Dead Poets

George Ripley

Jabir ibn Hayyan

William Ernest Henley

John Fletcher

Mary Oliver

Syd Barret

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Kafka

John Steinback

Sylvia Plath

Ernest Hemingway

Amin Nauman

William Faulkner

Jim Morrison

John Milton

Momin Nauman

Jimmy Page

Robert Plant

Jane Fisher

Vernor Winfield Smith

Miyamoto Musashi

Siddhartha

School of Athens

Wendell Berry

Miles Davis

Mary Shelley

Jalaluddin Rumi

Pragna Vasupal

Thom Yorke

Elijah Muhammad

Shinji Sato

Kurt Cobain

Tim Buckley

Paracelsus

George Harrison

Hideo Yamamoto

Octopus

Johnny Greenwood

Ahmad Tamim

Leo Tolstoy

Hiromu Arakawa

Thomas Seaton

Wolfang Tillmans

Grigori Rasputin

Sherin Elsharkawy

Caterina Sforza

Jane Goodall

Jeff Buckley

Andy Warhol

St. Thomas Aquinas

Musa Nauman

Musa Nauman

Musa Nauman

Invictus by a Dead Poet

"Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

    I am the captain of my soul."

Melancholy by a Dead Poet

HENCE,

all you vain delights,    

As short as are the nights    

Wherein you spend your folly!

There 's naught in this life sweet,

If men were wise to see't,    

But only melancholy—    

O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,

A sight that piercing mortifies,

A look that 's fasten'd to the ground,

A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,

Places which pale passion loves!

Moonlight walks, when all the fowls

Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!   

 A midnight bell, a parting groan—    

These are the sounds we feed upon:

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,

Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

The flesh by a Dead Poet

lips of a drunkard 

like a fisherman’s net,

gorging, false divinity.

the sides of his mouth

weep saliva. 

the fool is a swallow

away from truth.

leviathan.

praising his wine,

worshipper 

of his meager senses. 

no miracle bowed down

at his impatient feet;

so hastily he moved. 

dancing sycophant,

tapping on dampened floorboards

in rhythm of unfamiliar love.

slipping,

he drowns

under the throat of waters.

his tongue stilled,

baptized unwilling

leviathan hums.