Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Ogden Nash

Hi All,

This is my maiden post.Okay, it is not a poem, but for all you Ogden Nash readers.. Here's a good link of almost all his poems I found..

http://www.westegg.com/nash/


Friday, November 26, 2004

from the poetry club

message to all the BITSians that visit the blog..especially those who left before last sem:
i don't know how many of you have heard about the formation of a poetry club. well it was formed last year and mostly the present second yearites are running it.. they are doing some really good work and even conducted events during oasis!!!

here's a poem that was fwded to me from their mailing list.

Be Near Me

You who demolish me, you whom I love,
be near me. Remain near me when evening,
drunk on the blood of the skies,
becomes night, in its one hand
a perfumed balm, in the other
a sword sheathed in the diamond of stars.

Be near me when night laments or sings,
or when it begins to dance,
its steel-blue anklets ringing with grief.

Be here when longings, long submerged
in the heart's waters, resurface
and when everyone begins to look:
Where is the assassin? In whose sleeve
is hidden the redeeming knife?

And when wine, as it is poured, is the sobbing
of children whom nothing will console -
when nothing holds,
when nothing is:
at that dark hour when night mourns,
be near me, my destroyer, my lover,
be near me.

-- Faiz Ahmed Faiz(1911-1984)

translated from Urdu by Agha Shahid Ali.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
One of the foremost poets in the Indian sub-continent, Faiz Ahmed Faiz
was
born in Sialkot in Pakistan. He studied philosophy and English
literature,
but poetry and politics preoccupied him more than anything else. For
writing poetry that always antagonizes the ruling lite and challenges
colonial and feudal values, like such rebellious writers as Ngugi of
Kenya
and Darwish of Palestine, Faiz had to go to jail repeatedly during both
colonial and postcolonial times in Pakistan. Inspired by the Marxist
ideology, Faiz's poetry exhibits a strong sense of commitment to
lower-class people, yet it always maintains a unique beauty nourished by
the long, rich tradition of Urdu literature. His love poems are as
appealing as his political poems, and he is considered primarily
responsible for shaping poetic diction in contemporary Urdu poetry.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday, November 18, 2004

The Look

Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
--Sara Teasdale


This poem of hers touched me real deep...it reminds me of verses from John Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn" : Heard melodies are sweet, those unheard are sweeter still.
How often we find ourselves caught in moments where the unpoken and unheard feelings wreak more havoc than the one said aloud.


Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Night Song at Amalfi

I asked the heaven of stars
What I should give my love --
It answered me with silence,
Silence above.

I asked the darkened sea
Down where the fishers go --
It answered me with silence,
Silence below.

Oh, I could give him weeping,
Or I could give him song --
But how can I give silence
My whole life long?

This is one of my favourite poems by Sara Teasdale.
She has many other Love Songs, each equally moving and poignant. I thought I would write an appreciation for this poem but on second thoughts, 'somethings are better left unsaid'.

I'm Explaining a few things - Pablo neruda

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharpmeasure of life,
stacked-up fish,the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

- Pablo Neruda

How powerful! This was when Neruda was in Madrid during the Spanish civil war. Neruda's poems are never too distant from reality - even his love songs (Highly recommended - "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair")

I love the diction in the following lines - when something is felt so passionately about, words just dance to the tunes of the poet.

from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.


You might have read these lines in recent newspaper articles celebrating Neruda's birth centenary which falls this year. Neruda is clearly the pick of the revolutionary poets in the last century.

Monday, November 15, 2004

I Hate the White Man - Roy Harper

Hey guys...

Have ~finally~ joined the blog!

Now, here's a song out of this album called "Flat Baroque and Berserk"...It's by this brilliant yet underrated (predictably!) British folk artiste called Roy Harper....This is one of his better known songs called "I hate the white man" which kinda brought out , in a very blunt manner, all the bitterness that he felt towards the music industry then....

