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Poetry, Got something? ...Shtick it here..

Devilsadvocate
post Oct 1 2007, 08:51 PM
Post #81





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For Painter and all Rolling-Stones-fans:

Rolling Stones Paint It Black Lyrics

*** Complimentary Paint It Black Ringtone ***
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens ev'ry day

I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it has been painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you

[Paint It Black lyrics on http://www.metrolyrics.com]

If I look hard enough into the settin' sun
My love will laugh with me before the mornin' comes

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

Hmm, hmm, hmm,...

I wanna see it painted, painted black
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky
I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black
Yeah!

Edit:
http://www.metrolyrics.com/lyrics/4967/Rol.../Paint_It_Black

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lunk
post Oct 4 2007, 06:24 PM
Post #82



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WITHOUT YOU

Is this the way
that you want it to be?
Do you see things
the way they ought to be seen?
Can you tell the trees,
from the colour of green?
Can you tell a tail,
untie your dreams,
from the folds of time,
to the sound of a rhyme,
from inside of your head,
to outside of your mind,
from beginning to end
and start it again?
Bringing it into the REAL..


lunk

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Devilsadvocate
post Nov 13 2007, 03:47 AM
Post #83





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"GREENY QUEENY"

A thousand years ago, my friend,

There was a little-known land

which- over more than sixty years-

did see no wars, no swords, no spears.

The knights, therefore, were forced to rest.

The lack of war caused them to test

their skills in bloodsports: tournaments-

and more such entertainaments

which- to their minds- did keep them fit

and held intact their battle-kit.


Sir Rambeau was one of these men:

No brain to speak of- which was then

no hindrance if one was a knight-

for all one had to do was fight.

But fights- they were short in supply:

To get one, one had to apply

by letter to the Minister

for war (...and for the sinister!),

to get a permit- which was rare:

"Not even for to kill a hare!"


Our man now wanted to impress

his hearts desire- a Princess-,

and thus he thought he'd go and slay

a dragon, so her heart would sway.

The wretched creature's hacked-off head

would proof the beast to be quite dead...

How she would *love* his manly stance!

So screw the permit..."Where's me lance?"

(Well- permits, laws and paragraphs

were- to his mind- just good for laughs!)


The lady was- however- keen

on fauna, flora, issues green-

while all of these were still *alive*-

*not* killed by sword or lance or knife...

"Sir Rambeau- who? *That* stupid prick?

Puleeese- not *HIM*- i'm getting sick...!"

(Thus, while Sir Rambeau thought she's nuts

about him, she just hates his guts...

The point this macho kept ignoring

was that her highness found him boring!)


He put his armor on and then

went off to find a dragon's den.

(Well, he was not alone, of course:

His servants came on foot, by horse

and wagon. One can not expect

a gentlemen with selfrespect

to cook his dinners, wash his socks

or clamber lonely through the rocks!

So- thus he's got a kitchen-maid,

as servant, lover, dragon-bait...)


A mere ten years they had to travel,

before they found a pit, of gravel

with loads of bones heaped all around.

From inside came the horrid sound

of munching. (But the smell was nice:

Like horseman, fried, with long-grain rice...)

A soldier went to fetch the maid:

The den was found- now for the bait...

(The girl did scream a bit and wriggle,

which caused the soldiers for to giggle.)


With sword in hand (*behind* his men...)

Sir Rambeau now approached the den

and screamed "Come out and fight, ye beast!"

Upset to interrupt his feast

a grumpy dragon left his den,

and took a look and yawned, and then

he took a thigh-bone unperturbed

and picked his teeth, spat out and burped.

(...The job-description of a beast

includes that it enjoy it's feast!)


The soldiers, at this grisly sight,

took off at once in manly flight

possessed by terror- past the maid,

and past Sir Rambeau (who was swayed);

They ran as fast as they could run,

to leave him standing in the sun

alone. And as the dust did settle

Sir Rambeau did prepare for battle:

Not that this had him overjoyed-

his *soldiers* had been meant to fight...


The dragon asked: "What do ye want?

It's dinner-time, ye ignorant!

I'd like to dine in peace and quiet-

and you turn up and cause a riot:

Yer predeccessor's getting cold,

and my digestive-tract's too old..."

(His doctors warned him to go easy

on food in cans- it's *much* too greasy...

But on that day, he'd liked the taste-

and anyways, he hated waste!)


