To My Bones
In my sleep it rips through
my meagre skin
throws off the red bandage of the flesh
and goes strolling through the room
my monument a little incomplete
one can be prodigal
with tears and blood
what will endure here the longest
must be thoughtfully provided for
better (than with a priest's dry finger
to the rains which drip from a cloud of sand)
to give one's monument to the academey
they will prop it up in a glass display case
and in Latin they will pray before
the little altar made from an os frontalis
they will reckon the bones and surfaces
they will not forget not overlook
happily I will give my color of eyes
pattern of nails and curve of eyelids
I the perfectly objective
made from white crystals of anatomy
can for thoughts
heart cage
bony pile
and two shins
you my little monument not quite complete
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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Related quotes
The Fever Monument
I walked across the park to the fever monument.
It was in the center of a glass square surrounded
by red flowers and fountains. The monument
was in the shape of a sea horse and the plaque read
We got hot and died.
poem by Richard Brautigan
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Dinosaur
Long ago and far away in a different age
When I was a dumb young guy
Fossilized photos of my life then
Illustrate what an easy prey I must have been
Standing in the sun, idiot savant
Something like a monument
Im a dinosaur, somebody is digging my bones
Ignorance has alway been something I excel in
Followed by naivete and pride
Doesnt take a scientist to see how
Any clever predator could have a piece of me
Standing in the sun, idiot savant
Something like a monument
Im a dinosaur, somebody is digging my bones
When I look back on the past
Its a wonder Im not yet extinct
All the mistakes and bad judgements I made
Nearly pushed me to the brink
It doesnt pay to be too nice
Its the one thing I have learned
Still, I made my fossil bed
Now I toss and turn
Im a dinosaur, somebody is digging my bones
song performed by by King Crimson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Monument
Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
built somewhat like a box. No. Built
like several boxes in descending sizes
one above the other.
Each is turned half-way round so that
its corners point toward the sides
of the one below and the angles alternate.
Then on the topmost cube is set
a sort of fleur-de-lys of weathered wood,
long petals of board, pierced with odd holes,
four-sided, stiff, ecclesiastical.
From it four thin, warped poles spring out,
(slanted like fishing-poles or flag-poles)
and from them jig-saw work hangs down,
four lines of vaguely whittled ornament
over the edges of the boxes
to the ground.
The monument is one-third set against
a sea; two-thirds against a sky.
The view is geared
(that is, the view's perspective)
so low there is no "far away,"
and we are far away within the view.
A sea of narrow, horizontal boards
lies out behind our lonely monument,
its long grains alternating right and left
like floor-boards--spotted, swarming-still,
and motionless. A sky runs parallel,
and it is palings, coarser than the sea's:
splintery sunlight and long-fibred clouds.
"Why does the strange sea make no sound?
Is it because we're far away?
Where are we? Are we in Asia Minor,
or in Mongolia?"
An ancient promontory,
an ancient principality whose artist-prince
might have wanted to build a monument
to mark a tomb or boundary, or make
a melancholy or romantic scene of it...
"But that queer sea looks made of wood,
half-shining, like a driftwood, sea.
And the sky looks wooden, grained with cloud.
It's like a stage-set; it is all so flat!
Those clouds are full of glistening splinters!
What is that?"
It is the monument.
"It's piled-up boxes,
outlined with shoddy fret-work, half-fallen off,
cracked and unpainted. It looks old."
--The strong sunlight, the wind from the sea,
all the conditions of its existence,
may have flaked off the paint, if ever it was painted,
and made it homelier than it was.
"Why did you bring me here to see it?
A temple of crates in cramped and crated scenery,
what can it prove?
I am tired of breathing this eroded air,
this dryness in which the monument is cracking."
It is an artifact
of wood. Wood holds together better
than sea or cloud or and could by itself,
much better than real sea or sand or cloud.
It chose that way to grow and not to move.
The monument's an object, yet those decorations,
carelessly nailed, looking like nothing at all,
give it away as having life, and wishing;
wanting to be a monument, to cherish something.
The crudest scroll-work says "commemorate,"
while once each day the light goes around it
like a prowling animal,
or the rain falls on it, or the wind blows into it.
It may be solid, may be hollow.
The bones of the artist-prince may be inside
or far away on even drier soil.
But roughly but adequately it can shelter
what is within (which after all
cannot have been intended to be seen).
It is the beginning of a painting,
a piece of sculpture, or poem, or monument,
and all of wood. Watch it closely.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Naturally Superior
An ancient Cypress tree still stands
Beside a ruined monument.
Outlasts the works of human hands.
Nothing man made is permanent.
