By Moschus
I slept when Venus enter'd: to my bed
A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led,
A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said:
'Shepherd, receive my little one! I bring
An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing.'
She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought,
Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught,
How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound,
How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound,
How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire
Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre.
Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded he
But ditties sang of amorous sort to me.
The pangs that mortals and immortals prove
From Venus' influence and the darts of love.
Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught;
His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot.
poem by William Cowper
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Cantata. Set By Mons. Galliard
Recit.
Beneath a verdant laurel's ample shade
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard supinely laid,
To Venus thus address'd the song;
Ten thousand little loves around,
Listening dwelt on every sound.
Ariet.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms:
Youth on silent wings is flown;
Graver years come rolling on,
Spare my age unfit for arms:
Safe and humble let me rest,
From all amorous care released.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms.
Recit.
Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair?
Why, why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh?
And why all night pursue her in my dreams
Through flowery meads and crystal streams?
Recit.
Thus sung the bard, and thus the goddess spoke:
Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke;
Every state and every age
Shall own my rule and fear my rage:
Compell'd by me, thy Muse shall prove
That all the world was born to love.
Ariet.
Bid thy destined lyre discover
Soft desire and gentle pain:
Often praise, and always love her;
Through her ear her heart obtain.
Verse shall please and sight shall move her,
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Little Teacher
At times a little teacher stands before me
With a smiling face.
And her sweet mouth speaks
Things I have never heard.
A cute girl of early teens,
A teacher of principles self imposed.
In her class I am the lone pupil
And she teaches me ever.
The chambers of my recollections past
Cry for a change perhaps,
My old teachers fade into oblivion
As my new teacher waits to steal in.
My learning is her choice
Though the subjects taught are none new.
No notes, no admonishing and no comparisons!
I begin to learn the mind of a growing child.
There arises only one question-
How long will she teach like this?
As she makes steps forward unto her tomorrows
I shall cease to be her pupil.
My steps are made as well
As the tomorrows won`t leave me alone.
Somewhere I may stand stranded with feeble feet
And the gale of ailments may begin to cross my frame.
Then I shall remember the lessons taught by you
My little teacher, my philosopher once
And I shall hold on to your kind love and care
Oh! My dear daughter, let us stop for now.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Two Idylls From Bion The Smyrnean
I
Once a fowler, young and artless,
To the quiet greenwood came;
Full of skill was he and heartless
In pursuit of feathered game.
And betimes he chanced to see
Eros perching in a tree.
'What strange bird is that, I wonder?'
Thought the youth, and spread his snare;
Eros, chuckling at the blunder,
Gayly scampered here and there.
Do his best, the simple clod
Could not snare the agile god!
Blubbering, to his aged master
Went the fowler in dismay,
And confided his disaster
With that curious bird that day;
'Master, hast thou ever heard
Of so ill-disposed a bird?'
'Heard of him? Aha, most truly!'
Quoth the master with a smile;
'And thou too, shall know him duly-
Thou art young, but bide awhile,
And old Eros will not fly
From thy presence by and by!
'For when thou art somewhat older
That same Eros thou didst see,
More familiar grown and bolder,
Shall become acquaint with thee;
And when Eros comes thy way
Mark my word, he comes to stay!'
II
Once came Venus to me, bringing
Eros where my cattle fed-
'Teach this little boy your singing,
Gentle herdsman,' Venus said.
I was young-I did not know
Whom it was that Venus led-
That was many years ago!
In a lusty voice but mellow-
Callow pedant! I began
To instruct the little fellow
In the mysteries known to man;
Sung the noble cithern's praise,
And the flute of dear old Pan,
And the lyre that Hermes plays.
But he paid no heed unto me-
Nay, that graceless little boy
Coolly plotted to undo me-
With his songs of tender joy;
And my pedantry o'erthrown,
Eager was I to employ
His sweet ritual for mine own!
Ah, these years of ours are fleeting!
Yet I have not vainly wrought,
Since to-day I am repeating
What dear lessons Eros taught;
Love, and always love, and then-
Counting all things else for naught-
Love and always love again!
poem by Eugene Field
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Sonnet 72: Desire, Though Thou My Old Companion Art
Desire, though thou my old companion art,
And oft so clings to my pure love, that I
One from the other scarcely can descry,
While each doth blow the fire of my heart;
Now from thy felloswhip I needs must part,
Venus is taught with Dian's wings to fly:
I must no more in thy sweet passions lie;
Virtue's gold now must head my Cupid's dart.
