The Missal Makers
To visit the Escurial
We took a motor bus,
And there a guide mercurial
Took charge of us.
He showed us through room after room,
And talked hour after hour,
Of place, crypt and royal tomb,
Of pomp and power.
But in bewilderment of grace
What pleased me most of all
Were ancient missals proud in place
In stately hall.
A thousand tomes there were at least,
All luminously bright,
That each a score of years some priest
Had toiled to write.
Poor patient monk who brushed and penned
From rise to set of sun!
And when his book came to an end,
His life was done.
With heart of love to God above
For guidance he would pray,
And here behold his art of gold
Undimmed today.
And as our homeward way we took,
The thought occurred to me -
If scribes would only write one book,
How good 'twould be!
Or if our authors had to scroll
Their words on vellum fair,
Their output might be very small,
But oh how rare!
So writers of today take note,
If you your souls would save,
Let every line be one to quote
And to engrave.
Then though you dismally are dead,
You will be cheered to know
your precious prose may still be read
-Ten years or so.
poem by Robert William Service
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Related quotes
Vanitas Vanitatum
How spake of old the Royal Seer?
(His text is one I love to treat on.)
This life of ours he said is sheer
Mataiotes Mataioteton.
O Student of this gilded Book,
Declare, while musing on its pages,
If truer words were ever spoke
By ancient, or by modern sages!
The various authors' names but note,*
French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans:
And in the volume polyglot,
Sure you may read a hundred sermons!
What histories of life are here,
More wild than all romancers' stories;
What wondrous transformations queer,
What homilies on human glories!
What theme for sorrow or for scorn!
What chronicle of Fate's surprises—
Of adverse fortune nobly borne,
Of chances, changes, ruins, rises!
Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke,
How strange a record here is written!
Of honors, dealt as if in joke;
Of brave desert unkindly smitten.
How low men were, and how they rise!
How high they were, and how they tumble!
O vanity of vanities!
O laughable, pathetic jumble!
Here between honest Janin's joke
And his Turk Excellency's firman,
I write my name upon the book:
I write my name—and end my sermon.
—————
O Vanity of vanities!
How wayward the decrees of Fate are;
How very weak the very wise,
How very small the very great are!
What mean these stale moralities,
Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble?
Why rail against the great and wise,
And tire us with your ceaseless grumble?
Pray choose us out another text,
O man morose and narrow-minded!
Come turn the page—I read the next,
And then the next, and still I find it.
Read here how Wealth aside was thrust,
And Folly set in place exalted;
How Princes footed in the dust,
While lackeys in the saddle vaulted.
Though thrice a thousand years are past,
Since David's son, the sad and splendid,
The weary King Ecclesiast,
Upon his awful tablets penned it,—
Methinks the text is never stale,
And life is every day renewing
Fresh comments on the old old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
Hark to the Preacher, preaching still
He lifts his voice and cries his sermon,
Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill,
As yonder on the Mount of Hermon;
For you and me to heart to take
(O dear beloved brother readers)
To-day as when the good King spake
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Mole
Said he: "I'll dive deep in the Past,
And write a book of direful days
When summer skies were overcast
With smoke of humble hearths ablaze;
When War was rampant in the land,
And poor folk cowered in the night,
While ruin gaped on every hand -
of ravishing and wrath I'll write."
Ten years he toiled to write his book,
Yet he was happy all the while;
The world he willingly forsook
T live alone in hermit style.
In garden sanctuaried sweet,
Full favoured by the steadfast sun,
plunged in the Past, a life complete
He lived. . . . At last his work was done.
A worthy book that few would read
Yet all would praise - each precious page
Starred with some truth the rare would heed,
The vivid images of an age,
Then blinking, to the world again
He came a sage, remote, austere . . .
When lo! his eyes were smote with flame,
The wail of war was in his ear.
He shrank and sighed: "Oh can it be
These old iniquities prevail!
That sons of men are still unfree
And time repeats her sorry tale!"
