Nature's the same as Rome, was reflected in it
Nature's the same as Rome, was reflected in it.
We see images of its civic might
In the clear air, as in the sky-blue circus,
In the forum of fields, the colonnade of the grove.
Nature is the same as Rome, again it seems
We have no reason to trouble the gods.
We've got the viscera of the sacrifices
To tell the fortunes of war, and slaves
To keep the silence, and stones with which to build.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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North Atlantic Drift
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Its a cultural shift its the North Atlantic Drift
Americana and a rule Britannia
And the moon yes we own that to
And where the Euphrates meets the other rivers
Is now the home of the devil and the liar
And the pyre we plan to make
Is just the drift leaving its wake, home
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
And the films you want to watch
And the films you want to make
And the kids like lost angels
Dressed in black sensations
And the shift won? shake
And the drift won? brake
With billions of Diamonds growing like olives
And the drift holds the coffers
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
Meanwhile Rome burns
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roman Girl's Song
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou satst a queen.
Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men
Bow'd at thy feet.
They that thy mantle wore,
As gods were seen–
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
Rome! thine imperial brow
Never shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?
Thou hast thy skies!
Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With colour'd light.
Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!
And all sweet sounds are thine,
Lovely to hear,
While night, o'er tomb and shrine,
Rests darkly clear.
Many a solemn hymn,
By starlight sung,
Sweeps thro' the arches dim,
Thy wrecks among.
Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.
Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,
A charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.
Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dead.
Yet wears thy Tiber's shore
A mournful mien:
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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AAAC) Rome
In old Rome everybody did his own work.
There were the slaves all over the world,
Unluckily the world has not changed,
Luckily those slaves could become freedmen.
The ten ases coin valued more than the Greek dram,
The Romans did not devalue their denarius.
As a kid one read about old Rome hoping to grow up.
Machiavelli dreamt he came back to old Rome changing his clothes in the evening.
We held our suits and have our homework.
A Lady gave her daughter a copper jewel box as a dowry.
We know she's a great catch that girl with her cista Ficoroni.
poem by Paolo Giuseppe Mazzarello
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Rome
O thou newcomer who seek’st Rome in Rome
And find’st in Rome no thing thou canst call Roman;
Arches worn old and palaces made common
Rome’s name alone within these walls keeps home.
Behold how pride and ruin can befall
One who hath set the whole world ’neath her laws,
All-conquering, now conquered, because
She is Time’s prey, and Time conquereth all.
Rome that art Rome’s one sole last monument,
Rome that alone hast conquered Rome the town,
Tiber alone, transient and seaward bent,
Remains of Rome. O world, thou unconstant mime!
That which stands firm in thee Time batters down,
And that which fleeteth doth outrun swift Time.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Epitaph To Rome
If midst Rome you wish to see Rome, pilgrim,
Tho in Rome naught of Rome might you see,
Behold the walls' ring, the theatres, temples
And ruptured pillars, to rubble all turned,
Rome be these! Mark how the corpse of a city
So strong still past fortune's pomp exudes;
Subduing a world, herself the city subdued
Lest yet more to subdue might there be.
Today in broken Rome, Rome unbroken
(A substance in its shadow) lies entombed.
Within all's changed; alone past change
Tiber remains, that to sea runs mixed with sand.
See what Fortune plays: 'tis wasted away,
What was unmoving; what moved, yet remains.
poem by Mikolaj Sep Szarzynski
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Back To Rome
One day its the morning
Another day its the afternoon light
On day, baby, without warning
Well, I tend to think were going back to rome
Back to rome
We had a dream it was behemoth
Im so sorry that I didnt work out
And Im sorry about the visigoths
Well, I think its time that we go back to rome
Back to rome
Dont you wish that we could stay?
Were going back to rome
Life is so fine
Then it goes wrong
Wrong
You think its going to miss you but that sun bitch gon get you
Yeah, it goes wrong
Wrong
Sun bitch gon get you
I believed in the cupid
I thought Id kiss you for all my life
I guess Im just a little stupid
Now Im going back to rome
Back to rome
Now I just cant wait
Im going back to rome
Love is so high
Then it goes wrong
Wrong
You think its going to miss you but that sun bitch gon get you
Yeah, it goes wrong
Wrong
Sun bitch gon get you
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roman Elegies I
Tell me you stones, O speak, you towering palaces!
