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 Nataraja_Shiva
Philosophus
Registered: 05/15/18
Posts: 325
Loc: Earth
Last seen: 1 year, 8 months
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Excellent choice ^
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"Life is warfare and a strangers sojourn, the only lasting fame is oblivion" - Marcus Aurelius
FastFreds Media Cookbook
Mad Seasons guide to hidden contams
How it should and shouldn't look
Ultimate Tek Compendium
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Gonzo the Eternal
In Sterquiliniis Invenitur
Registered: 05/09/18
Posts: 480
Last seen: 4 years, 7 months
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Excellent topic 
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 DividedQuantum
Outer Head
 
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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A gnostic says little, but inside he is full of mysteries,
and crowded with voices. Whoever is served
that cup keeps quiet.
Rumi
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,--
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue--
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.
--Act 3, Scene 1 Julius Caesar by Wm. Shakespeare
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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Stanzas for Music
by Lord Byron
They say that Hope is happiness;
But genuine Love must prize the past,
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless;
They rose the first -- they set the last.
And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.
Alas! it is delusion all;
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are.
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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pineninja
Dream Weaver
Registered: 08/17/14
Posts: 12,468
Loc: South 
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I like that last paragraph especially.
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Just a fool on the hill.
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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 Re: Post a poem you like  [Re: pineninja] 2
#25522794 - 10/08/18 06:54 PM (5 years, 6 months ago) |
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A Ballad of Dreamland
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837 - 1909)
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun’s way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow’s is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.
Lie still, I said, for the wind’s wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun’s dart;
Life still, for the wind of the warm sea dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn’s wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land’s name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller’s chart,
And sweet as the fruit on its tree that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant’s mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep’s are the tunes in its tree tops heard;
No hound’s note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.
ENVOI
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love’s truth or of light love’s art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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Nataraja_Shiva
Philosophus
Registered: 05/15/18
Posts: 325
Loc: Earth
Last seen: 1 year, 8 months
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Never read that one, but I am glad I did. Good stuff.
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Mists and Rains
Springs of mud
And winter
Have my gratitude
For wrapping my
Heart's mind
In their graves.
It's foul weather
That rips open
My ruptured soul
To the winds
Nothing is sweeter
Than a mournful, ruptured soul
Rasping to try to endure
The shadows that contrive
To extinguish it
Without offering
One bedded promise of oblivion.
- Charles Baudelaire
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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from Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov (Canto Three)
The Institute assumed it might be wise
Not to expect too much of paradise:
What if there's nobody to say hullo
To the newcomer, no reception, no
Indoctrination? What if you are tossed
Into a boundless world, your bearings lost,
Your spirit stripped and utterly alone,
Your task unfinished, your despair unknown,
Your body just beginning to putresce,
A non-undressable in morning dress,
Your widow lying prone on a firm bed,
Herself a blur in your dissolving head!
While snubbing gods, including the big G,
Iph borrowed some peripheral debris
From mystic visions; and it offered tips
(The amber spectacles for life's eclipse)--
How not to panic when you're made a ghost:
Sidle and slide, choose a smooth surd, and coast,
Meet solid bodies and glissade right through,
Or let a person circulate through you.
How to locate in blackness, with a gasp,
Terra the Fair, an orbicle of jasp.
How to keep sane in spiral types of space.
Precautions to be taken in the case
Of freak reincarnation: what to do
On suddenly discovering that you
Are now a young and vulnerable toad
Plump in the middle of a busy road,
Or a bear cub beneath a burning pine,
Or a book mite in a revived divine.
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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akira_akuma
Φύσις κρύπτεσθαι ὕψιστος φιλεῖ
Registered: 08/28/09
Posts: 82,455
Loc: Onypeirophóros
Last seen: 4 years, 3 months
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"MAN wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
'Tis not with me exactly so;
But 'tis so in the song.
My wants are many and, if told,
Would muster many a score;
And were each wish a mint of gold,
I still should long for more.
What first I want is daily bread –
And canvas-backs – and wine –
And all the realms of nature spread
Before me, where I dine.
