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Contra fact ::: A musical technique that places new lyrics into melodies of old songs. This technique was used during the Holocaust, when lyrics were being written faster than composers could generate the music.

double bucky Using both the CTRL and META keys. "The command to burn all LEDs is double bucky F." This term originated on the Stanford extended-ASCII keyboard, and was later taken up by users of the {space-cadet keyboard} at MIT. A typical MIT comment was that the Stanford {bucky bits} (control and meta shifting keys) were nice, but there weren't enough of them; you could type only 512 different characters on a Stanford keyboard. An obvious way to address this was simply to add more shifting keys, and this was eventually done; but a keyboard with that many shifting keys is hard on touch-typists, who don't like to move their hands away from the home position on the keyboard. It was half-seriously suggested that the extra shifting keys be implemented as pedals; typing on such a keyboard would be very much like playing a full pipe organ. This idea is mentioned in a parody of a very fine song by Jeffrey Moss called "Rubber Duckie", which was published in "The Sesame Street Songbook" (Simon and Schuster 1971, ISBN 0-671-21036-X). These lyrics were written on May 27, 1978, in celebration of the Stanford keyboard:         Double Bucky Double bucky, you're the one! You make my keyboard lots of fun.   Double bucky, an additional bit or two: (Vo-vo-de-o!) Control and meta, side by side, Augmented ASCII, nine bits wide!   Double bucky! Half a thousand glyphs, plus a few!     Oh,     I sure wish that I     Had a couple of       Bits more!     Perhaps a     Set of pedals to     Make the number of       Bits four:     Double double bucky! Double bucky, left and right OR'd together, outta sight!   Double bucky, I'd like a whole word of   Double bucky, I'm happy I heard of   Double bucky, I'd like a whole word of you! - The Great Quux (With apologies to Jeffrey Moss. This, by the way, is an excellent example of computer {filk} --- ESR). See also {meta bit}, {cokebottle}, and {quadruple bucky}. [{Jargon File}] (1994-12-07)

double bucky ::: Using both the CTRL and META keys. The command to burn all LEDs is double bucky F.This term originated on the Stanford extended-ASCII keyboard, and was later taken up by users of the space-cadet keyboard at MIT. A typical MIT comment was These lyrics were written on May 27, 1978, in celebration of the Stanford keyboard: Double Bucky (With apologies to Jeffrey Moss. This, by the way, is an excellent example of computer filk -- ESR).See also meta bit, cokebottle, and quadruple bucky.[Jargon File] (1994-12-07)

fanbai. (J. bonbai; K. pomp'ae 梵唄). In Chinese, lit., "the speech of BRAHMĀ," Buddhist ritual chanting performed in a distinctively clear, melodious, and resonate voice; "fan," lit. Brahmā, is generically used in China to refer to all things Indian, and "bai" is a transcription of the Sanskrit word bhāsā, or "speech," so fanbai means something like "Indian-style chanting." Although the historical origins of fanbai are uncertain, according to legend, it derives from the singing of the heavenly musicians (GANDHARVA) or from the chants of Gadgadasvara (Miaoyin), a bodhisattva appearing in the SADDHARMAPUndARĪKASuTRA who eulogized the virtues of sĀKYAMUNI Buddha. An account in the NANHAI JIGUI NEIFA CHUAN, a pilgrimage record written by the Chinese monk YIJING (635-713), who sojourned in India for twenty-five years, confirms that fanbai chanting was still popular on the Indian subcontinent during the seventh century. Fanbai was transmitted to China almost simultaneously with the introduction of Buddhism. The Chinese developed their own style of fanbai by at least the third century CE: Cao Zhi (192-232) of the Wei dynasty is said to have created it inspired by a fish's movement, leading to the use of the term yushan (lit. "fish mountain") as an alternate name for fanbai. According to the Korean SAMGUK YUSA, the transmission of fanbai (K. pomp'ae) from China to Korea occurred perhaps as early as the first half of the seventh century; subsequently, the monk CHIN'GAM HYESO (774-850) is said to have introduced the Tang-Chinese style of fanbai to the Silla kingdom around 830. The NITTo KYuHo JUNREIGYoKI by ENNIN (794-864), a Japanese pilgrim monk who visited both Silla Korea and Tang China, reports that both Silla and Tang styles of pomp'ae were used in Korean Buddhist ceremonies. The Choson monk Taehwi (fl. c. 1748), in his Pomŭmjong po ("The Lineage of the Brahmā's Voice School"), traces his Korean lineage of pomp'ae monks back to the person of Chin'gam Hyeso. Fanbai was preserved orally in China and Korea, but was recorded in Japan using the Hakase neume style of notation. The fanbai chanting style involves special vocalization techniques with complex ornamentation that are thought to have been introduced from India, but uses lyrics that derive from Chinese verse; these lyrics are usually in non-rhyming patterns of five- or seven-character lines, making up four-line verses that praise the virtues of the Buddha. Vocables are sometimes employed in fanbai, unlike in sutra chanting. The different fanbai chants are traditionally performed solo or by a chorus, often in a call and response format. Only in Korea has fanbai branched into two distinct types: hossori pomp'ae and chissori pomp'ae. Some pomp'ae texts can be performed only in one style, but others, such as porye and toryanggye, leave the choice to the performer. Hossori pomp'ae is performed in a melismatic style that is elegantly simple, in a vocal style somewhat similar to Western music. By contrast, chissori pomp'ae is solemn, highly sophisticated, and utilizes a tensed throat and falsetto for high notes. Although chissori pomp'ae is considered to be a more important vocal musical form, there are only twelve extant compositions in this style. Owing to how texts and melodic phrases are organized, even though it uses a shorter text, chissori pomp'ae takes two or three times longer to complete than hossori. Of the two, only hossori can be accompanied by musicians or sung to accompany dance. Korean pomp'ae is also performed during Buddhist ceremonies such as YoNGSANJAE.

filk /filk/ [SF fandom, where a typo for "folk" was adopted as a new word] A popular or folk song with lyrics revised or completely new lyrics, intended for humorous effect when read, and/or to be sung late at night at SF conventions. There is a flourishing subgenre of these called "computer filks", written by hackers and often containing rather sophisticated technical humour. See {double bucky} for an example. Compare {grilf}, {hing} and {newsfroup}. [{Jargon File}]

filk ::: /filk/ [SF fandom, where a typo for folk was adopted as a new word] A popular or folk song with lyrics revised or completely new lyrics, intended for humorous often containing rather sophisticated technical humour. See double bucky for an example. Compare grilf, hing and newsfroup.[Jargon File]

hymnic ::: a. --> Relating to hymns, or sacred lyrics.

hymnology ::: n. --> The hymns or sacred lyrics composed by authors of a particular country or period; as, the hymnology of the eighteenth century; also, the collective body of hymns used by any particular church or religious body; as, the Anglican hymnology.

A knowledge of hymns; a treatise on hymns.

sorcerer's apprentice mode "networking" (From Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's "Der Zauberlehrling", via the Walt Disney film "Fantasia") A {bug} in a {protocol} where, under some circumstances, the receipt of a message causes multiple messages to be sent, each of which, when received, triggers the same bug. Used especially of such behaviour caused by {bounce message} loops in {electronic mail} software. Compare {broadcast storm}, {network meltdown}, {software laser}, {ARMM}. {Der Zauberlehrling (}. [{Jargon File}] (1999-10-08)

weenie 1. [on BBSes] Any of a species of {luser} resembling a less amusing version of {BIFF} that infests many {BBS}es. The typical weenie is a teenage boy with poor social skills travelling under a grandiose {handle} derived from fantasy or heavy-metal rock lyrics. Among {sysops}, "the weenie problem" refers to the marginally literate and profanity-laden {flamage} weenies tend to spew all over a newly-discovered BBS. Compare {spod}, {computer geek}, {terminal junkie}. 2. Among hackers, when used with a qualifier (for example, as in {Unix weenie}, {VMS} weenie, {IBM} weenie) this can be either an insult or a term of praise, depending on context, tone of voice, and whether or not it is applied by a person who considers him or herself to be the same sort of weenie. It implies that the weenie has put a major investment of time, effort and concentration into the area indicated; whether this is good or bad depends on the hearer's judgment of how the speaker feels about that area. See also {bigot}. 3. The {semicolon} character, ";" ({ASCII} 59). (1995-01-18)

QUOTES [2 / 2 - 1059 / 1059]

KEYS (10k)

   2 Sri Aurobindo


   12 Colleen Hoover
   11 Stephen Malkmus
   9 Anonymous
   6 Lou Reed
   6 Frank Zappa
   6 Eminem
   6 Brian Eno
   5 Thom Yorke
   5 Talib Kweli
   5 Nicholas Sparks
   5 Ernest Cline
   5 Elton John
   5 Alanis Morissette
   4 Yannis Philippakis
   4 Utada Hikaru
   4 Lauren Henderson
   4 Julie Andrews
   4 John Legend
   4 Henry Rollins
   4 Douglas Coupland

1:1st row Homer, Shakespeare, Valmiki
2nd row Dante, Kalidasa, Aeschylus, Virgil, Milton
3rd row Goethe
I am not prepared to classify all the poets in the universe - it was the front bench or benches you asked for. By others I meant poets like Lucretius, Euripides, Calderon, Corneille, Hugo. Euripides (Medea, Bacchae and other plays) is a greater poet than Racine whom you want to put in the first ranks. If you want only the very greatest, none of these can enter - only Vyasa and Sophocles. Vyasa could very well claim a place beside Valmiki, Sophocles beside Aeschylus. The rest, if you like, you can send into the third row with Goethe, but it is something of a promotion about which one can feel some qualms. Spenser too, if you like; it is difficult to draw a line.

Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth have not been brought into consideration although their best work is as fine poetry as any written, but they have written nothing on a larger scale which would place them among the greatest creators. If Keats had finished Hyperion (without spoiling it), if Shelley had lived, or if Wordsworth had not petered out like a motor car with insufficient petrol, it might be different, but we have to take things as they are. As it is, all began magnificently, but none of them finished, and what work they did, except a few lyrics, sonnets, short pieces and narratives, is often flawed and unequal. If they had to be admitted, what about at least fifty others in Europe and Asia? ~ Sri Aurobindo, Letters On Poetry And Art,
2:Musa Spiritus :::

O Word concealed in the upper fire,
Thou who hast lingered through centuries,
Descend from thy rapt white desire,
Plunging through gold eternities.

Into the gulfs of our nature leap,
Voice of the spaces, call of the Light!
Break the seals of Matter's sleep,
Break the trance of the unseen height.

In the uncertain glow of human mind,
Its waste of unharmonied thronging thoughts,
Carve thy epic mountain-lined
Crowded with deep prophetic grots.

Let thy hue-winged lyrics hover like birds
Over the swirl of the heart's sea.
Touch into sight with thy fire-words
The blind indwelling deity.

O Muse of the Silence, the wideness make
In the unplumbed stillness that hears thy voice,
In the vast mute heavens of the spirit awake
Where thy eagles of Power flame and rejoice.

Out, out with the mind and its candles flares,
Light, light the suns that never die.
For my ear the cry of the seraph stars
And the forms of the Gods for my naked eye!

Let the little troubled life-god within
Cast his veils from the still soul,
His tiger-stripes of virtue and sin,
His clamour and glamour and thole and dole;

All make tranquil, all make free.
Let my heart-beats measure the footsteps of God
As He comes from His timeless infinity
To build in their rapture His burning abode.

Weave from my life His poem of days,
His calm pure dawns and His noons of force.
My acts for the grooves of His chariot-race,
My thoughts for the tramp of His great steeds' course! ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems,


1:All the best lyrics are written in ten minutes. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
2:Moving pictures need sound as much as Beethoven symphonies need lyrics. ~ charlie-chaplan, @wisdomtrove
3:Lyrics are the only thing to do with music that haven't been made easier technically. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
4:If Words are the Lyrics, and Laughter the Melody, then a Relationship becomes a Symphony. ~ nicholas-sparks, @wisdomtrove
5:Lyrics are always misleading because they make people think that that's what the music is about. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
6:My lyrics are generated by various peculiar processes. Very random and similar to automatic writing. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
7:The lyrics are constructed as empirically as the music. I don't set out to say anything very important. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
8:Once I went into songwriting, I figured I had to - I couldn't be a hellfire rock &
9:If conversation was the lyrics, laughter was the music, making time spent together a melody that could be replayed over and over without getting stale. ~ nicholas-sparks, @wisdomtrove
10:People assume that the meaning of a song is vested in the lyrics. To me, that has never been the case. There are very few songs that I can think of where I remember the words. ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove
11:Men felt a chill in their hearts; a damp in their minds. In a desperate effort to snuggle their feelings into some sort of warmth,one subterfuge was tried after anothersentences swelled, adjectives multiplied, lyrics became epics. ~ virginia-woolf, @wisdomtrove
12:Way back in the day, when I first started and had delusions of adequacy as a cartoonist, I would listen to music. When I switched to a career as a writer, I would try to listen to music, but if the songs had lyrics they would get in the way of the words I was trying to write. So I switched to listening to purely instrumental pieces. ~ alan-moore, @wisdomtrove
13:I was sick of the way my lyrics had been extrapolated, their meanings subverted into polemics and that I had been anointed as the Big Bubba of Rebellion, High Priest of Protest, the Duke of Disobedience, Leader of the Freeloaders, Kaiser of Apostasy, Archbishop of Anarchy, the Big Cheese. Horrible titles any way you want to look at it. All code words for Outlaw. ~ bob-dylan, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Not follow me but follow the lyrics. ~ Rakim,
2:Lyrics are weak, like clock radio speakers. ~ GZA,
3:Every song with lyrics is lyrical. ~ Vince Staples,
4:I'm not psychic, but my lyrics are. ~ Courtney Love,
5:Music is first, lyrics are secondary. ~ Kurt Cobain,
6:Identified more with lyrics than people ~ Larry Smith,
7:Did you write the words, or the lyrics? ~ Bruce Forsyth,
8:I really wanted to work hard on my lyrics. ~ Brody Dalle,
9:I like to write my lyrics on clay tablets. ~ Randy Newman,
10:I might lie a lot but never in my lyrics. ~ Courtney Love,
11:My lyrics are a big pile of contradictions. ~ Kurt Cobain,
12:All the best lyrics are written in ten minutes. ~ Brian Eno,
13:We had to google the lyrics to our own song ~ Alex Gaskarth,
14:Lyrics are always the last thing to get done. ~ Jeff Hanneman,
15:I don't write lyrics, the lyrics write Thom Yorke ~ Thom Yorke,
16:I try not get too self-aware when writing lyrics. ~ Win Butler,
17:This is business: they don't care about your lyrics; ~ Cormega,
18:I'm used to getting sexy sometimes in the lyrics. ~ John Legend,
19:I think my melodies are superior to my lyrics. ~ Freddie Mercury,
20:A good idea for lyrics and a melody to expand on. ~ Gordon Waller,
21:I actually find a lot of pleasure in writing lyrics. ~ King Krule,
22:I'm not saying I'm God. But as far as lyrics, I'm God MC. ~ Jay Z,
23:I would always write lyrics and songs on the piano. ~ Reggie Watts,
24:A lot of people don't listen to the lyrics, really. ~ Lenny Kravitz,
25:If your life had lyrics, would they be any good? ~ Douglas Coupland,
26:I love lyrics. They help me to figure things out. ~ Colleen Saidman,
27:Lyrics (Taylor Engineering) - Your Bookmark on Location ~ Anonymous,
28:Many of my lyrics are about having sex with prostitutes. ~ Kid Rock,
29:It's really important that my lyrics are truthful. ~ Lianne La Havas,
30:the lyrics aren't literature. they're just part of the story. ~ Bono,
31:Lyrics are my racket; music is play - the fluff stuff. ~ Cass McCombs,
32:People have no discrepancy for me or my lyrics or the song. ~ Jadakiss,
33:You can't ask me to explain the lyrics because I won't do it. ~ Lou Reed,
34:If conversation was the lyrics, laughter was the music, ~ Nicholas Sparks,
35:Don't call my lyrics poetry. It's an insult to real poets. ~ Bernie Taupin,
36:Every song deserves lyrics. Deserves a story to tell. ~ Courtney C Stevens,
37:I want to touch people's lives with my music and my lyrics. ~ Romeo Santos,
38:Making music, creating lyrics comes very naturally to me. ~ Junaid Jamshed,
39:I still to this day get the most inspiration from rap lyrics. ~ Ezra Koenig,
40:Sort of like, I have to make the Japanese lyrics really deep. ~ Utada Hikaru,
41:You have to be a poet to know how to write a song with lyrics. ~ Petra Haden,
42:A lot of the time there is a lot of melancholy in the lyrics. ~ Will Champion,
43:I have way too many songs that have music but don't have lyrics. ~ Jonny Lang,
44:I've gotten to a point where I don't want lyrics to mean anything. ~ Mary Timony,
45:My music and lyrics became an extension of this Indian philosophy. ~ Gary Wright,
46:And I think as long as a song has beautiful lyrics, I'm so happy. ~ Julie Andrews,
47:If lyrics make people do things, how come we don't love each other? ~ Frank Zappa,
48:I like hip-hop music, but some of the lyrics make me want to cry. ~ Patti LaBelle,
49:Are we philosophizing?” asked Harshaw. “Or were those song lyrics? ~ Leigh Bardugo,
50:I have this theory, bands with enigmatic lyrics attract crazies. ~ Michael Azerrad,
51:I'm not crazy about country-western music. But the lyrics are good. ~ Alice Cooper,
52:To me, the lyrics of the song define the kind of style it is. ~ Elizabeth McGovern,
53:Funny how lyrics to a song that held memories for you never went away. ~ Riley Hart,
54:If it’s your song, I don’t need lyrics to know what you’re saying. ~ Meredith Shayne,
55:My mind seemed to think in terms of very bad song lyrics these days. ~ Hester Browne,
56:I love knowing that people are connecting to my lyrics, my music and me. ~ Lee DeWyze,
57:Lyrics need to be good, but they don't need to be obvious right away. ~ Matt Berninger,
58:That's one of the main thing with the lyrics - not giving any answers. ~ Mark Tremonti,
59:As a lyricist, you love to hear other great lyrics or other great concepts. ~ Alicia Keys,
60:Every person had lyrics in their life that were too painful to sing. ~ Brittainy C Cherry,
61:I write hate lyrics really well. It's not every day you can use them, really. ~ Nick Cave,
62:Life is like a beautiful melody, only the lyrics are messed up. ~ Hans Christian Andersen,
63:Maybe the key to finding the perfect song is simply rewriting the lyrics. ~ Kandi Steiner,
64:Moving pictures need sound as much as Beethoven symphonies need lyrics. ~ Charlie Chaplin,
65:That’s the thing about song lyrics. You take the parts that speak to you. ~ Lauren Blakely,
66:When you are happy, you enjoy music, when you are sad, you understand lyrics ~ Frank Ocean,
67:choose environmental or ambient music with no lyrics or well-defined melodies. ~ Marie Kond,
68:Sometimes people mishear my lyrics and think a song's about something it isn't. ~ Kate Bush,
69:I create my own lyrics. I have a great band. I have a drummer from East Berlin. ~ Nina Hagen,
70:I write my lyrics into the computer and I hum my music into the dictaphone. ~ Sebastian Bach,
71:The lyrics, in English, were meaningless to him, the bass line irresistible. ~ Katherine Boo,
72:What I love about Blink-128 is that we write catchy melodies with dark lyrics. ~ Mark Hoppus,
73:I'm a great believer in letting lyrics just flow out, wherever they come from. ~ Quincy Jones,
74:Why write a song when no one can play the notes or understand the lyrics? ~ Christopher Moore,
75:Human nature provides the lyrics, and we novelists just compose the music. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zafon,
76:I am a big Pink Floyd fan. That is where a lot of the concept lyrics come from. ~ Gary Cherone,
77:It’s their own fault for not knowing all the Schoolhouse Rock! lyrics by heart. ~ Ernest Cline,
78:The best way to compliment an emcee is to say his lyrics. That's how you say, "Hello." ~ Ice T,
79:I always thought it was important for my lyrics to come from a really honest place. ~ Avey Tare,
80:Love lyrics have contributed to the general aura of bad mental health in America. ~ Frank Zappa,
81:I stand behind all the lyrics I've ever written; I don't have a problem with that. ~ Ian MacKaye,
82:I felt a kinship with country music, because country has lyrics that tell stories ~ Desmond Child,
83:If lyrics sold then truth be told/I'd probably be just as rich and famous as Jay-Z. ~ Talib Kweli,
84:I was never a 'sit down with a notepad and write lyrics' kind of person. ~ James Vincent McMorrow,
85:Lyrics are the only thing to do with music that haven't been made easier technically. ~ Brian Eno,
86:The deity on purpose [sings] the liveliest of all lyrics through the most miserable poet. ~ Plato,
87:Most of all I like to sing my heart out to lyrics that really speak to people. ~ Christina Grimmie,
88:The problem isn’t with rock lyrics, it’s
with the fabric of this society itself. ~ Jodi Picoult,
89:After all, nothing helps to write lyrics more than to mess around with the language. ~ Joshua Homme,
90:When you're happy you enjoy the music, but when you're sad you understand the lyrics. ~ Frank Ocean,
91:As a songwriter, I don't rush. I may sit on lyrics for two years before the music hits. ~ Ben Harper,
92:The problem isn’t with rock lyrics, it’s with the fabric of this society itself.” Ann ~ Jodi Picoult,
93:I want to make an album with just great beats and big vocals and just amazing lyrics. ~ Tessanne Chin,
94:running the lyrics over and over in my head: “I wanna take you for granted. Well I will. ~ K Bromberg,
95:Imagination is the key to my lyrics. The rest is painted with a little science fiction. ~ Jimi Hendrix,
96:Music's staying power is a function of how timeless the lyrics, song and production are. ~ Gary Wright,
97:Words are what make the song. I get a personal vision about what the lyrics are about. ~ Julie Andrews,
98:If my lyrics mean something special to someone... that's the most important thing to me. ~ Dia Frampton,
99:If you're single, then I'm single?" What's that supposed to be? Lyrics to a pop song? ~ Sophie Kinsella,
100:I think love lyrics have contributed to the general aura of bad mental health in America. ~ Frank Zappa,
101:Loving you is like Listening to a song For the first time And somehow knowing all the lyrics ~ L J Shen,
102:Some things remain fragments, just the lyrics and melodies or a line or two or a verse. ~ Tracy Chapman,
103:I'm quite certain that the audience that I've got for my stuff don't listen to the lyrics. ~ David Bowie,
104:I'm just worn down and weary of bands whose lyrics are cryptic and self-referential. ~ Yannis Philippakis,
105:In whatever form it takes, life sings because it has a song. The meaning is in the lyrics. ~ Robert Lanza,
106:I used to play guitar for myself and write lyrics and listen to different styles of music. ~ Rokia Traore,
107:I would say I'd rather dig a ditch, you know, do hard, manual labor than write lyrics. ~ Natalie Merchant,
108:My problem with country music is that I try to avoid the very situations the lyrics lament. ~ Sue Grafton,
109:The lyrics are different from Nick Cave songs and lyrics. His songs are very narrative. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
110:For me, naming bands was the forerunner to really writing lyrics, because I work off titles. ~ Jim Capaldi,
111:Anyone who wants to know who I am can just read my lyrics - I've always written about who I am. ~ Joan Jett,
112:If Words are the Lyrics, and Laughter the Melody, then a Relationship becomes a Symphony. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
113:Love. He’d written enough lyrics about it, but did he really have any idea what it meant? ~ Claire Thompson,
114:Singing the songs, writing the lyrics, emotioning the words; that is all I can do for love. ~ M F Moonzajer,
115:Song Sung Blue took a lot of compressing and refining, and it has one of my favorite lyrics. ~ Neil Diamond,
116:I used to sit on the roof of the apartment where Jim Morrison used to write his early lyrics ~ Henry Rollins,
117:Lyrics are always misleading because they make people think that that's what the music is about. ~ Brian Eno,
118:Normally when I'm writing, in the beginning I don't think of lyrics at all. I'm just improvising. ~ St Lucia,
119:There is nothing more comforting than hearing lyrics to a song you could’ve written yourself. ~ Hilary Wynne,
120:and an artist’s armor is full of bullets and cracks. That’s how the lyrics and notes seep through. ~ L J Shen,
121:Cynthia's lyrics always expressed the feelings people felt but they couldn't express themselves. ~ Barry Mann,
122:I don't really plan what comes out of my mouth, and that's what makes most of my lyrics entertaining. ~ Kesha,
123:I had written lyrics to a song called The Silent Extreme, which Alex later renamed Humans Being. ~ Sammy Hagar,
124:I'm always writing lyrics. I have so many lyrics on so many stray pieces of paper. Everywhere. ~ Abbie Cornish,
125:I'm glad that the lyrics reach people and make them understand that we're all the same, really. ~ Phil Collins,
126:Im not really into the whole lyrics thing; I just like to make music that people like to listen to. ~ Fetty Wap,
127:Blending is just like writing lyrics or finishing up the song, rearranging and arranging. ~ Maynard James Keenan,
128:My lyrics are generated by various peculiar processes. Very random and similar to automatic writing. ~ Brian Eno,
129:She’s like poetry. Like prose and love letters and lyrics, cascading down the center of a page. ~ Colleen Hoover,
130:I probably listen to more instrumental music than music with lyrics, but at the same time I do love both. ~ Flume,
131:I write most of my own lyrics for my album and I am helping to produce some of the songs as well. ~ Lindsay Lohan,
132:For me, singing was always about the lyrics. I'm hopeless at singing songs that don't have a core. ~ Julie Andrews,
133:I was in love with the lyrics, the rhythm, and the way it could sweep me away to another world. ~ Jessica Sorensen,
134:We think we understand a song's lyrics but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
135:We think we understand a song's lyrics but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music ~ Carlos Ruiz Zafon,
136:I listen to some of the lyrics I used to write and I say, "Where was my head at when I wrote that?" ~ Ozzy Osbourne,
137:The lyrics are constructed as empirically as the music. I don't set out to say anything very important. ~ Brian Eno,
138:We think we understand a songs lyrics, but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
139:Until I can visualise what the lyrics are about and see the story or whatever, I can't hear the melody. ~ Elton John,
140:We think we understand a song’s lyrics, but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
141:I have found in black metal the lyrics are profoundly beautiful... a pathos and mythos at the same time. ~ Ryan Adams,
142:Lyrics are back, maybe. It seems like there was a bit of an attitude that lyrics are not important. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
143:After that, I specifically started writing lyrics. I would like sweat and think and get it all together. ~ Jim Capaldi,
144:Everything I do is very visual and very aural, so I don't read music, and I draw as much as I write out lyrics. ~ Mika,
145:Every time I get up in the morning, melodies occur to me and I start trying to shape lyrics to melodies. ~ Andrew Bird,
146:I didn't really start writing music or lyrics or turning them into songs until I went to San Francisco. ~ Jello Biafra,
147:I think because I was brought up in a Christian home, I was kind of careful not to swear in my lyrics. ~ Avril Lavigne,
148:I wanna be able to stand on the stage and hold out the mic and people sing all the lyrics to my song. ~ Sevyn Streeter,
149:I write lyrics. I play the guitar. If the rest of the band had to do my schedule, they would be dead ~ John Frusciante,
150:Most of the lyrics are over a year old, and it doesn't feel like it's about me. Time created a distance. ~ Beth Gibbons,
151:People really listen to your lyrics if you rap. So, I had to make sure that they were clear and concise. ~ Mark Salling,
152:A lot of underground hip-hop will inspire me as far as rhyme patterns - really wordy, intelligent lyrics. ~ Travie McCoy,
153:Barney told me he’d written ‘Liar’ about our manager. I was really shocked when I saw the lyrics. Poor Rob. ~ Peter Hook,
154:Sometimes I start just on the piano with a melody or musical idea that kind of leads me to certain lyrics. ~ John Legend,
155:If you see it there, darling, then it's there." -Freddie Mercury, when asked the meaning of his lyrics. ~ Freddie Mercury,
156:I have had much to learn from Sweden's poetry and, more especially, from her lyrics of the last generation. ~ Knut Hamsun,
157:I wanted people to connect with the lyrics, even if it's in some weird way, because they're all personal. ~ George Clarke,
158:I make up new lyrics to well-known lullabies. Mostly because I don't actually know a lot of the lyrics. ~ Alanis Morissette,
159:Ive always written poetry and lyrics. My first husband, who was a musician, we wrote a bunch of songs together. ~ P J Soles,
160:The thing is, in English I'm able to write the lyrics as I'm making the song, once I'm done with the melody. ~ Utada Hikaru,
161:What is the point of singing wonderful lyrics if the audience can't understand what is being said or heard? ~ Frank Sinatra,
162:Basically, no one else gives me any opinions on lyrics. I don't ask for them. If they did, I would listen. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
163:I can't write - out of all the things it takes to make music, lyrics are the thing I'm by far the shittiest at. ~ Jay Watson,
164:If I look at my old lyrics, they seem to be full of rage, but empty. There was an emptiness in my life. ~ Billie Joe Armstrong,
165:If it's the beginning of something - like an album, I'm working on the lyrics and I take a walkman and headset. ~ Phil Collins,
166:These so-called entertainers get rich while the kids who emulate their lyrics and attitude destroy themselves. ~ Bill O Reilly,
167:I mean, you just don't seem like a big fan of words yourself. So I thought you'd appreciate the lack of lyrics. ~ Jasmine Warga,
168:Playing the guitar, you kind of lock into a rhythm and a groove, and then it relaxes me to make up lyrics and sing. ~ Cat Power,
169:Usually [the lyrics] go from one word to the next word - there's no finish line. The music was that way, too. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
170:If you actually dissect the lyrics in 'Motley Crue', you'll notice that there's a lot going on beneath the surface. ~ Nikki Sixx,
171:Your lyrics lack subtlety! You can't just have your characters announce how they feel! That makes me feel angry! ~ Matt Groening,
172:Frank [Zappa] was not a big fan of having lyrics, but sometimes he had things to say that lent themselves to lyrics. ~ Gail Zappa,
173:Industry executives sacrificed art for what sells and mega-stars now saturate the market with the same tired lyrics. ~ Aloe Blacc,
174:Dilettantes,’ Art3mis said. ‘It’s their own fault for not knowing all the Schoolhouse Rock! lyrics by heart. ~ Ernest Cline,
175:heavy with The Cure and Depeche Mode, groups with lush instrumentals and heavy-duty lyrics about love, lust and life. ~ Megan Hart,
176:I love artists who have spirituality. Jonathan Coulton is the man, I love his melodies and lyrics. Chap-hop is the bomb! ~ MC Lars,
177:My lyrics say I have morals, I have confidence, I have weaknesses, I have strong points, that I am a human being. ~ Kendrick Lamar,
178:Alot of my lyrics are about beating my children. 'Hit the bottom and escape' is a cry for help. oh god someone stop me ~ Thom Yorke,
179:I think the overall mood of the music informs the artwork, but I've found that good lyrics can be inspirational, too. ~ Neil Farber,
180:It was a period when they used to read into our lyrics a lot, used to think there was more in them than there was. ~ Paul McCartney,
181:Shay sometimes talked in a mysterious way, like she was quoting the lyrics of some band no one else listened to. ~ Scott Westerfeld,
182:There are no words to this music, and that makes me sad. Every song deserves lyrics. Deserves a story to tell. ~ Courtney C Stevens,
183:For all but the sliver of poetry fans, over the past forty years popular song lyrics have been the nation’s poetry. ~ John McWhorter,
184:With this record [The Colour and the Shape], I started taking the lyrics more seriously. This is a very personal album. ~ Dave Grohl,
185:You have to question the originality of your life when it can be captured perfectly in the lyrics of a rock song. ~ Jonathan Tropper,
186:If a voice is just too nice, without an edge, it kinda all flows by. You forget it. You don't listen to the lyrics. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
187:I feel like I'm still learning a lot with writing lyrics. In the beginning, like the first record, I wasn't so aware. ~ Yukimi Nagano,
188:I feel there is always room for good music. I want to reach people's soul with my lyrics through whatever vessel God chooses. ~ Ne Yo,
189:I know that my fans will probably learn a lot about me by listening to my music, if they really listen to the lyrics. ~ Ariana Grande,
190:I write music all the time. When I talk about having writer's block, it's more to do with lyrics than anything else ~ Sarah McLachlan,
191:When I'm playing guitar, I just try and put those words into lyrics and just try a few things. It's all over the place. ~ George Ezra,
192:I hate to say this, but I always listen to the music and the instrumentation first, and then grab on to the lyrics later. ~ Elton John,
193:I save my truths, my secrets, for the lyrics of our songs... nobody would ever spot them there, hiding in plain sight. ~ Cathy Cassidy,
194:I tend to get a little quirkier and crazier with my lyrics and come from a different angle when I'm writing for myself. ~ Bonnie McKee,
195:I don't like to get too specific about lyrics. It places limitations on them, and spoils the listeners' interpretation. ~ David Gilmour,
196:If you really look at my lyrics, nobody's exempt. Nobody's exempt from observation, criticism or what I think is correction. ~ Ice Cube,
197:In fact, I love singing. I just have a small problem with pitch, tune, melody, and lyrics. But that's never stopped me. ~ Kevin Daniels,
198:I sing 'All Apologies' with my own lyrics. People want to sing along, but then, oops, they realize it's a different story. ~ Nina Hagen,
199:Outlandish lyrics sung by smiling people in perfect harmony. Has that edge of surprise...a little nuts and really funny. ~ Mick LaSalle,
200:Tristan was the soundtrack of my summer. The beat I walked to. The melody I breathed in and out. The lyrics I lived by. ~ Jessica Brody,
201:I don't really know what inspires me to write the music I do, but usually, the music will set the tone for the lyrics. ~ Eddie Van Halen,
202:If you wanted to, it would be easy to find some crappy lyrics [of Bob Dylan] from the Eighties to undermine the Nobel Prize. ~ Bob Dylan,
203:Jann Arden singing in the background. The strange, voyeuristic lyrics of “Living Under June” touched off thoughts of her own ~ Tami Hoag,
204:You can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay 'em But you won't take the sting out these words before I say 'em ~ Eminem,
205:I like my lyrics to feel conversational and truthful, as if we're having real talk. I don't really like generic lyrics. ~ Meredith Brooks,
206:When Chaplin found a voice to say what was on his mind, he was like a child of eight writing lyrics for Beethoven's Ninth. ~ Billy Wilder,
207:Lyrical content is very important to me. I'm always trying to make sure the lyrics and music complement each other perfectly. ~ Matt Smith,
208:We’d buy brochures of Dylan lyrics and stay up late interpreting them. Dylan’s words struck chords of creative thinking. ~ Walter Isaacson,
209:Music was my friend when I was a teenager, and I would inhabit and take comfort in lyrics. That's how I want to write. ~ Yannis Philippakis,
210:Once I went into songwriting, I figured I had to - I couldn't be a hellfire rock 'n' roller. But I could write hellfire lyrics. ~ Bob Dylan,
211:You can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay 'em
But you won't take the sting out these words before I say 'em ~ Eminem,
212:I love the sad songs with their maudlin, self-deprecating, almost funny lyrics. As an Englishman, they make a lot of sense. ~ Teddy Thompson,
213:I never wrote music or arranged songs or lyrics when I was under the influence of anything but coffee. That's not gone away. ~ Chris Cornell,
214:In rap, as in most popular lyrics, a very low standard is set for rhyme; but this was not always the case with popular music. ~ James Fenton,
215:If conversation was the lyrics, laughter was the music, making time spent together a melody that could be replayed over and ~ Nicholas Sparks,
216:I'm a Gemini, so I'm very dual. I love something and I hate it at the same time, so that probably comes out in the lyrics. ~ Victoria Legrand,
217:I saw "Follies" again at thirty, and you know, I had this great appreciation for [Stephen] Sondheim's brilliance, his lyrics. ~ Charles Busch,
218:I think the melody is the first time I hear in a song and if I like the melody, then I'll pay closer attention to the lyrics. ~ George Strait,
219:There's no magic for getting into the groove... just banging away at it. Sometimes the lyrics come first, sometimes the music. ~ Phil Collins,
220:When I first started writing lyrics and stuff, I was writing it to garage, and obviously garage kind of progressed to grime. ~ Lady Sovereign,
221:Writing music and lyrics that mean something personal to me. It's an exciting, intense, cathartic, this-is-who-I-am experience. ~ Mark Hoppus,
222:So much of rock lyrics is just a mirror of real feeling. It doesn't feel dangerous to me. They just feel like "rock lyrics." ~ Stephen Malkmus,
223:The first thing that inspires any song is a chord progression. When I have one I really like, I get into the lyrics even more. ~ Black Francis,
224:You can write very obtuse and abstract lyrics, and if they want to, people are going to find something amazing that you're saying. ~ Girl Talk,
225:I have one piece of music, since 1997, and I don't see it having lyrics. Where does it go in this world? So I haven't recorded it. ~ Joni Mitchell,
226:I let the music set the tone of the lyrics.I allowed myself to write more about relationships and emotions, in a girly way almost. ~ Jose Gonzalez,
227:The music machine played away - far away - and when I started to understand the lyrics of a Cocteau Twins song, I knew I was wrecked. ~ Iain Banks,
228:I never really liked poetry readings; I liked to read poetry by myself, but I liked singing, chanting my lyrics to this jazz group. ~ Leonard Cohen,
229:I usually start writing stories from tone and not from content - kind of like people who create music and invent the lyrics later on. ~ Etgar Keret,
230:I change lyrics to the songs all the time, too. I don't know if it matters in a lot of ways because you can take what you want from it. ~ Matt Corby,
231:If I just gave you a piece of paper with the lyrics written down on it, it would mean something to you. It would tell you a story. ~ Smokey Robinson,
232:I was left to painstakingly deal with the aftermath of my avoidance later in life, in therapy or through the lyrics of my songs. ~ Alanis Morissette,
233:The younger people get into the lyrics in a different way; there's much more of a tactile understanding, which is the way I prefer it. ~ David Bowie,
234:When I pick up the guitar, it's a melody, and that's what drives the lyrics. It's bits and pieces of truth, but it is storytelling. ~ Ray LaMontagne,
235:I always loved rapping ever since Snoop said "1-2-3-4," I was repeating lines, but I didn't start writing my own lyrics until I was twelve. ~ Fashawn,
236:I have a lot of questions and I don't have that many answers. So what better place to exercise those thoughts than the lyrics, I guess. ~ Aaron Bruno,
237:To all companies please stop using Xmas songs and inserting your own lyrics. Write your own music. I am boycotting you until you stop. ~ Bill Engvall,
238:I don't think lyrics need to be deep - just write whatever comes out of you. You don't need to find intense meaning in everything. ~ Bethany Cosentino,
239:Most Radiohead songs are actually REM songs, I just have a mentally ill child read the lyrics aloud and then I change the melodies a bit. ~ Thom Yorke,
240:The lyrics aren't simple, either. They're extremely difficult because I'm trying to say complicated things in as few words as possible. ~ Neil Diamond,
241:If you want meaning, you read poetry or a novel or something, you don't read song lyrics. You're supposed to listen to them with music. ~ Roddy Woomble,
242:I write the lyrics based on what is going on in my life - I'm not going to write about the old hair metal stuff, like castles and stuff. ~ Oliver Sykes,
243:There have always been jokes all over our songs; I originally started writing lyrics to make my friends crack a smile, which is difficult. ~ Alex Turner,
244:I just like writing lyrics. I find a little satisfaction in performing live, making records. But primarily, I just try to write every day. ~ Cass McCombs,
245:Music is also one of the great heart openers. Sometimes, you hear the lyrics of a song and you dance, laugh, smile, or perhaps even cry. ~ Michael Franti,
246:Music should come crashing out of your speakers and grab you, and the lyrics should challenge whatever preconceived notions that listener has. ~ Lou Reed,
247:When I drive to work, I listen to thuggish rap at a very loud volume even though the lyrics are degrading to women and offend me to my core. ~ Roxane Gay,
248:I detest 'love lyrics.' I think one of the causes of bad mental health in the United States is that people have been raised on 'love lyrics. ~ Frank Zappa,
249:All my lyrics are open to interpretation by the individual and imply many different meanings, therefore their relevance is purely subjective. ~ Ian Curtis,
250:I've also been writing for other artists, producing other artists, doing some country stuff. Those lyrics I tend to leave more universal. ~ Meredith Brooks,
251:Since I was a kid, when I pick up my guitar it's been hard for me to write some sort of bubblegum lyrics. It's not really ever been my route. ~ Aaron Bruno,
252:Trudy Bennett, I love you beyond any lyrics I could ever write, or any words I could ever say. I always have, and I always will. Marry me? ~ Samantha Towle,
253:CD's are amazing because you get the artwork, you get to look at the lyrics, you get to look at the behind-the-scenes photos or something. ~ Richard Patrick,
254:For several centuries what has passed for song in literary circles was any text that looked like the lyrics for a commonplace melodic setting. ~ David Antin,
255:If you listen to old Jerry Lee Lewis records, he'll always - about nine times out of 10 have the lyrics different than the original record is. ~ Chris Isaak,
256:The lyrics, the strings, the chords, everything comes at the moment like a gift that is put right into your head and that's how I hear it. ~ Michael Jackson,
257:When I drive to work, I listen to thuggish rap at a very loud volume, even though the lyrics are degrading to women and offend me to my core. ~ Kelly Jensen,
258:Her happiness floated like waves of ocean along the coast of her life. She found lyrics of her life in his arms but she never sung her song. ~ Santosh Kalwar,
259:I wanted to write some lyrics that had some meaning to them, lyrics that were meaningful to me and hopefully people can take something from that. ~ Adam Rich,
260:I want people to listen to my lyrics and be okay with themselves. The people who have it the roughest are homosexuals who come out of the closet. ~ Ben Folds,
261:I can't read music and I'm crap at learning lyrics. Especially since the accident I have memory problems. I can't remember words, names, places. ~ Marc Almond,
262:I've actually had a melody on my guitar since the day I learned how to play it, back when I was 7. And for some reason I can't add lyrics to it. ~ Miley Cyrus,
263:Man, that record came out and was real big in Memphis. They started playing it, and it got real big. Don't know why-the lyrics had no meaning. ~ Elvis Presley,
264:Music straightjackets a poem and prevents it from breathing on its own, whereas it liberates a lyric. Poetry doesn't need music; lyrics do. ~ Stephen Sondheim,
265:Now who is the king of these lewd, ludicrous, lucrative lyrics; who could inherit the title, to put the youth in hysterics; using his music as spirit ~ Eminem,
266:Surf is that music which is entirely about evoking something. There's never any vocals, so it's not about the lyrics, it's about the reverb. ~ Stephin Merritt,
267:I've always felt that dark lyrics with dark music is pretty useless. Maybe that's a strong statement - not useless, but for me, it's just boring. ~ Andrew Bird,
268:At first I was laboring under the impression that Chinese lyrics didn't rhyme. That turned out to be untrue - they don't rhyme in translation. ~ Stephin Merritt,
269:I think a domestic situation can change you and your attitudes. I suppose if you did get a bit content, then you might not write savage lyrics. ~ Paul McCartney,
270:I usually have a song in my head. I'm thinking music, I'm thinking lyrics. Music helps me get to those moments. The moments between the moments. ~ Charlie Sheen,
271:When I write lyrics, it's only when I'm angry or hurt or sad. So lyrically it's never really easy going. And the music is always really intense. ~ Henry Rollins,
272:Chelsea Morning is a great Joni Mitchell song and I guess I'm partial to her lyrics because they show me a slightly different perspective on life. ~ Neil Diamond,
273:It's crazy to see people having tattooed my lyrics on their body, and quite frankly writing is just an outlet for my voice and getting it out there. ~ Debby Ryan,
274:Sometimes I'll have a whole song done without having a beat - I'll just rap on an instrumental tempo and recreate a whole new song just around the lyrics. ~ Tyga,
275:Songwriters might write cynical, world-wise lyrics and constantly talk about money, but most of us are downright naive when it comes to business. ~ Willie Nelson,
276:I don't think my lyrics go so well when I try to sound poetic. Some people do that really well. If I did that I'd feel like it wouldn't be genuine. ~ Chaz Bundick,
277:The music, I think, is just as important as the lyrics; it portrays the emotion of the song. I play the kind of music that I want to listen to. ~ Courtney Barnett,
278:I'd much rather talk about guitar playing. I hate it when people ask me about my lyrics. I always feel like telling them to just go and read them. ~ James Hetfield,
279:'Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow,' if you go through the lyrics, is such a haunting melody, and the words are, for a pop song, pretty deep and dark. ~ Jake Epstein,
280:It was so much fun conducting an orchestra and watching the musicians' faces as some of Kanye's lyrics went by. They couldn't believe what was going on. ~ Jon Brion,
281:A lot of Woody Guthrie's songs were taken from other songs. He would rework the melody and lyrics, and all of a sudden it was a Woody Guthrie song. ~ John Mellencamp,
282:At times, it could be a bit difficult to understand everything that's being said when just listening, but I wanted the lyrics to be the first impression. ~ Frank Iero,
283:conversation was the lyrics, laughter was the music, making time spent together a melody that could be replayed over and over without getting stale. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
284:I basically try not to waste any lines in any of my songs, and I think the witty phrases and funny lyrics I have bring a smarter sound to college hip-hop. ~ Mike Stud,
285:I'm not crazy about country-western music. But the lyrics are good. "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy" is pretty clever. ~ Alice Cooper,
286:Obviously, the music and lyrics are in me, but if I let myself get in my own way, I do. I empty out and let it come, and then the music spirits take over. ~ Joan Jett,
287:A great song for me is when I hear it and it's contagious. The lyrics and the melody, if grows on you once and you want to hear it over and over again. ~ Easton Corbin,
288:The best song lyrics seem to me so artful, so brilliant, so warm and humorous, with both passion and wit, that my admiration is matched only by my envy. ~ David Lehman,
289:When I collaborated with Nelly Furtado, the idea for the song structure came from myself, but the lyrics and the ideas behind the songs came from her. ~ Paul Oakenfold,
290:I like mindless disco... they say the lyrics are stupid and repetitious. So what's wrong with that? So is lying in the sun. Not everything has to be serious. ~ Lou Reed,
291:I pay attention to lyrics and I know what rap fans care about. I try to write for the average listener and I'm conscious of the mainstream without selling out. ~ J Cole,
292:I would say it felt like my two favorite things, amplified and thrown together. Like my favorite poetic line mixed into the lyrics of my favorite song. ~ Colleen Hoover,
293:I write a lot of lyrics and I'm involved in the producing process, because it's like, if I'm singing it, I want it to be something that I can relate to. ~ Lindsay Lohan,
294:To me, lyrics are harder to write when you have to invent the feelings behind them. That's when lyrics take a lot of thought, when they aren't genuine. ~ Colleen Hoover,
295:Yorke's lyrics make me want to give up. I could never in my wildest dreams find something as beautiful as they find for a single song - let alone album ~ Dave Matthews,
296:You know, I say in my lyrics, "Every word I write will be analyzed by somebody white." It's just that I know that this sh*t is just not gonna fall on deaf ears. ~ Ice T,
297:If conversation was the lyrics, laughter was the music, making time spent together a melody that could be replayed over and over without getting stale. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
298:I was babysitting the night High School Musical premiered last year. I watched with the kids and we sang along to the lyrics. I was making $12 an hour. ~ Monique Coleman,
299:Bands that have positive lyrics that give people hope, I applaud them, you know I think we need to see more bands come out like that. I think it is great. ~ Michael Sweet,
300:I am a musical-theater nut. When the lyrics, orchestration, and performance all come together just right, I come alive and can feel every cell in my body. ~ Kelly Stables,
301:I am honored and quite proud that a class is being taught on my sensationalist lyrics, unique style and fashion and leadership role within the hip-hop community. ~ Lil Kim,
302:I stay true to my lyrics. If I go back and look at them in hindsight, the emotions I had when I wrote them have passed. It feels unjustified to change them. ~ Paloma Faith,
303:One difference between poetry and lyrics is that lyrics sort of fade into the background. They fade on the page and live on the stage when set to music. ~ Stephen Sondheim,
304:There's not much longevity in music today. It's so easy to go in, put some pretentious lyrics on, with people saying the same thing over and over and over. ~ Patti LaBelle,
305:It was my kind of song: fast and fun and exuberant,the lyrics tumbling out almost faster than my ears could follow them,some times rhyming,sometimes not. . . ~ Anthony Rapp,
306:The lyrics about trying to fix someone you love pull me back in time. Even back then he wanted to fix me, when I didn’t know I was broken. He’s still trying. ~ Alice Feeney,
307:Christmas carols play as I ride the escalator. I want to sing along, adding my own lyrics. Joy to the world/ Your flight is in/ Please don’t for-get your bags. ~ Lila Monroe,
308:I don't have any favourite lyrics. Honestly, all of them I love 'em to death - it's the same with songs. I don't have just one favourite lyric, I love them all. ~ ASAP Rocky,
309:I remember when I was very young, I read an article by Fats Domino which has really influenced me. He said, 'You should never sing the lyrics out very clearly. ~ Mick Jagger,
310:Maybe one day I'll write my rock album so I can use more obscure references and just be weird. If the lyrics are too crazy, though, then it's not pop anymore. ~ Chaz Bundick,
311:Quite often, lyrics get misunderstood - and I never mind that. I guess what all artists want is for their work to touch someone or for it to bethought provoking. ~ Kate Bush,
312:I write my lyrics the day I sing the song, so even when I have the basic things, I'm thinking what can I change, what can I add, how many harmonies can I do. ~ Kirk Windstein,
313:In Van Halen there were moments, like in some of the ballads, I put my heart and soul into those records. Those lyrics when I sang 'em, I gave myself goosebumps. ~ Sammy Hagar,
314:I write the music because I can't really write lyrics. But I can write chords like Robin's never heard of. So I provide the music for them to add the lyrics to. ~ Maurice Gibb,
315:Music critics think of lyrics first and don't consider melody but so many songs are lyrically depressing but musically great, and that's why they become classics. ~ Aloe Blacc,
316:Ironically, when I was playing in my first band, I would deliberately not write down any lyrics. I have a really good memory and I would just keep them in my head. ~ Craig Finn,
317:I think my voice worked out fine, but it was a lot of work for me. And I was very self-conscious about it. I was a bit self-conscious about writing lyrics too. ~ Jerry Harrison,
318:I don't know if it's my music, my lyrics, my sound and knowing the music business the way I do - all I can say is, my career has lasted way longer than I expected. ~ Barry White,
319:I never find myself even catching lyrics until something in the sound has taken me captive. Thinking about anything else is just the pleasurable byproduct of wow. ~ Greil Marcus,
320:I think it is optimistic and positive - it's quite contradictory in that sense - from the lyrics. Until you actually read them, maybe they can seem contradictory. ~ Faris Badwan,
321:Lyrics always fall short with the amount of energy thrown into the playing. Lyrics to some extent are just the product of a singer's insecurity with singing. ~ Brian Chippendale,
322:Sometimes I'll get a burst when I write lyrics, it usually happens in 20 minutes and I'll write the whole song, and that's really the only way it feels comfortable. ~ Jonny Lang,
323:The music and lyrics of Rodgers & Hammerstein connect seamlessly. Singing those beautiful songs was a joyous experience for me, and one that I will never forget. ~ Julie Andrews,
324:It's weird to try to write lyrics for somebody else. They can't really get behind what you're saying or what you want them to say because they didn't experience it. ~ Wes Borland,
325:There's Eddie's conviction and his lyrics and his ideals, and he can just rock straight out. His vocals are incredible. And we all are really competent musicians. ~ Mike McCready,
326:Typically I go in the studio and whatever I'm contemplating that day will wind up being a song. I don't come in with lyrics... I just go in and let it happen. ~ Alanis Morissette,
327:When you'd buy vinyl, you'd have this lovely-sized object with a lovely picture, and you'd read the lyrics and usually there was something artistic that went with it. ~ Kate Bush,
328:Why can’t music be magic? Aren’t spells just words you repeat? And what are songs? Lyrics that play over and over again. The words are like a formula.” All ~ Silvia Moreno Garcia,
329:I can be stupid in my lyrics or say whatever I want without having to worry about anybody else's feeling or anybody being embarrassed by it or anything like that. ~ Justin Hayward,
330:The beautiful thing is, music can be like a time machine. One song- the lyrics, the melody, the mood- can take you back to a moment in time like nothing else can. ~ Lisa Schroeder,
331:If a psychiatrist would analyze [the lyrics], I'm sure they'd come up with something interesting. I really don't try to twist them. I don't want to slash things. ~ Victoria Legrand,
332:If you can say the lyrics almost like a poem and they stand up, that's a great thing. Some songs have great lyrics and I don't like the melodies, and vice versa. ~ Harry Connick Jr,
333:It’s a tree falling in a forest conundrum: if a white kid raps all the lyrics to ‘Gold Digger’ and there isn’t a black person around to hear it, is it still racist? ~ Nikesh Shukla,
334:Lyrics are kind of the whole thing; it's the message. Something might have a beautiful melody but if it's not the truth coming out of your mouth, it's not appealing ~ Alison Krauss,
335:He was telling me then that lyrics have truth
behind them, because they come from somewhere
inside the person who wrote them. I look back
down at the page. ~ Colleen Hoover,
336:No matter how many times people try to pick my lyrics apart, nobody will really understand what these songs truly mean to me because I would rather not get into it. ~ Bert McCracken,
337:What I love about lyrics is that they don't have to be very complicated. A good sentence over a great chord with a good melody - all you need is that one moment. ~ Jason Schwartzman,
338:While you’re singing something romantic, I can’t get the lyrics to ‘Love and Marriage’ out of my head, and that tune always reminds me of the jingle from Jeopardy. ~ E A Bucchianeri,
339:Why in the hell do journalists insist on coming up with a second rate Freudian evaluation on my lyrics when 90% of the time they've transcribed the lyrics incorrectly? ~ Kurt Cobain,
340:I'm a bit of an insomniac. I'm always thinking. I've got a lot of ideas for lyrics and shows. I have a notepad by the side of the bed and voice recorders around the house. ~ Kid Rock,
341:Blake has always been a favorite, the lyrics, not so much the prophetic books, but I suppose Yeats influenced me more as a young poet, and the American, Robert Frost. ~ Anne Stevenson,
342:I need some kind of emotional stake in it to write my lyrics, assuming that place. It might just be an emotion I understand but am not currently experiencing necessarily. ~ John Mayer,
343:In my songs, I'm not saying something that's never been said before. The have lyrics aren't going to blow people away. It's the emotion and the melody that drive it home. ~ Bruno Mars,
344:When there are no lyrics there are many parts of the imagination that can fill in the meanings of the music, so I strongly believe that it can be more powerful at times. ~ Tom DeLonge,
345:At most, he was introducing me to a body of knowledge I could draw from, like the writings of Joseph Campbell or the teaching of the Buddha or the lyrics of Jay-Z. After ~ Neil Strauss,
346:Adam does most of the work when it comes to videos and he basically does the same as I do with the lyrics. The videos are his visual interpretations of our music. ~ Maynard James Keenan,
347:After 9/11, we realized that all these silly culture wars, and arguing about rock lyrics... who cares? You know, we, for some reason, remembered what our real problems are. ~ Frank Rich,
348:Hopefully people can look at our band and see that we're a heavy rock band. We're definitely not a metal band, but we're a band that focuses on meaningful lyrics and melody. ~ Adam Rich,
349:You can get into a comfort zone writing lyrics, like wearing a mask. But I wanted to feel uncomfortable when I was listening back to the lyrics; I wanted to squirm. ~ Yannis Philippakis,
350:I'd like to do a song that I wrote today about our government's increasing infringement on our right to privacy, but the lyrics mysteriously disappeared from my guitar case. ~ Dan Piraro,
351:I like reading Ball Tongue lyrics and all that stuff. And they published a book, and I wouldn't give my lyrics, and it's all wrong in the book, and I giggle. It's funny. ~ Jonathan Davis,
352:I start with the subject matter I want to write about. Then I make a musical base for that and create an atmosphere with the music. Once I've done that, the lyrics come last. ~ Midge Ure,
353:I wait till the last minute to do lyrics. I seem to work best that way - bummed out and under pressure. I often don't do my homework. But I'll always walk that extra mile. ~ Steven Tyler,
354:I write lyrics everyday as I go. I'm always taking notes in my phone whenever I am inspired by something. Most of my writing starts out as poetry before I put it into songs. ~ Vic Fuentes,
355:People assume that the meaning of a song is vested in the lyrics. To me, that has never been the case. There are very few songs that I can think of where I remember the words. ~ Brian Eno,
356:Probably some of the songs I never even really listened to the lyrics. Half of them I'd hear off the radio and was probably singing the wrong words and didn't even know it. ~ Alan Jackson,
357:When you're given a song, it's my job to record the lyrics, story and emotion, and make everyone who is listening to the song believe that it was my words and experience. ~ Kreesha Turner,
358:Frankly I don't listen to lyrics (a problem in that I apparently work in musical theatre) I just want a good tune that doesn't require the use of too much grey matter. ~ Christian Campbell,
359:I told him I wrote the song alone and I’d never let anyone touch my lyrics. Ever. Donald looked at me with a genuine need for an answer and asked, “Who the fuck are you, kid? ~ Jensen Karp,
360:Listen to the lyrics - we're singing about everyday life: rich people trying to keep money, poor people tying to get it, and everyone having trouble with their husband or wife! ~ Buddy Guy,
361:Right now, I'm Writing song lyrics. Experimenting with a play. Toying with an idea for a documentary. I hope one of these will eventually be launched into the light of day. ~ Anita Diament,
362:To me, Doors fans were always the 16-year-old idiots at parties, getting stoned, and talking about how Morrison's lyrics were like poetry... like that was a deep thought. ~ Bruce McCulloch,
363:The Japanese version comes with a translation, but that's different from the lyrics, so people could look things up and find a translation of their own if they're interested. ~ Utada Hikaru,
364:The lyrics to me are a result of the emotional and creative climate present while making the record as well as personally going through a sort of mid-twenties stock-taking. ~ Robin Pecknold,
365:I don't like lyrics that are just thrown together, that were obviously written as you went along, or the song was already written and the guy made up the lyrics in five minutes. ~ Neil Peart,
366:High Water Everywhere” by Charlie Patton. If you have a hard time making out the lyrics, you’re not alone—even Son House (who, along with Howlin’ Wolf, was influenced by Patton) ~ Tom Franklin,
367:I am delighted at Des's support in these elections. And thank him for his rewrite of the lyrics of Send in the Clowns which we are planning to sing at our South East conference. ~ Nigel Farage,
368:Sometimes I get ideas for lyrics in anyplace, but I work a lot in the studio. So I collect little bits of lyrics. I go through the box of lyrics I have and see if something fits. ~ David Lynch,
369:According to Lacey I had the lyrics all wrong. I sang like it sounded to me, because those words sounded right: I loved you I'm not going back I killed you I'm not going back. ~ Robin Wasserman,
370:For the version of this CD released in Japan, a translation of the English lyrics is included, but there are lots of places where meanings are lost in the process of translation. ~ Utada Hikaru,
371:I feel like I want to write some songs and I don't know how to go about doing it. Usually it's the lyrics that are a problem, and I think I am not really cut out to be a lyricist. ~ Mike Gordon,
372:Lights are to drama what music is to the lyrics of a song. The greatest part of my success in the theatre I attribute to my feeling for colors, translated into effects of light. ~ David Belasco,
373:Our music is always, as you know, very spacey- computer graphics, music, images, lyrics, and visual art we make ourselves, or that we make with artists. And it's all synchronized. ~ Ralf Hutter,
374:The thing about Sondheim is that it does get very cerebral. You do need a faculty with words and a love for the lyrics to not just pull it off, but to have an appreciation for it. ~ Lea Salonga,
375:When I write, it is always the melody that comes first, and it just happens to be the case that the most beautiful tunes are sad, and the lyrics follow the mood of the melody. ~ Francoise Hardy,
376:I'm very honest in my music and I'm often asked to explain the lyrics; as an introvert, I find that quite hard. And I always wear high heels on stage, which can be painful. ~ Natasha Bedingfield,
377:15, 16, I mean, 17, 18, is when I was really getting into the hip hop phase and really studying the things that I needed to study as far as learning about flows and learning about lyrics. ~ Drake,
378:I can imagine lyrics becoming better written by smart machines rather than stupid musicians. Songwriters generally have nothing to say. They may as well be replaced by machines. ~ Stephin Merritt,
379:Lyrics are very different. There is a clear line between that and a poem. Something that has been a source of great excitement and delight for me is this idea that I get to rhyme. ~ Joanna Newsom,
380:mouthed the lyrics to the Queen song playing on my headset as I blasted one Glaive after another right out of the sky. And another one gone, another one gone, another one bites the ~ Ernest Cline,
381:The last song by Lady Antebellum was “Just a Kiss.” The lyrics talked about how they only needed a kiss — nothing more — because this love might be the kind that lasted forever. ~ Karen Kingsbury,
382:A lot of people heard 'Murda Business' and thought it was about killing people, trying to be tough and hardcore. If you actually listen to the lyrics, it's kind of silly and playful. ~ Iggy Azalea,
383:I drink a lot, probably too much. My scene while writing lyrics is always a bottle of scotch and stacks of note cards, pencil and pencil sharpener. I throw around note cards and drink. ~ Ben Folds,
384:I'm not a lyric writer to make statements. What I enjoy doing is making paintings with lyrics, creating colorful images. I think that's more what entertainment and music should be. ~ Chris Cornell,
385:I usually get my lyrics when I let my mind wander, when you're not really awake, but not yet fully asleep. I keep an open notebook by my bed and then just write whatever comes to me. ~ Brie Larson,
386:I was totally involved in Bobby's World from the time we started the idea to sitting with the artists on how he would look, to the script meetings, the music, the lyrics, the songs. ~ Howie Mandel,
387:Hunter can write a melody and stuff like that, but his forte is lyrics. He can write a serviceable melody to hang his lyrics on, and sometimes he comes up with something really nice. ~ Jerry Garcia,
388:I don't fake my music. If I want to be known for anything it's for creating honest music. Noting is fake or will ever be fake about the lyrics and pain in my music. My music I live it. ~ K Michelle,
389:Instead of singing in the shower, I would write out the lyrics of my favourite songs, the ink would turn the water blue or red or green, and the music would run down my legs. ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,
390:I thinks it really interesting how they throw the world music samples in there. I often wonder what it would be like to do something like that, but use my lyrics and my kind of style. ~ Marc Almond,
391:My second record I used a producer, which was frustrating in a way, because I think a lot of the punky spirit and provocative nature of the lyrics didn't come across - the music was pretty. ~ Jewel,
392:There will always be some kid who's the new Kurt Cobain writing great lyrics and singing from his soul. The problem is they're not marketing that anymore or putting it out there. ~ Rosanna Arquette,
393:Well, if this band hates the establishment that much, then I doubt they’ll care about me making up my own words. They can’t oppress me with their “correct lyrics.” Fuck the system. ~ Becky Chambers,
394:Gilmartins voice is angelic, but her lyrical subjects are often serious and slightly sad. The conflict of the beauty of her voice and the sadness of her lyrics makes for great music! ~ Jeff Belanger,
395:I listen to a variety of music. The only common point is strong lyrics; I'm more obsessed with lyrics than music. I need to hear a form of truth, and if it's a hard truth, even better. ~ Lou Doillon,
396:People ask me if I left the lyrics open to ambiguity. Of course I did. I wanted to make a whole series of complex statements. The lyrics had to do with the state of society at the time. ~ Don McLean,
397:Writing a song doesn't heal things. Even if the song comes up with a solution, it's still only a theory. Going out and living my lyrics is a whole other deal. That takes courage. ~ Alanis Morissette,
398:And instead of singing in the shower I would write out the lyrics of my favorite songs, the ink would turn the water blue or red or green, and the music would run down my legs. ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,
399:I do have an obligation, however, a debt that cannot be settled by my lyrical decisions. My life will be judged by my obedience, not my ability to confine my lyrics to this box or that. ~ Jon Foreman,
400:It's not like we wanted to get really political in terms of specific causes, but I think a lot of the lyrics deal with paranoia and feeling like "the man" is in control somehow. ~ Andrew VanWyngarden,
401:There are beautiful sounds in rock. Very lazy, dreamlike noises. You can forget about the lyrics in most songs. Just dig the noise, and you've got your sound...We're musical primitives. ~ Andy Warhol,
402:are a reflection of how I feel. To me, lyrics are harder to write when you have to invent the feelings behind them. That’s when lyrics take a lot of thought, when they aren’t genuine. ~ Colleen Hoover,
403:If you go into the eastern bloc countries we are huge, and in Russia. Maybe there is something about the depressing nature of our music and lyrics that some people find an affinity with. ~ Martin Gore,
404:Music - not just the lyrics, but the music itself - expresses confused or illicit passions: rage, lust, envy, frustration, channeling these energies and creating an outlet for them. ~ Sarah Churchwell,
405:The things I see every day inspire my sound and lyrics, like certain people and situations that stick out in my mind. There are also certain musicians I love whose music and styles inspire me. ~ Birdy,
406:All I want to do, is write rock and roll that you could listen to as you got older, and it wouldn't lose anything; it would be timeless, in the subject matter and the literacy of the lyrics. ~ Lou Reed,
407:From afar, Alex Winslow looked like nothing could penetrate his armor. But he was an artist—and an artist’s armor is full of bullets and cracks. That’s how the lyrics and notes seep through. ~ L J Shen,
408:That old adage, that "music is a universal language", is really true. Even if all of the lyrics are understood, they seem to connect with it really well and in some ways, more so. ~ William Fitzsimmons,
409:the song by Peter Gabriel, “Solsbury Hill.” Something about that song—the lyrics, the melody, the unusual 7/4 time signature—gave me chills. Even now, years later, it still can make me cry. ~ Anonymous,
410:When I was working on the lyrics, I thought of all the lullabies we learn as children: "Away in the Manger," William Blake's lullabies. I realized that the key to lullabies is simplicity. ~ Patti Smith,
411:Sometimes I start with lyrics - rarely - but sometimes I might have an idea for some lyrics that I wanna say. I write them down and figure out how to use that in a melody to write a song. ~ Leon Bridges,
412:When I write lyrics, I really do go into an automatic folk appropriation mode... I see the vernacular register of 20th century song as being a bunch of forms to adapt and reconfigure. ~ Jonathan Lethem,
413:I want to say my life inspires my lyrics, but I also try to abstract them as much as possible because I don't want to refer to my life explicitly. I'm definitely really embarrassed by my lyrics. ~ Grimes,
414:We didn't start Theocracy because we wanted to be cool like so-and-so and make money. Our songs aren't trendy, and our lyrics hopefully make people think about certain concepts in a new way. ~ Matt Smith,
415:Writing lyrics with your wife does lead to talking about yourselves a lot. But this is not an autobiographical account of my personal marriage. It's almost about the marriage of the band. ~ Aaron Dessner,
416:Flirting and foreplay came easy to Erica. Before she’d turned twenty, Erato awakened inside her. Erato was the Greek Muse of Lyrics… and Erotic Poetry. She had a gift for inspiring passion. ~ Lisa Kessler,
417:And just as you can find hip-hop lyrics beating up on all these groups, including young Black men themselves, the primary producers of the music, you can also find lyrics celebrating them. ~ Bakari Kitwana,
418:No one can yet tell me why I am able to forget what I wrote in articles and reviews that I once felt passionate about, and yet am able to recall the entire lyrics of Some Enchanted Evening ~ Joseph Epstein,
419:Ragtime plinking, glasses clinking, choruses getting sung with only half the lyrics right, giggles bubbling over like a tower of champagne.

