A Poor Scholar Of The 'Forties
MY eyelids red and heavy arc
With bending o'er the smold'ring peat.
I know the Aeneid now by heart,
My Virgil read in cold and heat,
In loneliness and hunger smart.
And I know Homer, too, I ween,
As Munster poets know Ossian.
And I must walk this road that winds
Twixt bog and bog, while east there lies
A city with its men and books;
With treasures open to the wise,
Heart-words from equals, comrade-looks;
Down here they have but tale and song,
They talk Repeal the whole night long.
'You teach Greek verbs and Latin nouns,'
The dreamer of Young Ireland said,
'You do not hear the muffled call,
The sword being forged, the far-off tread
Of hosts to meet as Gael and Gall
What good to us your wisdom-store,
Your Latin verse, your Grecian lore?'
And what to me is Gael or Gall?
Less than the Latin or the Greek
I teach these by the dim rush-light
In smoky cabins night and week.
But what avail my teaching slight?
Years hence, in rustic speech, a phrase,
As in wild earth a Grecian vase!
poem by Padraic Colum
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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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Harmony is an obscure and difficult musical science, but most difficult to those who are not acquainted with the Greek language; because it is necessary to use many Greek words to which there are none corresponding in Latin.
quote by Marcus V. Pollio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.
quote by Edmund Waller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Time I've Lost
The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
My only books
Were women's looks,
And folly's all they taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the Sprite
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me;
But when the spell was on me,
If once their ray
Was turn'd away,
O! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brillant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No -- vain, alas! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever: --
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Wisdom doesn't always speak in greek and latin.
Doing films in Latin America is like an act of faith. I mean, you really have to believe in what you're doing because if not, you feel like it's a waste of time because you might as well be doing something that at least pays you the rent.
quote by Gael Garcia Bernal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Prosody?
Prosody:
it’s about - it means - what poetry does,
and how. I guess..
In Greek, it just means ‘tune’. That
should give a clue. In Latin,
the word they used meant
‘song added to speech’.
So ‘poetry’ is pretty well
indefinable. It’s – well—
whatever it means to you.
And how the hell it does that. There
are rules but,
it finds its own. For
one thing above all
really matters: poetry is
what it does. What it does. If
it doesn't do anything for you
that's it. No theories –
just that. Be glad.
Aristotle tried to help
with his ‘Poetics’. Good on drama.
But poetry? Let’s fast forward to
Ezra Pound: poetry’s function is, he said,
‘to charge words with meaning
to the utmost possible degree’.
Now put all this together and
I believe it’s saying,
poetry’s not - never was -
shouldn’t be - couldn’t be -
just words on the page, like this, but, it's
me saying them to you, strongly, here and now,
charging them with meaning
to the utmost possible degree..
So if your child comes home with
as homework, ‘Analyse this poem by..’
- Angelou, Silverstein, Neruda,
Hughes of both hues black and white,
Milligan, Budowski, Pralutsky –
tell them, go back tomorrow and say
politely, ‘Teach, Dad’s a practising poet and
he says, why not have a class comp in
reading that poem aloud, and who
makes most sense of it and keeps us
listening down to the
tips of our toes; and by the time
we’ve all had a go and decided
who’s the best, we’ll remember it
for the rest of our lives and maybe, Teach,
not need to ‘analyse’ it much and
only after that? '
So here’s to the next poem
that you read aloud, or write to read aloud,
charging it with meaning
to the utmost possible degree.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The British system had requirements, including Latin. I'm not positive you ever had to know Greek, but there are certainly kinds of curricula where you had to know Greek too. I think in Britain there was the most mindless, repetitive sort of learning.
