Ela Toghat Al Alaam' (To the tyrants of the world) أ ب و ا ل ق ا س م ا ل ش ا ب ي ;)
Arabic script of the poem by Abo Al Qassim Al Shab (Arabic
أ ل ا أ ي ه ا ا ل ظ ا ل م ا ل م س ت ب د
ح ب ي ب ا ل ظ ل ا م ع د و ا ل ح ي ا ه
س خ ر ت ب أ ن ا ت ش ع ب ض ع ي ف
و ك ف ك م خ ض و ب ة م ن د م ا ه
و س ر ت ت ش و ه س ح ر ا ل و ج و د
و ت ب ذ ر ش و ك ا ل ا س ى ف ي ر ب ا ه
ر و ي د ك ل ا ي خ د ع ن ك ا ل ر ب ي ع
و ص ح و ا ل ف ض ا ء و ض و ء ا ل ص ب ا ح
ف ف ي ا ل ا ف ق ا ل ر ح ب ه و ل ا ل ظ ل ا م و ق ص ف ا ل ر ع و د و ع ص ف ا ل ر ي ا ح
ح ذ ا ر ف ت ح ت ا ل ر م ا د ا ل ل ه ي ب
و م ن ي ب ذ ر ا ل ش و ك ي ج ن ا ل ج ر ا ح
ت أ م ل ه ن ا ل ك ا ن ى ح ص د ت ر ؤ و س ا ل و ر ى و ز ه و ر ا ل أ م ل
و ر و ي ت ب ا ل د م ق ل ب ا ل ت ر ا ب ا ش ر ب ت ه ا ل د م ع ح ت ى ث م ل
س ي ج ر ف ك س ي ل ا ل د م ا ء
و ي أ ك ل ك ا ل ع ا ص ف ا ل م ش ت ع ل
Hey you, the unfair tyrants...
You the lovers of the darkness...
You the enemies of life...
You've made fun of innocent people's wounds; and your palm covered with their blood
You kept walking while you were deforming the charm of existence and growing seeds of sadness in their land
Wait, don't let the spring, the clearness of the sky and the shine of the morning light fool you...
Because the darkness, the thunder rumble and the blowing of the wind are coming toward you from the horizon
Beware because there is a fire underneath the ash
Who grows thorns will reap wounds
You've taken off heads of people and the flowers of hope; and watered the cure of the sand with blood and tears until it was drunk
The blood's river will sweep you away and you will be burned by the fiery storm.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
We're still lovers!
*Ali Baba (Arabic: ع ل ي ب ا ب ا ʿ Ali Bā ba) is a fictional character from medieval Arabic literature. He is described in the adventure tale of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Some critics believe that this story was added to One Thousand and One Nights by one of its European translators, Antoine Galland, an 18th-century French orientalist who may have heard it in oral form from a Middle Eastern story-teller from Aleppo. However, Richard F. Burton claimed it to be part of the original One Thousand and One Nights. The American Orientalist Duncan Black MacDonald discovered an Arabic-language manuscript of the legend at the Bodleian Library; [1] however, it was later found to be counterfeited.
This story has been used as a popular pantomime plot such as in the pantomime/musical Chu Chin Chow (1916) . Like many other folk tales frequently adapted for children, the original tale is darker and more violent than the more familiar bowdlerised versions. Popular perception of Ali Baba, and the way he is treated in popular media, sometimes implies that he was the leader of the 'Forty Thieves': in the story he is actually an 'honest man'[2] whom fortune enables to take advantage of the thieves' robberies.
When I cry
She smiles
And I asked why?
She said; 'You too smiled.'
Then we smiled together.
She sad; 'Hey! Mr.Grigori Rasputin life begins at forty! '
'O Is that true?
Then I am twenty now.
How about a Son? '
'Good idea.
