On A Goldfinch, Starved To Death In His Cage
Time was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.
But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date;
For, caught and caged, and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath
Soon pass’d the wiry grate.
Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close
And cure of every ill!
More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.
poem by William Cowper
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Related quotes
Genteel Madness
Devolved into a genteel kind of madness
And no longer beloved today
Morphed more…into a still stranger likeness
Removed of reality in every way
Scant recognizable
In the mirror of my mind
As well reflection
In rain silvered window
This genteel kind of madness
Be it yours? …tis it mine?
And if tis truly madness
How would one truly know?
poem by David Whalen
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Genteel
Strange, range!
Elsewhere,
Genteel;
But please, let me know.
Range, strange!
But please, let me know when you are ready.
Tiles, gentiles!
Drunken birds,
Seen everywhere;
Trait, portrait!
Created after its kind;
Where, elsewhere!
To protect them;
Tile, gentile!
Don't you know that you're so beautiful? !
Like the muse of love.
Cord, record!
But, Yahweh is the Creator of all things;
Wells, dwells!
As numerous as the stars of the sky;
Steel, genteel!
But, i have now taught you how to do it;
So, you can now live alone.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Ode to Sleep
On this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep!
Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.
O steep my senses in oblivion's balm,
And sooth my throbbing pulse with lenient hand;
This tempest of my boiling blood becalm!
Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.
Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And sadly toiling through the tedious night,
I seek sweet slumber, while that virgin bloom,
For ever hovering, haunts my wretched sight.
Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:
Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.
poem by Thomas Warton Jr.
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A Poem Unfolding Towards Revelation
It's just that
When a bud can no longer
Contain within itself
It expresses itself
In the form of a flower
It's just that
In a similar vein
Does the flower express itself
In the form of a fruit
And then the seed
All to realize its being
In its myriad forms!
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Death, Inevitable Death
Death, inevitable Death.
So now You come to show Your world,
Hence the blackened cloak – unfurled.
And peering down upon my form
– Bereft of pity – Your eyes of storm.
Death, inexorable Death.
‘When? ’ The only question out of Thee.
My dream retorts 'But ne’er for me! ’
But now awake, I bid you so –
My giving tears cry ‘Where to go? ’
Death, adamant Death.
You cast Your spell and guide me 'way,
For life and I have had our day.
And what of me? I prey You, tell!
Be glorious in Heaven or gnarled in Hell?
Death, ineluctable Death.
Oh wiry ghoul, I'm here to follow –
I leave my body grey and shallow.
‘Come! ’ You bid in thund’ring tones,
‘Beg farewell to shattered bones.’
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Death
Death death
Death death death
Death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Bee and the Butterfly
UPON a garden's perfum'd bed
With various gaudy colours spread,
Beneath the shelter of a ROSE
A BUTTERFLY had sought repose;
Faint, with the sultry beams of day,
Supine the beauteous insect lay.
A BEE, impatient to devour
The nectar sweets of ev'ry flow'r,
Returning to her golden store,
A weight of fragrant treasure bore;
With envious eye, she mark'd the shade,
Where the poor BUTTERFLY was laid,
And resting on the bending spray,
Thus murmur'd forth her drony lay:
"Thou empty thing, whose merit lies
In the vain boast of orient dies;
Whose glittering form the slightest breath
Robs of its gloss, and fades to death;
Who idly rov'st the summer day,
Flutt'ring a transient life away,
Unmindful of the chilling hour,
The nipping frost, the drenching show'r;
Who heedless of "to-morrow's fare,"
Mak'st present bliss thy only care;
Is it for THEE, the damask ROSE
With such transcendent lustre glows?
Is it for such a giddy thing
Nature unveils the blushing spring?
Hence, from thy lurking place, and know,
'Tis not for THEE her beauties glow."
The BUTTERFLY, with decent pride,
In gentle accents, thus reply'd:
"'Tis true, I flutter life away
In pastime, innocent and gay;
The SUN that decks the blushing spring
Gives lustre to my painted wing;
'Tis NATURE bids each colour vie,
With rainbow tints of varying die;
I boast no skill, no subtle pow'r
To steal the balm from ev'ry flow'r;
The ROSE, that only shelter'd ME,
Has pour'd a load of sweets on THEE;
Of merit we have both our share,
Heav'n gave thee ART, and made me FAIR;
And tho' thy cunning can despise
The humble worth of harmless flies;
Remember, envious, busy thing,
Thy honey'd form conceals a sting;
Enjoy thy garden, while I rove
The sunny hill, the woodbine grove,
And far remov'd from care and THEE,
Embrace my humble destiny;
While in some lone sequester'd bow'r,
I'll live content beyond thy pow'r;
For where ILL-NATURE holds her reign
TASTE, WORTH, and BEAUTY, plead in vain;
E'en GENIUS must to PRIDE submit
When ENVY wings the shaft of WIT.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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The Birds
Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God.
