
if I understand it.
The other night in bed
I gave her another poem to read
and afterward she said this poem
was no different than the others.
She had hoped I'd improve.
'After all, ' she said,
'you've been writing for years
but reading a poem like this is
like looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
Point well taken,
point well said.
But then I asked her
what should a man do
if he has careened for years
through the caves of his mind
spelunking for the right
line for a poem
only to hear his wife say
after reading one of his poems
that it was like
'looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
What should he do-quit?
'Not a chance, '
she said this morning,
enthroned at the kitchen table,
as regal as ever in her fluttery gown
and buttering her English muffin
with long, languorous strokes
Van Gogh would envy.
'He should write even more,
all day and all night, if need be.
After all, ' she said, 'my line
about the kaleidoscope and harpsichord
still needs a poem of its own.
It's all meat, no gristle, no fat.'
poem by Donal Mahoney
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No one who has read official documents needs to be told how easy it is to conceal the essential truth under the apparently candid and all- disclosing phrases of a voluminous and particularizing report....
Woodrow Wilson in Congressional Government
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My work is being destroyed almost as soon as it is printed. One day it is being read; the next day someone's wrapping fish in it.
Representing Their Needs
This hour...
It is proclaimed,
Government is wanted,
Out of their lives!
The previous hour...
It had been exclaimed,
The government is not doing enough...
To correct the downslide experienced,
In their lives.
And as this hour comes to a close...
They have decided,
Those in government representing their needs...
Are not listening effectively.
And have chosen to replace those elected to lead.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The End Of The Chapter
Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day;
We even lay the book away;
But oh, how sweet the moments sped
Before the final page was read!
We tried to read between the lines
The Author's deep-concealed designs;
But scant reward such search secures;
You saw my heart and I saw yours.
The Master,--He who penned the page
And bade us read it,--He is sage:
And what he orders, you and I
Can but obey, nor question why.
We read together and forgot
The world about us. Time was not.
Unheeded and unfelt, it fled.
We read and hardly knew we read.
Until beneath a sadder sun,
We came to know the book was done.
Then, as our minds were but new lit,
It dawned upon us what was writ;
And we were startled. In our eyes,
Looked forth the light of great surprise.
Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls,
A voice spoke forth: 'Behold your souls!'
I do, I do. I cannot look
Into your eyes: so close the book.
But brought it grief or brought it bliss,
No other page shall read like this!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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An Envied Popularity
I am often told I use incorrect language...
In my writing or use of speech.
And the text I prefer is limited in reach.
My point of view lacks technique and vision.
And that my diction is unclear at times.
That it is absent of any precision.
'How many of you have actually read one thing,
Your teacher has written?
Or remember the director's name,
Of a movie seen that has achieved acclaim.
But there is always someone there,
Wherever you are to keep you reminded...
Any attention you get,
They will be jealous of it! '
~What is your point? ~
'Notable successes,
Are easier to critique...
Once one has reached,
An envied popularity! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Sunday News
Looking for something in the Sunday paper,
I flipped by accident through Local Weddings,
Yet missed the photograph until I saw
your name among the headings.
And there you were, looking almost unchanged,
Your hair still long, though now long out of style,
And you still wore that stiff and serious look
You called a smile.
I felt as though we sat there face to face.
My stomach tightened. I read the item through.
It said too much about both families,
Too little about you.
Finished at last, I threw the paper down,
Stung by jealousy, my mind aflame,
Hating this man, this stranger whom you loved,
This printed name.
And yet I clipped it out to put away
Inside a book like something I might use,
A scrap I knew I wouldn't read again
But couldn't bear to lose.
poem by Dana Gioia
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