Streets, say a word! Spirit of this place, are you dumb?
All things are alive in your sacred walls
eternal Rome, only for me all’s still.
Who will whisper to me, at what window
will I see the sweet thing who will kindle me, and quicken?
Already I guess the ways, walking to her and from her,
ever and always I’ll go, while sweet time slips by.
I’m gazing at church and palace, ruin and column,
like a serious man making sensible use of a journey,
but soon it will happen, and all will be one vast temple,
Love’s temple, receiving its new initiate.
Though you are a whole world, Rome, still, without Love,
the world’s not the world, Rome cannot be Rome.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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In the Old Theatre, Fiesole (April, 1887)
I traced the Circus whose gray stones incline
Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin,
Till came a child who showed an ancient coin
That bore the image of a Constantine.
She lightly passed; nor did she once opine
How, better than all books, she had raised for me
In swift perspective Europe's history
Through the vast years of Caesar's sceptred line.
For in my distant plot of English loam
'Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find
Coins of like impress. As with one half blind
Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home
In that mute moment to my opened mind
The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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In The Old Theatre, Fiesole.
I traced the Circus whose gray stones incline
Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin,
Till came a child who showed an ancient coin
That bore the image of a Constantine.
She lightly passed; nor did she once opine
How, better than all books, she had raised for me
In swift perspective Europe's history
Through the vast years of Caesar's sceptred line.
For in my distant plot of English loam
'Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find
Coins of like impress. As with one half blind
Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home
In that mute moment to my opened mind
The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Thirteen Lines
A brain peered through stoic eyes;
Yet all it saw was rendered into
Flawed interpretation –
No honoured contemplation of a
Gluon, muon, quark of any flavour;
Nor a vision or conception of its world
Within a universe anthropic in its physical laws,
Inside a boundless multiverse.
All it gleaned and modelled
Bore parochialism well beyond belief! –
Delusional perhaps.
Survival only matters here on planet Earth –
Evolution saw to that.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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To Virgil
Written at the Request of the Mantuans for the Nineteenth Centenary of
Virgil's Death
Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Landscape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the Works and Days,
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;
Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;
Poet of the happy Tityrus
piping underneath his beechen bowers;
Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers;
Chanter of the Pollio, glorying
in the blissful years again to be,
Summers of the snakeless meadow,
unlaborious earth and oarless sea;
Thou that seest Universal
Nature moved by Universal Mind;
Thou majestic in thy sadness
at the doubtful doom of human kind;
Light among the vanished ages;
star that gildest yet this phantom shore;
Golden branch amid the shadows,
kings and realms that pass to rise no more;
Now thy Forum roars no longer,
fallen every purple Caesar's dome -
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm
sound for ever of Imperial Rome -
Now the Rome of slaves hath perished,
and the Rome of freemen holds her place,
I, from out the Northern Island
sundered once from all the human race,
I salute thee, Mantovano,
I that loved thee since my day began,
Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Mist Upon the Placid Morn
Bleed out your beauty, Autumn –
Give up a gentle wrist, and smear
Your bloody hues atop the green.
Cast a calming throw of heady peace
Upon the cooling land.
And as you grant the sun a final fling of warmth,
Charge the silent air
(Now lolling on a foliar deathbed)
With earthen whiff to intimate the fungal push.
Soon you’ll send a shiver down the watery spine of
Quivering ponds, punctual brooks, and
Listless lakes, to warn them of the freeze to come.
Behold! your mellow spirit
Hanging as a mist upon the placid morn –
A sight that draws a sneaking tear or two – forlorn
Observers are we all of colder climes to view!
Autumn Lady, must you be the summer waning –?
Our adieu to fairer-weather life?
Ah well, at least you hum a warming tone, ensuring
Nature’s rhythm still abounds.
But now you must prepare the mind for chilly times –
You know the drill –
Guiding us along a sloping path
To ease our psyche in to sleet and snow –
The blue-ice bite of winter.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Gaia’s Plan
Please, don’t sweep the leaves away –
Their essence gives to life’s decay.
Never hack the flowers down –
Their colours bless the laughing clown.
Now why the mowing of the lawn?
The severed grass will lie forlorn.
