Post: #26

XIII

All my thoughts are telling me of Love;
they have in them such great diversity
that one thought makes me welcome all his power,
another thinks Love's power is insane,
another makes me hope and brings delight,
another moves me oftentimes to tears.
Only in begging pity all agree,
and tremble as they do with fearful heart.
Now I know not from which to take my cue;
I want to speak but know not what to say.
Thus do I wander in a maze of Love!
And if I want to harmonize these thoughts,
to do so I must call upon my foe,
by asking Lady Pity for defence.
(Sonnet)

La Vita Nuova
-Dante Alighieri (1295)

Post: #27

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AFTER CORUNNA

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him –
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory!

Charles Wolfe 1817

Post: #28

I WILL declare the manly deeds of Indra, the first that he achieved, the Thunder-wielder.
He slew the Dragon, then disclosed the waters, and cleft the channels of the mountain torrents.

He slew the Dragon lying on the mountain: his heavenly bolt of thunder Tvaṣṭar fashioned.
Like lowing kine in rapid flow descending the waters glided downward to the ocean.

Impetuous as a bull, he chose the Soma and in three sacred beakers drank the juices.
Maghavan grasped the thunder for his weapon, and smote to death this firstborn of the dragons.

When, Indra, thou hadst slain the dragon's firstborn, and overcome the charms of the enchanters,
Then, giving life to Sun and Dawn and Heaven, thou foundest not one foe to stand against thee.

Indra with his own great and deadly thunder smote into pieces Vṛtra, worst of Vṛtras.
As trunks of trees, what time the axe hath felled them, low on the earth so lies the prostrate Dragon.

He, like a mad weak warrior, challenged Indra, the great impetuous many-slaying Hero.
He, brooking not the clashing of the weapons, crushed—Indra's foe—the shattered forts in falling.

Footless and handless still he challenged Indra, who smote him with his bolt between the shoulders.
Emasculate yet claiming manly vigour, thus Vṛtra lay with scattered limbs dissevered.

There as he lies like a bank-bursting river, the waters taking courage flow above him.
The Dragon lies beneath the feet of torrents which Vṛtra with his greatness had encompassed.

Then humbled was the strength of Vṛtra's mother: Indra hath cast his deadly bolt against her.
The mother was above, the son was under and like a cow beside her calf lay Danu.

Rolled in the midst of never-ceasing currents flowing without a rest for ever onward.
The waters bear off Vṛtra's nameless body: the foe of Indra sank to during darkness.

Guarded by Ahi stood the thralls of Dāsas, the waters stayed like kine held by the robber.
But he, when he had smitten Vṛtra, opened the cave wherein the floods had been imprisoned.

A horse's tail wast thou when he, O Indra, smote on thy bolt; thou, God without a second,
Thou hast won back the kine, hast won the Soma; thou hast let loose to flow the Seven Rivers.

Nothing availed him lightning, nothing thunder, hailstorm or mist which had spread around him:
When Indra and the Dragon strove in battle, Maghavan gained the victory for ever.

Whom sawest thou to avenge the Dragon, Indra, that fear possessed thy heart when thou hadst slain him;
That, like a hawk affrighted through the regions, thou crossedst nine-and-ninety flowing rivers?

Indra is King of all that moves and moves not, of creatures tame and horned, the Thunder-wielder.
Over all living men he rules as Sovran, containing all as spokes within the felly.

Hymn to Indra
Translation by Griffith

Post: #29

Nothing Gold can Stay by Robert Frost; though I don't think he was writing it with this in mind, it could be an accurate poem about the wall and a girl woman it:


Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower
But only so an hour

Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing Gold can stay

Post: #30

More Philip Larkin:


This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Post: #31

From Gen. George S. Patton's "Absolute War"

Quote:For in war just as in loving, you must always keep on shoving
Or you'll never get your just reward.
For if you are dilatory in the search for lust and glory
You are up shit creek and that's the truth, Oh! Lord.

Post: #32

Gasp, one of my favourites is by a girl (Edith Sitwell)

Still Falls The Rain - The Raids 1940, Night And Dawn

Still falls the Rain -
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss -
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammerbeat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet
On the Tomb.

Still falls the Rain
In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us -
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain -
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds - those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear -
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh ... the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain -
Then - O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune -
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree
Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world - dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain -
'Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.'

Post: #33

And some more:

'Cargoes'

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

John Masefield.


Samuel Taylor Coleridge is one of my favourite poets though it annoys me no end that he was in the habit of not finishing his poems. Even so, his poems can be very long so we'll have to settle for Kubla Khan rather than the Rime of the Ancient Mariner rather than Christabel:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.


There are many more Poems and Poets I'm fond of - but I'll leave you with Tennyson's The Lady of Shalott, as performed by Loreena McKennitt

https://youtu.be/ttv0ljOiPSs

Post: #34

Charles Bukowski - Roll the Dice

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.

