Lyrics

[Asila]

New poem!

I just discovered this one in a book of poems that I've recently picked up, and I am very fond of it. Mostly because I can relate with the battered and scarred violin, and I'm sure many of the other people on this forum will, too.

The Touch of the Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scared, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar - now who"ll make it two _
Two dollars, and who"ll make it three?
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three". . . but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody,pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: "What am I bidden for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow;
"A thousand dollars - and who'll make it two?
Two thousand - and who'll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice
And going - and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand -
What changed its worth?" The man replied:
"The touch of the master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and torn with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd.
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on,
He's going once, and going twice -
He's going - and almost gone!
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd,
Never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul, and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.

~Myra B. Welch

[Asila]

((You know, I think I'm going to try and post one good poem a day from now on (yeah, I know this is my second for today. But I'm on a roll.). That way I'll actually begin to read through my poem books, find a few more poetic gems to add to my treasure trove, and get to relive some of my old favorites. Such as this one.))

This was a poem by another student in my grade, and it gave me chills back when I first read it. Hell, it gives me chills now. It just meant a lot to me because, not only was I a senior as well, but I was feeling kind of nostalgic at the time. Nostalgic and afraid for the future, so I wasn't moving forward. I was holding myself back. And whenever I read this poem, the words that the author chose made the future seem hopeful to me, and not terrifying.

Of course, now, I am kind of sick of the past and am hell-bent on moving forward. Yet this new mentality only allows me to love this poem more, not less.

Senior Year
By Aubrey Hargrave

Reverse, my world
To idyllic days that were sturdy
The bright sun round as a pearl.

Drive ahead, my world
The open days call you
A sunset's colors unfurled.

Rewind, my life
To days past and simple
When morality was black and white.

Fast forward, my life
To days fresh and maze-like
What's easy is not often right.

Stay hidden, my soul
In a nook of nostalgia
It's safer to stay inside.

Race ahead, my soul
Through the fields of knowledge
Risks are required to fly.

Think back, my memory
To yellowed snapshots
Certainty encircles the dust.

Jump forward, my memory
To everything that could be
Change demands your trust.

The well-worn path safer
The current pulls harder
The past becomes background
The future is now.

[Asila]

This one is cool, because, not only is it well-written, but the writer seemed to live a tragic life. At least, he did in my imagination. However, little is known about him, not even his name. What is known, however, is that the author was a convict serving a life term in Joliet Prison, Illinois. (It's strange to me that they know this much and not his name, though. Perhaps this was a poem etched into the wall of a cell, or series of cells, that have been known to house inmates who have been condemned to life in prison? That's a terribly romantic idea...)

The Bar

The Saloon is sometimes called a Bar,
A Bar to heaven, a door to hell
Whoever named it, named it well;
A Bar to manliness and wealth
A door to want and broken health;
A Bar to honor, pride and fame
A door to grief and sin and shame;
A Bar to hope, a bar to prayer
A door to darkness and despair;
A Bar to honored useful life
A door to brawling, senseless strife;
A Bar to all that's true and brave
A door to every drunkards' grave;
A Bar to joys that home imparts
A door to tears and aching hearts;
A Bar to heaven, a door to hell
Whoever named it, named it well!

[Seven]

Wow, that one's really clever! I especially liked the flow and rhyme when it said,
"A Bar to heaven, a door to hell
Whoever named it, named it well!"

Speaking that is just fun for some reason. But the poem makes me wonder if he was an alcoholic. After all, tragic poems seems to always have some foundation in a person's life. He mentions how the bar was the gateway to hell, so perhaps he knows this from experience.

And I could see them not having the author when you put it that way. There are a lot of prisoners, and I doubt the guards are keeping up with the prisoner's artistic callings.

[Asila]

*nods* I would bet my life on his being an alcoholic. He described what it was like to be one too well for me to believe otherwise. And it makes me wonder what crime drinking led him to that would be terrible enough to condemn a man to life in prison. Did he kill his wife in a fit of rage? Or the man she had been cheating on him with? Alcoholics seem to fall prey to crimes of passion, so if he killed someone it would hardly be a complete stranger. And what else would be bad enough to earn a life sentence?

Maybe he tried to rob a bank? But that doesn't seem like something an alcoholic would do. And I'm not sure it's something you would get life in prison for. Hmm...I think my first scenario is the more likely one. And it seems sad to me, because, after reading that poem, I can't help believe that this individual had a great mind. It had simply been misguided. And what was the force that led it astray? What events provoked him into drinking, and so brought about a sad end to his life, behind bars? People with happy childhoods, or happy lives, are not likely to become alcoholics. Perhaps he had an alcoholic parent himself? That would make sense, given the tone of the poem. The poem states that bars are a vice of all humanity, and not just the downfall of himself. Perhaps he was one in a chain...*trails off*

[Seven]

Yeah, that seems pretty likely. People are more likely to be alcoholics if there parents were alcoholics, just like boys will become abusive if their fathers were abusive. I couldn't help but think the same thing. He had real talent, which makes him seem like he could have been a great man. But then again, it could also be that once in jail, he became contemplative and expanded his mental horizons since he could no longer expand his physical ones.

