On A Certain Poets Judgement Between Mr Pope & Mr Philips Don In An Italian Air
Upon a time, and in a place,
With Pan Apollo playd,
Grave Midas sat to Judge ye case,
And Pan ye Victour made.
The Rustick to his Fauns withdrew;
Whilst on ye silver wing
Sweet Phœbus for Parnassus flew
To hear his Homer sing.
Yet ere he went to Midas said,
Ile fitt you for your Jears,
So took two leaves from off his head,
And stuck them in his ears.
Tis hence he thinks the bays his own,
And hence it comes to pass
That as we think his ears are grown
We sooner find the Ass.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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King Midas In Reverse
The Hollies
King Midas In Reverse
(Allan Clarke/Tony Hicks/but mainly Graham Nash)
Single release 1967
If you could only see me
I know exactly where I am
You wouldn't want to be me
Oh, I can assure you of that
I'm not the guy to run with
'Cos I'll throw you off the line
I'll break you and destroy you
Given time.
He's King Midas with a curse
He's King Midas in reverse
He's King Midas with a curse
He's King Midas in reverse
It's plain to see it's hopeless
Going on the way we are
So even though I'd lose you
You'd be better off by far
He's not the man to hold your trust
Everything he touches turns to dust
In his hands
Nothing he can do is right
He'd even like to sleep at night
But he can't.
{Interlude with 'all he touches turns to dust' 4x}
I wish someone would find me
And help me gain control
Before I lose my reason
And my soul
He's King Midas with a curse
He's King Midas in reverse
He's King Midas with a curse (all he touches turns to dust)
He's King Midas in reverse (all he touches turns to dust)
{fade out}
He's King Midas with a curse (all he touches turns to dust)
He's King Midas in reverse (all he touches turns to dust)
He's King Midas with a curse....
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fable Of Midas
Midas, we are in story told,
Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold:
He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round
Glitter'd like spangles on the ground:
A codling, ere it went his lip in,
Would straight become a golden pippin.
He call'd for drink; you saw him sup
Potable gold in golden cup:
His empty paunch that he might fill,
He suck'd his victuals thro' a quill.
Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders,
Or't had been happy for gold-finders:
He cock'd his hat, you would have said
Mambrino's helm adorn'd his head;
Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay
On magazines of corn or hay,
Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead
Of paltry provender and bread;
Hence, we are by wise farmers told
Old hay is equal to old gold:
And hence a critic deep maintains
We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains.
This fool had got a lucky hit;
And people fancied he had wit,
Two gods their skill in music tried
And both chose Midas to decide:
He against Ph[oelig]bus' harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed:
The god of wit, to show his grudge,
Clapt asses' ears upon the judge,
A goodly pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither gild nor hide.
And now the virtue of his hands
Was lost among Pactolus' sands,
Against whose torrent while he swims
The golden scurf peels off his limbs:
Fame spreads the news, and people travel
From far, to gather golden gravel;
Midas, exposed to all their jeers,
Had lost his art, and kept his ears.
This tale inclines the gentle reader
To think upon a certain leader;
To whom, from Midas down, descends
That virtue in the fingers' ends.
What else by perquisites are meant,
By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.?
By places and commissions sold,
And turning dung itself to gold?
By starving in the midst of store,
As t'other Midas did before?
None e'er did modern Midas chuse
Subject or patron of his muse,
But found him thus their merit scan,
That Phoebus must give place to Pan:
He values not the poet's praise,
Nor will exchange his plums for bays.
To Pan alone rich misers call;
And there's the jest, for Pan is ALL.
Here English wits will be to seek,
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.
Besides, it plainly now appears
Our Midas, too, has ass's ears:
Where every fool his mouth applies,
And whispers in a thousand lies;
Such gross delusions could not pass
Thro' any ears but of an ass.
But gold defiles with frequent touch,
There's nothing fouls the hand so much;
And scholars give it for the cause
Of British Midas' dirty paws;
Which, while the senate strove to scour,
They wash'd away the chemic power.
While he his utmost strength applied,
To swim against this popular tide,
The golden spoils flew off apace,
Here fell a pension, there a place:
The torrent merciless imbibes
Commissions, perquisites, and bribes,
By their own weight sunk to the bottom;
Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em!
And Midas now neglected stands,
With ass's ears, and dirty hands.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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To Mr. H. Lawes on His Airs
Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas’ ears, committing short and long,
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.
Thou honour’st Verse, and Verse must lend her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Phœbus’ quire,
That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.
poem by John Milton
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Midas Touches
This I will handle in another way.
To keep the scent fresh and away from decay.
Like a new hip beat,
That...
Will move your feet.
And...
Up on your list.
I want this lifted.
To crush all fussing.
With a must that's hushed!
You need that midas...
Touch that rushes!
You know it's needed.
And I'm here to feed it.
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Don't blush and gush.
I'm gonna give that midas rush.
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Don't blush and gush.
I'm gonna give that midas rush.
This I will handle in another way.
To keep the scent fresh and away from decay.
Like a new hip beat,
That...
Will move your feet.
And...
You need that midas...
Touch that rushes!
You know it's needed.
And I'm here to feed it.
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Don't blush and gush.
I'm gonna give that midas rush.
You need that midas...
Touch,
That rushes!
You know it's needed.
And I'm here to feed it.
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Don't blush and gush.
I'm gonna give that midas rush.
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Like a new hip beat,
That...
Will move your feet.
And...
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Like a new hip beat,
That...
Will move your feet.
And...
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Don't rush or cuss...
With a fussing that doesn't do much!
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Like a new hip beat,
That...
Will move your feet.
And...
Needed...
Are my midas touches.
Don't rush or cuss...
With a fussing that doesn't do much!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Poparazzi
tune
tune for the poparazzi
tune for the poparazzi
this is a tune the poparazzi
the who's who and the so and so's
this is a tune for the graven images of marilyn monroe
we saw your face on the magazine
we heard the song on the mp3
you're stuck in my head
stuck in my head
stuck in my head
you can close your ears and your eyes
but the pop will never leave you alone
tune for the poparazzi
leave me alone
with your social lingo
you try so hard to stay on top
leave me alone
with your little jingle
with your picture perfect pop
we read the article in seventeen
we saw the video on mtv
you're stuck in my head
stuck in my head
stuck in my head
you can close your ears and your eyes
but the pop will never leave you alone
pop will never leave you alone
noooo
this is a tune for the late nirvana
the teen spirit rock and roll
this is a tune for the velvet elvis's
on the 90210
i thought my eyes were gonna get off clean
till i read your lips on the tv screen
you were busy saying what you didn't mean
now everyone is singing along with your ridiculous song
you got it stuck you
got it stuck in my head
stuck in my head
stuck in my head
you can close your ears and your eyes
you can close your ears and your eyes
but the pop will never leave you alone
tune for the poparazzi
tune for the poparazzi
song performed by by Switchfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Lake
ACROSS the flat and the pastel snow
Two people go . . . . 'And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?' . . . 'Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December.'
'Dead, the leaves that like asses's ears hung on the trees
When last we wandered and squandered joy here;
Now Midas your husband will listen for these
Whispers--these tears for joy's bier.'
And as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
And all the ropes let down from the cloud
Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees--codas
Of overtones, ecstasies, grown for love's shroud
poem by Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell
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A Song Of Roses
'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow,
To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low,
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.
One song for true love's roses of sweetest deepest red,
Some heart will wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled,
And for the white rose sing a song--the white rose for the dead.
And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold,
King Midas must have touched their leaves in mystic days of old,
Or they were made of sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold.
And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee
And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee,
You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.
'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow!
They come again, as sweet, my dear, as those of long ago.
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here you know.
poem by Virna Sheard
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The inner magnet sings like flower to bee, like bee to flower
The inner magnet sings
like flower to bee; like bee to flower -
Some traditions say, that
we all have an inner sound; which
we can train; or can leave it be..
as gold for Midas; Midas, so, for gold;
and this, it's said, calls pupil to their teacher;
teacher to their pupil; it is
that yearning to know more
that draws the two to unity;
anmd so the holy men
show no surprise to see you there
(unsure, nonplussed, and wondering..)
at their holy feet which are not theirs..
holy chicken, holy egg...
so here I sit, pen down, and silent, still,
loving this idea; asking nothing;
treasuring, now, this sound
I cannot hear as yet;
and yet, may be as loud
as pindropp silence in the heart:
the lovely sound
of listening itself.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet 13
XIII
To Mr. H. Lawes, on his Aires.
Harry whose tuneful and well measur'd Song
First taught our English Musick how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas Ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man,
That with smooth aire couldst humor best our tongue
Thou honour'st Verse, and Verse must send her wing
To honour thee, the Priest of Phoebus Quire
That tun'st their happiest lines in Hymn or Story
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Then his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.
Note: 9 send] lend Cambridge Autograph MS.
poem by John Milton
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Phœbus Apollo
Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, who are shorn of contempt and pride,
Humbled and crushed in a world gone wrong since the smoke on thine altars died;
Hear us, Lord of the morning, King of the Eastern Flame,
Dawn on our doubts and darkness and the night of our later shame!
There are strange gods come among us, of passion, and scorn, and greed;
They are throned in our stately cities, our sons at their altars bleed:
The smoke of their thousand battles hath blinded thy children’s eyes,
And our hearts are sick for a ruler that answers us not with lies,
Sick for thy light unblemished, great fruit of Latona’s pain—
Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!
Our eyes, of earth grown weary, through the backward ages peer,
Till, wooed by our eager craving, the scent of thy birth grows clear
And across the calm Ægean, gray-green in the early morn,
We hear the cry of the circling swans that salute the god new-born—
The challenge of mighty Python, the song of thy shafts that go
Straight to the heart of the monster, sped from the loosened bow.
Again through the vale of Tempe a magical music rings
The songs of the marching muses, the ripple of fingered strings!
But this is our dreaming only; we wait for a stronger strain:
Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!
There are some among us, Diviner, who know not thy way or will,
Some of thy rebel children who bow to the strange gods still;
Some that dream of oppression, and many that dream of gold,
Whose ears are deaf to the music that gladdened the world of old.
But we, the few and the faithful, we are weary of wars unjust,
There is left no god of our thousand gods that we love, believe, or trust;
In our courts is justice scoffed at, in our senates gold has sway,
And the deeds of our priests and preachers make mock of the words they say!
Cardinals, kings, and captains, there is left none fit to reign:
Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!
We have hearkened to creeds unnumbered, we have given them trial and test,
And the creed of thy Delphic temple is still of them all the best;
Thy clean-limbed, lithe disciples, slender, and strong, and young,
The swing of their long processions, the lilt of the songs they sung,
Thine own majestic presence, pursuing the nymph of dawn,
In thy chariot eastward blazing, by the swans and griffons drawn;
The spell of thy liquid music, once heard in the speeding year: —
These are the things, Great Archer, that we yearn to see and hear,
For beside thy creed untarnished all others are stale and vain!
Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!
Monarch of light and laughter, honor, and trust, and truth,
God of all inspiration, King of eternal youth,
Whose words are fitted to music as jewels are set in gold,
There is need of thy splendid worship in a world grown grim and old!
We have drunk the wine of the ages, we are come to the dregs and lees,
And the shrines are all unworthy where we bend reluctant knees;
The brand of the beast is on us, we grovel, and grope, and err,
Wake, Great god of the Morning, the moment has come to stir!
The stars of our night of evil on a wan horizon wane: —
Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Those Sweet Words
What did you say?
I know I saw you singing
But my ears won't stop ringing
Long enough to hear
Those sweet words
What did you say?
End of the day
The hour hand has spun
And before the night is done
I just have to hear
Those sweet words
Spoken like a melody
All your love
Is a lost balloon
Rising up through the afternoon
'Til it could fit on the head of a pin
Come on in
Did you have a hard time sleeping?
Cuz the heavy moon was keeping
Me awake, and all I know is
I'm just glad to
See you again
See my love
Like a lost balloon
Rising up
Through the afternoon, and
Then you appeared
What did you say?
I know I saw you singing
But my ears won't stop ringing
Long enough to hear
Those sweet words
And your simple melody
I just have to hear
Those sweet words
Skoken like a melody
I just want to hear
Those sweet words
song performed by by Norah Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Laily Worm and the Mackerel of the Sea
"I was bat seven year alld
Fan my mider she did dee,
My father marr{.e}d the ae warst woman
The wardle did ever see.