And I want to send him to the University of Harvard to make him a kind Doctor to serve the poor people. What's your plan? '
'Really I want to send him to an Underground University to make him an *Ali Baba to snatch the decaying money in big banks for the needy! '
Again we smiled together as we realized that we're old now!
to my friend who's on leave now Paddy Martin!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Barren Fancy
THE BARREN FANCY
by Muhammad Hameed Shahid
She said;
'Our love is static...
And stagnation
Breeds putridity'
From this fancy's rib
Was born the eve of novice desire
Why then should we not,
Alter our roots.
And...
Now that
In consequence of this separation,
Putridity emits its vapours,
It is proved
That the seed of fancy
Has been infertile
Since pre-eternity
(English rendering from Urdu by Bashir H. Nazim)
=============================
82; و ب ص و ر ت ب ہ ت . Very much Beautiful.
I read it three times and enjoyed.
...Well done.
Saghier Ahmed Jafri
September 4,2010 at 11: 35pm
-------------
This is a symbolic poem whose roots go to the Eden where Adam and Eve first lived and the word 'fancy' has many meanings to relate. The last punch lines can be conceived as situational considering the putridity. Welcome Hameed Shahid! !
Naseer Ahmed Nasir
September 5,2010 at 2: 05am
------------
Very nice sir,
Adeel Khan
September 5,2010 at 7: 45am
------------
Very well Said Hameed Sb..!
Jamal Nasir
September 5,2010 at 8: 24pm
-----------
I don't know whether there's something wrong with the translation or what... somehow, I couldn't get it. I'd appreciate if you could post the Urdu version as well.
Rashid Saleem
September 5 m 2010 at 8: 27pm
--------------
Love can't be stagnant and it can't emit vapours
'She' has captioned her emotion as she prefers.
Then whats it, which can cause an intention to even alter the roots?
The poem clearly talks about that subject and its repercussions.
Love is not complicated whereas lust is.
Good read indeed... Thank you for this post, dear poet.
See More
Vidya Puttur
September 5,2010 at 9: 38pm
-----------------
Thought provoking
Anwer Zahidi
September 6,2010 at 7: 27pm
-------------
One's search for perfection in love gains ground only with the reconciliation to the divine origin...that much profundity is here to read; and only between lines, yes?
Alicia R. Bernal
September,2010
poem by Muhammd Hameed Shahid
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Minutes of a day's work on the Bible
Around 1608; a pleasant day in Cambridge;
eight men sit round a table. Originally there were nine:
Dr Lively who presided at their speedy start
is now departed their distinguished company;
gave his lively life to this great enterprise, some say.
Among them still, the greatest of divines and
Hebrew scholars of their day.
This, the seventh version of the Bible
through its history; ‘seven times purified’
as the Bible says itself,
through Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Latin,
and English versions over centuries…
Since 1604, they’ve worked upon their
allotted section of the Bible; one sixth;
now they’re on the 'Canticles'; today
it’s Psalm 46: God is our hope and strength,
a very present help in trouble…
They have arrived now at the final verses:
God has stilled the warring armies
of the outer world; and now to still the inner world…
‘Lette goe; and knowe thatte I am Godde’..
that, the learned Hebrew scholars say,
is how it actually translates…
‘Bee stille and knowe..’ they find in earlier translation;
which command should they pass down
to centuries to come? Which sound tells the soul
the most, of its true nature? Or which sound will aid the soul
the quickest to return to its true self?
The scholars and divines, (all 54 of them in sum)
work at phenomenal, at godly, speed;
this is the great work of their lives;
‘Let go’; ‘Be still’ – which has more
the ring of soul’s eternity?