Service and honor, wonder with delight,
Fear to offend, will worthy to appear,
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite:
These things are left me by my only dear;
But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,
Now banish'd art. But yet alas how shall?
poem by Philip Sidney
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Farewell To The Muse
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return, alas, never!
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast--
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet--
The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.
Sufi
A broken reed. No longer
its feet in earth, its stalk in water;
what will become of it?
Taken by grace; cut; shaped
into new name, new form;
breathed into it, the breath of life;
the breath, heard by a song
unmanifest, that waits to be born
from cause to mind to sound:
how can this sound be described,
the joy of broken reed now flute?
Now the reed can sing; speaks
of how it cried its loss;
yearned to find itself again;
knowing in its heart
that wholeness waits, somewhere, for ever;
now it sings for joy, so purely that
no ears, no heart, can resist its call;
nevermore to part the reed, the flute, the song.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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 XXXIII: Venus Victrix
Could Juno's self more sovereign presence wear
Than thou, 'mid other ladies throned in grace?—
Or Pallas, when thou bend'st with soul-stilled face
O'er poet's page gold-shadowed in thy hair?
Dost thou than Venus seem less heavenly fair
When o'er the sea of love's tumultuous trance
Hovers thy smile, and mingles with thy glance
That sweet voice like the last wave murmuring there?
Before such triune loveliness divine
Awestruck I ask, which goddess here most claims
The prize that, howsoe'er adjudged, is thine?
Then Love breathes low the sweetest of thy names;
And Venus Victrix to my heart doth bring
Herself, the Helen of her guerdoning.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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You forgot to teach me
You taught me to breathe- forgot to teach me to breath without you,
You taught me to live- forgot to teach me to live without you,
You taught me to live, you forgot to teach me to live without you,
You taught me how to kiss- forgot to teach me how to kiss without you
You taught me to love, you forgot to teach me to love without you,
I cannot do anything unless you teach me-
How then do you expect me to move on? To breathe, live, kiss, love-without you?
poem by Isunge Mwangase
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Elegy VII
Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love,
And in that sophistry, Oh, thou dost prove
Too subtle: Foole, thou didst not understand
The mystic language of the eye nor hand:
Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the air
Of sighs, and say, This lies, this sounds despair:
Nor by th' eyes water call a malady
Desperately hot, or changing feverously.
I had not taught thee, then, the Alphabet
Of flowers, how they devisefully being set
And bound up might with speechless secrecy
Deliver errands mutely, and mutually.
Remember since all thy words used to be
To every suitor, Ay, if my friends agree;
Since, household charms, thy husband's name to teach,
Were all the love tricks that thy wit could reach;
And since, an hour's discourse could scarce have made
One answer in thee, and that ill arrayed
In broken proverbs and torn sentences.
Thou art not by so many duties his,
That from the world's Common having severed thee,
Inlaid thee, neither to be seen, nor see,
As mine: who have with amorous delicacies
Refined thee into a blisful Paradise.
Thy graces and good words my creatures be;
I planted knowledge and life's tree in thee,
Which Oh, shall strangers taste? Must I alas
Frame and enamel plate, and drink in glass?
Chaf wax for others' seals? break a colt's force
And leave him then, being made a ready horse?
poem by John Donne
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Mercury And Cupid
In sullen Humour one Day Jove
Sent Hermes down to Ida's Grove,
Commanding Cupid to deliver
His Store of Darts, his total Quiver;
That Hermes shou'd the Weapons break,
Or throw 'em into Lethe's Lake.
Hermes, You know, must do his Errand:
He found his Man, produc'd his Warrant:
Cupid, your Darts-this very Hour-
There's no contending against Power.
How sullen Jupiter, just now
I think I said: and You'll allow,
That Cupid was as bad as He:
Hear but the Youngster's Repartee.
Come Kinsman (said the little God)
Put off your Wings; lay by your Rod;
Retire with Me to yonder Bower;
And rest your self for half an Hour:
'Tis far indeed from hence to Heav'n:
And You fly fast: and 'tis but Seven.
