Melancholetta

Unnamed poem by Fred Bremmer and Steve Kroese

2009-06-24T08:02:00.000-05:00

< > ! * ' ' #
^ " ` $ $ -
! * = @ $ _
% * < > ~ # 4
& [ ] . . /
| { , , SYSTEM HALTED

The poem can only be appreciated by reading it aloud, to wit:

< > ! * ' ' #
Waka waka bang splat tick tick hash,

^ " ` $ $ -
Caret quote back-tick dollar dollar dash,

! * = @ $ _
Bang splat equal at dollar under-score,

% * < > ~ # 4
Percent splat waka waka tilde number four,

& [ ] . . /
Ampersand bracket bracket dot dot slash,

| { , , SYSTEM HALTED
Vertical-bar curly-bracket comma comma CRASH.

Bearhug - Michael Ondaatje

2007-03-18T21:17:00.001-05:00

Griffin calls to come and kiss him goodnight
I yell ok. Finish something I'm doing,
then something else, walk slowly round
the corner to my son's room.
He is standing arms outstretched
waiting for a bearhug. Grinning.

Why do I give my emotion an animal's name,
give it that dark squeeze of death?
This is the hug which collects
all his small bones and his warm neck against me.
The thin tough body under the pyjamas
locks to me like a magnet of blood.

How long was he standing there
like that, before I came?

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

2007-01-26T14:11:00.000-06:00

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright -
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done -
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud,
becauseNo cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead -
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech."
A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head -
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat -
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more -
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue."
After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

I am not alone

2007-01-14T10:06:00.001-06:00

The night, it is deserted
from the mountains to the sea.
But I, the one who rocks you,
I am not alone!

The sky, it is deserted
for the moon falls to the sea.
But I, the one who holds you,
I am not alone !

The world, it is deserted.
All flesh is sad you see.
But I, the one who hugs you,
I am not alone!

Gabriela Mistral

Snow

2006-12-01T06:30:00.000-06:00

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes-
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands-
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

~Louis MacNeice

Around the corner, a vanished friend

2006-11-07T05:03:00.000-06:00

Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end;
Yet days go by, and weeks rush on,
And before I know it a year is gone,
And I never see my old friend's face,
For life is a swift and terrible race.

He knows I like him just as well
As in the days when I rang his bell
And he rang mine. We were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men:
Tired with playing a foolish game,
Tired with trying to make a name.

"Tomorrow," I say, "I will call on Jim,
Just to show I am thinking of him."
But tomorrow comes - and tomorrow goes,
And the distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner! - yet miles away . .
"Here's the telegram, Sir. . .
'Jim died today'."

And that's what we get, and deserve in the end:
Around the corner, a vanished friend.

- by Charles Hanson Towne

Untitled - e. e. cummings

2006-11-07T04:57:00.000-06:00

"think of it: not so long ago
this was a village"
"yes; i know"

"of human beings who prayed and sang,
or am i wrong?"
"no, you're not wrong"

"and worked like hell six days out of seven"
"to die as they lived: in the hope of heaven"

"didn't two roads meet here?"
"they did;
and over yonder a schoolhouse stood"

"do i remember a girl with blue-
sky eyes and sun-yellow hair?"
"do you?"

"absolutely"
"that's very odd,
for i've never forgotten one frecklefaced lad'

"what could have happened to her and him?"
"maybe they walked and called it a dream"

"in this dream were there green and gold
meadows?"
"through which a lazy brook strolled"

"wonder if clover still smells that way;
up in the mow"
"full of newmown hay"

"and the shadows and sounds and silences"
"Yes, a barn could be a magical place"

"nothing's the same, is it?"
"something still
remains, my friend, and always will"

"namely?"
"if any woman knows,
one man in a million ought to guess"

"what of the dreams that never die?"
"turn to your left at the end of the sky"

"where are the girls whose breasts begin?"
"under the boys who fish with a pin"

- e. e. cummings

Do not stand at my grave and weep - Mary Frye

2006-11-01T02:47:00.000-06:00

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

The Eagle

2006-10-27T02:12:00.000-05:00

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Cherry Trees

2006-09-16T11:21:00.000-05:00

The cherry trees bend over and are shedding,
On the old road where all that passed are dead,
Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding
This early May morn when there is none to wed.

Edward Thomas

Shakespeare's Sonnet - LXXV

2006-09-13T02:18:00.000-05:00

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

O Captain! My Captain!

2006-07-02T23:11:00.000-05:00

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman

My love was my decay

2006-06-12T00:14:00.000-05:00

Here is one of my favourite sonnets of Shakespeare's.

CXLIII:
O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this; my love was my decay.

This is my letter to the world

2006-05-03T22:41:00.000-05:00

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,-
The simple news that nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

-Emily Dickinson

Coffee In Heaven

2006-05-01T02:54:00.000-05:00

You'll be greeted
by a nice cup of coffee
when you get to heaven
and strains of angelic harmony.

