The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flow'rs that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclin'd,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw: and purr'd applause.
Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream;
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Thro' richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd)
The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A Fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties, undeceiv'd,
Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,
Nor all, that glisters, gold.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.
Sonnet 18 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 29 When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Sonnet 65 Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Sonnet 71 No longer mourn for me when I am dead Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone.
A few poems that I've collected over the years (3-4 years ago.)
Many of them are anomynous/used an alias, and I can't seem to track them down anymore.
Yeah.. they're kind of gloomy and teenage angst and what not. But they're also very pretty/interesting.
Enjoy =)
"Silent Music" The young girl sat upon the stool,
Gazing at the marble. As her finger touched the key, she flinched. It was cold.
Wind blew through the room - - Whistling quietly inside its chambers. As if this was a call to her, she began to play.
Absorbed by the rhythm, she closed her eyes. Swaying from side to side, her hands creating a magical fusion with the keys. Nothing could seperate them.
The silent breeze blew the dust away, it spread into the air, floating into the dark as were her thoughts when she played this piano.
The piano had not been cared for. Scratched, damaged, left to crumble in the room. Just like the girl. And together they sat, bathing in the music.
One could not live without the other, Their sound only created through harmony. For once the piano felt loved, and the girl felt compassion for it.
All the night she stayed sat upon that stool. The sounds of the world joined them, weaving into their immense sound.
The piano began to feel the strain of being uncared for. Without a sound its strings broke, and silence filled the room.
Silver tears hit the ground, as the girl lay underneath the piano. And there she stayed, until the day she too played her last note.
"A-Z Poem" Always doing something wrong Banishing those who don't belong Catastrophe started under the moon Death is sure to come very soon Evil lurks in every corner For every death there is a mourner Gold and riches are the focus Happiness is a bunch of hocus pocus Intimitidation is the key Joy fills it when we are free Klutzy people are at every turn Love is what we all yearn Magic is shunned by many of us Normally we think it right to cuss Optimistic people are very uncommon Prejudice is found in avergae to shaman(:P) Questions need answers Resources should destroy cancers Sex is all the people think about They are taking the wrong route Unheard and unloved Valiant hardly lift a glove War is getting this world shakin X-treme measures will be taken Youthfulness and peace is what we need Zonky idea,yes,but without it we'll bleed
"Crows and Ravens" There stands a raven so clear, Its black feathers shining, The sun sets with blood red dips, As the hounds start whining, Singing their lullaby, Dreadful escape, Snow driven mountains, Bats and shadows await, High in the stone clenched, Mountains lie a castle, There you hear chains sing, Without any hassle, They cling and screech with the crows rhythm, Giving ears no word, For their song brings tears and such depression, Whenever it is heard, And beneath the sea lies open freedom, It tricks us to deny, And though we are crows entangled in chains, We know one day well fly, Flying above the forest, Soaring over the hills, High above the mountains, Were the air send us chills, Freedom awaits no other, It stands merely atop a ledge, To let us go or not, Is yet a mortals pledge, Tricks and pranks they are, Showing us nothing but doubt, But one day I hope to kill them, With my scream, my shout, Ill show them all what I can be, And what I can do, These words arent just speaking for me, They are speaking for you to, And soon enough the crows will die, The ravens they will to, Nothing here as the world decays, Never to live through, And yet there will be a time, When immortals rule this earth, All mortals died and gone to heaven, This has given us rebirth, And o youll see the vampires laugh, The werewolves howl at the moon, And red eyes in the shadows, All happen very soon, The water will be water again, The sun will be so gray, The moon will rule over all, And the pain will go away, Well be brothers and sisters, Lovers that too, A world for all acceptation,
And it all awaits you, So come and hear the morning birds, Sing their song of new, For there it lies glistening, One of its few, And so now I look upon, The sun setting what it may lack, For there high above a raven flies, In its mouth a rose the color black.
"Apocalypse"
By: R. Vates
Energy....Stuck in a moment in the past, The present, now and always.