"Get back in line and be polite

and wait yer turn, ye little shite!"

With this, he turned around to go

back to his "Chevalier flambeau"

and to prepare his pots and pans

for a second course of food in cans.

Sir Rambeau found it opportune

to aim and throw- with great fortune-

his sword at him. He nearly died

of cardiac arrest- sheer fright!


Our knight untied the kitchen-maid

and told the wench to fetch a plate

of silver, for the dragon's head

(Who, at this stage, was not *quite* dead,

but realised he soon *would* be-

unless Sir Rambeau's chivalry

prevented him to do the deed:

That dragon was last of his creed,

and if he died, there would be no

more dragons left- so he said so.


Sir Rambeau showed no interest:

"I'm sorry- but i'm on a quest

to show my lady-friend how brave

i am- i want your head, you knave!"

(He didn't know that, in his bed,

the king was found quite cold and dead

two years before. The *Queen* was keen

on fauna, flora, issues green...)


The dragon did accept his fate,

lay down, and died, head on the plate.

Our knight went off to dream of glory-

the maid was left to do the gory

dragonhead-removal-act.

(She twice did faint- this is a fact!)

The two of them then put the dragon-

or his remains- onto a wagon.


Thus they went home. They passed the gates,

and through the streets. Sir Rambeau's mates

uneasily looked on. "I'm ready

to get my due reward already!"

The Queen had watched with much dismay

the dragon's corpse put on display:

Sir Rambeau noticed her cold stare-

and suddenly felt nude and bare...


"Your graciousness- your majesty!

How glad i am to be with thee..."

The Queen did interrupt him rudly:

"Shut up, you twit!", said she quite crudly.

She then came up to take a look-

and hit him with a heavy book.

"This is the book of brand-new laws",

said she- and hit him in the jaws.


"You did exceed the quota set

in *hunting-regulations*, pet!

You also want a due reward?

Just wait for it... Where is the guard?"

With this, she caught him by the phizem

and had him thrown into prison.

(Well- he was not alone in there-

five other knights already were

chained to the walls, with rats and mice

for company- to keep things nice.)


The greeny-Queeny's harshness did

eventually cause a split,

resulting in a revolution.

The knights went free- then "evolution"

just took its course: Wolf, boar and bear

all went extinct, by sword and spear,

which thus did cause a lack of game.

The knights found hunting far too tame

in any case. They took their shields

and went back to the battle-fields...


Oh- well, it almost slipped my mind:

Sir Rambeau in the end did find

a wife. Alas she was no queen:

A kitchen-maid of just sixteen

was she. It didn't really matter;

the queen's head ended on a platter

just as the dragon's. And about

fifteen years later, in a rout

Sir Rambeau died: *Not* by a sword-

but of a heart-attack. My word!


( W J B )

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lunk
post Jan 25 2008, 06:10 PM
Post #84



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TO MY ROOM MATES



Eat his food
drink his beer
smoke his cigarettes

If we do it with no fear
why should he even fret
He's got the system by the tail
far-more-so,-than-do-we
and through his life
he always sailed
Besides that, his stuff's free

He has been known, on occasion
to send us to the store
Complaints about his situation
just YELL at him some more

But now he says, he's moving out
and taking all his stuff
he says he's had enough to pout
we think that it's a bluff

But, if he really, "speak no lie"
And is that frgn dumb
A girl we could maybe find
to substitute for mom



a lunk poem
from a lunk experience
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maturin42
post Feb 1 2008, 06:22 PM
Post #85





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Posts: 607
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From: Maryland, USA
Member No.: 633



My latest 150 Words...

Are You Stimulated Yet?

I’m in a little trouble, see
A sailor on a spending spree
Don’t have a blessed thing on me

My plastic has been used a lot
You ought to see the stuff I got
On credit all, my rating’s shot.

I took the cash out of my house
It’s mortgaged right down to the mouse
That eats my cheese, and scares my spouse

I’m only doing as my chief
George W says, it’s my belief
A few more loans will bring relief

So I’m in hock up to my ears
My leader tells me “Have no fear
Your stimulus is almost here”.