It's a party, shaking down the dawn. ~ Catherynne M Valente,
420:Even the second time around, the lyrics and melody reached through my ears, bypassed my brain, and went straight to my heart, where they wriggled around, causing a hundred different pains. ~ Jeri Smith Ready,
421:I put out a lot of ideas in the lyrics and the way I do my things. There's a lot of ideas floatin' around and people who know what it is. People will pick it up if they know what to pick up. ~ Marilyn Manson,
422:I've never invested myself properly in trying to write stories. When I write lyrics, mostly I write each sentence separately on an index card and then I lay them out and I just mix them up. ~ Jason Schwartzman,
423:I wasn't writing the music. Ed would write a piece of music. I'd listen to it and come up with a melody and then we would arrange it. We'd put it together and I would write lyrics to my melodies. ~ Sammy Hagar,
424:Usually when I write lyrics I try to read a lot and listen to a lot of other stuff. Some of my favourite lyricists are like Lou Reed, kind of the classics - Bob Dylan and stuff like that. ~ Andrew VanWyngarden,
425:I would say the songs that have different lyrics. I always write the music first, and there's a couple of songs on this box set that have different lyrics from what ended up on the final recording. ~ Billy Joel,
426:Whether we write lyrics or craft legislation, sell homes or teach classes, design spaces or open franchises, prayer is a critical part of the creative process. Don’t just brainstorm; praystorm. ~ Mark Batterson,
427:I'm good at melody - I'll write the top-line melody and ideal words I want to go with it. But I'm not that good at writing lyrics. I bounce those back and forth with songwriters or someone who can sing. ~ Avicii,
428:My lyrics come from my experiences growing up in life, trying to find out and express who I am. That’s basically it. I’m not trying to be a prophet or anything like that. I’m just reflecting on life. ~ Sean Paul,
429:A yellow car—nay, a speaker on wheels—cruised by, blaring a rap tune. The bass was set so high that Myron felt the vibrations in his chest. He could not make out the lyrics, but they sounded angry. ~ Harlan Coben,
430:I wish Howard Ashman was still alive so I could just meet him and tell him his words are magic. It's so fun to say. He has such great alliteration and paints the most vivid images with his lyrics ~ Tituss Burgess,
431:No matter what I do, my songs come out in a certain style, and if that sounds like Dead Kennedys, then there's probably a reason for it. Don't forget, I wrote most of those songs, music and lyrics. ~ Jello Biafra,
432:As a songwriter you have an umbilical cord to the song and it's hard to expand on your understanding of the lyrics. Whereas when you cover a song you can create your own reason why you're attached to it. ~ K D Lang,
433:That's something - you laugh about Eminem... It's funny, man, because I didn't like him when he first came out, ya know. It seemed like a big joke. But I think the guy's for real, and I like his lyrics! ~ Alan Vega,
434:I get a lot of shit because I put "I" in the lyrics all the time. The "I" is always for someone else... When I say "I," it's so that when that person is singing along with the song, it empowers them. ~ Henry Rollins,
435:My guitar player calls the process of writing lyrics based on another story, "filling up the well" when you can get inspiration from other people's art without stealing, more being influenced by it. ~ Lydia Loveless,
436:Watch out for people who belong in your past. Don’t let ’em back in your life.” When she Googled the lyrics on her phone, it all came flooding back to her. The song was “Demon Lover” by Michael Smith. ~ Harlan Coben,
437:When I drive to work, I listen to thuggish rap at a very loud volume even though the lyrics are degrading to women and offend me to my core. The classic Ying Yang Twins song 'Salt Shaker'? It's amazing. ~ Roxane Gay,
438:I think it was T.S. Eliot who talked about good poetry being felt before it’s understood. I believe that. There are some bands where I love their lyrics but I don’t have a clue what they’re on about. ~ Marcus Mumford,
439:I've always found it pretty difficult to write a happy song. Since I was a kid, when I pick up my guitar it's been hard for me to write some sort of bubblegum lyrics. It's not really ever been my route. ~ Aaron Bruno,
440:But I assure you those are the correct lyrics that Robert Palmer sings.” “No. It’s addicted to love, Ships. Addicted to love,” he enunciates while fighting back the laugh. “Not a dick with a glove.” “Hmpf. ~ K Bromberg,
441:I'm not really good at writing sad sappy ballads. In terms of the lyrics not matching the vibe of the music, that's kind of the way my career has gone; everyone is a little confused about it all the time. ~ Mac DeMarco,
442:[I] the is the duty of black men to judge the Southern discriminate lyrics. The present generation of Southerners are not responsible for the past, and they should not be blindly hated or blamed for it. ~ W E B Du Bois,
443:Danny’s mind drifted to the poem by Yeats. He was pretty sure the title was “The Second Coming.” Those were some groovy lyrics, he thought, and then wondered if he’d just spoken that thought aloud. ~ Christopher Coleman,
444:Having been familiar with "drunk" once or twice myself, that lick just came to me - and yeah, it sounded very drunk, so I presented it to Alice [Cooper]. It felt like he wrote the lyrics in about a minute. ~ Johnny Depp,
445:I'm the guy that gets up at three in the morning to jot down an entire sheet of lyrics for something that won't be recorded for six months. You have to get it down when you can, because thoughts are fluid. ~ Corey Taylor,
446:Singing a song with lyrics requires the time-locked integration of varied fragments of recall: the melody that guides the singing, the memory of the words, the memories related to the motor execution. ~ Ant nio R Dam sio,
447:I am pieces of all the places I have been,
and the people I have loved. I’ve been stitched together by song lyrics, book quotes, adventure, late night conversations, moonlight, and the smell of coffee. ~ Brooke Hampton,
448:I get to play with pop music and mix up the style. It's fun to play with party music and nice to get into the club. My big love is songwriting. I write the lyrics and the vocals, and I work with the producers. ~ Nomi Ruiz,
449:I like songs that have like a little bit of quirkiness to them. What I like to do with songs, is kind of throw a little curveball in the lyrics or in the arrangement, to kind of give it a little twist to it. ~ John Legend,
450:Sometimes song happens all at once where you sit down and the lyrics and the music just come out. So there definitely isn't one way that it happens - there are a lot of different things that take place. ~ Jonathan Jackson,
451:There were times in my career I went a little further than I wanted because of expectations. Doing certain things onstage when children were in the audience, wearing certain clothes, singing certain lyrics. ~ Cheryl James,
452:There is nothing more comforting than hearing lyrics to a song you could’ve written yourself. The fact that another person did means someone else in the world knows how you’re feeling and that you’re not alone. ~ Anonymous,
453:You'll also need to invest in yourself with the kind of promo that targets your specific audience to help build that word of mouth. Most importantly, believe in what you're doing and in your music and lyrics. ~ Eliot Lewis,
454:If I hadn't had Freddie Mercury's lyrics to hold on to as a kid I don't know where I would be. It taught me about all forms of music... it would open my mind. I never really had a bigger teacher in my whole life. ~ Axl Rose,
455:It was quiet and I had to fight the thoughts that were trying to creep in. I began to run songs through my head for distraction, mangling the lyrics and humming through the parts I couldn’t remember at all. ~ Melissa Wright,
456:Well, I don't care for Paul Ryan's sound or his lyrics. He can like whatever bands he wants, but his guiding vision of shifting revenue more radically to the one percent is antithetical to the message of Rage. ~ Tom Morello,
457:A good song has to have a great melody, and the lyrics have to touch my heart. Now, if it's just a little toe-tapper, got to make me feel good somehow or another, or when I sing it I can't make you feel good. ~ Reba McEntire,
458:I've read and heard that some of the most inspiring vocal interpreters adhere habitually to one rule: Always think the lyrics as you're singing them, so that the sentiment is always appropriate and heartfelt. ~ Brandi Carlile,
459:The one album I can't live without is called 'Cumbolo' by a band called Culture. Every song on their album is deep, but there's one in particular called 'This Train.' I have a tattoo of the lyrics on my left arm. ~ Idris Elba,
460:I'm a songwriter. So I'm OK. But when I wrote "Stand By Me" as a song and to know that the song will probably be here for hundred and hundreds of years to come, it's great, you know. And it was just simple lyrics. ~ Ben E King,
461:A lot of times, I'll have a goal, I'll start writing, and I'll end up in some far off place, which is good. It's nice to have a focus, but letting the lyrics write themselves where they need to go is important. ~ James Hetfield,
462:I just kept it real and had the freedom to do what I want. It's not designed for any age group. It's not made for radio. There are no edits. The whole album contains explicit lyrics but that's because you need it. ~ Vanilla Ice,
463:Sometimes melody and sometimes lyrics. It depends on the tempo and feel of the song. Slower pieces usually begin with melody and faster ones with lyrics. I write for the song and it leads me to my conclusion. ~ Ronnie James Dio,
464:I always write the lyrics first. There are one or two exceptions over the years, but that's pretty much the way it's been. The process of applying music to words is a bit like scoring a film. You've got imagery. ~ Bruce Cockburn,
465:I have a voice that's obviously untrained - and I think untrainable - so I kind of secreted it away for a long time. Actually, I would write songs with lyrics when I was younger, but I would just sing in my head. ~ Joanna Newsom,
466:I was a kid who got picked on in school, and now the guys beating up those kids were wearing red caps and using my music to fuel that aggression. But if they listen to the lyrics, the aggression is targeted at them. ~ Fred Durst,
467:My favourite thing about live shows is you can make up new songs on the spot. Never played before, never again. And that's wonderful for me, because it frees me up to not have to worry about lyrics and stuff. ~ Victoria Williams,
468:I want to write songs with complete sentences. I almos have this obsession with short-changing words. I would never be so pretentious to say that my lyrics are poetry. ... Poems are poems. Song lyrics are for songs. ~ Ben Gibbard,
469:How can music without any words make you think? I listen to jazz when I'm doing something else. I use it for background music, I don't just sit down and concentrate on it. Lyrics, words - that's what makes me think. ~ Eddie Murphy,
470:I'd never even sung in the shower, I'm too mortified. But once I got over the initial fear it was kind of enjoyable. Sondheim's melodies and lyrics are a real pleasure to tromp around in, it's really beautiful stuff. ~ Johnny Depp,
471:(..) I'd write "Ha ha ha!" and instead of singing in the shower I would write out the lyrics of my favorite songs, the ink would turn the water blue or red or green, and the music would run down my legs (..) ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,
472:Phillip is a repository of random snatches of film dialogue and song lyrics. To make room for all of it in his brain, he apparently cleared out all the areas where things like reason and common sense are stored. ~ Jonathan Tropper,
473:Pretty much any given day, barring some major distraction, I get melodies coming to me. Lyrics don't come quite as easily. So I've been inventing little projects and challenges to sort of kick my ass with the lyrics. ~ Andrew Bird,
474:Doors music is not a simple kind of music. It's like the Bauhaus. It's clean and pure. Morrison's lyrics are psychologically deep. So for people to understand Doors music is certainly a testament to their intellects. ~ Ray Manzarek,
475:I get even more nervous singing when everyone's fallen silent, but I really try to communicate the meaning of the lyrics, and there's people there listening to that, and if they're moved by it, then I'm moved as well. ~ Namie Amuro,
476:I think that too many people think too much about my lyrics. I am more a person who works with the sound of a word than with its meaning. Often I just choose the words because of the rhythm not because of the meaning. ~ Mike Patton,
477:Nothing really goes through my head when I'm performing live, I normally just look out into the crowd and see the fans and it makes me feel really happy - especially when they all sing the lyrics back, it's amazing. ~ Perrie Edwards,
478:Some of the fanmail is interesting! Some of it's the lyrics to the songs and stuff, and they'll like, send me their favourite lines, which is cool to...know what people are liking. Most of them are really cool to read. ~ Miley Cyrus,
479:anything you want to know about Kingston’s green versus orange war, everything you ever need to know about the rudeboy-cum-gunman is not in Bob Marley’s lyrics or in Peter Tosh’s but in Marty Robbins’s “Big Iron.” He’s ~ Marlon James,
480:My music has a high irritation factor. I`ve always tried to say something. Eccentric lyrics about eccentric people. Often it was is joke. But I would plead guilty on the grounds that I prefer eccetricity to the bland. ~ Randy Newman,
481:Sometimes I do a Dylan song and it seems to fit me so right that I figure maybe I wrote it. Dylan didn’t always do it for me as a singer, not in the early days, but then I started listening to the lyrics. That sold me. ~ Jimi Hendrix,
482:Finally I started really opening up as a songwriter and an interpreter and taking songs from all kind of genres and stripping them down to just lyrics and the story inside the lyrics, and trying to make them really mine. ~ Lizz Wright,
483:If the rhythm was right, and the lyrics chimed in with your own mood, putting into words what you were hunting around to express, then your feet did the hard work by themselves while your mind was swept away by the song. ~ Lucy Dillon,
484:I write my songs usually while I'm walking around. Or in a car. Or in a bus, a plane, something like that. I jot down lyrics wherever I am. Usually it's on a vomit bag on an airplane or something. I just look for a pen. ~ Joshua Radin,
485:The melody seems to have gone to the country. The country music seems to still have melody and interesting lyrics. But pop music, you've got to really listen hard to somebody who's doing a good melody and a good lyric. ~ Barry Manilow,
486:Metaphors are not user-friendly. They're difficult to find and difficult to use well. Unfortunately, metaphors are a mainstay of good lyric writing-indeed of most creative writing. ...metaphors support lyrics like bones. ~ Pat Pattison,
487:With rock music, the amount of power that you can generate, the intensity behind the intentions of your lyrics that you can really reflect through rock music - you can't do that in jazz. You can't do that with classical. ~ Serj Tankian,
488:I've stolen music before, I don't know anyone who hasn't. But if you're gonna do that, I want you to be able to have an opportunity to know the real lyrics because I really hate it when people put up wrong lyrics online. ~ Justin Vernon,
489:Always when I write my music, I take my guitar, and I improvise always with a melody, you know, lyrics in Spanish. But sometimes I use some words in English. I don't know why. Maybe because I listen to a lot of music in English. ~ Juanes,
490:I can't say I was consciously thinking of the big changes in the music business when I was writing the lyrics, but change, uncertainty, flux, impermanence - these are things I'm acutely aware of. And I enjoy facing it all. ~ Rivers Cuomo,
491:I like collaboration because, first of all, I'm good at writing lyrics. I don't know how to make beats. I don't play instruments. I'm not a good singer. So even when you see a solo album of mine, it's still a collaboration. ~ Talib Kweli,
492:Grace Kelly was written after these musicians were trying to mold me into what I should be. I was really angry and so I wrote the song and mailed them the lyrics. They didn't call me back, but two years later it's come full circle. ~ Mika,
493:I don't feel any kind of a responsibility (other than to myself) to write "weighty" lyrics. In fact I sometimes wish I could learn to write in a simpler form, to be more direct and I'm going to be experimenting with this. ~ Stuart Adamson,
494:There's a certain power in vague language, but I started to get more into the idea of really trying to have a discrete thought in the lyrics and to have songs that were about stuff - to try to make things more coherent. ~ David Longstreth,
495:And then I heard Nico's voice. It was a song I've never heard before. I struggled to make out the lyrics. "You were my hands," I heard him sing. "You were my eyes. There's nothing left to reach for now, nothing left to see. ~ April Lindner,
496:I’d like to quote the lyrics of Rodgers and Hammerstein—something that’s extremely easy to do when you’re in a library near 782.14 and all those magnificent Broadway show tunes—‘I flit, I float, I fleetly flee, I fly!’  ~ Chris Grabenstein,
497:I grew up with my older brother listening to hip hop, and Jay-Z was the main person I listened to. When it comes to his word play, he's just out of this world. That's my biggest inspiration when it comes to writing lyrics. ~ Tinchy Stryder,
498:I didn't even write the lyrics down. I got in the booth, I put down a little guitar riff and the idea I had was it was going to be really simple, I just want it to be all about the lyrics and I just literally sang the lyrics. ~ Benji Madden,
499:Mimesis has longevity on its side. But Oasis wrote two of the greatest pop songs of all time, each with lyrics that mean less and less the more you think about them. So I'm going to have to go with the Gallagher brothers. ~ Matthew Zapruder,
500:Those yet-to-access riches that I’d suspect are what tingle when a song’s lyrics eject me into outer space; assure me I can love; can go about and be loved; can retreat and still get, as in both catch and understand, love. ~ Durga Chew Bose,
501:I told Wayne to his face he was the dopest MC out. MC, not rapper. I told him to his face because I believe that, Wayne is nice! Wayne is bananas with his lyrics, with his whole delivery, with his whole thing. Lil Wayne is the man! ~ KRS One,
502:The only criticism heard with any frequency of Elton John's first American album, 'Elton John,' was that the production was too grandiose. The melodies were superb, and lyrics frequently very good, and the performances flawless. ~ Jon Landau,
503:I don't know what other singers feel when they articulate lyrics, but being an 18-karat manic-depressive and having lived a life of violent emotional contradictions, I have an overacute capacity for sadness as well as elation. ~ Frank Sinatra,
504:People say, "You should write lyrics" and I say I'm quite happy not to, because I like being part of that process where you write your version of what someone else's lyrics are saying to you, and that enjoyment has never changed. ~ Elton John,
505:We human beings are tuned such that we crave great melody and great lyrics. And if somebody writes a great song, it's timeless that we as humans are going to feel something for that and there's going to be a real appreciation. ~ Art Garfunkel,
506:I've always felt like my music would stand for itself and I would stand for myself. So I've kept my music a little bit esoteric, and I've kept the lyrics a little aloof. I try to say something important, but I don't necessarily preach. ~ Kenna,
507:Then, once I have lyrics, being able to shape them around a song is nothing new for me, I've been doing that for 25 years. The soul searching part of it, the spontaneous part of it, that was, and remains, a really terrific process. ~ Geddy Lee,
508:They're the salt of the earth, those girls. They don't sit each night and compare notes on groups, criticising lyrics, asking if it's valid. They just play the record... yeah, and maybe they dance. I love them. I love them dearly ~ David Bowie,
509:A good song is a nice set of chords and some good lyrics; a great song is a song that reinvents itself over time. That you can always find something interesting in the more you listen to it - it keeps revealing something to you. ~ Bryce Dessner,
510:I got into songwriting because I'm not very good at communicating sometimes, just my true words, so music was always my way of expressing myself and being able to put things into lyrics that I couldn't say necessarily in my everyday life. ~ LIZ,
511:I think every generation has that movement of hip-hop that you know you're playing it and you definitely have that moment of like, "Why am I saying this so enthusiastically? Why am I so stoked and psyched to say these lyrics?" ~ Solange Knowles,
512:Sexual healing and general recovery need to work together in the same way that music and lyrics work together to make a song: They alternate and blend together at different times. They are complementary, not isolated, experiences. ~ Wendy Maltz,
513:When you make a melody that doesn't come with words from the get-go, sometimes you're just thinking about random vowel sounds that go with it - and it's really, really hard to write lyrics that actually obey the vowel sounds. ~ David Longstreth,
514:I found it incredibly disheartening that in the late '90s, suddenly pop culture became even more misogynistic and more homophobic, and so I criticized Eminem for having lyrics that were egregiously homophobic and egregiously misogynistic. ~ Moby,
515:I just want that magical feeling I wrote about years ago when I used to write the lyrics for the band’s rock ballads. I want crazy fucking love. I want someone that'll never let me go. I want to wake up to my best friend every day. ~ Carian Cole,
516:I'm so bad at lyrics. I'm always trying to get better. Sometimes, the song can restrict your lyrics - if you're trying to make a poppy song, you don't want to sing something that sounds like it could be on an At the Drive-In song. ~ Chaz Bundick,
517:dashboard. She didn’t know the opening lyrics, but she belted out the chorus. “ ‘Poor, poor pitiful me!’ ” She nudged Maggie. “ ‘Poor, poor pitiful me!’ ” Maggie smiled despite herself. Gail bellowed, “ ‘Poor, poor pitiful me!’  ~ Karin Slaughter,
518:Each song had a different way of coming about. In some, the music was written first while others it was the lyrics. We didn't want to overthink anything too much - we just wanted to, writing-wise, chuck out as many ideas as possible. ~ Elena Tonra,
519:I don't know why, but there's a certain element of panic in writing lyrics that I'm not sure I enjoy. I don't write lyrics first, ever. I've never done that. So, in a sense, the lyrics are a bit of an afterthought - it's music first. ~ Mike Patton,
520:Men felt a chill in their hearts; a damp in their minds. In a desperate effort to snuggle their feelings into some sort of warmth,one subterfuge was tried after anothersentences swelled, adjectives multiplied, lyrics became epics. ~ Virginia Woolf,
521:The fact that our message and my lyrics can have a positive impact on someone's life is really astounding. It definitely makes me appreciate what I do even more because I'm not just doing it for self-gain, I'm doing it to help others. ~ Beau Bokan,
522:We sang, nearly shouting the lyrics, the wind clipping at our voices. They say a song can be a bridge, Ma. But I say it's also the ground we stand on. And maybe we sing to keep ourselves from falling. Maybe we sing to keep ourselves. ~ Ocean Vuong,
523:When I published my first novel, Slammed, I included lyrics at the beginning of each chapter from one of my favorite bands, The Avett Brothers. The overwhelmingly positive response from readers to those lyrics really surprised me. ~ Colleen Hoover,
524:Most people think its sex, money, and drugs but Hip-Hop is about lyrics, storytelling, and everybody having a different style. That's just another idea of beautiful, being yourself and creating music that represents you and what you like. ~ Rapsody,
525:I love to write and have the basic foundation of what the song's all about. Then once the drums are done it's time for fun for me, because I don't know what I'm going to sing yet, and melody-wise I don't even have my lyrics written. ~ Kirk Windstein,
526:I've always felt that the game itself is pretty much a melody and I am there to provide the lyrics. You want the lyrics to match the melody, because if you are composing a song or recording a song, it's cacophonous if they don't match. ~ Al Michaels,
527:If I was talking about making a song special, I probably meant getting the lyrics and arrangement together, or getting some instrument that's going to tie the whole thing together. That can take months, or it can happen really fast. ~ John Britt Daniel,
528:I write about things that tear me apart, and it's all very personal to me. It's funny to hear people disassemble the lyrics. If they get it wrong, it almost means more to me, because it's morphed into something that is meaningful to them. ~ Robby Takac,
529:Well, you know, it's a younger person, and it was maybe an effort to be a little more sincere and adult about the lyrics occasionally, which is a good thing. It's nice that it's not too self-conscious like some of our lyrics could be. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
530:But, Eminem... No, I've loved rap for a long time, especially when it got out of its first period and became this gangsta rap, ya know this heavy rap thing? That's when I started to fall in love with it. I loved the lyrics. I loved the beat. ~ Alan Vega,
531:Whenever I write lyrics, in the back of my mind I always see a guy driving to work, driving to a really bad job, one of those horrible institutions, or one of those low squat buildings in Los Angeles. I write with that person in my mind. ~ Henry Rollins,
532:Elton John himself never seems pretentious but Bernie Taupin's lyrics often do - sometimes pretentious in a clever sort of way, but pretentious nonetheless. There is a conflict between Elton's and Bernie's personal styles, no doubt about it. ~ Jon Landau,
533:Every time I see a film or TV show, I think about how that composer made those choices and how that director envisioned music and how that could work onstage or in a film and how you could support that even further by putting lyrics to it. ~ Robert Lopez,
534:If we really are saying rap is an art form, then we got to be more responsible for our lyrics. If you see everybody dying because of what you saying, it don’t matter that you didn’t make them die, it just matters that you didn’t save them. ~ Tupac Shakur,
535:I think the difference between a good song and a great song is... honestly, I think the lyrics, because if you have a really solid melody and solid track and everything is there but then the lyric is just okay, then you've got a good song. ~ Bonnie McKee,
536:My heart is a weatherballoon caught in an updraft of a chinese tax percentage, the tax percentages are unequivocaaaaaaaaaal, Unequivocaaaaaaaaal. This is the sort of lyrics you could never think of, loser. Here's a razorblade go cut yourself ~ Thom Yorke,
537:And this song,” Doug said as the CD advanced to the next track, “Makes me think about how Stephen’s love completes my soul.” Rapid-fire drumming led into lyrics describing the satisfaction one felt when pointing a Glock at a filthy puta. ~ Valerie Z Lewis,
538:Of course I can appreciate the musicality of the pieces and sometimes the lyrics are generic enough to be listened to without reference, but I often feel cheated if I don't know what the hell is making this person burst out into song. ~ Christian Campbell,
539:Todd and Tim [Tobias] write the music, and I come up with the melodies and lyrics. I call it the Ohio Rock Factory. Tim and Todd run the northern plant in Cleveland, and I've got the southern plant down here in Dayton. No tours permitted. ~ Robert Pollard,
540:Everyone can of course take their own meaning, that's the beauty of music and lyrics, but to me it seems like everything is about being attached to the past and being afraid of moving forward, afraid of that big dive or step and losing what was. ~ St Lucia,
541:If we're all saying that rap is an art form then we gotta be more responsible for our lyrics. If you see everybody dying because of what you're saying, it don't matter that you didn't make them die, it just matters that you didn't save them. ~ Tupac Shakur,
542:It was all the things I wanted my music to be, but yet it wasn't grand and it wasn't obtuse - it wasn't overshooting, it wasn't undershooting, it was precise. The lyrics and the way that I was able to extract and excavate emotion within me. ~ Justin Vernon,
543:With Prisoner of Conscience, the focus was - I've worked with Madlib, High Tech, Kanye West, J Dilla. I feel like I've worked with some of the greatest of all time. That's been overlooked. That's been overshadowed by the weight of the lyrics. ~ Talib Kweli,
544:I'm on this planet for another forty years at the most and I got a baby and a wife and I'm worried about their future and that kind of fear, that anger is spilling into my lyrics, I can't just sit back and talk about myself until I'm dead. ~ Richard Patrick,
545:I wrote poetry, which got me into lyrics. Stevie Wonder, Carole King, Elton John pulled me into pop. I started singing with a band - just for fun - when I was 17. And pretty soon, I was thinking I could sing pop in English as well as Spanish. ~ Gloria Estefan,
546:When I was a teenager, her habit of cramming a bunch of words into one line, plus the way her lyrics tend to start with small particularities and ripple outward into universal truths, lodged itself into my ears and wound up directly on my pages. ~ Meghan Daum,
547:I just go into the studio, look at the lyrics for the first time when I put them on the piano, and go. If I haven't got it within 40 minutes, I give up. It's never changed, the thrill has never gone, because I don't know what I'm going to get next. ~ Elton John,
548:[Opetaia Foa'i] brought in the melody and the lyrics, but the lyrics were in Tokelauan, and so, we talked about what it could mean and whether this could be the ancestor song. So, I started writing English lyrics to sort of the same melody. ~ Lin Manuel Miranda,
549:Then they all began to sing. The tune was “Happy Birthday,” but the lyrics had changed. “Something happened . . . TO YOU! Something happened . . . TO YOU! Something happened, dear Jamie, something happened TO YOU!” That was when I began to scream. ~ Stephen King,
550:I can't speak for everybody, I think, for me, I will not be defined by the lyrics of my song. I am a man who does music. It's like clothes don't make the man, the man makes the clothes. It's, it's like that song don't make me, I make the song. ~ Teddy Pendergrass,
551:I'm proud of the lyrics because I take a lot of care in writing them. I try to make it so people will want to go in and get really into the lyrics. I hope there are different corners to them, with lots of levels-without sounding pretentious. ~ Andrew VanWyngarden,
552:I think there's just certain lyrics and certain forms of hip-hop that definitely rang true, again, to a lot of people's truth, but you don't necessarily want to hear someone using that as a just kind of a in-the-moment, fun, careless expression. ~ Solange Knowles,
553:'White Rabbit' was mostly done in about two days, the music in about half an hour. The music is a 'Bolero' rip-off and the lyrics a rearrangement of 'Alice in Wonderland.' You take two spectacular hits and throw them together, and it's hard to miss. ~ Grace Slick,
554:I always wrote the music first, and the music gave me the mood and the lyrics were pretty much put in to give you a map, where that mood came from and where it's going. But my first love was really the music itself, and I guess I've gone back to that. ~ Billy Joel,
555:Starting in music, where I get a chance to connect with the lyrics of a song, I learned so much about performing on stage and connecting to your audience and to what you're singing about. Singing is very emotional. Every song has its own purpose. ~ Naturi Naughton,
556:The Eagles’s 1977 hit “Hotel California” was a flawless piece of craftsmanship, but it was about upscale fatalism and gilded cages, about the hotel you can check into but never leave. It sounded as though Joan Didion had started writing lyrics. As ~ Rebecca Solnit,
557:I made the decision to quit show business. Give up the skintight dresses and manicured smiles. The false concern over sentimental lyrics. I would never again work to make people smile inanely and would take on the responsibility of making them think. ~ Maya Angelou,
558:His lips began moving with the lyrics. Every long-lost dream . . . He was singing them to her, and she wanted to believe he meant them. Believe he felt the way the song’s writer had, that the other women had only been a sign pointing him back to her. ~ Denise Hunter,
559:I think, there are a couple of songs. I'm really proud of How far I'll Go. I literally locked myself up in my childhood bedroom at my parents' house to write those lyrics. I wanted to get to my angstiest possible place. So I went method on that. ~ Lin Manuel Miranda,
560:We recorded Star Climbing over a three-year period between our studios, working on songs and lyrics until we felt like we had found the albums direction. It is our most distinctive album to date, combining all our different tastes and styles into one. ~ Stuart Price,
561:A lot of the people I was writing with think a lot more about lyrics and a lot more about the details from the beginning. That kind of thinking made me a little self-conscious because I was suddenly having to judge what I was doing early on in the process. ~ St Lucia,
562:Here are some funny songs, there are some songs that we didn't even remember. I heard this song that Ringo is singing, I still don't know the title of it, but it is got the most amazing lyrics and it's a quite a good production. And quite a good tun ~ George Harrison,
563:I think maybe since there isn't a great deal of access to the mainstream media and people don't understand the language of mainstream media, if you put music out there with lyrics that are loosely political, people absorb some of it and spit it back out. ~ Thom Yorke,
564:Talking always came hard to me, but singing and playing… fuckin’ natural as breathing, and no problems pushing out the words. I’d never felt more comfortable than when I had my guitar in hand, the lyrics flowing out my loose throat like the fuckin’ wind. ~ Tillie Cole,
565:Art is no longer snobbish or cowardly. It teaches peasants to use tractors, gives lyrics to young soldiers, designs textiles for factory women's dresses, writes burlesque for factory theatres, does a hundred other useful tasks. Art is as usueful as bread. ~ Azar Nafisi,
566:Hip hop scholarship must strive to reflect the form it interrogates, offering the same features as the best hip hop: seductive rhythms, throbbing beats, intelligent lyrics, soulful samples, and a sense of joy that is never exhausted in one sitting. ~ Michael Eric Dyson,
567:I feel like people mislead themselves when they tell themselves they're into me because of the lyrics. From my vantage point, people aren't into me because of the content, because of the lyrics. Because there's a million of rappers who have great content. ~ Talib Kweli,
568:I remember listening to like gospel-y blues tunes. I'd just listen to the rhythm and the music was upbeat. Always upbeat if you get like a good rhythm you can nod your head. You just feel good. But then when you listen to the lyrics it was quite sad. ~ Michael Kiwanuka,
569:The lyrics to the single 'Survivor' are Destiny's Child's story, because we've been through a lot, ... We went through our drama with the members ... Any complications we've had in our 10-year period of time have made us closer and tighter and better. ~ Beyonce Knowles,
570:If you listen to the great Beatle records, the earliest ones where the lyrics are incredibly simple. Why are they still beautiful? Well, they're beautifully sung, beautifully played, and the mathematics in them is elegant. They retain their elegance. ~ Bruce Springsteen,
571:Jobs was a strong-willed, elitist artist who didn't want his creations mutated inauspiciously by unworthy programmers. To him it would be as if someone off the street added some brush strokes to a Picasso painting or changed the lyrics to a Dylan song. ~ Walter Isaacson,
572:Looking at the original lyrics [of "A Song For You" ] as I was preparing it, I thought, "Wow! I feel like it was written for me." That's what a great song does. You don't have to do a lot of homework. You can just say the words and it springs to life. ~ Cheyenne Jackson,
573:This was where she belonged with Nur, right here, here in his songs. Here within the lyrics they were intimate, caught in the rythm of his words, proppelled by the substance of his dreams.
These songs would be their story and these lyrics their home. ~ Leila Aboulela,
574:As he stood there, listening to the lyrics, he realized the songs could be viewed as a rallying cry for the Toltecs. Kill the poor with empire, kill them with a false sense of nobility, kill them in their quest for technology. Their quest for the machine. ~ Leopoldo Gout,
575:The elevator turned out to be slower than the damned train at Disney World. And it played “The Girl from Ipanema” in Muzak. I looked at Paris and saw that he was mouthing the lyrics. That was it. I’d have to plan an intervention for him once we got home. ~ Leslie Langtry,
576:The song ends and tears spring to my eyes. I quickly scroll to another—“The Scientist” by Coldplay—one of Kate’s favorite bands. I know the track, but I’ve never really listened to the lyrics before. I close my eyes and let the words wash over and through me. ~ E L James,
577:As far as the lyrics go, I think I was negotiating a moment in my life where I didn't feel happy. I think I had some existential frustration and I was wrestling with that on a few different levels. I was feeling like I wanted to change a lot of things. ~ Rostam Batmanglij,
578:Everything I do, I do it because it's me. At the end of the day, I only know how to be me. Everything is gonna be authentic, so I think, when it comes down to sayin' certain stuff in lyrics, or whatever the case may be, it's just me bein' me and me bein' honest. ~ Bow Wow,
579:I tell the songwriter's story. When I read people's lyrics, I'm so amazed. I want to tell this story and make it part of my life. I usually can't write lyrics down, but I can sure tell that story. You've got to make people feel the hurt and love in each song. ~ Sharon Jones,
580:The dilemma of the eighth-grade dance is that boys and girls use music in different ways. Girls enjoy music they can dance to, music with strong vocals and catchy melodies. Boys, on the other hand, enjoy music they can improve by making up filthy new lyrics. ~ Rob Sheffield,
581:I think what interests me the most is when the two things are developed at the same time, which certainly feels natural for the way of working when there is no dialogue. You sort of depend on the music to be that, especially when there's lyrics in the music. ~ Matthew Barney,
582:Blake had picked the song for their first dance, and Livia laughed when she realized they’d selected music by the same artist, just different songs. She stopped laughing when she heard the lyrics. None present could miss the deeply felt meaning in the words. ~ Debra Anastasia,
583:Depth on different levels is so important to me. You look at a band like The Beatles, all their material has so much depth to it. And I want people to be able to run away with my melodies and get lost in them and take the lyrics and be able to relate to them. ~ Haley Reinhart,
584:I'm a very typical yoga-practicing musician; I do it when I can. I'm not hardcore about it. A lot of my lyrics talk about celebrating life and working through pain. I think that's what yoga's about, getting rid of, moving energy and letting it flow through you. ~ Brett Dennen,
585:I realized in the early days I just didn't edit at all. But I think you become a little more cagey with your lyrics when you know more people are going to hear them and make assumptions about you as a person. Realizing that, you want to be a little more opaque. ~ Eddie Vedder,
586:I like to make people dream and think and imagine and learn and study. Nowadays, music is so literal - it's telling you, "This is how it is," and my music's the opposite. I come from an era where lyrics were full of imagery and metaphor, and that's all I know. ~ Dawn Angelique,
587:Sometimes my lyrics are about things that are, well, not the brightest, but I have been working with this outlook for such a long time that it's not dark to me anymore. It's just something that you work through and in the end, it's a lot of happiness. ~ Karin Dreijer Andersson,
588:The surprise turned out to be songs: “Our Unforgettable Teacher” and the “Song of Suki,” a regional folksong they had been vaguely aware of, whose lyrics they had searched out during their August vacation and written down neatly on a piece of paper as a parting gift. ~ Suki Kim,
589:When we worked on Ice Cube's Amerikkka's Most Wanted album. Before we talked studios, beats, or lyrics, I said, "Two rules: Only say what you're able to vouch for. Number two, never repeat yourself twice, because we makin' an album that people will play over and over. ~ Chuck D,
590:I'm obsessed with the science of music. I'm obsessed with the way you can string notes together and they can do something, and you play the same notes in another way and they do nothing. How the essence within songs - within words, within lyrics - finds its place. ~ Jason Pierce,
591:Keep at something even when you don't feel inspired. Don't wait for inspiration! I write a lot of songs that are terrible, in the hopes that one song that has something special comes out of it. Just stay at something, and write every day if you're writing lyrics. ~ Yukimi Nagano,
592:Rachael Sage is a marvelous young artist- and I am a fan!! 'Haunted by You' has a beauty that shines through her lyrics and melodies-- poignant, tender and tough. These are stories from the heart that will lift you up and carry you to places you had never dreamed. ~ Judy Collins,
593:You won't talk to anybody who breaks lyrics down more thoroughly. It's just a complete deconstruction, and when you start to rebuild, nobody has the capacity to do it like me. Which is not to say I'm better, it's just that there's a unique quality to everyone. ~ Harry Connick Jr,
594:If you ever want to know why I'm not on a record label, look at 'The X Factor!' Honestly, of all the people that strive to break barriers in music and do good things and write great lyrics, not one of them would ever pass the first round on any of these competitions. ~ John Lydon,
595:Even at the time, I realised this couldn't be right, that this interpretation didn't fit with the rest of the lyrics. But that wasn't an issue with me. The song was about what I said, and I used to listen to it again and again, on my own, whenever I got the chance. ~ Kazuo Ishiguro,
596:It's not like changing one word with my lyrics is going to make them more intelligible or relatable. I was always very misunderstood and taken as very pretentious and serious all the time. I would think, "Do you not see there's a lot of tongue-in-cheek and humor here?" ~ Paul Banks,
597:I write all my own songs and they are just simple melodies with a lot of lyrics. They usually have to do with current events and what is going on in the news. You can call them topical songs, songs about the news, and then developing into more philosophical songs later. ~ Phil Ochs,
598:Sometimes my boyfriend would write the lyrics and I would write the melody, and other times I would start from scratch. Or sometimes I would take a local poem and put that to music...I always sang standards because the songs I wrote for myself weren't as easy to sing. ~ Carly Simon,
599:One of the things that's influenced me musically was my experience at Brown University. I was surrounded by musicians that I really admired, and felt challenged to come up with music, lyrics, and recordings that stood up to the expectations of those musicians and myself. ~ Lisa Loeb,
600:Since I write the lyrics, I don't want to be pigeonholed into a person who's out there preaching these songs. If you read the lyrics, there isn't a story being set up for you. You have to use your imagination to get the best out of the songs - if you choose to do that. ~ Linda Perry,
601:Smoke Ring for My Halo was the first album I bought of Kurt's Vile, and when I first listened to "Peeping Tomboy" I was really depressed and unemployed. But the lyrics are, "I don't want to work. I don't want to sit around all day frowning." I was like, "Ah! Yes!" ~ Courtney Barnett,
602:As accurately as I possibly can. I explain , to my kid, that love's an elusive, fragile and resilient thing. And as far as the lyrics, I say that part of being an adult is being sexual, and when you're in a relationship, to express yourself that way is a beautiful thing. ~ Eric Benet,
603:Worst music ever sells millions. The worst music with the shittiest lyrics. The fact is that they pay radio stations to put it on the radio, then you've heard it a million times when you're driving from your shitty job to your shitty house. It's indoctrination, it's sad. ~ Sia Furler,
604:It's interesting to have a conglomeration of people that covers the strata from A to Z... There's a certain element of the audience that's intellectually oriented, into the lyrics... then there's another element of the audience that's into a sex trip. I'm into both of them. ~ Lou Reed,
605:Sometimes I need to reject the music proposed for my songs because the musicians misunderstand that the Fanny Crosby who once wrote for the people in the saloons has merely changed the lyrics. Oh my no. The church must never sing it's songs to the melodies of the world. ~ Fanny Crosby,
606:It means rock'n'roll in the sack. It means sex: the lyrics, the beat of it, the thunderous feeling through your body. Before the word groupie even existed I knew that I wanted to share myself with someone who created that music and turned me on in every kind of way. ~ Pamela Des Barres,
607:It's likely that taboo words are stored in the right hemisphere of the brain. Massive left hemisphere strokes or the entire surgical removal of the left hemisphere can leave people with no articulate speech other than the ability to swear, spout cliches and song lyrics. ~ Steven Pinker,
608:Sometimes when I write lyrics there are images in them, usually on a quite simplistic level, like colors. But most often music comes first and then later I sit down with visual people and we chat about what we want to do. I don't look at myself as a visual artist. I make music. ~ Bjork,
609:The danger of these collaborations across disciplines is in having too strict of a division of labor - in my case, of getting stuck doing the music. When I make an album, I write music, I write lyrics, I come up with the visual design, etc. I get to do all of that stuff. ~ David Grubbs,
610:If I learned to play guitar it was so that I would have something to sing to, if I learned to write a song it was so that I would have something to sing. So the gut feeling you're talking about comes from singing and communicating the lyrics and what it is that we feel. ~ Brandi Carlile,
611:The songs I was writing still had lyrics or sentiments that didn't match what I was feeling. It was old, negative energy coming out of me still, but it needed to all get out so I could trash those songs and put them in the bin. And then I was able to let the new songs out. ~ Damien Rice,
612:As far as I was concerned, I wrote songs; chords and beats and lyrics, verses. and bridges and hooks. But then, as we got bigger, people began to dissect the songs, like a frog from biology class until there was nothing left but guts- tiny parts, so much less than the sum. ~ Gayle Forman,
613:I find it much easier to write comic-books than lyrics actually because it's a natural dialogue. Writing song lyrics is not natural but over the years I know what I need to know to get it done. I find it quite easy to capture a character and use my own personality and humour. ~ Scott Ian,
614:I am a big Brian Eno fan - the first few Brian Eno records are just absolute gibberish and he came up with a lot of lyrics by writing down loads and loads of random sentences and streams, and I find meaning in that music, even though he'd probably say it's absolute gibberish. ~ Jay Watson,
615:I try to write lyrics that will be able to function on their own if they get separated from the music. But I wouldn't want to take anything away from poets, who work without the frames songwriters get from melody, and I think lyrics should be considered as their own thing. ~ John K Samson,
616:Music is very nebulous, and you can conjure up a lot of moods with music. But lyrics - they're a lot more tangible. They're much more specific. And you want to say something meaningful and creative and artistic and that tells a story and that takes people someplace else. ~ Sarah McLachlan,
617:He doesn't make it so complicated but just really allows the lyric to come through even though there's a lot of production going on. I think that's the key and that's the magic, it's making sure that people could still connect with the lyrics while they're on the dance floor. ~ Deborah Cox,
618:Only two to three per cent of an audience is interested in words and pays attention to lyrics; most of the rest of it is about image or the beat or the sound, or else it's a tribal thing - country & western, rap, heavy metal, with historical folk rock off in some kind of cult. ~ Al Stewart,
619:'Built This Pool' was an idea that I had for a song starting several years ago, and as we were in between takes of recording something, I was actually holding a guitar at the time, and I played this silly thing, and sang the lyrics to 'Built This Pool' kinda in the background. ~ Mark Hoppus,
620:I didn't come in and say: "I'm a singer." I came into the band as a second guitar player and a vocalist, but not the songwriter. I had been writing poetry for years, so I sort of had the nature of the words. I felt like no one else could sing my lyrics, so I took a crack at it. ~ Paul Banks,
621:I'm particularly attuned to lyrics, and very often a bad set of lyrics will ruin a song for me, while my friends will be just grooving on the music. I don't mean that it has to be about anything in particular, but there has to be some art applied to it, simple or otherwise. ~ Bruce Cockburn,
622:Whatever opinion may be formed of the extent of his dissipation in Dumfries, one fact is unquestionable, that his powers remained unimpaired to the last; it was there he produced his finest lyrics, and they are the finest, as well as the purest, that ever delighted mankind. ~ Thomas Carlyle,
623:You can find me in the melodies, the chord progressions, the song style and structure. The lyrical places you fine me most are in the lyrics that 'show' more than 'tell.' I like to describe what the listener is seeing and let them make up the middle rather than telling them. ~ Kristian Bush,
624:I remember the first show I had there were about 3 people, at least there was somebody. The next one was about 30. Then a couple years later there were 300 people and before I knew it there were 3,000... Then one day, I opened my eyes and there were 300,000 singing all my lyrics. ~ Lady Gaga,
625:When I'm writing songs, I write visually. When I'm writing the words down and I listen to the melody and the lyrics, I start seeing the video form. And if I can get through a song and from the beginning to the end have the whole video in my mind, I think that's a great song. ~ Christian Kane,
626:I lean forward, pressing my lips to his, and it breaks me open. His hand leaves my face and traces notes up my arms, strikes chords on my throat and up into my hair. His mouth forms lyrics that expose my soul.

