Islands Lyrics Quotes

I have my books And my poetry to protect me; I am shielded in my armor, Hiding in my room, safe within my womb. I touch no one and no one touches me. I am a rock, I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain; And an island never cries.

I’ve been . . . I just finished reading that book you told me about, Accidentally Married to the Billionaire Sheikh.” My mouth fell open in shock. “You have? So, um, did you like it?” “It’s a little predictable, and very explicit, in an oddly lyrical way. I can only imagine how disappointed female readers must be when facing the reality of—” He cleared his throat. “Well, in any case, I’m not certain Hedwardh is a good match for Swanella. And by the way, the refractory period doesn’t work like that.

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.

But every stroke of the brush, every lyric, every word whispered between human beings resulted from the pain of being alone. In our haunted heads, our imperfect bodies. Islands carved from clay and bone, our skulls like shells full of mist.

He was one of a long line of mimsy and embittered middle-class sensitives who disguised their feeble and decadent lust as something spiritual and Socratic. And why not? If it meant he had to end his days on some Mediterranean island writing lyric prose for Faber and Faber and literary criticism for the New Statesman, running through successions of houseboys and 'secretaries', getting sloshed on Fernet Branca and having to pay off the Chief of Police every six months, then so be it. Better than driving to the office in the rain.

When Ana has fallen asleep out on the island, Maya lies awake and writes lyrics about hatred. Sometimes she carries on so long that she ends up writing about love.

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.

To the bankrupt poet, to the jilted lover, to anyone who yearns to elude the doubt within and the din without, the tidal strait between Manhattan Island and her favorite suburb offers the specious illusion of easy death. Melville prepared for the plunge from the breakwater on the South Street promenade, Whitman at the railing of the outbound ferry, both men redeemed by some Darwinian impulse, maybe some epic vision, which enabled them to change leaden water into lyric wine. Hart Crane rejected the limpid estuary for the brackish swirl of the Caribbean Sea. In each generation, from Washington Irving’s to Truman Capote’s, countless young men of promise and talent have examined the rippling foam between the nation’s literary furnace and her literary playground, questioning whether the reams of manuscript in their Brooklyn lofts will earn them garlands in Manhattan’s salons and ballrooms, wavering between the workroom and the water. And the city had done everything in its power to assist these men, to ease their affliction and to steer them toward the most judicious of decisions. It has built them a bridge.

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.

As of old Phoenician men, to the Tin Isles sailing Straight against the sunset and the edges of the earth, Chaunted loud above the storm and the strange sea's wailing, Legends of their people and the land that gave them birth- Sang aloud to Baal-Peor, sang unto the horned maiden, Sang how they should come again with the Brethon treasure laden, Sang of all the pride and glory of their hardy enterprise, How they found the outer islands, where the unknown stars arise; And the rowers down below, rowing hard as they could row, Toiling at the stroke and feather through the wet and weary weather, Even they forgot their burden in the measure of a song, And the merchants and the masters and the bondsmen all together, Dreaming of the wondrous islands, brought the gallant ship along; So in mighty deeps alone on the chainless breezes blown In my coracle of verses I will sing of lands unknown, Flying from the scarlet city where a Lord that knows no pity, Mocks the broken people praying round his iron throne, -Sing about the Hidden Country fresh and full of quiet green. Sailing over seas uncharted to a port that none has seen.

We got into the car. It was my first time. The car was spotless and I liked its smell, the smell of old leather and old steel. When, two minutes later, we reached my building, I began to feel sorry for him but didn't know what to say or how to help. I was too shy to ask him to open up and tell me about the cloud that had cast such a gloomy shadow over him. Instead I suggested something so flatfooted that I'm surprised it did not irritate him even more than he was already. I told him to head home and sleep the whole thing off, as if sleep could free a castaway from his island. No, he needed to work, he replied. Besides, her was looking forward to driving at night. He loved cruising Boston by night. He loved jazz, old jazz, Gene Ammons — especially played en sardine, with the volume really low — as the tenor sax invariably blocked all bad feelings and made him think of romance and of sultry summer nights where a woman dances cheek to cheek with you to the saxophone's prolonged lyrical strains that made you want love even after you'd stopped trusting love exists on this planet.

