"seneca" poems
Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim
(Seneca, Letters 130.10)
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
2.4k
I am flabbergasted, ashamed, and angry after philosophy homework
which straight up flabbergasts myself because I’ve always questioned everything
after reading a selection of Seneca’s letter’s ( ancient spanish philosopher)
Spastic Fury is an understatement
I understand this was written in a different time period
but I have to discuss this **** in class.
**** like why crying is for the weak or
how practicing habits less fortunate
than one is subordinate to
will strengthen thy noble soul for future preparation of fortune/misfortune
blah blah blah
I get all of that **** I understand the validity of living a pure,
un-judgemental, strong willed life.
what I can’t get out of my OCD head
is all of the **** I’ve been through
that was and continues to be detrimental to my sanity
and no it’s not out of vanity you naive ******
it’s called PTSD and it can be debilitating.
I know this portion of reading is designed for
the average freshman unsoiled mind, free from
trauma and full of promise but I’m not your average person.
I never will be
I remember the times I didn’t want to be a ******* person
and those moments remain anchored right on top of my mangled innocence.
Seneca claims crying is a form of selfish weakness
I claim crying is stronger than taking a razor to the skin
crying is stronger than puking until you’re dizzy
crying is stronger than getting high until you can’t
remember why you started crying
in the first place
It took me 17 years and disgusting amounts of therapy
to accept my hurricane emotions are not a form of weakness
because everything I feel is a million times more real
than the ******** we hear, see, or talk about
I know tragedy occurs everywhere to anyone
unfortunate enough to be there
but in terms of my salvation
there is an expiration date on
how long I can play in the sand before I’m choking
and gasping “i’m sorry’s” in-between scratchy breaths
I knew college would be hard,
but at least in group therapy
there was actual motivation to speak up
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
A small gust of air
and then a flash of rainbow
A dragonfly
My thoughts wander
Why are they compared
To majestic
Creatures of lore
When they are no longer
Than my shortest finger?
I shake my head
It is hard to stay focused
In this hot muggy air.
My fishing rod hangs limply
Over the unnervingly
Clear pond
My eyes drift over
To a patch of water lilies
Their petals droop
in the hot muggy air
I see their roots
And recall how easy it is
to pull one up and out
Stirring up the pond floor
In a flurry of mud
I sigh and lean back,
The old dock creaking
Taking special care
To avoid splinters
From the brittle wood
My feet-
Are the only cool part of me.
A drop of sweat
Snakes down my leg
And with a soft sound
Drops down
To join the rest of the water.
I am growing impatient.
The fish and I
Have something in common
We are lazy in the heat.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
knuckles ache
peel back the page:
Aurelius, Seneca, Epictetus
cluck the tongue
boys outside throw jabs
over a cracked
cricket bat
a father frets over
investments and client work,
simple things.
I read on
wondering how so many words
committed to tranquility
could be attributed to so many men
when women
trained stoics since the womb
would pen epics -
if only they were not plucking stones from rice.
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
The Seneca knew it as Tsyoneshíyo
which meant beautiful valley
(or so I’ve been told)
I knew it as home
which meant that the smell of cow ****
in fields adjacent
grew into something comforting;
a kind escape from urban life
I missed the other story,
the one told by undocumented
field hands and farmhouses
fallen into ruin
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Seneca told us,
with a measure of gladness,
there is no genius
without tinter of madness.
No wonder i thought
when feeling so blue,
so crazy in love i've fallen for you!
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
She called me,
the King of her heart,
a Jack Rabbit,
Seneca of a legion
The angel of mercy with wings
propelling love letters from its bow
sharp like the Red Jacket in her chest
The ace in her heart and she
died many times before
casted aside
I'm the message in a bottle
to be found ashore...
a lost psalm
And although the tare of her brittle
hope to believe
that an angel of mercy
could enlighten her of this scar,
I'll be shooting aerrows to knees
collecting feathers in my palms
Killing soft melodies
Good or bad deeds
Perceptions of a woman
are no excuses.
No mercy for a man.
