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All the World's a Stage

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jaques: All the world‘s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse‘s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress‘ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon‘s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper‘d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

line from As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Discarded Lines From Famous Poems

I wandered lonely as a cloud
that floated on high o'er vales
and hills, when all at once I saw a
crowd of football hooligans so I legged it.
What is this life if full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare,
because the stewards make us sit down.
Solomon Grundy
born on a Monday
christened on a Tuesday
supported Sheffield Wednesday.
The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
in a beautiful pea-green boat
they took some honey, and plenty of money,
because mascots weren't allowed on the coach.
If you can keep your head when all about you
are losing theirs, and blaming it on you,
if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
then you'll make a good manager my son.
All the worlds a stage,
and all the men and women players,
they have their exits and entrances,
that's football for you!

poem by Kevin Halls
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Minitel after William Shakespeare Jacques Seven Ages of Man

All their world's a page,
and all the players minitel-mad players,
they have their résumés, their pseudonyms,
each actor for a time plays many parts,
his acts taking seven stages. At first equipment,
fresh ordered from the Poste, in welcome arms.
And then the neophyte with his instructions
and wide-eyed eager face, tapping the code
so willingly to screen. And then the practice,
with SUITE, ENVOI, RETOUR and REPETITION
colliding in his brain with mistress' eyebrow,
the fantasies and fictions of the game.
Then the user, sudden and quick to answer;
seeking ever new experience
even in deception's mouth. And then the addict
dialling sans respite 3-6-1-5.
With weary eyes ere telephones are cut,
full of wise ways and easy answerings.
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
into the bored and blasé demi-loon,
with carnet for his prose, spare telephone at side,
his coins once saved a-waste, the world too wide
for his shrunk purse, and his high manly hopes
turned against his longings, imagination
canting, all at sea. Last stage of all
that ends this strange eventful history
is deconnection and mere oblivion,
sans phone, sans sous, sans job, sans everything.

(1 June 1987)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Seven Ages of Wise

Parliament's a stage,
And all the Politicians merely players!
They have their exits and entrances,
And Wise doth in his time play many parts,
His acts being seven changes.
First the Runner,
With spiked shoe he spurns the cinder track,
And just for once runs straight.

The next the Student,
Burning the midnight oil with Adam Smith
For Cobden Medals.

Next the youthful member,
With shining morning face, creeping between
Two seasoned leaders into place and power
Before his whiskers grow.

The next the bravo.
Jealous of greater men, he cries, "Ha, Ha!
Beware Bernardo's dagger!" -- and would strike
His friend i' th' back.

Then come a sudden change.
Once more a child, he comes with quick-turned coat,
New friends, new doctrines, and new principles,
Lets Friedman loose, and wrecks the Government.
Then leads the horny-handed sons of toil
By many a specious promise to their doom
In Arbitration Courts.

Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, disastrous history.
He aims at Judgeships and Commissionerships,
But, failing, passes on to mere oblivion.
Sans place, sans power, sans pay, sans everything.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Derangement

Everyone who gets on a stage,
Believes they can act.
Then they believe they can sing.
Then dance and entertain,
Anyone captivated.
And anyone knowing what it takes...
Wish to drag those with limited beliefs,
Off the stage!
Since all of those who seek the spotlight...
Should seek someone to tell them the truth,
About their nonexisting talents!
All folks who reach for the stage are not performers.
And despite what Shakespeare stated...
'All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players.'
I must admit,
I have to respect his perspective.
However...
Very few of his roles were performed by women, if any
Back then.
And on these 'stages' today...
These 'players' should have entertained exiting,
Prior to revealing their production of 'Derangement'
It is much too real!
With the acting lacking motivation that connects honestly,
With a conviction that is felt.
They just throw this stuff together today.
With no training or class involved.
However...
The chaos depicted?
THAT is marvelously convincing!
Those scenes,
Absolutely gets everyone's attention.
Everyone gets to be involved.
And that's really my kind of 'theatre'...
A 'hands-on' affair!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Poison Love

The all exits and entrances past me
Leave two choices before me
I have too choose none or both
The dilemma acts as a poison on my mind
Unable to grab the memories, I lack
Graced by god! Heaven is mine, I could say
I have both failure and past thus I have
The hindrance created by the hampering talent
Leaves me nowhere! I have to give a fresh start
Thus, on my mind, That poison acts as a foe
I had the wrath, without my love, on me
Poison-her love-is that poison of sea
That is now and there killing inside me.