The kiss is like a song played only once. And forever. ~ Katherine Longshore,
627:... that same hardware and tackle shop his dad got lost in for hours while Kache waited in the truck, writing lyrics on the backs of old envelopes his mom kept in the glove compartment for blotting her lipstick. Kache had written around the red blooms of her lip prints. ~ Ser Prince Halverson,
628:Where else can you go with respect to the work, lyrics, and message of the music? If you are past high school age, you can get by with saying very little the first or second time around. However, after a while you know you are going to have to say something beyond high school stuff. ~ Chuck D,
629:So, some of the most difficult formal poems that I've written, say one sentence sonnets, I've been able to do those fairly quickly whereas some of the clearest, simplest lyrics that I've written have taken me the longest to get to the clarity of feeling that you're looking for. ~ Edward Hirsch,
630:As a kid, I was always listening to music. I would just go in to my room and put on an album, read the lyrics, and just spend hours and hours in there. Plus, my sister Laurie played piano (in fact she taught me my first few notes) so music was always around one way or another. ~ Andrew Hollander,
631:If I said in one of my songs that my English teacher wanted to have sex with me in junior high, all I'm saying, is that I'm not gay, you know? People confuse the lyrics for me speaking my mind. I don't agree with that lifestyle, but if that lifestyle is for you, then it's your business. ~ Eminem,
632:Tonight the song you always despised strides from the jukebox full-bodied and you hear the lyrics for the first time, understand the lyrics for the first time after all these years. This new you with an older soul. Now it's your favorite. All this time singing the wrong words. ~ Colson Whitehead,
633:Walt Disney was a great believer in the use of song to convey story. He was primarily a storyman & story-driven songs were his 'pets.' He always asked what was going on with the song - he hated 'singing heads.' He loved learning about character & motivation thru music & lyrics. ~ Richard Sherman,
634:Do you realise,’ the phytolinguist will say to the aesthetic critic, ‘that they couldn’t even read Eggplant?’ And they will smile at our ignorance, as they pick up their rucksacks and hike on up to read the newly deciphered lyrics of the lichen on the north face of Pike’s Peak. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
635:I never sit and fill a journal with lyrics. Most of the time I'm trying to write a feeling, not a story. I'm not necessarily trying to describe the details of a place or event so much as the feeling of the thing. It is a kind of weird alchemy that is elusive until it feels right. ~ Matt Berninger,
636:The thing that kills me is all these bands that use huge words in their lyrics, 'I'm swimming in a vortex of apathy.' I'm like, 'What?' I don't walk up to a friend and go 'That's a stylin' looking vortex of apathy you've got there pal. I was swimming up a river of deceit myself.' ~ Devin Townsend,
637:During those first rehearsals, the five of us started working up a new song together based on some lyrics I had brought with me in a notebook from Seattle. The song became “Paradise City,” and it started to gel in those few days before our Troubadour show and the trip up to Seattle. ~ Duff McKagan,
638:The nature of making music and making art, what motivates me is that it's interesting. It's interesting to listen, to really listen to other people's point-of-view. Take in their work. Listen to the way they sing. Listen to the way they write lyrics. What they are trying to express. ~ Emily Haines,
639:This is Lovecraft's best terrible story. It is so artificial...and so overblown...and so ludicrous...that it slithers-through tiramisu-rich prose that might as well be heavy metal lyrics ("a wolf-fanged ghost that rode the midnight lightning")-all the way to the summit of high camp. ~ Kenneth Hite,
640:When I was younger, I was terrified to express anger because it would often kick-start a horrible reaction in the men in my life. So I bit my tongue. I was left to painstakingly deal with the aftermath of my avoidance later in life, in therapy or through the lyrics of my songs. ~ Alanis Morissette,
641:When you're dealing with a constant rhythm, no matter how great your lyrics are, if you don't switch it up, people's heads are going to start bobbing. And they're going to stop listening to what you're saying, so consistently keep the ear fresh and keep the audience surprised. ~ Lin Manuel Miranda,
642:I think music is an intuitive force. It's this beautiful wave that connects all of us and inspires us, and I think music has the ability - when you listen to a song, you're not immediately thinking about the lyrics or what's going on in the mind of the writer, you're feeling the song. ~ Serj Tankian,
643:My role is almost a sight-gag. I have to be a woman to sing the lyrics "I am a man" to have it be a joke. I start the lyric in a male-register and a whole coloratura up into a soprano. And other points in the show... like the guy who likes to be treated like a baby and wear a diaper! ~ Max von Essen,
644:We've played it [Milquetoast] a million times. When you play a song that much you sort of become disconnected with the lyrics. It's just another song essentially about people's opinions and being told how to live your life even though they may have less life experience than you have. ~ Page Hamilton,
645:Applause is interesting, but I'm a monster with or without it. Something is either well written or it isn't. 'White Rabbit' is not well written, and no amount of applause or royalties can convince me it is. I could have done a better job with those lyrics. They didn't say what I wanted. ~ Grace Slick,
646:Mallory started up the engine and fiddled with the radio, finally settling on an old Nirvana song. Something about a mulatto and an albino and a mosquito. The lyrics made absolutely no sense, but hearing a familiar song pulled me back into my everyday world and made me feel better. ~ Karen McQuestion,
647:New York City was the most awesome place on Earth.
I loved the energy, the noise, the very living and breathing pilse of it all. The rough edges of its hurried citizens only added to the appeal. If you can make it there, you can make it everywhere. Song lyrics as fact. Art as life. ... ~ T Torrest,
648:When you go through tragedy, you can either let that destroy you and you become bitter and never let it go, or you can let it make you stronger and let it make you grow. And that's what I did. My lyrics are coming from a place that I want people to relate to and feel that they're not alone. ~ Amy Lee,
649:The only music minister to whom the Lord will say, 'Well done, thy good and faithful servant,' is the one whose life proves what their lyrics are saying, and to whom music is the least important part of their life. Glorifying the only worthy One has to be a minister's most important goal! ~ Keith Green,
650:A more detailed world is a more complicated and complex one, and therefore a more empathetic one. I feel Gord's Downie lyrics are exceptionally empathetic, or that's what they accomplish. The fact that they can cross all those cultural cliques and boundaries really amplifies that, to me. ~ John K Samson,
651:I scrutinized the lyrics to every worship song, debated the content of every sermon. I rendered verdicts regarding the frequency of communion and the method of baptism. I checked the bulletins for typos. In some religious traditions, this particular coping mechanism is known as pride. ~ Rachel Held Evans,
652:I should attempt to write a love song, I have written lots of poetry about love so I could turn those into lyrics. I'm a sucker for romance - always have been, always will be. I love walking down the beach and listening to my iPod and belting them out. What would we do without love songs? ~ Drew Barrymore,
653:Jiyong hyung's mind can go wild and think a lot of things. This was my first time writing my own lyrics so I only thought about myself, but Jiyong hyung won't do that. He'll think, 'Ah, this type of rap suits T.O.P., this part suits Seungri.' That's how he writes lyrics, but I can't do that yet. ~ Seungri,
654:Rock 'n roll smells phony and false. It is sung, played and written for the most part by cretinous goons and by means of its almost imbecilic reiteration and sly, lewd, in plain fact, dirty lyrics ... manages to be the martial music of every side-burned delinquent on the face of the earth. ~ Frank Sinatra,
655:I finish a lot of lyrics while I'm in the water and it's always pretty constructive for me to get out in the water. I'm not actually writing the words down, but I have time to think about words, and doing a lot of surfing usually gives me a little space and peace of mind to finish things up. ~ Jack Johnson,
656:I had this perverse gravitation towards using a terrible cliché sandwiched in between absurd non-clichés because I thought it gave the cliché a new resonance. It kills me when my lyrics are misquoted, but as long as people are quoting them right, I don't care what anybody has to say about them. ~ Paul Banks,
657:I think we need to sort of broaden our definition of poetry, which maybe it's a good thing that they just gave this Nobel Prize to [Bob] Dylan because blurring the lines of song lyrics and also hip-hop for me is like some of the greatest uses - most innovative uses of language in my lifetime. ~ Jim Jarmusch,
658:When you write a song it's sometimes in a desperate moment whn you can't really articulate it. What I love about lyrics is what T.S. Eliot said: 'Good poetry is felt before it is heard.' I'm a believer in that. It's those moments when you sit yourself down, and talk to yourself in the mirror. ~ Marcus Mumford,
659:I was surrounded by silence and Tristan was music.
So much music.
All the time.
Streaming in my eardrums 24-7. Serenading me when I was awake. Lulling me to sleep.
Tristan was the soundtrack of my summer. The beat I walked to. The melody I breathed in and out. The lyrics I lived by. ~ Jessica Brody,
660:Remind me again what's wrong with Dave Matthews?" "Basically everything, except technical proficiency," Walter said. "Right." "But maybe especially the banality of the lyrics. 'Gotta be free, so free, yeah, yeah, yeah. Can't live without my freedom, yeah yeah.' That's pretty much every song. ~ Jonathan Franzen,
661:I always write knowing that people will hear it, but also hoping they'll see it. So a lot of times I make lyrical decisions based on what looks better. Also I write based on what I saw for a video. I obsess over lyrics in the hopes that they'll endure in different ways. I'm very precious about it. ~ Boots Riley,
662:I could crawl inside the lyrics and know each note intimately. They would claw at my soul, until I could no longer fight the emotions that took me to a place I couldn't experience. But, it was the possibility that made every verse a heart filled prediction and every beat a direction to follow. ~ Shannon L Alder,
663:Sometimes it's binge eating as a method to handle emotional pain. I'll also write very sporadically - music, lyrics - to identify the problem. There are a few cathartic processes I've alternated randomly. There's no default. Each emotional experience elicits a different, possibly new response. ~ Brendan Dooling,
664:Poetry is music though, unfortunately, not all music is poetry. Because music has other carriers to take its message - beats, lyrics, singers, bass players - anyone in music can rise to make a major statement but in poetry there are only words to do the work. And they do sometimes have to sweat. ~ Nikki Giovanni,
665:I finish every show with this song, because it means so much to my heart. It holds a lot of my soul within the lyrics, and always reminds me of a time when I once loved a boy… And for a few breaths, a few whispers, and a few moments, I think he loved me, too. Here’s Sam Smith’s ‘Life Support. ~ Brittainy C Cherry,
666:Too many times you come across lyrics that sound like you've heard them before or you can't really relate to them. And I think that I write songs that sound fresh and sensual in kind of a layered, lush way. But I also think that they are real, and that's why I wanted to call the record 'Inside Out.' ~ Emmy Rossum,
667:I think the whole concept behind lyrics is you better mean what you say, or you should like, become a storyteller. I mean, there's a lot of bands who are just storytellers, and then there are bands who actually have something valid to say. And the bands who have valid points are few and far between. ~ Kirk Hammett,
668:My problem was that I felt ashamed of feeling sad or angry. Now, I don't hide my vulnerability in my lyrics. There's no way I was going to get raped and not get something out of it. I learned about power and hope and forgiveness. I like who I am now and I wouldn't be who I am if that hadn't happened. ~ Fiona Apple,
669:I didn't get into Tupac [Shakur] until a little later, once I started understanding rap and people's stories. Eminem was the first rapper that I actually started dissecting the lyrics, and once I got attached to his stories, then I started listening to Dr. Dre, then Snoop 'cause they were all under one camp. ~ Tyga,
670:Like the song "Stereo", to me that's like, kind of hip-hop in that slacker way. There's some slackerisms mixed in with that stuff, but it wasn't really conscious, I guess. When things would get more typical rock'n'roll that was my fallback to go to those kind of lyrics instead of the alternatives. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
671:Many ideas have been transformed by adding one crucial adjective-women's bank, women's music, women's studies, women's caucus. That adjective did more than change a phrase. It implied a lot of new content: child care, flexible work hours, new standards of creditworthiness, new symbolism, new lyrics. ~ Gloria Steinem,
672:I got involved, for the most part, in the actual song construction, lyrics even. I didn't want to write the lyrics, but if there was a howler in there, I definitely pointed it out. Just trying to bring it up to a higher level. Of course, after a couple records, people get fed up with that. That's fine. ~ Michael Gira,
673:The Avalanche," peacemaker Rachel recites, "is very important. It's a privilege to sing it. It's a celebration of our past." Everybody around the table smiles at her.
"Yeah? Well, I've seen how easily the past can get rewritten." I glare at Mr. Oamaru. "Lyrics change. New authors come along. ~ Karen Russell,
674:The process is always the same. I get an inspiration for a new song, I put it down on paper immediately so I won't lose it. When I am ready to go to the studio with it, I play it a few times on the piano and edit, add, and type the lyrics and take it to the studio. Sometimes I don't have anything on paper. ~ Yoko Ono,
675:Wait, that’s your idea? That’s your expert advice? You’re going to tell these novelists to just keep going? You’re going to tell these honest, earnest writers: You gotta have faith? Those are George Michael lyrics, asshole. If they wanted that pep talk, they could just hang out inside a mall elevator. ~ Karen Russell,
676:That was my intention, was to have it be from the perspective of my high-school-aged self, and to try and emulate the music that I listened to at that time. So to write essentially like a pop-punk song about musicals. I wanted the dichotomy of the tone of the music with the lyrics and my singing voice. ~ Laura Benanti,
677:'In My Hands,' the title track, is my very first vocal attempt, and I'm not a singer as such. But I've always wanted to express myself vocally on my albums, and I don't really have much of a capability for singing. The strength is in, I think, the lyrics and just speaking. It just comes from inside. ~ Natalie MacMaster,
678:Remind me again what's wrong with Dave Matthews?"
"Basically everything, except technical proficiency," Walter said.
"But maybe especially the banality of the lyrics. 'Gotta be free, so free, yeah, yeah, yeah. Can't live without my freedom, yeah yeah.' That's pretty much every song. ~ Jonathan Franzen,
679:It's not just the lawlessness. It's the grabbing of a myth and making it theirs, like a reggae singer dropping new lyrics 'pon di old version. And if a western needs an O.K. Corral, an O.K. Corral needs a Dodge City. Kingston, where bodies sometimes drop like flies, fits the description a little too well. ~ Marlon James,
680:You can't expect to be the same person you were three years ago. Some people expect you to be and can't come to terms with the fact that if a year has elapsed between LPs, that means one year's worth of changes. The material consequently is affected by that, the lyrics are affected by that... the music too. ~ Jimmy Page,
681:The lyrics seem to follow the music, and that's usually how I write. I write more about what comes out of my mouth while I'm writing the chords, and that seems to work better than filling up notebooks of what I think is really cool poetry, and try to put it on a song. That usually sounds like it's taped on. ~ Gary Louris,
682:And he sang each of the lyrics stutter free, his words clear and strong. Hidden tears built in my eyes as I listened to his deep, rough voice singing the hauntingly appropriate lyrics. My strong, hard fiancé, who could only communicate by song or sign, paralyzed by the spoken word, so perfect in my heart. So ~ Tillie Cole,
683:My brain instantly traveled back to my parents’ dining room table. I’d sat there every morning with my brain-storming notebook—my father’s idea—and I would do my homework or write song lyrics or journal on something I’d seen on the news. That was back when I’d been sure I was going to change the world. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
684:MYTH #2: ROMANTIC LOVE IS THE ONLY REAL LOVE Look at the lyrics of popular songs, or read some classical poetry: the phrases we choose to describe romantic love don’t really sound all that pleasant. Crazy in love, love hurts, obsession, heartbreak … these are all descriptions of mental or physical illness. ~ Dossie Easton,
685:None of this information deterred Joseph Kennedy. He engaged Freeman and Watts to perform a lobotomy on Rosemary. She was kept awake for the procedure as they asked her to recite the lyrics to simple songs like “God Bless America” and the months of the year. They kept cutting until she became incoherent. ~ Jennifer Wright,
686:The most recent incarnation of [Bob] Dylan has been the traveling journeyman/ charlatan who sings roots music, snarls dark lyrics that make "All Along the Watchtower" sound like a Disney tune, hosts an old-school radio show, and turns up in some unusual places, like ads for Chrysler and Victoria's Secret. ~ Jay Michaelson,
687:I think I'm just now startin' to get to the point where fans are startin' to respect my grind, and respect my lyrics and things that I'm gettin' into, and they see the hunger in me, and they know that I wanna become the best, and I'm just tryin' to prove myself. I feel like it would be a letdown if I stopped now. ~ Bow Wow,
688:My way of communicating with God as a boy (and often even now) was through the lyrics of a song. . . . So I didn't have the problem some people do who say, "I don't know how to pray." I used the songs to communicate with God. . . . To me, songs were the telephone to heaven, and I tied up the line quite a bit. ~ Johnny Cash,
689:Every song has a different genesis, or feeling. Usually the lyrics, I don't really know what it's all about, I just kinda do it. I mean, there's a combination of, like you're saying, that kind of lyrics about commitment or vaguely relationship lyrics mixed with jokey 90s Beck-style non-sequiturs and stuff. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
690:Other memories stick, no matter how much you wish they wouldn’t. They’re like a song you hate but can’t ever get completely out of your head, and this song becomes the background noise of your entire life, snippets of lyrics and lines of music floating up and then receding, a crazy kind of tide that never stops. ~ Sara Zarr,
691:I liked old time music but what i meant by that was the period from the 1930s through the 60s, nothing before and little after.
 Performers like fats waller, Sinatra, billie holiday, louis armstrong, rosemary clooney, ella, sammy Davis Jr, dean martin... If the lyrics weren't stupid. Words were important. ~ Jeffery Deaver,
692:It makes no difference if you’re rich or poor Or if you’re smart or dumb. A woman’s place in this old world Is under some man’s thumb, And if you’re born a woman You’re born to be hurt. You’re born to be stepped on, Lied to, Cheated on, And treated like dirt. —Sandy Posey, “Born a Woman” Lyrics by Martha Sharp ~ Stephen King,
693:Sadly, people boycotted me, and I don´t even have internet access permanently right now, and i am pretty much ruined... Incase you didnt forget about me, I live in Lore Kullmer Straße 3, Rainsboro (Regensburg), Appartment Roth/ Bülbül. Happy Birthday too btw. Greetings, the Guy from the tshirt/ the lyrics one. ~ Taylor Swift,
694:I mean, there's an aspect I've always said that is - it's, you know, it's not poetry but it's kind of like it. It's not song lyrics but it's kind of like song lyrics. It's not rap but it's kind of like rap. And it's not stand-up comedy but it is kind of like stand-up comedy. It's all those things together. ~ Quentin Tarantino,
695:I was going on this desert adventure with some friends and we were like, "How amazing would it be to just drag all these mirrors out there?" A lot of times I do things as an impulse and find out my inspirations afterward. Even with songs and lyrics, it can take me years to find out what I was actually trying to do. ~ Lykke Li,
696:The only thing I can think of is my favorite album at the moment by this guy called Father John Misty, and the album is called I Love You, Honeybear. It's just brilliant. It's the album I'm currently obsessed with. It is original, and the lyrics are fantastic and [it's] brilliant. So that's blowing me away. ~ Daniel Radcliffe,
697:I can only answer one question at a time, you know,” she said. With remarkable dignity, considering. “I am hanging my head over to hear the wind blow. I never did get that bit in the lyrics. Who hears the wind blow when they hang their head over? Hang their head over what? What does that even mean? Do you know? ~ Thea Harrison,
698:Blackburn thought that any band that believed it's lyrics were crucial was kidding itself. Kids out on Saturday night wanted to drink, dance and yell "WOOOO!" and have sex with somebody. They didn't want to hear a bad poet bare the angst in his tortured and immature soul. They could go to college for that shit. ~ Bradley Denton,
699:In the early '90s, it felt like there was space - there was like an empty feel. There was nobody really doing this. Maybe the Pixies were, a little bit. Their lyrics were also disjointed, more psychosexual or something. That's part of youth, too, maybe, that you just feel like you're doing something different. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
700:One of the nice things about being in a band is that you depend on each other for ideas, so it's not all up to me to do everything myself. There's always that fear that you'll run out of stuff. The most difficult part for me is writing lyrics, and that starts to get difficult after you've written, like, 120 songs. ~ Dean Wareham,
701:I never felt Irish. I always felt, ‘I’m English, this is where I come from, and that’s that.’ Because you’d be reminded of that when you went to Ireland: ‘Ye’re not Oirish!’ the locals would say. So it was like, ‘Bloody hell, shot by both sides here.’ I still love that Magazine song – so relevant to me, those lyrics. ~ John Lydon,
702:Two records put me over the top with hip-hop. One of them was 'Planet Rock,' and the other had no lyrics - it was called 'Numbers,' from a group called Kraftwerk. Every kid in the 'hood in New York and New Jersey was popping, locking, and breaking to that record. It was the hottest track on the street at the time. ~ Queen Latifah,
703:From a very young age, music was very much in my house. I would sit with my mom, with the old LPs, listening to The Beatles and Carly Simon and Lionel Richie. The old LPs used to have the lyrics. From there, I would put on dance and music displays for my family, just to entertain them and make people laugh and smile. ~ Lara Pulver,
704:I will say it's great - that Method Man - Cliff Smith - plays a rapper in a laundromat who is working out some lyrics sort of to the rhythm of a washing machine. And something about hip-hop culture and hip-hop is the ability to use current language and slang and reference details of life is very, very strong for me. ~ Jim Jarmusch,
705:My forte is playing along and singing along to music I love. I mean, who knows, maybe I could develop that knack or develop that ability to write, and I do actually co-write with people and friends, which is fun, too, because then I don't have to worry about writing lyrics, because for me writing lyrics is impossible. ~ Petra Haden,
706:Poetry and song lyrics might want us to believe that finding love is like uncovering buried treasure, but now I know the truth. There’s no joy or celebration in love. There are no happy endings. There is simply me and her and a crushing pain. What’s left after that? An entire life of mute should-haves and second-bests. ~ Erica Cope,
707:Songs, and songwriting keeps me inspired, moving forward. I tend to scribble down notes, lyrics or just random thoughts on pieces of paper, backs of cigarette packs, sometimes on my shirt cuff. Rock n’ roll is closest thing I’ve got to a spiritual power. It’s been the higher voice in my life and it’s never let me down. ~ John Waite,
708:It's more like you write what comes to you... You try to reflect the mood of the songs. Take 'Rearviewmirror', we start off with the music and it kinds of propels the lyrics. It made me feel like I was in a car, leaving something, a bad situation. There's an emotion there. I remembered all the times I wanted to leave. ~ Eddie Vedder,
709:While 'Rap Trax!' recorded, Neel found some scrap paper and we started writing our first lyrics. Bandying about subject matter and title, we got stuck on the idea of 'cool', so my first rap song became 'Pretty Cool'. It was a symbol of our confidence. We weren't awesome cool or mega cool. We were only... pretty cool. ~ Nikesh Shukla,
710:Music is very transporting. I'll hear a song for the first time and I rarely listen to the lyrics. I picture that song playing as a soundtrack to a movie, or even just in the background of someone's life. This all sounds weird, but I have an active imagination, and music opens the floodgates of that area of my brain. ~ Josh McDermitt,
711:I think me, Sean Bonnette and Laura Jane Grace, and a lot of the bands people feel that way about, we're just really honest in our lyrics. I think we got really lucky in that the right kind of people who would appreciate that heard us at the right time, because there are plenty of people that are honest in their lyrics. ~ Jeff Rosenstock,
712:The lyrics stand today (1980). They're still my feeling about politics. I want to see the plan. I want to know what you're going to do after you've knocked it all down. I mean, can't we use some of it? What's the point of bombing Wall Street? If you want to change the system, change the system. It's no good shooting people. ~ John Lennon,
713:I don't think I ever wrote a song. I can write a lot of jokes, but when I try to write lyrics they're the most direct, non-figurative words, like, 'I like you, I like you,'... and that's it, for the whole song. People would go, 'Ooh, this guy's Dylan or something.' It gives me a lot more respect for songwriters, actually. ~ Demetri Martin,
714:Lately I haven't been able to write for the guitar - it'll usually start out with a melody on the bass, and I'll layer vocals. I just can't really physically hear the guitar anymore, so I'll just go into GarageBand and play around with the keys. I'll sit on a melody or some lyrics for a really long time and just play with it. ~ Sarah Jaffe,
715:That's what loce is, Ben. Love is sacrifice. I got this tattoo the day I felt that kind of love for your father. And I chose it because if I had to describe love that day, I would say it felt like my two favourite things, amplified and thrown together. Like my favourite poetic line mixed into the lyrics of my favourite song ~ Colleen Hoover,
716:Sometimes it's nice to be able to reflect on the music itself and then write lyrics that I feel anyone can relate to. It's not my dreaming tree that is dead. The feeling of a loss of hope is universal. There are moments that we've all felt a little bit of it, so I don't think it is something that is too hard to identify with. ~ Dave Matthews,
717:This was the dream: sitting in the passenger seat of Joseph Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi, the odor of a crash clinging to Ronan’s clothing, the white dash lights carving Kavinsky a gaunt and wild face, foully seductive lyrics spitting from the speakers, the vein-covered peaks of Kavinsky’s knuckles on the gearshift between them. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
718:What I envy about musicians is, they have this more direct relationship with the audience. They don't have to go through words. Sure, the lyrics count, but they go more immediately into your brain. There's so much more work you have to put in as a writer - not just with the actual book, but how it's packaged and everything. ~ Jeff VanderMeer,
719:All the way out I listen to the car AM radio, bad lyrics of trailer park love, gin and tonic love, strobe light love, lost and found love, lost and found and lost love, lost and lost and lost love—some people were having no luck at all. The DJ sounds quick and smooth and after-shaved, the rest of the world a mess by comparison. ~ Lorrie Moore,
720:I'm not big on trying to label it [my rap] or trying to prove people otherwise. I'm just making records that I like and that I wanna make. I'm just making records that relate to me and that relate to my life. If you listen to what I'm saying I'm not talking about anything that isn't my life. I take pride in having truthful lyrics. ~ Mike Stud,
721:She would talk to him in the car, ask him something, then turn on the radio and find her question answered by the lyrics of a song; pick up a book and turn to a random page, to find the words that were exactly what she needed to hear. There is no such thing as coincidence, she would think, blowing a kiss of thanks to the heavens. ~ Jane Green,
722:Two people, two hands, and two songs, in this case "Big Shot" and "Bette Davis Eyes." The lyrics of the two songs provided no commentary, honest or ironic, on the proceedings. They were merely there and always underfoot, the insistent gray muck that was pop culture. It stuck to our shoes and we tracked it through our lives. ~ Colson Whitehead,
723:If you take text and image and you put them together, the multiple readings that are possible in either poetry or in something visual are reduced to one specific reading. By putting the two together, you limit the possibilities. Text and image don't always work together in the way music and song lyrics become part of each other. ~ Richard Hell,
724:In writing lyrics - well, for me, anyway - it's about getting into character, you know? 'Who is writing this?' In the case of the original 'Thick As A Brick,' supposedly a precocious, very young child who's fantasizing about his future and the context of all the confusing elements to which school boys are subjected at that time. ~ Ian Anderson,
725:I wanted to be an artist after all, and my teachers told me these were the best authors the 20th century had to offer. But these books sucked. They were so boring and sloppy and plotless. And Bob Dylan's lyrics seemed nonsensical to me - almost like he had just gotten high and written down whatever random thoughts occurred to him. ~ Simon Rich,
726:Music is poetry, babe. Each note is a word that’s uniquely crafted to go with the next note. For me, the only way it gets better is if you put that to lyrics. You take them apart, any good song tells a story separately, through the music and through the lyrics. What makes it grab you by the balls is when you put them together. ~ Kristen Ashley,
727:That's what love is, Ben. Love is sacrifice... I got this tattoo the day i felt that kind of love for your father. And I chose it because if I had to describe love that day, I would say it felt like my two favourite things, amplified and thrown together. Like my favourite poetic line mixed into the lyrics of my favourite song. ~ Colleen Hoover,
728:His most influential song, “Matchbox Blues,” popularized an image that had first appeared in one of Rainey’s lyrics and would be recycled by everyone from Billie Holiday to Sam Cooke, Carl Perkins, and the Beatles: “I’m sitting here wondering, will a matchbox hold my clothes / I ain’t got so many matches, but I’ve got so far to go. ~ Elijah Wald,
729:Nature gets credit which should in truth be reserved for ourselves: the rose for its scent, the nightingale for its song; and the sun for its radiance. The poets are entirely mistaken. They should address their lyrics to themselves and should turn them into odes of self congratulation on the excellence of the human mind. ~ Alfred North Whitehead,
730:Sometimes an idea from six years ago will come to me out of the blue. And maybe I haven't even seen the lyrics I wrote down, but I'll just have this physical memory of having written it, and in my mind I can see the piece of paper, and the words I wrote down, and then by muscle memory, I'll remember the chords that go along with it. ~ Ryan Adams,
731:Way back in the day, when I first started and had delusions of adequacy as a cartoonist, I would listen to music. When I switched to a career as a writer, I would try to listen to music, but if the songs had lyrics they would get in the way of the words I was trying to write. So I switched to listening to purely instrumental pieces. ~ Alan Moore,
732:I'm more honest in my lyrics than I am in anything else. It's where I feel the most safe to express myself. I write about growing up, my family, Maddie and getting pregnant. If I've lived it, why wouldn't I talk about it? I guess that's been the coolest thing - realizing that it's OK to just be myself and really tell my story. ~ Jamie Lynn Spears,
733:I told Bernie Taupin that his best lyrics were for Song For Guy just because it doesn't have any words in it. But there you go... I'm a wind up! But a good Elton song for karaoke is I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues... "laughing like children, living like lovers, rolling like thunder under the covers..." Everyone can join in! ~ Matt Lucas,
734:There is a diverse meaning to the lyrics as well. A lot of the stuff I write is from a personal level but is not really anything that I care about if people get or not so I write alot of the stuff as metaphors based in Viking mythology and Viking History which is sort of my main interest in life and sort of my main atmosphere in life. ~ Johan Hegg,
735:she would miss something important. The letters drained her. The lyrics put her to sleep. The novels produced migraines. The poetry could not be penetrated. She wrote back twice a week, without fail, because if she neglected her youngest by even a day or so, she could expect a torrent of abuse, a four-pager or maybe a five-pager with ~ John Grisham,
736:The objectification of females is not a good thing! Not every rapper does this, but when the lyrics focus solely on the strip club, 'poppin' bottles' and how many girls they can 'tap,' it distorts what kids are learning. I think if there was more of a female presence in hip hop we could break up the monotony. It's all about balance. ~ Queen Latifah,
737:There's lots of bands where somebody will write lyrics and somebody else will sing them. It works for a lot of people, but that feels weird to me. I don't mean this in a bad way at all but it just feels fake.. I guess in my heart of hearts, whether the person has a good voice or not I want [the songs] to come from them. I don't know why. ~ Frank Iero,
738:The unconscious does not coo sweet lyrics or unroll immaculate and measured prose, it howls and raves like the shackled and tortured beast that our civilization has made of it, and when the fetters are momentarily loosened the unconscious does not thank the ego for this meagre relief, but hisses, spits, and bites, as any wild thing would. ~ Nick Land,
739:Legions of young hip-hop fans are as against this as hip-hop's most fierce critics. There is a huge underground movement within hip-hop circles that against these representation. You can hear this message on tons of lyrics and rap songs produced by independent emcees. But they are fighting against a well-oiled and well-financed machine. ~ Bakari Kitwana,
740:The blood ran in tiny rivulets down his white face, as if from Christ’s Crown of Thorns, his long blond hair flying out as he turned full circle, his hand ripping at his shirt, tearing it open down his chest, the black tie loose and falling. His pale crystalline blue eyes were glazed and shot with blood as he screamed the unimportant lyrics. ~ Anne Rice,
741:I'm totally into Taylor Swift. I think she has super-clever lyrics, and I love that she writes her own music. Some of the themes she writes about are stuff I wish was there for me when I was in high school, and I'm so happy she really cares about her female fans. She's not catering to a male audience and is writing music for other girls. ~ Kathleen Hanna,
742:I love lyrics. I've always been averse to the straight lyric idea. I guess a big part of it is, that songs that are literary always turn me off. Because they feel so abstract. Like a song. What is a song? We have to remember what the function of a concert and the function of playing a song for people are. It's all become really abstracted. ~ Ian Svenonius,
743:Lay your head upon the snow," he sings, uncertain at first, but with more confidence as he loses himself in the lyrics.
"Lay sorrow in the ice. For all that once was calm, sweet child, will belong to you tonight. Lay your heart upon the snow. Lay your tears in the ice. For all that once was still, sweet child, will belong to you tonight. ~ Sara Raasch,
744:I saw that something changed in terms of the way I approach writing. I don't know. Before, everything was just sort of pieced together; and more and more nowadays I'll have complete songs - chords, lyrics, a melody - and we'll apply to those songs what we feel is required. That has happened much more on Humbug album than on any of the others. ~ Alex Turner,
745:I wanted to make a record with a twist. I wanted to prove that you could make a record that concentrated on song craft but that was still fun, something you could listen to and love and even dance to, but not hate yourself in the morning. I think I did that. Most of my lyrics come from my own personal journals that I have kept over the years. ~ Stella Soleil,
746:I was just thinking of Rush. I went to see Rush a few years ago, because my record label guy in the States really wanted to go. We had crazy good seats. It was fascinating watching the crowd - mostly men - who were so moved by these really esoteric lyrics. I don't know Neil Peart's lyrics super well, but they're not that straightforward to me. ~ Sarah Harmer,
747:I don't think that my lyrics are over-laced with profanity, because I myself don't speak using a lot of profanity in normal conversation. But I think when you're making something aggressive and you need to get a point across, if you're angry, sometimes profanity is necessary. It's better to use a curse word than to hurt somebody else, I find. ~ Marilyn Manson,
748:When I'm playing music I'm usually not thinking of surfing, just because I'm usually thinking about the chords and the lyrics, and sometimes that messes me up 'cause you'll start thinking, "Wait, how am I doing this?" But when I'm surfing, I'm usually thinking about music - whether it's an idea for a new song, or just singing a song in my head. ~ Jack Johnson,
749:Church kids took seats around him on the ground. “What else do you have?” “Well,” said Serge, putting his left shoe back on. “There’s Casey Kasem’s American Top Forty. You know where the oldest lyrics ever to be heard on his show came from?” Heads shook. “Book of Ecclesiastes.” He stood. “Adapted for the Byrds’ mega-hit ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!’” “Cool. ~ Tim Dorsey,
750:I have a structured songwriting process. I start with the music and try to come up with musical ideas, then the melody, then the hook, and the lyrics come last. Some people start with the lyrics first because they know what they want to talk about and they just write a whole bunch of lyrical ideas, but for me the music tells me what to talk about. ~ John Legend,
751:I've just really been into melody and lyrics and songwriting. Writing a rap, to me, is easy. I could write a rap like that. But writing songs and melodies and s**t that's hopefully going to stick around for 30, 40 years is f**king hard...If you have good songs and you're talented, people will eventually come to your shows, people will buy your music. ~ Kid Rock,
752:I love when rappers have a off-beat, very abstract timing, and he certainly did.And any rapper who really approaches rapping with the art form of songwriting melodically - I know a bunch of rappers who actually go in before they write the lyrics and come up with the melody. And you can hear and feel that difference so much when that's the case. ~ Solange Knowles,
753:Although I have guitars all around and I pick themm up occasionally and write a tune and make a record, I don't really see myself as a musician. It may seem a funny thing to say. It's just like, I write lyrics amd I make up songs, but I'm not a great lyricist or songwriter or producer. It's when you put all these things together - that makes me. ~ George Harrison,
754:Add the hippie-rock-drugs atmosphere circa 1970, and you get Clinton's rechristened group Parliament, decked out in weird costumes, singing cosmic lyrics and laying down amazing funk lines - also lines of other kinds. One observer describes Maggot Brain ... one of those guys with super technique that took a lot of acid and just went out from there. ~ Eddie Griffin,
755:Strangely enough a lot of my ideals are christian in a sense but I don't like the way that religion is portrayed in America but, I think, the album "Antichrist Superstar" really expresses, when you look at the lyrics it expresses, how I feel. I mean it's based in individuality and, strength and believe in yourself, believe in, you're your own god. ~ Marilyn Manson,
756:When I have just sat down and tried to write the lyrics of a song, usually about half of it sounds like bullshit. I just have to go away from something and come back to it again later. I do a lot of editing and switching around and putting little pieces together to get the right mood and personality, and it takes me forever to get a song finished. ~ Matt Berninger,
757:I couldn't listen to music with lyrics for the first few months after the brain surgery, because they were too complex and disturbing. So I listened to a lot of classical music. I didn't really want to read, either, so I listened to books on tape or watched movies. I also re-taught myself all of my childhood piano pieces. It helped me repair my brain. ~ Rosanne Cash,
758:The song was about a girl who didn't fit in and she didn't care and she was different than everyone else. I think there's a long chorus of me singing "Do do do do do do do do do do". It's very young and I look back and it's kind of interesting to hear those kind of storylines and the lyrics that I used to write compared to the lyrics that I write now. ~ Taylor Swift,
759:I never really liked the lyrics or the sameness of the music. It always seemed to have the same rhythm or whatever. But when it turned a little more rock, I kind of liked it. I like what Kid Rock did to country. I like all the modern, new stuff that's coming out, and it just so happens that my boyfriend is not a country player, but he was a rock musician. ~ P J Soles,
760:I really enjoy writing lyrics, I enjoy harmonies and I enjoy hearing the organic side of production because I have to do so much non- organic for a living for other artists, it's just a break for me, for my ears and it confuses people that think my music is supposed to sound like the stuff I do for my day job, but that's just people that don't know me. ~ Butch Walker,
761:It makes no difference if you're rich or poor
Or if you're smart or dumb.
A woman's place in this old world
Is under some man's thumb,
And if you're born a woman
You're born to be hurt.
You're born to be stepped on,
Lied to,
Cheated on,
And treated like dirt.
-Sandy Posey, 'Born a Woman'
Lyrics by Martha Sharp ~ Stephen King,
762:It's rare that I'll write lyrics first. If I come up with some good lyrics, I'll write them down and try to use them later. If I come up with a song title, sometimes I'll write a song based on that. Sometimes, I'll make a whole band out of it. I don't really have a process, per se. I just keep going and going and going. Every free minute I have I'm working. ~ Rob Crow,
763:When you're younger and a little more innocent, you write whatever [lyrics] comes naturally. But as you get used to writing you try to steer the sound and music to different music and throwing in the "kitchen sink" of sorts into the music. With that way, you end up putting in much more than before and you could even make much more next time around. ~ Steve Lips Kudlow,
764:I didn't know how write a song, (verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, bridge, verse), etc., and I didn't know how to write lyrics, so that's when I thought, well, I don't have to write a song with all those verses and choruses or lyrics. I can just sing everything the way I want to. So I sang all the instruments with my voice and just went with it. ~ Petra Haden,
765:It turned out so well because it was the first album that I could identify with in terms of lyrics. ("Captain Fantastic") It was passionate...I could associate myself with every song...It's a unique album in our history. This was the story of us..."Curtains", the lyrics to that are so beautiful because it sums up our friendship so much, and our relationship. ~ Elton John,
766:Writing a song is like - you're writing a song all the time. It's just when it pops out. It's been there all the time. It's not something that suddenly you do it. It's always there. Suddenly, it's in the right mixture inside you to come out. Usually when you're writing on the piano or a guitar, you don't write in lyrics, on their own. To me it's very boring. ~ Mick Jagger,
767:I was sick of the way my lyrics had been extrapolated, their meanings subverted into polemics and that I had been anointed as the Big Bubba of Rebellion, High Priest of Protest, the Duke of Disobedience, Leader of the Freeloaders, Kaiser of Apostasy, Archbishop of Anarchy, the Big Cheese. Horrible titles any way you want to look at it. All code words for Outlaw. ~ Bob Dylan,
768:Growing out of the housing projects and ghettos on the West Coast in the 1980s, gangsta rap made the gritty reality of gangs, violence and drugs central features. And law enforcement took note. In a 2006 article distributed to prosecutors, an F.B.I. analyst recommended looking for rap lyrics when searching homes and jail cells because of their potential as leads. ~ Anonymous,
769:When I'm in Los Angeles, it's hard to be creative. For me, New Orleans is one of those places that's like a muse. You can hear music on the streets. There's a certain character the city has that inspires you when you're needing to write lyrics and come up with melodies and come up with rhythm and blues. The city has a pulse and it's an inspiration for me. ~ Chris Thomas King,
770:Sure there are people who do everything "I do my own beats, my own lyrics, my own mixing, my own mastering, my own art, my own booking, my own managing, my own merch" it's like... ya that sucks, it can't be very good for you, and might be why you aren't getting ahead because you really need to focus on the music where others should be focusing on those other aspects. ~ Grieves,
771:I guess I could be singing about Superman, or about Zarathustra coming down from the mountain, but in my mind I was singing about Julian Assange. I wish I could say that Nietzsche inspired my lyrics but all I can honestly say is I was inspired by the graphic design of these '70s paperback covers for Beyond Good & Evil and The Birth of Tragedy and The Gay Science. ~ Dean Wareham,
772:Just because I said lyrics are a sign of the inability to sing doesn't mean....A) I believe that, or B) I don't think they're cool. They are cool. Words are great. I sing along with my favorite songs, but when I am drumming and singing, the words become a note that for me. In the process of playing they have more emotional impact as notes then an actual word. ~ Brian Chippendale,
773:I thought Everything Ecstatic was the happiest of them all - hence the "ecstatic" name. The whole concept behind that was total out-and-out euphoric mania. I think tracks like "Smile Around The Face" are the jolliest things I've ever done, really. But one of the things I like about my music is the fact that it's instrumental, so there are no lyrics to guide people. ~ Kieran Hebden,
774:Nature gets credit which should in truth be reserved for ourselves: the rose for its scent, the nightingale for its song, and the sun for its radiance. The poets are entirely mistaken. They should address their lyrics to themselves and should turn them into odes of self-congratulation on the excellence of the human mind. ~ Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the Modern World (1925),
775:Eleanor hadn't written him a letter. It was a postcard. GREETINGS FROM THE LAND OF 10,000 LAKES it said on the front. Park turned it over and recognized her scratchy handwriting. It filled his head with song lyrics. He sat up. He smiled. Something heavy and winged took off from his chest. Eleanor hadn't written him a letter, it was a postcard. Just three words long. ~ Rainbow Rowell,
776:I never try and force-feed any song idea or lyrical message. It's really what's on my mind and what comes out of me. And a lot of these lyrics are metaphors for specific life situations that I've been through, and in most cases, the struggles. Something about human beings wearing sadness heavily on their sleeve inspires me to make something uplifting about the situation. ~ Aaron Bruno,
777:The lyrics just come out, and I don't know where from. I'm an incredible failure in relationships. I think there's a romantic ideal that I'm aspiring for. I don't know. The lyrics are always about unsuccessful relationships. They're not all about the love between a man and a woman. It's about friendship and family. Deep down there's a lot of talk about general existence. ~ Chris Martin,
778:In my neighborhood - West 121st Street in New York, "white Harlem" - there were only two drugs: smack and marijuana. By the time I was 13, some friends and I were using marijuana fairly regularly. The Reefer Madness myth was still very strong then, but I'd been into jazz and those lyrics included so many casual references to pot that it was completely demystified for me. ~ George Carlin,
779:"The way I feel about music -- any song, any style -- is that there is no right and wrong, only true and false. If the music and lyrics are conceived out of honesty and if the production of the song goes along with its original message, then what has been expressed is art, regardless of what anyone's opinion is of it. So things are a lots impler if you just tell the truth. ~ Fiona Apple,
780:Although it's pretty rare that I'll get completed, finished lyrics to a song and feel like it's done, and then decide that it's not worth doing. Usually, I can tell along the way - even if it's something I've been working on for a couple of months - that it's just not going to work. Maybe I'll come back to it a few months or even a year later, or maybe it's just gone. ~ John Britt Daniel,
781:I am committed now to one thing: lyric sequences. I want the intensity of lyric, but the scope and arc of narrative. so, I think I'll just write sequences for the foreseeable (the Beloved sequence doesn't have a 'plot' so I can just keep adding poems to it, it's like a giant bag I can just put beloved lyrics into - I think there are about 300 of them i've published by now). ~ Gregory Orr,
782:So when you're talking about lyrics in the context of music, it's not just about what the words mean, and what you were thinking about when you wrote it. It's not cognitive in that same way. It's almost like music turns words into touch, which is hard to describe, like the feeling of your shirt on your back. It's a pretty delicate thing to try to put into words. You just feel it. ~ Mirah,
783:The new stuff’s brilliant,” I volunteer somewhat hesitantly because I really, really don’t want him thinking that I’m trying to kiss his arse, but to my amazement he wrinkles his nose and seesaws his hand. “You don’t like it?”
He shifts slightly. “No, it’s fine. It’s just sometimes it gets a bit uncomfortable singing lyrics that seem to be an ode to my sister in law’s vagina! ~ Lily Morton,
784:I never sit down to write. When I'm moved, I do it. I just wait for it to come. You just hear it. I can't really describe writing. It's in my head. I don't think about the styles. I write whatever comes out and I use whatever kind of instrumentation works for those songs...A lot of people don't listen to the lyrics, really. A lot of people pretty much only listen to the chorus. ~ Lenny Kravitz,
785:We, Autolux band, write in very different ways; sometimes we play with the band and write music first and then form vocal parts and lyrics. Or I'll find some music, or a guitar part or something, and I'll just write an entire sketch of an idea from that. So I think things have always been that way, it's just that this time around we had some more obstacles off and on all the time. ~ Carla Azar,
786:The most profound voice of any musician I have ever heard. Joe (Strummer) took his message to the world, and the world listened. He managed to influence more than one generation with his innovative and determined manner, and I am not alone in repeatedly turning to his thoughts and lyrics when searching for inspiration. The Clash was the greatest rock band. They wrote the rule book for U2. ~ Bono,
787:Music blows lyrics up very quickly, and suddenly they become more than art. They become pompous and they become self-conscious ... I firmly believe that lyrics have to breathe and give the audience's ear a chance to understand what's going on. Particularly in the theater, where you not only have the music, but you've got costume, story, acting, orchestra. There's a lot to take in. ~ Stephen Sondheim,
788:Everybody has their own way of hearing songs. My fans are usually pretty on point. Sometimes they go all the way to the bottom of it. It's fascinating to me how far an idea can go. I wrote most of my first album in my mom's kitchen, and now I can go around the world and hear people recite those lyrics, and understand the story, even though they're not from the same area I grew up in. ~ Kendrick Lamar,
789:I spent a fair amount of time editing the lyrics and allowing the song to kind of evolve. ... anytime there's anything worthwhile, it certainly 'feels' like it happened on the spur of the moment, but it's a composite of lots of spurs of the moment, hopefully. And over time, you catch up with those, and then you have a full set of lyrics you've thought of and you feel comfortable singing. ~ Jeff Tweedy,
790:Music is poetry, babe. Each note is a word that’s uniquely crafted to go with the next note. For me, the only way it gets better is if you put that to lyrics. You take them apart, any good song tells a story separately, through the music and through the lyrics. What makes it grab you by the balls is when you put them together. I didn’t have a lot of beauty in my life. Found it in that. ~ Kristen Ashley,
791:Cause I am strong and I can prove it And I got my dreams to see me through It's just a mountain, I can move it And with faith enough there's nothing I can't do And I can see the light of a clear blue morning And I can see the light of brand new day I can see the light of a clear blue morning And everything's gonna be all right It's gonna be okay [lyrics from "Light of a Clear Blue Morning"] ~ Dolly Parton,
792:Love is a hollow word which seems at home in song lyrics and greeting cards, until you fall in love and discover it’s disconcerting power. Depression means nothing more than the blues, commercially packaged angst, a hole in the ground; until you find it’s black weight settled inside your mother’s chest, disrupting her breathing, leaching her days, and yours, of colour and the nights of rest. ~ Jerry Pinto,
793:We'd appraise each other, in the provisional way that lovers do, by attaching great depth and significance to the provisional. How, after all, do you "know" anyone? You take in certain physical and emotional characteristics that you've aestheticized, ignoring the facts. You listen to what a lover has to say, taking in the erotic music of their sound, their timbre, while dismissing the lyrics. ~ Dionne Brand,
794:I never wrote completely in that style again. Once the record was released, I heard all the Dylan comparisons, so I steered away from it. But the lyrics and spirit of "Greetings" came from an unselfconscious place. Your early songs emerge from the moment when you're writing with no sure prospect of ever being heard. Up until then, it's been just you and your music. That only happens once. ~ Bruce Springsteen,
795:Death growls mostly bore me. Who
wants to hear the Cookie Monster?
Sing your fucking lyrics. Put some
emotion behind it.”
And Ghost’s usual retaliation.
“Aw, I’m sorry. Do you need a hug,
emo boy? You know, you might
want to cross your legs. Your
vagina is showing.”
“Suck my dick.”
“I know you’d like that, but
Candace would have to return it
“Burn! ~ Cherrie Lynn,
796:Have you ever heard somebody sing some lyrics that you've never sung before, and you realize you've never sung the right words in that song? You hear them and all of a sudden you say to yourself, 'Life in the Fast Lane?' That's what they're saying right there? You think, 'why have I been singing 'wipe in the vaseline?' how many people have heard me sing 'wipe in the vaseline?' I am an idiot. ~ Ellen DeGeneres,
797:We had to sit in this courtroom in Reno for six weeks. It was like Disneyworld. We had no idea what a subliminal message was - it was just a combination of some weird guitar sounds, and the way I exhaled between lyrics. I had to sing 'Better by You, Better Than Me' in court, a cappella. I think that was when the judge thought, 'What am I doing here? No band goes out of its way to kill its fans'. ~ Rob Halford,
798:As a song writer when I first was aware of the Beatles and started, you couldn't avoid hearing it, not that I, I tried. And what, what struck me was not so much the songs or the part of the songs that, that seemed unique to me were, was more melodic at the beginning than, than the lyrics because they were still talking about, you know, I love you, I don't love you and I need you or don't need you. ~ Jeff Barry,
799:I think, then, there's the sort of, like, political dimension to lyrics. One of the problems that I've had with my output as a lyric writer is that I look back at it and there's some turn-of-phrases and some images and some kind of montage-y kinds of things I'm really proud of. But it kind of bums me out that people have told me again and again that they don't really understand what I'm trying to say. ~ J Robbins,
800:Kiss Across Time," she read. Well, that fit with the lyrics and Domhnall words. Domhnall lived through years of threat from enemies., the invasion of his country and the loss of his culture. His stories and epic poems were all full of death, glory, love, battles, dying and more... or would be, if she had ever been able to catch more than a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, in research terms. ~ Teal Ceagh,
801:Far back in the impulses to find this story is a storyteller's belief that at times life takes on the shape of art and that the remembered remnants of these moments are largely what we come to mean by life. The short semihumours comedies we live, our long certain tragedies, and our springtime lyrics and limericks make up most of what we are. they become almost all of what we remember of ourselves. ~ Norman Maclean,
802:Fuck Tris. I would give body parts to have a guy write something like that for me. My kidney? Oh, both of them? Here, Nick, they’re yours—just write more for me. I’ll give you a start: boy in punk club asks strange girl to be his girlfriend for five minutes, girl kisses boy, boy kisses back, boy then meets girl—what did you notice about this girl? Nick, let’s hear some lyrics. Please? Ready. Set. Go. ~ Rachel Cohn,
803:I've never heard of any one single artist being the subject in an ongoing series of radio programs for decades. Bearing this in mind, that's the kind of thing Frank Sinatra brings out in his audience, his followers. It's personally satisfying to me because his music by and large was the greatest quality of lyrics, melody, orchestration and, of course, his magnificent approach to telling a story. ~ Frank Sinatra Jr,
804:I was a geek who thought I was cool. I didn't hang out with a particular clique, but with different people from different cliques. I was a total nerd, trying to fit in. Luckily, I found music and that was my niche. That sorta took me out of my geekdom. I was never invited to parties as a teenager - I turned up with the popular people. That's where the lyrics to 'Guilty By Association' came from. ~ Chester Bennington,
805:using the content you teach to take all kids, not just inner-city kids, outside their own narrow band of experience is critical. This means challenging them with ideas outside their experience. Pandering to kids by substituting lyrics for lyric poetry or referring to a corpus of movies for examples of literary devices instead of a corpus of novels is easy in the short run but insufficient in the long run. ~ Doug Lemov,

You don't see me
Blind to the real me
I'm not who you think I should be
But I can't be someone I'm not
I'll try to be who you need,
what you need,
I fail again
tear me, cut me make me bleed
If it opens your heart to me
Just don't leave me with nothing
less than nothing
Like the last time
use me
It's better than existing without you
~Sed's lyrics ~ Olivia Cunning,
807:With lyrics for me, it's usually musically-based. It's not really poetry- or writer-based. It's rock-based. It doesn't mean that I'm aping rock lyrics, but I'm writing from a music standpoint. I'm thinking more of music heroes, if they're in my mind. Not William Blake or John Ashbury. Sometimes maybe I thought of him a little bit. Or Wallace Stevens. I don't even really fully understand either of them. ~ Stephen Malkmus,
808:Usually I will hear a sample, think of a theme and then it will take me a couple of days to write down some lyrics. Then I will decide that I hate those lyrics and rewrite. Then I will change all the music around. Then I will rewrite all the lyrics again. I am a bit of a perfectionist although you would never know it because all my songs are like chopped up and @#$%& up, but you see that's on purpose. ~ Princess Superstar,
809:Life is beautiful and life is stupid. As long as you keep that in mind, and never give more weight to one than the other, the history of the galaxy, the history of a planet, the history of a person is a simple tune with lyrics flashed on-screen and a helpful, friendly bouncing disco ball of glittering, occasionally peaceful light to help you follow along. Cue the music. Cue the dancers. Cue tomorrow. ~ Catherynne M Valente,
810:Every word after that had been unintelligible, dissolved in amplification. Blackburn rather enjoyed that. He thought that any band that believed its lyrics were crucial was kidding itself. Kids out on Saturday night wanted to drink, dance, yell "Wooooooo!" and have sex with somebody. They didn't want to hear a bad poet bare the angst in his tortured and immature soul. They could go to college for that shit. ~ Bradley Denton,
811:Here’s to the people who try their hardest to be good enough for everyone; who spend hours reading random quotes to find the right one; who listens to the same song dozens of times because the lyrics mean a lot; who deserve so much more than they get and are willing to fight for it; and those who wished upon a star, wasted on someone that will never care; and to all the beautiful people who feel lonely in their heart. ~ Unknown,
812:I'm not the kind of guy who walks around with a notebook writing lyrics. For me, melody and song structure come first and foremost. Unless the melody gets stuck in my head, I'll move on. Once I have the musical idea pretty firm, I just try to write words that are incredibly honest and relate to my life on that given night. I'll sit with the music on my headphones and pen and paper all night long until it's done. ~ Cary Brothers,
813:When she awoke there was a melody in her head she could not identify or recall ever hearing before. 'Perhaps I made it up,' she thought. Then it came to her - the name of the song and all its lyrics just as she had heard it many times before. She sat on the edge of the bed thinking, 'There aren't any more new songs and I have sung all the ones there are. I have sung them all. I have sung all the songs there are. ~ Toni Morrison,
814:As the book writer for one big smash and one big smelly flop, I always wondered if anyone knows just what goes into making a great musical. When a show is a hit, the critics trip over themselves not knowing who to laud and applaud the loudest. It's that marvelous score, those urbane lyrics, that irreplaceable star. But only when a show is a flop, does anyone notice the book writer. And then it's always our fault. ~ Harvey Fierstein,
815:What a gulf between impression and expression! That’s our ironic fate—to have Shakespearean feelings and (unless by some billion-to-one chance we happen to be Shakespeare) to talk about them like automobile salesmen or teen-agers or college professors. We practice alchemy in reverse—touch gold and it turns into lead; touch the pure lyrics of experience, and they turn into the verbal equivalents of tripe and hogwash. ~ Aldous Huxley,
816:He fell in love with Manhattan's skyline, like a first-time brothel guest falling for a seasoned professional. He mused over her reflections in the black East River at dusk, dawn, or darkest night, and each haloed light-in a tower or strung along the jeweled and sprawling spider legs of the Brooklyn Bridge's spans-hinted at some meaning, which could be understood only when made audible by music and encoded in lyrics. ~ Arthur Phillips,
817:Panties can go. I like the socks, though.”
Ever so slowly, she pulled one tie and then the other and tugged until the panties fell from her body.
“Seeing you naked is like being really hungry when you go grocery shopping. I want to rush and devour every inch of your body even when I know I’d be better off going slowly.”
“You’re really good at this stuff.”
“Advance warning, a lot of this stuff goes into lyrics. ~ Lauren Dane,
818:My reaction to Radiohead isn't as simple as jealousy. Jealousy just burns; Radiohead infuriate me. But if it were only that, I wouldn't go back and listen to those records again and again. Listening to Radiohead makes me fell like I'm a Salieri to their Mozart. Yorke's lyrics make me want to give up. I could never in my wildest dreams find something as beautiful as they find for a single song - let alone album after album. ~ Dave Matthews,
819:One of my oldest friends from Kansas, his sister was married to Ben [Folds] and wrote lyrics on his first couple of albums. I got to meet him the first time I saw them in concert at The Bottleneck, a great bar in Lawrence, Kansas. Then, he was the musical guest my first or second week as a writer on SNL. I was like, "I don't know if you remember me?" And he was like, "Oh my god, yeah!" He's a big photography fan, as am I. ~ Jason Sudeikis,
820:If a thing can be said in ten words, I may be relied upon to take a hundred to say it. I ought to apologize for that. I ought to prune, pare and extirpate excess growth, but I will not. I like words—strike that, I love words—and while I am fond of the condensed and economical use of them in poetry, in song lyrics, in Twitter, in good journalism and smart advertising, I love the luxuriant profusion and mad scatter of them too. ~ Stephen Fry,
821:It's impossible to initiate a rational dialogue with someone about beliefs and concepts if he has not acquired them through reason. It doesn't matter whether we're looking at God, race, or national pride. That's why I need something more powerful than a simple rhetorical exposition. I need the strength of art, of stagecraft. We think we understand a song's lyrics, but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
822:Someone has to really like you to go out there and physically get your CD. Shout out to everybody who actually paid for the CD. A lot of people don't realize that's how we live, that's our job. When we people take music from us, that's just like taking food off of our table and it's not cool. It's a lot of blood, sweat and tears that goes into the music and those lyrics. To have people just go and steal it, it doesn't feel well. ~ Ginuwine,
823:Technology offers the illusion of companionship without the demands of intimacy, and communication without emotional risk, while actually making people feel lonelier and more overwhelmed.

“A song that became popular on YouTube in 2010, ‘Do You Want to Date My Avatar?’ ends with the lyrics ‘And if you think I’m not the one, log off, log off, and we’ll be done.’ ”

from a review of Alone Together by S. Turkle ~ Michiko Kakutani,
824:Cause I am strong and I can prove it
And I got my dreams to see me through
It's just a mountain, I can move it
And with faith enough there's nothing I can't do

And I can see the light of a clear blue morning
And I can see the light of brand new day
I can see the light of a clear blue morning
And everything's gonna be all right
It's gonna be okay

[lyrics from "Light of a Clear Blue Morning"] ~ Dolly Parton,
825:Sometimes, even when I'm writing the lyrics, I'm not sure what I'm getting at, but then months will pass and I'll listen to it and I'll understand it completely. I think I trust myself in that most of what comes out of me will be honest. Even if it seems like it doesn't make a lot of sense, I realize that it does. It's hard to follow, and maybe there's a lot of subtext to it that nobody knows, so it makes it impossible to follow. ~ A C Newman,
826:If it wasn't for this person's privacy, I'd be able to talk pretty freely about this subject on a personal level. The record's about not her. It's about my struggles through years of dealing with the aftermath of lost love and longing and just mediocrity and just bad news, like life stuff. And in the [record], where the title comes from, the lyrics are actually a conversation between me and another girl, not this Emma character. ~ Justin Vernon,
827:I would never sit and write a song in front of anyone, because you're so vulnerable. I don't know at what point in the process that it becomes acceptable to pass them on. When a song wants to be written, it will be written. When it does come, I will very rarely go back and edit lyrics. I'm quite a rational human being, and the only part of my life that I can't rationalise, or can't make sense of, is how a song gets written or why. ~ Laura Marling,
828:She slowly began to hum her personal favorite,not even realizing when instinctively she began to sing the lyrics:"hush,little baby,don't say a word.If that mockingbird don't sing,papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring.If that diamond ring don't" "Do me a favor.Pretend you're that mockingbird and shut up" one angry,bloodshot eye glared at her. "I was just trying to help" "Help what? bring down the walls of the hut with your screeching? ~ Jill Barnett,
829:Life is the bad
with all the good.

The deadly sharks
with the beautiful sea stars.

The gigantic waves
with the sand castles.

The licorice
with the lemon and lime.

The loud lyrics
with the rhythm of the music.

The liver disease
with the love of a father and son.

It’s life.