Four courses scarcely can provide
My appetite to quell;
With four choice cooks from France beside,
To dress my dinner well.
What next I want, at princely cost,
Is elegant attire:
Black sable furs for winter's frost,
And silk for summer's fire,
And Cashmere shawls, and Brussel's lace
My bosom's front to deck, –
And diamond rings my hands to grace,
And rubies for my neck.
I want (who does not want?) a wife, –
Affectionate and fair;
To solace all the woes of life,
And all its joys to share.
Of temper sweet, of yielding will,
Of firm, yet placid mind, –
With all my faults to love me still
With sentiment refined.
And as Time's car incessant runs,
And Fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half a score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair, –
The boys all wise and brave.
I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour;
Who ne'er to flatter will descend,
Nor bend the knee to power, –
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,
My inmost soul to see;
And that my friendship prove as strong
To him as his to me.
I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command;
Charged by the People's unbought grace
To rule my native land.
Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask,
But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.
I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,
And to be thought in future days
The friend of human-kind,
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim
In choral union to the skies
Their blessings on my name.
These are the Wants of mortal Man, –
I cannot want them long,
For life itself is but a span,
And earthly bliss – a song.
My last great Want – absorbing all –
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call,
The Mercy of my God.
– JOHN QUINCY ADAMS
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pineninja
Dream Weaver
Registered: 08/17/14
Posts: 12,468
Loc: South
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Just a fool on the hill.
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: pineninja] 3
#25560447 - 10/23/18 02:53 PM (5 years, 5 months ago) |
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A dualising mind breeds doubt, hesitancy and insecurity,
And with the development of subtle craving (in compensation),
Overt compulsive karmic propensities gradually crystallise.
Food, wealth and clothing, home and friends,
The five stimuli of sensual pleasure, and loving companions--
Obsessive desires beget torments of frustration;
Compulsive desires are but worldly delusion,
And the karma of an ego craving objects is never exhausted.
When the fruit of craving ripens,
Born as a hungry ghost tormented by frustrated desire,
Oh, the misery of hunger and thirst!
Through this my prayer, the Buddha's aspiration,
All sentient beings possessed by compulsive craving,
Neither setting aside and rejecting the pangs of frustrated desire
Nor accepting and identifying with compulsive craving,
Should release the stress inherent in dualistic perception
So that Knowledge may resume its natural primacy--
Let all beings attain All-discriminating Awareness.
Tibetan Prayer of Kuntu Sangpo,
from the holy text Kunsang Monlam
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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akira_akuma
Φύσις κρύπτεσθαι ὕψιστος φιλεῖ
Registered: 08/28/09
Posts: 82,455
Loc: Onypeirophóros
Last seen: 4 years, 3 months
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Meditation by Pope John Paul II
I. The Stream
Ruah
The Spirit of God hovered above the waters.
1. Wonderment
The undulating wood slopes down
to the rhythm of mountain streams.
To me this rhythm is revealing You,
the Primordial Word.
How remarkable is Your silence
in everything, in all that on every side
unveils the created world around us ...
all that, like the undulating wood,
runs down every slope ...
all that is carried away by the stream's
silvery cascade,
rhythmically falling from the mountain,
carried by its own current—carried where?
What are you saying to me, mountain stream?
Where, in which place, do we meet?
Do you meet me who is also passing—
just like you.
But is it like you?
(Allow me to pause here;
allow me to stop at a threshold,
the threshold of simple wonder).
The running stream cannot marvel,
and silently the woods slope down,
following the rhythm of the stream—
but man can marvel!
The threshold which the world crosses in him
is the threshold of wonderment.
(Once, this very wonder was called "Adam").
He was alone in his wonder,
among creatures incapable of wonder—
for them it is enough to exist and go their way.
Man went his way with them,
filled with wonder!
But being amazed, he always emerged
from the tide that carried him,
as if saying to everything around him:
"Stop—in me is your harbour",
"in me is the place of meeting
with the Primordial Word".