poem by Vizard Dhawan
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I spend a lot of time copying saxophone players and trumpet players. Not to say that it is not important to listen to guitar players, but there's so much music out there and so many possibilities. I like anyone who plays any instrument.

quote by Bill Frisell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sketches have characters, exits, entrances and are vastly different.

quote by David Cross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Online As You Like It after William Shakespeare Jacques Seven Ages of Man

All their world's a page,
and all the players Internet addicted,
they have their resumés, their pseudonyms,
each actor for a time plays many parts,
his acts taking seven stages. At first computer,
with WINDOWS bugs well hid in viral links.
And then the neophyte's instruction manual,
and wide-eyed eager face, googling some site
so willingly to screen. Then follows practice,
with MAIL, TRASH, SPAM and FORWARD, shortcuts everywhere,
colliding in his brain with mistress' eyebrow,
the fantasies and fictions of the game
tied to an IP number's trace race chase.

Then the user, sudden and quick to answer;
seeking ever new experience
even in deception's mouth. And then the addict
rejoicing in his bandwidth always on,
weary eyed a-seeking Second Life,
or You Tube, Facebook, Meetic dating quest,
full of wise ways and easy answerings,
heedless of phishing, firewall disrepair,
and so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
into the bored and blasé demi-loon,
with carnet for his prose, and instant message rote,
whose self assessments leave what friends remain
at sea when he some siren seeks to trap,
attention span a-waste, webworld too wide
for his shrunk purse, and his high manly hopes
betrayed by longings, dreams and discontent,
discretion all awry.

Last stage of all that ends this strange eventful history
is deconnection and mere oblivion,
where online search can't google happiness,
CONTROL ALT SUP still failing to reboot,
sans screen, sans time, sans reason, rhyme, sans everything.

(22 February 2009)

poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Minstrel In The Gallery

The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes - observed the spaces between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters - freshly
day-glo'd factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing on the
parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers - T.V.
documentary makers (over-fed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends
he'd made.
[Instrumental]
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes - observed the spaces in between the old men's cackle.
And he brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he
waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in everyone.
Hey!
He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing on the
parts they never mention (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers - T.V.
documentary makers (over-fed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends
he'd made.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down on the rabbit-run.
And he threw away his looking-glass and saw his face in everyone.
Hey!
The Minstrel in the Gallery. Yes!
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes. Yeah!
Mm. The Minstrel in the Gallery

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So we do have our exits and our entrances and we are perhaps mere, but I think if one keep a certain joyousness in life which should be in playing, then good for one, but it's slightly more serious than that.

quote by Janet Suzman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reward and punishment

A jealous Othello, an innocent Desdemona,
And a villain Iago, all played their parts
As per the scripts and directions, on the stage.
No one was hailed; No one was jailed.
The world is the stage on which we take parts
As Othellos, Desdimonas and Iagos.
Reward and punishment by God is a myth.
28.12.2000, Pmdi

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Minstrel In The Gallery

The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the
Smiling faces.
He met the gazes --- observed the spaces between the
Old mens cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred --- oblique
Suggestions --- and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters --- static-humming
Panel-beaters --- freshly day-glowd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action --- belly warming, hands
Still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
One-line jokers --- t.v. documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players --- family-scarred
And women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he
Looked at all the friends hed made.
The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the
Rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in
Everyone.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Precious Stone

Childless!
And many are lost in the wind;
But in the matter of my innovcence,
They took the exits without delay!
And i am now at the entrance of my lover.

All men and women are merely players,
But as you do love something so will you like it as well;
For all the aspects of life in the world are like a stage!
As you may like to use it so you may like to eat it as well,
And like the school boys who were late today;
For they've impregnated their female mates.

What makes you very grief on this matter?
And to quench your fiery indignation;
But let no such a man be fooled and,
Let no such a woman be trusted as well;
For the wolrd is like a stage to all of us and,
The royal throne of love is always around us!
But many are still childless.

Boat, coat, moat, goat;
The precious stone is set in the middle of the sea,
But under the canopies of love and with the sound of the wave;
For the power of your romance is lulled with the sweetest melody.

