Kenneally: what’s the problem? Rats only smell when they’re dead and whose fault will that be?

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“Rats and roaches live by competition under the laws of supply and demand; it is the privilege of human beings to live under the laws of justice and mercy.”

Wendell Berry

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きゅうそねこをかむ 

(kyuuso neko o kamu)
a cornered rat will bite the cat

Left with no choice, even a relatively weak person/animal will fight back.

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‘I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.’

A. E. Housman

 

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I Like Rats

I never saw a rat
Sorry for itself.
I never saw two rats
Consoling one another for being rats.

Rats live good full rat-lives with other rats.
Rat mind and rat heart plunge them into rat sex
with other impassioned rats.
People say they are ugly and dirty and cause disease.
I say people cause disease.
I never caught a cold or syphilis or gonorrhea  or
manic depression from a rat.

Kenneth Koch

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“Accept that some days you are the pigeon, and some days you are the statue. Dilbert

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Pigeon

(Carl Sandburg)

The Flutter of blue pigeon’s wings
Under a river bridge
Hunting a clean dry arch,
A corner for a sleep–
This flutters here in a woman’s hand.

A singing sleep cry,
A drunken poignant two lines of song,
Somebody looking clean into yesterday
And remembering, or looking clean into
To-morrow, and reading–
This sings here as a woman’s sleep cry sings.

Pigeon friend of mine,
Fly on, sing on.

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Lepszy wróbel w garsci niz golab na dachu
It’s better to have a sparrow in your hand, than a pigeon on the roof.

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  • Rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men.
    – Douglas Bader

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MANY A WORD IS SPOKEN IN ANGER

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Two monks were arguing about the temple flag waving in the wind. One said, “The flag moves.” The other said, “The wind moves.” They argued back and forth but could not agree. Hui-neng, the sixth Patriarch, said: “Gentlemen! It is not the flag that moves. It is not the wind that moves. It is your mind that moves.” The two monks were struck with awe.

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The Argument

It is windy out there. Back

home an argument continues.
We could be swimming, eating,
going for a walk, pointing
at a bird. Taking batteries
to the emergency. How many
birds do I have? Have I had?
The hydra in the sunshine.
I could be sitting in a
window composing the postal
service on an invisible grid
of trumpets. My skull could be
whizzing through weeks worth of
nests. I could be a fish,
on a train.

http://redroomcompany.org/poem/sam-langer/argument/

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“A clever wife often sleeps with a stupid husband.”
-Chinese 

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All blame is a waste of time. No matter how much fault you find with another, and regardless of how much you blame him, it will not change you. The only thing blame does is to keep the focus off you when you are looking for external reasons to explain your unhappiness or frustration. You may succeed in making another feel guilty about something by blaming him, but you won’t succeed in changing whatever it is about you that is making you unhappy.”

Wayne Dyer 

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He is most free from danger, who, even when safe, is on his guard. Publilius Syrus

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Every stone has been turned, and every stone has been beaten into agreement that it is a stone, and every stone has vowed silence, every stone has agreed roundness or sharpness will be its predictable gift. Handle this stone, then, every day, and offer its dullness to the sky, sense its vigilance. This is the only way.

http://www.hotsdots.com/poetry/author/mduwell/

Hell, There ain’t no notes on a banjo. You just play it.

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The Song of the Banjo

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

1894

You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile—
   You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp—
You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile,
   And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
I travel with the cooking-pots and pails—
   I’m sandwiched ’tween the coffee and the pork—
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
   You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!
       With my ‘Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!’
          [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!]
       So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop;
          So I play ’em up to water and to bed.
In the silence of the camp before the fight,
   When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight,
   Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
   Of the Patently Impossible and Vain—
And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred,
   Give me time to change my leg and go again.
       With my ‘Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!’
          In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled.
       There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,
          I—the war-drum of the White Man round the world!
By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
   Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,—
’Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,
   In the silence of the herder’s hut alone—
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
   Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess—
I am Memory and Torment—I am Town!
   I am all that ever went with evening dress!
       With my ‘Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!’
          [So the lights—the London Lights—grow near and plain!]
       So I rowel ’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh
          Till I bring my broken rankers home again.
In desire of many marvels over sea,
   Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
   Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.
He is blooded to the open and the sky,
   He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
   Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.
       With my ‘Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!’
          [Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
       Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
          For it’s ‘Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!’
Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear—
   Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel—
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer—
   Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
   Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
Hear me lead my reckless children from below
   Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine!
       With my ‘Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!’
          [Oh, the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
       And we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
          Through the cañons to the waters of the West!
And the tunes that mean so much to you alone—
   Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose—
Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan—
   I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun—
   And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done.
   To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.
       With my ‘Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!’
          Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past,
       Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin
          And—the heavier repentance at the last!
Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof—
   I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpet snare the foeman to the proof—
   I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake
   When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
   Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?
       With my ‘Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!’
          [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]
       But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line
          And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die!
The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre—
   [Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!]
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,
   Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!
By the wisdom of the centuries I speak—
   To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth—
I, the joy of life unquestioned—I, the Greek—
   I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth!
       With my ‘Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!’
          [What d’ye lack, my noble masters! What d’ye lack?]
       So I draw the world together link by link:
          Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened. Thomas Hardy

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MY APHRODISIAC IS A POET

Tess Driver

Climb inside, comfort me
with lush imaginings as I
walk the tightrope of your lines.

I caress the lips of your knowing.
Read to me poet, soothe my imaginings,
massage my longing with thoughts
that cling to every pore.

I shiver at your rhyme;
it is dark outside, poet,
fill me with light and laughter
so the moon grows full and stars
caress the nippled dawn.

Poet, lust after me
with your singing verse:
wash the sharp word edges,
drown me in the flesh of your verse.

http://www.australianpoetry.org/2013/03/26/south-australia/

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“Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness.”
― Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd

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TESS DRIVER

Party Dress

Fragile as the truth
it hangs on a crocheted hook
covered in white blossom,
a gossamer memory.

All that time,
season to season
green embroidered petals
now pale and frayed,
danced on cream silk,
styled with tucks for secrets.

So slim, two large hands
could fit around the waist.
Kisses flutter moth-like
from the neck-line
once softly curved
over quivering breasts.

A million silken threads
to create a dream.
Touch it gently
or it will unravel
in your hands.

From Blue: Friendly Street No. 27

http://friendlystreetpoets.org.au/?page_id=301

 

 

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May you never lie, steal, cheat or drink. But if you must lie, lie in each other’s arms. If you must steal, steal kisses. If you must cheat, cheat death. And if you must drink, drink with us, your friends.

 

 

The World’s News (Sydney, NSW : 1901 – 1955), Saturday 23 August 1952,

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“Stealing, of course, is a crime, and a very impolite thing to do. But like most impolite things, it is excusable under certain circumstances. Stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. But if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it would be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it.”

― Lemony Snicket, The Wide Window

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Angimituiria na umirite ndangimiona rikii

He who seeks his goat with the man who ate it, is certain not to find it.

Do not look for stolen goods in the robber’s house

http://www.misterseed.com/link%20pages/PROVERBS2.htm

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I’ve no spade to follow men like them’ Seamus Heaney

 

http://www.australianpoetry.org/2013/10/09/so-there-will-now-be-silence-when-we-call-seamus-heaneys-name/
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“Call a jack a jack. Call a spade a spade. But always call a whore a lady. Their lives are hard enough, and it never hurts to be polite.”

― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

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MAKING A GARDEN

‘Tis time to go with spade and hoe

Into the yard to toil.

The shattered sash and other trash

Help fertilise the soil.

The broken glass which we amass

Ere springtime makes its bow

Will come in fine, as I opine.

For good top dressing now.

1912 ‘MAKING A GARDEN.’, Camperdown Chronicle (Vic. : 1877 – 1954), 13 August, p. 5 Supplement: Unknown, viewed 25 February, 2014, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article26122726

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空手把鉏頭         Empty-handed I go and yet the spade is in my hands;

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Proverbs 23:20-21 ESV : Be not among drunkards or among gluttonous eaters of meat, for the drunkard and the glutton will come to poverty, and slumber will clothe them with rags.

 

 

 

Woroni (Canberra, ACT : 1950 – 2007), Thursday 15 June 1967

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“When we drink, we get drunk.
When we get drunk, we fall asleep.
When we fall asleep, we commit no sin.
When we commit no sin, we go to heaven.
So, let’s all get drunk, and go to heaven!”
— Irish Toast

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“Heaven! that’s another tale. Mightn’t let me chew there. Gotta have me a pot of ale; would I like the brew there?

Robert Service,Grandad

http://brookstonbeerbulletin.com/beer-quotations/

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Envy has no rest. Middle Eastern

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Traverse yon spacious burial ground,
Many are sleeping soundly there,
Who pass’d with mourners standing around,
Kindred, and friends, and children fair;
Did he envy such ending? ’twere hard to say;
Had he cause to envy such ending? no;
Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay,
When it once has gone where we all must go?

ADAM LINDSAY GORDON

GONE.

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EARLY CLOSING.

Envy not thou the oppressor, and choose none of his ways.

O see the poor victim of trade ever toiling

At the wearisome counter throughout the long day:

From labour unceasing tired nature, recoiling,

Seeks rest and refreshment to lighten their way.

We talk of the slaveholders’ deeds of oppression,

Of the negro enslaved in a far distant land;

For his wrongs and his woes we still make intercession,

But forget the sad drudgery nearer at hand.

We boast that all fetters are riven asunder;

We call our fair Island the ” Land of theFree;”

But see the hard bondage of thousands and wonder

That still in Australia such evils can be!

In vain does bright Summer unfold her gay treasure

Of buds and of blossoms, to gladden the sight;

To them is forbidden each innocent pleasure,

While chained to a counter from morning till night.

O ye, the fair leaders of folly and fashion,

Give a thought to the slaves by your selfishness bound;

And listen at length to the voice of compassion

Which pleads for your overtasked brethren around.

To lighten their burdens, kind friends are proposing

To spare a few hours at the close of the week;

And their shops in the evening at ‘

” Early hours closing”

Will afford to the weary the rest which they seek.

A.W.Queanbeyan, 21st July, 1863.

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人在橋上過 Passing over a bridge, I see 橋流水不流 The bridge flow, but not the water.

 

 

For here, between this world and the next

is a place where each beloved creature finds rest

On this golden land they wait and they play

till the Rainbow Bridge they cross over one day

http://www.dolforums.com.au/topic/246495-rainbow-bridge-poem/

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Japanese poem by Lady Koshikibu from Ogura 100 poems (early 13th century) 大江山 いく野の道の 遠ければ まだふみもみず 天の橋立 “By Oe Mountain / The road to Ikuno is far away, / And neither have I beheld / Nor crossed its bridge of heaven. .” (calligraphy by yopiko)