All have done their homework; rolled the words
around their tongue, their mind; heard them
uttered from the pulpit of their inner house of God;
a brief discussion; summary arms then raised in silent vote;
one command, they have agreed,
is for our present help in trouble, for
the moment now; the other is for ever;
the soul’s instruction from its peaceful self;
as God speaks to the angels, who
speak to the hearts of men:
the room falls silent; while
the secretary scratches in the wet black ink:
‘Be still and know that I Am God’
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I'm William Shakespeare
I’m born in April,1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon
I’m 100 miles northwest of London
I’m According to the records of Stratford's Holy Trinity Church
I’m baptized on April 26
I’m traditional birth date April 23rd, St. George's day
I’m married Anne Hathaway on November 27,1582
I’m 18; Anne was 26, eight years older than me.
I’m Susanna was born around May 26,1583; twins, Hamnet and Judith, were born around February 2,1585.
I’m likely educated at the grammar school in Stratford from the age of six or seven.
I’m published my first poem, 'Venus and Adonis, ' in 1593. I then wrote 154 poems and 37 plays, and my fame has only increased with time.
I’m recognized as one of the greatest writers of all time, known for works like 'Hamlet, ' 'Much Ado About Nothing, ' 'Romeo and Juliet, ' 'Othello, ' 'The Tempest, ' and many other works.
I’m With the 154 poems and 37 plays of my literary career, my body of works are among the most quoted in literature. I created comedies, histories, tragedies, and poetry. Despite the authorship controversies that have surrounded my works, the name of my continues to be revered by scholars and writers from around the world
I’m William Shakespeare
poem by Valya Madden
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A dreamer's Schizophrenic jigsaw puzzle
Could you please see the outskirts of prismatic mind in decaying life
And the overgrown soul's overwrought.
Is this the end of an innocent's journey who struggles on his bitter picnics along the mysterious beaches to build a sand castle?
I humbly dedicate this scribble to the hawk-eyed Asylum officer who interviewed us harshly (beloved wife & myself) on the 17 th of April,2008 @ BCIS,1585, S.Manchester, Anaheim, CA.92505
Postscript
* 19 th of April,2008 @1300 Hrs.[Saturday, in the Anaheim Public Library]
My beloved hugged me early in the morning and whispered 'Hey! my wanderlust you have already reached the 57 th Milestone today.She tossed a penny in the painful sky.' Guess my honey head or tail? '
I said; 'Darling if we have the tail then there is no any problem at all.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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When you are very old...
translation of a famous sonnet by Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585)
from Sonnets for Hélène
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
'Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.'
Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name's cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name - immortalised by my desire.
I'll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you'll be an old woman, nodding towards life's close,
regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won't come again.
Come, pluck now - today - life's so quickly-fading rose.
(translation by Anthony Weir)
poem by Anthony Weir
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I Once, Your Other Darkness
for two paintings, one by Caravaggio,
'The Conversion of St. Paul, '
the other by William Hawkins, 'Horse'
I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
of seasons of dryness in the bitter pitch midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe intimate, felt in that greater
scape - inner - making poems from orphan woe, from
furtive grace which eludes then storms, in bleakest
place sudden parses in the greener green,
newly, of things while pleading still,
'Lord, send my roots rain.'
In the shorter light, the extended
night, of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or pen but make offering for your own
work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
Caravaggio, (1571 – 1610) , Italian painter,
'in painting not equal to a painter, but to Nature itself'
- from his epitaph
William Hawkins, (1895-1990) , self-taught American artist
'His dynamic, artistic style was forged from his optimistic,
hard-charging, 'survivor' mindset.'
poem by Warren Falcon
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James I
1603-25
The child of Mary Queen of Scots,
A shifty mother's shiftless son,
Bred up among intrigues and plots,
Learned in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic,
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek,
The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line--
He wrote that witches should be burnt;
He wrote that monarchs were divine,
And left a son who--proved they weren't!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Akbar, the Great (1542 - 1605)
Can a man - all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it's only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
'brahmana' Himalayas to the 'asurya' Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world's vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note
Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605) , the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah », a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns - on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
(©: T. Wignesan, March 13,1992, Paris - from the sequence/collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent')
poem by T. Wignesan
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When you are Old
Sonnet XXXII
Should you survive the number of my days,
Attest to buried bones and grounded hope,
Nervous, by chance, perhaps this book you'll ope,
Grave hand re-reading, when fast passed my ways.