Let our flora live undressed,
Or under Man, will toil repressed!
I, the tree of standing still –
Erect and proud, and stout of will,
Aglow with motley bark of earth –
Advance my roots for all they’re worth,
Internalising Nature’s bowels
To snag the devil, tweak his jowls
And pull his hairs from whence they grow!
I’ll destroy his pagan show
Of Homo sapiens’ disrespect!
The humble ape must reconnect
With Gaia’s plan!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Zen
i take to call him zen
i talk talk to zen like
to all the nature around me
zen can you talk back to me
there is a pause and i say
zen can you talk back to me
silence like the silence of nature
are you dead or alive?
i am such a bewildered dweller
i talk to zen like i do to
all the nature around me
nature do you have a mouth
talk back to me
silence
then this tranquil feel
this feel of zen reacting to all nature, to me
but no talk, just silence
then i say zen
well if you let me do all the talking?
zen zen zen i know you will one day
be more cruel, do the leaving,
not a sigh, not a word
so why dont you talk to me now?
i talk to nature hoping it will talk back to me
but like zen, it is all quiet, silence
i even pull his leg, i say zen you have
sprouted a mole, a wrinkle, a line here and there
and i say you are smart and i suddenly
feel a contentment manoevres him a little
but then i ask again, and again
zen is it my own ego boiling over?
zen, zen please tell me
till then you may stay the way you are
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Pict Song
Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on--that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.
We are the Little Folk--we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
Mistletoe killing an oak--
Rats gnawing cables in two--
Moths making holes in a cloak--
How they must love what they do!
Yes--and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they--
Working our works out of view--
Watch, and you'll see it some day!
No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you--you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!
We are the Little Folk, we, etc.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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When In Rome
When in Rome,
One should adjust to do...
Those activities that Romans choose.
It is not one's place,
To advocate...
What IS or IS NOT acceptable.
Or in poor taste.
When 'not' in Rome...
And that visit of condoning,
Has been left behind and alone...
There is no obligated need,
To continue to feed those traditions.
And 'when' one finds it comforting,
To do what one wishes in one's own home...
That's when it is best to profess and address one's beliefs.
With a feeling,
If one so desires...
To dismiss what is not suitable or fits.
In one's 'own' environment.
With no debate or argument to invite about this.
When 'not' in Rome.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Country Path in Late Spring
The path of mossy ground nestled
In between maternal hedgerows,
That overgrew atop, dimming down
The brilliance of the day.
Embosomed, a calm-cool vision –
Abstract takes of nature, in
Leaf-spattered green shades;
Stem-speckled brown hues;
Shards of sunlight percolating
Through the random flaws to
Up glittering sprites upon the leaves.
And avian chatter bounced along the burrow,
Smattered by the crosstalk
Of busybody insects;
But outside the green comfort zone,
Other worlds of other sounds of other life
Otherwise gave a hint of
Other dozy goings on.
Hawthorn filled the air,
Filled the nose,
Filled the head –
Pungency had overpowered all –
Gave the late-spring-early-summer haze.
Here and there a break of colour:
Odd bluebells – escapees from nearby woods –
Blue-blushing bell faces glancing down,
Aware of their erectness in the stem;
The flaming wing of red admirals
Broke through a hedge hole to
Break up the calm backdrop,
While flitting blue tits gave
To greater-bodied animation.
Nature’s warm narration –
The undertones of life.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Love Of The Country
Welcome silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove as years increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief
While rapture's gushing tears descend;
That every flower and every leaf
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.
I would not for a world of gold
That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;
Pure source of intellectual fire!
Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,
Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to life.
Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.
I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield Reason's most supreme delight.
Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,
That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O heav'n permit that I may lie
Where o'er my corse green branches ware;
And those who from life's tumult fly
With kindred feelings press my grave.
poem by Robert Bloomfield
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Country Walking
I walked a league and o'er the moor;
I walked and walked as ne’er before,
And on to walk from dale to hill
And on again to claim the thrill.
Behold! that walking does for me:
The senses heightened, mind of glee,
While rolling vistas pass me by
To swell the heart, enthrall the eye.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Rome And Nature
Rome has fallen, ye see it lying
Heaped in undistinguished ruin:
Nature is alone undying.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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