The Musings of Madness

RSS Feed Homepage

Articles: 1, 2

Respect the Classics! Owen
2008-05-03 20:23:00
Dulce et Decorum EstBy Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could h...
More About: Classics , Respect

Respect the Classics! Thomas
2008-04-09 22:14:00
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 with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.more poetry by Thomas
More About: Classics , Respect

Respect the Classics! Milton
2008-03-16 04:46:00
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
More About: Classics , Respect

Memoir in Six Words Tag
2008-03-11 23:26:00
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.
More About: Words , Memoir

Fatality: a haiku
2008-02-04 08:40:00
Unfledged bird, her feetscorched by morbid earth; reached outto a dying sun.
More About: Fatality , Haiku

Utopia
2008-01-27 16:31:00
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.
More About: Utopia

The Bonfire
2008-01-17 21:38:00
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.

Respect the Classics! Browning
2008-01-13 06:31:00
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 styled their house "The Lodge".What right had a lounger up their lane?But, by creeping very close,With the good wall's help, -their eyes might strainAnd stretch themselves to Oes,Yet never c...
More About: Classics , Respect

The Train Station
2008-01-08 18:04:00
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.
More About: Train , Station

Respect the Classics! Larkin
2008-01-07 00:22:00
Church Goingby Philip LarkinOnce 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.Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,And always end much at a loss like this,Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,When churches will fall completely out of useWhat we shall turn them into, ...
More About: Classics , Respect

Naples
2007-12-31 17:03:00
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.
More About: Naples

Respect the Classics! Blake
2007-12-30 03:23:00
London by William Blake I 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
More About: Classics , Respect

Magadan
2007-12-24 07:24:00
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
2007-12-23 01:58:00
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 earlier in life, I have drawn endless inspiration from it myself. It has always seemed to me a perfect metaphor for anything and that some answers, if not all of them, lie with those waves, traveli...
More About: Classics , Respect

Carpe Diem
2007-12-18 05:28:00
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.
More About: Carpe Diem

Published?
2007-12-17 21:34:00
My brief review of Salman Rushdie's Fury has been posted on The Open Critic.Click here to take a look.
More About: Published

Respect the Classics! Shakespeare
2007-12-15 04:01:00
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 time, I myself became a writer and have come to find such confidence in one's own work as rare and admirable. Could it be that it was just that that had brought Shakespeare his eternal acclam? Is...
More About: Classics , Respect

Your Time Is Due
2007-12-11 01:34:00
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 whisper shall come to you.With no unseen intentionsit'll sing calmly to your ear:"Charon calls, your time is due".In dedication to those who perished with the Kursk and those they left behind. The...
More About: Time

Respect the Classics!
2007-12-09 05:06:00
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, 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 a glass of wine, and let's remember those that lived, learned and wrote before us.Brown Pennyby William Butler YeatsI whispered, “I am too young,”And then, “I am old enough”;Wherefore I threw a pennyTo find out ...
More About: Classics , Respect

Under Italian Sun: a voyage through Italy - Chapter 1
2007-12-05 23:12:00
The first of eight instalments.Chapter 1 Rome through the Haze of Exhaustion~The first day in Rome was hazy. What would you expect after a wakeful night, followed by four hours of being cramped up in an airline seat not wide enough to shift positions, so close to the back of the seat in front that it makes stretching your legs become a delightful, unattainable fantasy? When we landed, Italy 's first greeting was lazy and grey. Rome, the crib of antiquity, the seat of empires, was cloaked by a wet, foggy light, which made the millennia-old stones look their age. The rain turned on and off as we walked through modern streets that were filled with small cars, red lights and crosswalks. The modern capital did not breathe of historicity, nor was it entirely postmodern. The twenty-first century has a different face in Italy. You will not see there a La Defense skyline in the distance, or a glass pyramid in a palace's courtyard (a most awful eyesore and a dazzling example of the lack of ta...
More About: Italian , Voyage

Song by an Immigrant
2007-12-02 23:53:00
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.
More About: Song , Immigrant

My Time
2007-11-29 21:51:00
The sea does not rush to shoreand no one guards the guards,there are no trials for the judgesoutside the songs of bards.
More About: Time

My Time
2007-11-29 21:51:00
The sea does not rush to shoreand no one guards the guards,there are no trials for the judgesoutside the songs of bards.
More About: Time

The End
2007-11-28 18:10:00
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.

The End
2007-11-28 18:10:00
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.

White Nights in St. Petersburg
2007-11-24 16:56:00
They tell me of light that lasts through midnight,I can see how it shines in the wake of the cathedral,how a murky shape is mapped out in the backdropand is cast like an island on a street musician an his crowd.They speak of rats circling a seraphjust a few steps awayin front of the Hermitage.They listen, look,wait to launch at their prey,sink their teeth into damp monumentality.Moldy walls anticipate their disguises,still they stand in the face of the mighty Neva.They fight the currents only becausethey were promised sweet relief.Little do they know,relief will not comebecause day within night is not night.Views of St. Petersburg :http://travel.webshots.com/alb um/559171779HRYboGhttp://www.world66.com/ europe/russia/stpetersburg/lib/gallery
More About: White , Nights

White Nights in St. Petersburg
2007-11-24 16:56:00
They tell me of light that lasts through midnight,I can see how it shines in the wake of the cathedral,how a murky shape is mapped out in the backdropand is cast like an island on a street musician an his crowd.They speak of rats circling a seraphjust a few steps awayin front of the Hermitage.They listen, look,wait to launch at their prey,sink their teeth into damp monumentality.Moldy walls anticipate their disguises,still they stand in the face of the mighty Neva.They fight the currents only becausethey were promised sweet relief.Little do they know,relief will not comebecause day within night is not night.Views of St. Petersburg :http://travel.webshots.com/alb um/559171779HRYboGhttp://www.world66.com/ europe/russia/stpetersburg/lib/gallery
More About: White , Nights

Twenty-First Century
2007-11-24 16:31:00
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.
More About: Twenty , Century , Went

Twenty-First Century
2007-11-24 16:31:00
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.
More About: Twenty , Century , Went

Preacher, Tell Me of Heaven
2007-11-24 16:21:00
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 nigros,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.
More About: Heaven , Preacher