Tender friend recall our comet blaze,
Openly with instinct's gyroscope
Mark, nurture, sight and sound, bright chromascope,
Able to distill implicit ph[r]ase.
Methinks fond thoughts might share this paraphrase:
“As rainbow bridge strips off coarse envelope
Underdeveloped were poor poet’s plays -
Death forced him far too early to elope.
E’er since he died, have other poets flourished.
Competent their works, I’ll read his, who love nourished.”
[c] Jonathan Robin
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXII
(cf Ronsard: When you are old and grey)
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shall by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,
Exceeded by the heights of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'?
Quand vous serez bien vieille
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant:
'Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j'étais belle.'
Lors vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de Ronsard ne s'aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.
Je serai sous la terre, et fantôme sans os,
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos;
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m'en croyez, n'attendez à demain;
Cueillez dès aujourd'hui les rose de la vie.
Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 – 1578
RONSARD Pierre de 1524_1585 rons1_0014_rons1_0000 PFS_DLZ Quand vous serez bien vielle_Quand vous serez bien vielle
RONSARD Pierre de 1524_1585 rons1_0014_FRANC_0000 PFS_DLZ
Quand vous serez bien vielle_Quand vous serez bien vielle
“When you are very old...”
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”
Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name’s cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name — immortalised by my desire.
I’ll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you’ll be an old woman, nodding towards life’s close,
regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won’t come again.
Come, pluck now — today — life’s so quickly-fading rose.
Tide and Undertow Anthony WEIR Belfast 1975
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle
and William Butler YEATS – To His Book
WEIR Anthony 19_20 weir1_0001_wear1_0000 PST_LZX When you are very old_When you are very old at even by the fire
WEIR Anthony 19_20 weir1_0001_yeat1_0000 PST_LZX When you are very old_When you are very old at even by the fire
WEIR Anthony 19_20 weir1_0001_rons1_0014 PST_LZX When you are very old_When you are very old at even by the fire
When You are Old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And, nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
How many loved your moments of glad grace
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountain overhead
And his his face amid a crowd of stars.
William Butler YEATS 1893 - The Rose
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle
YEATS William Butler 1865_1939 yeat1_0011_yeat1_0000 PTX_DLZ When you are old_When you are old and gray and full of sleep
YEATS William Butler 1865_1939 yeat1_0011_rons1_0014 PTX_DLZ When you are old_When you are old and gray and full of sleep
Candlelight Blues
When yore gitten old at candlelight
Sittin’ at the fire gonna spin all night,
You’ll say sorta marvelin’ as y’sing my song,
“Good old Ronsard sang when Ah was young.”
Then y’won’t have a maid what hears that soun’,
Jist about t’fall asleep an’ all tired down,
Who ain’t gonna wake when she hears ma name
An’ start praisin’ yore name of immortal fame.
Ah’ll be six foot under, no skeleton,
‘Neath the myrtle groves is where my soul will run;
You’ll be dreamin’ at the hearth in a messy ole way,
Sorry you was proud, now Ah’ve gone away.
Better saddle up yore horse, don’t wait all night,
Pick yore roses today, then you’ll be all right.
G. R. TEJADA-FLORES,1961
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle
TEJADA-FLORES G. R.19_20 teja1_0001_teja1_0000 PST_LZX Candlelight Blues_When yore gitten old at candlelight
TEJADA-FLORES G. R.19_20 teja1_0001_rons1_0014 PST_LZX Candlelight Blues_When yore gitten old at candlelight
When You are Old
Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend,
Assise auprès du box with knitting and teapot,
Say, kid, chantant mes vers, my God, that man was hot!
Ron était stuck on me quand my face was mon friend.