(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII)
© Copyright 2014 S.T. PARISH Rebel of Eden
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
and why do you think
they shot the serial killer
in the back of the head?
you know, having experienced
a brain haemorrhage aged
21 i'd know... there's nothing
kafkaesque about it...
the slow bleeding out via a hole
in the cranium, you really
are a decapitated cockroach by
this point (living two weeks more
dying from starvation), but in
the serial killer's case also a little
bit fidgety...
oddly enough impairment of the brain
doesn't mean your heart stops
ticking... poor kurt cobain
with that shotgun wound of his...
i mean a stab to the heart is wildly anticipated,
but why would you shoot your brains
out, given that the ***** per se
is not an automaton pump, or a decipherer
of toxins (the liver)?
the brain is a puppeteer of bones.
it's the flow of the haemoglobin
that's kind, kind enough for you to be
conscious and decide your last thoughts
on the matter, auto-suggestive atheism
is what i call it... shoot the thing that's
functioning automatically - your
brain is a paradoxical dual carriage way,
it allows both science and mysticism
to reach the ultimate, reasonable parallel;
basically... don't mess with
the sponge soaking up the porridge;
asked politely, seneca slit his wrists
in a hot bath.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
"...FOR GREED ALL NATURE IS TOO LITTLE..."
first the city
ate an adjacent town then
put out a suburb
like a great paw
belched
a factory
devoured a well known
beauty spot
that was soon
forgotten as such
ate a field and
ate another field
the city's hunger
fed by greed
sent out pylons
striding across countryside
like giant
alien beings
vomiting asphalt
so that green was as if
it had
never been
its scenic magnificence
now only available
in an out of print
1930's guide book
even its memory
dying now with old Joe Hart
who managed to make it
past the hundred mark
the town he was born in
no longer to be seen
except in sepia
or Kodachrome
a picture postcard
(3 for 2)
in the bright new
museum.
***
The title is supplied by one Seneca the Younger (c. 4 BC – AD 65) that well known and renowned Roman Stoic philosopher, statesman, dramatist.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
That little girl was up here a few weeks ago,
She says with as much enthusiasm
As the hourly ad hoc ambassador
For her small, unremarkable corner can muster,
And she laughs, *I mean she played that little girl--
Zuzu, that's the name-- in the movie.
Poor thing moves pretty slow now,
Had to tromp around with a cane and all.*
I smile, not much less weary myself,
(Not quite halfway from Toledo to Boston,
Miles to go before I sleep and all that)
Having pulled off the Thruway in the hope
The village supported something
Which might be open on Christmas Eve.
She chatters on, noting she pulled this shift
As a favor to a younger counterpart,
Since her children were old enough to stay on their own,
(Not to mention old enough to refrain from bouncing out of bed
Before sunrise on Christmas morning),
Mentioning that Capra visited here once and only once,
But was somehow moved enough to center his tale here
(To be fair, the place is quaint enough,
But no more so than any number of burghs just like it)
And so the village fathers have tried to make hay
While the snow flies, as it were,
The town's main street done uo in the spitting image of the movie, Although it seems different, even mildly unsettling,
When the tableau is not in two dimensionial black-and-white
The waitress and I, all but marooned alone
In this small-town Upstate bar and grill,
Exchange pleasantries (*More coffee, Hon?
Visitin' family out in Boston?*)
And I pay at the register (cash only here,
And I make it a point to tip very merrily, indeed)
Then stroll the couple of blocks to the municipal lot,
The bridge that may have launched
A thousand angels clearly visible in the distance,
Passing by a large, gray-brick building
Which have been George Bailey's mixed blessing
Now bearing the logo of a large multi-national financial leviathan
Based in Hong Kong.
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
i.
Such is their reward, then,
This graceful bridge bisecting the lake at Bemus Point,
Not far from the spot where Bishop Vincent
Parsed the geography of the holy land,
Narrow beaches fronting a higgledy-piggledy of cottages,
Most comfortable but staid,
Though the odd McMansion grotesquerie
Has sprouted here and there,
Courtesy of some frozen-food magnate in Buffalo
Or casino second-in-command from Niagara Falls
(Those more famous waters, apparently,
Insufficient to slake ones thirst for the gaudy)
In any case, likely no more than admired from afar
By those generations of boys
Who, leaving their spot on the line at Crescent Tools
Or fields rife with bumble-striped heifers,
Never returned, drill press unmanned, corn crib unattended.
ii.
