Owner: The Musings of Madness URL:http://themusingsofmadness.blogspot.com/ Join Date: Thu, 29 Nov 2007 08:56:32 -0600 Rating:0 Site Description: A bit of poerty, a bit of prose. A bit of honesty, a few lies here and there. Some philosophical delusions over a glass of dry wine. At the end of the day, not much at all. Site statistics:Click here
Smite Me 2008-03-02 23:37:47 Smite mebefore the roads swarm with believers,with fools that have been waiting for you,who give and take in the name of you.Ungrateful beasts! just like me,just like you.Smite mewhile there's not an eye to see and behold,nor two knees to shatter against the ground,nor a voice that will turn me aroundand yell: "Faithless fool, how dare you!"and wake me.Tare me to pieces,if you dare break my mother's heart.It beats for you as much as for me.a breath,my breath.a beat,my beat.then – Silence.
Montmartre 2008-02-25 02:50:39 Sacre-Coeur is tollingto the sound of clinging wine glasses,the smoke rises up the wooden aisleas cigarettes light up with short clicks.I had my portrait paintedby a shaky guy with bloodshot eyes,that said I had the smile of a Mona Lisa.A compliment?Communion has startedinside the porcelain eyeat the top of the city,with the chorus praising him,(not the guy, but their own great artist).They sing of how he paints smiles,and how he takes them away. Views of Montmartre More Views of Montmartre
Twenty-First Century 2008-02-17 15:46:33 Monet's "Water Lilies",electricity andblood diamonds -that is all.Cruel,bluntand unforgivably brief,but such areour purposes.I'm impartial to allbut the neutral,will believe anythingas long as it's incredible.I'm of the twenty-first century,but nevernever for it.I amthe twenty-first centuryagainst my own accord. Read more:First
, Century
Preacher, Tell Me of Heaven 2008-02-17 15:46:33 Preacher, tell me of heaven,if you must,of demons and angelsthat lurk in the twilightand thirst my sinful soul.Tell me of the shame I should feelfor my sex,for my passion,for the evil words I pour into this world.Tell meand I'll tell youof truth beyond the oxymoron,beyond the faceless faceand constant shame,I'll tell you of the roads you've pavedon top of crushed ivory and bone,of diamonds washed in blood of negros,of Jews and pagans that are no more.And so we'll stand at the dawnof the age of reason, talking,and I'll say that tyrants don't live long,that freedom asks for no redemptionand we don't need your holy song. Read more:Heaven
Fatality: a haiku 2008-02-17 15:44:29 Unfledged bird, her feetscorched by morbid earth; reached outto a dying sun.
Rhetorical Question 2008-02-10 03:31:23 Suppose I had a friendwho spoke offaithand he never utteredthe word god.Suppose he exuded sinceritywhen he spokeand I believedhe would alwaysbespeakingof faith.Now finally,supposethat something happenedand the friend I hadspeaksno more.What then? Read more:Question
Utopia 2008-01-26 23:31:40 He spilled,his spine crackled at the point of collision with the tracks,going no place.The master reached for a pistol from the arsenalto put an endto the wretchedness as otiose he lay there.No middle-ground,just the rightly iron that bares the hastening trains,going no place. Read more:Utopia
The Bonfire 2008-01-17 04:39:27 the bonfirethrew sparks and smoke andmemories into thevelvety, bejeweled black,speaking intongues and sayingyellow blades.I staredlanguidly into the things Ithought I saw, unclothed,unashamed of myundisturbed speechlessness.the pregnant silencesustained itself on ourunbecoming tillyou said your by-the-ways andno-matter-whats andgot me talking.it swallowedus with ourswollen words; asburning coals wehissed all night andscattered to ashescome morning. Read more:Bonfire
Respect the Classics! Browning 2008-01-13 06:42:15 Confessions by Robert BrowningWhat is he buzzing in my ears?"Now that I come to die,Do I view the world as a vale of tears?"Ah, reverend sir, not I!What I viewed there once, what I view againWhere the physic bottles standOn the table's edge, -is a suburb lane,With a wall to my bedside hand.That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,From a house you could descryO'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blueOr green to a healthy eye?To mine, it serves for the old June weatherBlue above lane and wall;And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether"Is the house o'ertopping all.At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,There watched for me, one June,A girl; I know, sir, it's improper,My poor mind's out of tune.Only, there was a way... you creptClose by the side, to dodgeEyes in the house, two eyes except:They Read more:Classics
The Train Station 2008-01-08 01:04:40 Yellow-gray and pale,a Sunday morning risesto revivetired faces in olive-green.One never knowswhat the bloodshot eyesin darkness have seen,nor where they are headed.A man of forty,leather jacket, coarse boots,unshaven,searches the scenery for color.You can't imaginethe places they have been.Our men pealoff old scarsnew scarswith the nail of their thumb.We have all been –you will–clean cutclean-shavencladin dirty olive-green. Read more:Train
