I have never thought of writing for reputation and honor. What I have in my heart must come out; that is the reason why I compose.
quote by Ludwig van Beethoven
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
I need a Kiss,
I need a Kiss,
I need a Kiss from you,
That I compose another thought,
I need a composure,
I need a Kiss that is thinking of another thought that hast this talent,
Compose on and on,
I know that you need another kiss from me,
Maybe Iam Composing this meaning and ever realising that Iam a man,
I kiss this ego with my vicissitudes,
These men are so callous in their hearts,
Compose another thought with that Spiritual Being,
It is worth that we are living for that Glory that is to come,
Ain't no dirty with that great composure,
We ain't no other man than the Kingdom that is from this composure.
poem by Maxpoet Beauty
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Cassio: Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!
line from Othello, Act II, Scene 3 by William Shakespeare (1603)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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What you compose with is neither here nor there, you compose with words, or you compose with stone plants and trees, or you compose with events; the Sheriff's officer, or whatever.
quote by Ian Hamilton Finlay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Is Reason
(pal waaktaar/ magne furuholmen)
My breath was coming fast
And as I make a start
You turn to go
Oh, oh
Ill do what you want me to
Ill cry at the thought of the loss of a heart
Love is reason
Love is reason
Love is reason
Love is reason enough
My morals are changing fast
I told you it wouldnt last
You turn and go
Oh, oh
Ill be what you want me to be
Id die at the thought of the loss of your heart
Love is reason
Love is reason
Love is reason
Love is reason enough
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who Am I
Who am I to understand
The ways of love a grain of sand
To fall between these fingers
That I hold
Who am I that you should trust
A wind that turns a stone to dust
A mountain to surrender all its gold
And who am I to say, you should believe in me
And who am I to say I love you
One reason why love cannot die
Tell me who am I
Who am I, I never knew
My heart was roaming from or to
(I don't know where we are going to)
The different arms between my day and night
(All I want is just to be with you)
Who am I, a distant sun
A thought before the moment's gone
(Just a thought before the moment's gone)
And I will never let you from my side
(You will always be the only one)
And all I have to say you can believe in me
For who am I to say I love you
One reason why love cannot die
You are on my heart remembers
Tell me who am I
And who am I to say I love you
One reason why love can not die
Tell me who am I
For who am I to say I love you
One reason why love cannot die
You are on my heart remembers
Tell me who
Tell me who am I
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Days Of 1896
He became completely degraded. His erotic tendency,
condemned and strictly forbidden
(but innate for all that) , was the cause of it:
society was totally prudish.
He gradually lost what little money he had,
then his social standing, then his reputation.
Nearly thirty, he had never worked a full year—
at least not at a legitimate job.
Sometimes he earned enough to get by
acting the go-between in deals considered shameful.
He ended up the type likely to compromise you thoroughly
if you were seen around with him often.
But this isn't the whole story—that would not be fair.
The memory of his beauty deserves better.
There is another angle; seen from that
he appears attractive, appears
a simple, genuine child of love,
without hesitation putting,
above his honor and reputation,
the pure sensuality of his pure flesh.
Above his reputation? But society,
prudish and stupid, had it wrong.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself.
quote by Lois McMaster Bujold
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself.
Lois McMaster Bujold in A Civil Campaign (1999)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Love....
i love...
that's the reason i walk,
the reason i breathe.
the reason i grieve.
the reason i dance.
the reason i smile.
the reason i listen.
the reason i offer a hand.
the reason i see beauty.
the reason i see both darkness,
and light....
the reason i take chances.
the reason i keep going.
the reason i get angry.
the reason i forgive.
the reason i touch.
the reason i question.
the reason i believe.
the reason i am tolerant.
the reason i understand.
the reason i fall.
the reason i fly.
the reason i write...
the reason i am what i am!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Guard your honor. Let your reputation fall where it will. And outlive the bastards.
quote by Lois McMaster Bujold
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Thought I Knew It All
Somewhere theres a reason
Why things go like they do
Somewhere theres a reason
Why somethings just fall through
We dont always see them
For what they really are
But I know theres a reason,
Just cant see it from this far
Maybe I dont like it, but I have no choice
I know that somewhere, someone hears my voice
I thought I knew it all
I thought I had it made
How could it end this way?