The tree is self sufficient.
It needs no other maintenance.
Apart from the nourishment.
The soil provides and rains enhance.
The builders of the monument.
Erected by them to impress
Are long since dead that's evident.
Outlasted by this grand Cypress.
The ancient tree's content to be.
Just what it is a simple tree.
Saturday,03 March 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I started studying what the nature of a monument is and what a monument should be. And for the World War III memorial I designed a futile, almost terrifying passage that ends nowhere.
Well, I think the curves of the four pillars of the monument, as the calculations have provided them, give it a great sense of force and beauty.
quote by Gustave Eiffel
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ballade Of Cleopatra's Needle
Ye giant shades of RA and TUM,
Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian,
If murmurs of our planet come
To exiles in the precincts wan
Where, fetish or Olympian,
To help or harm no more ye list,
Look down, if look ye may, and scan
This monument in London mist!
Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb
That once were read of him that ran
When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum
Wild music of the Bull began;
When through the chanting priestly clan
Walk'd Ramses, and the high sun kiss'd
This stone, with blessing scored and ban -
This monument in London mist.
The stone endures though gods be numb;
Though human effort, plot, and plan
Be sifted, drifted, like the sum
Of sands in wastes Arabian.
What king may deem him more than man,
What priest says Faith can Time resist
While THIS endures to mark their span -
This monument in London mist?
ENVOY.
Prince, the stone's shade on your divan
Falls; it is longer than ye wist:
It preaches, as Time's gnomon can,
This monument in London mist!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Rat In The Hearth
Made of flesh and questions
rises from a box of matches
attempting a shot a day
reborn distracted
He runs into the mud of his escapes
to search for clean kitchens
in search of food with which to curse
There are hordes of thoughts
with long tails and big eyes
those who run
in the slums of the heart
trying to withstand
A monument to himself
caresses of gnawed
nights in the uniforms themselves
They run without warning
these mice in the heart
always looking
a place that have no memory
and especially
that there can't exist
poem by Jbkaria Giovanni Cb
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Natural Beauty
On the roller coaster ride
That my emotions have to take me on
I heard a newborn baby cry
Through the night.
I heard a perfect echo die
Into an anonymous wall of digital sound
Somewhere deep inside
Of my soul.
A natural beauty should be preserved like a monument to nature
Dont judge yourself too harsh, my love
Or someday you might find your soul endangered
A natural beauty should be preserved like a monument to nature.
Amazon
You had so much and now so much is gone
What are you gonna do
With your life?
What a lucky man.
To see the earth before it touched his hand
What an angry fool
To condemn.
One more night to go
One more sleep upon your burning banks
A greedy man never knows
What hes done.
A natural beauty should be preserved like a monument to nature
Dont start yourself too short, my love
Or someday you might find your soul endangered
A natural beauty should be preserved like a monument to nature.
Went to the rodeo today
I saw the cowgirls lined up on the fence
A brand new chevrolet
A brand new pair of seamless pants.
We watched the moment of defeat
Played back over on the video screen
Somewhere deep inside
Of my soul.
A natural beauty should be preserved like a monument to nature.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Opening Up To You
Opening up to you,
The night before,
red finger nails!
Dark finger nails!
White finger nails!
Blue finger nails!
To utter it out;
The thoughts of man,
The thoughts of woman,
The thoughts of a child! !
But, holding the torch and to touch you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Monument For The Soldiers
A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it oft
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Two Graves
First Ghost
To sepulcher my mouldy bones
I bough a pile of noble stones,
And half a year a sculptor spent
To hew my marble monument,
The stateliest to rear its head
In all this city of the dead.
And generations passing through
Will gape, and ask: What did he do
To earn this tomb so rich and rare,
In Attic grace beyond compare?
How was his life in honour spent,
To worthy this proud monument?
What did I do" Well, nothing much.
'Tis true I had the Midas touch.
A million pounds I made wherewith
To glorify the name: John Smith;
Yet not a soul wept for me when
Death raft me from my fellow men.
My sculptor wins undying fame,
While I, who paid, am just a name.
Second Ghost
A wooden cross surveys my bones,
With on it stenciled: Peter Jones.
And round it are five hundred more;
(A proper job did old man War!)
So young they were, so fresh, so fit,
So hopeful - that's the hell of it.
The old are sapped and ripe to die,
But in the flush of Spring was I.
I might have fathered children ten,
To come to grips with sterling men;
And now a cross in weeds to rot,
Is all to show how fierce I fought.
The old default, the young must pay;
My life was wasted, thrown away.
While people gladden, to forget
The bitterness of vein regret,
With not a soul to morn for me
My skull grins up in mockery.