, Station
Respect the Classics! Larkin 2008-01-06 07:23:04 Church Goingby Philip Larkin
Once I am sure there's nothing going onI step inside, letting the door thud shut.Another church: matting, seats, and stone,And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cutFor Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuffUp at the holy end; the small neat organ;And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take offMy cycle-clips in awkward reverence.Move forward, run my hand around the font.From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.Mounting the lectern, I peruse a fewHectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the doorI sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.Y Read more:Classics
Naples 2007-12-31 00:06:33 Off the coast of Capriwhere an Anjou castle standsstill,povertyusurped andloomed from a child's eyes.Non ho, said I.Napoli,I have seen you.Unimpressed, I'mnot ready to die. Read more:Naples
Respect the Classics! Blake 2007-12-29 10:25:55 London by William BlakeI wandered through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow,A mark in every face I meet,Marks of weakness, marks of woe.In every cry of every man,In every infant's cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forged manacles I hear:How the chimney-sweeper's cryEvery blackening church appals,And the hapless soldier's sighRuns in blood down palace-walls.But most, through midnight streets I hearHow the youthful harlot's curseBlasts the new-born infant's tear,And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.sourceThe Blake Archive Read more:Classics
Magadan 2007-12-23 14:28:42 Ghosts feast onthe stuff of lifeof those that arrived thereand had a story.The name is uttered in mere whispers:the closet of skeletonsbehind an empire,behind a tyrant,and a people.They crawled through narrow passagesthrough nets of spiderswhere they tangled like flies.They breathed inthe cold airthe hot sweat of gold.That is their epitaph.I have no faithin the heart of mannor am I in want of it.We are all deadand as ghosts walk the earth,as tyrantssuppress her will to our own.What is our own?To breed and to do so comfortablyand escape from the worldthat we create?
Respect the Classics! Tennyson 2007-12-22 12:19:18 Dear readers,Whenever I contemplate some of the poems that have exists for decades, if not for centuries, I always find myself drawn to Tennyson for reasons quite unknown to me. In this instance Tennyson, as many other poets and artists in general, draws his inspiration from the sea.For me, it has always been a subject of countless musings. What is about the sea, about the ocean, lake or river, that is so fascinating to us? Is it the seeming vitality of water? the endlessness of their cycles? the depth that we cannot measure with a simple gaze?For years, I have been living a mere few miles from the Mediterranean coast, from the ancient port of Caesarea. Perhaps I have lately come to take it for granted that such vastness of life and possibility is nearby. But I remember clearly, how, much Read more:Classics
Published? 2007-12-22 09:01:42 My brief review of Salman Rushdie's Fury has been posted on The Open Critic.Click here to take a look.
Respect the Classics! Shakespeare 2007-12-22 09:00:59 Dear readers,I am delighted with the great response to this segment. Thank you all for your wonderful comments. I hope you will return and share the various feelings and thoughts that the poems have evoked in you. I would also love to receive your suggestions for the next week's poem.Sonnet 55by William Shakespeare
My choice this week may seem as an obvious, even corny, one. Old Bill has become a standard and a beacon in our culture. The longevity and extent of his influence on all of us and his continuous presence in our modern lives often amaze me. However, I also feel that, to some extent, the meaning, soul and philosophical nature of his work is lost because we are so used to them.I have first encountered Sonnet 55 at a very young age and it struck me as presumptuous and boastful. With Read more:Classics
Respect the Classics! 2007-12-19 13:26:08 Dear readers,Browsing through countless blogs, acquainting myself with as many authors, I have noticed the absence of something that has always figured an important influence and constant reference in my writing. The weight of our predecessors is on our shoulders, both as writers and readers. We live our lives in their immense shadows; make our own stories in the midst of the pages they have left behind them. I cannot stress this point enough.Inspired by my dear friend Stella Carter, author of StellaScript, I have dedicated a weekly corner to these great echoes from the past, which unfortunately went by unnoticed. I have therefore decided to expand it into a full-fledged feature that will appear every Saturday and feature a different poet. Make yourself comfortable, take a cup of coffee or Read more:Classics
Carpe Diem 2007-12-17 12:31:58 I will listenover a cup of strong, black coffeein the blasphemously early morning,leaned over a tope kitchen counter;over a glass of mild, white winein the late, bibulous night,leaned against the wooden panelof the seedy bar around the bend.over and over.I will hear timeas it runs awaywith the trains. Read more:Carpe