Sweet, beautiful,
wind on your face,
air in your lungs,
kisses on your lips.
life. ~ Lisa Schroeder,
830:I want to do a stripped-down album. That style is actually where my heart is - storytelling and just letting the voice and the lyrics talk for themselves. I still want to write the perfect song and sing it in the most honest, undressed way. But I feel like I have to gather more experiences and more layers in my voice. I have to live more to be able to tell this tale. So I'm saving my folk record. I have a feeling nobody will understand it. ~ Lykke Li,
831:The only thing that made the music different was that we were taking lyrics to places they had never been before. The thing that makes art interesting is when an artist has incredible pain or incredible rage. The New York bands were much more into their pain, while the English bands were much more into their rage. The Sex Pistols' songs were written out of anger, wheras Johnny was writing songs because he was brokenhearted over Sable... ~ Legs McNeil,
832:There's a lot of craft in songwriting. The divine inspiration is when the idea comes. It may be a riff. It may be a word. It may be a phrase. It may be a title. Sometimes, in the best of both worlds, that divine inspiration extends through the whole song. I've literally sat down and written a song from beginning to end, almost complete lyrics and everything without ever two minutes. The chorus of 'She's Gone' was like that. ~ John Oates,
833:Dylan's voice was awful, an aged quaver that sounded nothing like the deep-throated or silky R&B that Dad took as gospel. But the lyrics wore him down, until he played Dylan in that addicted manner of college kids who cordon off portions of their lives to decipher the prophecies of their favorite band. Dad heard poetry, but more than that an angle that confirmed what a latent part of him already suspected. This was was bullshit. ~ Ta Nehisi Coates,
834:Love exciting and new, come aboard, hes expecting you. If you listen to the lyrics its all about Jesus. Its a whole new approach to that song. I do that whenever I get into a group of believers, because it gave me - I said, wow, the Lord didnt tell me about that until how many years we were off the air. And its really about Come aboard, Jesus will take care of you. Theres a new love waiting for you. A love that will never let you down. ~ Gavin MacLeod,
835:I think on the first album, my aim was to write a good song and have a good melody, and I wanted lyrics that would connect with as many people as possible. On the second album, I took a lot more of a personal approach. I wasn't trying to make conventional, structured songs; I was really trying to get a lot of emotion and my own personal journey throughout it. I just focused more on being honest than getting the normal song structure down. ~ Emeli Sande,
836:As soon as you start to think of that thing that you want to convey or say, you can always just say it much better than you can actually rhyme it or stuff it into a song. It's very, very difficult to just kind of get your point across without going the back way. And you have to be good at that, to not think about things so hard. Let the pen take over, so that it's somebody else's job to dissect the lyrics and tell you what you're all about. ~ Ariel Pink,
837:Ko Un's poems evoke the open creativity and fluidity of nature, and funny turns and twists of Mind. Mind is sometimes registered in Buddhist terms - Buddhist practice being part of Ko Un's background. Ko Un writes spare, short-line lyrics direct to the point, but often intricate in both wit and meaning. Ko Un has now traveled worldwide and is not only a major spokesman for all Korean culture, but a voice for Planet Earth Watershed as well. ~ Gary Snyder,
838:The band was no Led Zeppelin, but they had smart lyrics, a great drummer and that reckless shine that bands did have, back then, when no one had anything to lose and the fact that you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it big didn’t matter, because throwing your whole heart into this band was the only thing that stopped you being just another futureless dole bunny moping in his bedsit. It gave them something: a drop of magic. ~ Tana French,
839:In the buses all night she listened to transistor radios playing songs in the lower stretches of the Top 200, that would never become popular, whose melodies and lyrics would perish as if they had never been sung. A Mexican girl, trying to hear one of these through snarling static from the bus’s motor, hummed along as if she would remember it always, tracing post horns and hearts with a fingernail, in the haze of her breath on the window. ~ Thomas Pynchon,
840:Have you ever heard somebody sing some lyrics that you've never sung before, and you realize you've never sung the right words in that song? You hear them and all of a sudden you say to yourself, 'Life in the Fast Lane?' That's what they're saying right there? You think, 'why have I been singing 'wipe in the vaseline?' how many people have heard me sing 'wipe in the vaseline?' I am an idiot.” ― Ellen DeGeneres, My Point... And I Do Have One ~ John Jennings,
841:I don't think there are any songs that I've written in the past that I now disagree. It's kind of like tattoos; I would never regret a tattoo, because it was how I felt at that time in my life. I don't think I've ever said anything that I would take back. So far, so good! I would probably change the music, or change how I sing it, maybe do it a little bit cooler, or a bit more grown-up. But I don't think that there are any lyrics that I regret. ~ Emeli Sande,
842:I hope that people can relate to my music, it's very relatable, it's very fun, it's very honest. It's very, very, honest. I know that my fans will probably learn a lot about me by listening to my music, if they really listen to the lyrics. I'm sure they'll learn about a new side to me, it's all very honest, I don't put on any... there's no fake-ness to it, it's very real and I hope my fans can relate to it and that it's enjoyable for all ages. ~ Ariana Grande,
843:But if you like shallow lyrics and easy-to-hum-along-with ditties, then you’re not going to enjoy the Psalms. The Psalms are for folks who have decided that music is an art that requires the discipline of keen thinking and a heart that is right before God. It is music for the mature. It is not a superficial statement. There are a few, of course, that are very popular: Psalms 1, 23, 91, 100, and parts of 119. But for the most part, only the ~ Charles R Swindoll,
844:You really remember the words, don’t you!” Yuki said, genuinely impressed. “Who wouldn’t? I was just as crazy about rock as you are,” I said. “I used to be glued to the radio every day. I spent all my allowance on records. I thought rock ‘n’ roll was the best thing ever created.” “And now?” “I still listen sometimes. I like some songs. But I don’t listen so carefully, and I don’t memorize all the lyrics anymore. They don’t move me like they used to. ~ Anonymous,
845:But if you get a kick out of "The Jerry Springer Show," you're going to love it! The idea of hearing these lyrics and profanities - like the chorus at the top of the show - the idea that we're going to hear it in Carnegie Hall is just genius. It's been written with real care! It's not some crappy little musical that somehow found its way off-Broadway with vulgar-intentions. This is really beautiful, operatic music. It has a place in Carnegie Hall. ~ Max von Essen,
846:I would play all the parts of the song, show them the way it went together. Then I'd basically break down an arrangement - I wouldn't plan endings or beginnings - so they knew everything that was going on. I had the lyrics on a prompter so that I could remember everything I'd written, and I was able to just get into the groove and play with them. I think "Peace Trail" is one of the exceptions, where it's a later take. It just happened really quickly. ~ Neil Young,
847:Originally I had a block about appearing in a musical. I went to a voice teacher for a while, but that did no good. My range is about one and a half notes. I ended up talking the musical numbers, which was revolutionary at the time. The lyrics are extremely intricate. They move along like a precisely acted scene. If you miss a word - heaven help you - the orchestra rattles past like an express train, and you've got to run like the devil to catch up. ~ Rex Harrison,
848:You have to sit with the songs until they start to live. Or do things straight-up spontaneously. I set up a beat just like I do in the live show, add the lyrics that I wrote in thirty minutes - I already had a topic in mind because I had this crazy experience with this girl who was trying to get close to me and it freaked me out because she was really close to another friend of mine, and I thought, "This is a story, I'm gonna make this into a song." ~ Jamie Lidell,
849:I take things a little bit more critically now, like, "What did I think I was saying in that song? What is this song about?" I thought the lyrics were incredibly descriptive, and now they sound really cryptic and weird. I'd like to also think that when I listen to songs from Something About Airplanes that I'm proud of my development as a writer. I don't think I was doing anything poorly at that time, but I can certainly see how my writing has changed. ~ Ben Gibbard,
850:For centuries, European explorers had set out for new lands without using expressions like pharaoh and promised land, New Covenant and New Israel, Exodus and Moses. By choosing these evocative lyrics, the founders of America introduced the themes of oppression and redemption, anticipation and disenchantment, freedom and law, that would carry through four hundred years of American history. Because of them, the story of Moses became the story of America. ~ Bruce Feiler,
851:We are living in a world in which we don't give the young enough reason to live. The temper and the lyrics of a lot of punk music and so on is very, life sucks and then you die, sort of theory. I feel life is cheaper and death is more attractive now than it was when I was an adolescent, as I remember. Suicide was a personal pathology when it was committed. There was no society approval of it, like there certainly is in Palestine and some quarters of Iraq. ~ John Updike,
852:I remember going into a raggedy studio, still with my work uniform on. At the time, I was driving money trucks for Wells Fargo, so I had my gun and hat, which weighed me down in the heat. It was 97 degrees here in New York, and they had to turn the air conditioner off because it was too loud. So, I say, "Damn, it's hot in here!" That's how we came up with the song, "Damn, It's Hot." It was from our soul. We just got together, sang and made our own lyrics. ~ Sharon Jones,
853:Basically my personality, and my talent, and my lyrics are so outstanding that what listeners can tell is that I put so much hard work into what I'm doing because it comes through my music. So I feel that my music for one will get my point across. I write from my heart and my spirit... You know what I'm sayin'? Some people don't know their place, they're just like "Oh I rap because I'm tryin' to get this or that, and I'm doin' this because I want to get money. ~ Lil Mama,
854:Having children, you have so much more structure in your life. The open-endedness of being a single woman is gone, you know? It's sort of like, from 1 P.M. to 3 P.M. the kids are going to take a nap, so now I have time to sit down and write the lyrics, or once they're put to bed, I have a few hours to focus on those things. I need that. It's a very strange process, really - I can never predict what's going to happen. It always feels uncomfortable and awkward. ~ Karen Elson,
855:Life is beautiful and life is stupid. This is, in fact, widely regarded as a universal rule not less inviolable than the Second Law of Thermodynamics, the Uncertainty Principle, and No Post on Sundays. As long as you keep that in mind, and never give more weight to one than the other, the history of the galaxy is a simple tune with lyrics flashed on-screen and a helpful, friendly bouncing disco ball of all-annihilating flames to help you follow along. ~ Catherynne M Valente,
856:Our sense of a composition largely inheres in how we feel about the individual parts; narrative arcs are almost always essential in drama but (unless there are lyrics involved) often less essential in music. All of this is, I suspect, again symptomatic of human memory limitations. We live, to a remarkable degree, in the present; what happened thirty seconds ago is already rapidly fading from our memory (or at least rapidly becomes harder for us to retrieve). ~ Gary F Marcus,
857:People are always asking me what my lyrics mean. Does it mean this, does it mean that, that's all anybody wants to know. F**k them, darling. I say what any decent poet would say if you dared ask him to analyze his work: If you see it, dear, then it's there. ... I think my melodies are superior to my lyrics. ... I was never too keen on the British music press. They've called us a supermarket hype, and they used to suggest that we didn't write our own songs. ~ Freddie Mercury,
858:That's what love is, Ben. Love is sacrifice. I got this tattoo the day I felt that kind of love for your father. And I chose it because if I had to describe love that day, I would say it felt like my two favourite things, amplified and thrown together. Like my favourite poetic line mixed into the lyrics of my favourite song. You'll know, Ben. When you're willing to give up the things that mean the most to you just to see someone else happy, that's real love ~ Colleen Hoover,
859:The Rolling Stones were an inkling towards an appreciation of the unity of music, dance and words. Any of the black R&B people who had a stage show that involved dancing, music and words did the same thing, except that I thought Jagger's words were good, his music was good and his dancing was good. I spoke to him about Blake and tried to get him to sing [William] Blake's The Grey Monk, to use his words as lyrics. He didn't do it. In the end, I did it myself. ~ Allen Ginsberg,
860:The Solar Federation was controlled by a group of “priests,” who are described in Part II of the song, titled “The Temples of Syrinx.” Its lyrics told me exactly where the Crystal Key was hidden: We are the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx Our great computers fill the hallowed halls. We are the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx All the gifts of life are held within our walls. There was a planet in Sector Twenty-one named Syrinx. That was where I was headed now. ~ Ernest Cline,
861:The alley was dark and dingy and I kept thinking Bill Sikes and Fagin were lurking against the dark brick. We reached a grotty pub called the Careless Whisper. I immediately flashed to the old George Michael/Wham! song and those now-famed lyrics where the heartbroken lothario will never be able to dance again because “guilty feet have got no rhythm.” Eighties deep. I figured the name had nothing to do with the song and probably everything to do with indiscretion. ~ Harlan Coben,
862:Imagination is the key to my lyrics. The rest is painted with a little science fiction...All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland...I just hate to be in one corner. I hate to be put as only a guitar player, or either only as a songwriter, or only as a tap dancer. I like to move around...Music doesn't lie. If there is something to be changed in this world, then it can only happen through music. ~ Jimi Hendrix,
863:Sometimes when I'm writing I'll play Cole Porter, just because the rhythms and the lyrics are so perfect that it's like having a smart partner in the room. I have a huge collection of music that I listen to when I'm writing, and I also prepare a lot of music before I start directing. I put it all onto an iPod that I have with me on the set. It's helpful to the actors, because for an emotional scene, I'll play it and say, this is how it feels, to keep us in the zone. ~ Nancy Meyers,
864:Headphones opened up a world of sonic colors, a palette of nuances and details that went far beyond the chords and melody, the lyrics, or a particular singer’s voice. The swampy Deep South ambience of “Green River” by Creedence, or the pastoral, open-space beauty of the Beatles’ “Mother Nature’s Son”; the oboes in Beethoven’s Sixth (conducted by Karajan), faint and drenched in the atmosphere of a large wood-and-stone church; the sound was an enveloping experience. ~ Daniel J Levitin,
865:It was the strange sequence in the opening bars, then it was the voice, then it was the lyrics about fucking like an animal, and the look on his face as he brought his forehead to hers and whispered it to her, staring straight into her soul. Whatever Julia’s religious beliefs and her half-hearted attempts to pray to lesser gods and deities, at that moment she’d believed that she heard the voice of the Devil. Lucifer himself held her in his arms and whispered to her. ~ Sylvain Reynard,
866:Well the artists that inspire me were, first of all I would say Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, John Holt, Alton Ellis, Errol Dunkley, Delroy Wilson and Dennis Brown you know. They have unique voice and sweet melody and you know, good lyrics those time yeh. The music was very nice in that time still seen, because you find that even the musical part, the musicians concentrate more on the melody than everything, more than how they concentrate on the money that time you Know ~ Gregory Isaacs,
867:With lines that show an unyielding dedication to craft, these poems are not afraid of meaning or the meaningful. More and more every day, the thinking American asks how she is to believe in love when there is war all about her, and in each of her deeply felt lyrics, Elyse Fenton confronts this question with the kind of tenderness one lover reserves for another. If every poem is indeed a love poem,Clamor is indeed a debut worth reading and about which we must make noise. ~ Jericho Brown,
868:She hummed to herself because she was an unrivaled botcher of lyrics. When we were first dating, a Genesis song came on the radio: “She seems to have an invisible touch, yeah.” And Amy crooned instead, “She takes my hat and puts it on the top shelf.” When I asked her why she’d ever think her lyrics were remotely, possibly, vaguely right, she told me she always thought the woman in the song truly loved the man because she put his hat on the top shelf. I knew I liked her then, ~ Gillian Flynn,
869:The challenges change depending on the song. There are some songs where the lyrics are really a challenge and then there are other songs where the lyrics are there and the music is a challenge. And then you've got rock songs where the challenge is the tightness of the arrangement with the band. The music and the lyrics are there, but it's a challenge to get the arrangement correct. So I wouldn't be able to point to one thing. What the challenge is changes all of the time. ~ Jonathan Jackson,
870:I can't write from the subconscious actually, because a lot of the time when I co-write with other people, I'm writing for them as opposed to for myself. When it comes to lyrics, I tend to want to give them their voice, since it's most likely going to be on their record, or somebody else's record. And I find for more commerial-style music, people want simplicity, less vagueness, and less space to fill between the lines, so to speak. So I can't be quite as ethereal and mystical. ~ Gary Louris,
871:I've always loved to sing with somewhat vague lyrics so people can have their own interpretation and find their own meaning with it. I've become a bit more comfortable speaking about personal matters within the lyrics, but at the same time, there is an element where I'm not always sure how far I want to take it. There are certain topics that I'm discussing that I haven't explicitly explained to my bandmates. That's just for me to know, and I'm not going to talk about it anywhere. ~ Ed Droste,
872:It was a gross, tasteless thing to say – my brain had been burping up such inappropriate thoughts at inopportune moments. Mental gas I couldn’t control. Like, I’d started internally singing the lyrics to ‘Bony Moronie’ whenever I saw my cop friend. She’s as skinny as a stick of macaroni, my brain would bebop as Detective Rhonda Boney was telling me about dragging the river for my missing wife. Defense mechanism, I told myself, just a weird defense mechanism. I’d like it to stop. ~ Gillian Flynn,
873:"On Script" is one of my favorite songs I've ever written. I'd just been jamming on it one day, and again I was struggling with lyrics. I'm still figuring out what it's about. I've seen a couple of reviews that are like, "It's about the monotony of playing the same songs every night," because I say, "On script every night/Like a well-rehearsed stage show." It's not about that at all, but I find that funny, how people project what they think about me, or songwriters in general. ~ Courtney Barnett,
874:There's no difference between lyrics and poetry. Words are words. The only difference is the people who are in academic positions and call themselves poets and have an academic stance. They've got something to lose if they say it's all poetry; if there's not music to it, and you have to wear a certain kind of checkered shirt or something like that. It's all the same. Lyrics are lyrics, poetry is poetry, lyrics are poetry, and poetry is lyrics. They are interchangeable to me. ~ Van Morrison,
875:The subject matter covered in Carmina stays pretty basic: love, lust, the pleasures of drinking and the heightened moods evoked by springtime. These primitive and persistently relevant themes are nicely camouflaged by the Latin and old German texts, so the listener can actually feign ignorance while listening to virtually X-rated lyrics. (Veni Veni Venias! Come, come come now!)The music itself toggles between huge forces and a single voice, juxtaposing majesty and intimacy with ease. ~ Carl Orff,
876:I can only use my imagination.” Bard shook with laughter. “My, but it makes an amusing picture—and tale.”
“Don’t you dare!” She wouldn’t put it past Bard to make some outrageous ditty of it. His talent for fashioning absurd lyrics was going to drive the more conventional masters at Selium out of their minds.
“There once was a girl from Corsa,” he began, “who rode a big red horsa—”
“Ugh!” Karigan scooped up handfuls of pine needles from the ground and tossed them at him. ~ Kristen Britain,
877:Once you become somebody, that don't mean you distance yourself from people. There is no such thing as no one can walk the streets or go outside. That I will never believe. There might be some fanfare. There might be some paparazzi, but you can control that. All you have to do is maintain the person you were before that when you would tell someone to back up or get out of my way or just stop and address people. Give them what they want. Have a smile, kick a few lyrics, and be out. ~ Michael Bivins,
878:• What unites them is an almost reckless desire to test themselves in the most extreme circumstances. In many respects the life they have chosen is a complete rejection of the hyped, consumerist American dream as it is dished out in reality TV shows and pop-song lyrics. They've chosen asceticism over consumption. Instead of celebrating their individualism, theyíve subjugated theirs to the collective will of an institution. Their highest aspiration is self-sacrifice over self-preservation. ~ Evan Wright,
879:• What unites them is an almost reckless desire to test themselves in the most extreme circumstances. In many respects the life they have chosen is a complete rejection of the hyped, consumerist American dream as it is dished out in reality TV shows and pop-song lyrics. They've chosen asceticism over consumption. Instead of celebrating their individualism, theyíve subjugated theirs to the collective will of an institution. Their highest aspiration is self-sacrifice over self-preservation. ~ Evan Wright,
880:If you can express something in the simplest way possible, I think there's something noble in that. It's easy to flesh stuff out and get all purple with it, being cryptic and wearing masks... I think it's a bit adolescent. I wanted to write in a way that was vulnerable. I wanted to have courage in stripping back the opaque stuff so it was just raw. I like lyrics that are a lifeline, that have a purpose to them and are not just meandering around in a masturbatory way. They cut the page. ~ Yannis Philippakis,
881:My reclamation would be accomplished, like Malcom's, through books, through my own study and exploration. Perhaps I might write something of consequence someday. I had been reading and writing beyond the purview of the schools all my life. Already I was scribbling down bad rap lyrics and bad poetry. The air of that time was charged with the call for a return, to old things, to something essential, some part of us that had been left behind in the mad dash out of the past and into America. ~ Ta Nehisi Coates,
882:I learned another Italian word recently, painstakingly working on the translation of Jovanotti’s lyrics: storia. It means “history,” but it can also mean a relationship. If you say nostra storia, “our story,” that’s like saying “our relationship,” or “our love affair.”
I cast a fleeting glance sideways at Luca and realize he’s looking at me, his eyes the dark blue of the night sky.
Our story isn’t over. It’s not possible. Not so soon, when it’s barely even begun… ~ Lauren Henderson,
883:The lyrics are not an important thing to me. In fact, it can be a distraction. If I knew the language enough to know it was a horrible love song with stupid lyrics - like most of the popular songs are today in the English language that I hear - then it would be much more of a turnoff then if it would allow me to interpret it from the expressive capabilities of the vocalizing or of the sound itself, which allows me to create my own meaning for it, which elevates it into a higher piece of work for me. ~ Alan Bishop,
884:[D]id you ever notice how friendships are a lot like pop songs? They are for girls, anyway. First there's the newness of it, the melody that streams into your head and makes you wonder ― will I like this song? Then come the vocals, what the song's heart truly sounds like, and with it the song's purpose, it's lyrics ― will they say something meaningful about my life? Will these words help me through a difficult time, or create a memory that will make me smile whenever I hear this song again? ~ Brando Skyhorse,
885:Then, lifting me up, his head fell back and he opened his mouth wide. “Once I let Lucy Larson into my heart! I was able to take my sad, shitty song and make it better!” he sung, off key and at full volume. Some of the students around us tipped their beers at him, some broke in during the “Nah, nah, nah,” chorus, and a few looked at him like he was a crazy man.
But I just laughed—I already knew he was crazy. And I loved him for it. “I think that’s called taking creative liberties with the lyrics. ~ Nicole Williams,
886:We've learned over the years that if we wanted we could write anything that just felt good or sounded good and it didn't necessarily have to have any particular meaning to us. As odd as it seemed to us, reviewers would take it upon themselves to interject their own meanings on our lyrics. Sometimes we sit and read other people's interpretations of our lyrics and think, 'Hey, that's pretty good.' If we liked it, we would keep our mouths shut and just accept the credit as if it was what we meant all along. ~ John Lennon,
887:I usually start writing stories from tone and not from content—kind of like people who create music and invent the lyrics later on. I often give this metaphor where I say that writing short fiction is like surfing, while writing a novel is like navigating with your car. So when you navigate with your car, you want to get somewhere. When you surf, you don’t want to get somewhere, you just don’t want to fall off your board. I think the equivalent of balance is tone, so I think tone gives birth to the story. ~ Etgar Keret,
888:Do I start with the lyrics? No. Quite honestly, it's the opposite. I generally get the melody first - I kinda fiddle around on the guitar and work out a melody. The lyrics are there to flesh out the tone of the music. I've tried before to do things the other way around, but it never seems to work. Obviously, I spend a lot of time on my lyrics, I take them very seriously, but they're kinda secondary. Well, equal, maybe. I think sometimes that if you write a poem, it should remain as just a poem, just... words. ~ Iron Wine,
889:Lennon's was one of the first voices I emulated when I began to sing. When we held tryouts in my pal's dad's living room for the singer in our band, I sang a Beatles song that Lennon sang. There is something about the timbre of his voice, something that it conveys, that still gets to me. The quality and the poetry of his lyrics. The wry sense of humor. And the boyishness, in the beginning. There are a great many things that touch me about him... Lennon was, to put it in his own words, a 'working-class hero.' ~ Don Henley,
890:Everywhere, words are mixing. Words and lyrics and dialogue are mixing in a soup that could trigger a chain reaction. Maybe acts of God are just
the right combination of media junk thrown out into the air. The wrong words collide and call up an earthquake. The way rain dances called storms,
the right combination of words might call down tornadoes. Too many advertising jingles commingling could be behind global warming. Too many
television reruns bouncing around might cause hurricanes. Cancer. AIDS. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
891:The Maori mythology of the Haka is ancient Egyptian in origin for that it refers to the Sun god having two wives; the Summer and the Winter maids who obviously act as embodiments of the Solstices. And since the pivotal point in front of the Balance of Giza (i.e. The eastern alignment of Khafre's Pyramid) resembles this dance of war, the crucial movement of the Sun is from the Winter Solstice event upwards to that of the Summer's exactly as the chant's lyrics state and as the circular zodiac of Dendera shows. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,
892:The way I feel about Crunk Feminists. Here you have a bunch of bloggers who are not even quoting any feminists' works who are telling me what I can do better when I've been doing this as my life's work while y'all still in college! What are you talking about? And their criticism was of the idea that we should approach people like Rick Ross and Lil' Wayne with love when they have lyrics that we don't like, as opposed to approaching them with hate. That's their issue: How dare I say I approach Rick Ross with love! ~ Talib Kweli,
893:A good poem is a tautology. It expands one word by adding a number which clarify it, thus making a new word which has never before been spoken. The seedword is always so ordinary that hardly anyone perceives it. Classical odes grow from and or because, romantic lyrics from but and if. Immature verses expand a personal pronoun ad nauseam, the greatest works bring glory to a common verb. Good poems, therefore, are always close to banality, over which, however, they tower like precipices. ~ Alasdair Gray,
894:If you really want me to be safe, maybe it's time."

"I'd just feel safer if you'd start sleeping in a coffin."

Just then my door creaked open.

Billy's expression turned to surprise.

"Get out!" I said, hopping off the bed. "Uh...we are making up lyrics to a song."

But that didn't keep Billy out. Instead he was totally interested.

"You're writing a song? That's so cool. I want to hear it."

"It goes, 'Safer in a coffin, and if your brother doesn't leave, he'll be in one too. ~ Ellen Schreiber,
895:The one good thing about a movie and music and stuff like that: Sometimes it's a counterpoint between the movie and the music itself, the difference and the tension they build together. I think that could be something that helped with me, because when I write songs now, I write lyrics a bit like that. I try to make the music be an interesting twist on the lyrics and help tell the story in a - I don't tell crazy stories, you know? So a lot of times, the twist is in the subtleties. The twist is in the way the story's told. ~ Patrick Watson,
896:We didn’t sing it anymore, my father and I, or even speak of it. After he died, it used to come back to me a lot. Being older, I began to understand the lyrics. At the beginning, it sounds like a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to secretly meet up with him at midnight. But it’s an odd place for a tryst, a hanging tree, where a man was hung for murder. The murderer’s lover must have had something to do with the killing, or maybe they were just going to punish her anyway, because his corpse called out for her to flee. ~ Suzanne Collins,
897:So maybe we never would have realized we were so compatible if we hadn't been trading song lyrics and movie dialogue. That's textbook trivia right there."
Mindy looks unconvinced. "But that's how *everybody* gets together. They find some dumb thing they both know a little about that they can talk about until the waiter brings dinner. According to you, there probably isn't a marriage or a relationship or a friendship anywhere today that wasn't jump-started by trivia."
"I think that's exactly right," I agree. "To trivia. ~ Ken Jennings,
898:The artist sang of dreams and a home. Blake moved slowly with Livia, and she could feel the lyrics vibrating in his chest as he sang softly with the music. Livia tilted her head so she could watch him mouth home. She loved the word on his lips and touched them with her fingertips. Blake stopped singing to kiss her hand. He took his gaze off of Livia to take in the guests surrounding the dancefloor. While the couple danced, the partygoers had lit floating lanterns. Blake and Livia were now surrounded by huge, glowing orbs. ~ Debra Anastasia,
899:You can't ask me to explain the lyrics because I won't do it...I always believed that I have something important to say and I said it. That's why I survived because I still believe I've got something to say. ... I don't like overdubs, never liked them. ... The music business doesn't interest me anymore...Don't the people you're around shape the music, is that what you're saying? Everything does. ... I'm not joking around when I've said occasionally, trying to learn how to play a D chord properly has been a very big thing for me. ~ Lou Reed,
900:As you can imagine, over the years I have been asked many times to discuss and explain my song "American Pie." I have never discussed the lyrics, but have admitted to the Holly reference in the opening stanzas. You will find many interpretations of my lyrics but none of them by me. You will find many “interpretations” of my lyrics but none of them by me. Isn’t this fun? Sorry to leave you all on your own like this but long ago I realized that songwriters should make their statements and move on, maintaining a dignified silence. ~ Don McLean,
901:Horatian Lyrics Odes I, 11.
What end the gods may have ordained for me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know;
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest-'Tis for the best
To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.
If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas;
Strain clear the wine--this life is short, at best;
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-Morrow, snatch To-Day for ease!
~ Eugene Field,
902:That was how we spoke, my mother and I: in puns and games and rhymes. In, you might say, lyrics. This was our tragedy. We were language's magpies by nature, stealing whatever sounded bright and shiny. We were tinpan alleycats, but the gift of music had been withheld. We could not sing along, though we always knew the words. Still, defiantly, we roared our tuneless roars, we fell off the high notes and were trampled by the low ones. And if bitter ices were the consequence, well, there were worse fates in the world than that. ~ Salman Rushdie,
903:Do you remember the fundraiser buffet for the senator at the Yacht Club?” ... “I’d forgotten something in my car so I was outside when you arrived. I saw you driving too fast with the top down and the music too loud. You were belting out the lyrics like you didn’t care who was listening. Then I watched you use the rearview mirror to fix yourself up so you’d look respectable, and when you were all spit-polished and perfect, you gave the mirror the finger.”

She remembered. “You asked me out on our first date that night. ~ Shannon Stacey,
904:It may seem odd to contemporary readers to think of the natural year as a metaphor by which we live. As individuals, we have become far removed from direct participation in the patterns and particularities of the changing seasons. Insulated, air-conditioned, and jet-propelled, we have come to believe that we are largely independent of the earth’s basic rhythms. If we think of the year metaphorically at all, it is as a source of sentimental song lyrics and greeting card verses, rather than as a vital, ongoing ritual that includes us. ~ Henry Beston,
905:Here comes the best part,” I say, realizing that I’ve spoken aloud the words I always tease Haddie for when she announces them at the bridge of the song. The lyrics come and I sing along as the words wash over me, moving me as they always do, bringing goose bumps to my flesh. “There you are, sitting in the garden, clutching my coffee, calling me sugar. You called me sugar.”

“I don’t get it,” Colton says, “Why is that the best part?”

“Because it’s the moment she realizes that he loves her,” I muse, a soft smile on my face. ~ K Bromberg,
906:His eyes fall to my lips, and my mouth runs dry.
His eyes fall to my chest, and it begins to heave deeper than it already was.
His eyes fall to my legs, and I have to cross them, because the way his gaze penetrates my body makes it seem as though he can see right through this dress I’m wearing.
His eyes close tightly, and knowing the effect I’m having on him makes me feel as if there might be a lot more truth to his lyrics than he’d like there to be.
It’s making me feel like I want to be the only man that you ever see. ~ Colleen Hoover,
907:Guthrie is best known for “This Land Is Your Land,” his ballad about the Dust Bowl, which gave farmers in his native Oklahoma an extra kick in the pants during the Great Depression. He set his thoughts about Trump’s rental policies to a song he titled “Old Man Trump.” The lyrics continue with this: Beach Haven ain’t my home! No, I just can’t pay this rent! My money’s down the drain, And my soul is badly bent! Beach Haven is Trump’s Tower Where no black folks come to roam, No, no, Old Man Trump! Old Beach Haven ain’t my home! More ~ David Cay Johnston,
908:With the project where I'm making something with my own name, my main mission statement is honesty. I never want to hold back from what I'm saying for fear of showing it to people. At the same time, I try to take my own personal experiences and problems and wrap them around lyrics that are a little more universal and not naming names. I don't let it get that personal. That's not really a fear of over-sharing, it's just what makes a good song. I want to get people to listen to it and to find a universal aspect of what I'm trying to say. ~ Mikal Cronin,
909:If my songs are being listened to between any other songs, that is awesome, and I'm glad people are getting something out of them. We go to countries like Germany, where I can't imagine that all of my fans are engaging with the lyrics first and foremost. I think they're catching a vibe, a feeling. I consider myself a lyricist first and foremost, but if you get something else out of what I do, that's fine too. I'm not sitting back and telling people how they have to take my stuff. We just want to play music, and hope that people like it. ~ John Darnielle,
910:There’s a song by Nine Inch Nails, called “Hurt.” The lyrics go like this: I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain… the only thing that’s real. It’d be really easy to dismiss this as the ramblings of a morose kid who grew up to become an idol for depressed teenagers, and that’s what most adults do. Kids do dumb shit, and as adults, it’s our job to explain away said dumb shit so that we don’t have to try to understand it. Dumb shit doesn’t require an explanation. It can simply be dismissed, because it’s dumb. ~ Johnny B Truant,
911:True poetry is the perception of human feelings, the voice of the heart, open or hidden. It is the lyrics, compositions, and melody of the relation between humankind, the universe and God, a shadow pinpointing each of the truths we can discern everywhere (from the earth to the stars), a photograph of the creation’s projection cast in our feelings and thoughts and framed through words, a heartfelt tune of our loves and joys played on different strings, and it is a bouquet of our faith, hope, determination, beauty, love, reunion, and yearnings. ~ M Fethullah G len,
912:All the good music has already been written by people with wigs and stuff...Basically what people want to hear is: I love you, you love me, the leaves turn brown, they fell off the trees, the wind is blowing, it got cold, you went away, my heart broke, you came back, and my heart was okay...Modern music is people who can't think signing artists who can't write songs to make records for people who can't hear. Most people wouldn't know good music if it came up and bit them on the ass...If lyrics make people do things, how come we don't love each other? ~ Frank Zappa,
913:I usually start with a guitar riff or some little pattern of chords, and then I kind of go from there. Usually my lyrics are the last thing to go onto a song. For years and years I only ever did instrumental, so I'm still trying to get confidant with my lyrics and find the right balance. I'll generally get inspired from the music. I'll have a guitar line, and then I'll have a melody line, and I hook the lyrics up to fit that rhythm. So, my lyrics to tend be very rhythmic as well. They work with the music rather than the music works around them. ~ Butterfly Boucher,
914:Will sat where he was, gazing at the silver bowl in front of him; a white rose was floating in it, and he seemed prepared to stare at it until it went under. In the Kitchen Bridget was still singing one of her awful sad songs; the lyrics drifted in through the door: "Twas on an evening fair I went to take the air, I heard a maid making her moan; Said, 'Saw ye my father? Or ye my mother? Or saw ye my brother John? Or saw ye the lad that I love best, And his name it is Sweet William?" I may murder her, Tessa thought. Let her make a song about that. ~ Cassandra Clare,
915:Her voice never stops: even when I sleep, it is a shining silver thread running through most of my dreams and all my nightmares, whispering, beseeching, threatening: One word from you is all I want. Just speak one word, and we'll begin. Name, rank, and serial number, perhaps the misquoted lyrics from a popular song: anything will do. From there we'll move with slow cautious steps to gentle verbal sparring, twice-told tales, descriptions of the scarred and darkest places of our old and worn-out souls. I'll love you back; I'll tell you secrets— ~ Dexter Palmer,
916:Elliott was disarmingly bright, according to everyone who knew him, an avid reader of Dostoevsky, Kafka, Beckett, Stendhal, Freud, the Buddha, all of whom destabilized notions of identity. I think he knew how little we know about who we are. The idea comes through in lyrics. “I don’t know who I am,” he says simply; at times he wishes he were no one. He’s a stickman shooting blanks at emptiness, living with “one dimension dead.” He’s an invisible man with a see-through mind. He’s a junkyard full of false starts. He’s a ghost-writer, feeling hollow. ~ William Todd Schultz,
917:Since it was my car, and since I felt confident it would make Marcus miserable, I pushed the Pearl Jam cassette into the tape deck as I got back on the freeway and turned it up. After a couple of tracks, Bas got hung up on trying to figure out the lyrics to “Yellow Ledbetter”—an unattainable goal since they were basically undecipherable sounds with a few words sprinkled in. The song was all feeling, but he was determined. We listened to it over and over, and caught a little more each time. Metaphorically, the song felt perfect for the mission we were on. ~ Veronica Rossi,
918:I used to listen to music from the frosting down. As a word nerd, lyrics are really important to me, and then the melody. Playing in the Rock*A*Teens was the first time I ever heard music from the bottom up. I was hearing songs I'd heard a million times on oldies radio, and I'd be like, "Wow, listen to what the bass is doing!" When I was first singing in bands, I'd just get out there with my machete, wildly whacking away at the foliage. But you learn how to listen. When I feel I'm doing it right, it's 90% listening and 10% output. It's not "look what I can do!" ~ Kelly Hogan,
919:There are more similarities than differences when it comes to preparation of a performance. You're using some lyrics, you have a relationship with them, they apply to different parts of your life and different circumstances, different memories, different stories you have in your head. You form personal relationships with the song. I think that's very similar, in a way, to prepping a character. You pour your own personality, in a sense, into the character, you sympathize with a character in a way that's similar to the way you might sympathize with a song. ~ Scarlett Johansson,
920:Psalm 137 (or for the Second Scrutiny: Psalm 23) R. Let my tongue be silenced, if I ever forget you! By the streams of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. On the aspens of that land we hung up our harps. R. For there our captors asked of us the lyrics of our songs, and our despoilers urged us to be joyous: “Sing for us the songs of Zion!” R. How could we sing a song of the Lord in a foreign land? If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand be forgotten! R. May my tongue cleave to my palate if I remember you not, if I place not Jerusalem ahead of my joy. R. ~ Anonymous,
921:...We may encounter many defeats, but we must not be defeated. That sounds goody two-shoes, I know, but I believe that a diamond is the result of extreme pressure and time. Less time is crystal. Less than that is coal. Less than that is fossilized leaves. Less than that it's just plain dirt. In all my work, in the movies I write, the lyrics the poetry, the prose, the essays, I am saying that we may encounter many defeats - maybe it's imperative that we encounter the defeats - but we are much stronger than we appear to be and maybe much better than we allow ourselves to be. ~ Maya Angelou,
922:I stayed to spy on them. I heard my mother moaning, and crying out for Chris. Then she surprised me. “Momma, where has Momma gone, Chris? It’s been so long since she visited us, months, months, and the twins don’t grow.”
“Cathy, Cathy, my poor darling, stop thinking about the past,” said my grandmother. “Please hold on, eat and drink to keep up your strength. Chris will come to save us both.”
“Cory, stop playing that same tune over and over. I’m so tired of your lyrics. Why do you write such sad songs? The night will end, it will. Chris, tell Cory the day will begin soon. ~ V C Andrews,
923:When I was growing up, I didn't really know much about being popular or cliques or anything like that. In elementary school and middle school, you start to kind of realize what it's all about. There are cool kids, and then there's you, and you're just trying to figure out where you fit in.I learned a lot about acceptance and rejection,Those are the themes that you'll find spread throughout my music and weaved in throughout all of the lyrics. I really know what it's like to be accepted, and I also know what it's like to be rejected. And those are lessons I learned in Wyomissing. ~ Taylor Swift,
924:maybe memories are like karaoke-where you realize up on the stage, with all those lyrics scrawling across the screen's bottom, and with everybody clapping at you, that you didn't know even half the lyrics to your all-time favourite song. Only afterwards, when someone else is up on stage humiliating themselves amid the clapping and laughing, do you realize that what you liiked most about your favourite song was precisely your ignorance of its full meaning- and you read more into it than maybe existed in the first place. I think it's better to not know the lyrics to your life. ~ Douglas Coupland,
925:Or maybe memories are like karaoke - where you realize up on the stage, with all those lyrics scrawling across the screen's bottom, and with everybody clapping at you, that you didn't even know the lyrics to your all-time favourite song. Only afterwards, when someone else is up on stage humiliating themselves amid the clapping and laughing, do you realize that what you liked most about your favourite song was precisely your ignorance of its full meaning - and you read more into it than maybe existed in the first place. I think it's better not to know the lyrics to your life. ~ Douglas Coupland,
926:Maybe memories are like karaoke - where you realize up on the stage, with all those lyrics scrawling across the screen's bottom, and with everybody clapping at you, that you didn't know even half the lyrics to your all-time favourite song. Only afterwards, when someone else is up on stage humiliating themselves amid the clapping and laughing, do you realize that what you liked most about your favourite song was precisely your ignorance of its full meaning - and you read more into it than maybe existed in the first place. I think it's better to not know the lyrics to your life. ~ Douglas Coupland,
927:Ridge: I'm only going to say this once, Sydney. Are you ready? Me: Oh, God. No. I'm turning off my phone. Ridge: I know where you live. Me: Fine. Ridge: You're incredible. Those lyrics. I can't even describe to you how perfect they are for the song. How in the hell does that come out of you? And why can't you see that you need to LET it come out of you? Don't hold it in. You're doing the world a huge disservice with your modesty. I know I agreed not to ask you for more, but that was because I really didn't expect to get what I got from you. I need more. Give me, give me, give me. ~ Colleen Hoover,
928:Talis’s father has a karaoke machine in his basement, and he knows all the lyrics to “Like a Virgin” and “Holiday” as well as the lyrics to all the songs from Godspell and Cabaret. Talis’s mother is a licensed therapist who composes multiple-choice personality tests for women’s magazines. “Discover Which Television Character You Resemble Most.” Etc. Amy’s parents met in a commune in Ithaca: her name was Galadriel Moon Shuyler before her parents came to their senses and had it changed legally. Everyone is sworn to secrecy about this, which is ironic, considering that this is Amy. ~ John Joseph Adams,
929:On a 2013 album Jay-Z, one of the country’s richest and most popular rappers, referenced one Wayne Perry in a song. Perry was a hit man in the 1980s for one of Washington, D.C.’s most notorious drug lords. He pleaded guilty in 1994 to five murders, and received five consecutive life sentences. In an interview with Rolling Stone magazine in 2010, President Barack Obama expressed his affinity for rappers like Jay-Z and Lil Wayne, whose lyrics often elevate misogyny, drug dealing, and gun violence. At the time of the president’s interview, Lil Wayne was imprisoned on gun and drug charges. ~ Jason L Riley,
930:Will sat where he was, gazing at the silver bowl in front of him; a white rose was floating in it, and he seemed prepared to stare at it until it went under. In the Kitchen Bridget was still singing one of her awful sad songs; the lyrics drifted in through the door:

"Twas on an evening fair I went to take the air,
I heard a maid making her moan;
Said, 'Saw ye my father? Or ye my mother?
Or saw ye my brother John?
Or saw ye the lad that I love best,
And his name it is Sweet William?"

I may murder her, Tessa thought. Let her make a song about that. ~ Cassandra Clare,
931:TV is not the “entertainment” medium it is assumed to be. Newspapers and periodicals aren’t either. Pop music is “concerned” music, with lyrics and harmonies unconsciously gauged to the now. Films and plays are simply variants of TV fare. Even the clothes on your back integrate you into the herd unconsciously, if they are “stylish”. Stop and consider if whatever you buy, see, listen to, or do is popular. If it is, it is programmed, and like it or not, so are you. Does all this imply that you stop all activity just because it’s popular? You figure that one out. It should come easily to a Satanist. ~ Anonymous,
932:Adam, though Jewish, was from the north side of Chicago and considered himself a homie, as was evidenced by his low-slung baggy jeans and the insertion of out-of-context Snoop Dogg lyrics into almost every conversation. (I hate the fucking word “wigger” more than I hate anything else on earth, but if I’m being totally honest, that’s exactly what this dude was even though it grosses me out to say so.) He had large, sleepy brown eyes and a slow smile and was the kind of guy who hit on black girls by demonstrating his encyclopedic knowledge of Luster’s Pink oil hair lotion and BET prime-time programming. ~ Samantha Irby,
933:Horatian Lyrics Odes I, 23.
Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn,
That, fearful of the breezes and the wood,
Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn
And on the pathless mountain tops has stood?
Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites-Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake;
Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights,
Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake.
I do not follow with a tigerish thought
Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion's quest;
So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought,
Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast.
~ Eugene Field,
934:Poppy used to share the room with her older sister, and piles of he sister's outgrown clothes still remained spread out in drifts, along with a collection of used makeup and notebooks covered in stickers and scrawled with lyrics. A jumbled of her sister's old Barbies were on top of a bookshelf, waiting for Poppy to try and fix their melted arms and chopped hair. The bookshelves were overflowing with fantasy paperbacks and overdue library books, some of them on Greek myths, some on mermaids, and a few on local hauntings. The walls were covered in posters-Doctor Who, a cat in a bowler hat, and a giant map of Narnia. ~ Holly Black,
935:But what interested me the most about Song of Songs was the fact that it presents us with the longest unmediated female voice in the entire Bible. Where much of the Old Testament seems to regard female sexuality as something to be regulated and feared, Song of Songs unleashes a vivid and erotic expression of woman's desire. In fact, the female perspective so dominates the poem that some scholars believe it may have been written by a woman. So what does this ancient, uninhibited female voice say? To sum it up, she says she's beautiful, and she knows what she wants. (Basically, the lyrics to Beyoncé's next hit.) ~ Rachel Held Evans,
936:Mean girls come in all shapes and sizes. Some are blond cheerleaders, and some are Francophile brunettes who love Tim Burton and write song lyrics on their Converse. It was rarely the hellhounds who said anything mean to me; they expressed no real malice toward me other than the occasional eye roll. They were at the top and had nothing to gain by pushing me around. The ones who scared me, who still scare me, are the girls who see all other girls as competition, who see themselves as the persecuted ones, the ones whom the pretty and popular girls hate. When you believe you're persecuted, you will believe anything you do is justified. ~ Mara Wilson,
937:Robin didn't like that idea very much-Jules spending time with Adam? "I get jealousy too, you know. You used to be in love with him."

Jules turned his head to look at him. "That was before I knew what love really was". He smiled. "When I met you, Robin, God.... I had to redefine everything. You know, there was this country song my mother really liked. It used to annoy me, I was in my technopop phase, but lately I just... I find myself thinking about the lyrics all the time. That was a river, this is the ocean.... I thought I loved Adam, and I did, but... it wasn't even close to this incredible ocean that I feel for you". ~ Suzanne Brockmann,
938:One more thing: the regime is a show that conceals what in reality is chaos. What looks orderly and restrictive is in fact disorganized and inefficient. Obviously, this does not lead to order. On the contrary, people feel acutely lost, in time and space among other things. As everywhere in the country, a person does not know where to go with a particular problem. So he goes to the head of the detention facility. That’s like taking your problem to Putin outside of jail. When we describe the system in our lyrics— I guess you could say we are not really opposed— We are in opposition to Putinist chaos, which is a regime in name only. When ~ Masha Gessen,
939:The way Susannah sings 'The Wind Will Carry Us' is so sad," he murmured.
"Yeah, it really is."
"It makes me think of the way people devote their lives to each other, and then one of them just leaves, or even dies."
"I hadn't thought of it that way," said Jules, who had never understood those lyrics, in particular how a single wind could carry two people apart. "I know this sounds picky, but wouldn't the wind carry them together?” she asked. “It's one breeze. It just blows one way, not two."
"Huh. Let me think about it." He thought briefly. "You're right. It doesn't make sense. But still, it's very melancholy. ~ Meg Wolitzer,
940:Come to me, and I will try to heal you. I will try to heal you, if you but come back,” Sasha sang softly, the melody sweet, the lyrics heartfelt, and it fell from her lips in a husky plea. “Come to me, and I will give you shelter, I will give you shelter, if you but come back,” he added, picking up where she left off. His lips brushed the lobe of her ear, and he felt the shudder that swept from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Her heart galloped, her skin grew damp beneath his, and he continued to chant, making the promise all over again. “Come to me, and I will try to love you. I will try to love you, if you but come back. ~ Amy Harmon,
941:Physiological confirmation of such “filling in” by involuntary musical imagery has recently been obtained by William Kelley and his colleagues at Dartmouth, who used functional MRI to scan the auditory cortex while their subjects listened to familiar and unfamiliar songs in which short segments had been replaced by gaps of silence. The silent gaps embedded in familiar songs were not consciously noticed by their subjects, but the researchers observed that these gaps “induced greater activation in the auditory association areas than did silent gaps embedded in unknown songs; this was true for gaps in songs with lyrics and without lyrics. ~ Oliver Sacks,
942:When I placed the album cover side by side with the screenshot of the game screen, the two symbols matched exactly. 2112’s title track is an epic seven-part song, over twenty minutes in length. The song tells the story of an anonymous rebel living in the year 2112, a time when creativity and self-expression have been outlawed. The red star on the album’s cover was the symbol of the Solar Federation, the oppressive interstellar society in the story. The Solar Federation was controlled by a group of “priests,” who are described in Part II of the song, titled “The Temples of Syrinx.” Its lyrics told me exactly where the Crystal Key was hidden: ~ Ernest Cline,
943:Roderic Quinn
No more will Rod his lyrics sing,
As tuneful as the thrush when Spring
With minstrel voice is calling;
As joyous as the gentle chime
Of bellbirds in the Summertime
From sylvan spires down-falling.
The harp is mute from which he drew
The magic of a music new
Of woods and golden beaches;
Its silent strings tell ne'er again
Enraptured tales of hill and plain
And gleaming river reaches.
But this fair land shall ever be
Indebted to his minstrelsy,
So, written on the portal
Of Art's proud temple, will his name
Go down forevermore in fame
Untarnished and immortal.
~ Edwin James Brady,
944:Without my realizing it, it had happened so slowly, I had moved a generation away from the beach people. To them I had become a sun-brown rough-looking fellow of an indeterminate age who did not quite understand their dialect, did not share their habits—either sexual or pharmacological—who thought their music unmusical, their lyrics banal and repetitive, a square fellow who read books and wore yesterday's clothes. But the worst realization was that they bore me. The laughing, clean-limbed lovely young girls were as bright, functional, and vapid as cereal boxes. And their young men—all hair and lethargy—were so laid back as to have become immobile. ~ John D MacDonald,
945:many ratty Kmart bras I needed to replace with ones that could actually hold my tits up; so many albums with actual liner notes to replace the ones my friends had dubbed for me. Finally, I could read the lyrics to all those Portishead songs I was kind of making up in my head! I wish I could say that I bought some fly shit and a fancy ride, but really I just bought a lot of Gap shirts and name-brand sodas. I’ma assume some broke people are reading this and you know what I mean. I was making it rain dollar bills as I worked my way through the aisles at the Jewel, filling my cart with grape Crush and DiGiorno pizzas and CINNAMON TOAST MOTHERFUCKING CRUNCH. ~ Samantha Irby,
946:You play beautifully,” she told him, although the music was obscurely classical and, because there were no lyrics, unmemorable to her. But the compliment was like a drop of water on the dry wool of his face. His cheeks seemed to soften, color, even swell. “I hope it doesn’t disturb you,” he said. She held out her hand, the thin string of the bakery box looped around her wrist. “Not at all,” she said, although three or four times now she had hung on her husband’s arm to keep him from banging the broom handle against the ceiling. “We enjoy it,” she said. And then, at a loss for a more substantial compliment, she added, “You must have some beautiful piano. ~ Alice McDermott,
947:I let that swim around in my aching head for a few minutes - "the arsenal of megadeath...the arsenal of megadeath" - and then, for some reason I can't quite explain, I began to write. Using a borrowed pencil and a cupcake wrapper, I wrote the first lyrics of my post-Metallica life. This song was called "Megadeth" (I dropped the second "a"), and though it would never find its way onto an album, it did serve as the basis for the song "Set the World Afire." It hadn't occured to me then that Megadeth-as used by Senator Cranston, megadeath referred to the loss of one million lives as a result of nuclear holocaust-might be a perfectly awesome name for a thrash metal band. ~ Dave Mustaine,
948:For this reason, it is essential to create a quiet space in which to evaluate the things in your life. Ideally, you should not even be listening to music. Sometimes I hear of methods that recommend tidying in time to a catchy song, but personally, I don’t encourage this. I feel that noise makes it harder to hear the internal dialogue between the owner and his or her belongings. Listening to the TV is, of course, out of the question. If you need some background noise to relax, choose environmental or ambient music with no lyrics or well-defined melodies. If you want to add momentum to your tidying work, tap the power of the atmosphere in your room rather than relying on music. ~ Marie Kond,
949:I don't really like this song," Emma had said.
"You told me it was your favourite."
"It's beautiful. But it always makes me sad."
"Why, love?" he'd asked gently. "It's about finding each other again. About someone coming home."
Emma had lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him earnestly. "It's about losing someone, and having to wait until you're together in heaven."
"There's nothing in the lyrics about heaven," he'd said.
"But that's what it means. I can't bear the idea of being separated from you, for a lifetime or a year or even a day. So you mustn't go to heaven without me."
"Of course not," he had whispered. "It wouldn't be heaven without you. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
950:So while I drove my little and planned his fantasy night of how I was going to give Otter the key to my soul (his words, not mine), I silently panicked and wrote lines of bad poetry. Normally, I am quite adept at writing poems and lyrics to songs I'l never sing, but this stuff was just atrocious. For example:

I love you
You love me
Thank God for that
I'm so happy

And Ty's personal favorite (which he helped me on):

Otter! Otter! Otter!
Don't lead cows to slaughter
I love you and I know
I should've told you soon-a
But you didn't buy the dolphin-safe tuna!

TY asked me if I got the hidden message in his poem. I told him it was loud and clear. ~ T J Klune,
951:Gavin stood within the trees, observing her from the shadows. He watched the basket rise to her nose as she closed her eyes to sniff at its contents. A smile told him it smelled delicious, but she didn’t open the container to pinch off a sample. Instead, the basket lowered to swing at her side as it had previously done.

All at once the air was filled with soft singing--a sweet, merry tune comprised of ludicrous lyrics. It was impossible not to grin at the words.

“Rainbows paint the sky ‘til the sun melts their colors.
Swinging in the wind, whiskered cattails purr.
The pigs gallop by and snort at the moon,
While frogs kiss the lizards and princesses too.”
~ Richelle E Goodrich,
952:Duet At Shanxi Normal University Linfen, China
As I walked out late along Paragon Road
among students going hither and thither,
I heard a trained voice – male, operatic –
singing quietly to itself, ‘Maria, Maria’,
then Mandarin lyrics. I couldn’t understand
so I asked, ‘You sing “Maria”?’
He shook his head. I said, ‘You know,
“Maria” from West Side Story ...’ He
shook his head some more – so I sang
and he joined me and we sang
down Paragon Road to the gate,
my ‘Maria’, his Chinese song.
At the gate, between smiling sentries,
I tapped him on the shoulder and said,
‘Same melody has got me thinking,
it’s the same bloody song, mate!’
~ Andrew Burke,
953:That's why we sing for these kids who don't have a thing, except for a dream and a fuckin rap magazine; Who post pin-up pictures on they walls all day long, idolize they favorite rappers and know all they songs; Or for anyone who's ever been through shit in they lives, so they sit and they cry, at night, wishin they'd die; Til they throw on a rap record and they sit and they vibe; We're nothin to you, but we're the fuckin shit in they eyes; That's why we seize the moment; Try to freeze it and own it, squeeze it and hold it, cause we consider these minutes golden; And maybe they'll admit it when we're gone; Just let our spirits live on, through our lyrics that you hear in our songs... [Sing for the Moment] ~ Eminem,
954:As our ship tumbled, free-falling through the eye of a saltwater cyclone, the nine giant maidens spiraled around us, weaving in and out of the tempest so they appeared to drown over and over again. Their faces contorted in anger and glee.
Their long hair lashed us with icy spray. Each time they emerged, they wailed and shrieked, but it wasn’t just random noise. Their screams had a tonal quality, like a chorus of whale songs played through heavy feedback. I even caught snippets of lyrics: boiling mead...wave daughters...death for you! It reminded me of the first time Halfborn Gunderson played Norwegian black metal for me.
After a few bars, it dawned on me...Oh, wait. That’s supposed to be music! ~ Rick Riordan,
955:Bette Davis lived long enough to hear the Kim Carnes song, 'Bette Davis Eyes'. The lyrics to that song were not very interesting. But the fact of the song was the proof of an acknowledgement that in the twentieth century we lived through an age of immense romantic personalities larger than life, yet models for it, too - for good or ill. Like twin moons, promising a struggle and an embrace, the Davis eyes would survive her - and us. Kim Carnes has hardly had a consistent career, but that one song - sluggish yet surging, druggy and dreamy - became an instant classic. It's like the sigh of the islanders when they behold their Kong. And I suspect it made the real eyes smile, whatever else was on their mind. ~ David Thomson,
956:I am not a music snob. If anything, my musical taste is bad by any critical standards. My favorite song of all time is "Come On Eileen" by Dexys Midnight Runners. A close second is "MMMBop" by Hanson. So I am not out there claiming any musical superiority, but Creed really does suck. Bad music, pretentious lyrics, and a messianic front man. Also they are from Florida. No good rock music has ever come from Florida. Undoubtedly, there will be legions of offended readers who think to themselves, What are you talking about! Such-and-such band is from Flordia and they're freaking awesome! No, whatever band you are thinking of, if they are from Flordia, they suck. Not as much as Creed, but they still suck. ~ Michael Ian Black,
957:Dostoyevsky's indignation at Afanasy Fet's innocent lyrics, "Whispers, timid breath, the nightingales trilled," is well known. This is simply disgraceful, wrote Dostoyevsky indignantly, and he speculated what an insulting impression such empty verses would have made if they'd been given to someone to read during the Lisbon earthquake! Some people protested: Yes, of course, Dostoyevsky is right, but we aren't having an earthquake, and we aren't in Lisbon, and after all, are we not allowed to love, to listen to nightingales, to admire the beauty of a beloved woman? But Dostoyevsky's argument held sway for a long time. It did so because of the way Russians perceive Russian life: as a constant, unending Lisbon earthquake. ~ Tatyana Tolstaya,
958:Where do babies come from? Don't bother asking adults. They lie like pigs. However, diligent independent research and hours of playground consultation have yielded fruitful, if tentative, results. There are several theories. Near as we can figure out, it has something to do with acting ridiculous in the dark. We believe it is similar to dogs when they act peculiar and ride each other. This is called "making love". Careful study of popular song lyrics, advertising catch-lines, TV sitcoms, movies, and T-Shirt inscriptions offers us significant clues as to its nature. Apparently it makes grown-ups insipid and insane. Some graffiti was once observed that said "sex is good". All available evidence, however, points to the contrary. ~ Matt Groening,
959:The music video and the song’s lyrics are all about breaking the rules unapologetically…How confusing, then, that “Shake It Off” musically represents…Taylor Swift’s arrival as a run-of-the-mill, straight-and-narrow pop artist.” It cheers for individual distinctness in the most generic voice possible. But this tension isn’t a bug, it’s a feature. It articulates a paradox central to white identity in a white supremacist society: for whites, the generic and the individual coincide because the generic is nothing but a false generalization of/from white existence and experience. In “Shake It Off,” what appears to be uncontrived expression is really the contrivances of whiteness as they materialize in Swift’s body and musical performance. ~ Anonymous,
960:I had a chair at every hearth,
When no one turned to see
With 'Look at that old fellow there;
And who may he be?'
And therefore do I wander on,
And the fret is on me.

The road-side trees keep murmuring-
Ah, wherefore murmur ye
As in the old days long gone by,
Green oak and poplar tree!
The well-known faces are all gone,
And the fret is on me.
As with many of Yeats poems, he later alterd part of this poem.
In The Countess Kathleen and Various Legends and Lyrics, 1892.

Compare this version with
The refraine on lines 6 and 12 read:- And the fret lies on me.
~ William Butler Yeats, The Old Pensioner.
961:In his own words Adorno said his music was Stalinist or Fascist and he used “big concepts to see if they sound right and fit the data.” In these words can be found the key to why he was engaged by Tavistock to write music based on the 12-atonal system of music that “sounded right” and he then “fit the data” namely, he wrote the lyrics to match, so that what emerged was an 18 album set he wrote for the Beatles. Underlying the whole Beatle music concept was Adorno’s long held belief that capitalism was evil, because it “fed the people with products of a culture industry to keep them passively satisfied and politically apathetic.” His “Beatle 12-atonal music” would throw a wrench into the works of the world’s biggest capitalist state, the United States of America. ~ John Coleman,
962:Even though I was born in America, and my ancestors built its infrastructure for free, I’m not a part of the “Our” when they sing, “Our flag was still there!” I feel like the “Our” doesn’t include blacks, most women, gays, trans, and poor people of all colors. And, sadly, our nation reminds us every day. Some may reject the anthem because Francis Scott Key sang for freedom while enslaving blacks. His hatred even bled into the lyrics of the elongated version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” you won’t hear at a sporting event. The third stanza reads: No refuge could save the hireling and slave/From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave That line was basically a shot at slaves who agreed to fight with the British during the War of 1812 in exchange for their freedom. ~ D Watkins,
963:Our Azadian friends are always rather nonplussed by our lack of a flag or a symbol, and the Culture rep here—you’ll meet him tonight if he remembers to turn up—thought it was a pity there was no Culture anthem for bands to play when our people come here, so he whistled them the first song that came into his head, and they’ve been playing that at receptions and ceremonies for the last eight years.” “I thought I recognized one of the tunes they played,” Gurgeh admitted. The drone pushed his arms up and made some more adjustments. “Yes, but the first song that came into the guy’s head was ‘Lick Me Out’; have you heard the lyrics?” “Ah.” Gurgeh grinned. “That song. Yes, that could be awkward.” “Damn right. If they find out they’ll probably declare war. Usual Contact snafu. ~ Iain M Banks,
964:though. Our Azadian friends are always rather nonplussed by our lack of a flag or a symbol, and the Culture rep here—you’ll meet him tonight if he remembers to turn up—thought it was a pity there was no Culture anthem for bands to play when our people come here, so he whistled them the first song that came into his head, and they’ve been playing that at receptions and ceremonies for the last eight years.” “I thought I recognized one of the tunes they played,” Gurgeh admitted. The drone pushed his arms up and made some more adjustments. “Yes, but the first song that came into the guy’s head was ‘Lick Me Out’; have you heard the lyrics?” “Ah.” Gurgeh grinned. “That song. Yes, that could be awkward.” “Damn right. If they find out they’ll probably declare war. Usual Contact snafu. ~ Iain M Banks,
965:Phoenix Lyrics
If nature is life, nature is death:
It is winter as it is spring:
Confusion is variety, variety
And confusion in everything
Make experience the true conclusion
Of all desire and opulence,
All satisfaction and poverty.
When a hundred years had passed nature seemed to man
a clock
Another century sank away and nature seemed a jungle
in a rock
And now that nature has become a ticking and hidden
bomb how we must mock
Newton, Democritus, the Deity
The heart's ingenuity and the mind's infinite
insatiable curiosity.
Purple black cloud at sunset: it is late August
and the light begins to look cold, and as we look,
listen and look, we hear the first drums of autumn.
~ Delmore Schwartz,
966:Shhh, Eena, it’s going to be okay. I promise, you’ll get through this.”

She didn’t fight him, but grabbed onto his shirt, weeping softly into it as before. He began to hum faintly, a familiar Earth tune. Soon he was singing the words in that deep, consoling voice of his. The song itself was meant to be comforting, and his tender manner made it that much more effectual.

Eena recognized the song. She fell asleep to the soothing lyrics.

Abide with me fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens. Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

He went on to sing the other verses, hoping to ease her broken heart. Until her grief finally healed, no matter how long it took, he’d be there for her. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
967:Jason took me by the shoulders—not out of anger, or in a clinging way, but as a brother. “Promise me one thing. Whatever happens, when you get back to Olympus, when you’re a god again, remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.”
A few weeks ago, I would have scoffed. Why would I want to remember any of this?
At best, if I were lucky enough to reclaim my divine throne, I would recall this wretched experience like a scary B-movie that had finally ended. I would walk out of the cinema into the sunlight, thinking Phew! Glad that’s over.
Now, however, I had some inkling of what Jason meant. I had learned a lot about human frailty and human strength. I felt…different toward mortals, having been one of them. If nothing else, it would provide me with some excellent inspiration for new song lyrics! ~ Rick Riordan,
968:I really don't like art with a message, unless the message is crystal clear.
If you have a message that really needs to be said, just fuckin' say it! Don't hide it in indecipherable lyrics... a sculpture, it's a play, the subtext... just fuckin' say it, 'cause the people who need to hear messages are dumb as shit--the masses of humanity are dumb as shit, and you're really just pandering to your friends. Say what the fuck you mean, just say it! Title the song 'eat more leafy greens'. 'Give a hoot, don't pollute' is as much message and art combined, 'cause I get that, it's a poem but I'm pretty sure you're saying 'don't pollute'. But if you have something... 'ooh, I have the cure for cancer...and I've hidden it in this Rubix cube!!' -- just fuckin' say it!
- Before Turning the Gun on Himself [2012] ~ Doug Stanhope,
969:There are young men and women up and down the land who happily (or unhappily) tell anyone who will listen that they don’t have an academic turn of mind, or that they aren’t lucky enough to have been blessed with a good memory, and yet can recite hundreds of pop lyrics and reel off any amount of information about footballers. Why? Because they are interested in those things. They are curious. If you are hungry for food, you are prepared to hunt high and low for it. If you are hungry for information it is the same. Information is all around us, now more than ever before in human history. You barely have to stir or incommode yourself to find things out. The only reason people do not know much is because they do not care to know. They are incurious. Incuriosity is the oddest and most foolish failing there is. ~ Stephen Fry,
970:New Yorkers and Texans get along so well. They have those same outsize personalities, that determination and passion, that “don’t mess with me” quality. And they have the same law my maternal grandmother would tell me from the time I was a little boy: “If it is to be, it is up to me.” Self-reliance, confidence. I really believe those lyrics, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” In Texas, we have something we call “the Cortez moment,” which refers to when the great Spanish explorer and conquistador of Mexico came and set up camp and then burned his boats. The phrase “burn the boats” means there’s nothing but forward, onward, no turning back or running home scared. It’s a motto for New York as much as for Texas. When you move here, if you’re any good at all, you burn the boats. (from My First New York) ~ Dan Rather,
971:If music is meant to help us engage emotionally with words, then most churches need a broader emotional range in the songs they sing. We need songs of reverence, awe, repentance, and grief as well as songs of joy, celebration, freedom, and confidence. The holiness of God cannot be adequately expressed in a two-minute up-tempo pop song. The jubilant triumph of Christ’s victory over sin can’t be fully communicated in a slow a cappella hymn. There are varied traditions of song throughout history as well as very different hymn-writers: Puritans, psalm singers, pietists, charismatics, modern worship songs. Why do we need to pit them against one another? As long as the lyrics are edifying and faithful to Scripture, why can’t we draw from each tradition to enable a broader range of emotional responses in corporate worship? ~ John Piper,
972:I took the time to look up online that songwriter Luca mentioned. It took me ages just to work out how to spell the name Jovanotti, and it took forever to find the lyrics:
Ci sono trenta modi per salvare il mondo, ma uno solo perche il mondo salvi me--che io voglia star con te, e tu voglia star con me.
And then it took me even longer to translate it. Those online search translations are pretty rubbish when it comes to sentences. I had to work my way through it, painstakingly. But it was worth it.
“There are thirty ways to save the world,” Jovanotti says, “but only one way for the world to save me--if I want to be with you, and you want to be with me.”
I can’t help it. I came to Italy trying to find out about a painting and its connection to myself, but instead, all I can think about is Luca. ~ Lauren Henderson,
973:was quite surprised to discover that it was a possible prophecy of 9/11, eight years in advance. Here are the key lyrics: “Ram your face against my fist. Burn, feel, comprehend where we stand. Metal to metal, soul to soul, meshing to fusion. Scraping our sanity. Again you attempt manipulation. Failing to maintain utter control, crushed in defeat, you try to reach me with pathetic threats that would beckon my fate. The reason I fear you is I cling to the past.” This may not sound that convincing at first, but the name of our band was only one letter off from Shanksville, a small town in Pennsylvania where a hijacked airliner crashed on 9/11. The world was going to go into a “Shanksville delirium,” and the planes would ram into the towers, causing metal to touch metal, soul to touch soul, meshing to fusion and burning ~ David Wilcock,
974:I revise my suicide plan to slow death by morphling. I will become a yellow-skinned bag of bones, with enormous eyes. I’m a couple of days into the plan, making good progress, when something unexpected happens. I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What’s amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snows fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear. What ~ Suzanne Collins,
975:Trucker and I did quite a bit of busking together on our guitars, doing the rounds at various Bristol hot spots.
This included the local old people’s home, where I remember innocently singing the lyrics to “American Pie.” The song culminates with the spectacularly inappropriate claim that this would be the day that I’d die.
A long, awkward pause followed, as we both realized our predicament.
The home wasn’t a long-standing gig after that.
We also played together with another friend of ours called Blunty, who went on to become a worldwide singing sensation after he left the army, under his real name of James Blunt. I am not sure Blunty will consider those jamming sessions as very formative for him, but they make for fun memories now all the same.
Good on him, though. He always had an amazingly cool singing voice. ~ Bear Grylls,
976:The Dave Matthews Band’s “Crash into Me” played over the montage, not that the lyrics had anything to do with the images the song was played over but it was “haunting”, it was “moody”, it was “summing things up”, it gave the footage an “emotional resonance” that I guess we were incapable of capturing ourselves. At first my feelings were basically so what? But then I suggested other music: “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails, but I was told that the rights were sky-high and that the song was “too ominous” for this sequence; Nada Surf’s “Popular” had “too many minor chords”, it didn’t fit the “mood of the piece,” it was – again – “too ominous.” When I told them I seriously did not think things could get any more fucking ominous than they already were, I was told, “Things get very much more ominous, Victor,” and then I was left alone. ~ Bret Easton Ellis,
977:Each day, at the same time, Jude would return and they would be there, led by Webb, whose life could not have been more different than his. Where Webb's memories of childhood were idyllic and earthy, Jude's reeked of indifference. Webb read fantasy; Jude read realism. Webb believed a tree house was the perfect place for gaining a different perspective on the world; Jude saw it as perfect for surveillance and working out who or what was a threat to them. They argued about sport codes and song lyrics. Jude saw the rain-dirty valley; Webb saw Brigadoon. Yet, despite all this, they connected, and the nights they spent in the tree house discussing their brave new worlds and not so brave emotions made everything else in their lives insignificant. Somehow the world of Webb and Fitz and Tate and Narnie became the focus of Jude's life. ~ Melina Marchetta,
978:From the smoothness of their skin, the length of their hemlines, the banality of their song lyrics and sitcom plots, these young stars embody an ideal of teenage innocence that adults are grateful to embrace. For as many seasons as the illusion can be maintained they remain, at least on screen, uncomplicated, untroubled good girls on the verge of, but never actually awakening to, their sexuality.
There is a lot of money to be made and a lot of parental anxiety to be tapped by walking that line.
There is also a lot of fury unleashed at those who step across it. When young stars pose semi-nude or get caught drinking they threaten the notion that our own daughter's coming of age could be effortless. Suddenly the role models, who perpetuated that myth, become the vector of our fears. The betrayal feels personal and cuts deep. ~ Peggy Orenstein,
979:People are as blinded by emotion as you were a few minutes ago. There are very few people these days who have eyes-to-see and ears-to-hear truth. Social engineering through cover-up, censorship, and contrived news keeps the public fearful and emotionally arguing over ancient issues like abortion, cloning, gun control, and song lyrics. People hopelessly rely on government to tell them what to do, then blindly blame and fight each other in drug and race wars designed to separate them from the truth and each other.” “People are so easily led, it’s no wonder the criminals I knew in DC refer to them as sheeple. Byrd even said that 95% of the people want to be led by the ruling 5%.” “That is a widely known fact,” Mark said, “that gives folks like me hope. We only need the majority of that 5% to know and live truth in order to have leaders like Von Raab in power. ~ Cathy O Brien,
980:You were playing the song we like...”
“That was the song?” A smile lit his face.
“Yes. What was it?” I asked
“Bob Dylan.”
“What?!” I wailed. “I thought it was going to be Beethoven or something. Now I know I'm white trash.”
Wilson bopped me on the head with his bow. “It's called 'Make You Feel my Love.' It's one of my favorite songs. I embellish it a bit, but it's all Dylan, definitely not Mozart. The lyrics are brilliant. Listen.” Wilson sang softly as he played. His voice was as rich as the moaning cello .
“Of course,” I said sourly.
“What?” Wilson stopped, startled.
“You can sing. You have a beautiful voice. I can't even pretend that you suck. Why can't you suck at something? It's so unfair.”
“You clearly haven't seen me try to carve something intricate and beautiful out of a tree stump,” Wilson said dryly, and started playing again. ~ Amy Harmon,
981:If we are to go by what the movies and novels tell us, falling in love just happens. If it is a Hindi movie, you hear a melodious track in the background, the lyrics usually waxing eloquent about the heroine’s beauty, comparing various parts of her anatomy to the moon, stars, the sun—even Fevicol. This is accompanied by the hero gazing at her with the expression of a glutton discovering a six-course banquet consisting of various gastronomical delights. In real life though, falling in love often happens over a period of time. You see someone gorgeous and get attracted strongly. If you strike up a conversation, find each other likable—or intriguing, as the case may be—then you exchange phone numbers or email ids. After a couple of dates, discovering many things and maybe a kiss or something more, depending on how much in resonance your moral compasses are, the magic happens, and wham, you are in love. ~ Preeti Shenoy,
982:What’s it all about, Alfie?” Its lyrics are not particularly profound, but the question has stayed with me. What’s it all about? What’s life all about? What’s Christianity all about? What’s salvation all about? My answer to that question now, my conviction now: “it”—Christianity and salvation—is about transformation this side of death. The natural effect of growing up, beginning in childhood, is that we fall into bondage to cultural messages and conventions; experience separation and exile from the one in whom we live and move and have our being; become blinded by habituated ways of seeing and live in the dark, even dead in the midst of life; and hunger and thirst for something more. Salvation is about liberation, reconnection, seeing anew, acceptance, and the satisfaction of our deepest yearnings. Christianity at its best—like all of the enduring religions of the world at their best—is a path of transformation. ~ Marcus J Borg,
983:But at least the voices are sexy, not twangy.” “So it’s not what someone says, it’s how they say it?” “Exactly.” My head bobbed in an exaggerated nod. “So I could call you a whore, and tell you to bend over while I snort a line off your sweet ass with a hundred dollar bill before I fuck you, and if I said it in the right voice it would sound sexy to you?” “Pfft … no.” I rolled my eyes. Then, of course, I wondered if the “sweet ass” comment was literal or just a lyrical example. Okay, it might have sounded sexy to me. I wasn’t going to ask him to actually say that in his sexiest voice, but it sure left me thinking about the songs I liked. Then I focused on the actual lyrics … yeah, he could have said that to me and made me want to let him do it. The religious sector was right: music was corrupting young minds, and I was one of them. A unique and catchy beat could make people dance and celebrate some really terrible shit. ~ Jewel E Ann,
984:Bridge Ghazal
My love and I reside upon the belly of a bridge
with heartbeats of the sky?--the drums upon the bridge.
I've heard of songs that rise at night from pitch black oceans.
I've heard the strums of lyrics made by four hands on a bridge.
My love and I do landscapes for the gardens of the sea.
At night we sleep as seedlings at the center of its bridge.
Once I saw a Sufi breathe in seabirds, and send them out again.
I've seen people bearing blindfolds near the entrance of a bridge.
My love's old love, he says, had tried to douse him in a moat.
He grew gills to save himself and hid beneath a drawbridge.
The masters speak of magic at the middle of the rings
where Yes and No chase each other round the props of any bridge.
My love's new love, some say, makes far too much of things
as fundamental, elemental, as the structure of a bridge.
Anonymous submission.
~ C.J. Sage,
985:Music is reflection of self
We just explain it, and then we get our checks in the mail
It's fucked up, ain't it?
How we can come from practically nothin
To bein able to have any f*ckin thing that we wanted
That's why we sing for these kids who don't have a thing
Except for a dream and a f*ckin rap magazine
Who post pin-up pictures on they walls all day long
Idolize they favorite rappers and know all they songs
Or for anyone who's ever been through shit in they lives
So they sit and they cry, at night, wishin they'd die
Til they throw on a rap record and they sit and they vibe
We're nothin to you, but we're the f*ckin sh*t in they eyes
That's why we seize the moment
Try to freeze it and own it, squeeze it and hold it
Cause we consider these minutes golden
And maybe they'll admit it when we're gone
Just let our spirits live on
Through our lyrics that you hear in our songs, and we can… ~ Eminem,
986:I'm not satisfied with the way in which people in the party usually write
articles. They are all so conventional, so wooden, so cut-and-dry....
Our scribblings are usually not lyrics, but whirrings, without color or
resonance, like the tone of an engine wheel. I believe that the cause lies
in the fact that when people write, they forget for the most part to dig
deeply into themselves and to feel the whole import and truth of what
they are writing. I believe that ever time, every day, in every article you
must live through the thing again, you must feel your way tugh it,
and then fresh words-coming fom: the heart and going to the heartwould occur to express the old fmiliar thing. But you get so used to a
truth that you rattle off the deepest and greatest tings as if they were
the "Our Fater" I firmly intend, when I write, never to forget to be enthusiastic about what I write and to commune with myself. ~ Rosa Luxemburg,
987:the most farcical case of false genealogy has to be the way Nelson Mandela, the founder of the armed-struggle organization of the ANC, was turned into a global icon of peace. He lays it out himself: “I said that the time for passive resistance had ended, that nonviolence was a useless strategy and could never overturn a white minority regime bent on retaining its power at any cost. At the end of the day, I said, violence was the only weapon that would destroy apartheid and we must be prepared, in the near future, to use that weapon. The crowd was excited; the youth in particular were clapping and cheering. They were ready to act on what I said right then and there. At that point I began to sing a freedom song, the lyrics of which say, ‘There are the enemies, let us take our weapons and attack them. ’ I sang this song and the crowd joined in, and when the song was finished, I pointed to the police and said, ‘There, there are our enemies! ~ Anonymous,
988:...our job sometimes is to divorce ourselves from the fact that I've got to constantly be gifting young people with tools and equip them with - I'm imparting lessons upon them. Sometimes it about, look you hate reading, my job is to figure out how to help you not hate reading. The rest of it we can get to, but I got to figure out how to get you engaged. In order to do that sometimes you got to pull back. Right. You got to put a little grease in the pot. Right. So if that means you've got to have them reading rap lyrics in your class, then that's what it is. If that means you got to have them reading comic books or the athletes reading Sports Illustrated and the sports section in ESPN Magazine, then that's what it is. Our job is not just - it's not to just promote literature, which is what we all do. Our job is to promote literacy and there's a difference. Right. There's a difference. Literacy is what will help them way more than what literature will do. ~ Jason Reynolds,
Hands touch, eyes meet
Sudden silence, sudden heat
Hearts leap in a giddy whirl
He could be that boy
But I'm not that girl

Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are
Don't remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy
I'm not that girl

Ev'ry so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in

Blithe smile, lithe limb
She who's winsome, she wins him
Gold hair with a gentle curl
That's the girl he chose
And Heaven knows
I'm not that girl

Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
There's a girl I know
He loves her so
I'm not that girl...