So with a long sad gaze and last,
Seeking his secret garden nook,
He slipped again into the Past
To live - and write another book.
poem by Robert William Service
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The writers room
The writers room
~
the walls lined with books
a thousand written worlds
open pages litter the floor
ready to begin a new journey
light cascades through window
across the unused bed
a room alive does not sleep
pictures and tokens spread out
points of memory and inspiration
shelves climb to the ceiling
hoarding words and lives
a writers room, paradise
a place to sit read and write
inspiration comes from life
and life is about discovering
all that is beautiful
however ugly it appears
look through the pages
of an open mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Write Me A Letter
Write me a letter
Write me a letter
Write it today
Im goin away (yes it has)
Write me a letter
Write me a letter
Write it today
Im goin away (yes it is)
Well Ive been away forever
Suicides crossin my mind
Well Ill never, never get so far behind
I said, the ways of the night are evil
Without that lord of day
But Ill never, never get so far away
I said write me
Write me
Write me
Write me
I said write me
Write me
Write me
Well theres nothin I can see
Thatd ever make me
Want to be without her
Shes good, she good to me
Said theres no way to explain
The kind of feelin that you get out in the
She good, she good to me
She good, she good to me
I love her
Write me a letter
Write me a letter
Write it today
Im goin away (yes it has)
Write me a letter
Write me a letter
Write it today
Im goin away (yes it is)
Well Ive been away forever
Suicides crossin my mind
Well Ill never, never get so far behind
Well Ive been so many places
Hidin from the wind and the rain
But you could write me a letter
For to save me from goin insane
Write me
Excite me
Write me
Write me
Write me
Write me...
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Write The Book
Nick lowe/dave edmunds/billy bremner
Plangent visions music, ltd.
Now I can remember like it was only yesterday
Love was young and foolish like a little child at play
But oh how lovers change -- I never dreamed how easily
cause now Im just a shadow of the boy I used to be
And when I write the book about my love
It will be about a man whos torn in half
About his hopes and ambitions wasted through the years
The pain will be written on every page in tears
When I write the book about my love
I was a fool to myself when I kept on runnin around
And I fared little better when I tried settlin down
Maybe some magic moment
Ive never known one, not for long
For all too soon the magic is in a moment gone
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a heartbreaking story about love and luck
When I get down on the pages all I felt
It will make the hardest-hearted of critics hearts melt
When I write the book about my love
When I was young love was fun and I was so happy
I looked so good, and I dressed so snappy
Two-tone shoes on my feet, big old smile on my face
As I moved and grooved all over the place
Now Im down in the heels, my complexion is bad
cause my love life is sadder than sad
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a pop publication, tougher than tough
When I get down on the pages all I missed
It will shoot to the top of the best-sellers list
When I write the book about my love
song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Im-Ho-Tep
Time is the bond of mortal life
Isis with the scroll of life
Raised her love Osiris from the dead
Live can transcend the mortal coil
With this script, the high priest of
The Pharaoh commits his sacrilege
Death is but a threshold
To another life, you will arrive
With this power
You shall live again, there is no end
You'll live again...
Love was the curse upon my soul
For it I would risk salvation
And utilize the scroll to save this one
Time is the sentence for my sin
Three thousand years my angry soul's
Been trapped inside this tomb of my condemn.
Death is but a threshold
To another life, I will arrive
With this power
I shall live again, there is no end.
I'll live again
Dawn shines a light on pain untold
Scarred from the millennia
The heart that beats inside my chest is cold
Rise, I'm rising from these sands of time
By the scarab's power I am given strength
With hate in hand, this misery I drink
Death is but a threshold
To another life, I will arrive
And with this power
I shall live again, there is no end
This pain won't end
song performed by by Iced Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bequeathal
THE night-birds cry in the bush outside,
And I write here, though the hour be late;
And what shall I write of the man who died?
'He gave his gold to the poor at his gate!'
The line is written. Was that his all,
And did that all exhaust his love?
'Nay, nay, write on, while the night-birds call:
‘He gave his soul to his God above’!'
Say on; for in so rich a vein
More gold lay waiting to be proved.
' 'T was so! Write this, and write it plain:
‘He gave his heart to the wife he loved’!'
What more? 'What more dost thou require?
What more was left to give or take?
Yet more there was. Write this in fire:
‘He gave his life for his country's sake’!'
'Last gift of all, with courage fine,
Though far from stars that watched his birth.
He fell. Write then this final line:
‘He gave his clay to the aliens' earth’!'
poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Pen And The Album
'I am Miss Catherine's book,' the album speaks;
'I've lain among your tomes these many weeks;
I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks.
'Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace:
Come! draw me off a funny little face;
And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place.'
PEN.
'I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen;
I've served him three long years, and drawn since then
Thousands of funny women and droll men.
'O Album! could I tell you all his ways
And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days,
Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!'
ALBUM.
'His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a few;
Tell me a curious anecdote or two,
And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!'
PEN.
'Since he my faithful service did engage
To follow him through his queer pilgrimage,
I've drawn and written many a line and page.
'Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes,
And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes;
And merry little children's books at times.
'I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain;
The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain;
The idle word that he'd wish back again.
. . . . . .
