Ad M. T. Ciceronem. Catul Ep. 50.
AD M. T. CICERONEM.
CATUL EP. 50.
Disertissime Romuli nepotum,
Quot sunt, quotque fuere, Marce Tulli,
Quotque post alios erunt in annos,
Gratias tibi maximas Catullus
Agit, pessimus omnium poeta:
Tanto pessimus omnium poeta,
Quanto tu optimus omnium patronus.
TO MARCUS T. CICERO.
IN AN ENGLISH PENTASTICK.
Tully to thee, Rome's eloquent sole heir,
The best of all that are, shall be, and were,
I the worst poet send my best thanks and pray'r:
Ev'n by how much the worst of poets I,
By so much you the best of patrones be.
poem by Richard Lovelace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Deo gratias- a Song to God on High!
Deo gratias,
For things that God has done;
Deo gratias,
For earth, sky, rain and sun;
Deo gratias,
For life’s joys, woes and fun;
Deo gratias,
For time to walk and run;
Deo gratias- a song to God on High!
Deo gratias,
For birth upon this earth;
Deo gratias,
For mirth after our death;
Deo gratias,
For warmth from every hearth;
Deo gratias,
For love and food sans dearth;
Deo gratias- a song to God on High!
Deo gratias,
For mercy that God shows;
Deo gratias,
For colorful rainbows;
Deo gratias,
For failure of our foes;
Deo gratias,
For grace by which life goes;
Deo gratias- a song to God on High!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-28-2006
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Worst And The Best
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at sexual orgies
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
poem by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What a Book! : to Calvus the Poet
If I didn’t love you more than my eyes,
most delightful Calvus, I’d dislike you
for this gift, with a true Vatinian dislike:
Now what did I do and what did I say,
to be so badly cursed with poets?
Let the gods send ill-luck to that client
who sent you so many wretches.
But if, as I guess, Sulla the grammarian
gave you this new and inventive gift,
that’s no harm to me, it’s good and fine
that your efforts aren’t all wasted.
Great gods, an amazing, immortal book!
That you sent, of course, to your Catullus,
so he might immediately die,
on the optimum day, in the Saturnalia!
No you won’t get away with this crime.
Now when it’s light enough I’ll run
to the copyists bookstalls, I’ll acquire
Caesius, Aquinus, Suffenus,
all of the poisonous ones.
And I’ll repay you for this suffering.
Meanwhile farewell take yourself off, there,
whence your unlucky feet brought you,
cursed ones of the age, worst of poets.
poem by Gaius Valerius Catullus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Worst Comes to Worst
(Babu mixing)
"Worst come to worst my peoples come first"
"Worst...come.....to worst"
"Worst come to worst my peoples come first"
"Worst come...to...worst"
"Worst come to worst my peoples come first"
(Evidence talking)
Yeah
It's goin down y'all
That's Babu
Yo
song performed by by Dilated Peoples from Expansion Team
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
For The Victory At Agincourt
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria!
Owre kynge went forth to Normandy,
With grace and myzt of chivalry;
The God for him wrouzt marvelously,
Wherefore Englonde may calle, and cry
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
He sette a sege, the sothe for to say,
To Harflue toune with ryal aray;
That toune he wan and made a fray,
That Fraunce shall rywe tyl domes day.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Then went owre kynge with alle his oste
Thorowe Fraunce for all the Frenshe boste;
He spared 'for' drede of leste ne most,
Tyl he come to Agincourt coste.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Than for sothe that knyzt comely
In Agincourt feld he fauzt manly,
Thorow grace of God most myzty
He had both the felde and the victory:
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Ther dukys and erlys, lorde and barone,
Were take and slayne and that wel sone,
And some were ledde in to Lundone
With joye and merthe and grete renone.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Now gracious God he save owre kynge,
His peple and all his wel wyllynge,
Gef him gode lyfe and gode endynge,
That we with merth mowe savely synge
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Valentine
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Original - Time, My Worst Enemy
Time, My Worst Enemy
Keeping me away from you
Time, My Worst Enemy
Moving slowly when we’re apart
Time, My Worst Enemy
Fleeting when you are near
Time, My Worst Enemy
Battling with it daily
Time, My Worst Enemy
Stealing moments from the clock
Time, My Worst Enemy
Until you are in my arms again
Time, My Worst Enemy
Rapidly chasing us down
Time, My Worst Enemy
He will not take you this time
Time, My Worst Enemy
You are in my arms to stay
Time, My Worst Enemy
Has Lost!
Where Is She?
Where is she, I wondered, when she wasn't there.
If she's not here she could be anywhere. She could be
anywhere and not alone.
I began to imagine the worst. At every imagining
I thought I had imagined the worst, then I imagined
something even worse. It got to the point where my
imaginings no longer included her. I realized that the
worst did not encompass her. As my imaginings continued,
as worst superseded worst, making the preceding worst
only worse, I began to forget her. As worst got worse,
I forgot her more. Things were getting pretty bad, and
I had almost forgotten her completely, when she
reappeared.
poem by Peter Cherches
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The most and the worst
Man wants money most
And uses it worst.
He wants time most
And spends it worst.
He wants things most
And waste them worst.
He wants women most
And miss them worst.
31.12.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A British-Roman Song
(A. D. 406)
"A Centurion of the Thirtieth"
My father's father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come
To look on that so-holy spot --
That very Rome --
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height --
The Race began!
Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakable, we pray, that clings
To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood --
In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round --
In us thy Sons
Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require
Thee -- thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills
The Imperial Fire!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
C) Julius Caesar
Enter CASCA and CICERO
CASCA: Tomorrow in the senate we shall have to work. Caesar will be sitting.