Forever one with the universe... The universe torn in two pieces. And never again will it shine. The words fall from broken lips, The mouth trembles with anticipation. Waiting, and seeing behind the blades of infinity. Only in our lifetime. Running backwards fowards, Skipping stones in an endless stream...Life. Following the rythm of earth, We seek what we can never know. Higher it pulls us into the nothingness of mankind. Our own destruction we have created. Filling the air with darkness, and it drips So slowly now. The earth trembles, and our bones are weak. Never again may we remember what never was. Further into the ground... Digging for words of past civilizations... Never again. Seeking truth, But believing the lies. What is hidden from us, Is what we were before. Washing the brain, With sounds of structure and chaos. Together as one, yet never united. Tying up our thoughts with myths and lore. Fiction never seemed so real. Now we sit quiet, Almost waiting for the end to come. A weary spirit comes from deep within, It pours out it's sadness to the earth. Fields of laughter, From the children who will never know. Discussion, remembrance, And what the future holds, It is all to bright for human eyes. When the sun comes closer, Bringing with it secrets, and promises. Complete fulfillment. One more time around, One more day to live. Everything matters when nothing does.
* * *
BD: Adam Smith, John Maynard Keynes
DD: Carl Maria von Weber
World Environment Day
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.
By Edward Thomas
***
DDs: Joan of Arc, Christopher Marlowe, Peter Paul Rubens, Voltaire, Wilbur Wright
A song that we received in French class today. It is very cute and pretty and sweet.
Les Voyages En Train Grand Corps malade
J'crois que les histoires d'amour c'est comme les voyages en train,
Et quand je vois tous ces voyageurs, parfois j'aimerais en être un,
Pourquoi tu crois que tant de gens attendent qur le quai de la gare,
Pourquoi tu crois qu'on flippe autant d'arriver en retard.
Les trains démarrent souvent au momenty où on s'y attend le moins,
Et l'histoire d'amour t'emporte sous l'oeil impuissant des témoins,
Les témoin, c'est tes potes qui te disent au revoir sur le quai,
Et regardent le train s'éloigner avec un sourire inquiet,
Toi aussi tu leur fais signe et t'imagine leurs commentaires,
Certains pensent que tu t'plantes et qu't as pas les pieds sur terre,
Chacun y va de son pronostic sur la durée du voyage,
Pour la plupart le train va derailler dès le premier orage.
Le grand amour change forcement ton comportement,
Dès le premier jour faut bien choisir ton compartiment,
Siège couloir ou contre la vitre, il faut trouver la bonne place,
Tu choisis quoi? une love story de première ou seconde classe.
Dans les premiers kilomètres, tu n'as d'yeux que pour son visage,
Tu calcules pas derrière la fenètre, le defilé des paysages,
Tu te sens vivant, tu te sens leger, tu vois pas passer l'heure,
T'es tellement bien qu't as presque envie d'embrasser le controleur.
Mais la magie ne dure qu'un temps et ton histoire bas de l'aile,
Toi tu te dis que tu n'y es pour rien que c'est sa faute à elle,
Le ronronnement du train te saoule et chaque virage t'écoeure,
Faut que tu te lèves, que tu marches, tu vas te dégourdir le coeur.
Et le train ralenti et c'est déjà la fin de ton histoire,
En plus t'es comme un con tes potes sont restés à l'autre gare,
Tu dis au revoir à celle que tu appelleras désormais ton ex,
Dans son agenda sur ton nom elle va passer un coup de Tipex.
C'est vrai que les histoires d'amour, c'est comme les voyages en train,
Et quand je vois tous ces voyageurs parfois j'aimerais en être un,
Pourquoi tu crois que tant de gens attendent sur le quai de la gare,
Pourquoi tu crois qu'on flippe autant d'arriver en retard.
Pour beaucoup, la vie se résume à essayer de monter dans le train,
A connaitre se qu'est l'amour et se découvrir plein d'entrain,
Pour beaucoup, l'objectif est d'arriver à la bonne heure,
Pour reussir son voyage et avoir accès au bonheur.
Il est facile de prendre un train, encore faut-il prendre le bon,
Moi, je suis monté dans deux trois mais c'était pas le bon wagon,
Car les trains sont capricieux et certains sont inaccessibles,
Et je ne crois pas tout le temps que avec la SNCF s'est possible.
Il y a ceux pour qui les trains sont toujours en grève,
Et leurs histoires d'amour n'existent que dans leurs rèves,
Et y a ceux qui foncent dans le premier train sans faire attention,
Mais forcement ils descendront déçu à la prochaine station.