"I'm Not That Girl" Reprise lyrics

Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart:
There's a girl I know
He loves her so
I'm not that girl.... ~ Stephen Schwartz,
990:Charlie Gillett wrote that “folk existed in a world of its own until Bob Dylan dragged it, screaming, into pop,” and while folk fans might frame that the opposite way—Dylan had dragged pop, screaming very loudly, into their world—it was the iconic moment of intersection, when rock emerged, separate from rock ’n’ roll, and replaced folk as the serious, intelligent voice of a generation. In the process, rock fans adopted many of the folk world’s prides and prejudices: Rock ’n’ rollers had worn matching outfits, played teen-oriented dance music, and strove to cut hit singles. Rock musicians wore street clothes, sang poetic and meaningful lyrics accompanied by imaginative or self-consciously rootsy instrumentation, and recorded long-playing albums that demanded repeated, attentive listening. Those albums might sell in the millions, but they were presented as artistic statements, and by the later 1960s it was considered insulting to call someone like Jim Morrison or Janis Joplin “commercial. ~ Elijah Wald,
991:In late 1968, Manson seized upon a new text for his prophecies: a musical training manual designed to help him create an army out of his cult—the Beatles’ 1968 album known as “the White Album.” Manson said that the Beatles had channeled his own teachings and used them to create the White Album, which he saw as a vehicle for sharing those teachings with the world. Whether Manson truly believed this fanciful idea is difficult to discern, but his starving, acid-frazzled followers believed it wholeheartedly. According to Manson, the White Album expressed the Beatles’ need for a spiritual savior and contained coded messages explicitly directed at him. Manson was, he believed, the savior the Beatles were looking for. Manson also used the coincidence of the Beatle’s song “Sexy Sadie,” his nickname for follower Susan Atkins, to prove his point and focused on the lyrics of “Piggies,” a song about class struggle, assuring his followers that they were the piggies the Beatles were writing about. ~ Hourly History,
992:Luca leans forward, propping his elbows on the bar table, and I think he’s going to ask me something, maybe what some particularly nonsensical Coldplay lyrics mean: but instead he starts to speak in Italian, so smoothly, the words so soft and liquid, that I swiftly realize he’s quoting some lyrics. The words flow over me, winding around me like velvet:
“‘Ci sono trenta modi per salvare il mondo, ma uno solo perche il mondo salvi me--che io voglia star con te, e tu voglia star con me.’”
I gaze at him, and now I do feel hypnotized. I have no idea what he’s saying--he could be reading the phone book in Italian and I’d stare at him across the little bar table, unable to take my eyes from him.
“That is from a song by Jovanotti. Shall I translate for you?” he asks gently.
All at once, I panic. What if the words are so lovely I can’t bear them? It’s as if he’s casting a spell over me, and I need to break free before it settles so tightly around me that I’m completely in his power. ~ Lauren Henderson,
993:We set up our gear for the tune-up and Tony [Iommi] launched into the opening riff of ‘Black Sabbath’ – doh, doh, doooohnnnn – but before I’d got through the first line of lyrics the manager had run on to the stage, red in the face, and was shouting, ‘STOP, STOP, STOP! Are you f**king serious? This isn’t Top-Forty pop covers! Who are you people?’
‘Earth,’ said Tony, shrugging. ‘You booked us, remember?’
‘I didn’t book this. I thought you were going to play “Mellow Yellow” and “California Dream-in’”.’
‘Who – us?’ laughed Tony.
‘That’s what your manager told me!’
‘Jim Simpson told you that?’
‘Who the hell’s Jim Simpson?’
‘Ah,’ said Tony, finally working out what had happened. He turned to us and said, ‘Lads, I think we might not be the only band called Earth.’

He was right: there was another Earth on the C-list gig circuit. But they didn’t play satanic music. They played pop and Motown covers. ~ Ozzy Osbourne,
994:Everything’s up in the air--how can I leave and never know the truth?
Because in my heart, what I want, more than anything else, is for Luca and me to be together.
There’s so much uncertainly, so much confusion. I want to reach out and touch him so badly, but I know I can’t. The space between us is tiny, but right now it feels as wide as the ocean.
And as darkness falls, I make a resolution. That whatever the truth is about who I am, whether Luca and I really are related, I’ll stay in Italy until I’ve found it out.
I learned another Italian word recently, painstakingly working on the translation of Jovanotti’s lyrics: storia. It means “history,” but it can also mean a relationship. If you say nostra storia, “our story,” that’s like saying “our relationship,” or “our love affair.”
I cast a fleeting glance sideways at Luca and realize he’s looking at me, his eyes the dark blue of the night sky.
Our story isn’t over. It’s not possible. Not so soon, when it’s barely even begun… ~ Lauren Henderson,
995:You forget all of it anyway. First, you forget everything you learned-the dates of the Hay-Herran Treaty and Pythagorean Theorem. You especially forget everything you didn't really learn, but just memorized the night before. You forget the names of all but one or two of your teachers, and eventually you'll forget those, too. You forget your junior class schedule and where you used to sit and your best friend's home phone number and the lyrics to that song you must have played a million times. For me, it was something by Simon & Garfunkel. Who knows what it will be for you? And eventually, but slowly, oh so slowly, you forget your humiliations-even the ones that seemed indelible just fade away. You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, athletic, and not. Who went to a good college. Who threw the best parties Who could get you pot. You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They're the last to go. And then once you've forgotten enough, you love someone else. ~ Gabrielle Zevin,
996:For that is the curious quality of the discotheque after you have gone there a long time: in the midst of all the lights, and music, the bodies, the dancing, the drugs, you are stiller than still within, and though you go through the motions of dancing you are thinking a thousand disparate things. You find yourself listening to the lyrics, and you wonder what these people around you are doing. They seemed crazed to you. You stand there on a floor moving your hips, wondering if there is such a thing as love, and conscious for the very first time that it is three-twenty-five and the night only half-over. You put the popper to your nostril, you put a hand out to lightly touch the sweaty, rigid stomach of the man dancing next to you, your own chest is streaming with sweat in that hot room, and you are thinking, as grave as a judge: What will I do with my life? What can any man do with his life? And you finally don’t know where to rest your eyes. You don’t know where to look, as you dance. You have been expelled from the communion of the saints. ~ Andrew Holleran,
997:Animal minds are simple, and therefore sharp. Animals never spend time dividing experience into little bits and speculating about all the bits they've missed. The whole panoply of the universe has been neatly expressed to them as things to (a) mate with, (b) eat, (c) run away from, and (d) rocks. This frees the mind from unnecessary thoughts and gives it a cutting edge where it matters. Your normal animal, in fact, never tries to walk and chew gum at the same time.

The average human, on the other hand, thinks about all sorts of things around the clock, on all sorts of levels, with interruptions from dozens of biological calendars and timepieces. There's thoughts about to be said, and private thoughts, and real thoughts, and thoughts about thoughts, and a whole gamut of subconscious thoughts. To a telepath the human head is a din. It is a railway terminus with all the Tannoys talking at once. It is a complete FM waveband- and some of those stations aren't reputable, they're outlawed pirates on forbidden seas who play late-night records with limbic lyrics. ~ Terry Pratchett,
998:In Paris, Julien’s position with regard to Madame de Renal would very soon have been simplified; but in Paris love is the child of the novels. The young tutor and his timid mistress would have found in three or four novels, and even in the lyrics of the Gymnase, a clear statement of their situation. The novels would have outlined for them the part to be played, shown them the model to copy; and this model, sooner or later, albeit without the slightest pleasure, and perhaps with reluctance, vanity would have compelled Julien to follow.

In a small town of the Aveyron or the Pyrenees, the slightest incident would have been made decisive by the ardour of the climate. Beneath our more sombre skies, a penniless young man, who is ambitious only because the refinement of his nature puts him in need of some of those pleasures which money provides, is in daily contact with a woman of thirty who is sincerely virtuous, occupied with her children, and never looks to novels for examples of conduct. Everything goes slowly, everything happens by degrees in the provinces: life is more natural. ~ Stendhal,
999:Finn swore and swung on me, his eyes darting between me and the road. “You don’t have a filter, do you? You just say whatever the hell comes into your head!”

“You just told me no games. You just told me to say it like it is. That’s what I’m doing.”

“There’s a big difference between saying it like it is and telling all there is to tell!”

“You’re probably right.” I nodded. “I’ve always been . . . blunt, but something happened to me when I let go on the bridge,” I explained softly. “My give-a-damn broke. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t. I’m not afraid. I’m not feeling suicidal, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. Does that make any sense?”

Finn nodded. “Yeah. It does. I’ve been there myself. But I just fixed my give-a-damn, unfortunately. So you need to have a little respect and show a little restraint. Deal?”

“Okay.” I sighed. “Tell it like it is, but only in doses Clyde can handle. Got it.”

“Thank you,” he said sarcastically.

I resolved to freeze him out and didn’t say another word, staring out the window, composing song lyrics in my head so I wouldn’t go crazy. ~ Amy Harmon,
1000:I came to view the world as a word puzzle and, with no special aptitude I can name, fixed on the whys and wherefores of language from my earliest days. Song lyrics. Signs. The stories read in first and second grades. My parents almost always read to us at bedtime. Poems by Whittier. Scenes from Oliver Twist. Kidnapped. Treasure Island. The names alone intrigued me. Dr. Livesey, Squire Trelawney. The name Balfour sounded the knell of the romantic. Robinson Crusoe. I loved to hear read the exploits of Natty Bumppo. Authors had an aura of the godlike to me. The Latin prayers fascinated me as an altar boy. I can still recall carved names on buildings I saw from the MTA train when I was a youngster. Who can explain why? Words were magic to me. I once inadvisably glued my finger and thumb together at the Magoun Library in fourth grade trying to amuse a pretty little girl on whom I had a crush, and when the librarian came over angrily to inquire what the problem was and I pointed with a shrug and replied, “Mucilage”—a word that always made me laugh—she very coldly stated, “You are more to be pitied than censured. ~ Alexander Theroux,
1001:After dinner the younger daughters desired to love Leora, in swarms. Martin had to take the twins on his knees and tell them a story. They were remarkably heavy twins, but no heavier than the labor of inventing a plot. Before they went to bed, the entire Healthette Octette sang the famous Health Hymn (written by Dr. Almus Pickerbaugh) which Martin was to hear on so many bright and active public occasions in Nautilus. It was set to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” but as the twins’ voices were energetic and extraordinarily shrill, it had an effect all its own:
Oh, are you out for happiness or are you out for pelf? You owe it to the grand old flag to cultivate yourself, To train the mind, keep clean the streets, and ever guard your health.
Then we’ll all go marching on.
A healthy mind in A clean body, A healthy mind in A clean body, A healthy mind in A clean body, The slogan for one and all.
As a bedtime farewell, the twins then recited, as they had recently at the Congregational Festival, one of their father’s minor lyrics:
What does little birdie say On the sill at break o’ day? “Hurrah for health in Nautilus For Pa and Ma and all of us, Hurray, hurray, hurray! ~ Sinclair Lewis,
1002:The song just started again, and now I sang it, too. "These strong hands belong to you..."

I found a place between two men. The first was about my age, maybe a little younger, with high cheekbones and small eyes. The other was middle-aged, with a wide forehead and bulb nose, and beside him was a man with a striking face, a square, dimpled chin and high cheekbones... and then there was another, and another--all the kinds of faces in all the colors the world calls black: brown and tan and yellow and orange, copper and bronze and gold.

"These strong hands belong to you..."

They sang--we sang--with no enthusiasm or joy. We used to sing at Bell's, crossing the yard or working on the pile, just like slaves used to sing in Old Slavery, spirituals and work songs, sly lyrics, silly lyrics, yearning for freedom or roasting Massa in nonsense words he couldn't understand. This, though--this was a different kind of singing. I looked from man to man, and they were singing mechanically, eyes front, mouths moving like puppets. Singing this dumb refrain about how much they loved their bosses and loved their work.

Nothing spiritual about this. This was something else altogether. ~ Ben H Winters,
1003:Wherever He Ain't lyrics
This ninny of a puppet was available the second that he called!
And all he had to do was yell "Hey, Mabel"
and this dumb hash slinger crawled!
For seven lousy years I've watched him swear and shove and shout
"with you or without you"
Well it's gonna be without

I gotta give my life some sparkle and fizz
And think a thought that isn't wrapped up in his
The place that I consider paradise is
Wherever he ain't! Wherever he ain't!
No more to wither when he's grouchy and gruff
No more to listen to him bellow and bluff
Tomorrow morning I'll be strutting my stuff
Wherever he ain't! Wherever he ain't!

It's time for little Nell to rebel
If he's in Heaven, I'll go to Hell!
I walked behind him like a meek little lamb
And had my fill of his not giving a damn
I'll go to Sydney or Ceylon or Siam
Wherever he ain't! Wherever he ain't!

Enough of being bullied and bossed
Ta-ta Auf Wiedersehn and get lost!

My little love nest was a terrible trap
With me behaving like a simpering sap
And so I'm looking for a spot on the map
If he's going south
I'm going north
If he's going back
I'm going forth
Wherever he ain't! ~ Unknown,
1004:As a general observation, I think our high school and college-age students are wonderful, that they’re striving collectively, I think, to be as fine a generation of young people as we have ever had in this Church. But even as I say that, I am quick to acknowledge--and I don’t want to minimize that compliment, but I am quick to acknowledge what you already know--that exceptions to that rule are too many and often far too serious. When our youth sin now, they can do so in such flagrantly offensive ways with ever more serious consequences in their lives. That is the world we are in and it is, by scriptural definition, a world that is getting progressively more wicked.

So over time we will continue to see a steady deterioration of what is acceptable in movies, on television, in pop music (which, in the case of rap lyrics, isn’t even music at all), and, perhaps in our most dangerous contemporary foe, abuse of the Internet. I have learned what you have learned--that the door to permissiveness, the door to promiscuity and lewdness, swings only one way. It only opens farther and farther; it never swings back. Individuals can choose to close it, but it is quite certain, historically speaking, that public appetite and public policy will never close it. ~ Jeffrey R Holland,
1005:To be sure, rock n' roll is usually a flagrant commercialization of rhythm & blues, but the music in many cases depends on materials that are so alien to the general middle-class, middle-brow American culture as to remain interesting. Many of the same kinds of cheap American dilutions that had disfigured popular swing have tended to disfigure the new music, but the source, the exciting and "vulgar" urban blues of the forties, is still sufficiently removed from the mainstream to be vital. For this reason, rock n' roll has not become as emotionally meaningless as commercial swing. It is sill raw enough to stand the dilution and in some cases, to even be made attractive by the very fact of its commercialization. Even its "alienation" remains conspicuous; it is often used to characterize white adolescents as "youthful offenders." (Rock n' roll also is popular with another "underprivileged" minority, e.g., Puerto Rican youths. There are now even quite popular rock n' roll songs, at least around New York, that have some of the lyrics in Spanish.) Rock n' roll is the blues form of the classes of Americans who lack the "sophistication" to be middle brows, or are too naïve to get in on the mainstream American taste; those who think that somehow Melachrino, Kostelanetz, etc., are too lifeless ~ Amiri Baraka,
1006:Two Lyrics From Kilroy's Carnival: A Masque
I Aria
"--Kiss me there where pride is glittering
Kiss me where I am ripened and round fruit
Kiss me wherever, however, I am supple, bare and flare
(Let the bell be rung as long as I am young:
let ring and fly like a great bronze wing!)
"--I'll kiss you wherever you think you are poor,
Wherever you shudder, feeling striped or barred,
Because you think you are bloodless, skinny or marred:
Until, until
your gaze has been stilled-Until you are shamed again no more!
I'll kiss you until your body and soul
the mind in the body being fulfilled-Suspend their dread and civil war!"
II Song
Under the yellow sea
Who comes and looks with me
For the daughters of music, the fountains of poetry?
Both have soared forth from the unending waters
Where all things still are seeds and far from flowers
And since they remain chained to the sea's powers
May wilt to nonentity or loll and arise to comedy
Or thrown into mere accident through irrelevant incident
Dissipate all identity ceaselessly fragmented by the ocean's
immense and intense, irresistible and insistent
Be scattered like the sand is, purposely and relentlessly,
Living in the summer resorts of the dead endlessly.
~ Delmore Schwartz,
1007:Sad Songs

Once there was a boy who couldn't speak but owned a music box that held every song in all the world. One day he met a girl who had never heard a single melody in her entire life and so he played her his favorite song. He watched while her face lit up with wonder as the music filled the sky and the poetry of lyrics moved her in a way she had never felt before.

He would play his songs for her day after day and she would sit by him quietly—never seeming to mind that he could only speak to her through song. She loved everything he played for her, but of them all—she loved the sad songs best. So he began to play them more and more until eventually, sad songs were all she would hear.

One day, he noticed it had been a very long time since her last smile. When he asked her why, she took both his hands in hers and kissed them warmly. She thanked him for his gift of music and poetry but above all else—for showing her sadness because she had known neither of these things before him. But it was now time for her to go away—to find someone who could show her what happiness was.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Do you remember the song that was playing the night we met?

No, but I remember every song I have heard since you left. ~ Lang Leav,
1008:In the 1950s kids lost their innocence.
They were liberated from their parents by well-paying jobs, cars, and lyrics in music that gave rise to a new term ---the generation gap.

In the 1960s, kids lost their authority.
It was a decade of protest---church, state, and parents were all called into question and found wanting. Their authority was rejected, yet nothing ever replaced it.

In the 1970s, kids lost their love. It was the decade of me-ism dominated by hyphenated words beginning with self.
Self-image, Self-esteem, Self-assertion....It made for a lonely world. Kids learned everything there was to know about sex and forgot everything there was to know about love, and no one had the nerve to tell them there was a difference.

In the 1980s, kids lost their hope.
Stripped of innocence, authority and love and plagued by the horror of a nuclear nightmare, large and growing numbers of this generation stopped believing in the future.

In the 1990s kids lost their power to reason. Less and less were they taught the very basics of language, truth, and logic and they grew up with the irrationality of a postmodern world.

In the new millennium, kids woke up and found out that somewhere in the midst of all this change, they had lost their imagination. Violence and perversion entertained them till none could talk of killing innocents since none was innocent anymore. ~ Ravi Zacharias,
1009:Parents need to awaken to the fact that some of today’s trendy tunes on the pop charts include lyrics that glamourize illicit drug usage, encourage demoralizing sexual activity, and blaspheme God. It was difficult enough for me to read the lyrics to some of these songs in my research for this book, much less think about what they represent and how they mock godly principles. “Just harmless music,” you say; “another form of artful expression.” After all, “no one bothers listening to the words anyway; they’re just interested in the beat . . . right?” Think on this disturbing story: A twenty-nine-year-old man confessed to police that he sang songs while fatally stabbing his wife and daughter. His four-year-old son survived the attack despite being stabbed eleven times. According to police, the husband and father said he was possessed and believed that his wife was a demon. (Note: It is not possible for a human being to become a demon, but one can be controlled by demonic forces.) The man reportedly told the police that just before stabbing his wife, he started screaming lyrics from a popular rap song, saying, “Here comes Satan. I’m the anti-Christ; I’m going to kill you.” Police said this father admitted that when the kids awoke to their mother’s screams, he stabbed them too. He said he stabbed his son the most because he loved him the most. Then he rolled a cigarette, said another prayer, and called 911.14 ~ John Hagee,
1010:Momoko’s idea of the life of Mrs. Browning was singular. She had somehow gotten the idea that the poetess had been forced into a position much beneath her, had, in fact, been obliged to give herself to numbers of men, none of whom deserved her, and had consoled herself by penning those immortal lyrics of hers. I mentioned that the only men I know of in Elizabeth’s life were her father and her husband, both of whose intentions, so far as I had heard, had been impeccable. Yes, she nodded, pensive. She had heard of them. Robert—he was her first, her true love. And she remained true to him. While in the very throes of unfortunate transport in anonymous arms she had thought only of Robert. But certainly, I ventured, he had outlived her. He had gone on and become one of England’s greatest poets. “Did he write poetry too?” she asked, struck at the thought. “Yes, a very great deal.” She pondered, finger on cheek, then decided how sweet it was—he, the dear man, had loved her so much he had copied her. And she, forced into this promiscuous life, remained true to him, no matter what. And who forced her into it? Her father of course, crude man, who thought of nothing but money. I tried to discover where she could have uncovered such a fund of misinformation. Japanese schools teach some wild things but nothing, I think, so far from any reality as this. Upon this point, however, Momoko was not to be drawn out. She knew what she knew. ~ Donald Richie,
1011:• The trick to staying out of resentment is maintaining better boundaries—blaming others less and holding myself more accountable for asking for what I need and want. • There is no integrity in blaming and turning to “it’s not fair” and “I deserve.” I need to take responsibility for my own well-being. If I believed I was not being treated fairly or not getting something I deserved, was I actually asking for it, or was I just looking for an excuse to assign blame and feel self-righteous? • I am trying not to numb my discomfort for myself, because I think I’m worth the effort. It’s not something that’s happening to me—it’s something I’m choosing for myself. • This rumble taught me why self-righteousness is dangerous. Most of us buy into the myth that it’s a long fall from “I’m better than you” to “I’m not good enough”—but the truth is that these are two sides of the same coin. Both are attacks on our worthiness. We don’t compare when we’re feeling good about ourselves; we look for what’s good in others. When we practice self-compassion, we are compassionate toward others. Self-righteousness is just the armor of self-loathing. In Daring Greatly, I talk about how the lyrics of Leonard Cohen’s song “Hallelujah”—“Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah”—capture how daring greatly can feel more like freedom with a little battle fatigue than a full-on celebration. The same is true for rising strong. What ~ Bren Brown,
1012:You feel like a leaf at the mercy of the wind, don’t you?” he finally said, staring at me. That was exactly the way I felt. He seemed to empathize with me. He said that my mood reminded him of a song and began to sing in a low tone; his singing voice was very pleasing and the lyrics carried me away: “I’m so far away from the sky where I was born. Immense nostalgia invades my thoughts. Now that I am so alone and sad like a leaf in the wind, sometimes I want to weep, sometimes I want to laugh with longing.” (Que lejos estoy del cielo donde he nacido. Immensa nostalgia invade mi pensamiento. Ahora que estoy tan solo y triste cual hoja al viento, quisiera llorar, quisiera reir de sentimiento.) We did not speak for a long while. He finally broke the silence. “Since the day you were born, one way or another, someone has been doing something to you,” he said. “That’s correct,” I said. “And they have been doing something to you against your will.” “True.” “And by now you’re helpless, like a leaf in the wind.” “That’s correct. That’s the way it is.” I said that the circumstances of my life had sometimes been devastating. He listened attentively but I could not figure out whether he was just being agreeable or genuinely concerned until I noticed that he was trying to hide a smile. “No matter how much you like to feel sorry for yourself, you have to change that,” he said in a soft tone. “It doesn’t jibe with the life of a warrior. ~ Carlos Castaneda,
1013:They Don't Love You Like I Love You"

My mother said this to me
long before Beyoncé lifted the lyrics
from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs,

and what my mother meant by
Don’t stray was that she knew
all about it—the way it feels to need

someone to love you, someone
not your kind, someone white,
some one some many who live

because so many of mine
have not, and further, live on top of
those of ours who don’t.

I’ll say, say, say,
I’ll say, say, say,
What is the United States if not a clot

of clouds? If not spilled milk? Or blood?
If not the place we once were
in the millions? America is Maps—

Maps are ghosts: white and
layered with people and places I see through.
My mother has always known best,

knew that I’d been begging for them,
to lay my face against their white
laps, to be held in something more

than the loud light of their projectors
of themselves they flicker—sepia
or blue—all over my body.

All this time,
I thought my mother said, Wait,
as in, Give them a little more time

to know your worth,
when really, she said, Weight,
meaning heft, preparing me

for the yoke of myself,
the beast of my country’s burdens,
which is less worse than

my country’s plow. Yes,
when my mother said,
They don’t love you like I love you,

she meant,
Natalie, that doesn’t mean
you aren’t good. ~ Natalie D az,
1014:Outer influences and distractions Consider the power of external influences to condition your life experience. Spend a day watching how what you encounter impacts your attitude and spirit. Pay attention to what is usually mere background noise. Probe all sights, sounds, and touches as life swirls about. Listen to the radio carefully. Study the comments on talk shows. Listen to popular music lyrics and rhythms. Pay attention to words and worldview, tones and timbre. What and how do you feel as a result? Watch people at a shopping mall. How many appear trim and in vibrant health? How many look happy? What are people wearing and how are they groomed? What does their appearance suggest about your community’s values? Does the appearance of others affect how you feel? Chat with coworkers. What comes up about the economy, government, and company management? Suggest changes in attitudes and actions for more happiness or productivity. What kind of responses do they give you? Look at Internet discussions and news. What is the tone and logic of the posts? Does the commenters’ passion reflect their intellectual depth and degree of knowledge? How many stories are negative and how many are positive? Could any of the negative stories be written with a positive spin and still remain true? How do you feel about what you observe? Is it possible that even if you had not been paying close attention, those experiences out on the margin of awareness might have affected your mood or attitude? ~ Stephen K Hayes,
1015:By the second day, the song lyrics had faded, but in their place came darker irritations. Gradually, I started to become aware of a young man sitting just behind me and to the left. I had noticed him when he first entered the mediation hall, and had felt a flash of annoyance at the time: something about him, especially his beard, had struck me as too calculatedly dishevelled, as if he were trying to make a statement. Now his audible breathing was starting to irritate me, too. It seemed studied, unnatural, somehow theatrical. My irritation slowly intensified - a reaction that struck me as entirely reasonable and proportionate at the time. It was all beginning to feel like a personal attack. How much contempt must the bearded meditator have for me, I seethed silently, deliberately to decide to ruin the serenity of my meditation by behaving so obnoxiously? Experienced retreat-goers, it turns out, have a term for this phenomenon. The call it 'vipassana vendetta'. In the stillness tiny irritations become magnified into full-blown hate campaigns; the mind is so conditioned to attaching to storylines that it seizes upon whatever's available. Being on retreat had temporarily separated me from all the real causes of distress in my life, and so, apparently, I was inventing new ones. As I shuffled to my narrow bed that evening, I was still smarting about the loud-breathing man. I did let go of the vendetta eventually - but only because I'd fallen into an exhausted and dreamless sleep ~ Oliver Burkeman,
1016:1st row Homer, Shakespeare, Valmiki
2nd row Dante, Kalidasa, Aeschylus, Virgil, Milton
3rd row Goethe
I am not prepared to classify all the poets in the universe - it was the front bench or benches you asked for. By others I meant poets like Lucretius, Euripides, Calderon, Corneille, Hugo. Euripides (Medea, Bacchae and other plays) is a greater poet than Racine whom you want to put in the first ranks. If you want only the very greatest, none of these can enter - only Vyasa and Sophocles. Vyasa could very well claim a place beside Valmiki, Sophocles beside Aeschylus. The rest, if you like, you can send into the third row with Goethe, but it is something of a promotion about which one can feel some qualms. Spenser too, if you like; it is difficult to draw a line.

Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth have not been brought into consideration although their best work is as fine poetry as any written, but they have written nothing on a larger scale which would place them among the greatest creators. If Keats had finished Hyperion (without spoiling it), if Shelley had lived, or if Wordsworth had not petered out like a motor car with insufficient petrol, it might be different, but we have to take things as they are. As it is, all began magnificently, but none of them finished, and what work they did, except a few lyrics, sonnets, short pieces and narratives, is often flawed and unequal. If they had to be admitted, what about at least fifty others in Europe and Asia? ~ Sri Aurobindo, Letters On Poetry And Art,
1017:David Lester, a psychology professor at Richard Stockton College in New Jersey, has likely thought about suicide longer, harder, and from more angles than any other human. In more than twenty-five-hundred academic publications, he has explored the relationship between suicide and, among other things, alcohol, anger, antidepressants, astrological signs, biochemistry, blood type, body type, depression, drug abuse, gun control, happiness, holidays, Internet use, IQ, mental illness, migraines, the moon, music, national-anthem lyrics, personality type, sexuality, smoking, spirituality, TV watching, and wide-open spaces.
Has all this study led Lester to some grand unified theory of suicide? Hardly. So far he has one compelling notion. It’s what might be called the “no one left to blame” theory of suicide. While one might expect that suicide is highest among people whose lives are the hardest, research by Lester and others suggests the opposite: suicide is more common among people with a higher quality of life.
“If you’re unhappy and you have something to blame your unhappiness on—if it’s the government, or the economy, or something—then that kind of immunizes you against committing suicide,” he says. “It’s when you have no external cause to blame for your unhappiness that suicide becomes more likely. I’ve used this idea to explain why African-Americans have lower suicide rates, why blind people whose sight is restored often become suicidal, and why adolescent suicide rates often rise as their quality of life gets better. ~ Steven D Levitt,
1018:Do you like Phil Collins? I've been a big Genesis fan ever since the release of their 1980 album, Duke. Before that, I really didn't understand any of their work. Too artsy, too intellectual. It was on Duke where Phil Collins' presence became more apparent. I think Invisible Touch was the group's undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility. At the same time, it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding three albums. Christy, take off your robe. Listen to the brilliant ensemble playing of Banks, Collins and Rutherford. You can practically hear every nuance of every instrument. Sabrina, remove your dress. In terms of lyrical craftsmanship, the sheer songwriting, this album hits a new peak of professionalism. Sabrina, why don't you, uh, dance a little. Take the lyrics to Land of Confusion. In this song, Phil Collins addresses the problems of abusive political authority. In Too Deep is the most moving pop song of the 1980s, about monogamy and commitment. The song is extremely uplifting. Their lyrics are as positive and affirmative as anything I've heard in rock. Christy, get down on your knees so Sabrina can see your asshole. Phil Collins' solo career seems to be more commercial and therefore more satisfying, in a narrower way. Especially songs like In the Air Tonight and Against All Odds. Sabrina, don't just stare at it, eat it. But I also think Phil Collins works best within the confines of the group, than as a solo artist, and I stress the word artist. This is Sussudio, a great, great song, a personal favorite. ~ Bret Easton Ellis,
1019:Adele took her place in front of the audience and began to sing.
"Miss Eyre, perhaps you can tell me what he's saying?" Mrs. Fairfax said. "The only other person in the house who speaks French is the master, and he hates to translate anymore."
Jane glanced at Mr. Rochester, but he stared straight ahead.
Jane listened to the song. "The first few lines are about a famous dancer ... in a club ... She wore flowers in her hair and a dress that ... oh." Adele sang in detail about how much the dress covered. Or didn't cover.
Jane blushed and glanced at Mr. Rochester, searching for a reaction to the scandalous lyrics. But he just listened. Not scandalized.
"So, yes, the dancer wore a dress," Jane continued, with slightly less detail. "And she was in love with a ... dealer. Of cards. And at night, they ... oh my."
Adele sang of a very special hug.
Jane's cheeks flamed. "Perhaps Mr. Rochester should translate."
She turned to Mr. Rochester, who coughed. He waved his hand. "Please continue, Miss Eyre. You're doing such a fine job."
Now Adele sang of the woman's roving eye, and another man visiting while her lover was away.
"They continued to love each other," Jane said quickly, maybe a bit desperately.
In the last verse, the boyfriend found out about her infidelity, and stabbed the dancer and her other lover.
"That escalated quickly," said Helen. She also spoke French, but no one had asked her to translate.
"And they both lived happily ever after," Jane blurted. She was going to have to teach Adele some new songs. ~ Cynthia Hand,
1020:I detest love lyrics. I think one of the causes of bad mental health in the United States is that people have been raised on 'love lyrics'.

You're a young kid and you hear all those 'love lyrics', right? Your parents aren't telling you the truth about love, and you can't really learn about it in school. You're getting the bulk of your 'behaviour norms' mapped out for you in the lyrics to some dumb fucking love song. It's a subconscious training that creates desire for an imaginary situation which will never exist for you. People who buy into that mythology go through life feeling that they got cheated out of something.

What I think is very cynical about some rock and roll songs -- especially today -- is the way they say: "Let's make love." What the fuck kind of wussy says shit like that in the real world? You ought to be able to say "Let's go fuck", or at least "Let's go fill-in-the-blank" -- but you gotta say "Let's make love" in order to get on the radio. This creates a semantic corruption, by changing the context in which the word 'love' is used in the song.

When they get into drooling about love as a 'romantic concept' -- especially in the lyrics of sensitive singer/songwriter types -- that's another shove in the direction of bad mental health.

Fortunately, lyrics over the last five or six years have gotten to be less and less important, with 'art rock groups' and new wavers specializing in 'nonjudgemental' or 'purposely inconsequential' lyrics. People have stopped listening to the lyrics -- they are now only 'pitched mouth noises'. ~ Frank Zappa,
1021:One afternoon in the fall of 2015, while I was writing this book, I was driving in my car and listening to SiriusXM Radio. On the folk music station the Coffee House, a song came on with a verse that directly spoke to me—so much so that I pulled off the road as soon as I could and wrote down the lyrics and the singer’s name. The song was called “The Eye,” and it’s written by the country-folk singer Brandi Carlile and her bandmate Tim Hanseroth and sung by Carlile. I wish it could play every time you open these pages, like a Hallmark birthday card, because it’s become the theme song of this book. The main refrain is: I wrapped your love around me like a chain But I never was afraid that it would die You can dance in a hurricane But only if you’re standing in the eye. I hope that it is clear by now that every day going forward we’re going to be asked to dance in a hurricane, set off by the accelerations in the Market, Mother Nature, and Moore’s law. Some politicians propose to build a wall against this hurricane. That is a fool’s errand. There is only one way to thrive now, and it’s by finding and creating your own eye. The eye of a hurricane moves, along with the storm. It draws energy from it, while creating a sanctuary of stability inside it. It is both dynamic and stable—and so must we be. We can’t escape these accelerations. We have to dive into them, take advantage of their energy and flows where possible, move with them, use them to learn faster, design smarter, and collaborate deeper—all so we can build our own eyes to anchor and propel ourselves and our families confidently forward. ~ Thomas L Friedman,
1022:In Praise Of Contentment
I hate the common, vulgar herd!
Away they scamper when I 'booh' 'em!
But pretty girls and nice young men
Observe a proper silence when
I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em.
The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r
Excites our homage and our wonder,
Are precious small beside old Jove,
The father of us all, who drove
The giants out of sight, by thunder!
This man loves farming, that man law,
While this one follows pathways martial-What moots it whither mortals turn?
Grim fate from her mysterious urn
Doles out the lots with hand impartial.
Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sports
Delight the heart by care tormented;
The mightiest monarch knoweth not
The peace that to the lowly cot
Sleep bringeth to the swain contented.
On him untouched of discontent
Care sits as lightly as a feather;
He doesn't growl about the crops,
Or worry when the market drops,
Or fret about the changeful weather.
Not so with him who, rich in fact,
Still seeks his fortune to redouble;
Though dig he deep or build he high,
Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh-Relentless Care, relentless Trouble!
If neither palaces nor robes
Nor unguents nor expensive toddy
Insure Contentment's soothing bliss,
Why should I build an edifice
Where Envy comes to fret a body?
Nay, I'd not share your sumptuous cheer,
But rather sup my rustic pottage,
While that sweet boon the gods bestow-The peace your mansions cannot know-Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage.
~ Eugene Field,
1023:I dare you to…”

He pauses, and I want him to say it. I want him to want a kiss, because I realize I’d do it so fast it’d make his head spin.

“I dare you to do your happy dance,” he says instead.

“Happy dance?”

“Come on, everyone has a happy dance.”

“But… I have to be extremely happy to do a happy dance. It’s not something I can just, you know, jump into.”

“How about I give you some inspiration.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses a few buttons. A song with an upbeat keyboard begins, and Logan stands up. The happy lyrics say something about a birdhouse and a bee. He waves his hand at me to follow. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he looks at me expectantly.

I stand up to face him and try to sway a little. He shakes his head as he turns the volume up.

“I just can’t, I’m not happy enough.”

“Pretend like the Natchitoches Central Chiefs just won the Super Bowl.” He bounces a little more enthusiastically.

“That’s good, I guess.” My sway becomes a little more pronounced. A smile takes hold, not because of the thought of the Chiefs winning the Super Bowl, but because Logan is such an awkward dancer. He’s gone from bouncing to alternating snaps of his fingers as he bobs his head. Plus, he’s a little off rhythm.

“There’s a Tangled marathon on in two minutes!” He has to yell over the music now.

“That’s better.” I start nodding my head to the beat.

“It’s Christmas! You just got your Hogwarts acceptance letter, a copy ofAction Comics #1, and a brand new car that runs on water!”

“Hell yeah!” I scream and let go. ~ Leah Rae Miller,
1024:Being older, I began to understand the lyrics. At the beginning, it sounds like a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to secretly meet up with him at midnight. But it’s an odd place for a tryst, a hanging tree, where a man was hung for murder. The murderer’s lover must have had something to do with the killing, or maybe they were just going to punish her anyway, because his corpse called out for her to flee. That’s weird obviously, the talking-corpse bit, but it’s not until the third verse that “The Hanging Tree” begins to get unnerving. You realize the singer of the song is the dead murderer. He’s still in the hanging tree. And even though he told his lover to flee, he keeps asking if she’s coming to meet him. The phrase Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free is the most troubling because at first you think he’s talking about when he told her to flee, presumably to safety. But then you wonder if he meant for her to run to him. To death. In the final stanza, it’s clear that that’s what he was waiting for. His lover, with her rope necklace, hanging dead next to him in the tree.

I used to think the murderer was the creepiest guy imaginable. Now, with a couple of trips to the Hunger Games under my belt, I decide not to judge him without knowing more details. Maybe his lover was already sentenced to death and he was trying to make it easier. To let her know he’d be waiting. Or maybe he thought the place he was leaving her was really worse than death. Didn’t I want to kill Peeta with that syringe to save him from the Capitol? Was that really my only option? Probably not, but I couldn’t think of another at the time. ~ Suzanne Collins,
1025:Musa Spiritus :::

O Word concealed in the upper fire,
Thou who hast lingered through centuries,
Descend from thy rapt white desire,
Plunging through gold eternities.

Into the gulfs of our nature leap,
Voice of the spaces, call of the Light!
Break the seals of Matter's sleep,
Break the trance of the unseen height.

In the uncertain glow of human mind,
Its waste of unharmonied thronging thoughts,
Carve thy epic mountain-lined
Crowded with deep prophetic grots.

Let thy hue-winged lyrics hover like birds
Over the swirl of the heart's sea.
Touch into sight with thy fire-words
The blind indwelling deity.

O Muse of the Silence, the wideness make
In the unplumbed stillness that hears thy voice,
In the vast mute heavens of the spirit awake
Where thy eagles of Power flame and rejoice.

Out, out with the mind and its candles flares,
Light, light the suns that never die.
For my ear the cry of the seraph stars
And the forms of the Gods for my naked eye!

Let the little troubled life-god within
Cast his veils from the still soul,
His tiger-stripes of virtue and sin,
His clamour and glamour and thole and dole;

All make tranquil, all make free.
Let my heart-beats measure the footsteps of God
As He comes from His timeless infinity
To build in their rapture His burning abode.

Weave from my life His poem of days,
His calm pure dawns and His noons of force.
My acts for the grooves of His chariot-race,
My thoughts for the tramp of His great steeds' course! ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems,
1026:Noah held his hand out. She accepted it - it was bone-cold, as always - and together they turned to face the huge room. Noah took a deep breath as if they were preparing to explore the jungle instead of stepping deeper into Monmouth Manufacturing.
It seemed bigger with just the two of them there. The cobwebbed ceiling soared, dust motes making mobiles overhead. They turned their heads sideways and read the titles of the books aloud. Blue peered at Henrietta through the telescope. Noah daringly reattached one of the broken miniature roofs on Gansey's scale town. They went through the fridge tucked in the bathroom. Blue selected a soda. Noah took a plastic spoon. He chewed on it as Blue fed Chainsaw a leftover hamburger. They closed Ronan's door - if Gansey still managed to inhabit the rest of the apartment, Ronan's presence was still decidedly pervasive in his room. Noah showed Blue his room. They jumped on his perfectly made bed and then they played a bad game of pool. Noah lounged on the new sofa while Blue persuaded the old record player to play an LP too clever to interest either of them. They opened all the drawers on the desk in the main room. One of Gansey's EpiPens bounced against the interior of the topmost drawer as Blue withdrew a fancy pen. She copied Gansey's blocky handwriting onto a Nino's receipt as Noah put on a preppy sweater he'd found balled under the desk. She ate a mint leaf and breathed on Noah's face.
Crouching, they crab-walked along the aerial printout Gansey had spread the length of the room. He'd jotted enigmatic notes to himself all along the margin of it. Some of them were coordinates. Some of them were explanations of topography. Some of them were Beatles lyrics. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
1027:Reason says, I will beguile him with the tongue;" Love says, "Be silent. I will beguile him with the soul."
The soul says to the heart, "Go, do not laugh at me and yourself. What is there that is not his, that I may
beguile him thereby?"
He is not sorrowful and anxious and seeking oblivion that I may beguile him with wine and a heavy measure.
The arrow of his glance needs not a bow that I should beguile the shaft of his gaze with a bow.
He is not prisoner of the world, fettered to this world of earth, that I should beguile him with gold of the
kingdom of the world.
He is an angel, though in form he is a man; he is not lustful that I should beguile him with women.
Angels start away from the house wherein this form is, so how should I beguile him with such a form and likeness?
He does not take a flock of horses, since he flies on wings; his food is light, so how should I beguile him with bread?
He is not a merchant and trafficker in the market of the world that I should beguile him with enchantment of gain and loss.
He is not veiled that I should make myself out sick and utter sighs, to beguile him with lamentation.
I will bind my head and bow my head, for I have got out of hand; I will not beguile his compassion with sickness or fluttering.
Hair by hair he sees my crookedness and feigning; what’s hidden from him that I should beguile him with anything hidden.
He is not a seeker of fame, a prince addicted to poets, that I should beguile him with verses and lyrics and flowing poetry.
The glory of the unseen form is too great for me to beguile it with blessing or Paradise.
Shams-e Tabriz, who is his chosen and beloved – perchance I will beguile him with this same pole of the age. ~ Rumi,
1028:The Poet
To be a poet is to bring
A furrowed brow, a piece of string,
And pen and ink and paper white Into a lonely room at night,
And, while the wingéd hours do fly,
To write a rhyme a crown will buy.
Whereas, when first ye sat ye down,
Ye dreamed the rhyme would buy a crown.
To be a poet is to owe,
And here and there in stealth to go;
To fly on swift impassioned feet
From wrathful traders in the street;
For odes and lyrics, tho' they be
Exquisite, are not currency.
No butcher will an MS. take
As fair exchange for good rump steak.
To be a poet is to graze
Old Pegagsus for many days
Upon the dismal fields of hash,
And afterwards to flog and lash
The ancient steed, who loudly squeals,
And spurns the paper with his heels,
Till he arrives, foam-splashed and spent,
Where the ode ends that pays the rent.
To be a poet, I'm afraid,
Is but a sorry sort of trade.
The poet never can compete
With grocers who sell things to eat;
And golden dreams, and visions bright,
Will never stay an appetite.
Likewise the yearnings of the soul
Don't equal one small sausage-roll.
Ah! often from my attic high
I've watched banana-men go by.
And thought how vain 'twould be to shove
A truck piled high with odes to Love,
And lyrics sweet, and sonnets too,
About the suburbs, as they do
The yellow fruit we know so well,
Which seems so readily to sell.
He is a wretched fool indeed
Who yearns the intellect to feed.
A poet cannot sink his teeth Into the freshest laurel-wreath.
Oft, when from lodgings I've been sent,
I've thought 'There's little nourishment
In writing verse. At any price,
A poem is but food for mice.'
~ Ernest O'Ferrall,
1029:Nope.' He grabs my hand and places it over his heart. 'I already know the truth. We’re dating.' His eyebrows waggle. 'Exclusively.'
'Do you want to wear my letterman’s jacket?'
'I’m going to vomit.'
'“Should I buy you a corsage?'
'Seriously. Gagging.'
'Okay, no corsage.' He laughs. 'Just the matching tattoos, then?'
'Seriously.' I fight the urge to stomp my foot. 'Let it go, Parker. Let it go.'
'Hey, Elsa, don’t quote Frozen to me unless you’re prepared to listen to the entire soundtrack in my car on the way to Seaport.' I stare up at him. 'I’m not sure whether I should be disturbed or turned on by the fact that you know all the words to Let It Go.'
He grins. 'Definitely turned on.'
'Downloaded in your iTunes library, no doubt.' I shake my head. 'This is nearly as disturbing as the time I learned the song A Whole New World from Aladdin is a metaphor for mind-blowing sex.'
'I’m sorry, what?'
'I can open your eyes? Lead you wonder by wonder? Over, sideways, and under?' I snort. 'Come on. That’s basically soft-core porn.'
'Thank you, Zoe, for ruining a beloved Disney classic for me.'
'For the record…' He trails off.
I wince, anticipating the worst. 'What?'
'I’ll take you on my magic carpet ride any time you
want, snookums.'
'So, that’s a no on rubbing my lamp then?'
'You know, I think I’ll just find my own way to Nate’s…' I turn and start walking to the elevator.
'Oh, come on.' Parker twines his fingers with mine and pushes the call button, humming under his breath. 'I’m a genie in a bottle, baby, gotta rub—' 'AH!' I stare at him in horror as the elevator arrives. 'So help me god if you start singing vintage Christina Aguilera lyrics right now, I will murder you with my bare hands. ~ Julie Johnson,
Reason says, I will beguile him with the tongue.; Love says,
Be silent. I will beguile him with the soul.
The soul says to the heart, Go, do not laugh at me and yourself.
What is there that is not his, that I may beguile him
He is not sorrowful and anxious and seeking oblivion that I
may beguile him with wine and a heavy measure.
The arrow of his glance needs not a bow that I should beguile
the shaft of his gaze with a bow.
He is not prisoner of the world, fettered to this world of earth,
that I should beguile him with gold of the kingdom of the world.
He is an angel, though in form he is a man; he is not lustful
that I should beguile him with women.
Angels start away from the house wherein this form is, so how
should I beguile him with such a form and likeness?
He does not take a flock of horses, since he flies on wings; his
food is light, so how should I beguile him with bread?
He is not a merchant and trafficker in the market of the world
that I should beguile him with enchantment of grain and loss.
He is not veiled that I should make myself out sick and utter
sighs, to beguile him with lamentation.
I will bind my head and bow my head, for I have got out of
hand; I will not beguile his compassion with sickness or fluttering.
Hair by hair he sees my crookedness and feigning; whats
hidden from him that I should beguile him with anything hidden.
He is not a seeker of fame, a prince addicted to poets, that I
should beguile him with verses and lyrics and flowing poetry.
The glory of the unseen form is too great for me to beguile it
with blessing or Paradise.
Shams-e Tabriz, who is his chosen and belovedperchance I
will beguile him with this same pole of the age.

~ Jalaluddin Rumi, I Will Beguile Him With The Tongue
1031:This new generation of Italian American entertainers shared Sinatra’s view of the new dance music that emerged in the 1950s. “Rock-and-roll is the most brutal, ugly, desperate, vicious form of expression it has been my misfortune to hear,” Sinatra told Congress in 1958. “Rock-and-roll smells phony and false. It is sung, played, and written for the most part by cretinous goons, and by means of its almost imbecilic reiteration, and sly, lewd—in plain fact, dirty—lyrics … it manages to be the martial music of every sideburned delinquent on the face of the earth.” In response to the raw, driving sexuality of black-influenced rock, young Italian American men in New York and Philadelphia did to the new music what Sinatra and his generation had done to jazz. A style combining smooth vocal harmonies, romantic lyrics, and a stationary stage presence, doo-wop was invented in the 1940s by black youth on street corners, but it shot to the top of the pop charts in the late 1950s when Italian Americans adopted it as their own—just as most African American performers moved toward “soul music.” From 1958, when Dion (DiMucci) and the Belmonts placed several songs on the pop charts, until the “British Invasion” of 1964, Italian American doo-wop groups dominated American popular music. All wearing conservative suits and exuding a benign romanticism, the Capris, the Elegants, the Mystics, the Duprees, the Del-Satins, the Four Jays, the Essentials, Randy and the Rainbows, and Vito & the Salutations declared the arrival of Italians into American civilization. During the rise of doo-wop and Frank Rizzo, Malcolm X mocked the newly white Italians. “No Italian will ever jump up in my face and start putting bad mouth on me,” he said, “because I know his history. I tell him when you’re talking about me you’re talking about your pappy, your father. He knows his history. He knows how he got that color.” Though fewer and fewer Italian Americans know the history of which Malcolm X spoke, some have reenacted it. ~ Thaddeus Russell,
1032:You’d better marry her before she reaches eighteen and the spell wears off,” I said.
“Yes. The one that’s hiding her fangs and pincers from plain sight.”
“I don’t find them especially hidden,” he said mildly.
“Then perhaps you’re a pair.”
His brows lifted. “Now, that’s the cruelest thing you’ve said so far.”
Mrs. Fredericks cleared off, and Chloe took her place before the piano. A beam of sunlight was just beginning its slide into the chamber, capturing her in light. She was a glowing girl with a glowing face, and Joplin at her fingertips.
“Give me time,” I muttered, dropping my gaze to my plate. “I’ll come up with something worse.”
“No doubt.” Armand pulled a flask from his jacket and shook it in front of my nose. “Whiskey. Conveniently the same color as tea. Are you game, waif?” I glanced around, but no one was looking. I lifted my cup, drained it to the dregs, and set it before him.
He was right. It did look like tea. But it tasted like vile burning fire, all the way down my throat.
Sip it,” he hissed, as I began to cough. His voice lifted over my sputtering. “Dear me, Miss Jones, I do beg your pardon. The tea’s rather hot; I should have mentioned it.”
“Quite all right,” I gasped, as the whiskey swirled an evil amber in my teacup.
Chloe’s song grew bouncier, with lyrics about a girl with strawberries in a wagon. Several of the men had begun to cluster near, drawn to her soprano or perchance her bosom. Two were vying to turn the pages of her music. She had to crane her head to keep Armand in view.
He sent her another smile from his chair, lifting his cup in salute.
“I’m going to kiss you, Eleanore,” he said quietly, still looking at her. “Not now. Later.” His eyes cut back to mine. “I thought it fair to tell you first.”
I stilled. “If you think you can do so without me biting your lip, feel free to try.”
His gaze shone wicked blue. “I don’t mind if you bite.”
“Biting your lip off, I should have said.”
“Ah. Let’s see how it goes, shall we? ~ Shana Abe,
1033:You’re innocent until proven guilty,” Mandy exclaimed, unable to hide her gleeful smile. She missed the way people used to have normal conversations, used to be more caring for each other than themselves, back in the Seventies and Eighties. These days, she realized, neighbors kept to themselves, their kids kept to themselves, nobody talked to each other anymore. They went to work, went shopping and shut themselves up at home in front of glowing computer screens and cellphones… but maybe the nostalgic, better times in her life would stay buried, maybe the world would never be what it was. In the 21st century music was bad, movies were bad, society was failing and there were very few intelligent people left who missed the way things used to be… maybe though, Mandy could change things.
Thinking back to the old home movies in her basement, she recalled what Alecto had told her. “We wanted more than anything else in the world to be normal, but we failed.” The 1960’s and 1970’s were very strange times, but Mandy missed it all, she missed the days when Super-8 was the popular film type, when music had lyrics that made you think, when movies had powerful meanings instead of bad comedy and when people would just walk to a friend’s house for the afternoon instead of texting in bed all day. She missed soda fountains and department stores and non-biodegradable plastic grocery bags, she wished cellphones, bad pop music and LED lights didn’t exist… she hated how everything had a diagnosis or pill now, how people who didn’t fit in with modern, lazy society were just prescribed medications without a second thought… she hated how old, reliable cars were replaced with cheap hybrid vehicles… she hated how everything could be done online, so that people could just ignore each other… the world was becoming much more convenient, but at the same time, less human, and her teenage life was considered nostalgic history now.
Hanging her head low, avoiding the slightly confused stare of the cab driver through the rear view mirror, she started crying uncontrollably, her tears soaking the collar of her coat as the sun blared through the windows in a warm light. ~ Rebecca McNutt,
1034:Rather, I found through this experience that there is significant similarity between meditating under a waterfall and tidying. When you stand under a waterfall, the only audible sound is the roar of water. As the cascade pummels your body, the sensation of pain soon disappears and numbness spreads. Then a sensation of heat warms you from the inside out, and you enter a meditative trance. Although I had never tried this form of meditation before, the sensation it generated seemed extremely familiar. It closely resembled what I experience when I am tidying. While not exactly a meditative state, there are times when I am cleaning that I can quietly commune with myself. The work of carefully considering each object I own to see whether it sparks joy inside me is like conversing with myself through the medium of my possessions. For this reason, it is essential to create a quiet space in which to evaluate the things in your life. Ideally, you should not even be listening to music. Sometimes I hear of methods that recommend tidying in time to a catchy song, but personally, I don’t encourage this. I feel that noise makes it harder to hear the internal dialogue between the owner and his or her belongings. Listening to the TV is, of course, out of the question. If you need some background noise to relax, choose environmental or ambient music with no lyrics or well-defined melodies. If you want to add momentum to your tidying work, tap the power of the atmosphere in your room rather than relying on music. The best time to start is early morning. The fresh morning air keeps your mind clear and your power of discernment sharp. For this reason, most of my lessons commence in the morning. The earliest lesson I ever conducted began at six thirty, and we were able to clean at twice the usual speed. The clear, refreshed feeling gained after standing under a waterfall can be addictive. Similarly, when you finish putting your space in order, you will be overcome with the urge to do it again. And, unlike waterfall meditation, you don’t have to travel long distances over hard terrain to get there. You can enjoy the same effect in your own home. That’s pretty special, don’t you think? ~ Marie Kond,
1035:The wedding of David and Michal was a glorious affair. Though Saul was normally stingy with his money, he was not so with his daughters. Michal had started the day with a bath followed by a bodily anointing of oil. She wore a linen and silk dress with embroidered cloth of Phoenician purple. Her hair was brushed to a soft perfection and placed beneath her Tyrian style crown of gold. She was bedecked with gold and silver jewelry from Egypt. Bracelets, necklaces, ear coverings and a ring on her nose. She walked through the Gibeah streets in fine calf leather sandals, surrounded by a cadre of dozens of virgin bridesmaid companions dressed in white linen. A band of minstrels led her with rejoicing on tambourine, flute, and lyre. She felt like a queen. She would be a queen one day. She knew that she was marrying the mightiest warrior in all of Israel. The gibborim who had killed the giant Rephaim Philistine, who her own father, the anointed warrior king, could not conquer. All she could think of the entire journey to the palace were the lyrics she first heard her from the lips of her bridegroom upon their first acquaintance. She had never forgot them. They were burned into her heart. He had sung a song of virginal submission to a manly king as a sample of his musical talent to her father. But she knew he had sung those words for her. She knew by the look in his eyes, his unquenchable stare of desire for her. It was like a prophecy. Now those words were coming true, she was going to be living them out any moment. Hear, O daughter, and consider, and incline your ear: forget your people and your father’s house, and the king will desire your beauty. Since he is your lord, bow to him. The people of Israel lined the streets and cheered their beautiful princess as she approached the entranceway to the palace. She could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. Would he sing to her on their wedding night? Would he seduce her with his musical talent before he ravished her? All glorious is the princess in her chamber, with robes interwoven with gold. In many-colored robes she is led to the king, with her virgin companions following behind her. With joy and gladness they are led along as they enter the palace of the king. ~ Brian Godawa,
1036:The Gates of Eden,” as he called it that night, took us furthest out into the realm of the imagination, to a point beyond logic and reason. Like “It’s Alright, Ma,” the song mentions a book title in its first line, but the song is more reminiscent of the poems of William Blake (and, perhaps, of Blake’s disciple Ginsberg) than it is of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, vaunting the truth that lies in surreal imagery. After an almost impenetrable first verse, the song approaches themes that were becoming familiar to Dylan’s listeners. In Genesis, Eden is the paradise where Adam and Eve had direct communication with God. According to “Gates of Eden,” it is where truth resides, without bewitching illusions. And the song is basically a list, verse after verse, of the corrosive illusions that Dylan would sing about constantly from the mid-1960s on: illusions about obedience to authority; about false religions and idols (the “utopian hermit monks” riding on the golden calf); about possessions and desire; about sexual repression and conformity (embodied by “the gray flannel dwarf”); about high-toned intellectualism. None of these count for much or even exist inside the gates of Eden. The kicker comes in the final verse, where the singer talks of his lover telling him of her dreams without any attempt at interpretation—and that at times, the singer thinks that the only truth is that there is no truth outside the gates of Eden. It’s a familiar conundrum: If there is no truth, isn’t saying as much really an illusion, too, unless we are all in Eden? (“All Cretans are liars,” says the Cretan.) What makes that one truth so special? But the point, as the lover knows, is that outside of paradise, interpretation is futile. Don’t try to figure out what the song, or what any work of art, “really” means; the meaning is in the imagery itself; attempting to define it is to succumb to the illusion that truth can be reached through human logic. So Dylan’s song told us, as he took the measure in his lyrics of what had begun as the “New Vision,” two and a half miles up Broadway from Lincoln Center at Columbia, in the mid-1940s. Apart from Dylan, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso may have been the only people in Philharmonic Hall who got it. I ~ Sean Wilentz,
1037:She left me at the silent time
When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heavens steep,
And like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light,
Hovered in the purple night,
Ere she sought her ocean nest
In the chambers of the West.
She left me, and I stayed alone
Thinking over every tone
Which, though silent to the ear,
The enchanted heart could hear,
Like notes which die when born, but still
Haunt the echoes of the hill;
And feeling ever--oh, too much!--
The soft vibration of her touch,
As if her gentle hand, even now,
Lightly trembled on my brow;
And thus, although she absent were,
Memory gave me all of her
That even Fancy dares to claim:--
Her presence had made weak and tame
All passions, and I lived alone
In the time which is our own;
The past and future were forgot,
As they had been, and would be, not.
But soon, the guardian angel gone,
The daemon reassumed his throne
In my faint heart. I dare not speak
My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak
I sat and saw the vessels glide
Over the ocean bright and wide,
Like spirit-winged chariots sent
Oer some serenest element
For ministrations strange and far;
As if to some Elysian star
Sailed for drink to medicine
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine.
And the wind that winged their flight
From the land came fresh and light,
And the scent of winged flowers,
And the coolness of the hours
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day,
Were scattered oer the twinkling bay.
And the fisher with his lamp
And spear about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought
Extinguishes all sense and thought
Of the regret that pleasure leaves,
Destroying life alone, not peace!
Written in 1822 and probably addressed to Jane Williams. Edward and Jane Williams became friends of the Shelleys at Pisa and lived with them in Lerici
in 1822. Shelley liked to hear Jane sing and presented her with a guitar. A number of his last lyrics (e.g., "To Jane") are addressed to her. First published by Richard Garnett in Macmillan's Magazine (1862).