We'll take one cooling Cup of Nectar;
And drink to this Celestial Hector-
He break my Darts, or hurt my Pow'r!
He, Leda's Swan, and Danae's Show'r!
Go, bid him his Wife's Tongue restrain;
And mind his Thunder, and his Rain.-
My Darts? O certainly I'll give 'em:
From Cloe's Eyes He shall receive 'em.
There's One, the Best in all my Quiver,
Twang! thro' his very Heart and Liver.
He then shall Pine, and Sigh, and Rave:
Good Lord! what Bustle shall We have!
Neptune must straight be sent to Sea;
And Flora summon'd twice a-day:
One must find Shells, and t'other Flow'rs,
For cooling Grotts, and fragrant Bow'rs,
That Cloe may be serv'd in State:
The Hours must at Her Toilet wait:
Whilst all the reasoning Fools below,
Wonder their Watches go too slow.
Lybs must fly South, and Eurus East,
For Jewels for Her Hair and Breast:
No Matter tho' their cruel Haste
Sink Cities, and lay Forrests waste.
No Matter tho' This Fleet be lost;
Or That lie wind-bound on the Coast.
What whis'pring in my Mother's Ear!
What Care, that Juno shou'd not hear!
What Work among You Scholar Gods!
Phoebus must write Him am'rous Odes:
And Thou, poor Cousin, must compose
His Letters in submissive Prose:
Whilst haughty Cloe, to sustain
The Honour of My mystic Reign,
Shall all his Gifts and Vows disdain;
And laugh at your Old Bully's Pain.
Dear Couz, said Hermes in a Fright,
For Heav'n sake keep Your Darts: Good Night.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Anacreontic
'Twas in a cool Aonian glade,
The wanton Cupid, spent with toil,
Had sought refreshment from the shade,
And stretch'd him on the mossy soil.
A vagrant Muse drew nigh, and found
The subtle traitor fast asleep;
And is it thine to snore profound,
She said, yet leave the world to weep?
But hush!-from this auspicious hour
The world, I ween, may rest in peace,
And, robb'd of darts, and stript of power,
Thy peevish petulance decrease.
Sleep on, poor Child! whilst I withdraw,
And this thy vile artillery hide-
When the Castalian fount she saw,
And plunged his arrows in the tide.
That magic fount,ill-judging maid,
Shall cause you soon to curse the day
You dared the shafts of Love invade,
And gave his arms redoubled sway.
For in a stream so wondrous clear,
When angry Cupid searches round,
Will not the radiant points appear?
Will not the furtive spoils be found?
Too soon they were; and every dart.
Dipt in the Muse's mystic spring,
Acquired new force to wound the heart,
And taught at once to love and sing.
Then farewell, ye Pierian quire!
For who will now your altars throng?
From Love we learn to swell the lyre,
And Echo asks no sweeter song.
poem by William Shenstone
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The Visit Of The Gods. Imitated From Schiller
Never, believe me,
Appear the Immortals,
Never alone:
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,
Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler;
Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne!
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all!
With Divinities fills my
Terrestrial hall!
How shall I yield you
Due entertainment,
Celestial quire?
Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance,
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre!
Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul!
O give me the nectar!
O fill me the bowl!
Give him the nectar!
Pour out for the poet,
Hebe! pour free!
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
That Styx the detested no more he may view,
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!
Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Paean, I cry!
The wine of the Immortals
Forbids me to die!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The Piper
The dews were on the hedges,
The mist was on the mead,
When down among the sedges
I wrought my pipe of reed.
I blew my pipe with power.
Men only cursed the sound
That woke them when the hour
Brought back their labor’s round.
The scythe was in the barley,
The sickle in the wheat;
The pipe I made so early
Had lost its tones so sweet.
And weary man and maiden,
Upon the glowing soil,
My reed-pipe fell upbraiding
That lightened not their toil.
The men had left their mowing,
The maids to bind the sheaves;
I took me for my blowing
A wheatstraw stripped of leaves.
