Quotes About Ode To Gumbo
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Like God
Gumbo is hard
to get right
& I don't bother
asking for it outside
my mother's house.
Like life, there's no one
way to do it,
& a hundred ways,
from here to Sunday,
to get it dead wrong. ~ Kevin Young
Ode to Drowing"
If rain signals
the lover's return
then I am lost
in the desert
burning
like the brain fever bird
looking for images of you
through mesquite
and teak
Because there's no sign
of you
or what I know
to be as you
only clouds adrift
in a vanquished sky
like vines
of throbbing arms
and mouths
drinking at the shore
intoxicated
with the night ~ Tishani Doshi
Her religious poetry was surprisingly slender, and as I was eager to know more about her religion, I asked her about this aspect of her poetry. She replied with these lines from Keats' Ode to a Grecian Urn: 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'
that is all Ye know on eath, and all ye need to know'. Do not ask me to immortalise the great Mystery of Life. I am just a humble worker. For beauty, look to the Pslams, to Isaiah, to St. John of the Cross. How could my poor pen scan such verse? For truth, look to the Gospels
four short accounts of God made Man. There is nothing more to say. ~ Jennifer Worth
Creativity is an ode to life. It is not a form of entertainment. It is a form of joy. ~ Wynn Bullock
We stepped to the window. Off to one side there was thunder, and the splendid rain was trickling down upon the land; the most refreshing fragrance rose up to us from the rich abundance of the warm atmosphere. She stood leaning on her elbows, with her gaze searching the countryside; she looked up to heaven and at me; I saw her eyes fill with tears, and she laid her hand on mine, saying, "Klopstock!" I recalled at once the glorious ode she had in mind, and became immersed in the stream of emotions which she had poured over me by uttering this symbolic name. I could not bear it, I bent down over hand and kissed it amid tears of the utmost rapture. And looked into her eyes again - noble poet! Would that you had seen your apotheosis in that gaze, and would that your name, so often profaned, would never reach my ears from any other lips. ~ Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Nobody wants somebody who wants them for what they have or the position their in- you want somebody who wants you for you. In case it all goes crazy and it all turns to dust. I want somebody who loves me in the welfare line, eating gumbo, eating fish,black eyed peas and rice. I want somebody that loves me. God wants you to love him, not his cars, not his house, not his blessing- love him. ~ T.D. Jakes
The white in her hair verged on silver-plate. The style was some cosmetologist's ode to meringue. ~ Jonathan Kellerman
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness, - -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. ~ John Keats
One word of praise from a woman is dearer to me than a whole ode from a man . ~ Maxim Gorky
At that time, I well remember whatever could excite - certain accidents of the weather, for instance, were almost dreaded by me, because they woke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I could not satisfy. One night a thunder-storm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, and creeping outside the basement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was wild, it was pitch dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the night-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man - too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts. ~ Charlotte Bronte
Tinted Distances is a tender meditation that reveals a careful eye and steady devotion to elegy and ode. ~ Dorianne Laux
Finally, Groucho stopped working on his roast beef, put down his fork, leaned over to her and said, "Look, will you stop calling him 'Gumbo'? Gumbo's a type of soup. My brother's name is 'Gummo!'" In ~ Steve Stoliar
I cook everything from Italian to Cajun food. I have now mastered the roux for gumbo. I love cooking. ~ Yolanda Adams
Fine, but you should at least have to write an epic poem in my honor. Here, I'll help you. "Ode to Keefe Sencen, that brave lovable nut. He may not have teal eyes, but he has a really cute,"
"KEEFE"! ~ Shannon Messenger
In 1972, I recorded Gumbo, an album that was both a tribute to and my interpretation of the music I had grown up with in New Orleans in the 1940s and 1950s. I tried to keep a lot of the little changes that were characteristic of New Orleans, while working my own funknology on piano and guitar. ~ Dr. John
My obsession with accumulation, which at times has taken on the whisper of a psychic illness - as anyone who has experienced the ode to the Collyer brothers that is my 'Vogue' office will concur - began in infancy. ~ Hamish Bowles
You have already achieved the English-Language poet's most important goal: you can read, Write and speak English well enough to understand this sentence. ~ Stephen Fry
Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe.
The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled "My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles" when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.
The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison. ~ Douglas Adams
ODE TO A HAGGIS
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
You pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o'need
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead
His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!
Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive
Bethankit hums
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms an' heads will sned,Robert Burns
To all my soap fans out there, my horror fanatics, comedy lovers, I will tell you this: 'Death Valley' is an action-packed drama, comedic, horror TV series that has a non-stop adventure in each episode. It's like a huge pot of Texas gumbo. If you like all four of those genres, then you'll love this show. ~ Texas Battle
Where ya goin'?" Coleen asked. "I'm taking Lena to dinner, then we're going dancing." Coleen threw a hand on her hip. "You don't smell the gumbo that's been cooking all day? It's your favorite. I stuffed every aquatic creature I could find into that pot. Claws and legs are hanging out all over the place." "I'll have some tomorrow," Jorie said as she caught one of the screws that dropped from the blade. "I made pie, damn it. Pecan, just because I know you love it. Bring that woman here for dinner and save yourself a buck or two." "Oh, no," Jorie said with a laugh. "I really like her. It's too soon to expose her to an Andolini dinner. ~ Robin Alexander
There is indeed a poetical attitude to be adopted towards all things, but all things are not fit subjects for poetry. Into the secure and sacred house of Beauty the true artist will admit nothing that is harsh or disturbing, nothing that gives pain, nothing that is debatable, nothing about which men argue. He can steep himself, if he wishes, in the discussion of all the social problems of his day, poor-laws and local taxation, free trade and bimetallic currency, and the like; but when he writes on these subjects it will be, as Milton nobly expressed it, with his left hand, in prose and not in verse, in a pamphlet and not in a lyric. This exquisite spirit of artistic choice was not in Byron: Wordsworth had it not. In the work of both these men there is much that we have to reject, much that does not give us that sense of calm and perfect repose which should be the effect of all fine, imaginative work. But in Keats it seemed to have been incarnate, and in his lovely ODE ON A GRECIAN URN it found its most secure and faultless expression; in the pageant of the EARTHLY PARADISE and the knights and ladies of Burne-Jones it is the one dominant note. It is to no avail that the Muse of Poetry be called, even by such a clarion note as Whitman's, to migrate from Greece and Ionia and to placard REMOVED and TO LET on the rocks of the snowy Parnassus. Calliope's call is not yet closed, nor are the epics of Asia ended; the Sphinx is not yet silent, nor the fountain of Castaly dry. For art i ~ Oscar Wilde
Days, when the ball of our vision
Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun;
When the grasp on the bow was decision,
And arrow and hand and eye were one;
When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer,
Came heaving for rapture ahead!-
Invoke then, they dwindle, they glimmer
As lights over mounds of the dead.
-Ode to Youth and Memory ~ George Meredith
Hey, the only person I almost shot was Owen," Maddie said, giving her boyfriend a huge smile. "And if that does end up happening, he'll forgive me."
Owen grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. "You'd nurse me back to health?"
"I'd make you alligator gumbo out of the fucking lizard that tried to take a bite of you," she said. ~ Erin Nicholas
I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet. ~ Henry Austin Dobson
Ode to an Expiring Frog
Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing!
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log,
Expiring frog!
Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
With a dog,
Expiring frog? ~ Charles Dickens
[On writing her first poem at age eight:] An ode to my dead mother and father, who were both alive and pretty pissed off. ~ Judith Viorst
Oh, gods - bacon! I promised myself that once I achieved immortality again, I would assemble the Nine Muses and together we would create an ode, a hymnal to the power of bacon, which would move the heavens to tears and cause rapture across the universe.
Bacon is good.
Yes - that may be the title of the song: Bacon Is Good. ~ Rick Riordan
Poet's Ode to his Wastepaper Basket
I love the way you sit in the corner,
patient and gracious like a lover,
ready to catch my every crumpled vanity. ~ Beryl Dov
The gutted ruins of the Amazing Kingdom were razed, and the land was replanted with native trees, including buttonwoods, pigeon plums, torchwoods, brittle palms, tamarinds, gumbo-limbos and mangroves. This restoration was accomplished in spite of rigid opposition from the Monroe County Commission, which had hoped to use the property as a public dump. ~ Carl Hiaasen
I like my coffee black, my beer from Germany, wine from Burgundy, the darker, the better. I like my heroes complicated and brooding, James Dean in oiled leather, leaning on a motorcycle. You know the color. ("Ode to Chocolate") ~ Barbara Crooker
Ode, Elegy, Aubade, Pslam"
1
The songbird that escapes
from a burning house
will build its nest
in the shape of a cage.
2
This is one thing
we know: song begs
for the places that make it
grow from seed to starling,
3
places that put the heart's hemlock
in an empty rowboat
and heave it from the shore.
4
We only praise what we cannot
keep: violin strings berried with rain,
teacups overflowing with brandywine,
radios sickened with static.
5
Glass tossed out with the tide
will come back smoother and stranger,
but never to the same person.
6
This is something we want
to know. The woman in love
never touches her ears.
7
The man in his house is always lost
without her.
8
Morning pulls light
from the dark like a boy
hoisting a trout from the lake
by its clean, pink gills.
9
When the woman escapes
from a burning house
she will know the path of the wind,
10
how it writes its scripture
in peach blossoms blown
into a baby's empty pram.
11
She'll feel it compose its words
against her body, against the night,
against the water, in an endless, artless psalm. ~ Ryan Teitman
When I hate I rob myself of something; but when I love I become richer by the object I love. ~ Friedrich Schiller
I take the dust from the lotus feet of the guru to cleanse the mirror of my mind." So begins a sacred ode to Hanuman. ~ Ram Dass
I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as lustily as chanticleer in the morning, standing on his roost, if only to wake my neighbors up. ~ Henry David Thoreau
One day I will write an ode about kissing. I will call it "Ode to a Kiss".
It will be epic. ~ Nicola Yoon
Ode to Algebra
Thrust into this dingy classroom
we die like lampless moths
locked into the desolation of
fluorescent lights and metal desks.
Ten minutes until the bell rings.
What use is the quadratic formula
in our daily lives?
Can we use it to unlock the secrets
in the hearts of those we love?
Five minutes until the bell rings.
Cruel Algebra teacher,
won't you let us go? ~ Meg Cabot
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D And did young Stephen sicken, And did young Stephen die? And did the sad hearts thicken, And did the mourners cry? No; such was not the fate of Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts round him thickened, 'Twas not from sickness' shots. No whooping-cough did rack his frame, Nor measles drear with spots; Not these impaired the sacred name Of Stephen Dowling Bots. Despised love struck not with woe That head of curly knots, Nor stomach troubles laid him low, Young Stephen Dowling Bots. O no. Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell. His soul did from this cold world fly By falling down a well. They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone for to sport aloft In the realms of the good and great. If ~ Mark Twain
Ode to Psyche - Excerpt
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: ~ John Keats