Pauvr’old bag, quelle façon d’arriver à your end,
Dozant par le TV en watchant Golden Shot!
N’assumez pas, ma chère, que déjà that’s your lot –
Comme Ronnie’s has-been poule you’re always dans le trend.
Puis quand j’ai snuffed it, sqweet, vous serez rien du tout.
Alors, écoutez-moi très bien, vous silly moo;
Ne turne me down pas now – trop soon vous trouverez
Qu’on a toujours besoin d’un tel terrific chap,
Un super-poet, qui vous met bien sur le map;
Les roses de Ron son best – so cueillez while you may.
Alison PRINCE 1931_20
Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle
PRINCE Alison 1931_20 prin1_0001_prin1_0000 PSW_LZW When you are Old_Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend
PRINCE Alison 1931_20 prin1_0001_FRANC_0000 PSW_LZW When you are Old_Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend
PRINCE Alison 1931_20 prin1_0001_rons1_0014 PSW_LZW When you are Old_Quand vous serez past it, au soir, un triste weekend
Quand vous serez bien vieille
When you are old, one night while candles flare,
Spinning before the fire you’ll sit and say,
Speaking my lines and wondering in your way:
‘Once Ronsard praised me: I was young and fair.’
If any maid should hear you, though her share
Of the day’s work like sleep upon her lay,
Ronsard’s renown would wake her, she would pray
A benediction on your name: her prayer
I shall not hear; buried, a boneless ghost,
At peace I’ll be among the myrtled host;
Muddled about the fire you still will stay,
Feeling remorse at heart for your disdain.
Let’s live, my love; to-morrow waits in vain!
Gather the roses of life; begin today!
Author Unknown 0182 Parody Translation Pierre de RONSARD 1525_1584
Sonnets pour Hélène, II,43 1578 Quand vous serez bien vielle
Author Unknown 0182 AuUnM_0182_AuUnM_0000 TSX_LZX Quand Vous serez bien Vieille_When you are old, one night
Author Unknown 0182 AuUnM_0182_rons1_0014 TSX_LZX Quand Vous serez bien Vieille_When you are old, one night
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Dear My Dead Husband - 1583
You said
you will abide with me
till the Milky Way dies away
yet you are here
now in the dark,
dark grave
leaving me all alone
in this lone bedside
longing for you
day and night
with tearful eyes
Where are you?
My lord!
I bore
you three children
They are sound asleep
with no knowledge of
your whereabouts
thinking you might
someday out of nowhere
will return home
just like I am
Yeah, I wish that happens
I wish I could
be in your arms
one more time,
Oh darling,
I miss you so
night and day
I think of you
think of the day
when we first met
some
beautiful spring day
with cherry blossoms
all clustered together
like the snow piles
on the roof of our hut house.
Your fragrance still
remains in my heart
as it does on my skin.
I crave your company
on this long, long winter night
it's too long
for a woman to spend
all alone.
Ah, where is my beloved now?
Where have you gone?
Do you hear my calling
over there where you are at?
I had my long hair cut
to make a pair of shoes
for you to wear
when you go on the
road toward the heaven
so that your feet won't
get bruised by the
rocks and gravels.
Thread by thread
I weave my love and
memories into the weaving,
Hopefully you could
use the shoes
sturdy and strong
to keep you warm
during this harsh season
on the road to
Heavenly Father.
Just tell Him
when you see Him
we have parted not
because we wanted to
but because He made us to.
He will understand and
who knows
He might let you
come home
before your time is
due.
I put this
pair of shoes
made of my black
shiny, thick hair
along with a
trumpet creeper
in this letter envelope
and put it
into your pocket...
While lying there
alone and silent,
hear my words
and sorrowful moans.
Good bye, my love
till we meet again
up there someday
I hope.
(April 12,2008)
7: 49 pm Korea-Japan time
*On April 14th,1998 in Andong, Korea
a grave site was dug up
and a letter was found along with the remains
of a dead body wrapped in linen cloth.