We’ve borrowed trillions for the war
And pork-filled spending bills galore
And now we’ll borrow billions more

To send you each a little dough
That may perhaps soften the blow
The dollar's hit a brand new low
The Dow-Jones says “look out below”,
But it’s election year, y’know?
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maturin42
post Feb 1 2008, 07:07 PM
Post #86





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United we stand, or so it’s been said

But it hasn’t been true much of late

A people divided by whatever means

Can end up with too much on their plate
To see that our government spends too much time

And resources on Corporate good

But too little of either on those other things

That would benefit our neighborhoods
So we squabble ‘bout issues like praying in school

And guns and abortion, and such

Our election campaigns are just beauty contests

With ‘debates’ that don’t settle that much
Divisions created are levers, I think

To control us, while they make the rules

If we’re preoccupied with our differences

We’re too easily somebody’s fools
They need us divided in order to run

Things the way that they need them to be

The last thing our corporate rulers would want

Is for We the People to see
What’s become of our democracy.


SFL June, 07
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maturin42
post Feb 1 2008, 07:16 PM
Post #87





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This was a poem written on the occasion of Scooter Libby's pardon. My usual offerings are exactly 150 words long to conform to the requirements of our local newspaper. In a weekly forum feature, the editorial page editor poses a question each week. I usually try to provide my answer in a poem, but the word limit is 150 words - no exceptions. This one is an exception because I missed the deadline, so I expanded it, luxuriating in the extra space.


Bush the commuter, liberates Scooter

It’s now official, Scooter’s free
He dodges prison, yes siree,
The prez commuted all the time
That he faced for the loathsome crime

Of treason, oh, I know, that he
Was only charged with perjury
For lying through his teeth when they
Inquired of plots ‘gainst CIA

Brewster-Jennings and Valerie
Were outed at behest of the
Vice President, the aged hack
Hell-bent on warring ‘gainst Iraq

With Bush’s act we understand
His meaning when declaiming grand 
If staff were guilty, he would see
That “taken care of”, they would be

Well, Scooter’s taken care of, sure,
He need not fear the slamming door
Of dungeon drear, or prison dank
He’s rich, he’s white, so let’s be frank

And save your protests, screams, and moans
That rule of law’s been overthrown
When crim’nals are the rulers, see
They don’t have time for you or me

But Scooter’s in Decider’s tribe
No matter what, be satisfied
That he will always beat the rap
Get back in line, and shut your trap

And Karl Rove, what of he, you say?
Renewed his clearance yesterday
To handle secrets of the state
Made Bush men have no fear of fate.

SFL
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lunk
post Feb 1 2008, 08:10 PM
Post #88



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Excerpts from a pre-election speech
taken in a chicken coop


My fellow foul
we must decide
in who to lead
and not divide.
And who we choose,
will be our choice,
and who will speak
with all our voice.

Which one to trust,
us chickens, all...

coyote, wolf, raccoon or owl?


lunk
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Devilsadvocate
post Apr 9 2008, 12:51 PM
Post #89





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Perception

What do you see with your own eye ?
What truth lies hidden- tell me, please !
And is there truth in what you spie-
when you perceive what your eye sees ?

The eye sees light. And so- you see-,
I ask to look with caution, please !
You just perceive reflections. We
are subject to a sensual tease...

The chair, the table or the wall-
they all reflect the sun's own light:
No more than that- and that is all
our eyes can see with mortal sight...

So what is real, and what is fake ?
And are you really sure, my friend ?
For truth is of a different make
than mirrors in illusion-land...


(WJB/Devilsadvocate)

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Devilsadvocate
post Aug 26 2008, 10:51 PM
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Precious

I sit in the kitchen, and wonder and ask:

Why am I alive- what's my purpose, my task ?

Get rich, fat and greedy, and have a great time

before I will leave this world, right in my prime...



But that can't be it. For the last shirt I'll wear

(-the one I'll be dressed in when death I will bear-)

That shirt got no pockets- No silver or gold

which I'd want to take can be carried, I'm told.



So I just sit there and keep thinking. What if

the reason for life is quite simply 'to live' :

To be simply grateful to breathe, and delight

in life's little gifts, day by day, night by night… ?



Those treasures which fit in one's pockets- just dreams!

in truth are quite worthless, and so it just seems

that those which I reap with my eyes- not those bought!

are those I should carry along, in my thought...