quote by William Scott
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Further On
Where the road is dark
and the seat is soaked
where the gun is cocked
and the bullet's cold
where the miles are marked in blood and gold
I'll meet you further on up the road
Got on my dead man's suit
and my smilin' skull ring
my lucky graveyard boots
and a song to sing
I got a song to sing, keep me out of the cold
and I'll meet you further on up the road
Further on up the road
further on up the road
where the way is dark
and the night is cold
but one sunny morning we'll rise, I know
and I'll meet you further on up the road
Well I been out in the desert
was doin' my time
searching through the dust
looking for a sign
if there's a light up ahead
well, buddy, I don't know
but I got this fever
burning in my soul
so let's take the good times as they come
and I'll meet you further on up the road
Further on up the road
further on up the road
where the way is dark
and the night is cold
one sunny morning we'll rise, I know
and I'll meet you further on up the road
one sunny morning we'll rise, I know
and I'll meet you further on up the road
yeah I'll meet you further on up the road
well I'll meet you further on up the road
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By learning you will teach, by teaching you will learn.
By learning you will teach; by teaching you will learn.
Further On (Up The Road)
Where the road is dark
And the seat is soaked
Where the gun is cocked
And the bullets cold
Where the miles are marked in blood and gold
Ill meet you further on up the road
Got on my dead mans suit
And my smilin skull ring
My lucky graveyard boots
And a song to sing
I got a song to sing, keep me out of the cold
And Ill meet you further on up the road
Further on up the road
Further on up the road
Where the way is dark
And the night is cold
But one sunny morning well rise, I know
And Ill meet you further on up the road
Well I been out in the desert
Was doin my time
Searching through the dust
Looking for a sign
If theres a light up ahead
Well, buddy, I dont know
But I got this fever
Burning in my soul
So lets take the good times as they come
And Ill meet you further on up the road
Further on up the road
Further on up the road
Where the way is dark
And the night is cold
One sunny morning well rise, I know
And Ill meet you further on up the road
One sunny morning well rise, I know
And Ill meet you further on up the road
Yeah Ill meet you further on up the road
Well Ill meet you further on up the road
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To John Milton (1608 -1674)
Let's tell a story
Of a man who lost his sight
But endowed with vision upright
The heavenly muses of love, epic and poetry
Inspirited thy heart`s territory
Thou once a pride of the Puritan Court
Summoned the whole Areopagus in support
A divine in heart but Greek in thought
Love and Liberty you did proclaim
As Greek, French and Latin was thy domain
As ancient Greece proud of Solon*
You`re distinction of London
As majestic were thy rhymes
A statesman too was sublime
For centuries thy prose and verse
Ignite the passion and had Converse
I wish I were born in thy poesy arms
Grace my wit and will with thy lasting charm
poem by Gulsher john
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In Latin America, you don't do things for the money because there is no money.
quote by Gael Garcia Bernal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Y.. Poetry and History
Tired at night, I went to sleep
I slept tremendously deep
I slept a very long time
I woke up in October of 2110
and some history books of then
were laying in that room of mine
How exciting it was, how queer
to read the history of the coming years
I was in for quite a surprise
The heroes of the 2011 history books
were labelled as what they were, just crooks
Heroes in 2110 were nobody else than the wise
There were some wise people, so clever
who brought to us kindness and wisdom forever
these were the heroes of 2110
Among the heroes, prophets and thinkers were found
poets of wisdom, their names all around
Sages and wise ones from way back,2010
In 2110, from what I could read
there was no longer hunger, no more greed
thanks to the poets sharing wonderful words
I prayed to go back to the time when I had started to sleep
I wanted to share that news, so good, so profound and deep
I was happy to wake up in the now, my prayers were heard
So here I share the wonderful news at last
That greed and hunger will soon be a thing of the past
it all 'll have started in 2012 during spring
History books of the future mention a kindness revolution
Starting in May 2012, affecting all subsequent evolution
Isn't that a wonderful thing?
poem by Aufie Zophy
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To A Town Poet
Snatch the departing mood;
Make yours its emptying reed, and pipe us still
Faith in the time, faith in our common blood,
Faith in the least of good:
Song cannot fail if these its spirits fill!