"Stop, this passing has meaning ...
has meaning ... has meaning".
2. The source
The undulating wood slopes down
to the rhythm of mountain streams....
If you want to find the source,
you have to go up, against the current,
tear through, seek, don't give up,
you know it must be somewhere here.
Where are you, source? Where are you, source?!
Silence....
Stream, stream in the wood,
tell me the secret of your beginning!
(Silence—why are you silent?
How carefully you have hidden the secret of your beginning).
Allow me to wet my lips
in spring water,
to feel its freshness,
reviving freshness.
II. Meditations on the Book of Genesis at the Threshold of the Sistine Chapel
1. The first beholder
"In him we live and move and have our being", says Paul at the Areopagus in Athens—
Who is He?
He is like an ineffable space which embraces all.
He, the Creator,
embraces everything, summoning to
existence from nothing, not only from
the beginning, but always.
Everything endures continually becoming—
"In the beginning was the Word, and through Him all things were made".
The mystery of the beginning is born together with the Word and is revealed through the Word.
The Word—eternal vision and utterance.
He, who was creating, saw—"saw that it was good",
his seeing different from ours.
He—the first Beholder—
saw, finding in everything some trace
of his Being, his own fullness—
He saw: Omnia nuda et aperta sunt ante oculos Eius—
Naked, transparent,
true, good and beautiful—
He saw in terms so different from ours.
Eternal vision and eternal utterance:
"In the beginning was the Word, and through Him all things were made",
all in which we live and move and have our being—
The Word, the marvellous eternal Word, as an invisible threshold
of all that has come into being, exists or will exist. As if the Word were the threshold.
The threshold of the Word, containing the invisible form of everything, divine and eternal —beyond this threshold everything begins to happen!
I stand at the entrance to the Sistine—
Perhaps all this could be said more simply
in the language of the "Book of Genesis".
But the Book awaits the image—
And rightly so. It was waiting for its Michelangelo.
The One who created "saw"—saw that "it was good".
"He saw", and so the Book awaited the fruit of "vision".
O all you who see, come—
I am calling you, all "beholders" in every age.
I am calling you, Michelangelo!
There is in the Vatican a chapel that awaits the harvest of your vision!
The vision awaited the image.
From when the Word became flesh, the vision is waiting.
We are standing at the threshold of the Book.
It is the Book of the origins—Genesis.
Here, in this chapel, Michelangelo penned it,
not with words, but with the richness
of piled-up colours.
We enter in order to read it again,
going from wonder to wonder.
So then, it is here—we look and recognize
the Beginning which emerged out of nothingness,
obedient to the creative Word.
Here it speaks from these walls.
But still more powerfully the End speaks.
Yes, the judgment is even more outspoken:
the judgment, the Final one.
This is the path that all must follow—
every one of us.
2. Image and likeness
"God created man in his image,
male and female he created them
and God saw that it was very good.
Naked they were and did not feel shame".
Was it possible?
Do not ask those who are contemporary, but ask Michelangelo
(and perhaps the contemporaries as well!?).
Ask the Sistine.
How much is said here, on these walls!
The beginning is invisible. Everything here points to it.
All this abundant visibility, released by human genius.
And the End too is invisible,
though here, traveller, your eyes are caught
by the vision of the Last Judgment.
How make the invisible visible,
how penetrate beyond the bounds of good and evil?
The Beginning and the End, invisible, pierce us from these walls.
4. Judgment
In the Sistine the artist painted the Judgment.
The Judgment dominates the whole interior.
Here, the invisible End becomes poignant visibility.
This End is also the summit of transparency—such is the path of all generations.
Non omnis moriar.
What is imperishable in me
now stands face to face with Him Who Is!
This is what fills the central wall of the Sistine profusion of colour.
Do you remember, Adam? At the beginning he asked you "where are you?".
And you replied: "I hid myself from You because I was naked".
"Who told you that you were naked?"….
"The woman whom you put here with me" gave me the fruit....
All those who populate the central wall of the Sistine painting
bear in themselves the heritage of that reply of yours!
