October 14, 2009
The Aster Epigrams by Plato
(translation Percy Bysshe Shelley)
These two epigrams (from Book VII of the Greek Anthology) express Plato’s mourning and love for his recently deceased young friend. They were translated by the English poet Shelley, but the first epigram was left out of the standard collection of his works, while the second was included
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Posted in Poetry
October 14, 2009
First published 1866. Attributed (by some)
to George Lord Byron (1788–1824).
Thou ermined judge, pull off that sable cap!
What! Cans’t thou lie, and take thy morning nap?
Peep thro’ the casement; see the gallows there:
Thy work hangs on it; could not mercy spare?
What had he done? Ask crippled Talleyrand,
Ask Beckford, Courtenay, all the motley band
Of priest and laymen,
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Posted in Poetry
October 14, 2009
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear
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Posted in Poetry
July 9, 2007
The Laws of God, The Laws of Man The laws of God, the laws of man He may keep that will and can Not I: Let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs Let them mind their own affairs. Their deeds
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Posted in Magazine, Poetry
July 9, 2007
The Colour of His Hair
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they’re taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame
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Posted in Magazine, Poetry
July 9, 2007
The crowded room and eyes that aboundSome locking, some moving on,Some turning back, after seeming to move around,Then the music plays, the dance is on.
The lights flash and everything throbs.The breath. The hearts. The blood.Emotions frothing while passion bobsUp. Up amidst the sweat heated flood.
Hands brush a sculpted body ahead,The eyes, those eyes, turn;An invitation
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Posted in Magazine, Poetry