Remember what is unbecoming to do is also unbecoming to speak of.
Related quotes
It is unbecoming for young men to utter maxims.
An offer of friendship to a friend's foe is unbecoming an honorable man.
Conversation with an American Writer
'You have courage, ' they tell me.
It's not true. I was never courageous.
I simply felt it unbecoming
to stoop to the cowardice of my colleagues.
I've shaken no foundations.
I simply mocked at pretense and inflation.
Wrote articles. Scribbled no denunciations.
And tried to speak all on my mind.
Yes, I defended men of talent,
branding the hacks, the would-be writers.
But this, in general, we should always do;
and yet they keep stressing my courage.
Oh, our descendants will burn with bitter shame
to remember, when punishing vile acts,
that most peculiar time, when
plain honesty was labeled 'courage'...
poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
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Sounds of grief
Must I remind you, Cleis,
that sounds of grief
are unbecoming in
a poet's household?
and that they are not
suitable in ours?
Sappho
tr. Barnard
(Philosphy Poem) A Passing
Fun with a redundant pleasure.
Take heed of such measures.
Attention seeking is so unbecoming.
Don't get me wrong, everyone desires it.
But some can do without, while other can not.
To relate, but not demand.
To try understand.
Within reason.
Everything has a flavor and a season.
Some more liked the others.
But as the saying goes.
This too shall come to pass.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Sixth Woman
All the women must envy her.
Because she is the woman that I truly love.
I have surrendered every atom of my being.
All my time is hers.
She takes away my education, my career, my past
My present, my future.
She takes away my soul.
My liberty, my thoughts
My feelings, my rationality
She is everything,
I mumble before her
And I tell everything
There are no secrets
There is only beauty, truth, and goodness.
She is regal.
She takes me whole.
She is eating me whole.
She will break me, she will kill me.
I have nothing left, and she can make me take
What belongs to others so I still have something to give her
To cater to all her demands
Whims
Caprices
She takes my books, my rings, my watches,
She takes my house, my car, my attaché case
She takes my savings, my fortune
She takes everything away from me
And I cry before her
I laugh like crazy
With what is happening to me
And she does not mind
Unmoved, unthinking
Unbreakable
Undone
Un-self
Un-real
To her real-ness
Unbecoming of me
She is unbecoming of me to all the other women in my life
She is forever
Omnipresent, omnivorous,
Omnipotent,
She is
Goddess
All the women say,
I am finished
And I deserve her
And they all wish
My eternal damnation
My eternal suffering
To a hell of perfection
Through her the retaliation is complete
The vengeance perfect.
I am helpless
She is the sixth woman,
The sixth sense
She is poetry and I am her slave.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 69
The earth receives showers from heaven and gives to it only dust. Every vessel exudes what it contains.
If my humour appears to thee unbecoming
Lose not thy own good humour.
Self-centered
you started it
and i was just trying to put the finishing touches
and then you cried foul
and call me names
i am just returning what
you have given
and then you said it was dirty
and so unbecoming
of me
you feel that you are a star in your own universe
so be it
burn yourself to death
with that self-made glitter of yours
i am a pebble that you have disregarded
i stare and i do not know how to laugh
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 21
Loqman, being asked from whom he had learnt civility, replied: ‘From those who had no civility because what appeared to me unbecoming in them I refrained from doing.’
Not a word is said even in sport
Without an intelligent man taking advice thereby.
But if a hundred chapters of wisdom are read to a fool
All strike his ear merely as sport.
Unlikely, Unbecoming
envious of the dog
the buffalo begins to behave like one
when the master comes
it waggles its legs and dances like a puppy
the master is angry
'this is unbecoming of you! '
the master about this is not happy
and whips the buffalo away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Contemplation Upon Extinction....
it will be too
unlikely
for one at this prime age
his pink
youth
to start glimpsing about
the face of
extinction
one says it will be
unbecoming
in fact, too premature
and simply
sad
when one tumbles however
and bleeds
and feels the pain
of an injury
one realizes a hint
into the possibility of
an incoming
death
one contemplates upon it
like a folded
letter
whose miserable content
makes you
read it over and over again
deep in your heart
you tell yourself
'this is real and i will
be next'....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I like the sound of violin
Sharp and probing
Pricking like needles
My heart is numb and painful
Acupuncture violin
Pricking my heart my soul
I become lost too unbecoming
My defined peace
It is here in settled absences
Nothing fills it
Now it must be something coming new
Filling pricking needles of violins
Make me live make me pain some more.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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(Fake Poem) Copied Dialogue
Faking it can only produce so much
Sooner or later your realized and you will lose your golden touch
A man in the desert must eventuality drink water
When he does he's caught
A travesty unbecoming of any real author
Authenticity tried and proven
In the readers world the guilty shall be hung
By a noose of rejection
Fact or fictions doesn't make a lick of difference if it is not of yours
To write with passion you must think for yourself
Create your opinions and ideas
And not become of a copied dialogue
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Brooding
Me and my pride,
me and my hurts.
