To Epicharmus
Read these lines to Epicharmus. They are Dorian as was he
The sire of Comedy.
Of his proper self bereavèd, Bacchus, unto thee we rear
His brazen image here;
We in Syracuse who sojourn, elsewhere born. Thus much we can
Do for our countryman,
Mindful of the debt we owe him. For, possessing ample store
Of legendary lore,
Many a wholesome word, to pilot youths and maids thro' life, he spake:
We honour him for their sake.
poem by Theocritus
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Related quotes
Antipholus of Syracuse: Why, but there's many a man hath more hair than wit.
Dromio of Syracuse: Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.
line from The Comedy of Errors, Act II, Scene 2, script by William Shakespeare (1594)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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In San Lorenzo
Is thine hour come to wake, O slumbering Night?
Hath not the Dawn a message in thine ear?
Though thou be stone and sleep, yet shalt thou hear
When the word falls from heaven--Let there be light.
Thou knowest we would not do thee the despite
To wake thee while the old sorrow and shame were near;
We spake not loud for thy sake, and for fear
Lest thou shouldst lose the rest that was thy right,
The blessing given thee that was thine alone,
The happiness to sleep and to be stone:
Nay, we kept silence of thee for thy sake
Albeit we knew thee alive, and left with thee
The great good gift to feel not nor to see;
But will not yet thine Angel bid thee wake?
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Bereavement
Do not get tired from grief as you are bereaved,
And bereavement is relief as you are bereaved.
Do certainty on the scene of writing, when all is leisure
And certain people believe in their belief as you are bereaved.
Does your mind seem a container of science and sea?
Then let feelings go, let them reside away from the thief as you are bereaved.
Does your partner know why marriage is sacred and solid?
Then see him or her with a measure of truth as the chief as you are bereaved.
May surrendering accomplish the goal of a life-time,
May I wish you all the best with your disbelief as you are bereaved.
Let Time fly, let innocence mend the tattered cloths and dress and uniform,
For when a person dies he or she is abject and very brief, as you are bereaved.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A Sweet Contention Between Love, His Mistress, And Beauty
Love and my mistress were at strife
Who had the greatest power on me:
Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
Nay, what a death is this to be!
She said, she did it with her eye;
He said, he did it with his dart;
Betwixt them both (a silly wretch!)
'Tis I that have the wounded heart.
She said, she only spake the word
That did enchant my peering sense;
He said, he only gave the sound
That enter'd heart without defence.
She said, her beauty was the mark
That did amaze the highest mind;
He said, he only made the mist
Whereby the senses grew so blind.
She said, that only for her sake,
The best would venture life and limb:
He said, she was too much deceiv'd;
They honour'd her because of him.
Long while, alas, she would not yield,
But it was she that rul'd the roost;
Until by proof, she did confess,
If he were gone, her joy was lost.
And then she cried, 'Oh, dainty love,
I now do find it is for thee,
That I am lov'd and honour'd both,
And thou hast power to conquer me.'
But, when I heard her yield to love,
Oh! how my heart did leap for joy!
That now I had some little hope
To have an end to mine annoy!
But, as too soon, before the field
The trumpets sound the overthrow,
So all too soon I joy'd too much,
For I awaked, and nothing saw.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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My Twenty Lines
I just read this poem about using just twenty lines,
and it brought these words to my mind.
Who are they to tell us how many lines we should use to speak?
This is America where we have a law known as freedom of speech.
Just twenty lines tell you something about my life in words.
To me that seem completely absurd.
My life is much more than just twenty lines.
Hell I am thirty nine.
And if they except me to sum up thirty nine years in twenty lines
They are complete outside their minds.
How am I suppose to tell you how I nearly died when I was child?
Or how my mother harsh words took away my smile:
In just twenty lines?
Like I said they must be out of their minds.
I guest I can do if I shorten my life.
I don't have to talk about how much I love my future wife.
But her love is the inspiration for a lot of my poems.
So to not talk about her would be wrong.
I have a lot more to say but I'm out of time.
I reach my limit of my twenty lines.
There was so long from when we did the pilot and then when the show was eventually picked up by Comedy Central - and, in fact, we had to shoot the pilot twice.
quote by Thomas Lennon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There's a lot of comedy in Intermission but it's got this depth. It's not comedy for comedy's sake - it's informed by something else. I like stuff like that.
quote by Cillian Murphy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Out Of The Confines Of Definitions
They wish to define soliloquies,
As a dramatic monologue...
Spoken in a reflection,
By one who rambles in prose.
You know...
Those who profess to be 'scholars'.
AND...
Degreed!
They wish to 'confine' poetry,
As a delivery of lines...
For those who believe,
They have an expertise...
Of what they perceive,
Is an etiquette definition of poetry.
Something, of course...
That elevates the nature of it,
To proper standards that are elite.
Well...
When I receive an image,
And it is written to create an effect.
I am not the one to count lines...
With a caring done if it has rhythm or rhyme.
If I am emotionally affected and what I read connects,
The author of what I read that touches me...
Could be a literary genius!
Or someone considered out of their mind.
And most times,
People who create are just that.
Out of the confines of definitions,
To create their own.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What is Christianity (Catholicism) ?
To live a Catholic life
In an alien land!
To be witness for Christ,
And join the martyrs’ band.
To suffer for Christ’s sake,
And offer them to God;
To bear our cross and walk
In footsteps of the Lord.
To live upto our faith,
No matter how comes strife;
To live with hope in Christ
Is prime in Christian’s life.
To be persecuted
For sake of Christ is true;
And being ill-treated,
The Almighty, we woo.
To read the Word of God
As Bible’s verses tell;
To mitigate our rod,
And never land in hell.
To spread the Word of God
To every person born;
To die a holy death,
And God’s abode adorn.
The road to God is clear
Narrow and only one;
With God, why should we fear?
His love gave us His Son.
To turn a martyr then
For faith and sake of Christ;
If need be, we will die
As Christ shed His blood first!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-15-2009
poem by John Celes
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Requital
As Islam's Prophet, when his last day drew
Nigh to its close, besought all men to say
Whom he had wronged, to whom he then should pay
A debt forgotten, or for pardon sue,
And, through the silence of his weeping friends,
A strange voice cried: 'Thou owest me a debt,'
'Allah be praised!' he answered. 'Even yet
He gives me power to make to thee amends.
O friend! I thank thee for thy timely word.'
So runs the tale. Its lesson all may heed,
For all have sinned in thought, or word, or deed,
Or, like the Prophet, through neglect have erred.
All need forgiveness, all have debts to pay
Ere the night cometh, while it still is day.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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If You Read These Lines This Morning
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines that are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
i, who is nothing to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who You Are To Me
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ivan The Czar
He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty Czar;
Lonely, tho' princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war:
He had cast his jewell'd sabre,
That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead,
His fair and first-born son.
With a robe of ermine for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed,
Thro' the rich tent made way:
And a sad and solemn beauty
On the pallid face came down,
Which the Lord of nations mutely watch'd,
In the dust, with his renown.
Low tones at last of wo and fear
From his full bosom broke;–
A mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke!
The voice that thro' the combat
Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burden'd with agony.
'There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath,
I call thee, and thou dost not speak–
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done–
For the honour of thy father's name,
Look up, look up, my son!
'Well might I know death's hue and mien,
But on thine aspect, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen
Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,
And bravest there of all–
How could I think a warrior's frame
Thus like a flower should fall?
'I will not bear that still, cold look–
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindling eyes!
Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, arise!
'Didst thou not know I lov'd thee well?
Thou didst not! and art gone
In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart,
That seem'd to thee so stern.
'Thou wert the first, the first, fair child,
That in mine arms I press'd;
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smil'd
Like summer on my breast!
I rear'd thee as an eagle,
To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee–dead!
'Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs! in my first-born's grave!
And leave me!–I have conquer'd,
I have slain–my work is done!
Whom have I slain?–ye answer not–
Thou too art mute, my son!'
And thus his wild lament was pour'd
Thro' the dark resounding night,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sigh'd;
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank–
Humbly the conqueror died.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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With Wishes To Live A Wholesome Life
One addicted,
To the foolishness...
Of someone else,
As if hooked to a need...
Deserves to be abused.
If...
This is excused.
No one is born to do this,
As if a prerequisite...
To live a wholesome life.
One with wishes to live a wholesome life,
Let's it known and quick...
Disrespect accepted,
They will have none of it.
Or tolerate its appearance when shown.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Variations Upon Love
I
For God's sake, let me love you, and give over
These tedious protestations of a lover;
We're of one mind to love, and there's no let:
Remember that, and all the rest forget.
And let's be happy, mistress, while we may,
Ere yet to-morrow shall be called to-day.
To-morrow may be heedless, idle-hearted:
One night's enough for love to have met and parted.
Then be it now, and I'll not say that I
In many several deaths for you would die;
And I'll not ask you to declare that you
Will longer love than women mostly do.
Leave words to them whom words, not doings, move,
And let our silence answer for our love.
II
Oh, woman! I am jealous of the eyes
That look upon you; all my looks are spies
That do but lurk and follow you about,
Restless to find some guilty secret out.
I am unhappy if I see you not,
Unhappy if I see you; tell me what
That smile betokens? what close thing is hid
Beneath the half-way lifting of a lid?
Who is it, tell me, I so dread to meet,
Just as we turn the corner of the street?
Daily I search your baffling eyes to see
Who knows what new admitted company?
And, sick with dread to find the thing I seek,
I tremble at the name you do not speak.
III
I know your lips are bought like any fruit;
I know your love, and of your love the root;
I know your kisses toll for love that dies
In kissing, to be buried in your eyes;
I know I am degraded for your sake,
And that my shame will not so much as make
Your glory, or be reckoned in the debt
Of memories you are mindful to forget.
All this I know, and, knowing it, I come
Delighted to my daily martyrdom;
And, rich in love beyond the common store,
Become for you a beggar, to implore
The broken crumbs that from your table fall,
Freely, in your indifference, on all.
IV
I loved her; and you say she loved me not.
Well, if I loved her? And if she forgot,
Well, I have not forgotten even yet:
Time, and spent tears, may teach me to forget.
And so she loves another, and did then
When she was heaven and earth to me, and when,
Truly, she made me happy. It may be:
I only know how good she was to me.
Friend, to have loved, to have been made happy thus,
What better fate has life in store for us,
The dream of life from which we have to wake,
Happier, why not? why not for a dream's sake?
To have been loved is well, and well enough
For any man: but 'tis enough to love.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Damocles
I am contended with being the courtier
of great Dionysius,
ruler of Syracuse
and with my solitude
and the glory of God and king
hunger, war, poverty
and natural catastrophe
has avoided me
but when talking out of turn
of the joy, grandeur and luxury
that my Sire enjoys
he invited me as an honoured guest
to a great party
and a banquet table was set
with the best food
that any man could desire
and charming beautiful maids
were serving, as if I were the king
and something strange was happening.
My eye caught a light reflected
on the silver wine cup
and when I looked up
a piercing sharp sword
swayed on the slight breeze
hanging on a single horsehair
above my head
and then I knew dread.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Interactive
I write some lines and you read each word
A word excites you and you take it up to
Seed your fields where you grow your own
Shrubbery of words with tendrils climbing
I look at your garden of words and there is
This word growing into a flower attracting
Me I pick it up this sensual flower and I
Seed it in the lines of my mind now another
Bunch of words like ripe grapes I take one
Swallow it and savor the taste of its sweetness
More lines of words in my throat sliding
Through the lining of my esophagus so smooth
Going straight inside the veins leading to my heart
Sweet, so sweet I could have written the usual
Lines of “ I love you, I miss you” but I couldn’t
There is this roadblock, this writer’s block
The lines stopped, the words are stunted
I stutter, I retreat to my eyes, to see
The face of this woman I love, her eyes
Are gentle, she smiles at me, and waits
For this beautiful silence that gives her life
You stand there, looking for a hint, another
Word to seed the lines waiting to be written.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When do a daughters duties cease storypoem
When do a daughters duties cease?