It was dated June 1st,1583.
poem by Sangnam Nam
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From 'Arcades
O'RE the smooth enameld green
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I sing,
And touch the warbled string.
Under the shady roof
Of branching Elm Star-proof,
Follow me,
I will bring you where she sits
Clad in splendor as befits
Her deity.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.
313. From 'Comus'
i
THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other gole
Of his Chamber in the East.
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsie dance, and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rosie Twine
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigor now is gon to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
With their grave Saws in slumber ly.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the Starry Quire,
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove
Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love....
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
In a light fantastick round.
John Milton. 1608-1674
314. From' Comus'
ii. Echo
SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet imbroider'd vale
Where the love-lorn Nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O if thou have
Hid them in som flowry Cave,
Tell me but where
Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!
So maist thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies!
John Milton. 1608-1674
315. From' Comus'
iii. Sabrina
The Spirit sings: SABRINA fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!
Listen and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus,
By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys grave majestick pace,
By hoary Nereus wrincled look,
And the Carpathian wisards hook,
By scaly Tritons winding shell,
And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands,
By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet,
And the Songs of Sirens sweet,
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,
And fair Ligea's golden comb,
Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks,
By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head
From thy coral-pav'n bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answered have.
Listen and save!
Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank,
Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,
My sliding Chariot stayes,
Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen
Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green
That in the channell strayes,
Whilst from off the waters fleet
Thus I set my printless feet
O're the Cowslips Velvet head,
That bends not as I tread,
Gentle swain at thy request
I am here.
John Milton. 1608-1674
316. From 'Comus'
iv
The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that ly
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid ayr
All amidst the Gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowres
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,
The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres,
Thither all their bounties bring,
That there eternal Summer dwels,
And West winds, with musky wing
About the cedar'n alleys fling
Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels.
Iris there with humid bow,
Waters the odorous banks that blow
Flowers of more mingled hew
Than her purfl'd scarf can shew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of Hyacinth, and roses
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen;
But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't,
Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't
After her wandring labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal Bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly don,
I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earths end,
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the Moon.
Mortals that would follow me,
Love vertue, she alone is free.
She can teach ye how to clime
Higher then the Spheary chime;
Or if Vertue feeble were,
Heav'n it self would stoop to her.
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,
I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of som melodious tear.
Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may som gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright
Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
Now thou art gon, and never must return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When first the White thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep
Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye bin there--for what could that have don?
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son
Whom Universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.
Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears,
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,
And listens to the Herald of the Sea
That came in Neptune's plea,
He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
And question'd every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked Promontory,
They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd,
The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,
His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.
Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Anow of such as for their bellies sake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf suck the honied showres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.
The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves
Where other groves, and other streams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet Societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;
Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills,
While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,
He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills,
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:
And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the Western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
poem by John Milton
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Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, ease after war, death after life does greatly please.
quote by Edmund Spenser, 1590
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Politics In Art Shakespearean Style
In the play King Lear for example,
the king must be either very wise,
like King James I, or very stupid, so
it cannot possibly be, King James I.
View first historically documented
performance of this play, took place
on December 26,1606, before King
James I, Shakespeare embeds conceit.
Cunningly Shakespeare embeds support
shades opposition, first outlining cleverly
King James Stuart's, ideas, of absolutist
Monarchy, belief in divine right to rule.
Stuart's style of legitimizing his reign is
wisely promoted; secret opposition made
through a masked linking of King Stuart’s
character to Lear hidden behind ill health.
Self imposed censorship of art and press is
constantly in vogue due to issues of legalize
and dire ramifications of offending power
embodied in government or rule as dictated.
Oh Dear King Lear absolute rule fails ignores
needs of individuals nation is ripe system axed.
When government is not by the people for real
benefit of her people exploitation ensures hexed.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Coupled in Greenery
A dream woke itself,
As love itself fell upon us.
