The mistaken beliefs
I mistook them to have got cured
From their not turning for check up.
I mistook them to have read mine
In the journals that they have read.
I mistook them as my lovers
As they valued my company.
Such like beliefs, still disproved,
Had nourished my ego through out..
24.01.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Related quotes
Old Books
Look back
The old rack
May have in its nooks
Dusty books
That was for you made
But you never read
Like you never noticed eyes
With loving look
Never heard sighs
Things you mistook
And lost for good
Like the unread book!
There maybe something
For long waiting
Unknown to you
Silent but precious
Like dropping dew
Life’s must
Withering away in dust!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Like all dreamers, I mistook disenchantment for truth.
quote by Jean-Paul Sartre
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Freedom
I used to think you understood
Taught me right and learnt me good
Made things simple for my brain
Told the truth and made it plain
But the implications I mistook
Until I found out whose side you took
And now with paper in my hand
Im beginning to understand
So this is freedom - {they must be joking}
They must be joking - {if they think its true}
So this is freedom - [i doubt their truth}
So this is freedom - {for me and you}
From the front page news to the interviews
Its sink the reds and left the blues
They pretend theyre differing points of view
But its only different shades of blue
But the implications I mistook
Until I found out whose side you took
And now with paper in my hand
Im beginning to understand
So this is freedom - {they must be joking}
They must be joking - {if they think its true}
So this is freedom - [i doubt their truth}
So this is freedom - {for me and you}
[guitar solo]
So this is freedom - {they must be joking}
They must be joking - {if they think its true}
So this is freedom - [i doubt their truth}
So this is freedom - {for me and you}
F.r.e.e.d.o.m.
They locked us up once
So theyll do it again
C.h.a.i.n.e.d.
They locked up my friends
Now theyre coming for me
song performed by by Housemartins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We too, through lack of knowledge and of sufficiently mature reflection, mistook the visible outward appearance of the phenomenon for the phenomenon itself.
quote by Leon Jouhaux
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Two the same won’t spark
Her likes and my likes fall alike..
‘She too must like me.’ I mistook;
It didn’t click; I left the pursuit.
Both should be wood and fire to spark.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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False God
I'm sorry I mistook you for God
I feel sorry for my self
I’m sorry that I was disillusioned
Like yourself
I’m sorry I was blinded by your easy smile
I’m sorry I only saw what I desired
I’m sorry I couldn’t see past your piercing eyes
I’m sorry I so fell for your disguise
I’m sorry to disappoint you
For truly I wish you well
But if you still believe that you are God
I’m sorry—you need help
I’m sorry I considered you God
But I have learned my lesson well
From now on no more false gods
I answer only to Myself
poem by Sonya Florentino
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Man Who Mistook His Mistress For A Violin
The man who mistook his mistress for a violin
is the subject of a book by J. M. Coetzee.
Mistaking music for a mistress is a sin
more serious that to eat bread without saying motsi.
When sex becomes a contest in which you subject
erotic will to your opponent who’s a wench,
don’t treat her like a piece of bread and don’t object
if she declares she is not ready yet to bensch.
Motsi is the Hebrew name of a piece of bread a Jew may not eat before saying a blessing, hamotsi lehem min ha’arets, meaning “He who brings forth bread from the earth.” Bensch means “bless, ” and in the context of eating bread it refers to the blessing that in Hebrew is called birkat hamazon, meaning “the blessing for food.” Coetzee’s description of himself as “the man who mistook his mistress for a violin” is clearly an allusion to Oliver Sacks’s story of the man with visual agnosia who mistook his wife for a hat.
The poem was in part inspired by Tim Parks’s review of J. M. Coetzee’s “Summertime: A Fiction, ” a novel that may or may not be autobiographical (“The Education of ‘John Coetzee, ’” NYR (February 11,2010) :
Following Boyhood (1997) and Youth (2002) , Summertime concludes J.M. Coetzee's autobiographical trilogy. It is a teasing and surprisingly funny book, at once as elaborately elusive and determinedly confessional as ever autobiography could be. If Boyhood and Youth were remarkable for Coetzee's use of the third person (the author declining to identify with his younger self) and the present tense (a narrative device more commonly associated with fiction than memoir) , Summertime takes both distancing and novelizing a step further. Despite our seeing Coetzee's name on the cover and hence assuming the author alive and well, we are soon asked to believe that he is now dead, the book being made up of five interviews conducted by an anonymous biographer who is speaking to people he presumes were important to the writer during the years 1972–1975.