((UPDATE: I was going to write something nice about Mr. Mystery Poet, but my drunk sister just called. My point of view on drunkness has been effected by this.))

Drunk people suck. *is cynical* It doesn't matter if you have a great mind if you're too stupid to use it. And of course EVERYONE cries when it's too late.

[Rojo]

I don't know why but this song is nice to listen to when you're bored or feeling blue. I don't know much abat all this fayncy "sim-bol-ischm" but I knows whut ah likes!

Don't Stop Believing
By Journey

Just a small town girl, livin in a lonely world
She took the midnight train goin anywhere
Just a city boy, born and raised in south detroit
He took the midnight train goin anywhere

A singer in a smokey room
A smell of wine and cheap perfume
For a smile they can share the night
It goes on and on and on and on

Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching in the night
Streetlight people, living just to find emotion
Hiding, somewhere in the night

Working hard to get my fill,
Everybody wants a thrill
Payin anything to roll the dice,
Just one more time
Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on

(chorus)

Dont stop believin
Hold on to the feelin
Streetlight people
uk.youtube.com/watch?v=9CTkCnad2BE&feature=related

[Asila]

To Seven: Hey, I'm not trying to romanticize alcoholics. I have enough reason of my own to feel bitter about the issue. If my father hadn't been an alcoholic lowlife, then I may have been able to escape my mother by going to live with him. Of course, I don't believe for a second that he'd be an ideal parent but he strikes me as the lesser of two evils. From what I hear of him, he was the type of person who would give a friend in need the very shirt off his back, while my mother has only ever been selfish, petty, and too eager to hold on to trivial grudges for decades. So, whatever else he may have been, he at the very least was compassionate while he was sober. My mother was never compassionate at all, and she didn't even have substance abuse as an excuse.

...now I just let myself get angry. Which means it's time to return to the point I was trying to make. It is true that the individual who wrote that poem probably developed his mind only after he became incarcerated. They say that strife awakens a slumbering soul, and if that's true, then alcohol numbs it as surely as it does the mind. So this person probably only developed the habit of deep, reflective thought when he had all the time in the world to reflect upon it without alcohols numbing properties to interfere. In the end, he amounted to nothing. But in the words of that poem, his spirit lives on even though his name has been forgotten. And I believe that there was beauty in the soul that wrote that poem, even if he didn't recognize it or give it room to flourish while he was free enough to do some good in the world. And while it is sad to think that he recognized what he'd had only after he lost it, there is a saving grace in the fact that he realized before he left the world just what he'd had, and what he'd done to lose it, and was able to pass on a message of warning to younger generations while he was here. He may have screwed up in his life, but how many others did that poem touch?

To Rojo: I really love that song. I have actually been trying to figure out it's name for a few months now. I knew it was sung by Journey, but it had been so long since I'd heard the entire song that I couldn't guess the title. It's kind of sad, though. Whenever I hear it I think of how the human race is united by loneliness that we try to ease in whatever way we can.

*shakes head* I know, I know, just leave it to me to find the darker meaning in a song. It's hard to believe I was ever an optimist, isn't it?

Anyway, here's a poem for everyone who's ever felt too tired and hopeless to go on.

Don't Quit- Fight One More Round

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest! if you must- but never quit.

Life is queer, with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won who stuck it out;
Stick to your task, though the pace seems slow-
You may succeed with one more blow.

Success is failure turned inside out-
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt-
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit-
It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.

~Author Unknown

[Seven]

As I said before, I'm feeling a little too pooped to write adequate responses to anything (*shakes fist at Plato essay*), but I will tomorrow, when I'm rejuvenated. But for now, I felt like sharing one of my favorite poems.

Der Erlkönig

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

"Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?"
"Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?"
"Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif."

"Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;
Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand."

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?"
"Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind."

"Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein."

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?"
"Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau."

"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt."
"Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!"

Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Müh' und Not;
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.



...........

Ok, maybe not everyone here has taken German and can appreciate it in its native tongue, so here's the literal translation:

The Elf King

Who rides, so late, through night and wind?
It is the father with his child.
He holds the boy in the crook of his arm
He holds him safe, he keeps him warm.

"My son, why do you hide your face so anxiously?"
"Father, do you not see the Erlking*?
The Erlking with crown and cloak?"
"My son, it's a wisp of fog."

"You lovely child, come, go with me!
Many a beautiful game I'll play with you;
Some colorful flowers are on the shore,
My mother has some golden robes."