Far across the ocean
In the land of look and see
There once was a time
For you and me

Where the winds blow sweetly
And the easy seas flow still
And where the barefoot dream of life
Can laugh and cry its fill

Where slot machine confusions
And the plastic universe
Are objects of amusement
In the fiction of their curse

And where the crazy whiteman
And his teargas happiness
Lies dead and long since buried
By his own fantastic mess

For I hate the whiteman
And his plastic excuse
For I hate the whiteman
And the man who turned him loose...

And the reins of coloured thunder
Of the stallion of the dawn
Ride the coalfire morning
On the beach where all is born

Where the emperor of meaning
Is burning up his forts
And sits to warm his toes around
A fire made up of useless thoughts

And when the children tempt him
With the riddles of their trance
He flings the flames of solstice
Casting laughs into their dance

And while a crazy whiteman
In the desert of his bones
Lies as bleached as the paradise
He likes to think he owns

And I hate the whiteman
In his evergreen excuse
Oh I hate the whiteman
And the man who turned him loose...

And far across the reaches
Of the drifting yellow sands
The living carpet wilderness
Forever joins its hands

With heaven hell's attainment
In a surging crest of fire
Where more than all is thrown upon
The ever lasting pyre

And through the countless canticles
Of Jason's charcoal fleece
Are sung the songs of nothing
In the timeless masterpiece

And there stood in the middle
Guess who?
It's the everlasting burst
Built by god's very own whiteman

As he tries to rule the dust
And I hate the whiteman

In his doctrinaire abuse
Oh I hate the whiteman

And the man who turned you all loose...
And the bowels of his city

Have been locked into a safe
Where the spew stains on the sidewalks
Are defenders of his faith

While back inside his kitchen
The bowler hatted, long haired saint
Cleans with soap and water
But it's really just white paint

While his golden headed scandal sheets
Present their daily bite
To give their righteous news-bleeders
Drugs to keep them white

While outside in the whitewash
Where the guns are always, always right
A shooting star has summoned
Its dark angel from his night

And I hate the whiteman
And his evergreen excuse
Oh I hate the whiteman
And the man who turned you all loose
And the man who turned him loose...

Monday, November 08, 2004

On Being asked for a war poem - WB Yeats

Think it better that in times like these
A poet's mouth be silent, for in truth
We have no gift to set a statesman right;
He has had enough of meddling who can please
A young girl in the indolence of her youth,
Or an old man upon a winter's night.


(ed - This is my blunt tribute to the re-election of GWB)

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

This is an old favourite. Thought it just cannot not be in Melancholetta.

I have spread my dreams under your feat

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


W.B. Yeats (1865–1939)
"He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven"

Monday, November 01, 2004

For Emily, wherever I may find her - Paul Simon

For Emily, wherever I may find her

What a dream I had
Pressed in organdy
Clothed in crinoline
Of smoky burgundy
Softer than the rain

I wandered empty streets down
Past the shop displays
I heard cathedral bells
Tripping down the alleyways
As I walked on

And when you ran to me
Your cheeks flushed with the night
We walked on frosted fields
Of juniper and lamplight
I held your hand
And when I awoke
And felt you warm and nearI kissed your honey hair
With my grateful tears
Oh I love you, girl
Oh I love you

-Paul Simon (with Art Garfunkel from the album Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme 1966)

A pretty ordinary love song you might think, at first sight. Not if you know its history. This one was by Paul Simon, one of the very few genuine poets from the Rock and Roll generation - and the love song is addressed to that damsel - melancholy personified - Emily Dickinson. The fact that Emily was dead eighty years when Paul penned it makes no difference to us. The theme is not the familiar "poet-in-unrequited-love" - but a poet offering his love to another of a different age - doesn't really matter if it is of any use now. The love poem transcends time to the love-lorn Emily who spent her years in recluse in Amherst - writing bits and pieces of verses - which were never published until her death. She was a tragically lonely person - who had difficulty bonding with fellow humans - but was so perspicacious and had such a sense of beauty that all her verses drip with wisdom and imagery. A fitting tribute from my favourite band to my favourite poet. The only way to enjoy it better - is to listen to this song on a rainy day from the comfort of a cosy room..... and think of a loved one you know deserved better in life.