Coetzee writes about the affair he has, possibly fact, possibly fiction, with a psychotherapist called Julia:
John, she says, was actually “a minor character” in a drama played out between herself and her husband. While the latter was traveling, the lovers enjoyed an “erotic entanglement” in the marital bed. Yet John was peripheral to her life; at the one moment when she was ready to leave her husband and he could have become a major player, he “took fright” and snuck out of the hotel where she was sleeping….Certainly there’s comedy to be had in the description of this willfully unassertive man partnering a woman who sees sex “as a contest, a variety of wrestling in which you do you best to subject your opponent to your erotic will.” “He was not in my league, ” Julia complains. When John tries to persuade her to moderate her lovemaking to fir the slow movement of a Schubert string quintet, the better to “re-experience” the sexual feelings of a bygone age, Julia shows him the door. “The man who mistook his mistress for a violin, ” she comments.
1/30/10
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Fire's Reflection
Perhaps it's no more than the fire's reflection
on some piece of gleaming furniture
that the child remembers so much later
like a revelation.
And if in his later life, one day
wounds him like so many others,
it's because he mistook some risk
or other for a promise.
Let's not forget the music, either,
that soon had hauled him
toward absence complicated
by an overflowing heart....
Translated by A. Poulin
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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Misaking A Mistress For A Violin
MISTAKING A MISTRESS FOR A VIOLIN
The man who mistook his mistress for a violin
is the subject of a book by J. M. Coetzee.
Mistaking music for a mistress is a sin
more serious than to eat bread without saying motsi.
When sex becomes a contest in which you subject
erotic will to your opponent, wife or wench,
don’t treat her like a piece of bread, and don’t object
if she declares she is not ready yet to bensch.
Motsi is the Hebrew name of a piece of bread a Jew may not eat before saying a blessing, hamotsi lehem min ha’arets, meaning “He who brings forth bread from the earth.” Bensch means “bless, ” and in the context of eating bread it refers to the blessing that in Hebrew is called birkat hamazon, meaning “the blessing for food.” Coetzee’s description of himself as “the man who mistook his mistress for a violin” is clearly an allusion to Oliver Sacks’s story of the man with visual agnosia who mistook his wife for a hat.
The poem was in part inspired by Tim Parks’s review of J. M. Coetzee’s “Summertime: A Fiction, ” a novel that may or may not be autobiographical (“The Education of ‘John Coetzee, ’” NYR (February 11,2010) :
Following Boyhood (1997) and Youth (2002) , Summertime concludes J.M. Coetzee's autobiographical trilogy. It is a teasing and surprisingly funny book, at once as elaborately elusive and determinedly confessional as ever autobiography could be. If Boyhood and Youth were remarkable for Coetzee's use of the third person (the author declining to identify with his younger self) and the present tense (a narrative device more commonly associated with fiction than memoir) , Summertime takes both distancing and novelizing a step further. Despite our seeing Coetzee's name on the cover and hence assuming the author alive and well, we are soon asked to believe that he is now dead, the book being made up of five interviews conducted by an anonymous biographer who is speaking to people he presumes were important to the writer during the years 1972–1975.
Coetzee writes about the affair he has, possibly fact, possibly fiction, with a psychotherapist called Julia:
John, she says, was actually “a minor character” in a drama played out between herself and her husband. While the latter was traveling, the lovers enjoyed an “erotic entanglement” in the marital bed. Yet John was peripheral to her life; at the one moment when she was ready to leave her husband and he could have become a major player, he “took fright” and snuck out of the hotel where she was sleeping….Certainly there’s comedy to be had in the description of this willfully unassertive man partnering a woman who sees sex “as a contest, a variety of wrestling in which you do you best to subject your opponent to your erotic will.” “He was not in my league, ” Julia complains. When John tries to persuade her to moderate her lovemaking to fir the slow movement of a Schubert string quintet, the better to “re-experience” the sexual feelings of a bygone age, Julia shows him the door. “The man who mistook his mistress for a violin, ” she comments.
1/30/10
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Day 16
Now she is something that I cannot live without.
I will weather any weather and survive any drought.
And so I believe, with my heart devout
That she is the most perfect thing, beyond the shadow of a doubt
The ways she is amazing could fill many a book
Yet some can't see her beauty when they look
But not me, I used to think I mistook
This perfect girl for an angel.
poem by Alex Messenger
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Barney Hainsfeather
If the excursion train to Peoria
Had just been wrecked, I might have escaped with my life --
Certainly I should have escaped this place.