I thought I knew
Somewhere theres a reason
Why things dont go my way
Somewhere theres a reason
That I cannot explain
Just like the change of season,
Just may not be my turn
But I know theres a reason,
The lessons mine to learn
song performed by by Megadeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Two schools of thought.
.
The lady chose to take offence
Although I said she wrote fine prose
She may not know the difference
between poetry and prose
She thought that she wrote poetry
But what she wrote was free form prose.
I offered no apology
It was not my fault that she chose.
Not to learn the basic rules
defining prose and poetry
Two very different writing schools
in which to show your artistry.
The so called experts can’t agree
and coined the term poetic prose.
Though writing cannot possible
be classed as poetry and prose.
If it’s not metered it is prose
no matter how poetical.
But you’re entitled to compose.
Fine prose and call it poetry.
Though I suggest respectfully
you should be proud of writing prose.
As some do most successfully.
But it was poetry I chose
Thursday,11 March 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Guard your honor. Let your reputation fall where it will. And outlive the bastards.
Lois McMaster Bujold in A Civil Campaign (1999)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Come Alive In Writing
I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -
I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-
I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When a management with a reputation for brilliance tackles a business with a reputation for bad economics, it is the reputation of the business that remains intact.
quote by Warren Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reasons
Many lives they come, many lives they go
Without reason
In my heart I know I cannot let go
Without reason
Little children dont you feel so sad
When you come home feeling lost and bad
You got a reason, oh you got a reason
Oh woman, I gave my heart to you
When I found out what youve been through
You got a reason, oh you got a reason
Many lives they come, many lives they go
Without a reason in your heart
How could you know?
In my heart I know I cannot let go
Without a reason in my heart
How could you know?
(I know)
When they find you crying sorrows tears
And its too late after all these years
You got a reason, gimme that reason
Its boys be strong and girls be weak
But children, careful how you speak
You got a reason, gimme that reason
Many lives they come, many lives they go
Without a reason in your heart
How could you know?
In my heart I know I cannot let go
Gotta reason in my heart and dont you know?
I believe in love
I believe in you baby
What about love?
Give it to me, you gotta give me a reason baby
Little children dont you feel so bad
When you come home feeling lost and sad
You gotta reason
Believe it in your heart and it will show
song performed by by Culture Club
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Collected Poems (1994)
Lying in bed this morning, just a year
Since our first days, I was trying to assess -
Against my natural caution - by desire
And how the fact outdid it, my happiness:
And finding the awkwardness of keeping clear
Numberless flamingo thoughts and memories,
My dear and dearest husband, in this kind
Of rambling letter, I'll disburse my mind.
Technical problems have always given me trouble:
A child stiff at the fiddle, my ear had praise
And my intention only; so, as was natural,
Coming to verse, I hid my lack of ease
By writing only as I thought myself able,
Escaped the crash of the bold by salt originalities.
This is one reason for writing far from one's heart;
A better is, that one fears it may be hurt.
By an inadequate style one fears to cheapen
Glory, and that it may be blurred if seen
Through the eye's used centre, not the new margin.
It is the hardest thing with love to burn
And write it down, for what was the real passion
Left to its own words will seem trivial and thin.
We can in making love look face to face:
In poetry, crooked, and with no embrace.
Tolstoy's hero found in his newborn child
Only another aching, vulnerable part;
And it is true our first joy hundredfold
Increased our dangers, pricking in every street
In accidents and wars: yet this is healed
Not by reason, but with an endurance of delight
Since our marriage, which, once thoroughly known,
Is known for good, though in time it were gone.