But wouldn't you be devastated
if they only serve decaffeinated
while from the percolators of hell

your soul was assaulted
by Satan's fresh espresso smell?

-- John Agard

Coffee In Heaven

2006-05-01T02:51:00.000-05:00

   You'll be greeted
by a nice cup of coffee
when you get to heaven
and strains of angelic harmony.

  But wouldn't you be devastated
if they only serve decaffeinated
while from the percolators of hell

  your soul was assaulted
by Satan's fresh espresso smell?

-- John Agard

To Loose thee

2006-04-26T09:30:00.001-05:00

Melancholetta
TO lose thee, sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
’T is true the drought is destitute,
But then I had the dew!

~Emily Dickinson

To Loose thee

2006-04-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

Melancholetta
TO lose thee, sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
’T is true the drought is destitute,
But then I had the dew!

~Emily Dickinson

When we two parted

2006-04-21T01:29:00.000-05:00

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shrudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well—
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

~Lord George Gordon Byron

When I Was One-and-Twenty

2006-04-08T22:36:00.000-05:00

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
"Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free."
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
"The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
"Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue."
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true

- A. E. Housman

I read this poem when I was 14 something in an Issac Asimov's book called Ghosts and Monsters.The stories in the book have a very subtle horror in them unlike most other creepy books and it was my favourite read those days.

Where the mind is without fear....

2006-03-29T08:29:00.000-06:00

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake

- Rabindranath Tagore

Seth again..

2006-03-25T09:46:00.000-06:00

MISTAKEN

I smiled at you because I thought that you
Were someone else; you smiled back; and there grew
Between two strangers in a library
Something that seemed like love; but you loved me
(If that's the word) because you thought that I
Was other than I was. And by and by
We found we'd been mistaken all the while
From that first glance, that first mistaken smile.

~Vikram Seth

From the Rubáiyát

2006-03-22T01:38:00.000-06:00

Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
Tomorrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you not know whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

Here's a link
to these lines from Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám,translated by Edward FitzGerald. Yet another link ,that gets into the apprecition of this poem, is this one.

Sonnet

2006-03-06T07:00:00.000-06:00

This Sonnet of Shakespeare describes the depth of love and its eternal nature.He has measured the true love that stands forever.

Sonnet No-116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.Love is not Love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
Oh, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool , though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
-William Shakespeare.

The Raven

2006-03-05T12:42:00.000-06:00

Another of Poe's poems. Poe was a master of the dark a creator of chilling scenes, like in the poem below. And for those who are interested in reading Poe's fiction, I recommend his short story, the Pit and the Pendulum.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

A dream within a dream

2006-03-05T01:41:00.000-06:00

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

Sit

2006-03-04T03:52:00.000-06:00

Sit, drink your coffee here; your work can wait awhile.

You're twenty-six, and still have some life ahead.
No need for wit; just talk vacuities, and I'll
Reciprocate in kind, or laugh at you instead.
The world is too opaque, distressing and profound.
This twenty minutes' rendezvous will make my day:
To sit here in the sun, with grackles all around,
Staring with beady eyes, and you two feet away.

- Vikram Seth

Seth is brilliant. His control over language - its simplicity and his skill in creating an atmosphere, is unmatched. Maybe except by Piet Hien.

Being in Love

2006-03-02T23:14:00.000-06:00

Being in love with you
Is to abandon the piano:
It is to take up the castanets,
The bugle,
The kettle drum.

It is to sleep naked, with all the doors and windows open,
Fearing nothing.

Being in love with you means many days I am so happy
I can barely feed myself:
I laugh or weep or both and set aside the fork.

It means I wake one morning feeling
Such warmth rising inside me
That I am suddenly confident
All snow would melt
Within my steady gaze;
And I dress quickly
To test this
On the crisp, December
Landscape.

Being in love with you further means the rhododendrons
Are in bloom, the mongoose
Is mating, the moon is full and the wind strong
Along the western ghats of South India.

Being in love with you sings arias
In my head, hums loudly
In my bones.
It beats the drum.

Some complain that being in love with you is merely an airtight ferocity,
Or a kind of rococo piety,
But we proclaim it
This Resplendent Helmet,
A radical and luminous sobriety.

Being in love with you is crucial.
Everything depends upon it.

In summer, being in love with you is red, raw and delicious.
In winter it is blue, lucent, and shimmers when touched.

Being in love with you is to forget
For a moment the use of fruit:
It is to stare long at the splendour
Of a green pear
On a white porcelain plate.

Being in love with you is old as Laughing Buddha,
And as fat.

Being in love with you is only now,
Cannot be remembered
Or imagined.

Being in love with you is to notice the basic radiance of all things,
And is thus a simple, unarmed, fundamental bathing.

Being in love with you is as well, a small well-kept apartment
In the middle of busy Kyoto,
Where, with great contentment,
A young couple sit
At a low table
Eating their evening meal
Of sweet hijiki
On beds of warm rice,
The silence broken only
By faint, almost musical
Clinks of chopsticks
Upon the oval bowls.