But as it was burned as well, they mistook me
For John Allen who was sent to the Hebrew Cemetery
At Chicago,
And John for me, so I lie here.
It was bad enough to run a clothing store in this town,
But to be buried here -- ach!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Dove Feathered Raven
O' dove feathered raven
your feathers so white,
a sign i mistook
as a failure to fight
But your words struck true
aimed straight at my chest,
my heart broke in two
had i failed the test?
Two halves of a half
lay with jagged edges,
sad men before me
all jumped from their ledges
April 2008
poem by Jack Levenstein
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He Writes His Name In Bold Letters
when he writes his name in bold letters
others
mistook it for a call of attention
as though
he lacks what was not given him
during his youth
it is not the hunger for fame
it is simply that
his eyes have failed him due to so much
devotion to reading
when the lights are fading
when his eyes are failing
he wants still to see his name so he may have a trace
of him
everyday fading like the sunsets in his poems
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Rose Is Not A Rose
i mistook
a rose,
a wall that
rose,
higher than
the sky
nothing about
redness
or petals, or
stalks
or thorns
but a wall that
rose higher
than the sky
walling, wailing
willing
still to push
through
this dream
rising, rosy
rainy
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Truths may not be truths
When I said that I saw a snake
That I had seen, it was true.
When I said that I saw a snake
That I hadn’t, it was false.
When I said that I saw a snake
That I mistook a rope for,
It was true according to me.
The so said truths passed on to us
Need not necessarily truths.
12.06.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Watch me!
I am an open book you see,
turn the pages look at me.....
So disturbing this game that you play,
not so smart at the end of the day.
I see through you can't you see,
what part of you isn't me?
Play away, look and see....
so far, so far, you will always be.
Don't mistake my open book,
look deeper inside....for me you mistook.
Thinking always...that is truly me...
my desire is truly to be free...
my book is my own...you will never write my story,
oh...I know...you think its for glory.
No, not now,
no, not ever......
I wish that you could be more clever!
To Read And Read Again
TO READ AND READ AGAIN
To read and to read again
And to be left empty
By the abundance of words
Whose meanings multiplication
Erases all sense
Of their coherence
And our understanding.
To read and read again
As if in this pretence of learning
Salvation will come
To read and read again
And be forever dumb.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Lie That Won't Be Forgotten
I heard the Iraqi women cry
When their sons and husbands had to die
And did not have to question why -
It was the Weapons of Destruction lie.
It wasn't Saddam who was to blame
Despite his cruel, evil fame,
It was someone with a different name
Who doesn't seem to feel any shame.
You will not have too far to look
To identify this famous crook -
It may be someone you mistook
For a harmless fellow signing a book.
There isn't any mystery,
This man will go down in history,
But Fate will deny him any praise,
Controversial to the end of days.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Timely Open Book
An attractive pair of eyes
of almond aspect, startling size,
sparkle with suggestive look
to signal “I’m an open book”
to which all welcome are who, wise,
rise, meet sweet challenge, find replies
the overhasty overlook.
Moreover, who their minds mistook
face value take where their own lies
make mirror image, dark disguise,
soon blot their ego's copybook -
self image wage, page books may cook.
From downturned mouth to upturned nose
verse flows until this tale we close.
22 June 2005 revised 5 December 2008
robi03_1286_robi03_0000 SXX_JLX
for previous version entitled Open Book see below
Open Book
An attractive pair of eyes
of almond aspect, startling size,
sparkle with suggestive look
to signal “I’m an open book”
to which all welcome are who, wise,
rise, meet the challenge, find replies
that overhasty overlook,
while those face value take mistook
are where they make for their own lies
a mirror image, dark disguise –
and thus soon blot their copybook...
© Jonathan Robin – Sonnet written 22 June 2005
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Blue
I didn't want to know
I just didn't want to know
Best to keep things in the shallow end
Cause I never quite learned how to swim
I just didn't want to know
Didn't want, didn't want,
Didn't want, didn't want
Close my eyes just to look at you
Taken by the seamless vision
I close my eyes,
Ignore the smoke,
Ignore the smoke
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
Such a lovely color for you
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
Why don't I just sit and stare at you
Because I don't want to know
I didn't want to know
I just didn't want to know
I just didn't want
Mistook the "nods" for an approval
Just ignore the smoke and smile
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
Such a lovely color for you
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
Such a perfect color for your eyes
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
Such a lovely color for you,
Call it aftermath, she's turning blue
Why don't I just sit and stare at you
I don't want to know
song performed by by A Perfect Circle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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