Poetry

[Sennacherib]

[Sennacherib]

Take the joy and bear the sorrow,
looking past your hopes and fears:
learn to recognize the measured
dance that orders all our years.

--Archilochus

[Sennacherib]

[ansuchin]

[Hoosiernorm]

Still my favorite thread on this board

[Sennacherib]

[Sennacherib]

[ansuchin]

[Sennacherib]

[Sennacherib]

[Sennacherib]

[Sennacherib]

[AzariLoveIran]

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A classic Persian song - in which the singer is describing his longing for and his devotion to his (spiritual) love.

The lyrics are by Iranian scientist, philosopher and poet Sheikh Bahaii (1546-~1620 A.D.)

Voice by Abdolhossein Mokhtabad (Iranian singer)




So long, in plead of unison with thee
my eyelids are drowned in the deluge of tear.
So long, in plead of unison with thee,
Thou, the sole beloved!

The arrow of thy sorrow pierced all lovers' heart...
For how long, how long shall we be kept apart?
We are countless, all occupied by thy thought
Helas! thou be'est concealed of our sight.
Thou, the sole beloved!

The bird found thy fine face in every turf
The butterfly enlightened in core of the flame
The mystic recognized thy essence
In every scene and each face.

It means that one can see thee at every glance,
In every instance.

It means that I am not mad that I knock every door,
I knock every door.

In every sea I dive, thou be'est the sole host.
In every route I walk, thy shine is the lone light,
In the tavern and mosque thou be'est the only Lord,
Thou be'est the only Lord.

Thou be'est the destination, thou be'est the pledge.
The reason is thee when I wander drunk,
The reason is thee when I meet with the monk,
The reason is thee when I am praying in the mosque.
They are all pleas and thou be'est the pledge.
Thou be'est the sole pledge.

The reason is thee when I wander drunk,
The reason is thee when I meet with the monk,
The reason is thee when I am praying in the mosque.
They are all pleas and thou be'est the pledge.
Thou be'est the sole pledge.



.

[Hans Bulvai]

[Colonel Sun]

[Azrael]

Patriot Game -- Dominic Behan

Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing,
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,
And it makes us all part of the patriot game.

My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,
So now I am part of the patriot game.

This Ireland of ours has too long been half free.
Six counties lie under John Bull's tyranny.
But still De Valera is greatly to blame
For shirking his part in the Patriot game.

They told me how Connolly was shot in his chair,
His wounds from the fighting all bloody and bare.
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame
They soon made me part of the patriot game.

It's nearly two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA,
For I read of our heroes, and wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game.

I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police
They are lackeys for war never guardians of peace
And yet at deserters I'm never let aim
The rebels who sold out the patriot game.

And now as I lie here, my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained in souls
And I wish that my rifle had given the same
To those Quislings who sold out the patriot game.

[Sennacherib]

[Sennacherib]

[ansuchin]

[Sennacherib]

[ansuchin]

[Sennacherib]

Daisy Fried also has a .

[Sennacherib]

[Azrael]

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) -
Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
And the Beatles' first LP.

Up to then there'd only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for the ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything.

Then all at once the quarrel sank:
Everyone felt the same,
And every life became
A brilliant breaking of the bank,
A quite unlosable game.

So life was never better than
In nineteen sixty-three
(Though just too late for me) -
Between the end of the "Chatterley" ban
And the Beatles' first LP.

[Azrael]

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.