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici
1038:Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that’s landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end

of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there’s two kinds
of women—those you write poems about

and those you don’t. It’s true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane’s Addiction

lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast

as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don’t have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power

never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely

a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,

as if I invented it, but I’m still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven’t developed
antibodies for your smile. I don’t know how long

regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don’t know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light

of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that’s just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing

into each other’s ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn’t make the silence
any easier to navigate. I’m sorry all the kisses

I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out

of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you’d press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I’m sorry this poem has taken thirteen years

to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade’s precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we’d put our hands away like chocolate

to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other’s eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn’t be said. ~ Jeffrey McDaniel,
1039:Give Your Heart A Break lyrics

The day I first met you
You told me you'd never fall in love
But now that I get you
I know fear is what it really was

Now here we are, so close
Yet so far, haven't I passed the test?
When will you realize
Baby, I'm not like the rest

Don't wanna break your heart
I wanna give your heart a break
I know you're scared it's wrong
Like you might make a mistake
There's just one life to live
And there's no time to waste, to waste

So let me give your heart a break
Give your heart a break
Let me give your heart a break
Your heart a break

Oh, yeah yeah

On Sunday, you went home alone
There were tears in your eyes
I called your cell phone, my love
But you did not reply

The world is ours, if you want it
We can take it, if you just take my hand
There's no turning back now
Baby, try to understand

Don't wanna break your heart
Wanna give your heart a break
I know you're scared it's wrong
Like you might make a mistake
There's just one life to live
And there's no time to waste, to waste

So let me give your heart a break

Give your heart a break
Let me give your heart a break
Your heart a break
There's just so much you can take
Give your heart a break
Let me give your heart a break
Your heart a break

Oh, yeah yeah

When your lips are on my lips
And our hearts beat as one
But you slip right out of my fingertips
Every time you run, whoa

Don't wanna break your heart
Wanna give your heart a break
I know you're scared it's wrong
Like you might make a mistake
There's just one life to live
And there's no time to waste, to waste
So let me give your heart a break

Cuz you've been hurt before
I can see it in your eyes
You try to smile it away
Some things, you can't disguise
Don't wanna break your heart
Baby, I can ease the ache, the ache

So, let me give your heart a break
Give your heart a break
Let me give your heart a break
Your heart a break
There's just so much you can take
Give your heart a break
Let me give your heart a break
Your heart a break

Oh yeah,yeah

The day I first met you
You told me you'd never fall in love ~ Demi Lovato,
1040:Come Let Us Worship Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the LORD our Maker. —PSALM 95:6     A recent point of frustration, debate, and tension in many churches has been about defining worship and agreeing what it should look like. Older Christians are confused because of changes made to the style of worship. They wonder whatever happened to the old hymns that were so beloved. They knew the page numbers and all the old verses by heart. Today there are no hymnals, the organs have been silenced, and guitars, drums, and cymbals have taken over. The choir and their robes have been abandoned, and now we have five to seven singers on stage leading songs. We stand for 30 minutes at a time singing song lyrics that we aren’t familiar with from a large screen. What’s happening? If the church doesn’t have these components, the young people leave and go to where it’s happening. Are we going to let the form of worship divide our churches? I hope not! The origins of many of the different expressions of worship can be found in the Psalms, which portray worship as an act of the whole person, not just the mental sphere. The early founders established ways to worship based on what they perceived after reading this great book of the Bible. Over the centuries, Christian worship has taken many different forms, involving various expressions and postures on the part of churchgoers. The Hebrew word for “worship” literally means “to kneel” or “to bow down.” The act of worship is the gesture of humbling oneself before a mighty authority. The Psalms also call upon us to “sing to the LORD, bless His name” (96:2 NASB). Music has always played a large part in the sacred act of worship. Physical gestures and movements are also mentioned in the Psalms. Lifting our hands before God signifies our adoration of Him. Clapping our hands shows our celebration before God. Some worshipers rejoice in His presence with tambourines and dancing (see Psalm 150:4). To worship like the psalmist is to obey Jesus’ command to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30). There are many more insights for worship in the book of Psalms: • God’s gifts of instruments and vocal music can be used to help us worship (47:1; 81:1-4). • We can appeal to God for help, and we can thank Him for His deliverance (4:3; 17:1-5). • Difficult times should not prevent us from praising God (22:23- 24; 102:1-2; 140:4-8). ~ Emilie Barnes,
1041:No Mirrors in My Nana’s House” Sweet Honey in the Rock LYRICS BY YSAYE MARIA BARNWELL Sweet Honey in the Rock is a Grammy Award–winning vocal group of black women vocalists founded in 1973 by Bernice Johnson Reagon. The group’s members have changed during its long tenure, but it retains a core of five vocalists and a sign-language interpreter. Their performances are deeply embodied celebrations of black women’s lived experiences. The group’s name is derived from Psalm 81:16: “But you would be fed with the finest of wheat; with honey from the rock I would satisfy you.” Sign-language interpreter Dr. Ysaye Barnwell joined Sweet Honey in the Rock in 1979 and appears in more than thirty recordings with the group. She is the author of one of the group’s most popular recordings, “No Mirrors in My Nana’s House.” It is a stirring piece that reveals how the loving protection of black women can shield black girls from a painful world that seeks to negate their beauty and worth. In 1998 the lyrics became a children’s book published by Harcourt Brace. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). I never knew that my skin was too black. I never knew that my nose was too flat. I never knew that my clothes didn’t fit. I never knew there were things that I’d missed, cause the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun); . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). I was intrigued by the cracks in the walls. I tasted, with joy, the dust that would fall. The noise in the hallway was music to me. The trash and the rubbish just cushioned my feet. And the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). The world outside was a magical place. I only knew love. I never knew hate, and the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). ~ Melissa V Harris Perry,
1042:He was rowed down from the north in a leather skiff manned by a crew of trolls. His fur cape was caked with candle wax, his brow stained blue by wine - though the latter was seldom noticed due to the fox mask he wore at-all times. A quill in his teeth, a solitary teardrop a-squirm in his palm, he was the young poet prince of Montreal, handsome, immaculate, searching for sturdier doors to nail his poignant verses on.
In Manhattan, grit drifted into his ink bottle. In Vienna, his spice box exploded. On the Greek island of Hydra, Orpheus came to him at dawn astride a transparent donkey and restrung his cheap guitar. From that moment on, he shamelessly and willingly exposed himself to the contagion of music. To the secretly religious curiosity of the traveler was added the openly foolhardy dignity of the troubadour. By the time he returned to America, songs were working in him like bees in an attic. Connoisseurs developed cravings for his nocturnal honey, despite the fact that hearts were occasionally stung.

Now, thirty years later, as society staggers towards the millennium - nailing and screeching at the while, like an orangutan with a steak knife in its side - Leonard Cohen, his vision, his gift, his perseverance, are finally getting their due. It may be because he speaks to this wounded zeitgeist with particular eloquence and accuracy, it may be merely cultural time-lag, another example of the slow-to-catch-on many opening their ears belatedly to what the few have been hearing all along. In any case, the sparkle curtain has shredded, the boogie-woogie gate has rocked loose from its hinges, and here sits L. Cohen at an altar in the garden, solemnly enjoying new-found popularity and expanded respect.

From the beginning, his musical peers have recognized Cohen´s ability to establish succinct analogies among life´s realities, his talent for creating intimate relationships between the interior world of longing and language and the exterior world of trains and violins. Even those performers who have neither "covered" his compositions nor been overtly influenced by them have professed to admire their artfulness: the darkly delicious melodies - aural bouquets of gardenia and thistle - that bring to mind an electrified, de-Germanized Kurt Weill; the playfully (and therefore dangerously) mournful lyrics that can peel the apple of love and the peach of lust with a knife that cuts all the way to the mystery, a layer Cole Porter just could`t expose. It is their desire to honor L. Cohen, songwriter, that has prompted a delegation of our brightest artists to climb, one by one, joss sticks smoldering, the steep and salty staircase in the Tower of Song. ~ Tom Robbins,
1043:Who the hell is that?” Chase barks. He watches Pete’s prideful swagger all the way down the aisle until he disappears from sight. Chase looks down at me. I shrug. “He’s a friend.” “Since when do you have friends like that?” he asks. He steps toward me, and I step back, until my back is against the shelves behind me. I don’t like to be cornered, but Chase has no way of knowing that. I skitter to the side so that I’m not hemmed in. “Friends like what?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the tattoos. Pete walks by the end of the aisle and waves at us, and then he winks at me. A grin tugs at my lips. I shrug again. “He’s really very nice.” “Where did you meet him?” I can tell the truth or I can lie. But then I hear Pete one aisle over as he starts to sing the lyrics to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock.” I grin. I can’t help it. “He’s helping out at the camp this week,” I say instead of the truth. Well, it’s sort of the truth. “Where’s he from?” Chase asks. “New York City,” I say. Pete’s song changes from Elvis to AC/DC’s “Jailbreak.” I laugh out loud this time. I can’t help it. “Your dad’s all right with you hanging out with him?” My dad is covered in tattoos, too, but most of his are hidden by his clothing. “He likes Pete,” I say. “I do, too.” Chase puts one arm on the shelf behind me and leans toward my body. I dodge him again, and he looks crossly at me. “Don’t box me in,” I warn. He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. But he still looks curious. “So, about tomorrow,” he says. “I can’t,” I blurt out. I think I hear a quickly hissed, “Yes!” from the other side of the aisle, but I can’t be sure. Chase touches my elbow, and it makes my skin crawl. I pull my elbow back. “Don’t touch me,” I say. Suddenly, Pete’s striding down the aisle toward us. His expression is thunderous, and I step in front of him so that he has to run into me instead of pummeling Chase like I’m guessing he wants to do. I lay a hand on his chest. “You ready to go?” I ask. He looks down at me, his eyes asking if I’m all right. His hand lands on my waist and slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. He’s testing me. And I don’t want to fight him. I admit it. Chase makes my skin crawl, and Pete makes my skin tingle. It’s not an altogether pleasant sensation, but only because I can’t control it. He holds me close, one hand on the center of my back, and the other full of breath mints and assorted sundries. He steps toward Chase, and Pete and I are so close together that I have to step backward when he steps forward. I repeat my question. “You get everything?” He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1044:The Weed’s Counsel
SAID a traveller by the way
Pausing, 'What hast thou to say,
Flower by the dusty road,
That would ease a mortal's load?'
Traveller, hearken unto me!
I will tell thee how to see
Beauties in the earth and sky
Hidden from the careless eye.
I will tell thee how to hear
Nature's music wild and clear,—
Songs of midday and of dark
Such as many never mark,
Lyrics of creation sung
Ever since the world was young.
And thereafter thou shalt know
Neither weariness nor woe.
Thou shalt see the dawn unfold
Artistries of rose and gold,
And the sunbeams on the sea
Dancing with the wind for glee.
The red lilies of the moors
Shall be torches on the floors,
Where the field-lark lifts his cry
To rejoice the passer-by,
In a wide world rimmed with blue
Lovely as when time was new.
And thereafter thou shalt fare
Light of foot and free from care.
I will teach thee how to find
Lost enchantments of the mind
All about thee, never guessed
By indifferent unrest.
Thy distracted thought shall learn
Patience from the roadside fern,
And a sweet philosophy
From the flowering locust tree, —
While thy heart shall not disdain
The consolation of the rain.
Not an acre but shall give
Of its strength to help thee live.
With the many-wintered sun
Shall thy hardy course be run.
And the bright new moon shall be
A lamp to thy felicity.
When green-mantled spring shall come
Past thy door with flute and drum,
And when over wood and swamp
Autumn trails her scarlet pomp,
No misgiving shalt thou know,
Passing glad to rise and go.
So thy days shall be unrolled
Like a wondrous cloth of gold.
When gray twilight with her star
Makes a heaven that is not far,
Touched with shadows and with dreams,
Thou shalt hear the woodland streams
Singing through the starry night
Holy anthems of delight.
So the ecstasy of earth
Shall refresh thee as at birth,
And thou shalt arise each morn
Radiant with a soul reborn.
And this wisdom of a day
None shall ever take away.
What the secret, what the clew
The wayfarer must pursue?
Only one thing he must have
Who would share these transports brave.
Love within his heart must dwell
Like a bubbling roadside well,
For a spring to quicken thought,
Else my counsel comes to naught.
For without that quickening trust
We are less than roadside dust.
This, O traveller, is my creed, —
All the wisdom of the weed!
Then the traveller set his pack
Once more on his dusty back,
And trudged on for many a mile
Fronting fortune with a smile.
~ Bliss William Carman,
1045:There are moments in every relationship that define when two people start to fall in love.
A first glance
A first smile
A first kiss
A first fall…
(I remove the Darth Vader house shoes from my satchel and look down at them.)
You were wearing these during one of those moments.
One of the moments I first started to fall in love with you.
The way you gave me butterflies that morning
Had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else,
and everything to do with you.
I was falling in love with you that morning
because of you.
(I take the next item out of the satchel. When I pull it out and look up, she brings her hands to her mouth in shock.)
This ugly little gnome
With his smug little grin…
He's the reason I had an excuse to invite you into my house.
Into my life.
You took a lot of aggression out on him over those next few months.
I would watch from my window as you would kick him over every time you walked by him.
Poor little guy.
You were so tenacious.
That feisty, aggressive, strong-willed side of you….
The side of you that refused to take crap from this concrete gnome?
The side of you that refused to take crap from me?
I fell in love with that side of you
because of you.
(I set the gnome down on the stage and grab the CD)
This is your favorite CD
‘Layken’s shit.’
Although now I know you intended for shit to be possessive, rather than descriptive.
The banjo started playing through the speakers of your car
and I immediately recognized my favorite band.
Then when I realized it was your favorite band, too?
The fact that these same lyrics inspired both of us?
I fell in love with that about you.
That had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else.
I fell in love with that about you
because of you.
(I take a slip of paper out of the satchel and hold it up. When I look at her, I see Eddie slide her a napkin. I can’t tell from up here, but that can only mean she’s crying.)
This is a receipt I kept.
Only because the item I purchased that night was on the verge of ridiculous.
Chocolate milk on the rocks? Who orders that?
You were different, and you didn’t care.
You were being you.
A piece of me fell in love with you at that moment,
because of you.
This? (I hold up another sheet of paper.)
This I didn’t really like so much.
It’s the poem you wrote about me.
The one you titled 'mean?'
I don’t think I ever told you…
but you made a zero.
And then I kept it
to remind myself of all the things I never want to be to you.
(I pull her shirt from my bag. When I hold it into the light, I sigh into the microphone.)
This is that ugly shirt you wear.
It doesn’t really have anything to do with why I fell in love with you.
I just saw it at your house and thought I’d steal it. ~ Colleen Hoover,
1046:I glanced over and saw Wyatt glaring at me. Journey’s “Lovin’ Touchin’, Squeezin’” was playing on the radio.

“What?” I asked.

“You secretly hate me, don’t you.” He gestured toward the radio. “You can’t stand the thought of me taking a much needed nap and leaving you to drive without conversation. You’re torturing me with this sappy stuff.”

“It’s Journey. I love this song.”

Wyatt mumbled something under his breath, picked up the CD case, and started looking through it. He paused with a choked noise, his eyes growing huge.

“You’re joking, Sam. Justin Bieber? What are you, a twelve-year old girl?”

There’s gonna be one less lonely girl, I sang in my head. That was a great song. How could he not like that song? Still, I squirmed a bit in embarrassment.

“A twelve-year old girl gave me that CD,” I lied. “For my birthday.”

Wyatt snorted. “It’s a good thing you’re a terrible liar. Otherwise, I’d be horrified at the thought that a demon has been hanging out with a bunch of giggling pre-teens.”

He continued to thumb through the CDs. “Air Supply Greatest Hits? No, no, I’m wrong here. It’s an Air Supply cover band in Spanish.” He waved the offending CD in my face. “Sam, what on earth are you thinking? How did you even get this thing?”

“Some tenant left it behind,” I told him. “We evicted him, and there were all these CDs. Most were in Spanish, but I’ve got a Barry Manilow in there, too. That one’s in English.”

Wyatt looked at me a moment, and with the fastest movement I’ve ever seen, rolled down the window and tossed the case of CDs out onto the highway. It barely hit the road before a semi plowed over it.

I was pissed. “You asshole. I liked those CDs. I don’t come over to your house and trash your video games, or drive over your controllers. If you think that will make me listen to that
Dubstep crap for the next two hours, then you better fucking think again.”

“I’m sorry Sam, but it’s past time for a musical intervention here. You can’t keep listening to this stuff. It wasn’t even remotely good when it was popular, and it certainly hasn’t gained anything over time. You need to pull yourself together and try to expand your musical interests a bit. You’re on a downward spiral, and if you keep this up, you’ll find yourself friendless, living in a box in a back alley, stinking of your own excrement, and covered in track marks.”

I looked at him in surprise. I had no idea Air Supply led to lack of bowel control and hard core drug usage. I wondered if it was something subliminal, a kind of compulsion programmed into the lyrics. Was Russell Hitchcock a sorcerer? He didn’t look that menacing to me, but sorcerers were pretty sneaky. Even so, I was sure Justin Bieber was okay. As soon as we hit a rest stop, I was ordering a replacement from my iPhone. ~ Debra Dunbar,
1047:Failures in Infinitives
why am i doing this? Failure
to keep my work in order so as
to be able to find things
to paint the house
to earn enough money to live on
to reorganize the house so as
to be able to paint the house &
to be able to find things and
earn enough money so as
to be able to put books together
to publish works and books
to have time
to answer mail & phone calls
to wash the windows
to make the kitchen better to work in
to have the money to buy a simple radio
to listen to while working in the kitchen
to know enough to do grownups work in the world
to transcend my attitude
to an enforced poverty
to be able to expect my checks
to arrive on time in the mail
to not always expect that they will not
to forget my mother's attitudes on humility or
to continue
to assume them without suffering
to forget how my mother taunted my father
about money, my sister about i cant say it
failure to forget mother and father enough
to be older, to forget them
to forget my obsessive uncle
to remember them some other way
to remember their bigotry accurately
to cease to dream about lions which always is
to dream about them, I put my hand in the lion's mouth
to assuage its anger, this is not a failure
to notice that's how they were; failure
to repot the plants
to be neat
to create & maintain clear surfaces
to let a couch or a chair be a place for sitting down
and not a table
to let a table be a place for eating & not a desk
to listen to more popular music
to learn the lyrics
to not need money so as
to be able to write all the time
to not have to pay rent, con ed or telephone bills
to forget parents' and uncle's early deaths so as
to be free of expecting care; failure
to love objects
to find them valuable in any way; failure
to preserve objects
to buy them and
to now let them fall by the wayside; failure
to think of poems as objects
to think of the body as an object; failure
to believe; failure
to know nothing; failure
to know everything; failure
to remember how to spell failure; failure
to believe the dictionary & that there is anything
to teach; failure
to teach properly; failure
to believe in teaching
to just think that everybody knows everything
which is not my failure; I know everyone does; failure
to see not everyone believes this knowing and
to think we cannot last till the success of knowing
to wash all the dishes only takes ten minutes
to write a thousand poems in an hour
to do an epic, open the unwashed window
to let in you know who and
to spirit thoughts and poems away from concerns
to just let us know, we will
to paint your ceilings & walls for free
~ Bernadette Mayer,
1048:The View From Chinchpokli
A fouled Sun rises from behind the textile mills
As I crawl out of my nightmares and hobble
To the sink. Then I luxuriate in the toilet
While my unprivileged compatriots of Parel Road Cross Lane
Defecate along the stone wall of Byculla Goods Depot.
I shudder at the thought of going out of this lane
Towards the main road. Hundreds of workers are already returning
From the night-shift, crossing the railway lines.
The bus stop is already crowded. I begin to read
The morning's papers and cover my naked mind
With global events. The ceiling fan whirs, but I sweat.
I breathe in the sulphur dioxide emitted
By the Bombay Gas Company, blended with specks of cotton
And carbon particles discharged by the mills
That clothe millions of loins. Then I shave and shower,
Dismissing all untouchables from my mind, fearing
More palpable pollution. On my way out
I shall throw a used condom and a crumpled pack of cigarettes
Into the garbage. And like a glorious Hindu hero,
Reluctantly riding his chariot to the centre of the battlefield,
I will take a cab to the Manhattan-like
Unreality of Nariman Point. There I will shape India's destiny
Using my immaculate gift. I will ride in a taxi.
I will pass the Victoria Gardens Zoo without blinking.
Byculla Bridge will give me the first line of a poem,
And the Christians, Jews, and Muslims on my way
Will inspire a brilliant critique of contemporary
Indian culture. Of course, I will ignore
The junk-shops, the tea-houses, the restaurants, the markets
I zig-zag through. I shall smoothly go past
The Institute of Art, Anjuman-e-Islam, The Times of India,
The Bombay Municipal Corporation, and Victoria Terminus.
If I glance at Flora Fountain or the Bombay High Court,
It will be an absent-minded observation
And if I seem to look at the University of Bombay's
Clock-tower and buildings it will only be the sulking
Stare of a dirty-minded alma mater-fucker at the old hag herself.
But beyond all lies my daily sigh of relief
Because the gross millions are temporarily out of sight.
Some culture is possible in that half a square mile
Where the wall of India cracks open and the sea is visible.
At Chinchpokli, once I return in the evening,
I plot seductions and rapes, plan masterpieces
Of evasion. The loudspeakers blare at me.
Bedbugs bite me. Cockroaches hover about my soul.
Mice scurry around my metaphysics, mosquitoes sing among my lyrics
Lizards crawl over my religion, spiders infest my politics.
I itch. I become horny. I booze. I want to get smashed.
And I do. It comes easy at Chinchpokli,
Where, like a minor Hindu god, I am stoned
By the misery of my worshippers and by my own
Triumphant impotence.
[Translated by Viju Chitre, from: As Is Where Is: Selected Poems ]
~ Dilip Chitre,
1049:By The Aurelian Wall
In Memory of John Keats
By the Aurelian Wall,
Where the long shadows of the centuries fall
From Caius Cestius' tomb,
A weary mortal seeking rest found room
For quiet burial,
Leaving among his friends
A book of lyrics.
Such untold amends
A traveller might make
In a strange country, bidden to partake
Before he farther wends;
Who slyly should bestow
The foreign reed-flute they had seen him blow
And finger cunningly,
On one of the dark children standing by,
Then lift his cloak and go.
The years pass. And the child
Thoughtful beyond his fellows, grave and mild,
Treasures the rough-made toy,
Until one day he blows it for clear joy,
And wakes the music wild.
His fondness makes it seem
A thing first fashioned in delirious dream,
Some god had cut and tried,
And filled with yearning passion, and cast aside
On some far woodland stream,After long years to be
Found by the stranger and brought over sea,
A marvel and delight
To ease the noon and pierce the dark blue night,
For children such as he.
He learns the silver strain
Wherewith the ghostly houses of gray rain
And lonely valleys ring,
When the untroubled whitethroats make the spring
A world without a stain;
Then on his river reed,
With strange and unsuspected notes that plead
Of their own wild accord
For utterances no bird's throat could afford,
Lifts it to human need.
His comrades leave their play,
When calling and compelling far away
By river-slope and hill,
He pipes their wayward footsteps where he will,
All the long lovely day.
Even his elders come.
'Surely the child is elvish,' murmur some,
And shake the knowing head;
'Give us the good old simple things instead,
Our fathers used to hum.'
Others at open door
Smile when they hear what they have hearkened for
These many summers now,
Believing they should live to learn somehow
Things never known before.
But he can only tell
How the flute's whisper lures him with a spell,
Yet always just eludes
The lost perfection over which he broods;
And how he loves it well.
Till all the country-side ,
Familiar with his piping far and wide,
Has taken for its own
That weird enchantment down the evening blown,Its glory and its pride.
And so his splendid name,
Who left the book of lyrics and small fame
Among his fellows then,
Spreads through the world like autumn-who knows when?Till all the hillsides flame.
Grand Pré and Margaree
Hear it upbruited from the unresting sea;
And the small Gaspereau,
Whose yellow leaves repeat it, seems to know
A new felicity.
Even the shadows tall,
Walking at sundown through the plain, recall
A mound the grasses keep,
Where once a mortal came and found long sleep
By the Aurelian Wall.
~ Bliss William Carman,
for Felicity Plunkett
In this World – which is not a world – black
and white withhold truths. In a world
we’d have multiplicities, the purity
of unqualified impurities. In ours we possess
, are possessed by, the comprehension
of qualified organs: terminal vs. respiratory
bronchioles of the lung, left vs. right
hemispheres of the brain. Not a scientist
(thank god) I best understand airports
life’s made me travel: arrivals vs. departures
of good and bad, tourists and terrorists,
and our so-called democracy: the Left
(cunning Capitalists) vs. the Right
(coldblooded Capitalists). Is my being
too a binary composite, bichromatic
backdropp of gloom with streaks of hope?
Maybe I’d like to evoke an irrelevant
memory to name the absent thing: my desk
when my parents bought me one after
years of penury, after pouring their money
into a loan for a flashy house in Tehran’s
highest-status suburb, temporarily resigned
to their son being anti-social, introvert
ruining his spine by bending over notebooks
on the floor, asked me what colour
writing-table I wanted. Thrilled to get to choose
anything, I rejected their suggestions
(blue, blue, blue), insisted, resisted, fought
for two planks of vertical chipboard
legs joined by the horizontal third, desktop
covered in thick, grey contact. Ashen
’s so boring I remember someone sneering
(probably a nosy cousin): in Farsi ash-like
(khaakestar-ee) is the word for grey.
Ashy vastness overshadowed the whiteness
of the page, incisions of my pen’s black ink
as I worked (regurgitated what I’d read)
to forge a raison d’être; and I stayed loyal
to the anti-colour post-migration. If I’d been
dark, wog and olive-complexioned
before, dislocation brought me the paleness
of a zombie’s skin, of what remains after
so much hurt, rejection, anger, self-hatred
not the certainty of black negation,
not the whiteness of success, undecidable
thing beyond the great and the ghastly
made me, overlooked immigrant boy,
loyal to the lyrics of 90s ‘alternative’ music
after I heard in a morose song: “Grey
would be the colour / if I had a heart.” The singer
a ‘Gothic’ artiste (albeit a millionaire
rock star) had just termed the emptiness
of my situation, the void of absolute colours.
Cinder’s interstitial, sutures matter
to interment in ether, always
impermanent. At the point of erasure
by water or air; a caesura, exceeds
fire and smoke, cremation
is the idea of keeping alive the nothing
-ness of life against the parsimony
of urn and plaque – a person may only be
existent as a thing above and outside
body vs. epitaph, black vs. light, being vs. death
to belong to a world finally worthy
of the name, a world that can only be shaded
in ineffable, incomprehensible grey.
~ Ali Alizadeh,
1051:The menu: legendary deep-fried Turkeyzilla, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and green beans.
The theme: dysfunction.
“So,” Elysia said to Lex’s parents with her ever-friendly grin, “how are you?”
“How do you think they are?” Ferbus whispered.
She kicked him under the table. “I mean—um—what do you do? For a living?”
Lex’s mother, who hadn’t said much, continued to stare down the table at the sea of black hoodies while picking at her potatoes.
Lex’s father cleared his throat. “I’m a contractor,” he said. “And she’s a teacher.”
“Omigod! I wanted to be a teacher!” Elysia turned to Mrs. Bartleby. “Do you love it?”
“Hmm?” She snapped back to attention and smiled vacantly at Elysia. “Oh, yes. I do. The kids are a nice distraction.”
“From what?” Pip asked.
Bang smacked her forehead. Lex squeezed Driggs’s hand even tighter, causing him to choke on his stuffing. He coughed and hacked until the offending morsel flew out of his mouth, landing in Sofi’s glass of water.
“Ewww!” she squealed.
“Drink around it,” Pandora scolded. “So! I hear New York City is lovely this time of year.”
Well, it looks nice, I guess,” Mr. Bartleby said. “But shoveling out the driveway is a pain in the neck. The girls used to help, but now . . .”
Sensing the impending awkwardness, Corpp jumped in. “Well, Lex has been a wonderful addition to our community. She’s smart, friendly, a joy to be around—”
“And don’t you worry about the boyfriend,” Ferbus said, pointing to Driggs. “I keep him in line.”
Mrs. Bartleby’s eyes widened, looking at Lex and then Driggs. “You have a—” she sputtered. “He’s your—”
Ferbus went white. “They didn’t know?”
“Oops!” said Uncle Mort in a theatrical voice, getting up from the table. “Almost forgot the biscuits!”
“Let me help you with those,” Lex said through clenched teeth, following him to the counter. A series of pained hugs and greetings had ensued when her parents arrived—but the rest of the guests showed up so soon thereafter that Lex hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to them, much to her relief. Still, she hadn’t stopped seething. “What were you thinking?”
Uncle Mort gave her a reproachful look. “I was thinking that your parents were probably going to feel more lonely and depressed this Thanksgiving than they’ve ever felt in their lives, and that maybe we could help alleviate some of that by hosting a dinner featuring the one and only daughter they have left.”
“A dinner of horrors? You know my track record with family gatherings!”
He ignored her. “Here we are!” he said, turning back to the table with a giant platter. “Biscuits aplenty!”
Lex grunted and took her seat. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” she whispered to Driggs.
“Me neither,” he replied. “I think my hand is broken in three places.”
“And your dad seems to be shooting me some sort of a death stare.”
Lex glanced at her father. “That’s bad.”
“Think he brought the shotgun?”
“It’s entirely possible.”
“All I’m saying,” Ferbus went on, trying to redeem himself and failing, “is that we all look out for one another here.” Mr. Bartleby looked at him. Ferbus began to sweat. “Because, you know. We all need somebody. Uh, to lean on.”
“Stop talking,” Bang signed.
Elysia gave Lex’s parents a sympathetic grin. “I think what my idiot partner is trying to say—through the magic of corny song lyrics, for some reason—is that you don’t need to worry about Lex. She’s like a sister to me.” She realized her poor choice of words as a pained look came to Mrs. Bartleby’s face. “Or an especially close cousin.” She shut her mouth and stared at her potatoes. “Frig.”
Lex was now crushing Driggs’s hand into a fine paste. Other than the folding chairs creaking and Pip obliviously scraping the last bits of food off his plate, the table was silent.
“Good beans!” Pip threw in. ~ Gina Damico,
1052:HERE I sit with my paper, my pen my ink,
First of this thing, and that thing,
and t'other thing think ;
I Then my thoughts come so pell and
I mell all into my mind,
That the sense or the subject I never can find :
This word is wrong placed, no
regard to the sense,
The present and future, instead of
past tense,
Then my grammar I want; O dear!
what a bore,
I think I shall never attempt to
write more,
With patience I then my thoughts
must arraign,
Have them all in due order like
mutes in a train,
Like them too must wait in due
patience and thought,
Or else my fine works will all come
to nought.
My wit too 's so copious, it flows
like a river,
But disperses its waters on black
and white never ;
Like smoke it appears independent
and free,
But ah luckless smoke! it all passes
like thee
Then at length all my patience entirely
My paper and pens in the fire are
tossed ;
But come, try again you must
never despair,
Our Murray's or Entick's are not
all so rare,
Implore their assistance they'll
come to your aid,
Perform all your business without
being paid,
They'll tell you the present tense,
future and past,
Which should come first, and which
should come last,
This Murray will do then to Entick
To find out the meaning of any
word rare.
This they friendly will tell, and
ne'er make you blush,
With a jeering look, taunt, or an
O fie! tush!
Then straight all your thoughts in
black and white put,
Not minding the if's, the be's, and
the but,
Then read it all over, see how it
will run,
How answers the wit, the retort,
and the pun,
Your writings may then with old
Socrates vie,
May on the same shelf with Demosthenes
May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato
be sage,
The pattern or satire to all of the
But stop a mad author I mean not
to turn,
Nor with thirst of applause does my
heated brain burn,
Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar
My letters may make some slight
food for the mind ;
That my thoughts to my friends I
may freely impart,
In all the warm language that flows
from the heart.
Hark! futurity calls! it loudly
It bids me step forward and just
hold the reins,
My excuse shall be humble, and
faithful, and true,
Such as I fear can be made but by
Of writers this age has abundance
and plenty,
Three score and a thousand, two
millions and twenty,
Three score of them wits who all
sharply vie,
To try what odd creature they best
can belie,
A thousand are prudes who for
Charity write,
And fill up their sheets with spleen,
envy, and spite,
One million are bards, who to
Heaven aspire,
And stuff their works full of bombast,
rant, and fire,
T'other million are wags who in
Grub-street attend,
And just like a cobbler the old writings
The twenty are those who for pulpits
And pore over sermons all Saturday
And now my good friends who
come after I mean,
As I ne'er wore a cassock, or dined
with a dean,
Or like cobblers at mending I never
did try,
Nor with poets in lyrics attempted
to vie;
As for prudes these good souls I
both hate and detest,
So here I believe the matter must
I've heard your complaint my
answer I've made,
And since to your calls all the
tribute I've paid,
Adieu my good friend ; pray never
But grammar and sense and everything dare,
Attempt but to write dashing, easy,
and free,
Then take out your grammar and
pay him his fee,
Be not a coward, shrink not to a
But read it all over and make it
out sense.
What a tiresome girl! pray soon
make an end,
Else my limited patience you'll
quickly expend.
Well adieu, I no longer your patience
will try
So swift to the post now the letter
shall fly.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, HERE I sit with my paper
1053:Visy Recycling Memorandum, 2003.
This unwanted cornucopia - nickel-plated pears, bananas, grapes, apples,
kitsch relic from some neo-classical age, saved from Terminator meltdown
its metallic semiotics stalled on the conveyor belts’ rubber-suited fascism.
Universal bowerbird plucked from sexual obscurity - what a piece of work!
All labour history is corrupt. Some American Vietnam War text claimed
that no foreign journalist recorded the fall of Saigon; ditto Neil Davis’
footage of the NVA’s T-72 smashing Palace gates was doco-illusionary.
Neil loved the East, Asian women & died in some shitty Thai coup.
Next was coughed up a crouching brass cat. Sexless? Time-neutered.
Sleek in its full metal jacket fur. Did someone switch over to dogs?
“Bob” (“Gollum”) a famous cricket cat, farm-surrendered, now lives
in the ginger generations doorstop mewling around my mother’s feet.
Why try to marry sex & Nazism? Partisans assassinated blond poster
crew-cut boy Heydrich (the original Tommy Finland?) almost botched
it, grenades destroyed his motorcades’ armoured genitals, Third Reich’s
proto-Eminem. How many times can you say ‘motherfucker’ textually?
The head of a Roman centurion rolled out next. Plaster, nose-smashed
by visygothic policies; modern archaeology’s Liverpool kiss. Transference
of sexual magnetism – Roman army defeats Macedonians at the “Dog’s
Heads”, Thessaly 197 B.C. & the rise of Russell Crowe’s rough trade.
Then a statue of Dionysus, one horn snapped off, poetry books under arm
mop head beard sadhu fixed to a hard face, sunburn plaster peeling white skin.
His own dishevelled Dionysian nature got him expelled from his gnomeland,
ostracized forever from some Heidelberg courtyard, the tyranny of fallen chic.
Murray quoted, “I came from a hard culture”, looking a bit like the jolly
Buddha sculpture that humped down the waste stream, Eastern & Western
burning want - striped woollen jumpers unpicking themselves: get knotted
his thin red line of religion spake: the closer you are to Caesar the greater the
Tyring to explain my personal ontology, the great man tranced through me,
two brothers jumped ship South Brisbane wharves 1886, Baltic, Isle of Reugen.
Dinnies used to be our name but it changed six generations ago, no one knew
why but Fredy Murray had been there; more literary Proteus than genealogist.
The casualisation of Australia & 2.5 million workers suspicious rockabilly minds.
Strong magnetic fields pull artists into poverty, a labour hire shuffle & sucking
up to team leaders, Herr gruppenfuhrer gave needle-stuck Stacey her marching
refused to climb down into a pit waist deep in glass; group signatures against
On the phone the Manager said to her, “I can picture what you look like naked.”
This, after she’d signed his declaration; harassment is any unwelcome, uninvited
whether verbal, written or physical, against another person. Harassment offends,
humiliates or
intimidates your workmates & colleagues. All faces are the same man, one big
Then it was my turn down the pit & I knew why Stacey had rebuked her job
satisfaction – part tunnel rat, part miner we dug out wine bottle shrapnel from
sewerage water, Hien, Alfred, Hussan; Vietnamese, German, Turk & Australian
all in the same trench, huddling from wage concussion; post-war economic
Makes one think of Fredy Murray’s artistic dilemma. How he only worked the land
in his head, his hands ploughing with a pen after he’d famously chucked in his
service job with the revolutionary decree – I’m going home forever! Who could
blame him?
Canberra in the 70’s - a political climate polluted by staffers dancing on bits of
In 8 Mile, Eminem or ‘Rabbit’ as he’s monikered faces his own art versus
indecision. Garbled American obscenities mask his attempts to break dance on
of bus tickets, slammin’ at the Shelter, the Nuremberg Rally in his mind
enhanced by
the Detroit car plant’s ubermensch ethos; all rap lyrics are the same song, one
big opera.
Notice to all staff. The Manager called everyone in for a rasp over the knuckles,
of few words off the telephone pissed that someone had left a porno mag on top
of a
needle bin, blocking access to the final come down of addiction; casuals poring
over Jill
Kelly’s physical assets than VISY’s on paper profit; imagination lost in the waste
That’s why I collected trophies; cornucopias, statues, sculptures, columns - my
finger on
the end game of guilt, lust, greed, consumerism. Someone else’s abject reality
bound for
China’s paper tigers, apathy’s landfill. Davis, Murray, Heydrich & Eminem so
screwed up
by jobs & sex, history’s artery hardening; outside my factory gate work will set
you free.
~ B. R. Dionysius,
Here all the summer could I stay,
  For there's Bishop's teign
  And King's teign
And Coomb at the clear Teign head--
  Where close by the stream
  You may have your cream
All spread upon barley bread.

  There's Arch Brook
  And there's Larch Brook
Both turning many a mill,
  And cooling the drouth
  Of the salmon's mouth
And fattening his silver gill.

  There is Wild wood,
  A Mild hood
To the sheep on the lea o' the down,
  Where the golden furze,
  With its green, thin spurs,
Doth catch at the maiden's gown.

  There is Newton Marsh
  With its spear grass harsh--
A pleasant summer level
  Where the maidens sweet
  Of the Market Street
Do meet in the dusk to revel.

  There's the Barton rich
  With dyke and ditch
And hedge for the thrush to live in,
  And the hollow tree
  For the buzzing bee
And a bank for the wasp to hive in.

  And O, and O
  The daisies blow
And the primroses are waken'd,
  And violets white
  Sit in silver plight,
And the green bud's as long as the spike end.

  Then who would go
  Into dark Soho,
And chatter with dack'd-hair'd critics,
  When he can stay
  For the new-mown hay,
And startle the dappled Prickets?
Dack'd-hair'd = shock-headed;

Prickets = two-year-old deer.

'Keats's correspondence for the Spring of 1818 shows that on arrival in Devonshire he had on his hands, besides attendance on his sick brother, the final work connected with the publication of Endymion. At the end of the first ten days he writes to Haydon of having copied the fourth book for the press; and between the completion of that operation and the end of April, when the poem was out, he must have been more or less busy with it. Probably also the greater part of Isabella was composed at Teignmouth, seeing that it was from that place that he wrote of it to Reynolds towards the end of his stay, as about to be copied out. These circumstances would account for the limited extent of the series of poems special to Devonshire. These, although inferior in interest to the Scottish series of the Summer of 1818, are full of individuality of Keats. The first piece we may safely assign to the 14th of March, 1818. It occurs in a letter to Haydon published by Mr. Tom Taylor in Haydon's Autobiography without any date beyond "Teignmouth, Saturday morning;" but the verses form, with the next song, the staple of the letter, and appear from the context to have been written off as a part of it, and not copied into it.
The date of the letter is to be fixed thus: Keats says in the prose paragraph of which the verses are the continuation -- "The six first days I was here it did nothing but rain; and at that time, having to write to a friend, I gave Devonshire a good blowing-up. It has been fine for almost three days, and I was coming round a bit, but to-day it rains again. With me the county is on its good behaviour. I have enjoyed the most delightful walks these three fine days, beautiful enough to make me content."
Now on the 25th of March Keats wrote to Reynolds of the weather as if the county's trial had lasted three weeks: this gives the 4th as the day of his arrival; and the tenth day from that (when he was writing to Haydon) would be the 14th, which was a Saturday, Keats described these verses as "some doggere." If he had gathered all their local details in the three fine days, he had not been idle; for he had been exploring both sides of the Estuary of the Teign. Starting from Teignmouth along the right-hand bank he would come to Bishop's Teignton about three miles distant, and King's Teignton or Teignton Regis about five miles distant; and crossing the ferry at Teignmouth to get to the left-hand bank he would go through Shaldon and Ringmore to get to the village of Coomb-in-Teign-Head -- perhaps three or four miles from his lodgings. He could not have had his cream and barley bread close to the stream in the village proper; but twenty or thirty years later, and onwards, there was certainly every accomodation of that kind in a group of curious old cottages perched up over the mud-banks, and known as Coomb Cellars -- a favourite place for pic-nics, not so celebrated for the cream as for cockles, raked out of the mud bottom of the Estuary at low tide.
There were two brooks in and near Teignmouth -- one in Brimley Vale and the other in Coomb Vale (nothing to do with Coomb-in-Teign-Head on the Shaldon bank); but I never heard these called Arch Brook and Larch Brook. The "Wild word" of stanza 3 answers to any of the thick plantations of Little Haldon on the Exeter road, -- a down such as Keats describes -- furze and all. Newton Abbott or Newton Bushel, about six miles from Teignmouth, lies in a marshy situation enough, though the name of "the Marsh" has been appropriated to a spot near the Railway station. The town still has, like most country towns of any consequence, a Market Street. Of the dykes, ditches, &c., of "the Barton" I can give no account, as I do not know to what particular manor-house and demesne the term was ever applied at Teignmouth.
There is a touch of "local colour" in the white violets of stanza 6; for though primroses and violets are found in almost all parts of the country, white violets are not quite common about Teignmouth, but are to be found at Bishop's Teignton. It is a pity that this choice little bit of trifling should be disfigured by the false rhyme 'critics' and 'Prickets'. Keats does not seem to have been quite certain when he despatched his letter whether his "doggerel" had been written seriously or not; for he resumes prose with --
"I know not if this rhyming fit has done anything: it will be safe with you, if worthy to put among my Lyrics."
We must consider these trifles worthy to go among his lyrics, in virtue of their fine sense of rhythm and their keen relish for out of door life.'
~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
~ John Keats, Teignmouth - Some Doggerel, Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon
1055:The Princess (Part 1)
A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face,
Of temper amorous, as the first of May,
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl,
For on my cradle shone the Northern star.
There lived an ancient legend in our house.
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold,
Dying, that none of all our blood should know
The shadow from the substance, and that one
Should come to fight with shadows and to fall.
For so, my mother said, the story ran.
And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less,
An old and strange affection of the house.
Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven knows what:
On a sudden in the midst of men and day,
And while I walked and talked as heretofore,
I seemed to move among a world of ghosts,
And feel myself the shadow of a dream.
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane,
And pawed his beard, and muttered 'catalepsy'.
My mother pitying made a thousand prayers;
My mother was as mild as any saint,
Half-canonized by all that looked on her,
So gracious was her tact and tenderness:
But my good father thought a king a king;
He cared not for the affection of the house;
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand
To lash offence, and with long arms and hands
Reached out, and picked offenders from the mass
For judgment.
Now it chanced that I had been,
While life was yet in bud and blade, bethrothed
To one, a neighbouring Princess: she to me
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf
At eight years old; and still from time to time
Came murmurs of her beauty from the South,
And of her brethren, youths of puissance;
And still I wore her picture by my heart,
And one dark tress; and all around them both
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen.
But when the days drew nigh that I should wed,
My father sent ambassadors with furs
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought back
A present, a great labour of the loom;
And therewithal an answer vague as wind:
Besides, they saw the king; he took the gifts;
He said there was a compact; that was true:
But then she had a will; was he to blame?
And maiden fancies; loved to live alone
Among her women; certain, would not wed.
That morning in the presence room I stood
With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends:
The first, a gentleman of broken means
(His father's fault) but given to starts and bursts
Of revel; and the last, my other heart,
And almost my half-self, for still we moved
Together, twinned as horse's ear and eye.
Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon,
Inflamed with wrath: he started on his feet,
Tore the king's letter, snowed it down, and rent
The wonder of the loom through warp and woof
From skirt to skirt; and at the last he sware
That he would send a hundred thousand men,
And bring her in a whirlwind: then he chewed
The thrice-turned cud of wrath, and cooked his spleen,
Communing with his captains of the war.
At last I spoke. 'My father, let me go.
It cannot be but some gross error lies
In this report, this answer of a king,
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable:
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen,
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame,
May rue the bargain made.' And Florian said:
'I have a sister at the foreign court,
Who moves about the Princess; she, you know,
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence:
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear,
The lady of three castles in that land:
Through her this matter might be sifted clean.'
And Cyril whispered: 'Take me with you too.'
Then laughing 'what, if these weird seizures come
Upon you in those lands, and no one near
To point you out the shadow from the truth!
Take me: I'll serve you better in a strait;
I grate on rusty hinges here:' but 'No!'
Roared the rough king, 'you shall not; we ourself
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead
In iron gauntlets: break the council up.'
But when the council broke, I rose and past
Through the wild woods that hung about the town;
Found a still place, and plucked her likeness out;
Laid it on flowers, and watched it lying bathed
In the green gleam of dewy-tasselled trees:
What were those fancies? wherefore break her troth?
Proud looked the lips: but while I meditated
A wind arose and rushed upon the South,
And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks
Of the wild woods together; and a Voice
Went with it, 'Follow, follow, thou shalt win.'
Then, ere the silver sickle of that month
Became her golden shield, I stole from court
With Cyril and with Florian, unperceived,
Cat-footed through the town and half in dread
To hear my father's clamour at our backs
With Ho! from some bay-window shake the night;
But all was quiet: from the bastioned walls
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt,
And flying reached the frontier: then we crost
To a livelier land; and so by tilth and grange,
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilderness,
We gained the mother city thick with towers,
And in the imperial palace found the king.
His name was Gama; cracked and small his voice,
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines;
A little dry old man, without a star,
Not like a king: three days he feasted us,
And on the fourth I spake of why we came,
And my bethrothed. 'You do us, Prince,' he said,
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem,
'All honour. We remember love ourselves
In our sweet youth: there did a compact pass
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony-I think the year in which our olives failed.
I would you had her, Prince, with all my heart,
With my full heart: but there were widows here,
Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche;
They fed her theories, in and out of place
Maintaining that with equal husbandry
The woman were an equal to the man.
They harped on this; with this our banquets rang;
Our dances broke and buzzed in knots of talk;
Nothing but this; my very ears were hot
To hear them: knowledge, so my daughter held,
Was all in all: they had but been, she thought,
As children; they must lose the child, assume
The woman: then, Sir, awful odes she wrote,
Too awful, sure, for what they treated of,
But all she is and does is awful; odes
About this losing of the child; and rhymes
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change
Beyond all reason: these the women sang;
And they that know such things--I sought but peace;
No critic I--would call them masterpieces:
They mastered ~me~. At last she begged a boon,
A certain summer-palace which I have
Hard by your father's frontier: I said no,
Yet being an easy man, gave it: and there,
All wild to found an University
For maidens, on the spur she fled; and more
We know not,--only this: they see no men,
Not even her brother Arac, nor the twins
Her brethren, though they love her, look upon her
As on a kind of paragon; and I
(Pardon me saying it) were much loth to breed
Dispute betwixt myself and mine: but since
(And I confess with right) you think me bound
In some sort, I can give you letters to her;
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance
Almost at naked nothing.'
Thus the king;
And I, though nettled that he seemed to slur
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets
But chafing me on fire to find my bride)
Went forth again with both my friends. We rode
Many a long league back to the North. At last
From hills, that looked across a land of hope,
We dropt with evening on a rustic town
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve,
Close at the boundary of the liberties;
There, entered an old hostel, called mine host
To council, plied him with his richest wines,
And showed the late-writ letters of the king.
He with a long low sibilation, stared
As blank as death in marble; then exclaimed
Averring it was clear against all rules
For any man to go: but as his brain
Began to mellow, 'If the king,' he said,
'Had given us letters, was he bound to speak?
The king would bear him out;' and at the last-The summer of the vine in all his veins-'No doubt that we might make it worth his while.
She once had past that way; he heard her speak;
She scared him; life! he never saw the like;
She looked as grand as doomsday and as grave:
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there;
He always made a point to post with mares;
His daughter and his housemaid were the boys:
The land, he understood, for miles about
Was tilled by women; all the swine were sows,
And all the dogs'-But while he jested thus,
A thought flashed through me which I clothed in act,
Remembering how we three presented Maid
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast,
In masque or pageant at my father's court.
We sent mine host to purchase female gear;
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes
We rustled: him we gave a costly bribe
To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds,
And boldly ventured on the liberties.
We followed up the river as we rode,
And rode till midnight when the college lights
Began to glitter firefly-like in copse
And linden alley: then we past an arch,
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings
From four winged horses dark against the stars;
And some inscription ran along the front,
But deep in shadow: further on we gained
A little street half garden and half house;
But scarce could hear each other speak for noise
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir
Of fountains spouted up and showering down
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose:
And all about us pealed the nightingale,
Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare.
There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign,
By two sphere lamps blazoned like Heaven and Earth
With constellation and with continent,
Above an entry: riding in, we called;
A plump-armed Ostleress and a stable wench
Came running at the call, and helped us down.
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and sailed,
Full-blown, before us into rooms which gave
Upon a pillared porch, the bases lost
In laurel: her we asked of that and this,
And who were tutors. 'Lady Blanche' she said,
'And Lady Psyche.' 'Which was prettiest,
Best-natured?' 'Lady Psyche.' 'Hers are we,'
One voice, we cried; and I sat down and wrote,
In such a hand as when a field of corn
Bows all its ears before the roaring East;
'Three ladies of the Northern empire pray
Your Highness would enroll them with your own,
As Lady Psyche's pupils.'
This I sealed:
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll,
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung,
And raised the blinding bandage from his eyes:
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn;
And then to bed, where half in doze I seemed
To float about a glimmering night, and watch
A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, swell
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich.
As through the land at eve we went,
And plucked the ripened ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
O we fell out I know not why,
And kissed again with tears.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears!
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
O there above the little grave,
We kissed again with tears.
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
1056:or Callistratus. Similarly, the hero in The Acharnians complains about Cleon
"dragging me into court" over "last year's play" but here again it is not clear if
this was said on behalf of ~ Aristophanes

or Callistratus, either of whom might
have been prosecuted by Cleon.
Comments made by the Chorus on behalf of ~ Aristophanes

in The Clouds have
been interpreted as evidence that he can have been hardly more than 18 years
old when his first play The Banqueters was produced. The second parabasis in
Wasps appears to indicate that he reached some kind of temporary
accommodation with Cleon following either the controversy over The Babylonians
or a subsequent controversy over The Knights.[ It has been inferred from
statements in The Clouds and Peace that ~ Aristophanes

was prematurely bald.
We know that ~ Aristophanes

was probably victorious at least once at the City
Dionysia (with Babylonians in 427)and at least three times at the Lenaia, with
Acharnians in 425, Knights in 424, and Frogs in 405. Frogs in fact won the
unique distinction of a repeat performance at a subsequent festival. We know
that a son of ~ Aristophanes

, Araros, was also a comic poet and he could have
been heavily involved in the production of his father's play Wealth II in s is also
thought to have been responsible for the posthumous performances of the now
lost plays Aeolosicon II and Cocalus, and it is possible that the last of these won
the prize at the City Dionysia in 387. It appears that a second son, Philippus, was
twice victorious at the Lenaia and he could have directed some of Eubulus’
comedies.A third son was called either Nicostratus or Philetaerus, and a man by
the latter name appears in the catalogue of Lenaia victors with two victories, the
first probably in the late 370s.
Plato's The Symposium appears to be a useful source of biographical information
about ~ Aristophanes

, but its reliability is open to doubt. It purports to be a record
of conversations at a dinner party at which both ~ Aristophanes

and Socrates are
guests, held some seven years after the performance of The Clouds, the play in
which Socrates was cruelly caricatured. One of the guests, Alcibiades, even
quotes from the play when teasing Socrates over his appearance and yet there is
no indication of any ill-feeling between Socrates and ~ Aristophanes

. Plato's
~ Aristophanes

is in fact a genial character and this has been interpreted as
evidence of Plato's own friendship with him (their friendship appears to be
corroborated by an epitaph for ~ Aristophanes

, reputedly written by Plato, in which
the playwright's soul is compared to an eternal shrine for the Graces). Plato was
only a boy when the events in The Symposium are supposed to have occurred
and it is possible that his ~ Aristophanes

is in fact based on a reading of the plays.
For example, conversation among the guests turns to the subject of Love and
~ Aristophanes

explains his notion of it in terms of an amusing allegory, a device
he often uses in his plays. He is represented as suffering an attack of hiccoughs
and this might be a humorous reference to the crude physical jokes in his plays.
He tells the other guests that he is quite happy to be thought amusing but he is
wary of appearing ridiculous. This fear of being ridiculed is consistent with his
declaration in The Knights that he embarked on a career of comic playwright
warily after witnessing the public contempt and ridicule that other dramatists had
~ Aristophanes

survived The Peloponnesian War, two oligarchic revolutions and two
democratic restorations; this has been interpreted as evidence that he was not
actively involved in politics despite his highly political plays. He was probably
appointed to the Council of Five Hundred for a year at the beginning of the fourth
century but such appointments were very common in democratic tes, in the trial
leading up to his own death, put the issue of a personal conscience in those
troubled times quite succinctly:
"...he who will really fight for the right, if he would live even for a little while,
must have a private station and not a public one.
~ Aristophanes

the Poet
The language in ~ Aristophanes

' plays, and in Old Comedy generally, was valued
by ancient commentators as a model of the Attic dialect. The orator Quintilian
believed that the charm and grandeur of the Attic dialect made Old Comedy an
example for orators to study and follow, and he considered it inferior in these
respects only to the works of
A full appreciation of ~ Aristophanes

' plays requires an understanding of the poetic
forms he employed with virtuoso skill, and of their different rhythms and
associations. There were three broad poetic forms: iambic dialogue, tetrameter
verses and lyrics:
Iambic dialogue: ~ Aristophanes

achieves an effect resembling natural speech
through the use of the iambic hexameter (corresponding to the effects achieved
by English poets such as

based on words that are similar rather than identical, and it has been observed
that there could be more of them than scholars have yet been able to identify.
Others are based on double meanings. Sometimes entire scenes are constructed
on puns, as in The Acharnians with the Megarian farmer and his pigs: the
Megarian farmer defies the Athenian embargo against Megarian trade, and tries
to trade his daughters disguised as pigs, except "pig" was ancient slang for
"vagina". Since the embargo against Megara was the pretext for the
Peloponnesian War, ~ Aristophanes

naturally concludes that this whole mess
happened because of "three cunts".
It can be argued that the most important feature of the language of the plays is
imagery, particularly the use of similes, metaphors and pictorial expressions. In
'The Knights', for example, the ears of a character with selective hearing are
represented as parasols that open and close.In The Frogs, Aeschylus is said to
compose verses in the manner of a horse rolling in a sandpit. Some plays feature
revelations of human perfectibility that are poetic rather than religious in
character, such as the marriage of the hero Pisthetairos to Zeus's paramour in
The Birds and the 'recreation' of old Athens, crowned with roses, at the end of
The Knights.
~ Aristophanes

and Old Comedy
The Greek word for 'comedy' (komoidía) derives from the words for 'revel' and
'song' (komos and ode) and according to Aristotle comic drama actually
developed from song. The first, official comedy at the City Dionysia was not
staged until 487/6 BC, by which time tragedy had already been long established
there. The first comedy at the Lenaia was staged later still, only about 20 years
before the performance there of The Acharnians, the first of ~ Aristophanes

surviving plays. According to Aristotle, comedy was slow to gain official
acceptance because nobody took it seriously yet, only sixty years after comedy
first appeared at 'The City Dionysia', ~ Aristophanes

observed that producing
comedies was the most difficult work of tition at the Dionysian festivals needed
dramatic conventions for plays to be judged, but it also fuelled innovations.
Developments were quite rapid and Aristotle was able to distinguish between
'old' and 'new' comedy by 330 BC. The trend from Old Comedy to New Comedy
saw a move away from highly topical concerns with real individuals and local
issues towards generalized situations and stock characters. This was partly due
to the internationalization of cultural perspectives during and after the
Peloponnesian War. For ancient commentators such as Plutarch, New Comedy
was a more sophisticated form of drama than Old Comedy. However Old Comedy
was in fact a complex and sophisticated dramatic form incorporating many
approaches to humour and entertainment. In ~ Aristophanes

' early plays, the
genre appears to have developed around a complex set of dramatic conventions
and these were only gradually simplified and abandoned.
The City Dionysia and the Lenaia were celebrated in honour of Dionysus, a god
who represented Man's darker nature (Euripides' play The Bacchae offers the
best insight into 5th Century ideas about this god). Old Comedy can be
understood as a celebration of the exuberant sense of release inherent in his
worship It was more interested in finding targets for satire than in any kind of
advocacy. During the City Dionysia, a statue of the god was brought to the
theatre from a temple outside the city and it remained in the theatre throughout
the festival, overseeing the plays like a privileged member of the audience.[102]
In The Frogs, the god appears also as a dramatic character and he enters the
theatre ludicrously disguised as Hercules. He observes to the audience that every
time he is on hand to hear a joke from a comic dramatist like Phrynichus (one of
~ Aristophanes

' rivals) he ages by more than a year. The scene opens the play and
it is a reminder to the audience that nobody is above mockery in Old Comedy —
not even its patron god and its practitioners! Gods, artists, politicians and
ordinary citizens were legitimate targets, comedy was a kind of licensed
buffoonery and there was no legal redress for anyone who was slandered in a
play. There were some limits to the scope of the satire, but they are not easily
defined. Impiety could be punished in 5th century Athens but absurdities implicit
in traditional religion were open to ridicule. The polis was not allowed to be
slandered but, as stated in the biography section of this article, that could
depend on who was in the audience and which festival was involved.
For convenience, Old Comedy, as represented by ~ Aristophanes

' early plays, is
analysed below in terms of three broad characteristics — topicality, festivity and
complexity. Dramatic structure contributes to the complexity of ~ Aristophanes

plays. However it is associated with poetic rhythms and meters that have little
relevance to English translations and it is therefore treated in a separate section.
Influence and legacy
The tragic dramatists, Sophocles and Euripides, died near the end of the
Peloponnesian War and the art of tragedy thereafter ceased to develop, yet
comedy did continue to develop after the defeat of Athens and it is possible that
it did so because, in ~ Aristophanes

, it had a master craftsman who lived long
enough to help usher it into a new age. Indeed, according to one ancient source
(Platonius, c.9th Century AD), one of ~ Aristophanes

's last plays, Aioliskon, had
neither a parabasis nor any choral lyrics (making it a type of Middle Comedy),
while Kolakos anticipated all the elements of New Comedy, including a rape and
a recognition scene. ~ Aristophanes

seems to have had some appreciation of his
formative role in the development of comedy, as indicated by his comment in
Clouds that his audience would be judged by other times according to its
reception of his plays. Clouds was awarded third (i.e. last) place after its original
performance and the text that has come down to the modern age was a
subsequent draft that ~ Aristophanes

intended to be read rather than circulation of
his plays in manuscript extended their influence beyond the original audience,
over whom in fact they seem to have had little or no practical influence: they did
not affect the career of Cleon, they failed to persuade the Athenians to pursue an
honourable peace with Sparta and it is not clear that they were instrumental in
the trial and execution of Socrates, whose death probably resulted from public
animosity towards the philosopher's disgraced associates (such as Alcibiades),
exacerbated of course by his own intransigence during the plays, in manuscript
form, have been put to some surprising uses — as indicated earlier, they were
used in the study of rhetoric on the recommendation of Quintilian and by
students of the Attic dialect in the Fourth and Fifth Centuries AD. It is possible
that Plato sent copies of the plays to Dionysius of Syracuse so that he might
learn about Athenian life and government.
Latin translations of the plays by Andreas Divus (Venice 1528) were circulated
widely throughout Europe in the Renaissance and these were soon followed by
translations and adaptations in modern languages. Racine, for example, drew Les
Plaideurs (1668) from The Wasps.