~ Luke, xii, 6.
TRIBES of the air! whose favored race
May wander through the realms of space,
Free guests of earth and sky;
In form, in plumage, and in song,
What gifts of nature mark your throng
With bright variety!
Nor differ less your forms, your flight,
Your dwellings hid from hostile sight,
And the wild haunts ye love;
Birds of the gentle beak! how dear
Your wood-note, to the wanderer's ear,
In shadowy vale or grove!
Far other scenes, remote, sublime,
Where swain or hunter may not climb,
The mountain-eagle seeks;
Alone he reigns, a monarch there,
Scarce will the chamois' footstep dare
Ascend his Alpine peaks.
Others there are, that make their home
Where the white billows roar and foam,
Around th' o'erhanging rock;
Fearless they skim the angry wave,
Or sheltered in their sea-beat cave,
The tempest's fury mock.
Where Afric's burning realm expands,
The ostrich haunts the desert sands,
Parched by the blaze of day;
The swan, where northern rivers glide,
Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide,
Floats graceful on her way.
The condor, where the Andes tower,
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power,
And many a storm defies;
Bright in the orient realms of morn,
All beauty's richest hues adorn
The Bird of Paradise.
Some, amidst India's grove of palm,
And spicy forests breathing balm,
Weave soft their pendent nest;
Some, deep in western wilds, display
Their fairy form and plumage gay,
In rainbow colors drest.
Others no varied song may pour,
May boast no eagle-plume to soar,
No tints of light may wear;
Yet, know, our Heavenly Father guides
The least of these, and well provides
For each, with tenderest care.
Shall He not then thy guardian be?
Will not his aid extend to thee?
Oh! safely may'st thou rest!?
Trust in his love, and e'en should pain,
Should sorrow tempt thee to complain,
Know, what He wills is best!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Death and Birth
Death leads to birth rather than birth, to death.
Birth is close to death and not vice versa.
Every birth is at the result of a death.
Death to birth, not birth to death, is the path.
The death of clay is the birth of a pot;
The death of the pot is the birth of clay.
Ice melts to water and water forms ice.
In each conversion, occur death and birth.
The death of a night is the birth of a day;
The death of a day is the birth of a night.
New Year means the death of the old year too.
In each transition, takes place death and birth.
The death of a seed is the birth of a plant;
The death of gametes is the birth of an embryo.
Salts die to form cells; cells die to form salts.
In each growth, form death and birth of matter.
The so called death and birth is nothing but
Deaths and births of forms made of matter.
The matter itself does not die to be born
But is converted to different forms.
Elements disappear to form plants.
Plants as food add to the animals’ flesh.
Plants and animals on death liberate
As elements, serving through worms and germs.
When a child is born, there’s no birth of life.
The embryo transforms into a child.
When a man dies, there is no death of life.
The body disintegrates to salts.
Matter, energy and life have no death
They have got one birth since when they’ve been.
They interact and come different stages
In which the pattern is death and birth.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The War
There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the south that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts and make good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,
Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in freedom's name and the Queen's!
True, that we have a faithful ally,
But only the devil knows what he means!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Does The Bird Know-or Care?
I watch a bird fly by my window.
Does she know she is forty stories high?
Or does she just enjoy the sky?
For me this height is solidly earthbound.
Seated on windowed rock at balcony’s ledge.
I hear near never seen neighbor’s
cat a plaintive pleading cry.
Also earthbound gravity tamed
still caged in spacious family box.
I watch a bird fly by my window.
Does she know she is forty stories high?
Or does she just enjoy sweet scented summer sky?
Free from chess cross
checkered pavements
pounding confining cunning ways.
Rising up rushed resentful rhythm
homeless humanities
solitary trapped plaintive cry.
Cool air flows past her fleet flying form
upon chosen air currents is she freely borne.