You, hopeful baby with the erring toes,
Grew, it seems to me, to a natural pleasure
In the elegant strict machine, from the abstruse
Science of printing to the rich red and azure
It plays on hoardings, rusty industrial noise,
All these could add to your inherited treasure:
A poise which many wish for, writing the machine
Poems of laboured praise, but few attain.
And loitered up your childhood to my arms.
I would hold you there for ever, and know
Certainly now, that though the vacuum looms
Quotidian dullness, in these beams don't die
They're wrong who say that happiness never comes
On earth, that was spread here its crystal sea.
And since you, loiterer, did compose this wonder,
Be with me still, and may God hold his thunder.
poem by Anne Barbara Ridler
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A Letter
Lying in bed this morning, just a year
Since our first days, I was trying to assess --
Against my natural caution -- by desire
And how the fact outdid it, my happiness:
And finding the awkwardness of keeping clear
Numberless flamingo thoughts and memories,
My dear and dearest husband, in this kind
Of rambling letter, I'll disburse my mind.
Technical problems have always given me trouble:
A child stiff at the fiddle, my ear had praise
And my intention only; so, as was natural,
Coming to verse, I hid my lack of ease
By writing only as I thought myself able,
Escaped the crash of the bold by salt originalities.
This is one reason for writing far from one's heart;
A better is, that one fears it may be hurt.
By an inadequate style one fears to cheapen
Glory, and that it may be blurred if seen
Through the eye's used centre, not the new margin.
It is the hardest thing with love to burn
And write it down, for what was the real passion
Left to its own words will seem trivial and thin.
We can in making love look face to face:
In poetry, crooked, and with no embrace.
Tolstoy's hero found in his newborn child
Only another aching, vulnerable part;
And it is true our first joy hundredfold
Increased our dangers, pricking in every street
In accidents and wars: yet this is healed
Not by reason, but with an endurance of delight
Since our marriage, which, once thoroughly known,
Is known for good, though in time it were gone.
You, hopeful baby with the erring toes,
Grew, it seems to me, to a natural pleasure
In the elegant strict machine, from the abstruse
Science of printing to the rich red and azure
It plays on hoardings, rusty industrial noise,
All these could add to your inherited treasure:
A poise which many wish for, writing the machine
Poems of laboured praise, but few attain.
And loitered up your childhood to my arms.
I would hold you there for ever, and know
Certainly now, that though the vacuum looms
Quotidian dullness, in these beams don't die
They're wrong who say that happiness never comes
On earth, that was spread here its crystal sea.
And since you, loiterer, did compose this wonder,
Be with me still, and may God hold his thunder.
poem by Anne Barbara Ridler
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There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric' (And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem)
I believe that if you can speak, you can write….,
So almost anyone can be a lyricist or a poet too…! ! !
Of course there’s talent involved…,
And some are blessed to have much more than others do….,
But if you can compose a letter, or hold a conversation….,
I feel you could write a song lyric or a poem….,
Now that doesn’t mean it’ll be top-notch….,
Or for that matter, even mediocre….,
But when you’re in a crowd or all alone….,
Try it…! ! !
Cause There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric….,
And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem…! ! !
poem by Trade Martin
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A Byzantine Nobleman In Exile Composing Verses
The frivolous can call me frivolous.
I've always been most punctilious about
important things. And I insist
that no one knows better than I do
the Holy Fathers, or the Scriptures, or the Canons of the Councils.
Whenever he was in doubt,
whenever he had any ecclesiastical problem,
Botaniatis consulted me, me first of all.
But exiled here (may she be cursed, that viper
Irini Doukaina) , and incredibly bored,
it is not altogether unfitting to amuse myself
writing six- and eight-line verses,
to amuse myself poeticizing myths
of Hermes and Apollo and Dionysos,
or the heroes of Thessaly and the Peloponnese;
and to compose the most strict iambics,
such as—if you'll allow me to say so—
the intellectuals of Constantinople don't know how to compose.
It must be just this strictness that provokes their disapproval.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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