The End 2007-12-13 14:24:05 Crimson sails rush to black horizons,nowhere else,Black body bags, red loud sirenssing a song.There's not a soul there to listento the gentle musicof the end of ends.If I am to be a prophet,don't let these words be prophecy.Make me a liar,even thoughI speak of what I see. illustration from AllPosters.com
Your Time Is Due 2007-12-10 08:38:19 The big ship of glory dived into endlessness,the sea calmed its sailorswith a song of much sadness,with an icy hand he stroked themas a mighty king, greeting them into his kingdom.Waves crashed into her steely body,they shattered pride along with mothers' hearts,but the young men of the battle dressesheld on to the world that parted with them,as a voice suggested: "Your time is due.Come with me to sail another stream.The passage isn't shortbut Cronos rules you no more.What point, dear fellows, is there to linger?You, must go when the time has come".In the depths of Poseidon's realmthe sturdy corps should lie,home to 118 of those who served he true.Though Cronos may never return what was lost,in the name of the secret and Apollo,the legend should never die.And much like them,one day the wh
Song by an Immigrant 2007-12-02 06:53:46 I have a language,I don't know what it is.Someone once asked me:"In what language do you dream?""I don't know" I said.Then someone asked me:"In what language do you think?"Again I said:"I don't know".I don't have a mother-tongue,though I know what language my mother spoke.I don't have a homeland,though I know where I was bornand I know where my home is.I don't know what the language of my dreams is,nor do I know the language of my thoughts,but I dream andthink.Is that enough?I don't know. Read more:Immigrant
My Black Son 2007-11-30 05:23:29 Last week, I held a black babyin my arms, mama.Dust had gathered in the corners of his eyes,a milky skin drawn over them.He examined me with his deer-like gaze.His tiny hands, crusted with blood,reached for me.Stripes of black curved on his skinjust like the paint smeared on my face,except that he was brown and I was white.We were hiding between the stones of abroken home,where death had set his dwelling place.He had raged amid empty shells and gunpowder,then settled down and we weren't welcome there.Steps came tossing up the pebbles on theold dirt road.The dust rose into our nostrils as we gasped,our eyes watered up, turned reddish,and the sleepy twilight wrapped us in him.What was I to do when he startedscreeching, mama?I held him close to mute the sound.He thought I was his fatherand fo Read more:Black
Sobriety 2007-11-30 05:19:47 Sobriety,be kind with me,your mask is heavier than lead.It sends torturous wavesup the spineto the heartto the head.Tomorrowrages against man-made plans.His tempests carry secrets behind enemy lines,where tanks and bombs are awaiting.Sobriety,be kind with me.Yesterday has condemned meand tomorrowmay as well be mylast breath. Read more:Sobriety
My Time 2007-11-29 04:51:37 The sea does not rush to shoreand no one guards the guards,there are no trials for the judgesoutside the songs of bards.
Memoir in Six Words Tag 2008-03-11 08:27:48 Nietzsche's right, the world marches on.I have been tagged twice by Paul and BookCalendar. Oh, well! Lets pass it on.I tagged Rhian, Paula's Poetry, Seraphic Girl, Andy Sewina and gautami tripathy. Read more:Memoir
, Words
Respect the Classics! Milton 2008-03-15 13:48:20 Sonnet 19 by John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one Talent which is death to hide,Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, least he returning chide,Doth God exact day labour, light deny'd,I fondly ask; But patience to preventThat murmur, soon replies, God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts, who bestBear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his StateIs Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o're Land and Ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and waite.read more MiltonMilton at Uncyclopedia Read more:Classics
Dew Drop 2008-03-19 09:18:29 Dew dropfrom purple skies dropped.A curtsy to the sun,a Waltz with a better daythan yesterday was,wars yesterday wasand you were a better man.The scent of something arriving,of cloth tearing under the tension,under the question ofwhat tomorrow brings.Someone singsin pain or procrastination,and I'm still hopingyou'll be a better man.
Untitled 2008-03-30 13:32:36 Red on the crosswalk,face racing,heart blank of expression,sirens talking at meas the eyesreflect the bright-lights.Tell me of rainthat washes the streets clean,a magical rainthat heals the leprous souls of men. Read more:Untitled
Respect the Classics! Thomas 2008-04-09 05:20:00 DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHTby Dylan Thomas
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.And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now wi Read more:Classics
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