"My father, my father, can't you hear,
What the Erlking quietly promised me?"
"Be calm, stay calm, my child;
The wind rustles through dry leaves."

"Do you want to come with me, fine lad?
My daughters should be waiting for you;
My daughters lead the nightly dances
And will rock and dance and sing you to sleep."

"My father, my father, can't you see there,
The Erlking's daughters in the gloomy place?"
"My son, my son, I see it well:
The old willows seem so gray."

"I love you, your beautiful form entices me;
And if you're not willing, I shall use force."
"My father, my father, he's grabbing me now!
The Erlking has wounded me!"

The father shudders; he rides swiftly,
He holds in his arms the moaning child.
Barely he arrives at the yard in urgency;
In his arms, the child was dead.

(*Note: Whenever they say Erlking, they mean Elf king)


I know it's also been turned into a couple of songs. My favorite is in Italian, called "Figlio Perduto," which is an amazing, dark ambiatic, neo-classical opera-crossover. (Yes, I am a classical loser.)
*shifty eyes* So I decided to torment you all by posting a youtube video. Enjoy?


((Trivia: The woman singing, Sarah Brightman, is the actress who played Blind Mag in Repo! the Genetic Opera. Always loved that woman.)

[Seven]

Now, to reply to what I missed out last night.

To Rojo: I agree with Asila on this. The song is really great, and I've heard it a number of times on the smooth jazz station in the Chicago area, but I never knew it's name or artist. However, I also tend to think that despite its melancholic tune, it's message is more hopeful that that of just loneliness. Like the lonely boy and girl are both taking the midnight train to go nowhere. Implying that they have the chance to meet and not be lonely anymore. At least that's what I infer from it. At least there is the chance to overcome the loneliness.

To Asila: I know, I know, I was just feeling bitter at the moment I wrote my post. You can blame my sister for that one. I tend to think that everyone would have beautiful soul, but things not necessary corrupt it, but cloud it, to the point that anything beautiful would become invisible or irrelevant. And yes, the poem was beautiful and tragic when put in context, and it's a damn shame people can't wake up without a wake up call, and that the poem seems to have a redeeming quality to it. But when you mentioned 'how many others do you think he touched?' ...It's sort of strange to think of it though...that your life's purpose could be to go to jail and dwindle away their, till you produce one piece of art that is immortalized by always anonymous. I guess that makes it stronger. The poem could reflect on any man, rather than just its author, when written by a mystery poet of dark origins. But it's depressing to think of the man who has the fate to write such a poem. No one wants such a lot. I think most people would rather be free and ignorant rather enslaved and beautiful. Even if the rest of the world finds the latter tragic and great.

*Grins* You really have the knack for finding fun anonymous poems, don't you? How hopeful and optimistic in comparison to the last one. But the true question at hand is, "If Winners never Quit, and Quitters never Win, why do they say 'Quit while you're ahead?' " *grins* Don't mind me, I'm just being lame again. The poem was cute, and it is nice to read when you're feeling down. And of course, the message is universal to all people and things. After all, if we gave up, then what would we do? Languish in misery.

[Seven]

I don't know how many people have read "Alice in Wonderland," but Lewis Carroll is one of my favorites. Anyways, here's a little poem that in one of the Alice books. Perhaps you've heard of it?

Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson)

Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the momeraths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws tht bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought -
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimbel in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the momeraths outgrabe.

[Seven]

This is another poem I like. It has no rhyme or meter, but it's...interesting, thought provoking. Hope you enjoy!

Spiritual Chickens

by Stephen Dobyns

A man eats a chicken every day for lunch,
and each day the ghost of another chicken
joins the crowd in the dining goom. If he could
only see them! Hundreds and hundreds of spiritual
chickens, sitting on chairs, tables, covering
the floor, jammed shoulder to shoulder. At last
there is no more space and one of the chickens
is popped back across the spiritual plain to the earthly.
The man is in the process of picking his teeth.
Suddenly there’s a chicken at the end of the table,
strutting back and forth, not looking at the man
but knowing he is there, as is the way with chickens.
The man makes a grab for the chicken but his hand
passes right through her. He tries to hit the chicken
with a chair and the chair passes through her.
He calls in his wife but she can see nothing.
This is his own private chicken, even if he
fails to recognize her. How is he to know
this is a chicken he ate seven years ago
on a hot and steamy Wednesday in July,
with a little tarragon, a little sour cream?
The man grows afraid. He runs out of his house
flapping his arms and making peculiar hops
until the authorities take him away for a cure.
Faced with the choice between something odd
in the world or something broken in his head,
he opts for the broken head. Certainly,
this is safer than putting his opinions
in jeopardy. Much better to think he had
imagined it, that he had made it happen.
Meanwhile, the chicken struts back and forth
at the end of the table. Here she was, jammed in
with the ghosts of six thousand dead hens, when
suddenly she has the whole place to herself.
Even the nervous man has disappeared. If she
had a brain, she would think she had caused it.
She would grow vain, egotistical, she would
look for someone to fight, but being a chicken
she can just enjoy it and make little squawks,
silent to all except the man who ate her,
who is far off banging his head against a wall
like someone trying to repair a leaky vessel,
making certain that nothing unpleasant gets in
or nothing of value falls out. How happy
he would have been to be born a chicken,
to be of good use to his fellow creatures
and rich in companionship after death.
As it is he is constantly being squeezed
between the world and his idea of the world.
Better to have a broken head—why surrender
his corner on truth?—better just to go crazy.