(WJB)




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Devilsadvocate
post Nov 21 2008, 10:17 PM
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This is a somewhat abridged version of the relevant chapter of the 'Pert-em-Heru' ('Book of coming forth by day'- the Egyptian 'Book of the dead') dealing with the statement a deceased person was required to make to each one of the forty-two assessors present in the 'Hall of double truth'- the center of the Egyptian netherworld. I corrected some phrases from the translation by E.A Wallis-Budge; (mine is not a definitive version either; I'd have to go over this with a fine comb).
It relates to this post:

http://pilotsfor911truth.org/forum//index....40&start=40

The day of weighing words:

"To be said when one cometh to this, the hall of double truth-
To purge (him) from the bad he hath done,
And to see the faces of every Netjer.

Hail, great Netjer- Lord of truth.
I have come to thee, my lord.
I have brought myself that I may see thy beauties.
I know thee, and I know the names of the forty-two Netjeru
who exist with thee in this hall of double truth,
who live to punish evils-
who live upon their blood on that day (i.e., the blood of the evils- not of the evil-doers)
of computing dispositions before the 'Beautiful being' (Osiris).

Verily, 'Cleanser of his two eyes in truth' is thy name. (My translation of the name)
Verily, I have come to thee; I have brought to thee truth.
I have driven wrong away for thee.

1) I have not done inequity to mankind.
2) I have not done harm unto animals.
3) I have not fashioned evil on the seat of truth. (corrected by me)
4) I have not known evil.
5) I have not fashioned evil.
6) I have not done works above what I needed to do.
7) My name hath not come forth to directing the boat. (i.e., 'I did not barge in to take control')
8) I have not despised the Netjer. (Nature...)
9) I have not caused misery.
10) I have not caused affliction.
11) I have not done what is abominable to the Netjer. (Nature...)
12) I have not caused harm to be done to the servant by his chief.
13) I have not caused pain.
14) I have not caused weeping.
15) I have not killed.
16) I have not given orders to kill for me.
17) I have not caused harm to mankind.
18) I have not taken from the offerings in the temples. (Those were not meant for the Priests)
19) I have not harmed the substance of the Netjeru.
20) I have not stolen from the offerings to the dead.
21) I have not polluted myself.
22) I have not defiled myself.
23) I neither added to nor diminished my offerings.
24) I have not altered a measure. (i.e., I didn't cheat customers)
25) I have not trampled down the fields.
26) I have not added to the weight of the scales. (see 24)
27) I have not diminished from the weight of the scales. (see 24)
28) I have not carried off the milk from the mouth of the babe.
29) I have not driven away the cattle from their pastures.
30) I have not captured the birds from the sanctuaries of the Netjer. (Netjer-sanctuaries...)
31) I have not caught fish (with bait) of their own bodies.
32) I have not turned back water at the time of its season (i.e., the Nile-inundation)
33) I have not diminished the share of running water.
34) I have not extinguished a flame at its hour.
35) I have not violated the times of the chosen offerings.
36) I have not hindered the continuation of the herds of each Netjer. (my translation)
37) I have not repulsed the Netjer in its manifestations.
38) I have not eaten my heart.
39) I have not spoken lies.
40) I have not transgressed.
41) I have not acted deceitfully.
42) I have not set my mouth in motion against any man.

I am pure - pure - pure...

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maturin42
post Nov 22 2008, 10:42 PM
Post #92





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Whattayaknow?

We're making this up as we go along
Who can tell what the right answer is?
If you're big and in trouble, just sing us your song
For the cash, we are all about biz.

They fly into DC in Gulfstreams and Lears
To complain about how times are tough
And they simply can't honor those labor contracts
The Big 3 aren't making enough

While the rest of the world was paying attention
To exhaustion of cheap energy
They built Tahoes and Hummers and Expeditions
And their hybrids get 12 MPG

Executives get paid for calling the shots
Making all the tough choices, you see
Who could have foreseen when gas hit five bucks
That they wouldn't sell if they were free?

So they’re flying to Washington, down on their luck
They hope we’ll front them some dough
The same people who killed the electric car,
Need a bailout, whattayaknow?

SFL
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albertchampion
post Nov 23 2008, 12:36 AM
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oh, i think that this says it so much better


http://www.dailykos.com/storyonly/2008/11/...7/65/267/627232
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maturin42
post Jan 1 2009, 12:05 AM
Post #94





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QUOTE (albertchampion @ Nov 21 2008, 02:36 AM) *
oh, i think that this says it so much better


http://www.dailykos.com/storyonly/2008/11/...7/65/267/627232


But then, it IS Shelley!

Happy New Year, everyone.

A Sober Assessment

Turn the page, just like that
A new year greets us all.
Begin again, bind up the wounds,
We hear the future call.
Two thousand eight has treated us
Unkindly, that’s no lie.
Two thousand nine may give us all
More reasons yet to cry
For fortunes lost and prospects ruined
And wars without an end.
We voted change, and change we’ll get
But what might that portend?
So far the team assembled
By the president-elect
Seems staffed by Clintonistas
And the blue-dogs that infect
A Congress whose timidity
Can scarcely be believed.
Progressives, justly so,
May feel a tiny bit deceived.
So wish for better days my friends
That peace may spread and thrive
Myself, I count it lucky
We escaped ‘08 alive.
And if I rain on your parade,
I do apologize.
Realpolitic, it seems, has cut
My visions down to size.
And so a bad year dies.

Shelton F. Lankford
Reason for edit: Adding the Title
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Devilsadvocate
post Jul 10 2010, 02:09 PM
Post #95





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Well- that show is already over:

The great 'Russian Spy Gala' to_keep_order.gif .

But i just couldn't resist...



The Ballad of Annie Chapman

Headlines in tomorrows papers
tell of Annie Chapman's capers,
and they will reveal that she
really "...is a man, you see!"

"Russian Clinic!" - "Operation!"
...And an unsuspecting nation
subject to "...Deception!" Ohhh...
Holy St. Guantanamo!

Watch for neighbours who tend roses:
Watch their steps, their stance, their poses-
For they could be Russian spies
(...Who will fill your heads with lies!)

Everyone's a spy, you see:
Grannies...Schoolgirls vis-a-vis;
Shopattendants, Circusclowns-
Bakers, Butchers, Smiths and Browns!!!

"National Security":
It can only ever be
If they all are locked away
safely in Guantanamo Bay...

But you should not just believe
what I write- for I retrieve
vital info for the reds
hiding in your flower-beds...

(WJB)

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Devilsadvocate
post Aug 7 2011, 11:21 PM
Post #96





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The following poem was written by a woman called Eileen O'Shaughnessy. She was the first wife of Eric Arthur Blair- better known under his pen-name 'George Orwell'.
The poem is extremely relevant to his later novel '1984'; it was writen in 1934 and was a look ahead at a time 50 years in the future.

"End of the Century, 1984”
by Eileen O'Shaughnessy

Death

Synthetic winds have blown away
material dust- but this one room
rebukes the constant violet ray
and dustless sheds a dusty gloom...
Wrecked on the outmoded past
Lie North and Hillard, Virgil, Horace-
Shakespeare's bones are quiet at last,
dead as Yates or William Morris.
Have not the inmates earned their rest ?
A hundred circles traversed they,
complaining of the classic quest
and each inevitable day,
illogically trying to place
a ball within an empty space.


(The end:
The artificial winds of an artificial world have blown away the remains of the old natural world, but there is this one place-- a museum-- which withstands the constant sunset, appearing dusty and gloomy in its sterile way.
Here are found the outdated thinkers of the past:
North and Hillard-- who provided a number of prose composition books for Latin and Greek-
together with Virgil and Horace; even Shakespeare, Yates and William Morris have ended up here.
Have they not earned their rest- considering that they spend an eternity running around in circles, trying against their own better knowledge to explain the workings of the Cosmos...?)

Birth

Every loss is now a gain-
for every chance must follow reason;
a Crystal Palace meets the rain
which falls at its appointed season.
No book disturbs the lucid line-
for sun-bronzed scholars tune their thought
to telepathic station nine,
from which they know just what they ought:
The useful sciences; the arts
of telesalesmanship-- and Spanish
as registered in western parts.
Mental cremation that shall banish
relics: Philosophies and colds...
Manana-minded ten-year-olds.


(The beginning:
Losses are now interpreted as gains, since there is no space for 'mere chance' in a scientific world: The place were science is displayed can stand up to nature.
No book is in the way of this lucid-dream-assembly-line, for the educated workers producing the profit of loss are taught everything they ought to know by the mass-media:
The part of science which is useful, the arts of advertising-- and the knowledge of other countries or cultures as they are interpreted in the west.*
The mental memory-hole into which philosophies and other minor ailments are thrown:
This is the mentality of the ten-year-old who devours science-fiction-stories...