What if your heritage be
The huddled trees along the smoky ways;
At a street’s end the stretch of lilac sea;
The vender, swart but free,
Crying his yellow wares across the haze?
Your verse awaits you there;
For Love is Love though Latin swords be rust,
The keen Greek driven from gossipping mall and square;
And Care is still but Care
Though Homer and his seven towns are dust.
Thus Beauty lasts, and, lo!
Now Proserpine is barred from Enna’s hills,
The flower she plucked yet makes an April show,
Sets some town still a-glow,
And yours the Vision of the Daffodils.
The Old-World folk knew not
More surge-like sounds than urban winters bring
Up from the wharves at dusk to every spot;
And no Sicilian plot
More fire than heaps our tulips in the spring.
Strait is the road of Song,
And they that be the last are oft the first;
Fret not for fame; the years are kind though long;
You, in the teasing throng,
May take all time with one shrewd lyric burst.
Be reverend and know
Ill shall not last, or waste the ploughëd land;
Or creeds sting timid souls; and naught at all,
Whatever else befall,
Can keep us from the hollow of God’s hand.
Let trick of words be past;
Strict with the thought, unfearful of the form,
So shall you find the way and hold it fast,
The world hear, at the last,
The horns of morning sound above the storm.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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Thirty Years After
Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences; and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, speaks as follows:
If you were now a bejant,
And I a first year man,
We'd grind and grub together
In every kind of weather,
When Winter's snows were regent,
Or when the Spring began;
If you were now a bejant,
And I a first year man.
If you were what you once were,
And I the same man still,
You'd be the gainer by it,
For you—you can't deny it—
A most uncommon dunce were;
My profit would be nil,
If you were what you once were,
And I the same man still.
If you were last in Latin,
And I were first in Greek,
I'd write your Latin proses,
While you indulged in dozes,
Or carved the bench you sat in,
So innocent and meek;
If you were last in Latin,
And I were first in Greek.
If I had got a prize, Jim,
And your certif. was bad,
And you were filled with sorrow
And brooding on the morrow,
I'd gently sympathise, Jim,
And bid you not be sad,
If I had got a prize, Jim,
And your certif. was bad.
If I were through in Moral,
And you were spun in Math.,
I'd break it to your parent,
When you confessed you daren't,
And so avert a quarrel
And smooth away his wrath;
If I were through in Moral,
And you were spun in Math.
My prospects rather shone, Jim,
And yours were rather dark,
And those who knew us both then
Would often take their oath then,
That you would not get on, Jim,
While I should make my mark;
My prospects rather shone, Jim,
And yours were rather dark.
Yet somehow you've made money,
And I am still obscure;
Your face is round and red, Jim,
While I look underfed, Jim;
The thing's extremely funny,
And beats me, I am sure,
Yet somehow you've made money,
And I am still obscure.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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In England only uneducated people show off their knowledge; nobody quotes Latin or Greek authors in the course of conversation, unless he has never read them.
quote by George Mikes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grieving for misfortunes is adding gall to wormwood.
A Prince from Western Libya
Aristomenis, son of Menelaos,
the Prince from Western Libya,
was generally liked in Alexandria
during the ten days he spent there.
As his name, his dress, modest, was also Greek.
He received honors gladly,
but he did not solicit them; he was unassuming.
He bought Greek books,
especially history and philosophy.
Above all he was a man of few words.
It got around that he must be a profound thinker,
and men like that naturally don't speak very much.
He was neither a profound thinker nor anything else—
just a piddling, laughable man.
He assumed a Greek name, dressed like the Greeks,
learned to behave more or less like a Greek;
and all the time he was terrified he would spoil
his reasonably good image
by coming out with barbaric howlers in Greek
and the Alexandrians, in their usual way,
would make fun of him, vile people that they are.
This was why he limited himself to a few words,
terribly careful of his syntax and pronunciation;
and he was driven almost out of his mind, having
so much talk bottled up inside him.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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