That's What I Call Love - Crowded House
Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh - Say Hi
Here Within Ourselves, Ourselves - Oh Ye Denver Birds
Out The Airlock - Paul Dempsey
What's The Matter With You - Split Enz
Saturday Night Succubi - The Black Knights
Closer - Death To The Strange
Loose Tongue -Neil Finn
Down On The Corner - Neil Finn
Woman On The Screen - Boris
Hounds - Cabins
Stars - xx
The Hope Is Rising - Bad Wolf
Mike - The Marvels
Soldiers - Detroit Social Club
To A Mothered Girl
Tr. William Falconer Murison
You shun me, Chloe. Like a fawn
That seeks his timorous dam forlorn
In pathless wild,
Needlessly nervous when the breeze
Rustles the mountain forest trees,
You shun me, child.
Is it the coming of the Spring
Hath set the leaves aquivering
On all the trees?
Is it the parting of the brambles
By the green lizards There he trembles,
His heart, his knees.
Why, Chloe, I’m no savage breast
Bent on your blood and obnes to fear;
Be not so coy;
‘Tis time for you to quit your mother,
Ay, now, ‘tis time to seek another
A husband Chloe.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
Archaic Torso of Apollo
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.