*The poem was written in 1934; during that year, a number of events took place in Spain which ultimately led to the Spanish civil war. The BBC reported these events- and later on the war- in a heavily slanted way.)

The Phoenix

Worlds have died that they may live:
May plume again their fairest feathers
and in their clearest songs may give
welcome to all spontaneous weathers.
Bacon's colleague is called Einstein,
Huxley shares platonic food-
violet rays are only sunshine:
Christened in the modern mood-
in this house if in no other--
past and future may agree
in a curious harmony
finding both a proper place
in the silken gowns embrace...


(Renewal:
Whole worlds have been destroyed so that these people could dream their foolish dreams:
May the greatest thinkers among them live again so that they can proclaim their support for a world in which the weather can not be controlled by science.
Bacon, Huxley, Einstein and Plato are all united here-- after all, the violet rays of sunset are just another form of sunshine.
When they are given their modern names, then in this museum- if nowhere else--beginning and end are no longer at odds; they both find their proper place in death:
In a circle, beginning and end are one and the same...)

Winston Smith, the main character in the novel, is 39 years old; he begins to write in his diary on April 4th 1984.
This means he must have been born somewhere between April 4th 1944 and April 4th 1945.
Eileen and Eric Blair adopted a baby boy called Horatio in June 1944, shortly after the Normandy landings.
The landings caused a feeling of euphoria in Britain: The end of the war was in sight...

Adopting that baby was a symbol of hope. The two must have been thinking and talking about the future a lot around that time.
Eileen spend two years working for Britain's "Ministry of Truth"- the Ministry for Information, in the censorship-department. Both she and Eric must have realised that the structures which had developed as a result of the war would not simply disappear.

On the day Horatio Blair was adopted, Winston Smith was conceived.

He was born nine months later... On March 29th 1945.
On that day, Eileen Maud O'Shaughnessy Blair died from the anaesthetic during a routine operation.

Violet rays are only sunshine...

http://pilotsfor911truth.org/forum/index.php?showtopic=20740

(Edit: I just managed to not only post the wrong thing in the wrong thread, but also to erase the wrong bit... Corrected. Off to bed before I erase my profile around here...)


This post has been edited by Devilsadvocate: Aug 7 2011, 11:58 PM
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Devilsadvocate
post Aug 8 2011, 10:16 PM
Post #97





Group: Respected Member
Posts: 1,370
Joined: 3-February 07
From: Ireland
Member No.: 551



Show me the way!

It was a bright day, and the birds- they did sing,
And I was just resting when I heard the ring
Which came from the door-bell; I opened the door:
There was a pale man- just two feet off the floor.

He flashed me a bony and chilling cold smile,
And said “Hi, my friend- I will leave in a while-
I’ve just got a question- I’m sorry to say
That with all the traffic, I just lost my way…”

He put down the scythe which he’d held in one hand
And showed me a book: “I’ve got every land
That exists neatly listed- with every name
of every person alive--what a shame!”

He took a cold breath. “Could you show me the way?
This man is the one I am searching for…Say,
Would you perhaps know in which place he does live?”
I saw my own name- and my limbs, they went stiff…

“Let’s see now”, I mumbled. “Down there”, so I said-
Explaining without even just going red—
“…And then take a turn to your left and go on
for another ten miles, up the hill, past the lawn.

When you come to the crossroads, just keep to your right-
And another ten miles past the red traffic-light—
Don’t mind that, it’s broken—then over the bridge
And past the old building you’ll see on the ridge…”

He did interrupt. “Thanks a lot, I’m confused…
So maybe I’ll ask someone else. I am used
To losing my way; so I just will head on…”
So far I’ve not seen him again. Must be gone…

Before I forget...just as he moved on
he said "I'll be back- see you later, my son"...
Which left me to wonder- What could he have meant?
I'll probably wonder right up 'til the end...

(WJB)
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Devilsadvocate
post Mar 1 2014, 04:19 PM
Post #98





Group: Respected Member
Posts: 1,370
Joined: 3-February 07
From: Ireland
Member No.: 551



Rudyard Kipling


McAndrew's Hymn

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
An', taught by time, I tak' it so---exceptin' always Steam.
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God---
Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod.
John Calvin might ha' forged the same---enorrmous, certain, slow---
Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame---my "Institutio."
I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;
I'll stand the middle watch up here---alone wi' God an' these
My engines, after ninety days o' rase an' rack an' strain
Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again.
Slam-bang too much---they knock a wee---the crosshead-gibs are loose,
But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse....
Fine, clear an'dark---a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight,
An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night!
His wife's at Plymouth.... Seventy---One---Two---Three since he began---
Three turns for Mistress Ferguson... and who's to blame the man?
There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow,
Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.
(The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread,
Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws--fra' Govan to Parkhead!)
Not but that they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say:
"Good morn, McAndrew! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?"
Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair
To drink Madeira wi' three Earls---the auld Fleet Engineer
That started as a boiler-whelp---when steam and he were low.
I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow!
Ten pound was all the pressure then---Eh! Eh!---a man wad drive;
An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder sixty-five!
We're creepin' on wi' each new rig---less weight an' larger power;
There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty miles an hour!
Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me na doot for the machine: but what about the man?
The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea:
Four time the span from Earth to Moon.... How far, O Lord from thee
That wast beside him night an' day? Ye mind my first typhoon?
It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon.
Three feet were on the stokehold-floor---just slappin' to an' fro---
An' cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.
Marks! I ha' marks o' more than burns---deep in my soul an' black,
An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.
The sins o' four an' forty years, all up an' down the seas.
Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed.... Forgie's our trespasses!
Nights when I'd come on to deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze,
The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel-stays;
Years when I raked the Ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong---
Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!
Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode---
Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Reddick an' Grant Road!
An' waur than all---my crownin' sin---rank blasphemy an' wild.
I was not four and twenty then---Ye wadna judge a child?
I'd seen the Tropics first that run---new fruit, new smells, new air---
How could I tell---blinf-fou wi' sun--- the Deil was lurkin' there?
By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes;
By night thos soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies,
In port (we used no cargo-steam) I'd daunder down the streets---
An ijjit grinnin' in a dream---for shells an' parrakeets,
An' walkin'-sticks o' carved bamboo an' blowfish stuffed an' dried---
Fillin' my bunk wi' rubbishry the Cheif put overside.
Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca',
Milk-warm wi' breath o' spice an' bloom: "McAndrew, Come awa'!"
Firm, clear an' low---no haste, no hate---the ghostly whisper went,
Just statin' eevidential facts beyon' all argument:
"Your mither's god's a graspin' deil, the shadow o' yoursel',
"Got out o' books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an' Hell.
"They mak' him in the Broomielaw, o' Glasgie cold an' dirt,
"A jealous, pridefu' fetich, lad, that's only strong to hurt.
"Ye'll not go back to Him again an' kiss His red-hot rod,
"But come wi' Us" (Now who were They?) "an' know the Leevin' God,
"That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest,
"But swells the ripenin' cocoanuts an' ripes the woman's breast."
An' there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice---
For me, six months o' twenty-four, to leave or take at choice.
'Twas on me like a thunderclap---it racked me through an' through---
Temptation past the show o' speech, unnameable an' new---
The Sin against the Holy Ghost?... An' under all, our screw.

That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin' swell.
thou knowest all my heart an' mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell---
Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell!
Yet was Thy Hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy Care---
Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair,
But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer!...
We wared na run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire,
An' I was drowsin' on the hatch---sick---sick wi' doubt an' tire:
"Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!"
Ye mind that word? Clear as gongs---again, an' once again,
When rippin' down through coral-trash ran out our moorin'-chain:
An', by Thy Grace, I had the light to see my duty plain.
Light on the engine-room---no more---bright as our carbons burn.
I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past return!

Obsairve! Per annum we'll have here two thousand souls aboard---
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But---average fifteen hunder souls safe-born fra' port to port---
I am o' service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought?
Maybe they steam from Grace to Wrath---to sin by folly led---
It isna mine to judge their path---their lives are on my head.
Mine at the last---when all is done it all comes back to me,
The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea.
We'll tak' one stretch---three weeks an odd by ony road ye steer---
Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington---ye need an engineer.
Fail there---ye've time to weld your shaft---ay, eat it, ere ye're spoke;
Or make Kergueen under sail---three jiggers burned wi' smoke!
An' home again---the Rio run: it's no child's play to go
Steamin' to bell for fourteen days o' snow an' floe an' blow.
The beergs like kelpies oversde that girn an' turn an' shift
Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South drift.
(Hail, Snow and Ice that praise the Lord. I've met them at their work,
An wished we had anither route or they another kirk.)
Yon's strain, hard strain, o' head an' hand, for though Thy Power brings
All skill to naught, Ye'll underatand a man must think o' things.
Then, at the last, we'll get to port an' hoist their baggage clear---
The passengers, wi' gloves an' canes---an' this is what I'll hear:
"Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender's comin' now."
While I go testin' follower-bolts an' watch the skipper bow.
They've words for every one but me---shake hands wi' half the crew,
Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.
An' yet I like the wark for all we've dam' few pickin's here---
No pension, an' the most we'll earn's four hunder pound a year.
Better myself abroad? Maybe. I'd sooner starve than sail
Wi' such as call a snifter-rod ross.... French for nightingale.
Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I cannot afford
To lie like stewards wi' patty-pans. I'm older than the Board.
A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close,
But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I'll grudge their food to those.
(There's bricks that I might recommend---an' clink the firebars cruel.
No! Welsh---Wangarti at the worst---an' damn all patent fuel!)
Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak' a patent pay.
My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay.
I blame no chaps wi' clearer heads for aught they make or sell.
I found that I could not invent an' look to these as well.
So, wrestled wi' Apollyon---Nah!---fretted like a bairn---
But burned the workin'-plans last run, wi' all I hoped to earn.
Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an' what that meant to me---
E'en tak' it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee....
Below there! Oiler! What's your wark? Ye find it runnin' hard?
Ye needn't swill the cup wi' oil---this isn't the Cunard!
Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again!
Tck! Tck! It's deeficult to sweer nor tak' The Name in vain!
Men, ay an' women, call me stern. Wi' these to oversee,
Ye'll note I've little time to burn on social repartee.
The bairns see what their elders miss; they'll hunt me to an' fro,
Till for the sake of---well, a kiss---I tak' 'em down below.
That minds me of our Viscount loon---Sir Kenneth's kin---the chap
Wi' Russia leather tennis-shoon an' spar-decked yachtin'-cap.
I showed him round last week, o'er all---an' at the last says he:
"Mister McAndrew, Don't you think steam spoils romance at sea?"
Damned ijjit! I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,
Manholin', on my back---the cranks three inches off my nose.
Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well,
Printed an' bound in little books; but why don't poets tell?
I'm sick of all their quirks an' turns---the loves an' doves they dream---
Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o' Steam!

To match wi' Scotia's noblest speech yon orchestra sublime
Whaurto---uplifted like the Just---the tail-rods mark the time.
The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an' heaves,
An' now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves:
Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides,
Till---hear that note?---the rod's return whings glimmerin' through the guides.
They're all awa'! True beat, full power, the clangin' chorus goes
Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin' dynamos.
Interdependence absolute, forseen, ordained, decreed,
To work, Ye'll note, at ony tilt an' every rate o' speed.
Fra' Skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an' stayed.
An' singin' like the Mornin' Stars for joy that they are made;
While, out o' touch o' vanity, the sweatin' thrust-block says:
"Not unto us the praise, or man---not unto us the praise!"
Now, a' together, hear them lift their lesson---theirs an' mine:
"Law, Orrder, Duty an' Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!"
Mill, forge an' try-pit taught them that when roarin' they arose,
An' whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi' the blows.
Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain,
Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin' plain!
But no one cares except mysel' that serve an' understand
My seven thousand horse-power here. Eh Lord! They're grand---they're grand!
Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood,
Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin' all things good?
Not so! O' that warld-liftin' joy no after-fall could vex,
Ye've left a glimmer still to cheer the Man---the Arrtifex!
That holds, in spite o' knock and scale, o' friction, waste an' slip,
An' by that light---now, mark my word---we'll build the Perfect Ship.
I'll never last to judge her lines, or take her curve---not I.
But I ha' lived an' I ha' worked. Be thanks to Thee, Most High!
An' I ha' done what I ha' done---judge Thou if ill or well---
Always Thy grace preventin' me....
Losh! Yon's the "Stand-by" bell.
Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin'-watch is set.
Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin', I'm no Pelagian yet.
Now, I'll tak' on....
'Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought
What your good leddy costs in coal?... I'll burn 'em down to port.

EDIT: The poem above ties in with this article:

Orwell's '1984'



This post has been edited by Devilsadvocate: Mar 1 2014, 05:53 PM
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