[Forsaken]

((Just to let you know, Seven, I liked your poems. I just didn't respond to them because I get...weird sometimes. Detached and unfocused. The Elf King one was my absolute favorite, even though it depressed me when I first listened to it. And the chicken one was cute. (wonders what the guy's deal was. What's the big deal about a ghost chicken?) And the Lewis Carrol poem confused me. ))

I feel kind of morbid, so I'm posting some strange lyrics. Because they remind me of the relationship between me and my mother. And if that's too much information, pretend I never said it.

The song is Slipknot's "Dead Memories".

Sitting in the dark,
I can't forget.
Even now,
I realize the time
I'll never get.
Another story
Of the Bitter Pills of Fate.
I can't go back again.
I can't go back again

But you asked me
To love you and I did.
Traded my emotions
For a contract to commit.
And when I got away,
I only got so far.
The Other Me Is Dead.
I hear his voice inside my head

We were never alive,
And we won't be born again.
But I'll never survive
With Dead Memories in my heart.

You told me to love you
And I did.
Tied my soul into a knot
And got me to submit.
So when I got away,
I only kept my scars.
The Other Me Is Gone.
Now I don't know where I belong

We were never alive,
And we won't be born again.
But I'll never survive
With Dead Memories in my heart.

Dead Visions in your Name.
Dead Fingers in my Veins.
Dead Memories in my Heart

[Seven]

Oh, you're song is so sad. What you expressed about Erlkonig, I now feel for this Dead Memories. But the song sounds like it was written for you, in its way. Or perhaps, just comparing it you, we've shifted its meaning? (Like it might have been written about two lovers?) Well, not that that really matters. I guess what sort of relationship the singer is referring to (lovers, family, etc) doesn't really matter, since it's the feelings in the relationship that are important.

[Forsaken]

*grins* It's actually kind of funny. I'd heard parts of this song a time or two before on the radio, but never the whole thing, and it didn't catch on with me immediately because the beat wasn't as catchy as some. Then, on my way home, when I was brooding over my mother, I suddenly happened to tune into the a rock station just as it was beginning. Sometimes, I believe in fate. The timing was just too perfect.

And it is sad. But I like the fact that if focuses on dead memories, because that's how every memory I possess that involves my mother, in however abstract a fashion, feels to me now. The past really is dead and gone, and I do have to let it go to survive. And I'm trying to. It's just that it seems to be in my nature to try and hold on to what matters (or what I feel should matter) no matter what the cost to myself, and it takes me a while to release that suicidally tenacious grip. I have to first fully convince myself that I'm holding onto something that means nothing, a concept that has no life left in it, before I can finally let go. Which is why I'm struggling even though I can't stand my mother and have never really been able to.

Of course, when you think about it, it hasn't been so long since I decided to give up on her entirely. Only about a year or so. And I'm trying to let go in a healthy way, unlike my sister who has merely begun to idolize our dead father because of her desperate longing to have a parent who loves her. Or Marc, who blindly defends his b*tch mother who would throw him to the wolves if it proved sufficient distraction for her to escape, just because he desperately longs for a place to call home and for parents who love him. I don't want to be like that. I want to heal, to become functional, so I'm trying to find anchors in the ones who love me in the present so that I'm not pulled down by what was or what should have been in the past.

And it's really hard to figure out exactly how to do this stuff on your own. I've tried counselors, but they can not know my mind as well as I do and can never explain what I must do well enough for me to understand how to go about doing it.

As for what kind of relationship this song is speaking of...well, I think it must have been about someone who really affected the writer in the kind of profound way that a girlfriend probably wouldn't. So I wouldn't be surprised if I found out it had been written about a parent. However, I think songs like these are written so that you can relate them to whatever kind of relationship it most reminds you of. Whenever I like a song about some kind of dysfunctional relationship it's usually because it either makes me think of my mother or even of an abstract concept. Or a character that I've been thinking a lot about. I even used to compare love songs to my home town, because I had missed it so terribly. Other people might think I'm a sentimental idiot for that one, but I really did love that place. At that time, I loved it more than anything else in this world and the distance was killing me.

But I'm peculiar. Because I seem to fall in love with inanimate objects. *grins*