And cares all ceased to cumber,
No voice was now upraised;
I piped them all to slumber,
And in their dreams was praised.
poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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Syrinx
Pan's Syrinx was a girl indeed,
Though now she's turned into a reed;
From that dear reed Pan's pipe does come,
A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb;
Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can
So chant it as the pipe of Pan:
Cross-gartered swains and dairy girls,
With faces smug and round as pearls,
When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play,
With dancing wear out night and day;
The bagpipe's drone his hum lays by,
When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy;
His minstrelsy! O base! this quill,
Which at my mouth with wind I fill,
Puts me in mind, though her I miss,
That still my Syrinx' lips I kiss.
Venus's Looking-Glass
I marked where lovely Venus and her court
With song and dance and merry laugh went by;
Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly,
Bound from the ground and in mid air to sport.
Left far behind I heard the dolphins snort,
Tracking their goddess with a wistful eye,
Around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high
Or low, and cooed after their tender sort.
All this I saw in Spring. Through Summer heat
I saw the lovely Queen of Love no more.
But when flushed Autumn through the woodlands went
I spied sweet Venus walk amid the wheat:
Whom seeing, every harvester gave o'er
His toil, and laughed and hoped and was content.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Sonnet XIII: Phoebus Was Judge
Phoebus was judge between Jove, Mars, and Love,
Of those three gods, whose arms the fairest were:
Jove's golden shield did eagle sables bear,
Whose talons held young Ganymede above:
But in vert field Mars bare a golden spear,
Which through a bleeding heart his point did shove:
Each had his crest; Mars carried Venus' glove,
Jove in his helm the thunderbolt did rear.
Cupid them smiles, for on his crest there lies
Stella's fair hair, her face he makes his shield,
Where roses gules are borne in silver field.
Phoebus drew wide the curtains of the skies
To blaze these last, and sware devoutly then,
The first, thus match'd, were scantly gentlemen.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Venus
Aha aha
Aha aha
You know you, me, we are so lonely
You look to me Ill be there my only
cause you say you want me
More, more, more
And you say that you need me
It wont be long and Ill be holdin
cause you say you want me
More, more, more
One touch of venus
And shell receive us
One touch of venus
Yeah yeah
One touch of venus
And shell receive us
I said yeah yeah
I know well take a ride
Well pass the stars and be home tonight
cause you, me, way above the stars, (stars)
We aint dreamin
And were livin
One touch of venus
And shell receive us
One touch of venus
Mmm yeah yeah
One touch of venus
And shell receive us
I said yeah yeah
Aint I got the might
Aint I got the right
Unh, huh for a touch of venus
Aha aha
You me we aint so far from home
You me we aint got far to go
You me here above the stars
One touch of venus
And shell receive us
One touch of venus
Mmm yeah yeah
One touch of venus
And shell receive us
One touch of venus
Mmm yeah yeah
One touch of venus
And shell receive us
I said yeah yeah
Way above the stars
Aint I got the right
For a touch of venus
Aint I got the right
For a touch of venus
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rate This Poem
I’d love to be inside the head
of the Phantom Oner as she
strikes again… with one deadly One,
cuts the previous ten right down
to a grovelling 5.5…
‘that’ll teach you, you big-headed smug,
with your groupies and brown-nosers; all your pissy posse…
THIS IS NOT A POEM…’
and with one bound – I’m free!
No longer need I try to write
a poem rich in metaphor like some jewelled scabbard,
declaring sparkling wealth and power;
distracting from the question,
is the sharp sword, of discrimination,
still there, sharp, inside?
or a poem so full of music’s sound,
it sings itself into the mind
like leprechaun with emerald guile,
in the ear of sleeping child…
or, any other sort of poem –
I’m free … now I know I can
please everyone, someone, no-one.. on a scale
from nought to ten or should that be
from ten to nought?
I can now just be; be my one self…
write from the heart;
remembering that all others have a heart…so,
thanks, O noble one…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Love Is Complicated
My love life is not taught.... meaning, love.... my life miserable teach, love teaching my life.... suffering, love to teach my life.... sad, love life taught me grief...., love to teach my life.... revenge, love to teach my life.... envy, love of life taught me.... hate, love.... my life teaching in fool, love life taught me.... in use, love.... my life teaching in one sense, love of life taught me.... sin, love to teach my life.... the journey is not endless.