I recanted quickly all the lofty phrases
I spoke to you but one:
I love you without dream or consciousness;
Heaven as it were and still is.
I craved you like wine once, and would pour out
All the dark poison of me out-
Depending on the year of course.
Now I only yearn to drink morning's tears of joy,
That drip off the chartreuse spears of first lover's intentions...
The dew of doing, and water of the wanton we.
So many long nights alone, but not lonely;
For all have Agnus Dei, if we can submit to that one bended
Need of knee.
Now you sip green tea in the twilight, amongst high dandelions,
And rare blue rabbits run rampant;
However, our childhoods have escaped the russet skin of the west...
Now in your lap as wild forests and restless clovers calm-
They rest two and together alas!
I play Green Sleeves for the forest's fauna, foliage, and fragrance,
As we balance ourselves in the darkness like mighty oaks Sway,
Knowing the earth dissipates to a new verse:
Just because we fall to fall, doesn't mean we have to land.
c.2010 John Carroll Walls
Source: Wikipedia
'Greensleeves' is a traditional English folk song and tune, a ground of the form called a romanesca.
A broadside ballad by this name was registered at the London Stationer's Company in 1580[1] as 'A New Northern Dittye of the Lady Greene Sleeves'. It then appears in the surviving A Handful of Pleasant Delights (1584) as 'A New Courtly Sonnet of the Lady Green Sleeves. To the new tune of Green sleeves.'
poem by John Walls
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In Answer To The Powers That Be
If we apply
the question
What are the
'implications of media,
in this epoch of time'
to Elizabethan England,
the age of Shakespeare;
to next King James the first,
you will agree,
a significant
period in history,
what would this phrase mean?
The answer
to put it simply,
to be succinct,
to put it in a nut shell,
is the effect upon
the public of the time;
of the stage of course
and the printing press.
This could have been put in
one simple declarative sentence
but where is the art in that?
The stage and the plays
especially of Shakespeare
are thrilling live performance
and exceptionally influential
as an early form of mass media.
In the play King Lear for example,
the king must be either very wise;
like King James I; or very stupid, so
it cannot possibly be, King James I.
The first historically documented
performance of the play; took place
on December 26,1606; before King
James I; Shakespeare embeds conceit.
Cunningly Shakespeare embeds support
and opposition; first outlining cleverly
King James Stuart's ideas of absolutist
Monarchy; belief in divine right to rule.
Stuart's style of legitimizing his reign is
wisely promoted; secret opposition made
through a masked linking of King Stuart’s
character to Lear; hidden behind ill health.
Self imposed censorship of art and press is
constantly in vogue due to issues of legalize;
the ramifications of offending ruling power;
embodied in government or rule as dictated.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Cartesian life co-odinated
The year is 1607; the place, the lodgings
of the Jesuit College Royal Henri-le-Grand
at La Fleche; it’s evening;
around a flickering candle
three boys of eleven years,
bright young faces against black robes,
bright eyes, lit in each pupil by the candle flame;
too young yet to be tired
by their day of such demanding study,
they laugh over a game
designed to improve their knowledge
of the Latin terms that they must learn:
the one whose father is a High Court judge
of course knows most; yet is most bored;
such is a father’s ambition for his son…
the game, easily constructed without expense:
pieces of paper in a Jesuit cap
on each of which, a simple Latin word
most likely to be required for formal argument
in pulpit, in the courts of law:
the game, to be the first to draw
words which can make a sentence
that can pass for logical…
Bright, bored René draws first:
‘Ergo’ – ‘therefore’: they all groan; the very word
speaks study, formal argument..
the others draw their words;
in the second round, our René draws
‘Sum’ – I exist, I am’’
the third round: excitement intensifies:
can three words make a sentence fit
for speaking in this holy, hallowed place?
