The Moving Finger Writes

Shipbuilder
30th October 2009, 20:37
And having writ, moves on!
Bob

Santos
30th October 2009, 20:44
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, 1859:


Whatever one does in one's life is one's own responsibility and cannot be changed.

Chris

benjidog
30th October 2009, 20:46
The moving finger having writ,
Moves on to write another bit.

E. Throbes

AncientBrit
30th October 2009, 20:47
(Applause) and the rest of it goes........................
If you trying to impress us with quotes from The Rubyat by Omar Khyam, you're gonna have to do better than one line.[=P]
What on earth provoked that uncalled for attack of intellectualocity?

Shipbuilder
30th October 2009, 20:52
Not trying to impress you with anything. Just heard it somewhere, didn't even know where it came from, but it seemed applicable at the time!.
Bob

AncientBrit
30th October 2009, 20:57
Somehow for some odd reason, that reminds me of when we as kids, used to run into Marks and Spencers and shout out WOOLWORTHS.(==D)

Santos
30th October 2009, 20:58
Isnt there supposed to be a much bejewelled copy of The Rubyat of Omar Khyam somewhere in the wreck of the Titanic --- sorry Brian its that ship again (Jester)

Chris.

ROBERT HENDERSON
30th October 2009, 21:01
Isnt there supposed to be a much bejewelled copy of The Rubyat of Omar Khyam somewhere in the wreck of the Titanic --- sorry Brian its that ship again (Jester)

Chris.

You are quite correct Chris, it got jammed in the sluice valve. (Jester) (Jester)

Regards Robert

Billieboy
30th October 2009, 21:10
This sounds very much like a philosophical discussion on the Bridge during a westerly passage of the Great Australian Bight, just after leaving Geelong for the Gulf for the second time!

Smart bloke old Omar, bit too heavy for the boiler room though!

Santos
30th October 2009, 21:17
Smart bloke old Omar, bit too heavy for the boiler room though!

I dont know, I thought he was very good in Dr Zhivago (POP)

Chris

Sister Eleff
30th October 2009, 21:43
I dont know, I thought he was very good in Dr Zhivago (POP)

Chris

(Applause) (Applause)

AncientBrit
30th October 2009, 23:13
Quite the marksman too,the shot that knocked off the trespasser at the water-hole in "Orrence" was incredible. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but Lee Enfield 303, No way!

macrae
30th October 2009, 23:38
The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on,


Nor all your piety or wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

Nor all your tears wash out a word of it


And this inverted bowl we call the sky,

Where under men live and die

Lift not your hands to it for help

For it as impotent is as YOU or I

benjidog
30th October 2009, 23:43
Sorry about my parody but I couldn't resist it. I actually have two copies of the Rubaiyat - one very old and a more recent illustrated one.

From present day Iraq of course.

JoK
30th October 2009, 23:52
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, 1859:

Chris

I didn't know they had emails back then....
Once they are sent, they are sent.

AncientBrit
31st October 2009, 02:06
The email typist clicks and having clicked, its gone.

dom
31st October 2009, 02:15
the broken keyboard will not type
nor either will it send

AncientBrit
31st October 2009, 02:25
the broken keyboard will not type
nor either will it send

Thus you may rest easy in the knowledge that your emails will not offend.(Jester)

JoK
31st October 2009, 02:34
Thus you may rest easy in the knowledge that your emails will not offend.(Jester)

God, I only wish mine was broken at times...there is nothing worse then a sincere email that is misread as an insult or condemntion and using a Blackberry is worse, because you tend to make shorter emails because the keyboard is small. Does Omar say anything about theat?

spongebob
31st October 2009, 03:33
Those tomes of yesteryear were writ by chisel on stone the speed of which allowed sage wisdom to be considered before committal to print.
Not at all like we flash Harry's who flick a quick one on the thread oft with little thought and often ruing the haste.
To ponder is a virtue.

Bob

billyboy
31st October 2009, 06:06
To Err is Human...But to really mess things up you need a computer

Billieboy
31st October 2009, 07:46
the broken keyboard will not type
nor either will it send

It drives the e-mail typist
Quite around the bend.

spongebob
31st October 2009, 08:49
Many a slip twixt between cup and lip
as the aged mind lets the odd one slip
into fields of wisdom we think is suffice
but in all reality we are talking bolice.

With apologies

Bob

NoMoss
31st October 2009, 09:30
I used to have a copy of the Rubiat but as usual didn't get it back after lending to some one.
The bit I used to like when I was young and romantically inclined was the bit about 'a glass of wine and thou' - what was the full quote?
Nowadays I will settle for the glass of wine.

dom
31st October 2009, 13:00
XII

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
FitzGerald's first edition (1859)
A book, a woman, and a flask of wine:
The three make heaven for me; it may be thine
Is some sour place of singing cold and bare —
But then, I never said thy heaven was mine.
As translated by Richard Le Gallienne (1897)

eldersuk
31st October 2009, 22:35
Come fill the cup, and in the fire of spring,
The winter garment of repentance fling:
The bird of time has but a little way to fly,
and Lo! the bird is on the wing.

dom
1st November 2009, 01:53
Come fill the cup, and in the fire of spring,
The winter garment of repentance fling:
The bird of time has but a little way to fly,
and Lo! the bird is on the wing.

but thats absurd the wing is on the bird

andysk
8th November 2009, 09:49
but thats absurd the wing is on the bird

Wasn't that Jimmy 'Schnozzle' Durrante :

''But dats obsoid, da wing is on de boid''

(or something ?)

dom
8th November 2009, 10:12
Wasn't that Jimmy 'Schnozzle' Durrante :

''But dats obsoid, da wing is on de boid''

(or something ?)

somewhere along the lines of
the spring is here
the grass is riss
i wonder where the birdie is
the bird is on the wing
"but dats obsoid
da wing is on de boid

in the best brooklyn or bronx accent

Billieboy
8th November 2009, 14:18
somewhere along the lines of
the spring is here
the grass is riss
i wonder where the birdie is
the bird is on the wing
"but dats obsoid
da wing is on de boid

in the best brooklyn or bronx accent

One for the Beckhams?

spongebob
9th November 2009, 06:17
While poetry so readily springs from our savage breasts that normally seek to rent asunder the hot thread of the day I would like to quote this poem by William Longfellow, America’s favorite poet of the 19th century, and which typifies the imagined emotions of a slave in the Americas as he dreams his thoughts of home far away.
It could also well apply to a distressed Seaman abandoned on a foreign shore and far from his home port or to a political refugee dreaming of that final leg of his escape across the channel to Britain’s friendly shores!

The Slave’s Dream

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!--
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!

Bob

NoMoss
9th November 2009, 07:59
XII

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
FitzGerald's first edition (1859)
A book, a woman, and a flask of wine:
The three make heaven for me; it may be thine
Is some sour place of singing cold and bare —
But then, I never said thy heaven was mine.
As translated by Richard Le Gallienne (1897)

Thanks for that. I prefer the first one.

This thread is a breath of fresh air compared to some some of the more contentious ones.