You’d been on those waters once, however,
Spending an afternoon both bewitching and idyllic
On a dock fronting a relatively humble beach bungalow
(A friend of a family friend or relative’s place,
The whos and whys lost to the manila folders of recollection)
With a girl of ten, perhaps twelve at the outside,
Beautiful in an untrammeled manner,
Or at least primarily, unconsciously so,
And you remember her having green eyes
Which utterly belied description
(Though that was all long ago,
Such reminiscence likely no more than the rheuminess of memory,
And you have not returned to that shoreline since.)
iii.
Such daydreams are perilous, on many levels,
At seventy miles per hour even more so,
And you shake yourself back to the present
While approaching yet another bridge
(Humble span noting humble beginnings)
Honoring the region’s most famous daughter and her husband,
Who did indeed have much ‘splaining to do,
As you proceed eastbound toward Salamanca
(Wholly owned by the Seneca Nation,
Those non-native descendants of Mertzes and McGillicuddys
Paying rent and fealty to the tribe each year)
And thence to the slump-shouldered hills
Which shelter the sauntering Allegheny,
The pines thick, green, inscrutable,
Beyond our everday squabbles,
Answerable to nothing but time itself.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Wandering back to Brooklyn to beat against blackened sheets,
the air-conditioning has yet to kick in and thick treacle slides down my back amorously, mimicking your touch.
Your sweet, candied teeth flash when you laugh, mouth spewing suggestions of kisses as we fold into each other on powder blue seats, with no signs of stopping until Seneca Avenue.
We could not keep catching hands over cold brew in sleepy cafés until sunset fell over Starr – I return to familiar aromas in Irish corners,
in a daze of scone and sodabread.
But every so often, I wake from a dream, with an arm gone dead; just like when you would lay there in my nook and watch me glassless as I dissected America.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
Do you remember that July night by the Seneca River?
You snuck out your window to see me & we sipped iced tea beside the water,
listening to Johnny Cash.
That was the same night you promised to play Pink Floyd on guitar for me.
You inched so close that my heart nearly stopped.
I wish things were as simple now as they were two months ago.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
On a slop I’ve put
the soul …
L. A. Seneca
He has nothing
in the left,
but a fraction of
a nut.
And has no
other reflections.
And double voice.
He’s happy!
Let
the right one burn
(like Scevola).
To have
of the land
(of Fabricius).
And dry saliva –
for your face,
Old Wife.
Before
The Light
bends him.
The original:
Той
На склон съм поставил
душата ...
Л.А.Сенека
Той няма нищо
в лявата,
освен частица
орех.
И няма
други отражения.
И двоен глас.
Щастлив е !
Нека
да изгаря дясната
(като на Сцевола).
Да има
от земята
(на Фабриций).
И суха плюнка -
за лицето ти,
Старице.
Преди
да го огъне
Светлината.
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
33rd Special 33rd || Apollo 1.1 Diana Llundain, George. New 100 times (1500). We want to start. Women's Hall 33, 33, 33, 33. London, Apollo Josh. New activities are not 10,000 (1500). You are crazy, you will not finish anything. Seneca News now - about this terrorism and terrorism. Last month? Then John, expensive Rennie, Ukrainian, Latin. Good: Greek cuisine like Asia, 10 new cars? A simple and direct question: "Who are you? I miss you, New York, New Orleans, New York. I am happy to know that I cannot. New Jersey, New Jersey, and how? Spain's programs and services New Jersey, New York, Alaska, New Jersey, USA City New city 10000, 100, 100, 100th in the city black, to build 100th food and juice, apple R&R Peña, New Jersey, all NBA basketball from protein Jersey City Gram I hope to drink the video data of "Jesus, Jesus Christ and the daughter of water.
This is the world. There are three Asian chickens here right now.
We are a manufacturer of Illinois. According to her husband,
Well then? Error name: Windows message popup.
