A Civilized Onslaught
The dark wood resists the light of progress
Lives there for thousands years an introvert race
Here they are born here lie their sepulcher
A few withdrawn people with a fossil culture!
Needs they have little, a little bit of food
All that they want they get in the wood
What lies beyond they don’t need to find
These folks of a tribe with plain thinking mind!
Those civilized outside thought it otherwise
The poor tribe suffers is what they surmise
‘Rare as they are they are really prized
Let’s groom them to become civilized’!
So long happily away from a farce called mainstream
This intrusion broke them, shattered their dream
Why turn them out and not be left alone?
The question is unresolved the battle goes on!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Savage
Who gives you the right to come here and tell me
I have to leave this place my home
To you its a jungle, to me its a kingdom
Where (my) people are free there to roam
Born with the stars we are happy and peaceful
til now we were left undisturbed
But you rupture the forests our gardens
And fill them with filth from your cities unheard
Savage, who is savage
Leave your morals, stake your claim
Savage, you are savage
Modern man can take the blame
You poisoned my tribe with civilized progress
Baptizing our blood with disease
You christened our bodies with sadness and suffering
Saying then that your God is well-pleased
What have we done to deserve such injustice
Explain to us please if you can
But you cant, no you cant, we can see it in your eyes
Of us both whos the primitive man
Savage, who is savage
Leave your morals, stake your claim
Savage, you are savage
Modern man can take the blame
You poisoned my tribe with civilized progress
Baptizing our blood with disease
You christened our bodies with sadness and suffering
Saying then that your God is well-pleased
What have we done to deserve such injustice
Explain to us please if you can
But you cant, no you cant, we can see it in your eyes
Of us both whos the primitive man
Savage, savage
Savage, savage
Whos the savage
Modern man
Whos the savage
Modern man
Beyond the realms of death
He had enough
He couldnt take anymore
Hed found a place
In his mind and slammed the door
No matter how they tried
They couldnt understand
They washed and dressed him
Fed him by hand
Yeah! Ive left the world behind
Im safe here in my mind
Free to speak with my own kind
This is my life, this is my life
Ill decide not you
Withdrawn hed sit there
Stare blank into space
No sign of life
Would flicker on his face
Until one day he smiled
It seemed as though with pride
The wind kissed him
Goodbye - and then he died
Yeah! Ive left the world behind
Im safe here in my mind
Free to speak with my own kind
This is my life, this is my life
Ill decide not you
Keep the world with all its sin
Its not fit for livin in
Yeah! I will start again
It can take forever, and ever, and ever
And ever, but Ill still win.
How many like him,
Are there still
But to us, all
Seem to have lost the will
They lie in thousands
Plagued and lost
Is nothing worth this bitter cost
Yeah! Ive left the world behind
Im safe here in my mind
Free to speak with my own kind
This is my life, this is my life
Ill decide not you
Keep the world with all its sin
Its not fit for livin in
Beoynd the realms of death.
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Through The Wood
THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.
Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?
Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood
All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Normatively the Western universalist belief posits that people throughout the world should embrace Western values, institutions, and culture because they embody the highest, most enlightened, most liberal, most rational, most modern, and most civilized thinking of humankind. In the emerging world of ethnic conflict and civilizational clash, Western belief in the universality of Western culture suffers three problems: it is false; it is immoral; and it is dangerous.
quote by Samuel P. Huntington
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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He Comes From A Different Culture
He comes from a different culture the tall dark one with such a great smile
And he finds it so hard to settle here so far from the banks of the Nile
He cannot speak the English language the tongue of this Southern Land
And that he feels he is an outsider ought not be hard to understand.
Tall and lean he looks very athletic and like a runner quite light on his feet
But he is not known as a sportsman and he never was an athlete
A young man in his early twenties and so gentle in his own quiet way
He speaks just a few words of English and two of those words are 'good day'
War and famine ravage his Homeland and for him 'twas not a safe place
And he fled just like many others to live far from his clan and race
To smile to him comes rather easily and he seems untainted by guile
But in his dark eyes there's a longing for the distant banks of the Nile.
My sympathies with the poor fellow he seems such an honorable bloke
He came to this Country a pauper financially dependant and broke
From his tribe to a refugee camp and life for him downhill all of the way
One hopes for him a better future though in that he doesn't have a say.
In this City his life is so different nostalgia is such a strange thing
Amongst his tribe and his family he felt happy and good memories of the past to him cling
Back home everybody was special and here he's just one more refugee
To smile to him it may come easy but the sadness in his eyes one see.
He comes from a different culture and of this culture not much he knows
And here he must feel an outsider but one might say that's life I suppose
He is such an honorable fellow yet how sad his life for him must be
And life is not meant to be easy for any poor Stateless Refugee.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Conditioned That Money Should Be Prized
When people are conditioned,
That money should be prized...
Of course their own lives,
Are going to be worthless to them.
With the use of color of their skins,
Light in complexion or dark as night...
Their minds with insights may be encased in,
The mentalities fed are to use this as a weapon,
To defend or ignite one's bigoted and racist appetite.
When people are conditioned,
That money should be prized.
When people are conditioned,
That money should be prized...
Of course there will be deceit.
Of course there will be told lies.
And those who champion the marketing of images,
Aren't going to consciously reflect true beauty...
As it should be.
Beauty will be selective.
And chosen as a commodity.
To sell to those impressed,
And depress with suppression...
Those weakened through enforcing a belief!
When people are conditioned,
That money should be prized...
Of course there will be deceit.
Of course there will be told lies.
When people are conditioned,
That money should be prized...
Of course their own lives,
Are going to be worthless to them.
Of course they are going to feel subservient,
From birth until their lives end!
When people are conditioned,
That money should be prized...
Those who get and hoard it best,
Will have others believe...
Their minds are at rest!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Born In A Prison
Were born in a prison, raised in a prison,
Sent to a prison called school.
We cry in a prison, we love in a prison,
We dream in a prison like fools.
Wood becomes a flute when its loved,
Reach for yourself and your battered mates.
Mirror becomes a razor when its broken,
Look in the mirror and see your shattered fate.
We live with no reason, kicked round for no reason,
Thrown out without reason like tools.
We work in a prison and hate in a prison,
And die in a prison as a rule.
Wood becomes a flute when its loved,
Reach for yourself and your battered mates.
Mirror becomes a razor when its broken,
Look in the mirror and see your shattered fate.
We live in a prison mong judges and wardens
And wait for no reason for you.
We laugh in a prison, go through all four seasons,
And die with no vision of truth.
Wood becomes a flute when its loved,
Reach for yourself and your battered mates.
Mirror becomes a razor when its broken,
Look in the mirror and see your shattered fate.
Born in a prison!
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
Born in a prison!
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
Born in a prison!
Born in a prison!
Born in a prison!
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
Born in a prison!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Born In A Prison
Were born in a prison, raised in a prison,
Sent to a prison called school.
We cry in a prison, we love in a prison,
We dream in a prison like fools.
Wood becomes a flute when its loved,
Reach for yourself and your battered mates.
Mirror becomes a razor when its broken,
Look in the mirror and see your shattered fate.
We live with no reason, kicked round for no reason,
Thrown out without reason like tools.
We work in a prison and hate in a prison,
And die in a prison as a rule.
Wood becomes a flute when its loved,
Reach for yourself and your battered mates.
Mirror becomes a razor when its broken,
Look in the mirror and see your shattered fate.
We live in a prison mong judges and wardens
And wait for no reason for you.
We laugh in a prison, go through all four seasons,
And die with no vision of truth.
Wood becomes a flute when its loved,
Reach for yourself and your battered mates.
Mirror becomes a razor when its broken,
Look in the mirror and see your shattered fate.
Born in a prison!
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
Born in a prison!
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
Born in a prison!
Born in a prison!
Born in a prison!
(born in a prison!)
(born in a prison!)
Born in a prison!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Maori's Wool
The Maoris are a mighty race -- the finest ever known;
Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone;
They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done
They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one.
But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk,
Prepared to smoke or drink or talk -- or anything but work.
The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow,
Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au.
'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came,
A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name --
(The word Rerenga means a "snag" -- but until he was gone
This didn't strike the folk he met -- it struck them later on).
He stalked into the Bank they call the "Great Financial Hell",
And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell.
The Bold Bank Manager looked grave -- the price of wool was high.
He said, "We'll lend you what you need -- we're not disposed to buy.
"You ship the wool to England, Chief! -- You'll find it's good advice,
And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price."
The Chief he thanked them courteously and said he wished to state
In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be freat,
But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand
This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand.
So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow,
To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au.
They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan,
With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man.
They called themselves poetic names -- "lost children in a wood";
They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai -- extra good!
And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped,
To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped;
And wedged into a "Cargo Tank", full up from stern to bow,
A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au.
It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque;
Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck;
A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark --
You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark --
But still it showed his gratitude; and, as he pouched the pelf,
"I'll haka for you, sir," he said, "in honour of yourself!"
The haka is a striking dance -- the sort they don't allow
In any place more civilized than Rooti-iti-au.
He "haka'd" most effectively -- then, with an airy grace,
Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space.
But when the wool return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans!
For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones!
Yes -- thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found;
On every rock the bank had lent just eighteen-pence a pound.
And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow,
Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Among His Tribe
He would step out of the night and light a fire among his tribe
Carving from a bear's tooth, he used the flesh to feed the youth
He'd salt it down...
Sails were made from darkened hide, fish were caught in the lowest tide
Thought of war kept him strong, he listened for the battle song
In the night...
And the old would teach the young to heed the word of the master's tongue
A chosen son would take a bride and light the fire among his tribe
And on and on...
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Men as judged by women
A civilized woman in a civilized man
Expects a sense of humour, compassion and
An analytical mind, not a judgmental,
As sexually attributing qualities.
06.10.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Afro-conscious
Too much racial prejudice is exercised
In this society where I reside
I find that often I am ostracized
Just cause I am 'black' I am pushed to the side
While growing up I was told lies
That if I was not related to someone with blue eyes
Then I would never rise
To the creme of the crop
I should dream and just stop
“You will never be as good as them”
But how can white be better than black?
How can black be better than white?
The popular saying is “we all are precious in God’s sight.
But some of the same
Who quote that saying
Are secretly praying
For our lifestyles to get sleazier
So they can criticize us much easier
But might be if we act more civilized
Then the co called “superior race”
Will come to respect us
And reject us No More
Why is the Negro Race so poor?
Its like there is a blindfold over our eyes
Its full time we come to realize
We don’t need to compromise
For low quality
We can ‘step up’!
Lets refocus our attention from the fancy logos, jewelry, and others
And pay attention to helping our sisters and brothers
poem by Demar Henry
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House In The Woods
At the back of the houses there is the wood.
While there is a leaf of summer left, the wood
Makes sounds I can put somewhere in my song,
Has paths I can walk, when I wake, to good
Or evil: to the cage, to the oven, to the House
In the Wood. It is a part of life, or of the story
We make of life. But after the last leaf,
The last light--for each year is leafless,
Each day lightless, at the last--the wood begins
Its serious existence: it has no path,
No house, no story; it resists comparison...
One clear, repeated, lapping gurgle, like a spoon
Or a glass breathing, is the brook,
The wood's fouled midnight water. If I walk into the wood
As far as I can walk, I come to my own door,
The door of the House in the Wood. It opens silently:
On the bed is something covered, something humped
Asleep there, awake there--but what? I do not know.
I look, I lie there, and yet I do not know.
How far out my great echoing clumsy limbs
Stretch, surrounded only by space! For time has struck,
All the clocks are stuck now, for how many lives,
On the same second. Numbed, wooden, motionless,
We are far under the surface of the night.
Nothing comes down so deep but sound: a car, freight cars,
A high soft droning, drawn out like a wire
Forever and ever--is this the sound that Bunyan heard
So that he thought his bowels would burst within him?--
Drift on, on, into nothing. Then someone screams
A scream like an old knife sharpened into nothing.
It is only a nightmare. No one wakes up, nothing happens,
Except there is gooseflesh over my whole body--
And that too, after a little while, is gone.
I lie here like a cut-off limb, the stump the limb has left...
Here at the bottom of the world, what was before the world
And will be after, holds me to its back
Breasts and rocks me: the oven is cold, the cage is empty,
In the House in the Wood, the witch and her child sleep.
poem by Randall Jarrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Playmates
It's sixty years ago, the people say:
Two village children, neighbours born and bred,
One morning played beneath a rotten tree
That came down crash and caught them as they fled;
And one was killed and one was left unhurt
Except for certain fancies in his head.
And though it's all so very long ago
He's never left the wood a single day;
I've often met him peeping through the leaves
And chuckling to himself, an old man grey;
And once he started in his cracked old voice:
'We're playing I'm a merchant lost his way,
She's robbers in the wood behind yon tree,
The minute we grow up too big to play' -
poem by Ralph Hodgson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Out of the…is Born a …
Out of the mire is born a gorgeous flower;
Out of the noise is born a dead silence;
Out of the storm is born, calm!
Out of the strife is born a pleasant life;
Out of the filth is born flora, fauna;
Out of the chaos is born clarity.
Out of the exercise is born a healthy body;
Out of the training is born wisdom;
Out of the learning is born a scholar!
Out of the confession is born a soul afilled with grace;
Out of the Holy Book is born the word of God;
Out of the prayers is born answers from God!
Out of the rain is born the verdure shoots;
Out of the sun is born the growing plants;
Out of the dawn is born a lovely day;
Out of the dusk is born a quiet night!
Out of the hunger is born an appetite;
Out of the dainty food is born satiety;
Out of the wine is born inebriety.
Out of the fasting is born controlled senses;
Out of the inhibition is born a civilized person;
Out of the nature’s furies is born forbearance;
Out of the war is born a newer peace.
Out of the mistakes done is born a new resolve;
Out of the struggle is born a long-lasting freedom;
Out of the perseverance is born an accomplishment.
Out of the light is born a new day on earth;
Out of the night is born a starry sky;
Out of the dark clouds is born an aureole moon.
Out of the boredom is born a life of joy;
Out of the trials, travail is born a mind of steel;
Out of the woes is born a content heart!
Out of the parent’s love is born a loving child;
Out of the love of God is born forgiveness of sins;
Out of the mercy of God is born a soul for heaven!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Honoured Guest
a tattered and torn clothes
a smart mind but not the physical appearance
no denying for the material decoration and sniff-fit knock-on-wood
through so many neglected and marginalized honesty
event itself posed a question of culture and civilized behaviours in time of the warrior-oriented global unity
micro chips of gone days
the out-dated mode taking the place with undinified glory of selfish fearless invasion of negligence
will never be the real winner of truth
An Honoured Guest
is 'wing of change'
a rock song wind of change is a myth now
Chinese rock band 'MAY DAY' is at the tipping point of change on stage.
An Honoured guest! ! ! !
Enigma
Some men are born to gather women's tears,
To give a harbour to their timorous fears,
To take them as the dry earth takes the rain,
As the dark wood the warm wind from the plain;
Yet their own tears remain unshed,
Their own tumultuous fears unsaid,
And, seeming steadfast as the forest and the earth
Shaken are they with pain.
They cry for voice as earth might cry for the sea
Or the wood for consuming fire;
Unanswered they remain
Subject to the sorrows of women utterly -
Heart and mind,
Subject as the dry earth to the rain
Or the dark wood to the wind.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Genesis BK XIX
(ll. 1167-1180) And after Cainan Mahalaleel possessed the land
and treasure many a year. The prince lived five-and-sixty
winters, and begat a son. An heir was born unto his house, and
his kinsmen called him Jared, as I have heard. Mahalaleel lived
long, enjoying bliss on earth, the joys of men, and worldly
treasure. And all the years of Mahalaleel were eight hundred
five-and-ninety winters, and he died, and gave the land and rule
unto his son.
(ll. 1180-1196) A long time Jared dealt out gold to men. He was
a righteous prince, a noble earl, dear to his kinsmen He lived
an hundred five-and-sixty winters in the world, and, when her
time was come, his wife brought forth her first-born, a goodly
son. And his name was Enoch. Eight hundred years his father
lived, and increased his tribe. And all the years of Jared were
nine hundred five-and-sixty winters, and he died, and gave the
land and rule unto his son, the wise and well-loved prince.
(ll. 1197-1217) And Enoch ruled the folk, led them in ways of
peace, and no wise let his sway and power lessen, while he was
lord over his kinsmen. Now Enoch prospered and increased his
tribe three hundred years. And God, the Lord of heaven, was
gracious unto him! In his natural body he entered into heavenly
joy and the glory of God, dying no mortal death as men do here,
the young and old, what time God taketh from them wealth and
substance and earthly treasure and their life; but with the King
of angels he departed still alive out of this fleeting life, in
the same vestments which his soul received before his mother bare
him. He left the people to his eldest son. And all the years of
Enoch were three hundred five-and-sixty winters, and he died.