CICERO: An orator does not go out of fashion, I shall deliver a speech.
CASCA: To be a conspirator has become fashionable.
CICERO: Our roles are not so definite, we use to ignore them.
CASCA: You yourself mention ignorance! Were not you Princeps Senatus?
CICERO: Though he put the crown by thrice, the dictator wants to be top of Rome.
CASCA: He is really top of Rome. Senators are useless.
CICERO: Antony is his shadow and wants put himself in his place. However I am looking all
around.
CASCA: I am one of your accomplices and wonder whether you are seeing anything interesting.
CICERO: I don't like Marullus. Let's get the tribun of the people killed.
CASCA: Do you want to kill a son, too? We already must kill a father.
CICERO: Maybe I don't like killing fathers.
II,1
Enter MARCUS BRUTUS and PORTIA
BRUTUS: As sentinel greets the dawn, so I greet your return. You are late.
PORTIA: Sure, I was very busy at the market-place. Sometimes woman carries a heavy load.
BRUTUS: We must save Rome. People must honour its laws.
PORTIA: I always honoured those laws.
BRUTUS: For this reason I got married with you and did not want another in your place.
PORTIA: My place is close to our native Lares.
BRUTUS: Tradition is on our side. Our homework is the usual one.
PORTIA: No homework but this: one can not re-wind the spindle of time.
poem by Paolo Giuseppe Mazzarello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In Lesbiam Cat. Ep. 76.
IN LESBIAM CAT. EP. 76.
Huc est mens deducta tua, mea Lesbia, culpa,
Atque ita se officio perdidit ipsa suo.
Ut jam nec bene velle queam tibi, si optima sias:
Nec desistere amare, omnia si facias.
ENGLISHED.
By thy fault is my mind brought to that pass,
That it its office quite forgotten has:
For be'est thou best, I cannot wish thee well,
And be'est thou worst, then I must love thee still.
poem by Richard Lovelace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cantares
Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.
Nunca persequí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles,
como pompas de jabón.
Me gusta verlos pintarse
de sol y grana, volar
bajo el cielo azul, temblar
súbitamente y quebrarse…
Nunca perseguí la gloria.
Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar…
Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar
'Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…'
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…
Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.
Al alejarse le vieron llorar.
'Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…'
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…
Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar.
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.
'Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…'
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.
poem by Antonio Machado
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poets Expresion
People are for ever correcting
A poet's right to express
Those of us who use English
As a second language
At times do make mistakes
But a Poets Expression
Stamps a mark on your mind
To imagine and dream
About worlds of the unknown
You delve in their minds
And stir the images of life
And implant them your expressions
Your expressions on life
Poets are many with their
Own impressions on life
Give up to the poet's
And clap them with praise
So from this poet who dreams?
To be just like them
Wise and experienced
In sharing my dreams
Fare thee well good poets
Encore and good night
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Blame It On My ‘Worst Education' Or Lack of Experience?
Blame It On My ‘Worst Education' Or Lack of Experience?
So you callously stated "you have the worst education ever! "
Why can't you guard your mouth? You think so much less of me?
An educated man with your figure would not take off your clothes
You won't go to Dim Sum, oh I forgot, you have no idea what that is!
Gwai2 Lou5 鬼佬 speaks: "hey, what gives? "
我是一個中國人 ￮
Wǒ shì yī gè zhōng guó rén.
Ngo5 hai6 jat1 ge3 zung1 gwok3 jan4.
You have no idea what I just said, so how does that make you feel?
This means I am a Chinese person, did you know that?
With all your Ivy League education, Guǐ Lǎo, you can't speak to me
You've never traveled to Hong Kong or China, do you what the difference are?
You say I'm naïve, Lo Fan, but I know more than you
您是鬼佬! !
Nín shì Guǐ Lǎo! !
Nei5 hai6 Gwai2 Lou5! !
The words I called you
Gwai2 Lou5 鬼佬
Lo Fan 佬番
Guǐ Lǎo
All mean the same, they mean White Devil
My education tells me that, that is you
Who has the ‘worst education' now? !
No poet or orator has ever existed who believed there was any better than himself.
quote by Marcus Tullius Cicero
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The worst thing that can happen to a man is to lose his money, the next worst his health, the next worst his reputation.
quote by Samuel Butler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Average
Engulfed in a maze
Of the best and the worst,
I wearily stagger and stumble.
I'm the best of the worst,
But the worst of the best.
My problem
To brag or grumble.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Winter
The pungent smells of a California winter,
Grayness and rosiness, an almost transparent full moon.
I add logs to the fire, I drink and I ponder.
“In Ilawa,” the news item said, “at age 70
Died Aleksander Rymkiewicz, poet.”
He was the youngest in our group. I patronized him slightly,
Just as I patronized others for their inferior minds
Though they had many virtues I couldn’t touch.
And so I am here, approaching the end
Of the century and of my life. Proud of my strength
Yet embarrassed by the clearness of the view.
Avant-gardes mixed with blood.
The ashes of inconceivable arts.
An omnium-gatherum of chaos.
I passed judgment on that. Though marked myself.
This hasn’t been the age for the righteous and the decent.
I know what it means to beget monsters
And to recognize in them myself.
You, moon, You, Aleksander, fire of cedar logs.
Waters close over us, a name lasts but an instant.
Not important whether the generations hold us in memory.
Great was that chase with the hounds for the unattainable meaning of
the world.
And now I am ready to keep running
When the sun rises beyond the borderlands of death.
I already see mountain ridges in the heavenly forest
Where, beyond every essence, a new essence waits.
You, music of my late years, I am called
By a sound and a color which are more and more perfect.
Do not die out, fire. Enter my dreams, love.
Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!