. . . Pale crosses greet the grieving stars,
And always will be - War and Wars.
poem by Robert William Service
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What Color? (Hope)
what color
was the dust
from which the stars
were made?
what color is the hunger
written on the child's face?
what color is justice,
forgiveness, desire, truth?
what color is the wind....
the rain, gravity,
and knowledge?
what color is equality?
what color is freedom?
what color is eternity?
what color is redemption?
what color is God?
what color were the nails
that hung Jesus on the cross?
what color was enlightenment
falling on the Buddha as he sat
'neath that tree?
what color is prejudice, hatred,
fear, greed, apathy.....
what color your skin?
nay, what color is your blood?
and what color are the eyes
of humanity staring through the darkness?
and what color is hope?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Innocent Louse
The louse can live its entire life
on the curve of a cat’s tail
boring tiny burrows
for homes and suburbs in the flesh
with a body and a system
made for sense
and perception of a world
made of nothing but long cat hair
cat skin, cat marrow and blood
living a life of curve and wave
and bristling burrowing luxury
breathing mere inches
from quick forelimbs with scratching nails
and pursed lips ready to press and taste
tongue salivating
a jaw made to press and spit
dead husks and rendered shadows
the mouth stained
dripping
with teeth
poem by by unknown author
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Op ‘n koppie buite die stad
On a hillock outside the city
a monument build from marble and stone
guards forevermore,
catching the sun’s
rays one new day dutifully.
It tells true stories
of a nation’s struggle to survive and be free
from oppression and a great trek
across the veldt and over high mountains,
of vicious wild men
and the belief
in the creator God
who came to aid
to save from total annihilation
when they called on Him.
[Reference: Voortrekker monument just outside Pretoria.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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On a hillock outside the city
On a hillock outside the city
a monument build from marble and stone
guards forevermore,
catching the sun’s
rays one new day dutifully.
It tells true stories
of a nation’s struggle to survive and be free
from oppression and a great trek
across the veldt and over high mountains,
of vicious wild men
and the belief
in the creator God
who came to aid
to save from total annihilation
when they called on Him.
[Reference: Voortrekker monument just outside Pretoria.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Monuments
In our lands are monuments
for the dear and departed.
Some are for some daring deeds;
others are put in someone’s favourite place,
hoping someone else will enjoy
all the beauty that they gazed upon.
Some monuments serve as a warning,
erected about some evil deed
to remember all that perished.
So the next time you pass a monument
read the inscription there,
learn a little of its presentation.
Become a little wiser to its stature
and the one it is dedicated to,
for you never know in the future
someone may erect a monument to honour you.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Death comes to all But great achievements raise a monument Which shall endure until the sun grows old.
quote by George Fabricius
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flesh n Blood
Over time Ive come to feel
That everything must come apart it seems
From the little child to the man of power
From the beggar to the angel of my dreams
From the thinnest thread we are sewn together
From the finest string we dangle over time
From the highest wire do we walk through fire
Should our balance ever falter
Should our steps be unaligned
Such a big storm yeah such a strong wind blowing
Such a loud voice calling for me to cross the line
Chorus
But Im not gonna give up the ghost
No, not gonna give up the ghost
Im not gonna give up the ghost, no not gonna give it up
cause I havent the strength to hold out too long
If we both hold on together we can make each other strong
After all were flesh n blood
After all were flesh n blood
After all were flesh n blood
After all were flesh
After all were flesh n blood
After all were flesh n blood
After all were flesh n blood
After all were flesh
Drop the mask take away the house
And forget about the income and the car
Were all the same underneath our shell
Weve all been to hell and we know what its like
And weve shared each others sins
We all know what its like to give up the fight
Weve all been ashamed at one time or another
We all have dreams and nightmares too
When it all comes down well look out for each other
(no one else will)
But when I hear the call when I feel the thirst
When the catcher comes to take my soul
Hes gonna have to fight me first
Chorus
Every cloud has a silver lining
And every soul is tender to the touch
We are made of stone, we are made of steel
And were all the same when we return to dust
But when I hear the call when I feel the thirst
When the catcher comes to take my soul
Hes gonna have to fight me first . . .
Chorus out
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Constancy.....
no matter what
it remains standing there
when tired
it sits sometimes when we are not watching
it deceives
and lies and mocks us when we are not looking
but what we must admire
and give credit
to this kind of thing
is its constancy
so that
when it rains or shines
it is always there
nothing moves it
and nothing defeats it
it is always there
and we applaud it
we put the boundaries
and mark the monument
of this
constancy
a sculpture of a body
with a face
like ours.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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