'I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread;
To joke with sorrow aching in his head;
And make your laughter when his own heart bled.
'I've spoke with men of all degree and sort—
Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court;
Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport!
'Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago,
Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow,
Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low;
'Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball,
Tradesman's polite reminders of his small
Account due Christmas last—I've answered all.
'Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half-
Guinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph;
So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,
'Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff.
Day after day still dipping in my trough,
And scribbling pages after pages off.
'Day after day the labor's to be done,
And sure as comes the postman and the sun,
The indefatigable ink must run.
. . . . .
'Go back, my pretty little gilded tome,
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!
'Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,
However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it.
'Kind lady! till my last of lines is penn'd,
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,
Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!
'Not all are so that were so in past years;
Voices, familiar once, no more he hears;
Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.
'So be it:—joys will end and tears will dry—
Album! my master bids me wish good-by,
He'll send you to your mistress presently.
'And thus with thankful heart he closes you;
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew
So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
'Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
Stranger! I never writ a flattery,
Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie.'
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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At that time, I had recently finished a book called Amazing Grace, which many people tell me is a very painful book to read. Well, if it was painful to read, it was also painful to write. I had pains in my chest for two years while I was writing that book.
quote by Jonathan Kozol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0004 Rilke to a Young Poet 1
There is only one single way. Go into yourself.
Search for the reason that bids you write;
find out whether it is spreading out its roots
in the deepest places of your heart,
acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die
if it were denied to you to write.
This above all - ask yourself
in the stillest hour of your night:
MUST I write?
Delve into yourself for a deep answer.
And if this is 'Yes! I must! '
then build your life according to this necessity;
your life, even within its most indifferent and slightest hour
must be a sign of this urge
and a testimony to it.
Then draw near to Nature.
Then try, like some first human being,
to say what you see and experience and love and lose.
Do not write love-poems;
avoid at first those forms that are too facile and commonplace:
they are the most difficult, for
it takes a great, fully matured power
to give something of your own
where good and even excellent traditions
come to mind in quantity.
Therefore save yourself from these general themes
and seek those which your own everyday life offers you;
describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts and
the belief in some sort of beauty -
describe all these with loving, quiet, humble sincerity,
and use, to express yourself,
the things in your environment,
the images from your dreams,
and the objects of your memory.
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it;
blame yourself, tell yourself that
you are not poet enough to call forth its riches;
for to the creator there is no poverty
and no poor indifferent place.
Go into yourself and test the deeps
in which your life takes rise;
at its source you will find the answer to the question,
whether you must create.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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The seduction of amour
In this silent hour I write
Where time stands motionless
And my words speak of you
In the love of a dream they read
It is to you and your beauty
My heart now bleeds
For a single kiss I would die
A thousand deaths or more
For only then will I have known
This feeling of life and love
To which my heart eternally calls
I swear there is no such beauty
Which could compare with you
That shall stand for as long
As my heart beats true
In this nameless silent hour
I write only of you, you alone
The seducer of my heart
Found in the love of my dreams
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Write Me
Aerosmith
Write Me
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
I said, the ways of the night are evil with eyes that love the day,
but I'll never never never never never get so far away.
I said write me, write me, write me.
I said write me, write me, write me.
Well there's nothin' I can see that'd ever make
me want to be without her she's good, she's good to me.
Said there's no way to explain the kind of feeling
that you get out in the rain she's good, she's good to me.
See this emptiness inside it makes me scream
it make me crawl out of my high, she's good, she's good to me.
I love her.
Write me a letter, write me a letter, write it today, I'm goin' away.
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
Well I've been so many places hidin' from the wind and the rain,
But you could write me a letter for to save me from a goin' insane.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Don't write me baby.
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Book
If I write a book,
Would I approach
You to write its
Review?
Why?
If my book is
Worth reading,
Wouldn't you be
Tempted to write
Its review?
Why should I
Use you for its
Marketing and
Publicity?
If you like my book,
You'll yourself feel like
Sharing with everybody
It's an instinct
That comes
Naturally…
We believe in
Loving and giving,
And so if we genuinely
Like something,
We'll recommend it
Or choose it for gifting
So if I write a book,
I'll never beseech you
To write its review
I would rather wait
For you to feel free
To read it and perhaps
Write its review…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Nottingham By Night
My dream began that midnight hour, my spirit soared on high
And midst such wonder and such power I flew across the sky...
As if an angel, blessed with wings, with supernatural eyes,
I paused to ponder precious things with wisdom oh so wise...
For there upon the Earth below, a hundred thousand souls
Were shining brightly, all aglow, with love that overflows...