Her sleek plumage is not old not worn
nor her young spirit pierced broken torn.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
poem by Dylan Thomas
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Slow Burn
I've got a name for a certain quarantine her name is slowburn she makes me feel real mean when i ask why she says i'm caught in a lie she's got a bad disguise i ask a question never got a reaction and caught a glimpse subtle distraction instinctive stomach pain i lie in bed awake again this time its my revenge i wanna be you already beaten when you are bound i'm free (dying under me) i' like to hold you so close you know i'm there (there is no refuge (rage you cant refuse) slowburn I've got a name for someone who shouldnt be in my mind when she's away it seems i can't escape i'm doing time without a place to go i'm lost inside nobody knows the rules will have to bend i wanna be you already beaten me when you are bound i'm free. (dying under me) i' like to hold you so close you know i'm there (there is no refuge (rage you cant refuse) slowburn this has been a process and i'm sorry i had to do you in like this and i cant say how good i feel about it there was so much so much that you stope you took my heart you took my soul but most of all you took my sanity now watch while i asses the situation at hand this had has turned to a fist i wanna be you already beaten when you are bound i'm free (dying under me) i' like to hold you so close you know i'm there (there is no refuge (rage you cant refuse) slowburni wanna be you already beaten when you are bound i'm free (dying under me) i' like to hold you so close you know i'm there (there is no refuge (rage you cant refuse) slowburn
song performed by by 1208
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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4. Elements – Fire
The element of fire
Constructive, destructive
The bright light of fire
The slight of fire
The all consuming fire
Does not exist
In its natural form
Exists by consuming
Another form
It transforms from one
Form to another form
Fuels our passion
Leaves everything ashen
Duels the darkness
Heaves on compassion
Fire, constructively destructive
Fire, destructively constructive
Fire, living death
Fire, dying life
poem by Anand Dixit
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Fire Element
The element of fire
Constructive, destructive
The bright light of fire
The slight of fire
The all consuming fire
Does not exist
In its natural form
Exists by consuming
Another form
It transforms from one
Form to another form
Fuels our passion
Leaves everything ashen
Duels the darkness
Heaves on compassion
Fire, constructively destructive
Fire, destructively constructive
Fire, living death
Fire, dying life
poem by Ricky Baker
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One of the aspects of form that I have been very interested in is stasis - the concept of form which is not so directional in time, not so much climactic form, but rather form which allows time, to stand still.
quote by La Monte Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lines Addressed to Miss Theodora Jane Cowper, On Himself
William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit
(So blest a thing is impudence),
While others could not bear it.
But some a different notion had,
And, at each other winking,
Observed that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.
Howe’er, it happen’d, by degrees,
He mended, and grew perter,
In company was more at ease,
And dress’d a little smarter;
Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;
And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.
He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes,
So that there was, or seem’d to be,
No fear of a relapse.
The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foolish,
“The creature may do well enough,
But wants a deal of polish.”
At length improved from head to heel,
‘Twere scarce too much to say,
No dancing beau was so genteel
Or half so
dégagé.
Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,
Let the dear maid who wrought the change
E’en claim him for her own!
poem by William Cowper
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Handsome Nell
O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass,
Aye, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast
I'll love my handsome Nell.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu' mien
The like I never saw.
A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the ee,
But without some letter qualities
She's no a lass for me.
But Nellie's looks are blithe and sweet,
And what is best of a'
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart,
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
poem by Robert Burns
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Of Himself
William was once a bashful youth;
His modesty was such,
That one might say (to say the truth)
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others want of spirit,
(So blest a thing is impudence),
While others could not bear it.
But some a different notion had,
And at each other winking,
Observed, that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.
Howe'er, it happened, by degrees,
He mended and grew perter;
In company was more at ease,
And dressed a little smarter;
Nay, now and then would look quite gay,
As other people do;
And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.
He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes;
So that there was, or seemed to be,
No fear of a relapse.
The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foolish,
'The creature may do well enough,
But wants a deal of polish.'
At length, improved from head to heel,
'Twere scarce too much to say,
No dancing bear was so genteel,
Or half so dégagé.
Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,
Let the dear maid who wrought the change
E'er claim him for her own.
poem by William Cowper
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To Night
So thou art come again, old black-winged night,
Like an huge bird, between us and the sun,
Hiding, with out-stretched form, the genial light;
And still, beneath thine icy bosom's dun
And cloudy plumage, hatching fog-breathed blight
And embryo storms, and crabbéd frosts, that shun
Day's warm caress. The owls from ivied loop
Are shrieking homage, as thou cowerest high;
Like sable crow pausing in eager stoop
On the dim world thou gluttest thy clouded eye,
Silently waiting latest time's fell whoop,
When thou shalt quit thine eyrie in the sky,
To pounce upon the world with eager claw,
And tomb time, death, and substance in thy maw.
poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
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The Harp, And Despair, Of Cowper
Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve,
And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere,
Turning to the sound his ear,
Bend down a look of sympathy and love;
Oh, swell the lyre again,
As if in full accord it poured an angel's strain!
But oh! what means that look aghast,
Ev'n whilst it seemed in holy trance,
On scenes of bliss above to glance!
Was it a fiend of darkness passed!
Oh, speak--
Paleness is upon his cheek--
On his brow the big drops stand,
To airy vacancy
Points the dread silence of his eye,
And the loved lyre it falls, falls from his nerveless hand!
Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!
Oh, come, and make thy downy nest
Once more on his sad heart!
Meek Faith, a drop of comfort shed;
Sweet Hope, support his aged head;
And Charity, avert the burning dart!
Fruitless the prayer--the night of deeper woes
Seems o'er the head even now to close;
In vain the path of purity he trod,
In vain, in vain,
He poured from Fancy's shell his sweetest hermit strain--
He has no hope on earth: forsake him not, O God!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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