Of that question and that response!
Such is the End of your path.
Epilogue
It is here, at the feet of this marvellous Sistine profusion of colour that the Cardinals gather—
a community responsible for the legacy of the keys of the Kingdom.
They come right here.
And once more Michelangelo wraps them in his vision.
"In Him we live and move and have our being
Who is He?
Look, here the creating hand of the Almighty Ancient One, turned towards Adam....
In the beginning God created....
He, the all-seeing One....
The Sistine painting will then speak with the Word of the Lord:
Tu es Petrus—as Simon, the son of Jonah, heard.
"To you I will give the keys of the Kingdom".
Those to whom the care of the legacy of the keys has been entrusted
gather here, allowing themselves to be enfolded by the Sistine's colours,
by the vision left to us by Michelangelo—
so it was in August, and then in October of the memorable year of the two Conclaves,
and so it will be again, when the need arises
after my death.
Michelangelo's vision must then speak to them.
"Con-clave": a joint concern for the legacy of the keys of the Kingdom.
They will find themselves between the Beginning and the End,
between the Day of Creation and the Day of Judgment.
It is given to man once to die and after that the judgment!
A final clarity and light.
The clarity of the events—
The clarity of consciences—
It is necessary that during the Conclave, Michelangelo teach them—
Do not forget: Omnia nuda et aperta sunt ante oculos Eius.
You who see all—point to him!
He will point him out....
III. A hill in the land of Moria
3. Conversation between father and son in the land of Moria
So they walked and talked together on the third day.
Here is the hill, where I shall offer a sacrifice to God—
said the father, and the son was silent, dared not ask:
Where is the lamb? We have fire, wood, a sacrificial knife,
but where is the sacrifice?
God alone will choose it—
This he said, and dared not say aloud
the words: the lamb, my son, will be you—
so he was silent.
With this silence he was falling again into a soundless hollow.
He had heard the voice which led him.
Now the voice was silent.
He was left with nothing but his own name
Abraham: He who believed against hope.
In a moment he will build a sacrificial pile,
make fire, bind Isaacs hands—
and then—what? the pile will burst into flames....
Already he sees himself as the father of a dead son,
the son the Voice gave him and is now taking away?
O, Abraham, you who are climbing this hill in the land of Moria,
there exists a certain boundary to fatherhood, a threshold that you will never cross.
Here another Father will accept the Sacrifice of his Son.
Do not be afraid, Abraham, go on,
and do what you have to do.
You will be the father of many nations.
Do what you have to do, to the end.
He will stop your hand, when it is ready to strike that sacrificial blow....
He will not permit your hand to fall,
when in your heart it has already fallen.
Yes—your hand will stop in the air.
He Himself will stay it.
And from now on, the Hill of Moria will wait—
for on this hill the mystery must be fulfilled.
4. God of the Covenant
O, Abraham—the One who came into human history
wants only, through you, to unveil this mystery hidden from the foundations of the world,
a mystery earlier than the world!
If today we go to these places
from which, long ago, Abraham set out,
where he heard the Voice, where the promise was fulfilled,
it is in order to stand at the threshold—
and reach the beginning of the Covenant.
For God revealed to Abraham
what is, for a father, the sacrifice of his own son—death offered up.
O, Abraham—God so loved the world
that he gave his only Son, that all who believe in Him
should have eternal life.
—Stop here—
I carry your name in me,
this name is the sign of the Covenant
which the Primordial Word made with you
even before the world was created.
Remember this place when you go away from here, this place will await its day.
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pineninja
Dream Weaver
Registered: 08/17/14
Posts: 12,468
Loc: South
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When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
W.S
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Just a fool on the hill.
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: pineninja] 2
#25597018 - 11/06/18 06:56 PM (5 years, 5 months ago) |
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Anima Anceps
by A.C. Swinburne
Till death have broken
Sweet life’s love-token,
Till all be spoken
That shall be said,
What dost thou praying,
O soul, and playing
With song and saying,
Things flown and fled?