(ll. 1217-1224) Then Methuselah held sway among his kinsmen, and
longest of all men enjoyed the pleasures of this world. He begat
a multitude of sons and daughters before his death. And all the
years of Methuselah were nine hundred and seventy winters, and he
died.
(ll. 1224-1236) And Lamech, his son, succeeded him and kept the
treasure. Long time he ruled the land. He lived an hundred and
two winters, and begat children. And the lord and leader of the
folk lived five hundred five-and-ninety years, enjoying many
winters under heaven, ruling the folk with wisdom. And Lamech
increased his tribe, begetting sons and daughters. He called the
name of the first-born Noah; and Noah ruled the land after the
death of Lamech.
(ll. 1237-1247) Now Noah, the lord of men, lived five hundred
winters, as the books say, and begat children. The first-born
son of Noah was Shem, and the second Ham, and the third Japheth.
And the folk grew in number under heaven, and the multitude of
the race of men increased throughout the earth. The tribe of
Seth, the well-loved prince, was still exceeding dear to God, and
blessed in His love!
How I Wish I Was A Child
I took my children out one night,
They shouted out, what's that,
I said that thing that just flew by,
Well that is called a Bat.
A Bat they said's for baseball,
They think I'm telling lies,
They said it's used to hit a ball,
It's not a thing that flies.
I tried to say it's similar,
To an Aeroplane or a Bird,
They love to soar across the sky,
But they're saying that's absurd.
I then tried to explain myself,
To make them understand,
That I would never lie to them,
There was nothing underhand.
I said it came out late at night,
To hunt for tiny Bugs,
It didn't need to use its eyes,
They said, do you think we're Mugs.
I told them Bats used sonar,
Like Dolphins in the sea,
They send a sound when it bounces back,
That's where their food will be.
They said Dad you're talking nonsense,
Bats are made of wood,
We don't believe a word you say,
But we truly wish we could.
You tell us tall tales all the time,
With the truth you're very sparse,
We know they're made up in your head,
Your stories are all a farce.
I then tried to convince them,
That what I was saying was true,
But I'm fighting a losing battle,
What more can I do.
There really is no hope for me,
I've tried everything I know,
But my children just won't listen,
I think I'd better go.
If only I were young again,
Then I wouldn't feel so riled,
I would know what they were thinking,
‘' How I Wish I Was A Child''
Justice, sir, is the great interest of man on earth. It is the ligament which holds civilized beings and civilized nations together.
quote by Daniel Webster
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Merrow Down
I
There runs a road by Merrow Down--
A grassy track to-day it is--
An hour out Guildford town,
Above the river Wey it is.
Here, when they heard the hors-bells ring,
The ancient Britons dressed and rode
To which the dark Phoenicians bring
Their goods along the Western Road.
Yes, here, or hereabouts, they met
To hold their racial talks and such--
To barter beads for Whitby jet,
And tin for gay shell torques and such.
But long ago before that time
(When bison used to roam on it)
Did Taffy and her Daddy climb
That Down, and had their home on it.
Then beavers built in Broadstonebrook
And made a swamp where Bramley stands;
And bears from Shere would come and look
For Taffimai where Shamley stands.
The Wey, that Taffy called Wagai,
Was more than six times bigger then;
And all the Tribe of Tegumai
They cut a noble figure then!
II
Of all the Tribe of Tegumai
Who cut that figure, none remain,--
On Merrow Down the cuckoos cry--
The silence and the sun remain.
But as the faithful years return
And hearts unwounded sing again,
Comes Taffy dancing through the fern
To lead the Surrey spring again.
Her brows are bound with bracken-fronds,
And golden elf-locks fly above;
Her eyes are bright as diamonds
And bluer than the sky above.
In moccasins and deer-skin cloak,
Unfearing, free and fair she flits,
And lights her little damp-wood smoke
To show her Daddy where she flits.
For far--oh, very far behind,
So far she cannot call to him,
Comes Tegumai alone to find
The daughter that was all to him!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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