Wilt thou remain immaculate?
enamoured of the virgin state.
Remain always inviolate.
Art thou so sure this is thy fate?
Wilt thou reject matrimony
to moulder in some nunnery
Thou shouldst consider carefully
What such a future holds for thee.
Or is it as thy sire says.
That passing time will change thy ways
Endowing thee with greater grace.
Prepared to take thy rightful place.
Thy sire hath great plans for thee.
To see thee married happily
accepted by society.
This the future he can see.
Forget thy childish fantasy
Thou clingest to so stubbornly.
A cloistered life is not for thee
Thou lovest not austerity.
He now accepts regretfully
he overspent outrageously
To get thee wed successfully
The price of pride is penury.
To have a titled son in law
Won’t keep the bailiff from the door.
Nor satisfy his creditors
who hound him now without remorse.
Is it beneath thy dignity
to make some small enquiry.
To find out how thy father fares
Try to relieve him of his cares.
Thou livest now in luxury
whilst he must live in poverty
Hast thou forgot so easily
All that thy sire did for thee.
Although he acted foolishly
All that he did he did for thee.
He well deserves thy gratitude
and not thy thoughtless attitude.
Thou art a titled lady now
Perhaps thy husband will allow
thee to show thy sire the respect
he is entitled to expect.
Restore his fortunes so he can
although a sadder wiser man.
Again hold up his head with pride.
I pray that thou wilt so decide.
If not for love for charity
He seeketh not thy sympathy.
Nor does he seek for recompense
He did it all for love of thee.
The lady acted with all speed
she and her husband both agreed.
Her sire should reside with them
It was the perfect stratagem.
She thought her sire could agree
and still retain his dignity
and so it was she could repay
her father’s kindness in this way.
Is there a moral to this tale
or do I write to no avail.
I do not know you must decide
Was honour truly satisfied?
17/07/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Prayerful Promise
As you lie yourself down, for much-deserved sleep
Be e'er mindful, my love, of this promise I shall keep:
I shall by the beacon, which protects and does guide you-
E'er mindful of the place you keep, I shall only walk beside you!
Lest you forget thine own beauty, I shall always remind thee:
From the moment, first we met, adoration entwined me!
Ne'er have thee been absent, in my heart you were guarded-
So too, for my life, entire, to you, this shall e'er be imparted!
I shall be your confidant, your soul's mate, your shoulder
Upon which you may cry! In times of crisis, your boulder!
Ne'er shall thee want for else, all your needs fulfilled, my volition-
Rest not shall I, e'er, e'en as my call comes to wondrous fruition!
Promise though of most import, is that of my fidelity, abiding-
Though these shall to the world, obviate-only in you am I confiding!
Maurice Harris,29 October 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
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Death
Nothing Changes For Us,
When Someone Else Dies.
Throughout the World,
At this Point of Time -
A Bereaved One Cries...
---------
Reflecting the Reality that there may be scores of Deaths taking place at a given point of time around the Globe, but it hardly affects our diurnal routine, except shattering the lives of their near 'n' dear ones who they leave behind.
The Sun, the Moon, the stars and the sky - they all remain the same for us, rising and setting everyday, and our life goes on as usual with our school, office and home routines, except for those bereaved persons mourning the loss of their loved ones - their life catapults them to an entirely new dimension of existence.
Hard to Live on - yet struggling to survive...for the sake of their progeny and dependents.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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