Post: #35

Will Allen Dromgoole - The Bridge Builder

An old man going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening cold and gray,
To a chasm vast and deep and wide.
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim,
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,
“You are wasting your strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day,
You never again will pass this way;
You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build this bridge at evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old gray head;
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followed after me to-day
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been as naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”

Post: #36

Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Post: #37

let me taste your guava juice
a pink slit doubled as a noose
for my head to hang

fold around the tensioned stems
and follow them until the bends
i'll puddle in between

admire your lengthy structured roots
the semi-hollow curling chutes
while tightening the grip

to just inhale the dew perfume
the sick energy of you in bloom
and drip and drip and drip

let me hear the seeds disperse
a roaring, purring broken curse
our exodus from self

and they all sang:
this is of freedom
bleeding freedom
crying freedom
spitting freedom
sweating freedom
vomiting freedom
cumming freedom
pissing freedom
shedding freedom
shuddering freedom
this is freedom

Post: #38

Lepanto by G. K. Chesterton

Quote:White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross,
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young,
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain—hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunset and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate ;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still—hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael’s on his mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that, is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial, and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John’s hunting, and his hounds have bayed—
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man’s house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign—
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

Post: #39

Chasing after the world
Brings chaos.
Allowing it all to come to me
Brings peace.

— Zen Gatha

Post: #40

This is a haiku that I wrote a long time ago.

Alone in your room
Sound of cigarette burning
Dead of autumn night.

Post: #41

By Octavio Paz: (my own loose translation)

Quote:Brotherhood

Im a man, I last but a short while
And the night is enormous
But I look upwards:
The stars write.

Without understanding, I comprehend:
I am also written
And in this very same instant
Somebody is spelling me out.

I dont know why, perhaps the timing or the choice of words, but in its original it moves me to the fucking core.

Post: #42

Seamus (Pronounced "Shay-Mus") Heaney
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetryma...!/20604557

Post: #43

A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather,
Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together.
Science announced nonentity and art admired decay;
The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay.
Round us in antic order their crippled vices came—
Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame.
Like the white lock of Whistler, that lit our aimless gloom,
Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume.
Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung;
The world was very old indeed when you and I were young.
They twisted even decent sin to shapes not to be named:
Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed.
Weak if we were and foolish, not thus we failed, not thus;
When that black Baal blocked the heavens he had no hymns from us.
Children we were—our forts of sand were even as weak as we,
High as they went we piled them up to break that bitter sea.
Fools as we were in motley, all jangling and absurd,
When all church bells were silent our cap and bells were heard.

Not all unhelped we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled;
Some giants laboured in that cloud to lift it from the world.
I find again the book we found, I feel the hour that flings
Far out of fish-shaped Paumanok some cry of cleaner things;
And the Green Carnation withered, as in forest fires that pass,
Roared in the wind of all the world ten million leaves of grass;
Or sane and sweet and sudden as a bird sings in the rain—
Truth out of Tusitala spoke and pleasure out of pain.
Yea, cool and clear and sudden as a bird sings in the grey,
Dunedin to Samoa spoke, and darkness unto day.
But we were young; we lived to see God break their bitter charms.
God and the good Republic come riding back in arms:
We have seen the City of Mansoul, even as it rocked, relieved—
Blessed are they who did not see, but being blind, believed.

This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells,
And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells—
Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash,
Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash.
The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dreadful to withstand—
Oh, who shall understand but you; yea, who shall understand?
The doubts that drove us through the night as we two talked amain,
And day had broken on the streets e'er it broke upon the brain.
Between us, by the peace of God, such truth can now be told;
Yea, there is strength in striking root and good in growing old.
We have found common things at last and marriage and a creed,
And I may safely write it now, and you may safely read.

-G.K. Chesterton

Increasingly seems to describe our situation today.

Post: #44

'Today is a very good day to die' by Nancy Wood. This is the poem I'd like to read right before I move on. This is the way I'd like to move on.

Today is good day to die
Every living thing is in harmony with me.
Every voice sings a chorus within me.
All beauty has come to rest in my eyes.
All bad thoughts have departed from me.

Today is a very good day to die.

My land is peaceful around me.
My fields have been turned for the last time.
My house is filled with laughter.
My children have come home.

Yes, today is a very good day to die.

Post: #45

This one spoke to me, Thank You Quintus Curtius for putting it on your blog:

I Think Continually of Those Who Were Truly Great

By Sir Stephen Spender (1909-1995)

I think continually of those who were truly great.

Who, from the womb, remembered the soul’s history

Through corridors of light where the hours are suns,

Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition

Was that their lips, still touched with fire,

Should tell of the spirit clothed from head to foot in song.

And who hoarded from the spring branches

The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.



What is precious is never to forget

The delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs

Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth;

Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning light,

Nor its grave evening demand for love;

Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother

With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.



Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields

See how those names are feted by the wavering grass,

And by the streamers of white cloud,

And whispers of wind in the listening sky;

The names of those who in their lives fought for life,

Who wore at their hearts the fire’s centre.

Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun,

And left the vivid air signed with their honor.

Post: #46

I'm a fan of this one.