That pours out sweetly, just like wine, with kindness everywhere,
Inspired by God's love divine, each showed by what they share...
As I flew over, street-by-street, the hopes inside me grew,
For I saw people gently meet with words like, 'I love you! '
'But, Lord! ' I prayed, 'This prophecy as yet is unfulfilled...
Until You show them Calvary, no faith has been instilled...'
I heard the Lord reply in kind, as clear, as clear as day!
With holy scriptures to remind that Jesus is The Way...
'It's up to them! Each has a choice! As adults, they seek love,
Yet even little girls and boys can pray to God above...'
'What can I do to spread the Word? ' I asked the Lord again,
For by this dream my heart was stirred, so God gave me a pen...
'Write down the tenderness you've seen! The love that all could own!
The good, the bad and all between, such that these truths are known! '
That's why I share my dream today, with readers here and there
And why I'm much more prone to pray now I've been made aware...
Some souls are lost! Some souls are found! Dreams give us new insight.
A hundred thousand souls surround this poet day and night...
Denis Martindale, copyright, June 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Chornicles of a Dark Heart Part 16 The open book's monologue
Red what is it to you black the color of death? maybe maybe not? anyone here play video games? FOR CHAOS? ring any bells help spread the taint more quickly? what might an open book write
what would a open book draw
what would an open book think
open books are predictable
so predict what the picture means
why is black black? why is red O infused? what is the meaning only you know maybe only me...
(added years later)
Maybe I'm the book, and maybe you're the reader
but who is you? is it not everyone
since I'm open, for all to point at laugh at, out of malice or for fun
because they know my thoughts, they know i love her? !
what did i do?
i never said i love you! ! !
how can they know?
how did i reap what i did now sow? !
The worst part
about being an open book,
is an open book can't close itself, can't have a heart
anyone can know all from just one look
there seems to be something wrong with being too open and honest
but it's too late a book can't close itself
can't move by its own accord to a shelf
an open book can never rest
so now I'm the book, so since im there just read
just read.... and watch my heart, my purpose, my soul, my life, me
watch.... watch them bleed
poem by David Knox
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Forgotten Prose
I belong to a book discussion group at our local library. There are about a dozen of us
that meet once a month and discuss a book that we all agreed (voted) to read. At each
meeting, I am usually the oldest participant and I have noticed that our individual tastes
for prose varies exceedingly.
Myself, I prefer the Classics. The others prefer the modernists’ works of prose.
Consequently, due to our democratic process, my choices rarely are voted for.
Anyway, the situation inspired me to compose a sonnet for all the great forgotten prose of
yesteryear.
On dusty shelves the books of dated time
Have stood for years. Abandoned, slighted lore
Those years before were favorite pastime
Discussion topics, literati lords
Adored. Among the seasoned aging tomes,
A rather large imposing book secured
It’s stately charm amongst the few unknowns.
The title slightly injured and obscured.
Author and faithful readers long ago
Deceased, along with fragmentary bits
Of time. Until uncovered, read to know
About its past distinction, this poet
Aroused, composed a special poem for it.
It’s often called: Shakespearean sonnet.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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I never thought I'd be a writer. I never thought I'd be able to read a book, let alone write one. So if books like this inspire kids to write, or even read a whole book, I think it's good.
quote by Don Novello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marigold: Gloria Swansong
(sylvester / clarke)
The book I bought yesterday
I started to read
I found a small marigold
Pressed between leaves
And in that small marigold,
Well, I found a note
Saying, please wont you write to me
cause Im so alone
So Im going to write back today
Yes, Im going to write right away
I started dear marigold,
Not knowing her name
I just had to write to you
cause I feel the same
You sound like the marigold
That I found today
The beauty was there to be found
But fading away
So Im writing to you today
Yes, Im writing to you right away
As I started writing,
Well what can I say
I got to thinking
Where are you today
Brown leather cover,
Ripped, tattered, and torn
Its been such a long, long time
Since the flower was born
Theres no need to write back today
Im not going write right away
Just like a swan she is gliding,
Drifting from here unto there
She has no thoughts of dying,
Winter does not mean despair
Warm summer nights left behind her,
Thinking of things that shes done
Once were her friends all around her,
But now she is only one
Swan, swan keep your feet off the ground
Keep flying around
Its lonely youve found
You were left on your own
You didnt do right
Not to take off and fly
When your friends left that night
Chorus
Someday I know youll see something
That will bring back the memories of gold
Youll meet the friends that did leave you
No more to be left in the cold
And just like a swan youll be gliding,
Drifting from here unto there
Youll have no thoughts of dying
cause winter did not mean despair
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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