The rhyme that I'm stylin, smooth as a violin but Rough enough to break New York from Long Island

The rhyme that I'm stylin, smooth as a violin but rough enough to break New York from Long Island.

I have noticed that a lot of literary critics are bothered by the mixing of genres; indeed, some of them are so easily offended in this regard that they experience distress when faced with trifles like the use in a passage of fiction of concepts of theory (as if there were some fundamental difference between stories of people, animals, plants and objects on the one hand and stories of concepts on the other). What a torture it would be for them to read the island’s Book, in which it is common for a lyrical passage to give way to several pages of description related in chemical formulae!

The reason we remember song lyrics more easily than poetry is that music is stored in the cleaner, mathematical side of our brains. Poetry is shoveled into the cluttered, creative side.

Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land. Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: “Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same”. Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: “Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.

Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land, Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.'" Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: "I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.

Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land, Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.'" Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: "I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.

The language, in fact, was Danish. After a moment, Nilsson recognized the lyrics, Jacobsen’s Songs of Gurre, and Schönberg’s melodies for them. The call of King Valdemar’s men, raised from their coffins to follow him on the spectral ride that he was condemned to lead, snarled forth. “Be greeted, King, here by Gurre Lake! Across the island our hunt we take, From stringless bow let the arrow fly That we have aimed with a sightless eye. We chase and strike at the shadow hart, And dew like blood from the wound will start. Night raven swinging And darkly winging, And leafage foaming where hoofs are ringing, So shall we hunt ev’ry night, they say, Until that hunt on the Judgment Day. Holla, horse, and holla, hound, Stop awhile upon this ground! Here’s the castle which erstwhile was. Feed your horses on thistledown; Man may eat of his own renown.” She started to go on with the next stanza, Valdemar’s cry to his lost darling; but she faltered and went directly to his men’s words as dawn breaks over them. “The cock lifts up his head to crow, Has the day within him, And morning dew is running red With rust, from off our swords. Past is the moment! Graves are calling with open mouths, And earth sucks down ev’ry light-shy horror. Sink ye, sink ye! Strong and radiant, life comes forth With deeds and hammering pulses. And we are death folk, Sorrow and death folk, Anguish and death folk. To graves! To graves! To dream-bewildered sleep— Oh, could we but rest peaceful!

Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land. Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.'" Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: "I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.

You're nothing but a bad habit ... just a silly, silly rabbit Karma heard you say, 'trap it' Bleeding out, you'd better wrap it Cause you get what you deserve in this life... I'm done being a storm chaser She's got a tan, so you freebase her Clocked you good, a real time waster Don't look back my way to replace her

sing only when you're strong to others only all night long and close your mouth and eyes otherwise

It's as if the light changes color when Maraia and Madam Maya are together. I heard them singing this afternoon. Maraia's high-pitched voice, and Madam Maya's with deeper and looser tones. They sat on the floor with two brown and green pieces of fabric between them, which they had folded into the shape of small animals with bodies and heads. "We sing for the turtles," Maraia said. She must have told Madam Maya about the princesses Tinaicaboga and Raudalice, who were transformed into turtles when they were kidnapped by fishermen from a village on Kadavu. They found a way to escape, but they had to go on living as sea turtles in the bay off the island. Maraia knew the song as well, the one the women in the princesses' village sing to them from the cliffs on the beach. The women of Namuana are dressed for grief They carry their holy clubs, decorated in strange patterns Raudalice, come up and show yourself to us! Tinaicaboga, come up and show yourself to us! When the women sing, the giant turtles come up to the surface and listen.