gods hold their breath; angels
hover on the wing; Fate shakes the dice;
nature, nurture, weighty past,
all conspire to set the seal
upon four centuries of future thought…
flushed young face and slow-moved hand
stretch out suspense in childish fun…
‘Cogito…’ reads René’s paper scrap…
how was the eleven-year-old to know
that his next words—so lightly spoke,
so soon discarded to the vaults of memory –
would shape a life, a nation’s self-drawn image,
more volumes in more languages
than any could imagine then?
alas! as every being in the heavens
awaited human statement of the greater truth
which would awaken mortal man
to his divine inheritance…
‘Sum, ergo, cogito’… they whisper to the Fates…
‘I am, I exist; therefore, I think…’
alas! Man’s hubris won the day…
‘Cogito, ergo sum! ’ shouts our triumphant René -
‘J’ai gagné! J’ai gagné! ’
and even God was heard to sigh…
The boys laugh; the game is won, discarded;
instant forgetfulness washes Lethe-like
over young minds; it will be thirty years
before our René dredges from his mind,
significance; human hubris; method; discourse…
sets the thinking world by egoistic ears…
and so four centuries of self-assertive Frenchmen
will gaze and talk with philosophic love
into the eyes of mesmerised
nubile young girls across the coffee-cups
of tables on the sidewalks of the boulevards;
proud to be born French; the nation
knowing that they, above all, they hold the secret
of philosophy, of life: we are, I am, born to think..
je suis né pour penser…
and what of being itself,
and what of consciousness,
that enfolds ‘I am’…?
mon pauvre, mon semblable, mon frere… mon assassin…
hélas! hélas! …
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Battle Of Lepanto Ottomans Defeats
Holy League on 7 October 1571 attacks;
wins a crushing victory over Ottoman fleet
at the Battle of Lepanto Ottomans defeats;
off tide turning western Greek coast;
decisively defeated Ottoman mighty main fleet
of Ottoman Empire in fierce five hours;
of fighting on northern edge of Gulf of Patras;
off fate western Greece Ottoman invasion forces
were from naval station Lepanto sailing westwards;
engaged from Messina Holy League fleet;
quick sand history on this victory turns
Mediterranean Sea Holy League prevents;
becoming an open uncontested sea route;
for Muslim forces; from major Ottoman invasion
Italy protects; prevents conquest Ottomans;
advancing further into exposed southern;
flank of Europe victory Lepanto was the last
major naval battle in contest Mediterranean;
fought entirely between diced empire galleys;
great symbolic importance appropriately assigned
to an empires altering decisive naval defeat;
upon signing of peace treaty in 1573 fate turns;
victorious Holy League is incredibly disbanded
axed a short time after unity Pope Pius V died.
Extract from the poem ‘Mediterranean Colonisation Wars Left Legacy Seeds'.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The River of Blood
It’s the river of blood
Initiated by the enemies of God
And when advised too or told to stop
They just give you the nod
The nod of ignorance and cruelty
The nod of no life and no feel
As they are told about they’re evilness
They believe that none of it is real
It’s the river of blood
That flows down a dark and red stream
And as I dip my hand in, it feels like sour, bitter cream
It’s the river of blood
The river of cruelty and pain
The river of blood
The river that flows in vain
The river that will never end
The river full of the dead
The river where they remain silently hopeless
The river where the majority of them bled
It’s this river of blood where I inject my power and strength from
It’s this river full of blood where my victory will soon come
The river of blood, the river that will soon contain me
It’s this river where my blood has long sought to be
The river of blood that shall soon end with an atrocious fight
The river of blood, the river that will no longer stay at sight.
poem by Marria Attar
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What has happened
What has happened?
People were all brains
They were inclined to peace
About one step far
Then suddenly
People went mad
Fire everywhere
Blood will have blood*
Children like broken winged birds
Covered with blood
Blood will have blood*
This is madness
Blind madness
And nobody knows
What has happened!
* from Macbeth by Shakespeare
poem by Eman Elbadawi
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