In general when there is soccer.
Number of passengers per year.
Sharon is like a lion in the morning.
Trojan horse Sbaeno Naples and limousines. | |
Please go and tell the students. This meeting. Asia, Belgium
The strength of food as well.
Words: Special "happy" new?
Most women's dreams; Please call your wife, Abraham.
Usually, Germany lives. First of all, we have to try it. 1 Jersey,
New Jersey. Geo-Sebastian, Maine Nanab
Ruta's friend "Nonprofit Organization" to confirm the Spanish
New Jersey, New Jersey, USA. City 100500 100 event.
I was having fun. The third agreement will be shorter.
But wait ... fresh food. At the 1100 event we are male/female Agents
There are many systems. Now, New Jersey, Jersey ||
Baby was born 30 minutes ago Hayiman-x | Apollo 1.1 Diana Fenris
and other jazz. Innovation is at least 100 (1500). Preparation for 500 years: He chose a small salary. How do women keep women in the air?
Declare Jesus. I am Ali, Christopher. For this reason, It has fresh water. Flower, Flower. What does 'Asia' mean? No message.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
Remain Composed
Do not become angry
In most all situations this is sound advice
For things are often not as bad as they seem
Just let the anger pass
Thank you Seneca
For your words of wisdom
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
cheap old seneca reds
half an hour before noon, above freezing.
sun is shining on campus.
this is my little doorstep of paradise
come sit down if you like,
and we can talk about it.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
**They called him,
the King of hearts, Jack Rabbit
Seneca of a legion
The angel of mercy with wings propelling love letters from its bow
sharp like the Red Jacket in my chest
The ace in my heart and I
died many times before
casted aside
I'm the message in a bottle
to be found ashore...
a lost psalm
And although the tare of my brittle hope to believe
that an angel of mercy could enlighten me of this scar,
I'll be shooting aerrows to knees collecting feathers in my palms
Killing soft melodies
Good or bad deeds
Perceptions of a woman
are no excuses.
No mercy for a man.
©MaddHatterQueen**
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
“The street is dangerous”
the boy says to his sister
in hand at the crosswalk.
It is 2pm on the corner
and the school kids
begin to pass the cafe.
Strollers and stragglers
others bounding alongside
their tired mothers.
Some gaze upwards
stretching their arms
towards buildings and lights,
things they cannot
reach but hope
to one day grasp.
Others absorbed
into small devices
held in their hands,
things they cannot
touch but will try to
for maybe a long time.
So many come still
all at waist height
in their multicolored jackets,
Pokemon backpacks,
and Spiderman sneakers
that drag along the sidewalk.
And finally the little girl
who touches all she passes —
the iron fence, my chair,
the table — as if the world
only becomes real
under her palm.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
"Cartier Independence,"
stationed behind the bathroom mirror,
lying in the glovebox of the car;
my father always found his way to it.
Along with the stench of smoldering incense when he recited his morning prayer,
his cologne lingered.
Sometimes I put on my father's cologne, and I cloak myself in his ragged musk.
It's not me.
I'm missing the depth of the cigarettes behind the glorious mountain fronted on his usual pack of Seneca Blue 100's;
I'm missing the sharp burn of the ***** which often comes in bottles;
I'm missing the tender rigidity of his calloused and gold-decorated hands.
I still wear it, though.
I still look in the mirror, watching us, and let my fingers press down on the nozzle of the cologne.
Do I deserve his scent?
Do I want it?
Do I deserve the comparison to him--
the same face,
same eyes,
same life?
Do I want it?
After years, my mother's gift from my father stands still,
buried under samples of Eau De Toilette.
He waits for my fingers to again press down and bask in acceptance.
He knows I will;
I want to use my own cologne,
but it all seems too childish -- too meaningless.
Tonight, along with the speckles of dust resting on the nozzle and the prints of my fingers,
I will smell of him,
talk of him,
think of him,
but I will wear my own cologne:
"Cartier Independence."