Forgetfulness is part of mankind but your city of love is like,
The doors, therooms and the gates of your passion;
For the flint of knives are here to cut out an image from your ivory.

Naked and barefooted,
True love is sweeter than wine;
But i am like the carved image from the ivory in your hand,
And like the precious stone set in the middle of the sea.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Players

The summer leaves in autumn fall
covering grass and garden walls.
A passing page on life’s stage
soon forgotten as the next season calls,
a circling unforgiving tide
that carries with it our passing lives.
Players are we upon the stage
of life’s ever turning page.
We live today and pray for tomorrow
that we may again grace the stage
of its next passing page.
And so life goes on
from birth and beyond
as players on the stage of life.

23 June 2009

poem by David Harris
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A Man's World After All

Few women in business and politics succeed
For most males think it is their right to lead
And so few women have ever known renown
Down through the ages they have been kept down.

Male heroes through the ages we recall
It surely is a man's world after all
From today's heroes back to Genghis Khan
Most of the glory it would seem for man.

In this age of technology it seems sad to say
That in many cultures women still today
Are treated as inferior by men
And equality they can never hope to win.

The women who have made it in politics and business seem so few
And it's a man's world happen to be true
And something that by now ought be long gone
The fight for the equality of the sexes must go on.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Part of Their Existence

Some will get it!
Some will not.
Some blueprints are understood,
For what they are!
Should an entire project be dropped...
Or stopped,
Because a disinterested passerby
Tries to 'picture' at a glance...
Where the entrances and exits will be?
If it can't be envisioned,
Why waste time in explanation?
If someone recognizes trash on the street...
But doesn't fathom the concept of a broom!
Garbage will always be considered attractive,
By those who have grown believing it as part of their existence!
'That' has not become associated with a lesson plan!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Scenario

In long years of ancient time, stood alone a friend of mine.
Reflected by the ever-burning sigh of a God who happened by.
And in the dawn, there came the song
Of some sweet lady singing in his ear.
Your God has gone, and from now on,
Youll have to learn to hate the things you fear.
We want to know, are we inside the womb?
Of passion plays, in thy righteousness consumed?
Or just in lush contentment of our souls?
And so began the age of man,
And they left his body in the sand.
Their glasses raised to a God on high,
Who smiled upon them from the sky.
So take the stage.
Spin down the ages.
Loose the passion.
Spill the rage upon your son
Who holds the gun up to your head.
The plays begun.
Then god, the director, smells a rat.
Pulls another rabbit from his hat.
Sniffs the air and he says ''well, thats that--Im going.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Years Of The Modern

YEARS of the modern! years of the unperform'd!
Your horizon rises--I see it parting away for more august dramas;
I see not America only--I see not only Liberty's nation, but other
nations preparing;
I see tremendous entrances and exits--I see new combinations--I see
the solidarity of races;
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world's
stage;
(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the acts
suitable to them closed?)
I see Freedom, completely arm'd, and victorious, and very haughty,
with Law on one side, and Peace on the other,
A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of caste;
--What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach?
I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions; 10
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken;
I see the landmarks of European kings removed;
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give
way;)
--Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day;
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God;
Lo! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest;
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere--he colonizes the
Pacific, the archipelagoes;
With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the
wholesale engines of war,
With these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all
geography, all lands;
--What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of you, passing
under the seas? 20
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the
globe?
Is humanity forming, en-masse?--for lo! tyrants tremble, crowns grow
dim;
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine
war;
No one knows what will happen next--such portents fill the days and
nights;
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to
pierce it, is full of phantoms;
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me;
This incredible rush and heat--this strange extatic fever of dreams,
O years!
Your dreams, O year, how they penetrate through me! (I know not
whether I sleep or wake!)
The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind
me,
The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon
me. 30

poem by Walt Whitman
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Muse on the visits

The land that you own and things in hand
Have come to you to stay as guests,
For a snap or sleep and would slip soon
From you against your wish and acts.
It’s not gentle for you to deny
The guests their freedom of movements.

What you own, be it land, things or friends,
Are your visitors, not prisioners.
You don’t get them; instead to you they come.
Their visits are joy and exits, sorrow.
The sorrow is the merit of the joy got.
Muse on their visits, not on their exits.
29.10.2008

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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