1909: Wasps, original Greek, Cambridge University undergraduate production,
music by Vaughan Williams;
2004, July–October: The Frogs (musical), adapted by Nathan Lane, music and
lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, performed at The Vivian Beaumont Theatre
1962-2006: various plays by students and staff, Kings College London, in the
original Greek:Frogs 1962,1971,1988; Thesmophoriazusae 1965, 1974, 1985;
Acharnians 1968, 1992, 2004; Clouds 1977, 1990; Birds 1982, 2000;
Ecclesiazusae 2006; Peace 1970; Wasps 1981
2002: Lysistrata, adapted by Robert Brustein, music by Galt McDermot,
performed by American Repertory Theatre, Boston U.S.A.;
2008, May–June: Frogs, adapted by David Greenspan, music by Thomas
Cabaniss, performed by Classic Stage Company, New York, U.S.A.
The romantic poet, Percy Shelley, wrote a comic, lyrical drama (Swellfoot the
Tyrrant) in imitation of ~ Aristophanes

' play The Frogs after he was reminded of
the Chorus in that play by a herd of pigs passing to market under the window of
his lodgings in San Giuliano, Italy.
~ Aristophanes

(particularly in reference to The Clouds) is mentioned frequently by
the character Menedemos in the Hellenic Traders series of novels by H N
A liberal version of the comedies have been published in comic book format,
initially by "Agrotikes Ekdoseis" during the 1990s and republished over the years
by other companies. The plot was written by Tasos Apostolidis and the sketches
were of George Akokalidis. The stories feature either ~ Aristophanes

them, directing the play, or even as a character inside one of his stories.
Electronic Media
The Wasps, radio play adapted by David Pountney, music by Vaughan Williams,
recorded 26–28 July 2005, Albert Halls, Bolten, in association with BBC, under
Halle label;
Acropolis Now is a comedy radio show for the BBC set in Ancient Greece. It
features ~ Aristophanes

, Socrates and many other famous Greeks. (Not to be
confused with the Australian sitcom of the same name.) ~ Aristophanes

characterised as a celebrity playwright, and most of his plays have the title
formula: One of Our [e.g] Slaves has an Enormous Knob (a reference to the
exaggerated appendages worn by Greek comic actors)
~ Aristophanes

Against the World was a radio play by Martyn Wade and broadcast
on BBC Radio 4. Loosely based on several of his plays, it featured Clive Merrison
as ~ Aristophanes

In The Odd Couple, Oscar and Felix are on Password, and when the password is
bird, Felix’s esoteric clue is "~ Aristophanes

" because of his play The Birds. During
the commercial break (having failed to guess the password and lost the round),
Oscar orders Felix not to give any more Greek clues and angrily growls,
"~ Aristophanes

is ridiculous"! Then when it's Oscar’s turn to give the clue on the
team’s next shot, the password is ridiculous and Oscar angrily growls
"~ Aristophanes

", to which Felix gleefully responds, "Ridiculous!"
Satiric Dances for a Comedy by ~ Aristophanes

is a three-movement piece for
concert band composed by Norman Dello Joio. It was commissioned in
commemoration of the Bicentennial of April 19, 1775 (the start of the American
Revolutionary War) by the Concord (Massachusetts) Band. The commission was
funded by the Town of Concord and assistance was given by the Eastern National
Park and Monument Association in cooperation with the National Park Service.
A Parody On Euripides's Lyric Verse
Halcyons ye by the flowing sea
Waves that warble twitteringly,
Circling over the tumbling blue,
Dipping your down in its briny dew,
Spi-i-iders in corners dim
Spi-spi-spinning your fairy film,
Shuttles echoing round the room
Silver notes of the whistling loom,
Where the light-footed dolphin skips
Down the wake of the dark-prowed ships,
Over the course of the racing steed
Where the clustering tendrils breed
Grapes to drown dull care in delight,
Oh! mother make me a child again just for to-night!
I don't exactly see how that last line is to scan,
But that's a consideration I leave to our musical man.
~ Aristophanes,
1057:The Drunken Boat
As I drifted on a river I could not control,
No longer guided by the bargemen's ropes.
They were captured by howling Indians
Who nailed them naked to coloured posts.
I cared no more for other boats or cargoes:
Flemish wheat or English cottons, all were gone
When my bargemen could no longer haul me
I forgot about everything and drifted on.
Amid the fury of the loudly chopping tides
Last winter, deaf as a child's dark night,
Ah, how I raced! And the drifting Peninsulas
Have never known such conquering delight.
Lighter than cork, I revolved upon waves
That roll the dead forever in the deep,
Ten days, beyond the blinking eyes of land!
Lulled by storms, I drifted seaward from sleep.
Sweeter than apples to a child its pungent edge;
The wash of green water on my shell of pine.
Anchor and rudder went drifting away,
Washed in vomit and stained with blue wine.
Now I drift through the poem of the sea;
This gruel of stars mirrors the milky sky,
Devours green azures; ecstatic flotsam,
Drowned men, pale and thoughtful, sometimes drift by.
Staining the sudden blueness, the slow sounds,
Deliriums that streak the glowing sky,
Stronger than drink and the songs we sing,
It is boiling, bitter, red; it is love!
I know how lightening split the sky apart,
I know the surf and waterspouts and evening's fall,
I've seen the dawn arisen like a flock of doves;
I've seen what men have only dreamed they saw!
I saw the sun with mystic horrors darken
And shimmer through a violet haze;
With a shiver of shutters the waves fell
Like actors in ancient, forgotten plays!
I dreamed of green nights and glittering snow,
Slow kisses rising in the eyes of the sea,
Unknown liquids flowing, the blue and yellow
Stirring of phosphorescent melody!
For months I watched the surge of the sea,
Hysterical herds attacking the reefs;
I never thought the bright feet of Mary
Could muzzle up the heavy-breathing waves!
I have jostled - you know? - unbelievable Floridas
And seen among the flowers the wild eyes
Of panthers in the skins of men! Rainbows
Birdling blind flocks beneath the horizons!
In stinking swamps I have seen great hulks:
A Leviathan that rotted in the reeds!
Water crumbling in the midst of calm
And distances that shatter into foam.
Glaciers, silver suns, waves of pearl, fiery skies,
Giant serpents stranded where lice consume
Them, falling in the depths of dark gulfs
From contorted trees, bathed in black perfume!
I wanted to show children these fishes shining
In the blue wave, the golden fish that sing A froth of flowers cradled my wandering
And delicate winds tossed me on their wings.
Sometimes, a martyr of poles and latitudes,
The sea rocked me softly in sighing air,
And brought me dark blooms with yellow stems I remained there like a woman on her knees.
Almost an island, I balanced on my boat's sides
Rapacious blond-eyed birds, their dung, their screams.
I drifted on through fragile tangled lines
Drowned men, still staring up, sank down to sleep.
Now I, a little lost boat, in swirling debris,
Tossed by the storm into the birdless upper air
- All the Hansa Merchants and Monitors
Could not fish up my body drunk with the sea;
Free, smoking, touched the violet haze above,
I, who the lurid heavens breached like some rare wall
Which boasts - confection that the poets love Lichens of sunlight, and snots of bright blue sky;
Lost branch spinning in a herd of hippocamps,
Covered over with electric animals,
An everlasting July battering
The glittering sky and its fiery funnels;
Shaking at the sound of monsters roaring,
Rutting Behemoths in thick whirlpools,
Eternal weaver of unmoving blues,
I thought of Europe and its ancient walls!
I have seen archipelagos in the stars,
Feverish skies where I was free to roam!
Are these bottomless nights your exiled nests,
Swarm of golden birds, O Strength to come?
True, I've cried too much; I am heartsick at dawn.
The moon is bitter and the sun is sour…
Love burns me; I am swollen and slow.
Let my keel break! Oh, let me sink in the sea!
If I long for a shore in Europe,
It's a small pond, dark, cold, remote,
The odour of evening, and a child full of sorrow
Who stoops to launch a crumpled paper boat.
Washed in your languors, sea, I cannot trace
The wake of tankers foaming through the cold,
Nor assault the pride of pennants and flags,
Nor endure the slave ship's stinking hold.
Translation by Rebecca Seiferle:
As I descended impassible Rivers,
I felt no longer steered by bargemen;
they were captured by howling Redskins,
nailed as targets, naked, to painted stakes.
What did I care for cargo or crews,
bearers of English cotton or Flemish grain—
having left behind the bargemen and racket,
the Rivers let me descend where I wished.
In the furious splashing of the waves,
I — that other winter, deafer than the minds
of children — ran! And the unanchored Peninsulas
never knew a more triumphant brouhaha.
The tempest blessed my sea awakening.
Lighter than cork, I danced the waves
scrolling out the eternal roll of the dead—
ten nights, without longing for the lantern's silly eye.
Sweeter than the flesh of tart apples to children,
the green water penetrated my pine hull
and purged me of vomit and the stain of blue wines—
my rudder and grappling hooks drifting away.
Since then, I have bathed in the Poem
of the Sea, a milky way, infused with stars,
devouring the azure greens where, flotsam-pale
and ravished, drowned and pensive men float by.
Where, suddenly staining the blues, delirious
and slow rhythms under the glowing red of day,
stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyrics,
ferment the red bitters of love!
I know heavens pierced by lightning, the waterspouts
and undertows and currents: I know night,
Dawn rising like a nation of doves,
and I've seen, sometimes, what men only dreamed they saw!
I've seen the sun, low, a blot of mystic dread,
illuminating with far-reaching violet coagulations,
like actors in antique tragedies,
the waves rolling away in a shiver of shutters.
I've dreamed a green night to dazzling snows,
kisses slowly rising to the eyelids of the sea,
unknown saps flowing, and the yellow and blue
rising of phosphorescent songs.
For months, I've followed the swells assaulting
the reefs like hysterical herds, without ever thinking
that the luminous feet of some Mary
could muzzle the panting Deep.
I've touched, you know, incredible Floridas
where, inside flowers, the eyes of panthers mingle
with the skins of men! And rainbows bridle
glaucous flocks beneath the rim of the sea!
I've seen fermenting— enormous marshes, nets
where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!
Such a ruin of water in the midst of calm,
and the distant horizon worming into whirlpools!
Glaciers, silver suns, pearly tides, ember skies!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of muddy gulfs
where giant serpents, devoured by lice,
drop with black perfume out of twisted trees!
I wanted to show children these dorados
of the blue wave, these golden, singing fish.
A froth of flowers has cradled my vagrancies,
and ineffable winds have winged me on.
Sometimes like a martyr, tired of poles and zones,
the sea has rolled me softly in her sigh
and held out to me the yellow cups of shadow flowers,
and I've remained there, like a woman, kneeling . . .
Almost an island, balancing the quarrels,
the dung, the cries of blond-eyed birds on the gunnels
of my boat, I sailed on, and through my frail lines,
drowned men, falling backwards, sank to sleep.
Now, I, a boat lost in the hair of the coves,
tossed by hurricane into the birdless air,
me, whom all the Monitors and Hansa sailing ships
could not salvage, my carcass drunk with sea;
free, rising like smoke, riding violet mists,
I who pierced the sky turning red like a wall,
who bore the exquisite jam of all good poets,
lichens of sun and snots of azure,
who, spotted with electric crescents, ran on,
a foolish plank escorted by black hippocamps,
when the Julys brought down with a single blow
the ultramarine sky with its burning funnels;
I who tremble, feeling the moan fifty leagues away
of the Behemoth rutting and the dull Maelstrom,
eternal weaver of the unmovable blue—
I grieve for Europe with its ancient breastworks!
I've seen thunderstruck archipelagos! and islands
that open delirious skies for wanderers:
Are these bottomless nights your nest of exile,
O millions of gold birds, O Force to come?
True, I've cried too much! Dawns are harrowing.
All moons are cruel and all suns, bitter:
acrid love puffs me up with drunken slowness.
Let my keel burst! Give me to the sea!
If I desire any of the waters of Europe, it's the pond
black and cold, in the odor of evening,
where a child full of sorrow gets down on his knees
to launch a paperboat as frail as a May butterfly.
Bathed in your languors, o waves, I can no longer
wash away the wake of ships bearing cotton,
nor penetrate the arrogance of pennants and flags,
nor swim past the dreadful eyes of slave ships.
As I was floating down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:
gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets,
nailing them naked to coloured stakes.
I cared nothing for all my crews,
carrying Flemish wheat or English cotton.
When, along with my haulers, those uproars stopped,
the Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.
Into the ferocious tide-rips, last winter,
more absorbed than the minds of children, I ran!
And the unmoored Peninsulas never
endured more triumphant clamourings.
The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.
Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves
which men call the eternal rollers of victims,
for ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!
Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,
the green water penetrated my pinewood hull
and washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains
and the splashes of vomit, carrying away both rudder and anchor.
And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
devouring the green azures where, entranced
in pallid flotsam, a dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;
where, suddenly dyeing the blueness,
deliriums and slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
stronger than alcohol, vaster than music,
ferment the bitter rednesses of love!
I have come to know the skies splitting with lightning,
and the waterspouts, and the breakers and currents;
I know the evening, and dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
and sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!
I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors
lighting up long violet coagulations
like the performers in antique dramas;
waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!
I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows,
the kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
the circulation of undreamed-of saps,
and the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!
I have followed, for whole months on end,
the swells battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
could muzzle by force the snorting Oceans!
I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas,
where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers in human skins!
Rainbows stretched like bridles
under the sea's horizon to glaucous herds!
I have seen the enormous swamps seething,
traps where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!
Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm,
and distances cataracting down into abysses!
Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
where the giant snakes, devoured by vermin,
fall from the twisted trees with black odours!
I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fish. -Foam of flowers rocked my driftings,
and at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.
Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
the sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings
lifted my shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me,
and I hung there like a kneeling woman...
Resembling an island, tossing on my sides the brawls
and droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds.
And I was scudding along when across my frayed ropes
drowned men sank backwards into sleep!...
But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether;
I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,
neither Monitor nor Hanseatic ships would have fished up;
free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,
I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky which bears
a sweetmeat good poets find delicious:
lichens of sunlight mixed with azure snot;
who ran, speckled with tiny electric moons,
a crazy plank with black sea-horses for escort,
when Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;
I who trembled to feel at fifty leagues off
the groans of Behemoths rutting, and the dense Maelstroms;
eternal spinner of blue immobilities,
I long for Europe with it's age-old parapets!
I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands
whose delirious skies are open to sea wanderers: -Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,
O million golden birds, Life Force of the future?
But, truly, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
sharp love has swollen me up with intoxicating torpor.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the black
cold pool where into the scented twilight
a child squatting full of sadness launches
a boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons;
nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants;
nor pull past the horrible eyes of prison hulks.
Translation by Wallace Fowlie:
As I was going down impassive rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers!
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets,
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.
I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons,
When with my haulers this uproar stopped,
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.
Into the furious lashing of the tides,
More heedless than children's brains, the other winter
I ran! And loosened peninsulas
Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub.
The storm blessed my sea vigils.
Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves
That are called eternal rollers of victims,
Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!
Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children,
The green water penetrated my hull of fir
And washed me of spots of blue wine
And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook.
And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the green azure where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;
Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments!
I know the skies bursting with lighting, and the waterspouts
And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,
And dawn as exhalted as a flock of doves,
And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!
I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,
Lighting up, with long violet clots,
Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,
The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!
I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows,
A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,
The circulation of unknown saps,
And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!
I followed during pregnant months the swell,
Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,
Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could restrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!
I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas
Mingling with flowers panthers' eyes and human
Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins
Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!
I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps
Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!
Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,
And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!
Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!
Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs
Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs
Fall down from gnarled tress with black scent!
I should have liked to show children those sunfish
Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.
--Foam of flowers rocked my drifting
And ineffable winds winged me at times.
At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,
Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers
And I remained like a woman on her knees...
Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels
And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes.
And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes
Drowned men sank backward to sleep!
Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,
Thrown by the storm into the birdless air,
I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued
By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;
Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,
I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall
Bearing--delicious jam for good poets-Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure;
Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,
A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,
When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels
The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;
I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off
The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,
I, eternal spinner of the blue immobility,
Miss Europe with its ancient parapets!
I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:
--Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,
Million golden birds, O future Vigor?
But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor.
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!
If I want a water of Europe, it is the black
Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight
A squatting child full of sadness releases
A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.
No longer can I, bathed in your languor, O waves,
Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,
Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,
Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.
Translation by A. S. Kline
As I floated down impassive Rivers,
I felt myself no longer pulled by ropes:
The Redskins took my hauliers for targets,
And nailed them naked to their painted posts.
Carrying Flemish wheat or English cotton,
I was indifferent to all my crews.
The Rivers let me float down as I wished,
When the victims and the sounds were through.
Into the furious breakers of the sea,
Deafer than the ears of a child, last winter,
I ran! And the Peninsulas sliding by me
Never heard a more triumphant clamour.
The tempest blessed my sea-borne arousals.
Lighter than a cork I danced those waves
They call the eternal churners of victims,
Ten nights, without regret for the lighted bays!
Sweeter than sour apples to the children
The green ooze spurting through my hull’s pine,
Washed me of vomit and the blue of wine,
Carried away my rudder and my anchor.
Then I bathed in the Poem of the Sea,
Infused with stars, the milk-white spume blends,
Grazing green azures: where ravished, bleached
Flotsam, a drowned man in dream descends.
Where, staining the blue, sudden deliriums
And slow tremors under the gleams of fire,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our rhythms,
Ferment the bitter reds of our desire!
I knew the skies split apart by lightning,
Waterspouts, breakers, tides: I knew the night,
The Dawn exalted like a crowd of doves,
I saw what men think they’ve seen in the light!
I saw the low sun, stained with mystic terrors,
Illuminate long violet coagulations,
Like actors in a play, a play that’s ancient,
Waves rolling back their trembling of shutters!
I dreamt the green night of blinded snows,
A kiss lifted slow to the eyes of seas,
The circulation of unheard-of flows,
Sung phosphorus’s blue-yellow awakenings!
For months on end, I’ve followed the swell
That batters at the reefs like terrified cattle,
Not dreaming the Three Marys’ shining feet
Could muzzle with their force the Ocean’s hell!
I’ve struck Floridas, you know, beyond belief,
Where eyes of panthers in human skins,
Merge with the flowers! Rainbow bridles, beneath
the seas’ horizon, stretched out to shadowy fins!
I’ve seen the great swamps boil, and the hiss
Where a whole whale rots among the reeds!
Downfalls of water among tranquilities,
Distances showering into the abyss.
Nacrous waves, silver suns, glaciers, ember skies!
Gaunt wrecks deep in the brown vacuities
Where the giant eels riddled with parasites
Fall, with dark perfumes, from the twisted trees!
I would have liked to show children dolphins
Of the blue wave, the golden singing fish.
– Flowering foams rocked me in my drift,
At times unutterable winds gave me wings.
Sometimes, a martyr tired of poles and zones,
The sea whose sobs made my roilings sweet
Showed me its shadow flowers with yellow mouths
And I rested like a woman on her knees…
Almost an isle, blowing across my sands, quarrels
And droppings of pale-eyed clamorous gulls,
And I scudded on while, over my frayed lines,
Drowned men sank back in sleep beneath my hull!…
Now I, a boat lost in the hair of bays,
Hurled by the hurricane through bird-less ether,
I, whose carcass, sodden with salt-sea water,
No Monitor or Hanseatic vessel could recover:
Freed, in smoke, risen from the violet fog,
I, who pierced the red skies like a wall,
Bearing the sweets that delight true poets,
Lichens of sunlight, gobbets of azure:
Who ran, stained with electric moonlets,
A crazed plank, companied by black sea-horses,
When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
Skies of ultramarine in burning funnels:
I, who trembled to hear those agonies
Of rutting Behemoths and dark Maelstroms,
Eternal spinner of blue immobilities,
I regret the ancient parapets of Europe!
I’ve seen archipelagos of stars! And isles
Whose maddened skies open for the sailor:
– Is it in depths of night you sleep, exiled,
Million birds of gold, O future Vigour? –
But, truly, I’ve wept too much! The Dawns
Are heartbreaking, each moon hell, each sun bitter:
Fierce love has swallowed me in drunken torpors.
O let my keel break! Tides draw me down!
If I want one pool in Europe, it’s the cold
Black pond where into the scented night
A child squatting filled with sadness launches
A boat as frail as a May butterfly.
Bathed in your languor, waves, I can no longer
Cut across the wakes of cotton ships,
Or sail against the pride of flags, ensigns,
Or swim the dreadful gaze of prison ships.
~ Arthur Rimbaud,
1058:My fancies are fireflies,
Specks of living light
twinkling in the dark.

he voice of wayside pansies,
that do not attract the careless glance,
murmurs in these desultory lines.

In the drowsy dark caves of the mind
dreams build their nest with fragments
dropped from day's caravan.

Spring scatters the petals of flowers
that are not for the fruits of the future,
but for the moment's whim.

Joy freed from the bond of earth's slumber
rushes into numberless leaves,
and dances in the air for a day.

My words that are slight
my lightly dance upon time's waves
when my works havy with import have gone down.

Mind's underground moths
grow filmy wings
and take a farewell flight
in the sunset sky.

The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.

My thoughts, like spark, ride on winged surprises,
carrying a single laughter.
The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadow
which yet it never can grasp.

Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.

Days are coloured vbubbles
that float upon the surface of fathomless night.

My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance,
and therefore you may remember them.

Leave out my name from the gift
if it be a burden,
but keep my song.

April, like a child,
writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers,
wipes them away and forgets.

Memory, the priestess,
kills the present
and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.

From the solemn gloom of the temple
children run out to sit in the dust,
God watches them play
and forgets the priest.

My mind starts up at some flash
on the flow of its thoughts
like a brook at a sudden liquid note of its own
that is never repeated.

In the mountain, stillness surges up
to explore its own height;
in the lake, movement stands still
to contemplate its own depth.

The departing night's one kiss
on the closed eyes of morning
glows in the star of dawn.

Maiden, thy beauty is like a fruit
which is yet to mature,
tense with an unyielding secret.

Sorrow that has lost its memory
is like the dumb dark hours
that have no bird songs
but only the cricket's chirp.

Bigotry tries to keep turth safe in its hand
with a grip that kills it.
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp
great night lights all her stars.

Though he holds in his arms the earth-bride,
the sky is ever immensely away.

God seeks comrades and claims love,
the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience.

The soil in return for her service
keeps the tree tied to her,
the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.

Jewel-like immortal
does not boast of its length of years
but of the scintillating point of its moment.

The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time,
unobscured by the dust of history.

Alight laughter in the steps of creation
carries it swiftly across time.

One who was distant came near to me in the morning,
and still nearer when taken away by night.

White and pink oleanders meet
and make merry in different dialects.

When peace is active swepping its dirt, it is storm.

The lake lies low by the hill,
a tearful entreaty of love
at the foot of the inflexible.

There smiles the Divine Child
among his playthings of unmeaning clouds
and ephemeral lights and shadows.

The breeze whispers to the lotus,
"What is thy secret?"
"It is myself," says the lotus,
"Steal it and I disappear!"

The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stem
join hands in the dance of swaying branches.

The jasmine's lisping of love to the sun is her flowers.

The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom
and yet to keep it for himself.

Gods, tired of their paradise, envy man.

Clouds are hills in vapour,
hills are clouds in stone,
a phantasy in time's dream.

While God waits for His temple to be built of love,
men bring stones.

I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.

Light finds her treasure of colours
through the antagonism of clouds.

My heart to-day smiles at its past night of tears
like a wet tree glistening in the sun
after the rain is over.

I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitflul,
but have failed to remember the grass
that has ever kept it green.

The one without second is emptiness,
the other one makes it true.

Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty
that can modulate their isolation
into a harmony with the whole.

They expect thanks for the banished nest
because their cage is shapely and secure.

In love I pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art.

The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies,
and the sun says, they are good.

Your calumny against the great is impious,
it hurts yourself;
against the small it is mean,
for it hurts the victim.

The first flower that blossomed on this earth
was an invitation to the unborn song.

Dawnthe many-coloured flowerfades,
and then the simple light-fruit,
the sun appears.

The muscle that has a doubt if its wisdom
throttles the voice that would cry.

The wind tries to take the flame by storm
only to blow it out.

Life's play is swift,
Life's playthings fall behind one by one
and are forgotten.

My flower, seek not thy paradise
in a fool's buttonhole.

Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon,
but my night bird is still awake to greet thee.

Darkness is the veiled bride
silently waiting for the errant light
to return to her bosom.

Trees are the earth's endless effort to
speak to the listening heaven.

The burden of self is lightened
when I laugh at myself.

The weak can be terrible
because they try furiously to appear strong.

The wind of heaven blows,
The anchor desperately clutches the mud,
and my boat is beating its breast against the chain.

The spirit of death is one,
the spirit of life is many,
Whe God is dead religion becomes one.

The blue of the sky longs for the earth's green,
the wind between them sighs, "Alas."
Day's pain muffled by its own glare,
burns among stars in the night.

The stars crowd round the virgin night
in silent awe at her loneliness
that can never be touched.

The cloud gives all its gold
to the departing sun
and greets the rising moon
with only a pale smile.

He who does good comes to the temple gate,
he who loves reaches the shrine.

Flower, have pity for the worm,
it is not a bee,
its love is a blunder and a burden.

With the ruins of terror's triumph
children build their doll's house.

The lamp waits through the long day of neglect
for the flame's kiss in the night.

Feathers in the dust lying lazily content
have forgotten their sky.

The flowers which is single
need not envy the thorns
that are numerous.

The world suffers most from the disinterested tyranny
of its well-wisher.

We gain freedom whrn we have paid the full price
for our right to live.

Your careless gifts of a moment,
like the meteors of an autumn night,
catch fire in the depth of my being.

The faith waiting in the heart of a seed
promises a miracle of life
which it cannot prove at once.

Spring hesitates at winter's door,
but the mango blossom rashly runs our to him
before her time and meets her doom.

The world is the ever-changing foam
thet floats on the surface of a sea of silence.

The two separated shores mingle their voices
in a song of unfathomed tears.

As a river in the sea,
work finds its fulfilment
in the depth of leisure.

I lingered on my way till thy cherry tree lost ist bossom,
but the azalea brins to me, my love, thy forgiveness.

Thy shy little pomegranate bud,
blushing to-day behind her veil,
will burst into a passionate flower
to-morrow when I am away.

The clumsiness of power spoils the key,
and uses the pickaxe.

Birth is from the mystery of night
into the grerater mystery of day.

These paper boats of mine are meant to dance
on the ripples of hours,
and not to reach any destination.

Migratory songs wing from my heart
and seek their nests in your voice of love.

The sea of danger, doubt and denial
around man's little island of certainty
challenges him to dare the unknown.

Love punishes when it forgives,
and injured beauty by its awful silence.

You live alone and unrecompensed
because they are afraid of your great worth.

The same sun is newly born in new lands
in a ring of endless dawns.

God is world is ever renewed by death,
a Titan's ever crushed by its own existence.

The glow-worm while exploring the dust
never knows that stars are in the sky.

The tree is of to-day, the flower is old,
it brings with it the message
of the immemorial seed.

Each rose that comes brings me greetings
from the Rose of an eternal spring.
God honours me when I work,
He loves me when I sing.

My love of to-day finds no home
in the nest deserted by yesterday's love.

The fire of pain tracse for my soul
a luminous path across her sorrow.

The grass survives the hill
through its resurrections from countless deaths.

Thou hast vanished from my reach
leaving an impalpable touch in the blue of the sky,
an invisible image in the wind moving
among the shadows.

In pity for the desolate branch
spring leaves to it a kiss that fluttered in a lonely leaf.

The shy shadow in the farden
loves the sun in silence,
Flowers guess the secret, and mile,
while the leaves whisper.

I leave no trace of wings in the air,
but I am glad I have had my flight.

The fireflies, twinkling among leaves,
make the stars wonder.

The mountain remains unmoved
at its seeming defeat by the mist.

While the rose said to the sun,
"I shall ever remember thee,"
her petals fell to the dust.

Hills are the earth's gesture of despair
for the unreachable.

Though the thorn in thy flower pricked me,
O Beauty,
I am grateful.

The world knows that the few
are more than the many.

Let not my love be a burden on you, my friend,
know that it pays itself.

Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness,
and is content to vanish when the sun comes out.

Beauty is truth's smile
when she beholds her own face
in a perfect mirror.

The dew-drop knows the sun
only within its own tiny orb.

Forlorn thoughts from the forsaken hives of all ages,
swarming in the air, hum round my heart
and seek my voice.

The desert is imprisoned in the wall
of its unbounded barrenness.

In the thrill of little leaves
I see the air's invisible dance,
and in their glimmering
the secret heart-beats of the sky.

You are like a flowering tree,
amazed when I praise you for your gifts.

The earth's sacrifical fire
flames up in her trees,
scattering sparks in flowers.

Foretsts, the clouds of earth,
hold up to the sky their silence,
and clouds from above come down
in resonant showers.

The world speaks to me in pictures,
my soul answers in music.

The sky tells its beads all night
on the countless stars
in memory of the sun.

The darkness of night, like pain, is dumb,
the darkness of dawn, like peace, is silent.

Pride engraves his frowns in stones,
loe offers her surrender in flowers.

The obsequious brush curtails truth
in diference to the canvas which is narrow.

The hill in its longing for the far-away sky
wishes to be like the cloud
with its endless urge of seeking.

To justify their own spilling of ink
they spell the day as night.

Profit smiles on goodness
when the good is profitable.

In its swelling pride
the bubble doubts the turth of the sea,
and laughs and bursts into emptiness.

Love is an endless mystery,
for it has nothing else to explain its.

My clouds, sorrowing in the dark,
forget that they themselves
have hidden the sun.

Man discovers his own wealth
when God comes to ask gifts of him.

You leave your memory as a flame
to my lonely lamp of separation.

I came to offer thee a flower,
but thou must have all my garden,
It is thine.

The picturea memory of light
treasured by the shadow.

It is easy to make faces at the sun,
He is exposed by his own light in all

History slowly smothers its truth,
but hastily struggles to revive it
in the terrible penance of pain.

My work is rewarded in daily wages,
I wait for my final value in love.

Beauty knows to say, "Enough,"
barbarism clamours for still more.

God loves to see in me, not his servant,
but himself who serves all.

The darkness of night is in harmony with day,
the morning of mist is discordant.

In the bounteous time of roses love is wine,
it is food in the famished hour
when their petals are shed.

An unknown flower in a strange land
speaks to the poet:
"Are we not of the same soil, my lover?"

I am able to love my God
because He gives me freedom to deny Him.

My untuned strings beg for music
in their anguished cry of shame.

The worm thinks it strange and foolish
that man does not eat his books.

The clouded sky to-day bears the visior
of the shadow of a divine sadness
on the forehead of brooding eternity.

The shade of my tree is for passers-by,
its fruit for the one for whom I wait.

Flushed with the glow of sunset
earth seems like a ripe fruit
ready to be harvested by night.

Light accepts darkness for his spouse
for the sake of creation.

The reed waits for his master's breath,
the Master goes seeking for his reed.

To the blind pen the hand that writes is unreal,
its writing unmeaning.

The sea smites his own barren breast
because he has no flowers to offer to the moon.

The greed for fruit misses the flower.

God in His temple of stars
waits for man to bring him his lamp.

The fire restrained in the tree fashions flowers.
Released from bonds, the shameless flame
dies in barren ashes.

The sky sets no snare to capture the moon,
it is her own freedom which binds her.
The light that fills the sky
seeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass.

Wealth is the burden of bigness,
Welfare the fulness of being.

The razor-blade is proud of its keenness
when it sneers at the sun.

The butterfly has leisure to love the lotus,
not the bee busily storing honey.

Child, thou bringest to my heart
the babble of the wind and the water,
the flower's speechless secrets, the clouds' dreams,
the mute gaze of wonder of the morning sky.

The rainbow among the clouds may be great
but the little butterfly among the bushes is greater.

The mist weaves her net round the morning,
captivates him, and makes him blind.

The Morning Star whispers to Dawn,
"Tell me that you are only for me."
"Yes," she answers,
"And also only for that nameless flower."

The sky remains infinitely vacant
for earth there to build its heaven with dreams.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt
at being told that it is a fragment
awaiting perfection.

Let the evening forgive the mistakes of the day
and thus win peace for herself.

Beauty smiles in the confinement of the bud,
in the heart of a sweet incompleteness.

Your flitting love lightly brushed with its wings
my sun-flower
and never asked if it was ready to surrender its honey.

Leaves are silences
around flowers which are their words.

The tree bears its thousand years
as one large majestic moment.

My offerings are not for the temple at the end of the road,
but for the wayside shrines
that surprise me at every bend.

Hour smile, my love, like the smell of a strange flower,
is simple and inexplicable.

Death laughs when the merit of the dead is exaggerated
for it swells his store with more than he can claim.

The sigh of the shore follows in vain
the breeze that hastens the ship across the sea.

Truth loves its limits,
for there it meets the beautiful.

Between the shores of Me and Thee
there is the loud ocean, my own surging self,
which I long to cross.

The right to possess boasts foolishly
of its right to enjoy.

The rose is a great deal more
than a blushing apology for the thorn.

Day offers to the silence of stars
his golden lute to be tuned
for the endless life.

The wise know how to teach,
the fool how to smite.

The centre is still and silent in the heart
of an enternal dance of circles.

The judge thinks that he is just when he compares
The oil of another's lamp
with the light of his own.

The captive flower in the King's wreath
smiles bitterly when the meadow-flower envies her.

Its store of snow is the hill's own burden,
its outpouring if streams is borne by all the world.

Listen to the prayer of the forest
for its freedom in flowers.

Let your love see me
even through the barrier of nearness.

The spirit of work in creation is there
to carry and help the spirit of play.

To carry the burden of the insturment,
count the cost of its material,
and never to know that it is for music,
is the tragedy of deaf life.

Faith is the bird that feels the light
and sings when the dawn is still dark.

I bring to thee, night, my day's empty cup,
to be cleansed with thy cool darkness
for a new morning's festival.

The mountain fir, in its rustling,
modulates the memory of its fights with the storm
into a hymn of peace.

God honoured me with his fight
when I was rebellious,
He ignored me when I was languid.

The sectarina thinks
that he has the sea
ladled into his private pond.

In the shady depth of life
are the lonely nests of memories
that shrink from words.

Let my love find its strength
in the service of day,
its peace in the union of night.

Life sends up in blades of grass
its silent hymn of praise
to the unnamed Light.

The stars of night are to me
the memorials of my day's faded flowers.

Open thy door to that which must go,
for the loss becomes unseemly when obstructed.

True end is not in the reaching of the limit,
but in a completion which is limitless.

The shore whispers to the sea:
"Write to me what thy waves struggle to say."
The sea writes in foam again and again
and wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair.

Let the touch ofthy finger thrill my life's strings
and make the music thine and mine.

The inner world rounded in my life like a fruit,
matured in joy and sorrow,
will drop into the darkness of the orogonal soil
for some further course of creation.

Form is in Matter, rhythm in Force,
meaning in the Person.

There are seekers of wisdom and seekers of wealth,
I seek thy company so that I may sing.

As the tree its leaves, I shed my words on the earth,
let my thoughts unuttered flower in thy silence.

My faith in truth, my vision of the perfect,
help thee, Master, in thy creation.

All the delights that I have felt
in life's fruits and flowers
let me offer to thee at the end of the feast,
in a perfect union of love.

Some have thought deeply and explored the
meaning of thy truth,
and they are great;
I have listened to catch the music of thy play,
and I am glad.

The tree is a winged spirit
released from the bondage of seed,
pursuing its adventure of life
across the unknown.

The lotus offers its beauty to the heaven,
the grass its service to the earth.

The sun's kiss mellows into abandonment
the miserliness of the green fruit clinging to its stem.

The flame met the earthen lamp in me,
and what a great marvel of light!

Mistakes live in the neighbourhood of truth
and therefore delude us.

The cloud laughed at the rainbow
saying that is was an upstart
gaudy in its emptiness.
The rainbow calmly answered,
"I am as inevitably real as tha sun himself."

Let me not grope in vain in the dark
but keep my mind still in the faith
that the day will break
and truth will appear
in its simplicity.

Through the silent night
I hear the returning vagrant hopes of the morning
knock at my heart.

My new love comes
bringing to me the eternal wealth of the old.

The earth gazes at the moon and wonders
that she sould have all her music in her smile.

Day with its glare of curiosity
puts the stars to flight.

My mind has itstrue union with thee, O sky,
at the window which is mine own,
and not in the open
where thou hast thy sole kingdom.

Man claims God's flowers as his own
when he weaves them in a garland.

The buried city, laid bare to the sun of a new age,
is ashamed that is has lost all its song.

Like my heart's pain that has long missed its meaning,
the sun's rays robed in dark
hide themselves under the ground.
Like my heart'spain at love's sudden touch,
they change their veil at the spring's call
and come out in the carnival of colours,
in flowers and leaves.

My life's empty flute
waits for its final music
like the primal darkness
before the stars came out.

Emancipation from the bondage of the soil
is no freedom for the tree.

The tapestry of life's story is woven
with the threads of life's ties
ever joining and breaking.

Those thoughts of mine that are never captured by words
perch upon my song and dance.

My soul to-night loses itself
in the silent heart of a tree
standing alone among the whispers of immensity.

Pearl shells cast up by the sea
on death's barren beach,
a magnificent wastefulness of creative life.

The sunlight opens for me the word's gate,
love's light its terasure.

My life like the reed with ist stops,
has its play od colours
through the gaps in its hopes and gains.

Let not my thanks to thee
rob my silence of its fuller homage.

Life's aspirations come
in the guise of children.

The faded flower sighs
that the spring has vanished for ever.

In my life's garden
my wealth has been of the shadows and lights
that are never gathered and stored.

The fruit that I Have gained for ever
is thet which thou hast accepted.

The jasmine knows the sun to be her brother
in the heaven.

Light is young, the ancient light;
shadows are of the moment, they are born old.

I feel that the ferry of my songs at the day's end
will brong me across to the other shore
from where I shall see.

The butterfly flitting from flower to flower
ever remains mine,
I lose the one that is netted by me.

Your voice, free bird, reaches my sleeping nest,
and my drowsy wings dream
of a voyage to the light
above the clouds.

I miss the meaning of my own part
in the play of life
because I know not of the parts
that others play.

The flower sheds all its petals
and finds the fruit.

I leave my songs behind me
to the bloom of the ever-returning honeysuckles
and the joy of the wind from the south.

Dead leaves when they lose themselves in soil
take part in the life of the forest.

The mind ever seeks its words
from its sounds and silence
as the sky from its darkness and light.

The unseen dark plays on his flute
and the rhythm of light
eddies into stars and suns,
into thoughts and reams.

My songs are to sing
that I have loved Thy singing.

When the voice of the Silent touches my words
I know him and therefore I know myself.

My last salutations are to them
who knew me imperfect and loved me.

Love's gift cannot be given,
it waits to be accepted.

When death comes and whispers to me,
"Thy days are ended,"
let me say to him, "I have lived in love
and not in mere time."
He will ask, "Will thy songs remain?"
I shall say, "I know not, but this I know
that often when I sang I found my eternity."

"Let me light my lamp,"
say the star,
'and never debate
if it will help to remove the darkness."

Before the end of my journey
may I reach within myself
the one which is the all,
leaving the outer shell
to float away with the drifting multitude
upon the current of chance and change.
~ Rabindranath Tagore, Fireflies
1059: Ilion