Quote:“When you find your mission, a better man you’ll be,

The effect’s not immediate, nor plain to see,

Rather it creeps on you, inevitably,

Its affect renews you, steadily,

Until one day you realize what is, that you were born to do,

Go where no man has before, discover the ultimate truth,

And with a hunger you pursue all avenues,

Nought but constraints of time can even limit you,

Your mind runs wild, you no longer feel an ennui,

Life is something of which you can’t get enough to eat,

And there you have it, chained by your dreams,

The cage is lifted and you finally feel free.”

G

Post: #47

One of my all time favorites

T.S. Eliot

The Hollow Men
A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer -

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this

Post: #48

Apologies for the cut off

The Hollow Men continued:

In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Post: #49

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.

- Dylan Thomas

Post: #50

One I like in German:

Quote:Links zwo, Links zwo,
Links zwo, drei, vier,
Links zwo, Links zwo,
Geschickt nach nirgendwo,
Ein Soldat, ein Liebster auch,
Hab’ ein schlechtes Gefühl im Bauch,

Ich bin in Hitze schon seit Tagen
Ich muss irgendwie den Feind zerschlagen
Doch weiß ich nicht wer er ist,
Derweil scheint es, dass jeder hier,
Will dass ich mich verpiss!

Ich bin ein Soldat, ohne Sinnvollen Auftrag,
Und mehrmals hab’ ich mich gefragt,
Am sandigsten Meer sage ich dir,
Warum sind wir hier?

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Auf unserer schönen Erden,

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Müssen nie wieder werden,

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Hat Saddam Hussein,

Reise, reise, Fahrvergnügen,
Von der Stille der Sonne betrügen,
Dann die feurige Explosion uns unterbrach,
Fuhren wir wie Lämmer zur Bank der Schlacht,
Helmut ist tot, Johans Blut fließt wie Wein,
Der Krieg kann so wütend sein,

Den Rest verbrannt oder in Asche gelegt,
Unser Fahrzeug wie ein Spielzeug,
Hinweggefegt,
Doch der Feind ist nirgends zu sehen,
Ich seh’ nur einen Jungen
Mit einem Handy vorbeigehen,

Das Ziel ist einfach unklar,
Ist es je erreichbar?
Am sandigsten Meer sage ich dir,
Warum sind wir hier?

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Auf unserer schönen Erden,

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Müssen nie wieder werden,

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Hat Saddam Hussein,

Wer ist am Leben,
Wer lebt unter den Lebenden?
Wir müssen noch die Stadt einnehmen,
Ein Angriff mit hoher Opferzahl,
Denn unsere Leben sind ihm egal,

So steigen wir den Berg mit Ach und Krach,
Wir gehen weiter, im Schutze der Nacht,
Brauchen nicht mehr Lebensversicherung,
Denn morgen werden wir niedergemacht,

Es ist früh, es ist nicht fein,
Ich will nicht mehr am Felsen sein,
Wacht auf, wir müssen zum Ort,
Hoppe, Hoppe, Reiter,
Wir gehen sofort!

Ich seh’ ein kleines,
Fräulein vorbeigehen,
Dann bedroht sie mich mit einem Gewehr,
Doch das hat einer meiner Kameraden gesehen,
Und erschoss sie zu meiner Notwehr,


Schließlich hatten wir die Stadt eingenommen,
Doch zu welchem Preis?
Mein Kamerad muss im Gericht erscheinen,
Damit sie sein Schicksal vor Gericht entscheiden (können),
Er handelte nach Befehlen, was hat er Unrechtes getan?
Er fragte das Gericht, sie dachten daran,
„Am sandigsten Meer,
Frage ich euch hier,
Warum sind wir,
wirklich alle hier?“

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Auf unserer schönen Erden,

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Müssen nie wieder werden,

Massenvernichtungswaffen!
Hat Saddam Hussein,

Jetzt, bin ich noch mal in der Schlacht,
Mein Ziel ist sehr klar,
Verbrenn alle die uns im Weg sind,
Ganz, und gar,

Ich vermisse meinen alten, treuen Waffenbruder,
Ahnungslose zivile Behörden,
Machte ihm die Welt ganz dunkler,
Er hattet Recht, der arme Wiener,
Beschämt leben ist mir lieber,
Als den Kopf in Schande senken,
Als wie ein Tier vergebens verenden,

Ein letzter Auftrag,
Ich bin etwas mehr erfreut,
Ich erteilte den Zuschlag, hab es nicht bereut,
Sah’ noch mal das gleiche handytragende Kind,
Schlug alle Bedenken in den Wind,

Er war nur ein Kind, wollte ihn nicht erschießen,
Wollte kein armes, Kinderblut vergießen,
Als es kam sah ich es nicht,
der Junge sah nur ein lächelndes Gesicht,

Ach, das Blut läuft mir aus dem Mund,
Am Ende bin ich doch zu etwas gut,
Das Licht ist weiß, der Tunnel ist leer,
Seine Kugel steckt tief in mir,

Die Reise war zwecklos,
Das Ziel unklar,
Die Beweggründe waren,
Nicht lesbar,
Und unser Fortschritt,
war nicht messbar,
War unsere Opferzahl,
echt tragbar?


Nicht so schlecht für eine,
Friedensunternehmung nicht wahr?

-Thomas O. January 2010

G