Who are you, which you are not,
a verbless statement of nirvana?
No pain
no asking, narcissism.
A stream of unbecoming.
Eyes wide open
jaws tightly shut,
sitting in a corner, brooding,
brooding.
Now what?
A stunning duplicity,
a surrogate god
was running an empire.
Precisely polygamous
on the name of a latter saint
annihilating the third image.
The future demands its past,
its mode of becoming endosperm
in a sleeping leaf.
poem by Satish Verma
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A Yearning
If hate was becoming an absolute truth
and love was transcending lies
where do we go now?
This daily life, I was seeing
the pain of troubled identity,
turning into punishment of unbecoming.
The hired untruths
are killing the tender doubts.
No body wants to look back
at the subscribers of violence.
Be my friend.
Let us go for a pilgrimage into past,
for a sacred bath.
Uncovered and naked
in the hot spring of madness.
At last we will take the heat of sun
in open sky,
manipulate the wind metaphorically
and sleep in our bodies.
poem by Satish Verma
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for C, J. A. C.
it is not a shame
to tell you that i am happier now
with two of us
in a row
the train has left us
here at the station
it left too early
taking the younger ones
those without
much experience
those whom we think
are undeserving
of their couches
and seats
you only have one trip missed
i had five and now i just had my sixth
I'll go for another one
and this will be the seventh train leaving
without me
it is unbecoming of me seeing you
hiding inside that cubicle of disappointment
i guess you must have been crying all night
more likely you do not like to eat dinner tonight
come out in the open
there are too many of us still waiting
when you are always left out
it becomes too ordinary
look at me
i am not sad
honestly i find it funny alredy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Contempt Over The Contemnors
she is all inflamed
her cheeks are falling from
her bones
she speaks beastly
the wrong goddess in that
chair of justice meriting
disrespect
from the floor
the defenders are in a quandary
her other gods are angry
despite her unbecoming ways
look! the lowly turtle is turn
into the fireplace
justice dies
courtesy resigns
from now on
no one rules
the ways split
we look forward to more chaos
let us see if gods are really gods
on this turtle's turf
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Dance Symbolic
stimuli, stimuli:
a call to attention
sustained in engulfing patience,
linearity superimposed,
through collages of sensorial receptions;
a reminder that we are alive.
stimuli, stimuli:
a reaching out to cerebral withdrawn,
resurrection from the abduction within,
beyond stillness
beyond volatile
beyond yourself unto yourself
a seamless drama unfolding.
for every step, transformed
ever coming into being,
ever anew,
against cemented unbecoming;
in the momentum,
awash…
stimuli, stimuli:
to be embraced by life
in living embraced.
poem by Chris Jelens
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It Will Be Another Week
another week of unbecoming
retracing genes of
great grandfathers, these vomiting
moments of our lives
what they taught perhaps
shall linger like leeches
but we like them all to leave us
so we can also
lick our own wounds without them
watching with whirlpool faces
another week of hibernation
getting to know this self like it were a stranger
knocking on my door
for a while i must accept all these
treat this stranger to a drink
vodka or rum
i may hum and make myself numb
on this mantra of manifestations
here i am
embrace me says the stranger
i have been longing to have you
and hold you tight unto my arms
let us talk
you and i.
my name is your name
and my emptiness is yours too.
let us drink to this!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Bad Ending
you write something
you choose the words
the feelings are there
oozing
the memories are sticky
flashbacks like
scenes of a
play
you like it at the beginning
crispy and
onion flavored
you take the bite and chew
honestly
at the middle you shake
your head
your chair trembles
something is so wrong
you're impatient
you want to go to the ending
it is very bad
someone dies and people love the
murderer
it is very bad
society hates this kind of story
very unbecoming of
a narrative
but what is important
is just this plain honesty that sometimes
everything can be bad
just bad
and perhaps even so bad
gives you that feeling that you are right
and then
at the end you put a stop to words proclaiming that
a bad ending
can be so beautiful.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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