Y'a celles qui flippent de s'engager parce qu'elles sont trop émotives,
Pour elles s'est trop risqué de s'accrocher à la locomotive,
Et y'a les aventuriers qui enchainent voyage sur voyage,
Dès qu'une histoire est terminée, ils attaquent une autre page.
Moi après mon seul vrai voyage, j'ai souffert pendant des mois,
On s'est quitté d'un commun accord mais elle était plus d'accord que moi,
Depuis je traine sur le quai je regarde les train au départ,
Y'a des portes qui s'ouvrent mais dans une gare, je me sens à part.
Il parait que les voyages en train finissent mal en général,
Si pour toi c'est le cas, accroche toi et garde le moral,
Car une chose est certaine, y aura toujours un terminus,
Maintenant tu es prévenu la prochaine fois tu prendras le bus.
* * *
In time today:
Birthdays: Sergei Prokofiev, Nicolas Slonimsky, Nigel Barker.
Deaths: Alexander Scriabin.
World Graphic Design Day.
Today marks our dear Frédéric Chopin's 200th birthday. Love him, or hate him, he is still one of the most brilliant musicians of all time.
When I was much younger, Chopin did not make much sense at all. His songs seemed quite boring, and are only to be played because adults seemed to enjoy his songs. But over the years, as I grew up and have (hopefully) matured somewhat, I think I have finally come to an understanding, or at least, my interpretation of him.
As it turned out, he is not boring at all! Nor is it extremely depressing or sad, as some would describe him. No, his music is filled with passion, with such colourful and at times heart breaking chord progressions and melodies. Sometimes with subtle peacefulness, then such fury! Like a fire, an unquenchable fervour, infatuation, excitement, raw emotions that run through your veins. I love his build ups, with the stretto/cresc./ritenuto/con fuoco combination that just seems to forever build up the emotions, the pressure.... Until, suddenly, it is all released, into quiet peacefulness, drifting on such sweet harmonies, lulling you like the calm rocking of the sea, like warm afternoons on the grassy knoll, under the shade. It is absolutely breathtaking. This is romanticism at its finest.
Here are some of Chopin's piano pieces, though I don't know how well one can truly enjoy them, without playing these pieces, feeling the harmonies and vibrations of the notes beneath one's fingers.
My uncle's favourite song in the whole world: Etude op.10 no.3
Nocturne op.9 no.2
This one is relatively easy, and quite possibly overplayed by RCM students, but I absolutely just love this one: Nocturne op.19 no.72
A piece that I'm currently working on; the Revolutionary Etude, op.10 no.12
Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained In the hollow round of my skull. And God said Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live? And that which had been contained In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping: Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness, and because She honours the Virgin in meditation, We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd. It is this which recovers My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown. Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness. There is no life in them. As I am forgotten And would be forgotten, so I would forget Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied The greater torment Of love satisfied End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other, Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand, Forgetting themselves and each other, united In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
III At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below The same shape twisted on the banister Under the vapour in the fetid air Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair I left them twisting, turning below; There were no more faces and the stair was dark, Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair, Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair; Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair, Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV Who walked between the violet and the violet Who walked between The various ranks of varied green Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour, Talking of trivial things In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour Who moved among the others as they walked, Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour, Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded. The new years walk, restoring Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem The time. Redeem The unread vision in the higher dream While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue Between the yews, behind the garden god, Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down Redeem the time, redeem the dream The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
V If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence Not on the sea or on the islands, not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land, For those who walk in darkness Both in the day time and in the night time The right time and the right place are not here No place of grace for those who avoid the face No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee, Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender Yew trees pray for those who offend her And are terrified and cannot surrender And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks In the last desert before the last blue rocks The desert in the garden the garden in the desert Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying (Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things From the wide window towards the granite shore The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell Quickens to recover The cry of quail and the whirling plover And the blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden, Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still Even among these rocks, Our peace in His will And even among these rocks Sister, mother And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea, Suffer me not to be separated
Je suis le Ténébreux, - le Veuf, - l'Inconsolé,
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la Tour abolie :
Ma seule Etoile est morte, - et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m'as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d'Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s'allie.
Suis-je Amour ou Phébus ?... Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine ;
J'ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène...
Et j'ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l'Achéron :
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d'Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.
