In folk music, I've always been fond of the fragment. The song that has one verse. And you don't know anything about the characters, you don't know what they're doing, but they're doing something important. I love that. I'm really a sucker for that kind of song.
As for literature It gives no man a sinecure. And no one knows, at sight, a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it.
This verse gets me through each day, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger! I am not afraid of anything because the lord is my shepherd!
I'm an outlaw, not a philosopher, but I know this much: there's meaning in everything, all things are connected, and a good champagne is a drink.' Bernard began to sing again. Timidly, Leigh-Cheri joined in. Between verses, they opened another bottle. The popping of its cork echoed throughout the great stone chamber. Of the three billion people on earth, only Bernard and Leigh-Cheri heard the popping of the cork and its echoes. Only Bernard and Leigh-Cheri passed out under the tablecloth.
Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.
Trust that The Uni-verse knows your bills, knows you need to eat and knows your heart much better than even you do, so keep facing your fears and limiting beliefs daily.
Flexibility, openness and softness are consorting with life. When you are rigid and you know the answer and don't listen to other people's point of view, you are consorting with death. Everything that is old and close to death is brittle and breaks apart including our thinking. So always stay flexible and soft and listen to others with caring. And truthfully, all of the verses hit me - especially when you think about them for days, and then write on them.
There were a few verses that I wrote literally on the spot. But the concept was there. It's about being in your own world musically and waking up in the morning and walking outside and being consumed by everything around you. Just being aware of the good things in art and music and life. It's also about how the world is at a boiling point, in a way.
I was probably 16.I played - I tried to play these songs that I had written. And, this was a common theme when I was younger: I would write a song about somebody, and they would come to my show. I wouldn't be able to play the whole thing, because, there would be some giant, loaded secret coming up in like, the third verse, or something.
A few years back, even the most commercial pop could have some artistic value. Someone who liked underground music could appreciate Justin Timberlake, too. Now, I just don't get it. Production values are boring; songwriting has gotten worse - the choruses on a lot of popular hip-hop songs are especially bad. The rappers hit their flow in the verses, then when they try to sing, it's a mess. And just like the airbrush tool in Photoshop, Autotune is way overused. It's not a toy!
Modernism in other arts brought extreme difficulty. In poetry, the characteristic difficulty imported under the name of modernism was obscurity. But obscurity could just as easily be a quality of metrical as of free verse.
You even called me stupid in your verse, and I'm almost agreeing, for where stupidity is involved, you are quite an expert, friend.
The only band I was really over-into was Cream. And the only thing I really liked about them was their live stuff 'cause they played two verses, then go off and jam for 20 minutes, come back and do a chorus and end. And I love the live jam stuff, the improvisation.
All which is not prose is verse; and all which is not verse is prose.
To write regular verses destroys an infinite number of fine possibilities, but at the same time it suggests a multitude of distant and totally unexpected thoughts.
I seldom deal in symbolisms; if there be hidden meanings in my verse, they are there without my knowledge.
To this generation I would say: Memorize some bit of verse of truth or beauty.
Let's be off before he gets his great horsey teeth into my poor lines of verse!
I came to Paul at quite an early age, having already studied Plato and Aristotle; and I found Paul easily their intellectual equal, though he was handling these amazing questions about God, Jesus, Israel, faith and so on. He continues to be an amazingly stimulating thinker, especially when we try to understand the flow of thought in letter after letter rather than just combing him for a few verses on 'our favourite topics', which, sadly, some Christian teachers do just as some journalists and broadcasters do!
I've always been the high harmony singer. It's never my job to know the verses! But I know the chorus of every song ever made.
I like to quote the verse, "I can do all things through Him who gives me strength." I kind of envision me skiing and God is kind of like an eagle right next to me screeching in my ear that everything is going to be all good. I just try my best and that's all I can ask for.
I went to visit a friend of mine, a writer name Troy Seal, a songwriting fool. He's had a ton of hits. He said, "I've got a thing I'm stuck on." I can hear the wind a blowin' - he already had that. You and me lord, we had it all. He only had that first verse. For some reason he was stuck. But that's how that came about.
There is something beautiful about a billion stars held steady by a God who knows what He is doing. (They hang there, the stars, like notes on a page of music, free-form verse, silent mysteries swirling in the blue like jazz.) And as I lay there, it occurred to me that God is up there somewhere.
Then I speak to her in a language she has never heard, I speak to her in Spanish, in the tongue of the long, crepuscular verses of Díaz Casanueva; in that language in which Joaquín Edwards preaches nationalism. My discourse is profound; I speak with eloquence and seduction; my words, more than from me, issue from the warm nights, from the many solitary nights on the Red Sea, and when the tiny dancer puts her arm around my neck, I understand that she understands. Magnificent language!
Time ain’t nothing, but time. It’s a verse with no rhyme, And it all come down to you. «El tiempo solo es tiempo. Es un verso sin rima, y todo depende de ti.»
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