"Music's Empire" First was the world as one great cymbal made, Where jarring winds to infant Nature played. All music was a solitary sound, To hollow rocks and murm'ring fountains bound. Jubal first made the wilder notes agree; And Jubal tuned music's Jubilee; He call'd the echoes from their sullen cell, And built the organ's city where they dwell. Each sought a consort in that lovely place, And virgin trebles wed the manly bass. From whence the progeny of numbers new Into harmonious colonies withdrew. Some to the lute, some to the viol went, And others chose the cornet eloquent, These practicing the wind, and those the wire, To sing men's triumphs, or in Heaven's choir. Then music, the mosaic of the air, Did of all these a solemn noise prepare; With which she gain'd the empire of the ear, Including all between the earth and sphere. Victorious sounds! yet here your homage do Unto a gentler conqueror than you; Who though he flies the music of his praise, Would with you Heaven's Hallelujahs raise. — Andrew Marvell #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

There is something about this song that just hits different even when you don't know the lyrics or what it says #music

"The Mill-Water" ONLY the sound remains Of the old mill; Gone is the wheel; On the prone roof and walls the nettle reigns. Water that toils no more Dangles white locks And, falling, mocks The music of the mill-wheel's busy roar. Pretty to see, by day Its sound is naught Compared with thought And talk and noise of labour and of play. Night makes the difference. In calm moonlight, Gloom infinite, The sound comes surging in upon the sense: Solitude, company,-- When it is night,-- Grief or delight By it must haunted or concluded be. Often the silentness Has but this one Companion; Wherever one creeps in the other is: Sometimes a thought is drowned By it, sometimes Out of it climbs; All thoughts begin or end upon this sound, Only the idle foam Of water falling Changelessly calling, Where once men had a work-place and a home. — Edward Thomas #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Bells" Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In their icy air of night! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden-notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells! What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now--now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells-- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple. All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells-- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. — Edgar Allan Poe #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Year of the Rose" From the depths of the green garden-closes Where the summer in darkness dozes Till autumn pluck from his hand An hour-glass that holds not a sand; From the maze that a flower-belt encloses To the stones and sea-grass on the strand How red was the reign of the roses Over the rose-crowned land! The year of the rose is brief; From the first blade blown to the sheaf, From the thin green leaf to the gold, It has time to be sweet and grow old, To triumph and leave not a leaf For witness in winter's sight How lovers once in the light Would mix their breath with its breath, And its spirit was quenched not of night, As love is subdued not of death. In the red-rose land not a mile Of the meadows from stile to stile, Of the valleys from stream to stream, But the air was a long sweet dream And the earth was a sweet wide smile Red-mouthed of a goddess, returned From the sea which had borne her and burned, That with one swift smile of her mouth Looked full on the north as it yearned, And the north was more than the south. For the north, when winter was long, In his heart had made him a song, And clothed it with wings of desire, And shod it with shoon as of fire, To carry the tale of his wrong To the south-west wind by the sea, That none might bear it but he To the ear of the goddess unknown Who waits till her time shall be To take the world for a throne. In the earth beneath, and above In the heaven where her name is love, She warms with light from her eyes The seasons of life as they rise, And her eyes are as eyes of a dove, But the wings that lift her and bear As an eagle's, and all her hair As fire by the wind's breath curled, And her passage is song through the air, And her presence is spring through the world. So turned she northward and came, And the white-thorn land was aflame With the fires that were shed from her feet, That the north, by her love made sweet, Should be called by a rose-red name; And a murmur was heard as of doves, And a music beginning of loves In the light that the roses made, Such light as the music loves, The music of man with maid. But the days drop one upon one, And a chill soft wind is begun In the heart of the rose-red maze That weeps for the roseleaf days And the reign of the rose undone That ruled so long in the light, And by spirit, and not by sight, Through the darkness thrilled with its breath, Still ruled in the viewless night, As love might rule over death. The time of lovers is brief; From the fair first joy to the grief That tells when love is grown old, From the warm wild kiss to the cold, From the red to the white-rose leaf, They have but a season to seem As rose-leaves lost on a stream That part not and pass not apart As a spirit from dream to dream, As a sorrow from heart to heart. From the bloom and the gloom that encloses The death-bed of Love where he dozes Till a relic be left not of sand To the hour-glass that breaks in his hand; From the change in the grey garden-closes To the last stray grass of the strand, A rain and ruin of roses Over the red-rose land. — Algernon Charles Swinburne #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"494. Song—Farewell thou stream that winding flows" FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza’s dwelling; O mem’ry! spare the cruel thoes Within my bosom swelling. Condemn’d to drag a hopeless chain And yet in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love’s veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover; The bursting sigh, th’ unweeting groan, Betray the hapless lover. I know thou doom’st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But, O Eliza, hear one prayer— For pity’s sake forgive me! The music of thy voice I heard, Nor wist while it enslav’d me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d, Till fears no more had sav’d me: Th’ unwary sailor thus, aghast The wheeling torrent viewing, ’Mid circling horrors sinks at last, In overwhelming ruin. — Robert Burns #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

Tulipatana bongo Mikocheni🎶🎵 When that doba came I never thought I would fall in love with Biens music. But I must admit, this hit me differently. Everytime I am waking down the street or just chilling in the CBD and that song comes up, it's a different feeling my guys.

"One Word More: To E.B.B." There they are, my fifty men and women Naming me the fifty poems finished! Take them, Love, the book and me together; Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. Rafael made a century of sonnets, Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil Else he only used to draw Madonnas; These, the world might view--but one, the volume. Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you. Did she live and love it all her lifetime? Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, Die, and let it drop beside her pillow Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? You and I would rather read that volume (Taken to his beating bosom by it), Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas-- Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision, Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre-- Seen by us and all the world in circle. You and I will never read that volume. Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple, Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. Guido Reni dying, all Bologna Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!" Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. Dante once prepared to paint an angel: Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." While he mused and traced it and retraced it (Peradventure with a pen corroded Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, Let the wretch go festering through Florence)-- Dante, who loved well because he hated, Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante, standing, studying his angel,-- In there broke the folk of his Inferno. Says he--"Certain people of importance" (Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." Says the poet--"Then I stopped my painting." You and I would rather see that angel, Painted by the tenderness of Dante, Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno. You and I will never see that picture. While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel, In they broke, those "people of importance": We and Bice bear the loss forever. What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for one only, (Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- Using nature that's an art to others, Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. Ay, of all the artists living, loving, None but would forego his proper dowry,-- Does he paint? he fain would write a poem, Does he write? he fain would paint a picture,-- Put to proof art alien to the artist's, Once, and only once, and for one only, So to be the man and leave the artist, Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! He who smites the rock and spreads the water, Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, Even he, the minute makes immortal, Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. While he smites, how can he but remember, So he smote before, in such a peril, When they stood and mocked--"Shall smiting help us?" When they drank and sneered--"A stroke is easy!" When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, Throwing him for thanks--"But drought was pleasant." Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; Thus the doing savors of disrelish; Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, Carelessness or consciousness--the gesture. For he bears an ancient wrong about him, Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- "How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" Guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- "Egypt's flesh-pots--nay, the drought was better." Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! Theirs, the Sinai-forhead's cloven brilliance, Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. Never dares the man put off the prophet. Did he love one face from out the thousands, (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, Were she but the Æthiopian bondslave), He would envy yon dumb, patient camel, Keeping a reserve of scanty water Meant to save his own life in the desert; Ready in the desert to deliver (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) Hoard and life together for his mistress. I shall never, in the years remaining, Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues. Make you music that should all-express me; So it seems; I stand on my attainment. This of verse alone, one life allows me; Verse and nothing else have I to give you; Other heights in other lives, God willing; All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love. Yet a semblance of resource avails us-- Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, Lines I write the first time and the last time. He who works in fresco steals a hair-brush, Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, Makes a strange art of an art familiar, Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets, He who blows through bronze may breathe through silver, Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. He who writes, may write for once as I do. Love, you saw me gather men and women, Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, Enter each and all, and use their service, Speak from every mouth,--the speech, a poem. Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: I am mine and yours--the rest be all men's, Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty. Let me speak this once in my true person, Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: Pray you, look on these my men and women, Take and keep my fifty poems finished; Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things. Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self! Here in London, yonder late in Florence, Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. Curving on a sky imbrued with color, Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, Perfect till the nightingales applauded. Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs, Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos), She would turn a new side to her mortal, Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman,-- Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, Blind to Galileo on his turret. Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats--him, even! Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal-- When she turns round, comes again in heaven, Opens out anew for worse or better! Proves she like some portent of an iceberg Swimming full upon the ship it founders, Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire, Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain? Moses, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. Like the bodied heaven in his clearness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, When they ate and drank and saw God also! What were seen? None knows, none ever will know. Only this is sure--the sight were other, Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, Dying now impoverished here in London. God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her. This I say of me, but think of you, Love! This to you--yourself my moon of poets! Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! There, in turn I stand with them and praise you-- Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out them, Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, Come out on the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, Where I hush and bless myself with silence. Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song--and in my brain I sing it, Drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom! — Robert Browning #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Worship of Nature" The harp at Nature's advent strung Has never ceased to play; The song the stars of morning sung Has never died away. And prayer is made, and praise is given, By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven, And mirrors every star. Its waves are kneeling on the strand, As kneels the human knee, Their white locks bowing to the sand, The priesthood of the sea! They pour their glittering treasures forth, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing. The green earth sends its incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine. The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills Are sunset's purple air. The winds with hymns of praise are loud, Or low with sobs of pain, -- The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain. With drooping head and branches crossed The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost From all its sunlit leaves. The blue sky is the temple's arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer. So Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man. — John Greenleaf Whittier #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

Let It Heal, Babe. He never said he didn’t love me. But honestly, he didn’t have to — actions spoke louder. It’s been months. I’m no longer hanging on to “what could’ve been.” I’m good now… well, mostly good. I’m in a healthy relationship. I’m learning someone new. He’s learning me. We’re doing okay. But every now and then, when insecurities come knocking — those questions still pull up uninvited like old ghosts. The Heartbreak Playlist Era Listen, I had my Lewis Capaldi phase. Don’t judge me 😭. That man’s music carried me through a season. “Before You Go”? Yeah, that one finished me. He (Capaldi, not my ex) was out here asking deep questions like “Was there something I could’ve said to make your heart beat better?” Meanwhile, my guy never even tried. Not a single “Are you okay?” text. Nothing. “Bruises” had me crying like I’d been dumped on Valentine’s Day. “Forget Me”? That was my national anthem for two months. And when I finally walked away, I used to wonder if he missed me. If he thought about me. But now? I don’t even care. This isn’t about Lewis Capaldi anymore — it’s about the wound I finally let heal. You Can’t Love Someone Into Loving You Let’s be real — you can’t convince someone to love you. You can’t pray, beg, or overthink your way into being chosen. Every time you try, you lose a small piece of yourself. I lost so much. There were days I couldn’t even eat. I lied to myself it was intermittent fasting, but the truth? I was just too heartbroken to swallow ugali. Healing wasn’t aesthetic. It was messy. It was crying in matatus while pretending to check your phone. It was deleting old messages, then re-downloading screenshots from Google Drive because you weren’t ready. 😭 But one day, I woke up and didn’t feel the urge to stalk him. Didn’t care if he saw my story. Didn’t even flinch when his name popped up. That’s when I knew — I was finally healing. He texted later, saying he hoped I’d never meet another “him.” Bro, same. 😂 He said sorry for not being clear. I just smiled. Younger me would’ve written a whole paragraph. Current me just turned off my data. Self Love Is Not a Buzzword; It’s Survival One thing about love — it only finds you when you’ve found yourself. Jipende kwanza. Take time to know you. Sit with your pain. Cry if you need to. Then glam up and keep living. Healing isn’t about pretending you’re over it; it’s about slowly realizing you deserve better. If you text him again — it’s okay. You’re human. Just promise yourself that one day, you’ll stop. Pick your pieces, the ones he dropped when he fumbled you, and rebuild yourself. Because baby, you will save yourself. You’re Still Being Written Life after heartbreak? It slaps in its own quiet way. You start doing the things you love again. You get back to your bag, your hobbies, your peace. You hang with friends, call your mum more often, maybe even learn to skate. You start laughing again. And yeah, sometimes memories creep in — but they don’t sting like they used to. You look at them like healed scars. Proof that you survived. So wherever you are — confused, crying, healing, or glowing — remember this: You are still being written. And the chapter that’s coming? Trust me, it’s your best one yet.

"At A Solemn Musick" Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy, Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers, Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce, And to our high-rais'd phantasie present, That undisturbed Song of pure content, Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne To him that sits theron With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily, Where the bright Seraphim in burning row Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow, And the Cherubick host in thousand quires Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires, With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms, Hymns devout and holy Psalms Singing everlastingly; That we on Earth with undiscording voice May rightly answer that melodious noise; As once we did, till disproportion'd sin Jarr'd against natures chime, and with harsh din The fair musick that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood In first obedience, and their state of good. O may we soon again renew that Song, And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long To his celestial consort us unite, To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light. Note: 6 content] Manuscript reads concent as does the Second Edition; so that content is probably a misprint. — John Milton #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"The Conqueror Worm" Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly-- Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama--oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out--out are the lights--out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. — Edgar Allan Poe #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho