The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. October
GAMBLING AT MONACO
A jewelled kingdom set impregnable
In gardens green which front the violet sea,
A happy fortress shut and guarded well,
And cradled ever on the mountain's knee:
Here Monsieur Blanc, sad prince of industry,
Has reared the palace which men call his hell:
And here in autumn days, when winds blow free,
Pleasure shall lead us to sin's citadel.
Alas for vice! Yet, who dares moralize,
In the hushed rooms, where fortune reigns alway?
Her solemn priest, with chink of coin, replies
``Messieurs, faites votre jeu. Le jeu est fait.''
Who dares be wise, lest wisdom's self be vexed?
For all who come to preach remain to play.
Nay, leave poor vice, say I, her pleasant text,
Nor grudge her Heaven in this world with the next.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Related quotes
An Apology For The Clergy,
How well these Laymen love to gibe,
And throw their Jests on Levi's Tribe!
Must One be toil'd to Death, they cry,
Whilst other Priests are yawning by?
Forgetful that He reaps the Gain,
Why should They waste their Lungs in vain?
When Men were weak enough to prize
The Christian Scheme, as good and wise,
To think there was an Heav'n and Hell;
To pray and preach did very well:
When Mortals look'd beyond the Grave,
A Priest, for Conscience sake, might slave:
But in this learned Realm and Age,
Where Faith is beaten off the Stage;
This happy Realm, where Reason reigns,
And scorns to drag Religion's Chains;
Where free--born Britons, ev'ry Day,
Sit down to feast, and rise to play;
And, since their Money buys their Meat,
Won't thank their God for what they eat;
Where e'vn some Chaplains fill their Place
Politely, without saying Grace:
If here, (where Reason swells so high,
It dares all other Pow'rs defy)
The Priests are, like the Laymen, wise,
Nor hope Reversions in the Skies;
Why should they deign to preach, or pray,
For any View -- but present Pay?
poem by Mary Barber
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Sonnet- You Can't Have Opposites
When vice and virtues are but parallel lines,
The former moves backward, latter forward;
No one can take the mixture of such wines;
No one can be both fish and also bird.
There ain't a hybrid of vice and virtues;
There ain't a place where both of them can meet;
Just one and only one, a man must choose;
You can't have Heaven's joy and Hell's great heat.
The virtuous way is like climbing a hill;
The road to vice is like slipping from one;
While God rewards Heaven as former's bill,
The latter, yields hell's eternal fire-den!
One can't be both a good and bad a man;
You try to have Heaven and hell, how can?
poem by John Celes
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X-ing Off The Days
(C.Gray)
You walk all over anyone who dares to be a friend,
Screen and yell because you deem them unenlightened,
High upon your horse you preach and preach and preach,
Love thy fellow humans all your filthy little creeps.
X-ing off the days,
X-ing off the days
I nearly broke my back as I was handing back for you,
Half the time was hell and half a waste of time,
High upon your horse you preach and preach and preach,
Love thy fellow humans all your filthy little creeps.
X-ing off the days,
X-ing off the days.
I do not know the answer to the universe I fear,
So drown me cold and go and find your perfect man my,
dear,
High upon your horse you preach and preach and preach,
Love thy fellow humans all your filthy little creeps,
X-ing off the days,
X-ing off the days.
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Room
I feel the cancer of this room
Pull me into seven circles
And entwine some ferial mood
Until my souls mercurial
This heaven is, its own made prison
Rewarding restless coloured passion
Seeping thoughts with pleasure lesions
That extinguishes my pallid talents
My mansions poor of what I'm not
A privy respect for solitude
Where wisdom learned cannot be bought
Experience from forbidden fruit
If I should drift inside my storm
That harkens to a tempest rage
Then you are free to shut the door
And leave me to my red delight
For no companions do I share
My existence or its joys
Spending time alone on dares
With my loves in silent voids
Through the window is the world
Of a place I do not see
I wish I understood the part
That made me a human being
Now I rest inside my room
And rest until my tomb
poem by Kevin Patrick
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King of Kings
Faith calls the innocent of the hearts, a disciples that
believes only the One, who pre-existed before time, the
giver of everything, who creates the immortal and the
mortal, beings, in this wonderful paradise of man
salvation birth, the renewal of that call, for the Father in
heaven awaits every faithful sons and daughters, to the
kingdom of where the citizen glorify His name, a zeal that
every soul is welcome to the place where once we are in
God's loving arms.
through baptism, we are anointed to be king, and we are
Call to be spread the gospel, the good news of salvation,
indeed the disciples of God; the Allah, the Adonai, Jesus
and the giver of life, it is a calling of priesthood to care the
poor and the lowly people of God, for to be king is to serve
the chosen one of the citizen in heaven.
now is the hour to serve, to guide, to lend our talents and
abilities, the potentials of what has given is to be shared
to the needy, to the afflicted, to the poor, who lost hope and
leave their aspiration to the one whom God chosen.
leave not every soul unturned to the gate of hell, let not
your heart harden to the call until it ends in a due time, nor
close your wisdom to answer the exploited, but rather be on
guard and protect the humble of hearts and stand for their
right to live.
Citizen in heaven, leave nothing to despair the Kings of
King in our kingdom to come......you are chosen to be
king.....anointed to be disciple and call to be the priest of
generation to come.
..........our faith leads us in our HEARTS to a call to Serve
poem by Antonio Liao
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You Have Let The Beauty Of The Day Go Over
You have let the beauty of the day go over,
You have let the glory of the noon go by.
Clouds from the West have gathered close and cover
All but a remnant now of our proud sky.
Dumbly the rain beats on our darkened faces.
Hushed are the woods. Alas, for us no bird
Shall sing to--day of pleasure in green places,
No touch shall thrill, no soul of leaves be stirred.
Why did we wait? What faith was ours in fortune?
What was our pride that fate should kneel to us?
Oh, we were fools. Love loves not to importune,
And he is silent here in this sad house.
Alas, dear love, the day for us is ended,
The pleasure of green fields, of streams, of skies.
One hour remains, one only of joy blended
With coming night. Ah, seize it ere it flies.
Draw fast the curtains. Close the door on sorrow.
Shut out the dusk. It only makes us grieve.
Here we may live a life,--and then, to--morrow,
If fate still wills it, we may take our leave.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Old & Wise
(lead vocal - colin bluntstone)
As far as my eyes can see
There are shadows approaching me
And to those I left behind
I wanted you to know
Youve always shared my deepest thoughts
You follow where I go
And oh when Im old and wise
Bitter words mean little to me
Autumn winds will blow right through me
And someday in the mist of time
When they asked me if I knew you
Id smile and say you were a friend of mine
And the sadness would be lifted from my eyes
Oh when Im old and wise
As far as my eyes can see
There are shadows surrounding me
And to those I leave behind
I want you all to know
Youve always shared my darkest hours
Ill miss you when I go
And oh, when Im old and wise
Heavy words that tossed and blew me
Like autumn winds that will blow right through me
And someday in the mist of time
When they ask you if you knew me
Remember that you were a frined of mine
As the final curtain falls before my eyes
Oh when Im old and wise
As far as my eyes can see
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Season of Change
Autumn winds gently in,
washing away Summer's sin...
Autumn winds blow free,
chasing colored leaves from every tree...
Autumn winds chill,
frosting through every valley and hill...
Autumn winds passed,
waiting for Winter's snowy blast.
poem by George Aul
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Death of an Activist
Cancer,
Harbinger of pain, anguish, frustration and agony
not limited to mortals only
footprints to be found everywhere
in the guise of
corruption, crime, scams and adulteration
tentacles are spread in the society.
Except cleansing of conscience
no cure in sight
some take the fight
against the might
one who dares to bare
death stalks everywhere
ultimately cancer wins
time and again
poor one transforming into flowered frame
rich tributes become a front page game
soon to be in oblivion
situation remaining the same
till another one dares
Alas! None cares.
------x-------
copyright reserved by Tribhawan Kaul
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Red Velvet
Four months ago in april on a daycoach she came down
And the dust autumn winds begin to blow
Shoulda known I couldnt hold livin out so far from town
And the nights to come are long are slow to go
Well now shes up and left me and when walkin down the line
And the dusty autumn wind begins to blow
All dressed up in red velvet and he high heeled shoes so fine
And the nights to come are long and slow to go
Well if I had only know before we kissed
You cant keep red velvet on a poor dirt farm like this
Oh now shes gone and left me and went walkin down the line
And the dusty autumn winds begin to blow
Well Ill sit and count the evening stars as they walk around
When the dusty autumn winds begin to blow
Then Ill call my dog and Ill take the truck and Ill drive on into town
Cause the nights to come are long and slow to go
Well Ill sit and count the evening stars as they walk around
When the dusty autumn winds begin to blow
Then Ill call my dog and Ill take the truck and Ill drive on into town
Cause the nights to come are long and slow to go
And those dusty autumn winds begin to blow
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Am Sad
I have the urge to be mad;
Mad at any one who dares me
Each time l am down and sad.
When l am sad the world with another eye l see;
Everyone for me is a stick in the mud!
Such as to make me feel so bad_
As l snarl up and about with and for no reason;
Perhaps because everything has a season:
A time to cry, to be sad, happy, smile and laugh;
And l must remember that life is tough.
Can l maintain this happiness all the days?
The answer l know l might not like;
For a myriad of problems will come l say!
What would l do when sadness strikes?
Would it help a bit to cry?
To exfoliate the hurting coat,
Shading a river of tears till eyes dry;
Sitting by the ocean and watch the boats
Go by and disappear into the fog;
With chin in hand as l alone sit on a log.
I will not forget even when l am sad,
That better days lie ahead.
It will soon for me brightly shine,
The dark cloud that looms above my head
For the pleasure that will be mine,
Will soon heed the winds and drift away;
When the sun shines l make hay,
Make merry and be happy!
When l am sad it's not the end of the world,
But just the other side that is wild.
poem by Tafadzwa Matamba
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Sonnet: Change now for your soul’s good!
Oh how time flies and how most things can change!
The ones we thought were small, appear grown up!
Everything is so different and in range;
Gone are the days together, we did sup.
The heart of man too changes with the tide;
When ‘tis for worse, then man becomes unwise;
More so when he in God does not abide;
And soul is steeped in sins, misdeeds and vice!
Alas! How longer can you live in sin?
Hell is a place from which there’s no return!
And if we can’t over the devil win;
Forev’r with him in hell, we must then burn!
Our life on Earth is for Heaven but meant;
Now is the time to think aright, repent!
poem by John Celes
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Fate plays its part.
I shall do: doing is pleasant.
I’ve to do: having done is pleasant.
I’m bound to do; doing is unpleasant.
Fortune strikes: a happy moment.
Fortune skips: an unhappy moment.
Misfortune hits: a bitter moment.
Heaven is not entirely in my hand.
Hell is not entirely my outcome.
24.09.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A cruel beast
Corruption,
A vice so loved.
The voiceless,
Suffer in its hands.
The powerful,
Feast its fruits,
Corruption,
A vice so evil.
Land,
From it emanate.
Mansions,
Like mushroom they sprout.
Cars,
Like bees they swarm.
Corruption,
A vice so evil.
Poverty,
A son to it has become,
Who,
A by-product is,
Corruption,
A vice so evil.
Mercy,
To it is rubbish,
Prosperity,
In its mind constantly dwells.
Corruption,
A vice so evil.
poem by Michael Wamalwa
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Heaven Is Hell Without You
Why don't you come here?
Why don't you see me?
Why won't you call me?
Why won't you free the inner thought?
I have not spoken
In quite a few days
But you have not answered
Have you nothing to say?
Heaven is Hell without you
Oh yes I know it is true
Heaven is Hell without you
What can I do?
You have not tried to
Reach out to see me
How can I trust you?
Long as you don't free inner thoughts
Heaven is Hell without you
Oh yes I know it is true
Heaven is Hell without you
What can I do?
Paradise falling
Into sweet demise
You cannot answer
I cannot stand the paranoia
Oh yes I know it is true
Heaven is Hell without you
poem by Pete Rivera
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Give Him Credit For Something
He wants to damage our way of life...
And the economy!
He wants to frighten us with scare tactics.
With a bombardment of truths.
And we aren't accustomed to it!
He wants to inflict us with decisions,
Unlike any made before.
He wants to remove deceit and lies.
And expose us to reality.
To leave that at our front doors.
He dares to reveal an incompetent government.
He dares to be a leader...
Choosing to use common sense.
'Don't be so hard on him!
He has yet to say anything...
About taking away your delusions.
Those he wishes you to keep.
They have been excluded.
Give him credit for something! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Realpolitik
Under the tree of learning
of another life, the primitive father arrives.
Casts a spell of wisdom, between sorrow and death
with a speck of tears in circle of beings.
But a rain-soaked serpentine path leads to a ravine.
A talisman reignites the fear of unknown.
Panic grips the roots, branches, green-leaved hopes.
Cambium stops working, cutting the flow of nutrients.
The lady of darkness descends on the boulders
of truth, piercing through the layers of light ruffling
the winds of change.
Devotees splatter the red wine on the cupped palms
of priest and ask, who was responsible
for long life of knife. No reliable intellectual
wants to become a bartender.