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 5:39 PM UTC
From my cell window
the cloister garth
could be seen
the clock chiming
each quarter of an hour,
campana sonus
est vox Domini,
Dom Charles instructing
on apple picking
how to do and not to do,
George hoovering
the cloister
we used big brooms once
Hugh said dust
everywhere even using
sawdust and water,
she was naked
and we made love
on her sofa,
Dio parla nel lavoro
the Italian monk said
as I clipped the high hedge
by the church,
sing with silvery voice
the canticle of love
Therese said
(saint that is),
I tolled the big bell
for the Angelus
as shown by Dom James
last time,
Dieu est ici dans
votre cœur
the French monk
told me tapping his chest
as we stood in the cloister
waiting for Vespers,
she knelt down
and said take me wildly
so I did,
the impudence
of the sinner said Bernard(Saint)
displeases God
as much as the modesty
of the penitent
gives him pleasure,
I fingered the feet
of the Crucified
on the wall in my room
disturbing the dust,
hören Gott
the Austrian monk said
den er hört,
true happiness is to enjoy
the present without
anxious dependence
upon the future
said Gareth quoting Seneca
as we sat
in the refectory
before the abbot came in,
I kissed each
part of her
my lips
on her skin.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
Young little girl
still new to the world.
How could life be so cruel?
Stepping outside
from her safe ride.
Finally home from school.
Across the street
to her mother she'll meet,
but she never did make it there.
Driver couldn't see,
could've been you or me.
Sometimes life just isn't fair.
Young little girl
erased from the world.
How could life be so cruel?
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
The Catholic priest came
and gave last rites;
you were comatosed,
though I expect you heard;
they say one does,
even then, shalom, amen.
We held your hands
most of that last day,
one of us staying,
whilst the other
(went for drink or such)
went silently away,
but too long or much.
Puffed up hand and arm,
your eyes closed;
tubes and wires
coming out
here and there;
all those machines
keeping you alive,
pumping away,
softly noisy.
We never gave up
you'd survive,
watched and held
and talked until
the last eased out breath.
A lonely place,
some say, is death.
We were there,
breaking up
at your departure;
didn't want you to go;
but you fought until end,
stoic, silent, Seneca like,
our son, and these hearts,
which no time
or words or prayers
or creed( at this time)
can mend.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
these days i wake up and tune into a radio station, usually xfm, but sometimes classic fm, and i realise why i started collecting a personal collection of music, i can't listen to the gags and banter of the d.j. (whoever he / she might be), and the complete and utter lack of personal choice: added to the fact of advert interludes (which is a bit like watching turkeys being force-fed, even though you only hear the advert).
the more i do it, the more i tend to compare
it to the relentlessness of slayer's raining blood
in terms of the casual & hollow beginning
and then the thick fudge riffs of the act of writing.
so on the radio they're gearing up to christmas,
they have plenty of these soppy homelessness
adverts, they tap into the pity, like it's everyone's
fault... 'i lost everything, my house, my job,
i became a derailed train, sleeping rough...'
then you watch a programme and some homeless man
says sleeping on the street was better than
getting accommodation under a tyrannical landlord
where fungus due to moisture grows on the ceiling...
they have the same advert in switzerland...
by that company dignitas (dignity)...
and their slogan is so much better...
it's: don't bother / learn the pagan way / gain pagan courage
when an emperor like nero tells a seneca
to end the narrative.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
i’m siding with the barber of tel aviv and the butcher from jerusalem, what the hell do you mean by trying to salvage celebrity culture with the crucifix clenched into the 22nd century?! we've got dinosaurs to mind... this is no time to be a monkey!
to quote st. paul: i left behind childish things
and started to toy with serious words
like toys having
found very little meaning in them, and so
in order that i ironed and tailored a banker’s suit
with the words: i took for inspiration,
and i did forget the childish things i once cherished,
but the phoneticism after, which i kept,
dwarfed the childish things i bosomed once,
and even though i took great depth to monk myself into
kissing the first corinthian like a samaritan,
i forgot the testament of cato, and instead spoke
like nero although through the mouth of seneca;
because i did abandon all childish things,
but i changed concepts of love hope and faith
into frivolity spoken of frequently but exercised as if a memory of youth
in that rarity worth a marketplace and religion.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC