Ode On Venice

I.
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,

What should thy sons do?--anything but weep
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers--as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets.
Oh! Agony-that centuries should reap
No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

How the Revolution Started

The bearded amoeba
Quietly smoked his pipe.
The servant came in
And said:
The crocodile is ready
But the president cannot make today
The apple pie.

The bearded amoeba
Quietly smoked his pipe.
Yes, the dentist is in Venice
To make the root canal,
The servant said.
The crocodile was looking
At the sky.

Then suddenly
An angry cat
Began to puff and pant.

[...] Read more

poem by Paul Hartal
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Portia

I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold
To peril all he had upon the lead,
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head,
Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold:
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
Which is more golden than the golden sun,
No woman Veronesé looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio's heart to that accursèd Jew--
O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.

poem by Oscar Wilde
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Ix

Can it be right to give what I can give ?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations ? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right ! We are not peers,
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas !
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love--which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet IX

Can it be right to give what I can give ?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations ? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right ! We are not peers,
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas !
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love--which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet 09 - Can it be right to give what I can give?

IX

Can it be right to give what I can give?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right! We are not peers,
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love—which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Be Still

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persian roses flew to kiss
The curlèd lashes of Semiramis.
Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.
Provence and Troubadour are merest lies
The glorious hair of Venice was a beam
Made within Titian's eye. The sunsets seem,
The world is very old and nothing is.
Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,
Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,
But patter in the darkness of thy heart.
Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl
Blind with the light of life thou 'ldst not forsake,
And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.

poem by Trumbull Stickney
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet IX: Can It Be Right to Give

Can it be right to give what I can give?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right! We are not peers,
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love--which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Resolution

The cat jumps, a shadow falls from the wall
and pools on the floor
Not like the moon's but like itself, gibbous.
Into oscura, into what we fail to see
file fifers in time running on into meadows and on:
Can you blame them for seeing the beautiful use of things?
Good, the greater part of it, anyway, must somehow lay in
sanctioning useful delusion-
you, on whom these bloom and choir like birds,
isn't it so?
and you, maestro, strangely incredulous,
of shadow lorn as Venice at noonday,
living on garlic, numbers and sweat,
viewing even past blunders threads to a perfect eye,
say it is so it is so.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

42 - The Bright Lights of Las Vegas

The bright lights of Las Vegas
Casinos open around the clock
Wedding bells, Grand hotels
A place where the fornicators flock

Like the showgirls on the strip
The rainbow waters dance
European countries recreated
England, Venice and France

At the bar the drinks roll in
As the alcoholics sit
While gamblers like to shake
The hand of the one arm bandit

The city of sin and adulterers
The sounds of the old school tunes
Neon lights, Gangland fights
The mirage and the windblown dunes

[...] Read more

poem by Nicola Burkett
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Charting The Single

(lyrics: derek dick)
Yeah!
Slow french kissing with the dauphins daughter
If I fall in love now Ill be floating in seine
Plastered in paris
Ive had an eiffel
Gonna make my escape on the midnight train
Choo, choo to you
Choo, choo to you
Charting the single
Schnapping my fingers on an alcoholic day
Sniff round a fraulein when Im scent to cologne
All night hotel liebling make your mark
Let sugar daddy melt in his home sweet home
Home is where the heart lies
Where is home, is where the heart lies, but where is home?
Get a pizza the action when I romeo again
Chianti see you with me, so just let him wine
Juliet on the balcony, its pasta serenade
Wedding rings, I know when venice time

[...] Read more

song performed by Marillion
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

When my lover put the sea between us

When my lover put the sea between us
And went wandering in Italy
My poor silly heart miscalled his journey—
'Leaving me'.
Towns of Spain and Italy he stayed in,
Each and all of them to me unknown;
How could he find pleasure being a lover,
Being alone!
Truly I was not as fair as Venice,
Noble as Siena, strange as Rome.
Certainly he loved Milan and Florence
More than home.
I believed his absence had estranged us
And across the heart-dividing sea
Sent him word that I no longer loved him.
Foolish me!
Came his answer after months of waiting
Echoing my letter, lie for lie.
Truth or lies I know not. Which unfaithful,
He or I.

poem by Lesbia Harford
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Rice Papers

Long before she turned her pen
to vampires and such,
A favorite author wrote a book
that I enjoyed so much.
It told a tale of long ago.
In Venice it was set.
Through operatic landscape,
this text of hidden threat
transported me to sites that I
could visualize and tread.
I felt the cobbles 'neath my feet.
I knew the sense of dread.
Relationships and champions,
villains and their prey
existed there within the pomp
of opera's early days.
The voices, costumes, schemes and trysts
entangle and engross
the reader in this medieval
tapestry morose.

[...] Read more

poem by B.V. Dahlen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I See Stars

I saw a star in Venice
I saw a star tonight
I saw a star falling then regain its flight.
I saw a star in Rio

I saw a star in you
I saw a star twinkling in different shades of blue.
I saw a star in Heaven
I saw a star in Hell
But never did I see a star twinkling on my world.

I've seen a star fading
I've seen it cross the sky
I've seen so many different stars trying not to die
I've seen them come together

I've watched them grow apart
I have seen so many stars in a lovers heart.
I've seen the stars exploding
I've seen the quiet and calm

[...] Read more

poem by Coen Carter
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To Mr. Murray (Strahan, Tonson Lintot Of The Times)

Strahan, Tonson Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unedged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all - and sellest some--
My Murray.

Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,--
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine,
My Murray.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I let her know about my windfall

Yes, I have promised you my Cleopatra.
If I win a lottery,
I take you a long trip around the World in three hundred and sixty five days.
Firstly to the Mount Everest and from there to Venice as you like gondolas.
Then straight away to Egypt as I like boating in the river Nile.
And you may be surprise when you see a Mummy in a Cairo Pyramid.
An old festered king; That resembles me.
Now you believe me darling once I told you that I was a king.
But you thought I was almost drunk.
Hey! I won that lottery but they refused to give money
As I do not posses my own identity.

* Sadly I dedicate this poem to the innocent victims and survivors of Onna.
[The Quake may finish off the fading town Onna where there's almost been a death in every house.
-News ]

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Soror Tua

For the statue of Lorenzetti, in the Venice Exhibition, 1887, representing a chained and recumbent figure larger than life; who, if she broke the silence of her misery, might speak thus:--
Ye that pass by, come near and look on me;
I am despised, rejected and out-thrust;
My garments are acquainted with the dust,
My soul is bosom-mate of misery.

Come near and look upon me, sons of men.
Would I were dead; yea, peace is with the dead,
The dead are happy, having no desire.
I rise and fall, and rise and fall again,
Something is in me, famishing for bread,
Baffled and unappeasable as fire.
Woe, woe is me, I tire and may not tire!
Eternal strength in weariness is mine.
Raise me, I call. Come nearer, I am thine.
What? Knowest thou not thy sister? I am she.

poem by Arthur Symons
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Once I sailed from Port of Kandla to Venice the whole year

Her name is Melrose
A Liqueified Gas Tanker Ship
Very dangerous,
But I sleep happily in the cabin
Because I know that I cannot die
Until I die,
I see Gondolas in Venice
And Shylocks too.
As soon as the ship comes alongside the berth in Kandla
I jump to an Auto-Rickshaw and run to the statue in Gandhidam
Where the greatest human being stands straight.
I respect him the Comrade Gandhi as my Father!

To JVL Narasimharao in gratitude!
[ I remember on my way back from Gandhidam to the port Kandla, I buy few CD's of Urdu & Hindustan Ghazals and instrumental pieces of Ravi Shankar, Chaurasia, Ali Ustad Khan, Shiv Kumar Sharma and rest of all classicals.That whole year in 90's my Vessel ply between India & Italy's the Golden Era of my Sea life with soft spoken music.]

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Pure Music

Pure music tells no clichéd tale
concerning God or love or conquering sword;
it is composed in that fair higher scale
of consciousness where facts may be ignored.

Opera is music that’s adulterated
by literature we call scenario and libretto;
like music we should keep our feelings understated,
not trading them like merchants in a Venice ghetto.

Edmund White writes about the way he prefers to write to the accompaniment of music in the NYT, June 18,2001 (“Before as Rendezvous with the muse, First Select the Music”) . He writes:

Unlike fiction, music is not about mothers-in-law or failed marriages. Of course opera and ballet and program music can be narrative but only because they are adulterated by literature, the libretto or scenario.

6/18/01,11/6/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Flesh Tint

Like a painting by Velazquez
A woman stands
Alone in the frame
Touched by the brush of light
Blossoming.

How did
Flesh Tint reflect Naples Yellow
In this greenish blue room?

What made the sun
Suddenly rise on the palette?

That beggarwoman on Tulsi Pipe Road
That streetwalker in Chicago
What immortal light has washed them
To make her stand here
Naked
In mysterious clarity?

[...] Read more

poem by Dilip Chitre
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!