Nobody dares to play the Realpolitik.
poem by Satish Verma
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Blessed Are The Poor In Spirit
Did you ever understand this?
If my spirit was poor, how could I enter heaven?
Was I depressed?
Understanding editing,
I see how a comma, removed or inserted
with careful plan,
can change everything.
I was reminded of this
when a poor young man
in Tunisia
desperate to live
and humiliated for trying
set himself ablaze;
I felt uncomfortably warm
as if scalded by his shame.
I do not have to sell vegetables from a cart as he did
or live in narrow rooms too small for spacious thought;
and, at this late date,
I do not worry that someone will
remove every single opportunity
for me to thrive.
Still, I am connected to, inseparable from,
this young man.
Blessed are the poor, in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Jesus. (Commas restored) .
Jesus was as usual talking about solidarity: about how we join with others
and, in spirit, feel the world, and suffering, the same as them.
This is the kingdom of owning the other as self, the self as other;
that transforms grief into
peace and delight.
I, and you, might enter the heaven
of right here
through this door.
In this spirit, knowing we are blessed,
we might remain poor
poem by Alice Walker
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Song of the Pilgrims
O Dwellers at the back of the North Wind,
What have we done to you? How have we sinned
Wandering the Earth from Orkney unto Ind?
With many deaths our fellowship is thinned,
Our flesh is withered in the parching wind,
Wandering the earth from Orkney unto Ind.
We have no rest. We cannot turn again
Back to the world and all her fruitless pain,
Having once sought the land where ye remain.
Some say ye are not. But, ah God! we know
That somewhere, somewhere past the Northern snow
Waiting for us the red-rose gardens blow:
-The red-rose and the white-rose gardens blow
In the green Northern land to which we go,
Surely the ways are long and the years are slow.
We have forsaken all things sweet and fair,
We have found nothing worth a moment's care
Because the real flowers are blowing there.
Land of the Lotus fallen from the sun,
Land of the Lake from whence all rivers run,
Land where the hope of all our dreams is won!
Shall we not somewhere see at close of day
The green walls of that country far away,
And hear the music of her fountains play?
So long we have been wandering all this while
By many a perilous sea and drifting isle,
We scarce shall dare to look thereon and smile.
Yea, when we are drawing very near to thee,
And when at last the ivory port we see
Our hearts will faint with mere felicity:
But we shall wake again in gardens bright
Of green and gold for infinite delight,
Sleeping beneath the solemn mountains white,
While from the flowery copses still unseen
Sing out the crooning birds that ne'er have been
Touched by the hand of winter frore and lean;
And ever living queens that grow not old
And poets wise in robes of faerie gold
Whisper a wild, sweet song that first was told
Ere God sat down to make the Milky Way.
And in those gardens we shall sleep and play
For ever and for ever and a day.
Ah, Dwellers at the back of the North Wind,
What have we done to you? How have we sinned,
That yes should hide beyond the Northern wind?
Land of the Lotus, fallen from the Sun,
When shall your hidden, flowery vales be won
And all the travail of our way be done?
Very far we have searched; we have even seen
The Scythian waste that bears no soft nor green,
And near the Hideous Pass our feet have been.
We have heard Syrens singing all night long
Beneath the unknown stars their lonely song
In friendless seas beyond the Pillars strong.
Nor by the dragon-daughter of Hypocras
Nor the vale of the Devil's head we have feared to pass,
Yet is our labour lost and vain, alas!
Scouring the earth from Orkney unto Ind,
Tossed on the seas and withered in the wind,
We seek and seek your land. How have we sinned?
Or is it all a folly of the wise,
Bidding us walk these ways with blinded eyes
While all around us real flowers arise?
But, by the very God, we know, we know
That somewhere still, beyond the Northern snow
Waiting for us the red-rose gardens blow.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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Autumn Days of Nightingale
Autumn Days of Nightingale
Active and swift,
Lovable and romantic
Was the nightingale
Flown to the gardens
Wandered in the bye lanes
Bruised the feathers
Injured the wings
Neither could find green leaf
Nor couldn’t sense a flower
Disgusted and disappointed
Sitting on the dry bush
Oh nightingale,
This is the way life is
Happiness and sorrows
Pain and pleasure
Are parts of the same coin
Neither to grieve,
Nor to dismay
Patience for few days
Again the spring will spurt
With it’s beauty and rhyme
Today craving for one flower
Tomorrow you will have flowers and flowers
All around.
poem by Santosh Sharma
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