"For she has made me the lailly worm
That lays att the fitt of the tree,
An o my sister Meassry
The machrel of the sea.
"An every Saterday att noon
The machrl comes to me,
An she takes my layl{.e} head,
An lays it on her knee,
An keames it we a silver kemm,
An washes it in the sea.
"Seven knights ha I slain
Sane I lay att the fitt of the tree;
An ye war na my ain father,
The eight an ye sud be."
"Sing on your song, ye laily worm,
That ye sung to me;"
"I never sung that song
But fatt I wad sing to ye.
"I was but seven year aull
Fan my mider she did dee,
My father marr{.e}d the a warst woman
The wardle did ever see.
"She changed me to the layely worm
That layes att the fitt of the tree,
An my sister Messry
To the makrell of the sea.
"And every Saterday att noon
The machrell comes to me,
An she takes my layly head,
An layes it on her knee,
An kames it weth a siller kame,
An washes it in the sea.
"Seven knights ha I slain
San I lay att the fitt of the tree;
An ye war na my ain father,
The eight ye sud be."
He sent for his lady
As fast as sen cod he:
"Far is my son,
That ye sent fra me,
And my daughter,
Lady Messry?"
"Yer son is att our king's court,
Sarving for meatt an fee,
And yer daughter is att our quin's court,
A mary suit an free."
"Ye lee, ye ill woman,
Sa loud as I hear ye lea,
For my son is the layelly worm
That lays at the fitt of the tree,
An my daughter Messry
The machrell of the sea."
She has tain a silver wan
An gine him stroks three,
And he started up the bravest knight
Your eyes did ever see.
She has tane a small horn
An loud an shill blue she,
An a' the fish came her tell but the proud machrell,
An she stood by the sea:
"Ye shaped me ance an unshemly shape,
And ye's never mare shape me."
He has sent to the wood
For hathorn an fun,
An he has tane that gay lady,
An ther he did her burne.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Midas touched leaves hop about
Falls crisp zephrs carry them to destination
Soon to be piles of red
haiku by Theodora Onken
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Eight Years Old
SUN, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,
Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter’s ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II.
What matters cloud or sun to-day
To him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III.
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears
The music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
Whose molten music thaws his ears
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV.
For deathward now lies winter’s way
Down the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we—the music in our ears
Made of love’s pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V.
The heart it is that plays and hears
High salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child’s ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI.
There beats not in the heart of May,
When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
So sweet a psalm as children play
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII.
Ah child, what are we, that our ears
Should hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII.
Yet we too triumph in the day
That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Please Don't Stop Loving Me When I'm Old
Our love rose with the fall of golden leaves
rough winter roots for gentle plants in spring.
It seems we were planted in earth, grew together,
and blossomed together.
When I pass, place a rose petal on my grave.
Sweet love is born out of souls; outside winds whistles;
stars and moon twinkles…All God’s handmaids.
In obedient to my heart, I entrust me to you.
Now, let’s continue on down lover’s lane,
Walking alongside grass holding
Baby shrubs on her lap.
Straining our ears we hear bird
Singing songs of praise
Reminding us of the good old days.
When clouds no longer hold the rain;
will you shower me with your love?
When my head is covered with snow;
will you forever be my beau?
When my eyes cease to be my panes
Will your arms my cane,
Please don’t stop loving me because I’m old.
poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
poem by John Keats
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Sonnet. If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
poem by John Keats
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The Donkey
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Donkey
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood,
Then surely I was born;
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Sonnet- When Old-aged?
When silver wires grow on sun-tanned head,
And creaky joints can’t bear my body’s weight;
When dizzy goes my head when up from bed,
A stooping posture lessens my true height!
When ears hear less and ‘mist’ obscures my eyes,
Edentulous, my food-tube can’t grind well;
When life’s problems have made me extra wise;
I trip with ease and smells, I cannot tell!
When bones lose calcium and then with ease crack,
A stick I need to support when I walk;
When speed of things I do has gone quite slack,
And many souls can’t find time for kind talk!
When my desires are in cold storage,
I know I must be pretty old in age!
poem by John Celes
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