Book I: The Book of the Herald

Dawn in her journey eternal compelling the labour of mortals,
Dawn the beginner of things with the night for their rest or their ending,
Pallid and bright-lipped arrived from the mists and the chill of the Euxine.
Earth in the dawn-fire delivered from starry and shadowy vastness
Woke to the wonder of life and its passion and sorrow and beauty,
All on her bosom sustaining, the patient compassionate Mother.
Out of the formless vision of Night with its look on things hidden
Given to the gaze of the azure she lay in her garment of greenness,
Wearing light on her brow. In the dawn-ray lofty and voiceless
Ida climbed with her god-haunted peaks into diamond lustres,
Ida first of the hills with the ranges silent beyond her
Watching the dawn in their giant companies, as since the ages
First began they had watched her, upbearing Time on their summits.
Troas cold on her plain awaited the boon of the sunshine.
There, like a hope through an emerald dream sole-pacing for ever,
Stealing to wideness beyond, crept Simois lame in his currents,
Guiding his argent thread mid the green of the reeds and the grasses.
Headlong, impatient of Space and its boundaries, Time and its slowness,
Xanthus clamoured aloud as he ran to the far-surging waters,
Joining his call to the many-voiced roar of the mighty Aegean,
Answering Oceans limitless cry like a whelp to its parent.
Forests looked up through their rifts, the ravines grew aware of their shadows.
Closer now gliding glimmered the golden feet of the goddess.
Over the hills and the headlands spreading her garment of splendour,
Fateful she came with her eyes impartial looking on all things,
Bringer to man of the day of his fortune and day of his downfall.
Full of her luminous errand, careless of eve and its weeping,
Fateful she paused unconcerned above Ilions mysteried greatness,
Domes like shimmering tongues of the crystal flames of the morning,
Opalesque rhythm-line of tower-tops, notes of the lyre of the sungod.
High over all that a nation had built and its love and its laughter,
Lighting the last time highway and homestead, market and temple,
Looking on men who must die and women destined to sorrow,
Looking on beauty fire must lay low and the sickle of slaughter,
Fateful she lifted the doom-scroll red with the script of the Immortals,
Deep in the invisible air that folds in the race and its morrows
Fixed it, and passed on smiling the smile of the griefless and deathless,
Dealers of death though death they know not, who in the morning
Scatter the seed of the event for the reaping ready at nightfall.
Over the brooding of plains and the agelong trance of the summits
Out of the sun and its spaces she came, pausing tranquil and fatal,
And, at a distance followed by the golden herds of the sungod,
Carried the burden of Light and its riddle and danger to Hellas.
Even as fleets on a chariot divine through the gold streets of ether,
Swiftly when Life fleets, invisibly changing the arc of the soul-drift,
And, with the choice that has chanced or the fate man has called and now suffers
Weighted, the moment travels driving the past towards the future,
Only its face and its feet are seen, not the burden it carries.
Weight of the event and its surface we bear, but the meaning is hidden.
Earth sees not; lifes clamour deafens the ear of the spirit:
Man knows not; least knows the messenger chosen for the summons.
Only he listens to the voice of his thoughts, his hearts ignorant whisper,
Whistle of winds in the tree-tops of Time and the rustle of Nature.
Now too the messenger hastened driving the car of the errand:
Even while dawn was a gleam in the east, he had cried to his coursers.
Half yet awake in lights turrets started the scouts of the morning
Hearing the jar of the wheels and the throb of the hooves exultation,
Hooves of the horses of Greece as they galloped to Phrygian Troya.
Proudly they trampled through Xanthus thwarting the foam of his anger,
Whinnying high as in scorn crossed Simois tangled currents,
Xanthus reed-girdled twin, the gentle and sluggard river.
One and unarmed in the car was the driver; grey was he, shrunken,
Worn with his decades. To Pergama cinctured with strength Cyclopean
Old and alone he arrived, insignificant, feeblest of mortals,
Carrying Fate in his helpless hands and the doom of an empire.
Ilion, couchant, saw him arrive from the sea and the darkness.
Heard mid the faint slow stirrings of life in the sleep of the city,
Rapid there neared a running of feet, and the cry of the summons
Beat round the doors that guarded the domes of the splendour of Priam.
Wardens charged with the night, ye who stand in Laomedons gateway,
Waken the Ilian kings. Talthybius, herald of Argos,
Parleying stands at the portals of Troy in the grey of the dawning.
High and insistent the call. In the dimness and hush of his chamber
Charioted far in his dreams amid visions of glory and terror,
Scenes of a vivider world,though blurred and deformed in the brain-cells,
Vague and inconsequent, there full of colour and beauty and greatness,
Suddenly drawn by the pull of the conscious thread of the earth-bond
And of the needs of Time and the travail assigned in the transience
Warned by his body, Deiphobus, reached in that splendid remoteness,
Touched through the nerve-ways of life that branch to the brain of the dreamer,
Heard the terrestrial call and slumber startled receded
Sliding like dew from the mane of a lion. Reluctant he travelled
Back from the light of the fields beyond death, from the wonderful kingdoms
Where he had wandered a soul among souls in the countries beyond us,
Free from the toil and incertitude, free from the struggle and danger:
Now, compelled, he returned from the respite given to the time-born,
Called to the strife and the wounds of the earth and the burden of daylight.
He from the carven couch upreared his giant stature.
Haste-spurred he laved his eyes and regained earths memories, haste-spurred
Donning apparel and armour strode through the town of his fathers,
Watched by her gods on his way to his fate, towards Pergamas portals.
Nine long years had passed and the tenth now was wearily ending,
Years of the wrath of the gods, and the leaguer still threatened the ramparts
Since through a tranquil morn the ships came past Tenedos sailing
And the first Argive fell slain as he leaped on the Phrygian beaches;
Still the assailants attacked, still fought back the stubborn defenders.
When the reward is withheld and endlessly leng thens the labour,
Weary of fruitless toil grows the transient heart of the mortal.
Weary of battle the invaders warring hearthless and homeless
Prayed to the gods for release and return to the land of their fathers:
Weary of battle the Phrygians beset in their beautiful city
Prayed to the gods for an end of the danger and mortal encounter.
Long had the high-beached ships forgotten their measureless ocean.
Greece seemed old and strange to her children camped on the beaches,
Old like a life long past one remembers hardly believing
But as a dream that has happened, but as the tale of another.
Time with his tardy touch and Nature changing our substance
Slowly had dimmed the faces loved and the scenes once cherished:
Yet was the dream still dear to them longing for wife and for children,
Longing for hearth and glebe in the far-off valleys of Hellas.
Always like waves that swallow the shingles, lapsing, returning,
Tide of the battle, race of the onset relentlessly thundered
Over the Phrygian corn-fields. Trojan wrestled with Argive,
Caria, Lycia, Thrace and the war-lord mighty Achaia
Joined in the clasp of the fight. Death, panic and wounds and disaster,
Glory of conquest and glory of fall, and the empty hearth-side,
Weeping and fortitude, terror and hope and the pang of remembrance,
Anguish of hearts, the lives of the warriors, the strength of the nations
Thrown were like weights into Destinys scales, but the balance wavered
Pressed by invisible hands. For not only the mortal fighters,
Heroes half divine whose names are like stars in remoteness,
Triumphed and failed and were winds or were weeds on the dance of the surges,
But from the peaks of Olympus and shimmering summits of Ida
Gleaming and clanging the gods of the antique ages descended.
Hidden from human knowledge the brilliant shapes of Immortals
Mingled unseen in the mellay, or sometimes, marvellous, maskless,
Forms of undying beauty and power that made tremble the heart-strings
Parting their deathless secrecy crossed through the borders of vision,
Plain as of old to the demigods out of their glory emerging,
Heard by mortal ears and seen by the eyeballs that perish.
Mighty they came from their spaces of freedom and sorrowless splendour.
Sea-vast, trailing the azure hem of his clamorous waters,
Blue-lidded, maned with the Night, Poseidon smote for the future,
Earth-shaker who with his trident releases the coils of the Dragon,
Freeing the forces unborn that are locked in the caverns of Nature.
Calm and unmoved, upholding the Word that is Fate and the order
Fixed in the sight of a Will foreknowing and silent and changeless,
Hera sent by Zeus and Athene lifting his aegis
Guarded the hidden decree. But for Ilion, loud as the surges,
Ares impetuous called to the fire in mens hearts, and his passion
Woke in the shadowy depths the forms of the Titan and demon;
Dumb and coerced by the grip of the gods in the abyss of the being,
Formidable, veiled they sit in the grey subconscient darkness
Watching the sleep of the snake-haired Erinnys. Miracled, haloed,
Seer and magician and prophet who beholds what the thought cannot witness,
Lifting the godhead within us to more than a human endeavour,
Slayer and saviour, thinker and mystic, leaped from his sun-peaks
Guarding in Ilion the wall of his mysteries Delphic Apollo.
Heavens strengths divided swayed in the whirl of the Earth-force.
All that is born and destroyed is reborn in the sweep of the ages;
Life like a decimal ever recurring repeats the old figure;
Goal seems there none for the ball that is chased throughout Time by the Fate-teams;
Evil once ended renews and no issue comes out of living:
Only an Eye unseen can distinguish the thread of its workings.
Such seemed the rule of the pastime of Fate on the plains of the Troad;
All went backwards and forwards tossed in the swing of the death-game.
Vain was the toil of the heroes, the blood of the mighty was squandered,
Spray as of surf on the cliffs when it moans unappeased, unrequited
Age after fruitless age. Day hunted the steps of the nightfall;
Joy succeeded to grief; defeat only greatened the vanquished,
Victory offered an empty delight without guerdon or profit.
End there was none of the effort and end there was none of the failure.
Triumph and agony changing hands in a desperate measure
Faced and turned as a man and a maiden trampling the grasses
Face and turn and they laugh in their joy of the dance and each other.
These were gods and they trampled lives. But though Time is immortal,
Mortal his works are and ways and the anguish ends like the rapture.
Artists of Nature content with their work in the plan of the transience,
Beautiful, deathless, august, the Olympians turned from the carnage,
Leaving the battle already decided, leaving the heroes
Slain in their minds, Troy burned, Greece left to her glory and downfall.
Into their heavens they rose up mighty like eagles ascending
Fanning the world with their wings. As the great to their luminous mansions
Turn from the cry and the strife, forgetting the wounded and fallen,
Calm they repose from their toil and incline to the joy of the banquet,
Watching the feet of the wine-bearers rosily placed on the marble,
Filling their hearts with ease, so they to their sorrowless ether
Passed from the wounded earth and its air that is ploughed with mens anguish;
Calm they reposed and their hearts inclined to the joy and the silence.
Lifted was the burden laid on our wills by their starry presence:
Man was restored to his smallness, the world to its inconscient labour.
Life felt a respite from height, the winds breathed freer delivered;
Light was released from their blaze and the earth was released from their greatness.
But their immortal content from the struggle titanic departed.
Vacant the noise of the battle roared like the sea on the shingles;
Wearily hunted the spears their quarry; strength was disheartened;
Silence increased with the march of the months on the tents of the leaguer.
But not alone on the Achaians the steps of the moments fell heavy;
Slowly the shadow deepened on Ilion mighty and scornful:
Dragging her days went by; in the rear of the hearts of her people
Something that knew what they dared not know and the mind would not utter,
Something that smote at her soul of defiance and beauty and laughter,
Darkened the hours. For Doom in her sombre and giant uprising
Neared, assailing the skies: the sense of her lived in all pastimes;
Time was pursued by unease and a terror woke in the midnight:
Even the ramparts felt her, stones that the gods had erected.
Now no longer she dallied and played, but bounded and hastened,
Seeing before her the end and, imagining massacre calmly,
Laughed and admired the flames and rejoiced in the cry of the captives.
Under her, dead to the watching immortals, Deiphobus hastened
Clanging in arms through the streets of the beautiful insolent city,
Brilliant, a gleaming husk but empty and left by the daemon.
Even as a star long extinguished whose light still travels the spaces,
Seen in its form by men, but itself goes phantom-like fleeting
Void and null and dark through the uncaring infinite vastness,
So now he seemed to the sight that sees all things from the Real.
Timeless its vision of Time creates the hour by things coming.
Borne on a force from the past and no more by a power for the future
Mighty and bright was his body, but shadowy the shape of his spirit
Only an eidolon seemed of the being that had lived in him, fleeting
Vague like a phantom seen by the dim Acherontian waters.
But to the guardian towers that watched over Pergamas gateway
Out of the waking city Deiphobus swiftly arriving
Called, and swinging back the huge gates slowly, reluctant,
Flung Troy wide to the entering Argive. Ilions portals
Parted admitting her destiny, then with a sullen and iron
Cry they closed. Mute, staring, grey like a wolf descended
Old Talthybius, propping his steps on the staff of his errand;
Feeble his body, but fierce still his glance with the fire within him;
Speechless and brooding he gazed on the hated and coveted city.
Suddenly, seeking heaven with her buildings hewn as for Titans,
Marvellous, rhythmic, a child of the gods with marble for raiment,
Smiting the vision with harmony, splendid and mighty and golden,
Ilion stood up around him entrenched in her giant defences.
Strength was uplifted on strength and grandeur supported by grandeur;
Beauty lay in her lap. Remote, hieratic and changeless,
Filled with her deeds and her dreams her gods looked out on the Argive,
Helpless and dumb with his hate as he gazed on her, they too like mortals
Knowing their centuries past, not knowing the morrow before them.
Dire were his eyes upon Troya the beautiful, his face like a doom-mask:
All Greece gazed in them, hated, admired, grew afraid, grew relentless.
But to the Greek Deiphobus cried and he turned from his passion
Fixing his ominous eyes with the god in them straight on the Trojan:
Messenger, voice of Achaia, wherefore confronting the daybreak
Comest thou driving thy car from the sleep of the tents that besiege us?
Fateful, I deem, was the thought that, conceived in the silence of midnight,
Raised up thy aged limbs from the couch of their rest in the stillness,
Thoughts of a mortal but forged by the Will that uses our members
And of its promptings our speech and our acts are the tools and the image.
Oft from the veil and the shadow they leap out like stars in their brightness,
Lights that we think our own, yet they are but tokens and counters,
Signs of the Forces that flow through us serving a Power that is secret.
What in the dawning bringst thou to Troya the mighty and dateless
Now in the ending of Time when the gods are weary of struggle?
Sends Agamemnon challenge or courtesy, Greek, to the Trojans?
High like the northwind answered the voice of the doom from Achaia:
Trojan Deiphobus, daybreak, silence of night and the evening
Sink and arise and even the strong sun rests from his splendour.
Not for the servant is rest nor Time is his, only his death-pyre.
I have not come from the monarch of men or the armoured assembly
Held on the wind-swept marge of the thunder and laughter of ocean.
One in his singleness greater than kings and multitudes sends me.
I am a voice out of Phthia, I am the will of the Hellene.
Peace in my right I bring to you, death in my left hand. Trojan,
Proudly receive them, honour the gifts of the mighty Achilles.
Death accept, if Ate deceives you and Doom is your lover,
Peace if your fate can turn and the god in you chooses to hearken.
Full is my heart and my lips are impatient of speech undelivered.
It was not made for the streets or the market, nor to be uttered
Meanly to common ears, but where counsel and majesty harbour
Far from the crowd in the halls of the great and to wisdom and foresight
Secrecy whispers, there I will speak among Ilions princes.
Envoy, answered the Laomedontian, voice of Achilles,
Vain is the offer of peace that sets out with a threat for its prelude.
Yet will we hear thee. Arise who are fleetest of foot in the gateway,
Thou, Thrasymachus, haste. Let the domes of the mansion of Ilus
Wake to the bruit of the Hellene challenge. Summon Aeneas.
Even as the word sank back into stillness, doffing his mantle
Started to run at the bidding a swift-footed youth of the Trojans
First in the race and the battle, Thrasymachus son of Aretes.
He in the dawn disappeared into swiftness. Deiphobus slowly,
Measuring Fate with his thoughts in the troubled vasts of his spirit,
Back through the stir of the city returned to the house of his fathers,
Taming his mighty stride to the pace infirm of the Argive.
But with the god in his feet Thrasymachus rapidly running
Came to the halls in the youth of the wonderful city by Ilus
Built for the joy of the eye; for he rested from war and, triumphant,
Reigned adored by the prostrate nations. Now when all ended,
Last of its mortal possessors to walk in its flowering gardens,
Great Anchises lay in that luminous house of the ancients
Soothing his restful age, the far-warring victor Anchises,
High Bucoleons son and the father of Rome by a goddess;
Lonely and vagrant once in his boyhood divine upon Ida
White Aphrodite ensnared him and she loosed her ambrosial girdle
Seeking a mortals love. On the threshold Thrasymachus halted
Looking for servant or guard, but felt only a loneness of slumber
Drawing the souls sight within away from its life and things human;
Soundless, unheeding, the vacant corridors fled into darkness.
He to the shades of the house and the dreams of the echoing rafters
Trusted his high-voiced call, and from chambers still dim in their twilight
Strong Aeneas armoured and mantled, leonine striding,
Came, Anchises son; for the dawn had not found him reposing,
But in the night he had left his couch and the clasp of Cresa,
Rising from sleep at the call of his spirit that turned to the waters
Prompted by Fate and his mother who guided him, white Aphrodite.
Still with the impulse of speed Thrasymachus greeted Aeneas:
Hero Aeneas, swift be thy stride to the Ilian hill-top.
Dardanid, haste! for the gods are at work; they have risen with the morning,
Each from his starry couch, and they labour. Doom, we can see it,
Glows on their anvils of destiny, clang we can hear of their hammers.
Something they forge there sitting unknown in the silence eternal,
Whether of evil or good it is they who shall choose who are masters
Calm, unopposed; they are gods and they work out their iron caprices.
Troy is their stage and Argos their background; we are their puppets.
Always our voices are prompted to speech for an end that we know not,
Always we think that we drive, but are driven. Action and impulse,
Yearning and thought are their engines, our will is their shadow and helper.
Now too, deeming he comes with a purpose framed by a mortal,
Shaft of their will they have shot from the bow of the Grecian leaguer,
Lashing themselves at his steeds, Talthybius sent by Achilles.
Busy the gods are always, Thrasymachus son of Aretes,
Weaving Fate on their looms, and yesterday, now and tomorrow
Are but the stands they have made with Space and Time for their timber,
Frame but the dance of their shuttle. What eye unamazed by their workings
Ever can pierce where they dwell and uncover their far-stretching purpose?
Silent they toil, they are hid in the clouds, they are wrapped with the midnight.
Yet to Apollo I pray, the Archer friendly to mortals,
Yet to the rider on Fate I abase myself, wielder of thunder,
Evil and doom to avert from my fatherland. All night Morpheus,
He who with shadowy hands heaps error and truth upon mortals,
Stood at my pillow with images. Dreaming I erred like a phantom
Helpless in Ilions streets with the fire and the foeman around me.
Red was the smoke as it mounted triumphant the house-top of Priam,
Clang of the arms of the Greeks was in Troya, and thwarting the clangour
Voices were crying and calling me over the violent Ocean
Borne by the winds of the West from a land where Hesperus harbours.
Brooding they ceased, for their thoughts grew heavy upon them and voiceless.
Then, in a farewell brief and unthought and unconscious of meaning,
Parting they turned to their tasks and their lives now close but soon severed:
Destined to perish even before his perishing nation,
Back to his watch at the gate sped Thrasymachus rapidly running;
Large of pace and swift, but with eyes absorbed and unseeing,
Driven like a car of the gods by the whip of his thoughts through the highways,
Turned to his mighty future the hero born of a goddess.
One was he chosen to ascend into greatness through fall and disaster,
Loser of his world by the will of a heaven that seemed ruthless and adverse,
Founder of a newer and greater world by daring adventure.
Now, from the citadels rise with the townships crowding below it
High towards a pondering of domes and the mystic Palladium climbing,
Fronted with the morning ray and joined by the winds of the ocean,
Fate-weighed up Troys slope strode musing strong Aeneas.
Under him silent the slumbering roofs of the city of Ilus
Dreamed in the light of the dawn; above watched the citadel, sleepless
Lonely and strong like a goddess white-limbed and bright on a hill-top,
Looking far out at the sea and the foe and the prowling of danger.
Over the brow he mounted and saw the palace of Priam,
Home of the gods of the earth, Laomedons marvellous vision
Held in the thought that accustomed his will to unearthly achievement
And in the blaze of his spirit compelling heaven with its greatness,
Dreamed by the harp of Apollo, a melody caught into marble.
Out of his mind it arose like an epic canto by canto;
Each of its halls was a strophe, its chambers lines of an epode,
Victor chant of Ilions destiny. Absent he entered,
Voiceless with thought, the brilliant megaron crowded with paintings,
Paved with a splendour of marble, and saw Deiphobus seated,
Son of the ancient house by the opulent hearth of his fathers,
And at his side like a shadow the grey and ominous Argive.
Happy of light like a lustrous star when it welcomes the morning,
Brilliant, beautiful, glamoured with gold and a fillet of gem-fire,
Paris, plucked from the song and the lyre by the Grecian challenge,
Came with the joy in his face and his eyes that Fate could not alter.
Ever a child of the dawn at play near a turn of the sun-roads,
Facing destinys look with the careless laugh of a comrade,
He with his vision of delight and beauty brightening the earth-field
Passed through its peril and grief on his way to the ambiguous Shadow.
Last from her chamber of sleep where she lay in the Ilian mansion
Far in the heart of the house with the deep-bosomed daughters of Priam,
Noble and tall and erect in a nimbus of youth and of glory,
Claiming the world and life as a fief of her strength and her courage,
Dawned through a doorway that opened to distant murmurs and laughter,
Capturing the eye like a smile or a sunbeam, Penthesilea.
She from the threshold cried to the herald, crossing the marble,
Regal and fleet, with her voice that was mighty and dire in its sweetness.
What with such speed has impelled from the wind-haunted beaches of Troas,
Herald, thy car though the sun yet hesitates under the mountains?
Comest thou humbler to Troy, Talthybius, now than thou camest
Once when the streams of my East sang low to my ear, not this Ocean
Loud, and I roamed in my mountains uncalled by the voice of Apollo?
Bringest thou dulcet-eyed peace or, sweeter to Penthesilea,
Challenge of war when the spears fall thick on the shields of the fighters,
Lightly the wheels leap onward chanting the anthem of Ares,
Death is at work in his fields and the heart is enamoured of danger?
What says Odysseus, the baffled Ithacan? what Agamemnon?
Are they then weary of war who were rapid and bold and triumphant,
Now that their gods are reluctant, now victory darts not from heaven
Down from the clouds above Ida directing the luminous legions
Armed by Fate, now Pallas forgets, now Poseidon slumbers?
Bronze were their throats to the battle like bugles blaring in chorus;
Mercy they knew not, but shouted and ravened and ran to the slaughter
Eager as hounds when they chase, till a woman met them and stayed them,
Loud my war-shout rang by Scamander. Herald of Argos,
What say the vaunters of Greece to the virgin Penthesilea?
High was the Argives answer confronting the mighty in Troya.
Princes of Pergama, whelps of the lion who roar for the mellay,
Suffer my speech! It shall ring like a spear on the hearts of the mighty.
Blame not the herald; his voice is an impulse, an echo, a channel
Now for the timbrels of peace and now for the drums of the battle.
And I have come from no cautious strength, from no half-hearted speaker,
But from the Phthian. All know him! Proud is his soul as his fortunes,
Swift as his sword and his spear are the speech and the wrath from his bosom.
I am his envoy, herald am I of the conquering Argives.
Has not one heard in the night when the breezes whisper and shudder,
Dire, the voice of a lion unsatisfied, gnawed by his hunger,
Seeking his prey from the gods? For he prowls through the glens of the mountains,
Errs a dangerous gleam in the woodlands, fatal and silent.
So for a while he endures, for a while he seeks and he suffers
Patient yet in his terrible grace as assured of his banquet;
But he has lacked too long and he lifts his head and to heaven
Roars in his wonder, incensed, impatiently. Startled the valleys
Shrink from the dreadful alarum, the cattle gallop to shelter.
Arming the herdsmen cry to each other for comfort and courage.
So Talthybius spoke, as a harper voicing his prelude
Touches his strings to a varied music, seeks for a concord;
Long his strain he prepares. But one broke in on the speaker,
Sweet was his voice like a harps though heard in the front of the onset,
One of the sons of Fate by the people loved whom he ruined,
Leader in counsel and battle, the Priamid, he in his beauty
Carelessly walking who scattered the seeds of Titanic disaster.
Surely thou dreamedst at night and awaking thy dreams have not left thee!
Hast thou not woven thy words to intimidate children in Argos
Sitting alarmed in the shadows who listen pale to their nurses?
Greek, thou art standing in Ilion now and thou facest her princes.
Use not thy words but thy kings. If friendship their honey-breathed burden,
Friendship we clasp from Achilles, but challenge outpace with our challenge
Meeting the foe ere he moves in his will to the clash of encounter.
Such is the way of the Trojans since Phryx by the Hellespont halting
Seated Troy on her hill with the Ocean for comrade and sister.
Shaking in wrath his filleted head Talthybius answered:
Princes, ye speak their words who drive you! Thus said Achilles:
Rise, Talthybius, meet in her spaces the car of the morning;
Challenge her coursers divine as they bound through the plains of the Troad.
Hasten, let not the day wear gold ere thou stand in her ramparts.
Herald charged with my will to a haughty and obstinate nation,
Speak in the palace of Priam the word of the Phthian Achilles.
Freely and not as his vassal who leads, Agamemnon, the Argive,
But as a ruler in Hellas I send thee, king of my nations.
Long I have walked apart from the mellay of gods in the Troad,
Long has my listless spear leaned back on the peace of my tent-side,
Deaf to the talk of the trumpets, the whine of the chariots speeding;
Sole with my heart I have lived, unheeding the Hellene murmur,
Chid when it roared for the hunt the lion pack of the war-god,
Day after day I walked at dawn and in blush of the sunset,
Far by the call of the seas and alone with the gods and my dreaming,
Leaned to the unsatisfied chant of my heart and the rhythms of ocean,
Sung to by hopes that were sweet-lipped and vain. For Polyxenas brothers
Still are the brood of the Titan Laomedon slain in his greatness,
Engines of God unable to bear all the might that they harbour.
Awe they have chid from their hearts, nor our common humanity binds them,
Stay have they none in the gods who approve, giving calmness to mortals:
But like the Titans of old they have hugged to them grandeur and ruin.
Seek then the race self-doomed, the leaders blinded by heaven
Not in the agora swept by the winds of debate and the shoutings
Lion-voiced, huge of the people! In Troyas high-crested mansion
Speak out my word to the hero Deiphobus, head of the mellay,
Paris the racer of doom and the stubborn strength of Aeneas.
Herald of Greece, when thy feet shall be pressed on the gold and the marble,
Rise in the Ilian megaron, curb not the cry of the challenge.
Thus shalt thou say to them striking the ground with the staff of defiance,
Fronting the tempests of war, the insensate, the gamblers with downfall.
Princes of Troy, I have sat in your halls, I have slept in your chambers;
Not in the battle alone as a warrior glad of his foemen,
Glad of the strength that mates with his own, in peace we encountered.
Marvelling I sat in the halls of my enemies, close to the bosoms
Scarred by the dints of my sword and the eyes I had seen through the battle,
Ate rejoicing the food of the East at the tables of Priam
Served by the delicatest hands in the world, by Hecubas daughter,
Or with our souls reconciled in some careless and rapturous midnight
Drank of the sweetness of Phrygian wine, admiring your bodies
Shaped by the gods indeed, and my spirit revolted from hatred,
Softening it yearned in its strings to the beauty and joy of its foemen,
Yearned from the death that oertakes and the flame that cries and desires
Even at the end to save and even on the verge to deliver
Troy and her wonderful works and her sons and her deep-bosomed daughters.
Warned by the gods who reveal to the heart what the mind cannot hearken
Deaf with its thoughts, I offered you friendship, I offered you bridal,
Hellas for comrade, Achilles for brother, the world for enjoyment
Won by my spear. And one heard my call and one turned to my seeking.
Why is it then that the war-cry sinks not to rest by the Xanthus?
We are not voices from Argolis, Lacedaemonian tricksters,
Splendid and subtle and false; we are speakers of truth, we are Hellenes,
Men of the northl and faithful in friendship and noble in anger,
Strong like our fathers of old. But you answered my truth with evasion
Hoping to seize what I will not yield and you flattered your people.
Long have I waited for wisdom to dawn on your violent natures.
Lonely I paced oer the sands by the thousand-throated waters
Praying to Pallas the wise that the doom might turn from your mansions,
Buildings delightful, gracious as rhythms, lyrics in marble,
Works of the transient gods, and I yearned for the end of the war-din
Hoping that Death might relent to the beautiful sons of the Trojans.
Far from the cry of the spears, from the speed and the laughter of axles,
Heavy upon me like iron the intolerable yoke of inaction
Weighed like a load on a runner. The war-cry rose by Scamander;
Xanthus was crossed on a bridge of the fallen, not by Achilles.
Often I stretched out my hand to the spear, for the Trojan beaches
Rang with the voice of Deiphobus shouting and slaying the Argives;
Often my heart like an anxious mother for Greece and her children
Leaped, for the air was full of the leonine roar of Aeneas.
Always the evening fell or the gods protected the Argives.
Then by the moat of the ships, on the hither plain of the Xanthus
New was the voice that climbed through the din and sailed on the breezes,
High, insistent, clear, and it shouted an unknown war-cry
Threatening doom to the peoples. A woman had come in to aid you,
Regal and insolent, fair as the morning and fell as the northwind,
Freed from the distaff who grasps at the sword and she spurns at subjection
Breaking the rule of the gods. She is turbulent, swift in the battle.
Clanging her voice of the swan as a summons to death and disaster,
Fleet-footed, happy and pitiless, laughing she runs to the slaughter;
Strong with the gait that allures she leaps from her car to the slaying,
Dabbles in blood smooth hands like lilies. Europe astonished
Reels from her shock to the Ocean. She is the panic and mellay,
War is her paean, the chariots thunder of Penthesilea.
Doom was her coming, it seems, to the men of the West and their legions;
Ajax sleeps for ever, Meriones lies on the beaches.
One by one they are falling before you, the great in Achaia.
Ever the wounded are borne like the stream of the ants when they forage
Past my ships, and they hush their moans as they near and in silence
Gaze at the legions inactive accusing the fame of Achilles.
Still have I borne with you, waited a little, looked for a summons,
Longing for bridal torches, not flame on the Ilian housetops,
Blood in the chambers of sweetness, the golden amorous city
Swallowed by doom. Not broken I turned from the wrestle Titanic,
Hopeless, weary of toil in the ebb of my glorious spirit,
But from my stress of compassion for doom of the kindred nations,
But for her sake whom my soul desires, for the daughter of Priam.
And for Polyxenas sake I will speak to you yet as your lover
Once ere the Fury, abrupt from Erebus, deaf to your crying,
Mad with the joy of the massacre, seizes on wealth and on women
Calling to Fire as it strides and Ilion sinks into ashes.
Yield; for your doom is impatient. No longer your helpers hasten,
Legions swift to your call; the yoke of your pride and your splendour
Lies not now on the nations of earth as when Fortune desired you,
Strength was your slave and Troya the lioness hungrily roaring
Threatened the western world from her ramparts built by Apollo.
Gladly released from the thraldom they hated, the insolent shackles
Curbing their manhood the peoples arise and they pray for your ruin;
Piled are their altars with gifts; their blessings help the Achaians.
Memnon came, but he sleeps, and the faces swart of his nation
Darken no more like a cloud over thunder and surge of the onset.
Wearily Lycia fights; far fled are the Carian levies.
Thrace retreats to her plains preferring the whistle of stormwinds
Or on the banks of the Strymon to wheel in her Orphean measure,
Not in the revel of swords and fronting the spears of the Hellenes.
Princes of Pergama, open your gates to our Peace who would enter,
Life in her gracious clasp and forgetfulness, grave of earths passions,
Healer of wounds and the past. In a comity equal, Hellenic,
Asia join with Greece, one world from the frozen rivers
Trod by the hooves of the Scythian to farthest undulant Ganges.
Tyndarid Helen resign, the desirable cause of your danger,
Back to Greece that is empty long of her smile and her movements.
Broider with riches her coming, pomp of her slaves and the waggons
Endlessly groaning with gold that arrive with the ransom of nations.
So shall the Fury be pacified, she who exultant from Sparta
Breathed in the sails of the Trojan ravisher helping his oarsmen.
So shall the gods be appeased and the thoughts of their wrath shall be cancelled,
Justice contented trace back her steps and for brands of the burning
Torches delightful shall break into Troy with the swords of the bridal.
I like a bridegroom will seize on your city and clasp and defend her
Safe from the envy of Argos, from Lacedaemonian hatred,
Safe from the hunger of Crete and the Locrians violent rapine.
But if you turn from my voice and you hearken only to Ares
Crying for battle within you deluded by Hera and Pallas,
Swiftly the fierce deaths surges shall close over Troy and her ramparts
Built by the gods shall be stubble and earth to the tread of the Hellene.
For to my tents I return not, I swear it by Zeus and Apollo,
Master of Truth who sits within Delphi fathomless brooding
Sole in the caverns of Nature and hearkens her underground murmur,
Giving my oath to his keeping mute and stern who forgets not,
Not from the panting of Ares toil to repose, from the wrestle
Locked of hope and death in the ruthless clasp of the mellay
Leaving again the Trojan ramparts unmounted, leaving
Greece unavenged, the Aegean a lake and Europe a province.
Choosing from Hellas exile, from Peleus and Deidamia,
Choosing the field for my chamber of sleep and the battle for hearthside
I shall go warring on till Asia enslaved to my footsteps
Feels the tread of the God in my sandal pressed on her bosom.
Rest shall I then when the borders of Greece are fringed with the Ganges;
Thus shall the past pay its Titan ransom and, Fate her balance
Changing, a continent ravished suffer the fortune of Helen.
This I have sworn allying my will to Zeus and Ananke.
So was it spoken, the Phthian challenge. Silent the heroes
Looked back amazed on their past and into the night of their future.
Silent their hearts felt a grasp from gods and had hints of the heavens.
Hush was awhile in the room, as if Fate were trying her balance
Poised on the thoughts of her mortals. At length with a musical laughter
Sweet as the jangling of bells upon anklets leaping in measure
Answered aloud to the gods the virgin Penthesilea.
Long I had heard in my distant realms of the fame of Achilles,
Ignorant still while I played with the ball and ran in the dances
Thinking not ever to war; but I dreamed of the shock of the hero.
So might a poet inland who imagines the rumour of Ocean,
Yearn with his lust for the giant upheaval, the dance as of hill-tops,
Toss of the yellow mane and the tawny march and the voices
Lionlike claiming earth as a prey for the clamorous waters.
So have I longed as I came for the cry and the speed of Achilles.
But he has lurked in his ships, he has sulked like a boy that is angry.
Glad am I now of his soul that arises hungry for battle,
Glad, whether victor I live or defeated travel the shadows.
Once shall my spear have rung on the shield of the Phthian Achilles.
Peace I desire not. I came to a haughty and resolute nation,
Honour and fame they cherish, not life by the gift of a foeman.
Sons of the ancient house on whom Ilion looks as on Titans,
Chiefs whom the world admires, do you fear then the shock of the Phthian?
Gods, it is said, have decided your doom. Are you less in your greatness?
Are you not gods to reverse their decrees or unshaken to suffer?
Memnon is dead and the Carians leave you? Lycia lingers?
But from the streams of my East I have come to you, Penthesilea.
Virgin of Asia, answered Talthybius, doom of a nation
Brought thee to Troy and her haters Olympian shielded thy coming,
Vainly who feedest mens hearts with a hope that the gods have rejected.
Doom in thy sweet voice utters her counsels robed like a woman.
Answered the virgin disdainfully, wroth at the words of the Argive:
Hast thou not ended the errand they gave thee, envoy of Hellas?
Not, do I think, as our counsellor camst thou elected from Argos,
Nor as a lover to Troy hast thou hastened with amorous footing
Hurting thy heart with her frowardness. Hatred and rapine sent thee,
Greed of the Ilian gold and lust of the Phrygian women,
Voice of Achaian aggression! Doom am I truly; let Gnossus
Witness it, Salamis speak of my fatal arrival and Argos
Silent remember her wounds. But the Argive answered the virgin:
Hearken then to the words of the Hellene, Penthesilea.
Virgin to whom earths strongest are corn in the sweep of thy sickle,
Lioness vain of thy bruit who besiegest the paths of the battle!
Art thou not satiate yet? hast thou drunk then so little of slaughter?
Death has ascended thy car; he has chosen thy hand for his harvest.
But I have heard of thy pride and disdain, how thou scornest the Argives
And of thy fate thou complainest that ever averse to thy wishes
Cloisters the Phthian and matches with weaklings Penthesilea.
Not of the Ithacan boar nor the wild-cat littered in Locris
Nor of the sleek-coat Argive wild-bulls sates me the hunting;
So hast thou said, I would bury my spear in the lion of Hellas.
Blind and infatuate, art thou not beautiful, bright as the lightning?
Were not thy limbs made cunningly linking sweetness to sweetness?
Is not thy laughter an arrow surprising hearts imprudent?
Charm is the seal of the gods upon woman. Distaff and girdle,
Work of the jar at the well and the hush of our innermost chambers,
These were appointed thee, but thou hast scorned them, O Titaness, grasping
Rather the shield and the spear. Thou, obeying thy turbulent nature,
Tramplest oer laws that are old to the pleasure thy heart has demanded.
Rather bow to the ancient Gods who are seated and constant.
But for thyself thou passest and what hast thou gained for the aeons
Mingled with men in their works and depriving the age of thy beauty?
Fair art thou, woman, but fair with a bitter and opposite sweetness
Clanging in war when thou matchest thy voice with the shout of assemblies.
Not to this end was thy sweetness made and the joy of thy members,
Not to this rhythm Heaven tuned its pipe in thy throat of enchantment,
Armoured like men to go warring forth and with hardness and fierceness
Mix in the strife and the hate while the varied meaning of Nature
Perishes hurt in its heart and life is emptied of music.
Long have I marked in your world a madness. Monarchs descending
Court the imperious mob of their slaves and their suppliant gesture
Shameless and venal offends the majestic tradition of ages:
Princes plead in the agora; spurred by the tongue of a coward,
Heroes march to an impious war at a priestly bidding.
Gold is sought by the great with the chaffering heart of the trader.
Asia fails and the Gods are abandoning Ida for Hellas.
Why must thou come here to perish, O noble and exquisite virgin,
Here in a cause not thine, in a quarrel remote from thy beauty,
Leaving a land that is lovely and far to be slain among strangers?
Girl, to thy rivers go back and thy hills where the grapes are aspirant.
Trust not a fate that indulges; for all things, Penthesilea,
Break with excess and he is the wisest who walks by a measure.
Yet, if thou wilt, thou shalt meet me today in the shock of the battle:
There will I give thee the fame thou desirest; captive in Hellas,
Men shall point to thee always, smiling and whispering, saying,
This is the woman who fought with the Greeks, overthrowing their heroes;
This is the slayer of Ajax, this is the slave of Achilles.
Then with her musical laughter the fearless Penthesilea:
Well do I hope that Achilles enslaved shall taste of that glory
Or on the Phrygian fields lie slain by the spear of a woman.
But to the herald Achaian the Priamid, leader of Troya:
Rest in the halls of thy foes and ease thy fatigue and thy winters.
Herald, abide till the people have heard and reply to Achilles.
Not as the kings of the West are Ilions princes and archons,
Monarchs of men who drive their nations dumb to the battle.
Not in the palace of Priam and not in the halls of the mighty
Whispered councils prevail and the few dispose of the millions;
But with their nation consulting, feeling the hearts of the commons
Ilions princes march to the war or give peace to their foemen.
Lightning departs from her kings and the thunder returns from her people
Met in the ancient assembly where Ilus founded his columns
And since her famous centuries, names that the ages remember
Leading her, Troya proclaims her decrees to obedient nations.
Ceasing he cried to the thralls of his house and they tended the Argive.
Brought to a chamber of rest in the luminous peace of the mansion,
Grey he sat and endured the food and the wine of his foemen,
Chiding his spirit that murmured within him and gazed undelighted,
Vexed with the endless pomps of Laomedon. Far from those glories
Memory winged it back to a sward half-forgotten, a village
Nestling in leaves and low hills watching it crowned with the sunset.
So for his hour he abode in earths palace of lordliest beauty,
But in its caverns his heart was weary and, hurt by the splendours,
Longed for Greece and the smoke-darkened roof of a cottage in Argos,
Eyes of a woman faded and children crowding the hearthside.
Joyless he rose and eastward expected the sunrise on Ida.
~ Sri Aurobindo, 1 - The Book of the Herald


   9 Integral Yoga
   8 Poetry
   2 Mysticism
   2 Fiction
   1 Philosophy
   1 Occultism
   1 Education

   4 Sri Aurobindo
   4 Nolini Kanta Gupta
   3 A B Purani
   2 The Mother
   2 Percy Bysshe Shelley

   3 Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo
   2 Shelley - Poems
   2 Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 07

03.12 - TagorePoet and Seer, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 01, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga
   The miracle that Tagore has done is this: he has brought out the very soul of the raceits soul of lyric fervour and grace, of intuitive luminosity and poignant sensibility, of beauty and harmony and delicacy. It is this that he has made living and vibrant, raised almost to the highest pitch and amplitude in various modes in the utterance of his nation. What he always expresses, in all his creations, is one aspect or another, a rhythm or a note of the soul movement. It is always a cry of the soul, a profound experience in the inner heart that wells out in the multifarious cadences of his poems. It is the same motif that finds a local habitation and a name in his short stories, perfect gems, masterpieces among world's masterpieces of art. In his dramas and novels it is the same element that has found a wider canvas for a more detailed and graphic notation of its play and movement. I would even include his essays (and certainly his memoirs) within the sweep of the same master-note. An essay by Rabindranath is as characteristic of the poet as any lyric poem of his. This is not to say that the essays are devoid of a solid intellectual content, a close-knit logical argument, an acute and penetrating thought movement, nor is it that his novels or dramas are mere lyrics drawn out arid thinned, lacking in the essential elements of a plot and action and character. What I mean is that over and above these factors which Tagores art possesses to a considerable degree, there is an imponderable element, a flavour, a breath from elsewhere that suffuses the entire creation, something that can be characterised only as the soul-element. It is this presence that makes whatever the poet touches not only living and graceful but instinct with something that belongs to the world of gods, something celestial and divine, something that meets and satisfies man's deepest longing and aspiration.
   I have been laying special stress upon this aspect of Tagore's genius, because humanity is in great need of it today, because all has gone wrong with the modern world since it lost touch with its soul and was beguiled into a path lighted by false glimmers and will-o'-the-wisps, hires of a superficial and infra-human consciousness, or into the by-ways and backwashes and aberrations of a sophisticated intellectualism.

10.37 - The Golden Bridge, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 04, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga
   Indeed, that is the hiatus, the inadequacy that still cripples and stultifies the mind, the physical mind in its attempt to seize other realities beyond. It is the mind which gives the formal structure, the pattern of expression in the material frame. The mind being bound to the life of the ignorant and outgoing senses is constitutionally incapable of receiving or holding or expressing facts of the higher life, the life beyondwhat we name as the spiritual or the divine. Not only so, the mind in trying to express the higher or supraterrestrial truths inevitably diminishes, dilutes, devalues, even negates and annuls them. The attempt through parables and allegories is the story of the difficulty the impossibility of expressing through the mind truths beyond the mind. We land into the weird and confused worlds of myths and mythologies,myths and mythologies for example about popular Radha and Krishna, and Kali or Shiva. We are compelled to reduce to our human measures, to accentuate our human failings in order to present graphically to us the inexpressible intensities or extensions of the high experiences above. The Vaishnava lyrics or the songs of Solomon become to us high spiritual documents.
   Man started his life on earth as an animal and is still continuing to be so in a large measure: his mental equipment also was almost wholly conditioned by the necessities of such a situation: his language, his culture even built upon an outward view of things, upon the mode and manner of his physical reactions to impacts of the gross outward world, the brute objects of physical life.

1.jk - Teignmouth - Some Doggerel, Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon, #Keats - Poems, #John Keats, #Poetry
  "I know not if this rhyming fit has done anything: it will be safe with you, if worthy to put among my lyrics."
  We must consider these trifles worthy to go among his lyrics, in virtue of their fine sense of rhythm and their keen relish for out of door life.'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

1.jr - I Will Beguile Him With The Tongue, #Rumi - Poems, #Jalaluddin Rumi, #Poetry
  should beguile him with verses and lyrics and flowing poetry.
  The glory of the unseen form is too great for me to beguile it

1.pbs - HERE I sit with my paper, #Shelley - Poems, #Percy Bysshe Shelley, #Fiction
  Nor with poets in lyrics attempted
  to vie;

1.pbs - Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici, #Shelley - Poems, #Percy Bysshe Shelley, #Fiction
  in 1822. Shelley liked to hear Jane sing and presented her with a guitar. A number of his last lyrics (e.g., "To Jane") are addressed to her. First published by Richard Garnett in Macmillan's Magazine (1862).

1.rt - Fireflies, #Tagore - Poems, #Rabindranath Tagore, #Poetry
  The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies,
  and the sun says, they are good.

1.wby - The Old Pensioner., #Yeats - Poems, #William Butler Yeats, #Poetry
  In The Countess Kathleen and Various Legends and lyrics, 1892.
  Compare this version with

2.05 - On Poetry, #Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Zen
   Sri Aurobindo: You were asking me about an example of a lyrical poem which had the creative force in it. Well, I can give you two examples from Tagore though it is not usual with him to write such lyrics. His Urvasie and Parash Pthar have got that creative force there he has created something, not a character, but some reality of the inner life of man. What I mean is, it is not simply a description. Also Nishikanta in the Gorur G bullock cart has created something. You see there that the 'cart' is a real cart and the man in it is a real man; and yet it is the 'world-cart' and the 'world-man' in it.
   Take Shelley's "Skylark" or Keats' "Nightingale". There you find that the skylark and the nightingale are nothing; they are only an occasion. It is the thoughts, the feelings and the images that rise in the poets mind that you get when you read the poem.

2.08 - The Sword, #Liber ABA, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
  This form of dishonesty reaches its climax in the expurgating of the classics. "The Bible is the Word of God, written by holy men, as they were inspired by the Holy Ghost. But we will cut out those passages which we think unsuitable." "Shakespeare is our greatest poet-but, of course, he is very dreadful." "No one can surpass the lyrics of Shelley, but we must pretend that he was not an atheist."
  Some translators could not bear that the hea then Chinese should use the word Shang Ti, and pretended that it did not mean God. Others, compelled to admit that it did mean God, explained that the use of the term showed that "God had not left himself without a witness even in this most idolatrous of nations. They had been mysteriously compelled to use it, not knowing what it meant." All this because of their emotional belief that they were better than the Chinese. - Arts, #On Education, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  The words are ridiculous and even in bad taste. Generally, when we studied a song, if the lyrics were unbecoming they would be changed and only the music retained.
  Someone who has a sense of rhythm can do it very easily. - The World's Greatest Poets, #Letters On Poetry And Art, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth have not been brought into consideration although their best work is as fine poetry as any written, but they have written nothing on a larger scale which would place them among the greatest creators. If Keats had finished Hyperion (without spoiling it), if Shelley had lived, or if Wordsworth had not petered out like a motor car with insufficient petrol, it might be different, but we have to take things as they are. As it is, all began magnificently, but none of them finished, and what work they did, except a few lyrics, sonnets, short pieces and narratives, is often flawed and unequal. If they had to be admitted, what about at least fifty others in Europe and Asia?
  The critical opinions you quote are, many of them, flagrantly prejudiced and personal. The only thing that results from Aldous Huxleys opinion, shared by many but with less courage, is that Spensers melodiousness cloyed upon Aldous Huxley and that perhaps points to a serious defect somewhere in Spensers art or in his genius but this does not cancel the poetic value of Spenser. Swinburne and Arnold are equally unbalanced on either side of their see-saw about Hugo. He might be described as a great but imperfect genius who just missed the very first rank because his word sometimes exceeded his weight, because his height was at the best considerable, even magnificent, but his depth insufficient and especially because he was often too oratorical to be quite sincere. The remarks of Voltaire and Mark Pattison go into the same basket.

2.22 - 1941-1943, #Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Zen
   In his poetry too, I was rather disappointed, except for the "Book of Thel" and some of his lyrics. But in general his poetry is not satisfying. It is like his etchings you find them rhetorical. Durer also was a great etcher. The claim is that he used to paint or etch under inspiration. There is a realm of the vital, a romantic stretch, from which you can get these things. That period comes in Yoga also. But these things are not deep.
   Disciple: The symbolism which he claims to have evolved for the complete explanation and interpretation of Christianity looked very elaborate to me.

2.25 - List of Topics in Each Talk, #Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Zen
   | 19-01-40 | lyrics with creative force: Tagore, Nishikanta, Shelley, Keats |
   | 27-01-40 | Great poetry: "The Hound of Heaven", Villon, Petrarch, Dante, Simonides, Pindar |

30.04 - Intuition and Inspiration in Art, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 07, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga
   Intuition is inner seeing, inspiration inner hearing. Poetry breaks out of the former, music of the later. We find a considerable influence of inspiration in poetry where music looms large; e.g. in lyrics. Likewise a poetic form can often be found to a large extent in music - Wagner is an immortal instance. Inspiration is the fount of the lyric, intuition of the epic.
   Forms of beauty and truth come into existence through the creator's intuition, and the rhythm, the gesture of truth and beauty through his inspiration. "The thing in itself," the substance, shines clear and lucid in intuition, while its character or "nature" reveals itself poignant and intimate through inspiration. One is the formative force, the other the kinetic or executive.

30.17 - Rabindranath, Traveller of the Infinite, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 07, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga
   Tagore is known to us as music incarnate. The simple, natural form of his poetic soul has expressed itself through songs and lyrics.
   Let us now deal with the second quality that derives from a free, unbarred movement and proceeds towards the indefinable at its best. According to many a critic it is a great flaw. To some it means nothing but ambiguity, while to others it is, to say the least, lack of objectivity. Let us examine it. Listen, for example,

3.02 - The Great Secret, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
    In my lyrics I sought to uncover the yearnings of the heart, in man or in nature, what things cry for, what their tears are for. On a larger canvas, through legends and parables, I portrayed the various facets of life's moods and urges, its rare wisdoms and common foolishnesses, gave a pulsating accent and a meaningful concreteness to episodes that constitute history, the history of man's and nature's consciousness. The tragedies and comedies of life I cast in the dramatic form too, and it is not for me to say how pleased you were to see the ancient form serving magnificently the needs and demands of the modern temperament. I moulded in unforgettable individualities figures and characters of living forces. A wider and still more explicit instrument is the novel which is perhaps more agreeable to the scientific and enquiring spirit of the age. For it is both illustrative and explanatory. I have given you the life history of individuals and social aggregates and I have attempted to give you too something of the life history of humanity taken as a whole, the massive aggregate in its circling, coiling, mounting movements. But I knew and I felt that it is not mere extension, largeness - the wide commonalty - that is enough for the human spirit. It needs uplift. It needs the grand style. So I gave you my epic. It was indeed a whole life's labour. Well, many of you do not and did not understand, more were overawed, but all felt its magic vibration. Yes, it was my desperate attempt to tear open the veil.
    I have varied the theme and I have varied the manner. Like a consummate scientist I juggled with my words, I knew how to change their constitution and transmute them as it were, make them carry a new sense, a new tone, a new value. I could comm and something of the Ciceronian swell, something of the Miltonic amplitude, something of the Racinian suavity; I was not incapable of the simplicity of Wordsworth at his best, nor was even the Shakespearean magic quite unknown to me. The sublimity of Valmiki and the nobility of Vyasa were not peaks too high for me to compass. - The Book of the Herald, #5.1.01 - Ilion, #unset, #Zen
  Buildings delightful, gracious as rhythms, lyrics in marble,
  Works of the transient gods, and I yearned for the end of the war-din

Talks With Sri Aurobindo 1, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  SRI AUROBINDO: Yes, and when he writes lyrics he is superb
  NIRODBARAN: Have you seen Iqbal's poems? Some hold he greater than
  the poem. If a poet has written a few perfect lyrics he can be called great.
  Francis Thompson's "Hound of Heaven" makes him great. We spoke also of

The Riddle of this World, #unknown, #Unknown, #unset
  write an epic but rather perhaps slight but elegant and beautiful lyrics
  such as he wanted to write, but did not succeed, in Rome. In another


--- Overview of noun lyric

The noun lyric has 2 senses (first 1 from tagged texts)
1. (12) lyric, words, language ::: (the text of a popular song or musical-comedy number; "his compositions always started with the lyrics"; "he wrote both words and music"; "the song uses colloquial language")
2. lyric, lyric poem ::: (a short poem of songlike quality)

--- Overview of verb lyric

The verb lyric has 1 sense (no senses from tagged texts)
1. lyric ::: (write lyrics for (a song))

--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun lyric

2 senses of lyric                          

Sense 1
lyric, words, language
   => text, textual matter
     => matter
       => writing, written material, piece of writing
         => written communication, written language, black and white
           => communication
             => abstraction, abstract entity
               => entity

Sense 2
lyric, lyric poem
   => poem, verse form
     => literary composition, literary work
       => writing, written material, piece of writing
         => written communication, written language, black and white
           => communication
             => abstraction, abstract entity
               => entity

--- Hyponyms of noun lyric

2 senses of lyric                          

Sense 1
lyric, words, language
   => love lyric

Sense 2
lyric, lyric poem
   => ode

--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun lyric

2 senses of lyric                          

Sense 1
lyric, words, language
   => text, textual matter

Sense 2
lyric, lyric poem
   => poem, verse form

--- Coordinate Terms (sisters) of noun lyric

2 senses of lyric                          

Sense 1
lyric, words, language
  -> text, textual matter
   => column
   => cookie
   => copy, written matter
   => draft, draft copy
   => electronic text
   => installment, instalment
   => letter, missive
   => line
   => lipogram
   => lyric, words, language
   => stanza

Sense 2
lyric, lyric poem
  -> poem, verse form
   => abecedarius
   => Alcaic, Alcaic verse
   => ballad, lay
   => ballade
   => blank verse
   => elegy, lament
   => epic poem, heroic poem, epic, epos
   => free verse, vers libre
   => haiku
   => lyric, lyric poem
   => rondeau, rondel
   => sonnet
   => tanka
   => terza rima
   => verse, rhyme
   => versicle

--- Grep of noun lyric
love lyric
lyric poem

IN WEBGEN [10000/875]

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Stephen Schwartz ::: Born: March 6, 1948; Occupation: Lyricist;
Yip Harburg ::: Born: April 8, 1896; Died: March 5, 1981; Occupation: Lyricist;
Jon Hendricks ::: Born: September 16, 1921; Occupation: Lyricist;
Johnny Mercer ::: Born: November 18, 1909; Died: June 25, 1976; Occupation: Lyricist;
Sappho ::: Born: 625 BC; Died: 571 BC; Occupation: Lyric poet;
Charles Hart ::: Born: June 3, 1961; Occupation: Lyricist;
Sammy Cahn ::: Born: June 18, 1913; Died: January 15, 1993; Occupation: Lyricist;
Fred Ebb ::: Born: April 8, 1928; Died: September 11, 2004; Occupation: Lyricist;
Arthur Freed ::: Born: September 9, 1894; Died: April 12, 1973; Occupation: Lyricist;
Simonides of Ceos ::: Born: 556 BC; Died: 468 BC; Occupation: Lyric poet;
Paulo Coelho ::: Born: August 24, 1947; Occupation: Lyricist;
Lorenz Hart ::: Born: May 2, 1895; Died: November 22, 1943; Occupation: Lyricist;
Hal David ::: Born: May 25, 1921; Died: September 1, 2012; Occupation: Lyricist;
Amanda Lear ::: Born: November 18, 1946; Occupation: Singer-lyricist;
Al Dubin ::: Born: June 10, 1891; Died: February 11, 1945; Occupation: Lyricist;
Dory Previn ::: Born: October 22, 1925; Died: February 14, 2012; Occupation: Lyricist;
Tim Rice ::: Born: November 10, 1944; Occupation: Lyricist;
Ira Gershwin ::: Born: December 6, 1896; Died: August 17, 1983; Occupation: Lyricist;
Bernie Taupin ::: Born: May 22, 1950; Occupation: Lyricist;
Robert Hunter ::: Born: June 23, 1941; Occupation: Lyricist;
Sheldon Harnick ::: Born: April 30, 1924; Occupation: Lyricist;
Nina Persson ::: Born: September 6, 1974; Occupation: Singer-lyricist;
Alan Jay Lerner ::: Born: August 31, 1918; Died: June 14, 1986; Occupation: Lyricist;
Disney's Sing-Along Songs (1986 - 1999) - Fun TV Show starring Jiminy Cricket, and Ludwig Von Drake, etc as they present your favourite Disney Songs with Lyrics and the "bouncing ball" so you can Sing-Along!
The Courtship of Eddie's Father (1969 - 1972) - Theme Song Lyrics:
Dog Days (2011 - 2013) - Dog Days is a 2011 Japanese fantasy anime television series created by Masaki Tsuzuki, also known for his work as creator of Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha and produced by Seven Arcs and Aniplex under the direction of Keizo Kusakawa.
Sensual Phrase (1999 - 2000) - a 44-episode anime television series by Studio Hibari, and as a series of novels. The series tells the story of Aine Yukimura, a high school student who becomes the lyricist for a Japanese rock band, and her relationship with the band's lead singer, Sakuya Ookochi.To promote the anime, a real-life b...
JoJo's Circus (2003 - 2007) - the creative executive for Tiny Toon Adventures and Animaniacs and features songs with music by Jeffrey Zahn and Jim Latham and lyrics done by Judy Rothman.
Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha A's (2005 - Current) - Mah Shjo Ririkaru Nanoha su) ("A's" is pronounced as "Ace") is an anime television series produced by Seven Arcs. It is the second anime in the Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha franchise, following the previous series. The series aired in Japan between October 1, 2005 and December 25, 2005 and was lic...
Don't Forget the Lyrics! (2007 - 2011) - Hosted by Wayne Brady a single contestant must sing onscreen lyrics to popular songs live but must keep singing remembering the lyrics themselves when the music and words stop. Contestants sang 10 songs for $1,000,000.
The Doors(1991) - This film tells the story primarily of Jim Morrison, the singer/poet leader of The Doors. They would prove to be one of the most influential rock groups of the 60's. Their songs were mainly based on Morrison's poems as lyrics and touched the social conscience of America. However, his lyrics became b...
It's Always Fair Weather(1955) - It's Always Fair Weather is a 1955 MGM musical satire scripted by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, who also wrote the show's lyrics, with music by Andr Previn and starring Gene Kelly, Dan Dailey, Cyd Charisse, Dolores Gray, and dancer/choreographer Michael Kidd in his first film actin
The Original Kings Of Comedy(2000) - February 26 and 27, 2000, the Original Kings of Comedy play Charlotte, NC. The themes are Blacks and Whites, men and women, old-school and hip-hop. Steve Harvey emcees, celebrates '70s music and lyrics of love, and pokes at folks in the front row. D.L. Hughley mines racial differences and talks abou...
Music And Lyrics(2007) - A washed up singer is given a couple days to compose a chart-topping hit for an aspiring teen sensation. Though he's never written a decent lyric in his life, he sparks with an offbeat younger woman with a flair for words. -- Action, Magic, Comedy, Sci-Fi, Drama -- Magic, Music -- Action, Drama, Magic, Sci-Fi -- Action, Magic, Comedy, Super Power, Drama -- -- Action, Magic, Martial Arts -- Comedy, Parody, Magic -- Comedy, Parody, Magic -- Action, Comedy, Drama, Magic, Super Power -- Comedy, Magic, Parody -- Comedy, Magic, Parody, School -- Action, Sci-Fi, Comedy, Drama, Magic -- Comedy, Romance, Shoujo, Shounen Ai -- Action, Comedy, Drama, Magic, Super Power -- Action, Comedy, Drama, Magic, Super Power
Carmen Jones (1954) ::: 6.8/10 -- Approved | 1h 45min | Drama, Musical, Romance | 28 October 1954 (USA) -- Contemporary version of the Bizet opera, with new lyrics and an African-American cast. Director: Otto Preminger Writers: Oscar Hammerstein II (book) (as Oscar Hammerstein 2nd), Harry Kleiner
Chalo Dilli (2011) ::: 6.8/10 -- Not Rated | 2h 35min | Comedy, Drama | 29 April 2011 (India) -- Enroute to her destination via plane, a busy executive gets stranded with a middle-classed fast-talking male. Director: Shashant Shah Writers: Shabbir Ahmed (lyrics), Anand Raj Anand (lyrics) | 4 more credits
In the Name of God (2007) ::: 8.4/10 -- Khuda Kay Liye (original title) -- In the Name of God Poster The movie deals with the difference of opinion between the westernized, educated, modern Muslims and their counterparts who follow their religion and live life in the name of 'God'. Director: Shoaib Mansoor Writers: Shoaib Mansoor, Faiza Mujahid (lyrics) | 1 more credit
Jason's Lyric (1994) ::: 6.6/10 -- R | 1h 59min | Crime, Drama, Romance | 28 September 1994 (USA) -- Two brothers, survivors of family tragedy, take different life paths: one falls for a high-spirited waitress and dreams of success, the other follows a life of petty crime. Their lives reconnect in shattering fashion. Director: Doug McHenry Writer:
Music and Lyrics (2007) ::: 6.5/10 -- PG-13 | 1h 44min | Comedy, Music, Romance | 14 February 2007 (USA) -- A washed up singer is given a couple days to compose a chart-topping hit for an aspiring teen sensation. Though he's never written a decent lyric in his life, he sparks with an offbeat younger woman with a flair for words. Director: Marc Lawrence Writer:
Peepli [Live] (2010) ::: 7.4/10 -- Not Rated | 1h 35min | Comedy, Drama | 13 August 2010 (USA) -- An impoverished farmer's threat to end his life invites attention from politicians and media. Directors: Anusha Rizvi, Mahmood Farooqui (co-director) Writers: Bhadwai (lyrics), Swanand Kirkire (lyrics) | 4 more credits
Rudderless (2014) ::: 7.5/10 -- R | 1h 45min | Comedy, Drama, Music | 21 February 2015 (Japan) -- A grieving father in a downward spiral stumbles across a box of his recently deceased son's demo tapes and lyrics. Shocked by the discovery of this unknown talent, he forms a band in the hope of finding some catharsis. Director: William H. Macy Writers:,_Nights_at_springtrap's,_Composers,_and_Arrangers'_Up's_Get_It_Started's_My_Name,_A_New_Path,_A_New_Destiny,_The_War_Of_Light_&_Dark_For_The_Future_Of_The_Infinite_Dimensions_/_Victorious_Roar_Of_The_Ancients,_A_New_Destiny,_Legacy_Of_The_Supreme_King,_The_Ultimate_Queen,_&_The_First_Ascendant_/_Successors_Of_The_Great_Ancients's's_Portable:_The_Battle_of_Aces's_Portable:_The_Gears_of_Destiny's_THE_COMICS's's_World'm_Only_Me_When_I'm_With_You_(lyrics)'ve_Said_No_(Alternate_Version)_(lyrics)
100-man no Inochi no Ue ni Ore wa Tatteiru 2nd Season -- -- Maho Film -- ? eps -- Manga -- Action Game Drama Fantasy Shounen -- 100-man no Inochi no Ue ni Ore wa Tatteiru 2nd Season 100-man no Inochi no Ue ni Ore wa Tatteiru 2nd Season -- Second season of 100-man no Inochi no Ue ni Ore wa Tatteiru. -- TV - Jul ??, 2021 -- 27,971 N/A -- -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st -- -- Seven Arcs -- 1 ep -- Original -- Action Sci-Fi Comedy Drama Magic -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st -- Nanoha Takamachi, an ordinary third-grader, loves her family and friends more than anything else. One day, after having a strange dream in which a ferret gets injured, she sees the very same ferret in real life and rescues it. That ferret turns out to be Yuuno Scrya, a mage from another world who is trying to capture the 21 scattered Jewel Seeds before they cause serious damage to the universe. Yuuno is not powerful enough to capture the Jewel seeds on his own, so he grants Nanoha the intelligent device "Raising Heart" and begins training her as a mage. -- -- Unfortunately, the powerful Jewel Seeds attract those with ill intentions. Another mage, Fate Testarossa, is desperate to collect the seeds for some unknown and sinister purpose, though the solemn look in her eyes makes Nanoha think that there is more to Fate than meets the eye. Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st is a retelling of the original series, which tells the story of two young mages and how their strong emotions shape their actions. -- -- Movie - Jan 23, 2010 -- 27,907 7.90
Gravitation -- -- Studio Deen -- 13 eps -- Manga -- Comedy Music Romance Shoujo Shounen Ai -- Gravitation Gravitation -- All Shuichi ever dreamed about was following in the footsteps of his pop idol, Ryuichi Sakuma and the band Nittle Grasper. Together with his best friend Hiro, Shuichi's formed a band called Bad Luck and they've even managed to get signed to a major recording label! Unfortunately, the studio deadlines are looming and Shuichi still hasn't finished the lyrics for any of the songs. What he needs is a little inspiration... but he's been running a little low in that department lately. While Hiro recommends finding a girlfriend, fate has other things in store for him... -- -- Walking through the park late one night, Shuichi's latest lyrics flutter away and land at the feet of a stunning stranger that takes his breath away. Unfortunately, that mysterious stranger happens to be the famous novelist Eiri Yuki, who completely crushes the young singer by telling him he has "zero talent". Now, Shuichi's so annoyed that he's managed to finish his song just so he can find and confront Yuki once again. But, are his actions really motivated by anger, or has he actually fallen in love? -- -- (Source: RightStuf) -- -- Licensor: -- Nozomi Entertainment -- 103,035 7.00
Hypnosis Mic: Division Rap Battle - Rhyme Anima -- -- A-1 Pictures -- 13 eps -- Other -- Action Sci-Fi Music -- Hypnosis Mic: Division Rap Battle - Rhyme Anima Hypnosis Mic: Division Rap Battle - Rhyme Anima -- In a world overtaken by war and conflict, "Hypnosis Microphones"—devices through which a user channels lyrics that can affect the listener's brain and even cause physical damage—were introduced to the masses by the Party of Words. Revolutionizing warfare, Hypnosis Mics have transformed words and music into the sole weapons used by gangsters, terrorists, and the military, with physical weapons having been banned from use. -- -- As a result of swooping in during the chaos, the all-female Party of Words rules over the Japanese government. Women in Japan now live in Chuuouku, while men battle over surrounding territories outside the ward through rap battles. -- -- With intentions unknown, the Party of Words begins to gather the former members of the now-disbanded legendary rap crew The Dirty Dawg to fight not for territory or war, but for their respective crew's pride and honor in the greatest rap battle of all time. The first Division Rap Battle is about to commence, and practice isn't something these rappers are going to need. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Aniplex of America -- 37,829 6.76
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha A's -- -- Seven Arcs -- 13 eps -- Original -- Action Comedy Drama Magic Super Power -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha A's Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha A's -- After solving the incident of the scattered Jewel Seeds, Nanoha Takamachi happily returns to her everyday life, though now with added magic practice in the morning. Exchanging video messages with Fate Testarossa and the crew of the Arthra, Nanoha eagerly awaits the chance to speak with them in person again. But while studying in her room one day, Raising Heart suddenly calls out to Nanoha and warns her of an incoming attack! -- -- The attacker is a young girl named Vita, who calls herself a Belka Knight. She proves her strength by using an intelligent device with a mysterious cartridge system to quickly overwhelm Nanoha. Luckily, the Space-Time Administration Bureau is able to step in before she is completely crushed. Vita and her fellow knights Shamal, Signum, and Zafila are on a mission to steal magical power from mages in order to complete the Book of Darkness, one of the Lost Logia. For what sinister purpose are the knights after this Book of Darkness? -- -- -- Licensor: -- Geneon Entertainment USA -- TV - Oct 2, 2005 -- 57,634 7.98
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha A's -- -- Seven Arcs -- 13 eps -- Original -- Action Comedy Drama Magic Super Power -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha A's Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha A's -- After solving the incident of the scattered Jewel Seeds, Nanoha Takamachi happily returns to her everyday life, though now with added magic practice in the morning. Exchanging video messages with Fate Testarossa and the crew of the Arthra, Nanoha eagerly awaits the chance to speak with them in person again. But while studying in her room one day, Raising Heart suddenly calls out to Nanoha and warns her of an incoming attack! -- -- The attacker is a young girl named Vita, who calls herself a Belka Knight. She proves her strength by using an intelligent device with a mysterious cartridge system to quickly overwhelm Nanoha. Luckily, the Space-Time Administration Bureau is able to step in before she is completely crushed. Vita and her fellow knights Shamal, Signum, and Zafila are on a mission to steal magical power from mages in order to complete the Book of Darkness, one of the Lost Logia. For what sinister purpose are the knights after this Book of Darkness? -- -- TV - Oct 2, 2005 -- 57,634 7.98
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha -- -- Seven Arcs -- 13 eps -- Original -- Action Comedy Drama Magic Super Power -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha -- Nanoha Takamachi, an ordinary third-grader who enjoys spending time with her family and friends, rescues an injured ferret that she had dreamed about the night before. The next day, the ferret cries out to her telepathically, asking Nanoha to save him. The ferret reveals himself to be Yuuno Scrya, a mage from another world who is trying to collect the dangerous 21 Jewel Seeds that he accidentally scattered across the world. He enlists Nanoha's help, gifting her the magical wand Raising Heart, and teaches her how to become a powerful mage. -- -- Days later, after reclaiming a few of the Jewel Seeds, another mage appears: Fate Testarossa. Stronger than Nanoha, Fate refuses to divulge her reasons in trying to collect the Jewel Seeds. Nanoha senses a melancholy in her eyes, but Fate refuses to communicate. Directed by Akiyuki Shinbo, Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha is a story about the clash of emotions when goals collide. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Geneon Entertainment USA -- TV - Oct 3, 2004 -- 89,879 7.42
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha -- -- Seven Arcs -- 13 eps -- Original -- Action Comedy Drama Magic Super Power -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha -- Nanoha Takamachi, an ordinary third-grader who enjoys spending time with her family and friends, rescues an injured ferret that she had dreamed about the night before. The next day, the ferret cries out to her telepathically, asking Nanoha to save him. The ferret reveals himself to be Yuuno Scrya, a mage from another world who is trying to collect the dangerous 21 Jewel Seeds that he accidentally scattered across the world. He enlists Nanoha's help, gifting her the magical wand Raising Heart, and teaches her how to become a powerful mage. -- -- Days later, after reclaiming a few of the Jewel Seeds, another mage appears: Fate Testarossa. Stronger than Nanoha, Fate refuses to divulge her reasons in trying to collect the Jewel Seeds. Nanoha senses a melancholy in her eyes, but Fate refuses to communicate. Directed by Akiyuki Shinbo, Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha is a story about the clash of emotions when goals collide. -- -- TV - Oct 3, 2004 -- 89,879 7.42
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: Detonation -- -- Seven Arcs Pictures -- 1 ep -- Original -- Action Comedy Drama Magic Super Power -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: Detonation Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: Detonation -- (No synopsis yet.) -- Movie - Oct 19, 2018 -- 6,734 7.52
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: Reflection -- -- Seven Arcs Pictures -- 1 ep -- Original -- Action Drama Magic Sci-Fi -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: Reflection Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: Reflection -- A pair of researchers stays behind on their dying planet of Eltria with their two daughters, Amitie and Kirie, in hopes of finding a way to revive the planet. But when the husband Granz falls ill it seems their dream of reviving the planet will die. Against her older sister's wishes, Kirie sets off with her childhood friend Iris to seek help from a distant alternate world. They arrive in Japan on Earth to search for the key to their planet's regeneration. There, they meet Nanoha, Fate, and Hayate. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- Movie - Jul 22, 2017 -- 11,471 7.45
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha StrikerS -- -- Seven Arcs -- 26 eps -- Original -- Action Magic Comedy Super Power Drama -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha StrikerS Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha StrikerS -- Set 10 years after Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha A's, Nanoha, Fate, Hayate and the rest of the crew are now working full time in the Time-Space Administration Bureau. Nanoha is a combat instructor, Fate is a special investigator, and Hayate is a commanding officer. They must unite once again to save the dimensions. Introducing new characters as well: Subaru, Teana, Caro and Erio. Stand by. Ready. Set up! -- TV - Apr 2, 2007 -- 47,792 7.64
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st -- -- Seven Arcs -- 1 ep -- Original -- Action Sci-Fi Comedy Drama Magic -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st -- Nanoha Takamachi, an ordinary third-grader, loves her family and friends more than anything else. One day, after having a strange dream in which a ferret gets injured, she sees the very same ferret in real life and rescues it. That ferret turns out to be Yuuno Scrya, a mage from another world who is trying to capture the 21 scattered Jewel Seeds before they cause serious damage to the universe. Yuuno is not powerful enough to capture the Jewel seeds on his own, so he grants Nanoha the intelligent device "Raising Heart" and begins training her as a mage. -- -- Unfortunately, the powerful Jewel Seeds attract those with ill intentions. Another mage, Fate Testarossa, is desperate to collect the seeds for some unknown and sinister purpose, though the solemn look in her eyes makes Nanoha think that there is more to Fate than meets the eye. Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 1st is a retelling of the original series, which tells the story of two young mages and how their strong emotions shape their actions. -- -- Movie - Jan 23, 2010 -- 27,907 7.90
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 2nd A's -- -- Seven Arcs -- 1 ep -- Original -- Action Magic Comedy Sci-Fi Drama -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 2nd A's Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha: The Movie 2nd A's -- Six months have passed since the events in the previous movie. Fate has returned to Uminari City with Lindy as her legal guardian and is living the life of a normal elementary schoolgirl along with Nanoha and her friends. The reunion between the two new-found friends is cut short, however, when they are assaulted by four ancient magic users who identify themselves as the Wolkenritter. As the motives behind the actions of the Wolkenritter become clear, Nanoha and Fate find themselves in a race against time to stop the reactivation of a highly dangerous artifact known as The Book of Darkness. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- Movie - Jul 14, 2012 -- 20,824 8.17
Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha ViVid -- -- A-1 Pictures -- 12 eps -- Manga -- Action Adventure Magic Martial Arts -- Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha ViVid Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha ViVid -- The series takes place four years after the events of Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha StrikerS, during which, magical girl Nanoha Takamachi rescued and adopted a young girl named Vivio, who is the reincarnation of the Sankt Kaiser, Olivie Segbrecht. After entering her fourth year of elementary school, Vivio is given her own intelligence device, Sacred Heart, and gains the power to transform using her adult Sankt Kaiser mode. She soon comes across a girl named Einhart Stratos who, similar to Vivio, is the descendant of another Sankt Kaiser ruler, Claus G.S. Ingvalt. As Einhart becomes determined to prove her fighting style is the strongest, Vivio befriends her and together with her friends, enters a martial arts tournament where they fight against various magical opponents and learn more about their past lives. -- -- (Source: Wikipedia) -- 21,958 6.73
Re:Stage! Dream Days♪ -- -- Graphinica, Yumeta Company -- 12 eps -- Other -- Music School Slice of Life -- Re:Stage! Dream Days♪ Re:Stage! Dream Days♪ -- Mana Shikimiya has just transferred into Marehoshi Academy, a school which requires each of its students to join one of the many sports or cultural clubs. After a quick tour of most of the clubs by the Student Council Vice President Minori Hasegawa, Mana stumbles upon the Lyrical Tradition Dance Club. There she meets its sole members: Mizuha Ichikishima and Sayu Tsukisaka. Drawn to their singing and dancing, Mana joins the club and together they work towards their dream of winning the Prism Stage—a national competition to determine the top idols of the country. -- -- However, before Mana and her new friends can worry about the Prism Stage, there is a more immediate problem at hand: the club is about to be disbanded by the student council! Without enough members or any notable achievements, the club will be shut down and the members' dreams will be over before they've begun to pursue them. It's up to the three of them to find the additional club members they need and become an idol group strong enough to qualify for the Prism Stage and to win it as well. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Sentai Filmworks -- 8,391 6.69
Yagate Kimi ni Naru -- -- TROYCA -- 13 eps -- Manga -- Drama Romance School Shoujo Ai -- Yagate Kimi ni Naru Yagate Kimi ni Naru -- Yuu Koito has always been entranced with romantic shoujo manga and the lyrics of love songs. She patiently waits for the wings of love to sprout and send her heart aflutter on the day that she finally receives a confession. Yet, when her classmate from junior high declares his love for her during their graduation, she feels unexpectedly hollow. The realization hits her: she understands romance as a concept, but she is incapable of experiencing the feeling first-hand. -- -- Now, having enrolled in high school, Yuu, disconcerted and dispirited, is still ruminating over how to respond to her suitor. There, she happens upon the seemingly flawless student council president, Touko Nanami, maturely rejecting a confession of her own. Stirred by Touko's elegant manner, Yuu approaches her for advice, only to be bewildered when the president confesses to her! Yuu quickly finds herself in the palm of Touko's hand, and unknowingly sets herself on a path to find the emotion which has long eluded her. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Sentai Filmworks -- 210,785 7.92
20th-century lyric poetry
Anjaan (lyricist)
Back to the L.A.B. (Lyrical Ass Beating)
Bangladesh National Film Award for Best Lyrics
Bengal Film Journalists' Association Best Lyricist Award
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Boku no Lyric no Byomi
Bollywood Movie Award Best Lyricist
Carlo Rossi (lyricist)
Chandrabose (lyricist)
Charles Hart (lyricist)
Charlie Mason (lyricist)
Dominic Waxing Lyrical
Don't Forget the Lyrics!
Don't Forget the Lyrics! (American game show)
Don't Forget the Lyrics! (British game show)
Don't Forget the Lyrics! (Singaporean game show)
Don Black (lyricist)
Draft:Joe Paul (lyricist)
Dramatic Romances and Lyrics
Ed Rose (lyricist)
Filmfare Award for Best Lyricist
Filmfare Award for Best Lyricist Kannada
Filmfare Award for Best Lyricist Malayalam
Filmfare Award for Best Lyricist Tamil
Filmfare Award for Best Lyricist Telugu
Francis Lee (lyricist)
Frank Thomas (lyricist)
Galician-Portuguese lyric
Geoffrey Parsons (lyricist)
Greek lyric
Harley Lyrics
Heavy metal lyrics
IIFA Award for Best Lyricist
Illyricum (Roman province)
Illyricum sacrum
International Lyrics Server
Iris illyrica
Japan Lyricist Awards
Japan Lyricists Association
Jason's Lyric
Jason's Lyric (soundtrack)
John Dempsey (lyricist)
John La Touche (lyricist)
Johnny Burke (lyricist)
John Turner (lyricist)
Joseph McCarthy (lyricist)
Justin (magister militum per Illyricum)
Kabilan (lyricist)
Kaviraj (lyricist)
List of composers and their preferred lyricists
List of Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha albums
List of Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha characters
List of songs with Latin lyrics
List of songs with lyrics by Aysel Grel
List of songs with lyrics by Bernie Taupin
List of songs with lyrics by Gerry Goffin
List of songs with lyrics by John Bettis
List of songs with lyrics by P. G. Wodehouse
Lyrica Anderson
Lyrical abstraction
Lyrical King (From the Boogie Down Bronx)
Lyrical Law
Lyrical Nitrate
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Lyrics of Two
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Lyric Street Records
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Lyric Symphony
Lyric Theater (Miami)
Lyric Theater (Oxford, Mississippi)
Lyric Theatre
Lyric Theatre, Belfast
Lyric Theatre (Hammersmith)
Lyric Theatre (Harrison, Arkansas)
Lyric Theatre (Kansas City, Missouri)
Lyric Theatre, London
Lyric Theatre (New York City, 1903)
Lyric Theatre (New York City, 1998)
Lyric Theatre (Swift Current)
Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha
Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha A's
Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha (series)
Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha Strikers
Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha ViVid
Magical Record Lyrical Nanoha Force
Mogol (lyricist)
Music and Lyrics
Music and Lyrics: Music from the Motion Picture
Nandi Award for Best Lyricist
National Film Award for Best Lyrics
Nine Lyric Poets
Nizam (lyricist)
Onopordum illyricum
Opera Lyrica
yvind Berg (lyric poet)
Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics
Philadelphia Lyric Opera Company
P. illyricum
Polyglycerol polyricinoleate
Praetorian prefecture of Illyricum
Preface to the Lyrical Ballads
Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Original Music and Lyrics
Professor Lyrical
Robert Hunter (lyricist)
RT lyric fm
Screen Award for Best Lyricist
Shailendra (lyricist)
Sonic Boom: Rise of Lyric
Squalius illyricus
Sydney Lyric
Thamarai (Lyricist)
Theatro Lyrico Fluminense
The Lyric (album)
The Lyricist Lounge Show
The Lyrics Board
Thomas Oliphant (lyricist)
Vincent Fang (lyricist)
Viswa (lyricist)
Viveka (lyricist)
Xiaohan (lyricist)
Yogesh (lyricist)
Zee Cine Award for Best Lyricist

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