For this we know not—
That fresh springs flow not
And fresh griefs grow not
When men are dead;
When strange years cover
Lover and lover,
And joys are over
And tears are shed.
If one day’s sorrow
Mar the day’s morrow—
If man’s life borrow
And man’s death pay—
If souls once taken,
If lives once shaken,
Arise, awaken,
By night, by day—
Why with strong crying
And years of sighing,
Living and dying,
Fast ye and pray?
For all your weeping,
Waking and sleeping,
Death comes to reaping
And takes away.
Though time rend after
Roof-tree from rafter,
A little laughter
Is much more worth
Than thus to measure
The hour, the treasure,
The pain, the pleasure,
The death, the birth;
Grief, when days alter,
Like joy shall falter;
Song-book and psalter,
Mourning and mirth.
Live like the swallow;
Seek not to follow
Where earth is hollow
Under the earth.
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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akira_akuma
Φύσις κρύπτεσθαι ὕψιστος φιλεῖ
Registered: 08/28/09
Posts: 82,455
Loc: Onypeirophóros
Last seen: 4 years, 3 months
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Tax his land, tax his wage, Tax his bed in which he lays. Tax his tractor, tax his mule, Teach him taxes is the rule. Tax his cow, tax his goat, Tax his pants, tax his coat. Tax his ties, tax his shirts, Tax his work, tax his dirt. Tax his chew, tax his smoke, Teach him taxes are no joke. Tax his car, tax his grass, Tax the roads he must pass. Tax his food, tax his drink, Tax him if he tries to think. Tax his sodas, tax his beers, If he cries, tax his tears. Tax his bills, tax his gas, Tax his notes, tax his cash. Tax him good and let him know That after taxes, he has no dough. If he hollers, tax him more, Tax him until he’s good and sore. Tax his coffin, tax his grave, Tax the sod in which he lays. Put these words upon his tomb, "Taxes drove me to my doom!" And when he’s gone, we won’t relax, We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.
Edited by akira_akuma (11/10/18 04:17 PM)
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akira_akuma
Φύσις κρύπτεσθαι ὕψιστος φιλεῖ
Registered: 08/28/09
Posts: 82,455
Loc: Onypeirophóros
Last seen: 4 years, 3 months
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О, Господи!
Спаси мою душу грешную
За порядки здешние,
От этапа дальнего,
От шмона капитального,
От забора высокого,
От прокурора жестокого,
От хозяина-беса,
От пайки малого веса,
От тюремных ключников,
От стальных наручников,
От лесоповала,
От холодного подвала,
От короткой стрижки И защити от вышки. Аминь.
O Lord, save my sinful soul
From local punishment
From the far-away zone
From being frisked
From the tall fence
From the severe prosecutor
From the Devil or from the devil owner
From small rations
From dirty water
From steel handcuffs
From hidden obligations
A cold cell
And short haircuts
Save us from the death penalty
Amen
Amen
Amen
- Penal Colony Prayer
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters
True sailing is dead
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop
And heads bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over
--"Horse Latitudes" by The Doors
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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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clock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 6 hours, 10 minutes
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somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
e.e. cummings
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,859
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The Portrait of A Good Man By the Most Sublime of Poets, For Your Imitation.
by Thomas Jefferson
Lord, who's the happy man that may to thy blest courts repair;
Not stranger-like to visit them, but to inhabit there?
'Tis he whose every thought and deed by rules of virtue moves;
Whose generous tongue disdains to speak the thing his heart disproves.
Who never did a slander forge, his neighbor's fame to wound;
Nor hearken to a false report, by malice whispered round.
Who vice in all its pomp and power, can treat with just neglect;
And piety, though clothed in rags, religiously respect.
Who to his plighted vows and trust has ever firmly stood;
And though he promise to his loss, he makes his promise good.
Whose soul in usury disdains his treasure to employ;
Whom no rewards can ever bribe the guiltless to destroy.
The man who by this steady course has happiness insur'd,
When earth's foundations shake, shall stand, by Providence secur'd.
--------------------
Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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