Being in love with you for even one second
Is enough. The big picture changes.
(When the honey jar is opened,the whole kitchen is instantly sticky.)

Being in love with you is a deep thirst,
An undermining hunger.
It is a desperation like that of a barn swallow caught
In a kitchen mousetrap,
Dragging itself with his wings
And one good leg
Towards the dog-door,
His only hope.

Being in love with you is ludicrous and cannot be explained.

Being in love with you sneaks up on mefrom behind.
It is a kind of ambush.
Or worse, it is an avalanche
In which I am tumbled furiously
For a time, then stopped cold
In whatever absurd position the snow
Finds me - perhaps only a hat
Or a hand
Visible to the outside world.

Being in love with you sits on my doorstep
And weeps. It calls pathetically
To be let in the house, rants
About my neglectfulness. I run
To open the door but - when I touch
The doorknob - feel a tap
On my shoulder, turn around
And it is there,
Smiling it galling
Cheshire smile.

It is the holy guardian of archways, the faithful steward of alltunnels and bridges.

It is alpine and religious, naked and fierce.
It is the kiss of candour, and the cherished cup.
It is "the low down" and "the real dope".

Being in love with you is to dream, at least once, that you live inside me
Like a mysterious Spanish town at twilight: you are the red dirt road
That winds into town;
You are the squat houses with lamps lit and drapes half-drawn;
On the horizon, you are sunset's silent fire;
You, bouncing are the green and orange swirled ball that children run after
Laughing in the street - and on the porch, the old man, head in hands,
Watching;
You are the young lovers in the town square at nightfall, the moon's play of
Light and shadow on their faces, you are their lips, their kiss;
And yet you are also the several dead drunk matadors, draped
over chairs,
Spread-eagled over the hotel bed;
And you, too, are the town idiot on the tavern roof, dancing a pot bellied
Belly-dance to the slender crescent moon;
And at the farthest edge of town, you yourself are the yelled-at mule, who
Will not budge.

In spring, being in love with you is green, resilient, and sways to the rhythms of wind.
In autumn, it is pale gold and fills the sky.

Being in love with you is centripetal.

Moreover, it choreographs
And christens.
It cradles and cherishes, yet
Confiscates as much as it confers.
It clobbers and clocks, then cloisters - but only to clarify
And cleanse.
It seems to cathart then catnap, but later celebrates
And celestializes.
It cultivates and cumulates until it is continual combustion.
Or, saying the same, is a kind of ever spontaneous consecration.
It cures and cushions,
Compels and completes.
If threatened with congealing, it may creep
Aside, churn and circulate,
Conspiring to colour the cosmos.

Being in love with you is centrifugal.

It is hard to believe
Being in love with you
Was once
That tiny space
In my heart
That has since exploded
Into a vast cathedral
Of sky
Under which I stand alone,
Looking up.

It is raining cats and dogs.
I am drenched.
Being in love with you has soaked me
To the bone
And I will never again
Be dry.

P.S: As indicated by Jake in the comment, this poem is AUBADE by Michael Londry and is often wrongly attributed to Meeto(Kamaljit Bhasin Malik)

Brahma

2006-02-08T07:06:00.000-06:00

Emerson in his poem "Brahma" brings forth the doctine of absolute unity.Here we find the thought of Soul being united with the Over Soul(The Almighty).In this poem, Emerson refers the strong gods to Indra,God of sky and wielder of thunderbolt; Agni, the God of fire; and Yama, the God of death and judgement.The sacred seven refers to the Maharishis .He brings out the Hindu Belief that souls which attain to Brahma(Oversoul) are freed from returning to life.

Brahma
If the red slayer think he slays,
or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, Iam the wings;
Iam the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn and the brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred seven,
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Fine me, and turn thy back on heaven
- Emerson.

Solitude

2005-10-29T18:36:00.000-05:00

A contribution by Hyena:

Dunno if this goes with the general theme of Melancholetta but its is one of my favourites by Alexander Pope, and makes a lot of sense. Please include this onto your blog if you can.

Solitude

How happy he, who free from care
The rage of courts, and noise of towns;
Contented breaths his native air,
In his own grounds.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide swift away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unheard, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

Regards,
L. Hyena

Never Seek to Tell Thy Love

2005-10-21T10:32:00.000-05:00

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she doth depart.

Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly;
He took her with a sigh.

--William Blake

Quote

2005-09-26T01:24:00.000-05:00

Still falls the rain
dark as the world of man,
black as our loss
blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
upon the Cross.

- Edith Sitwell

Time and space

2005-09-23T13:13:00.000-05:00

        If Time and Space, as sages say,
      Are things which cannot be,
      The sun which does not feel decay
      No greater is then we.
      So why, Love, should we ever pray
      to live a century?
      The butterfly that lives a day
      Has lived eternity.

              The flowers I gave thee when the dew
              Was trembling on the vine,
              Were withered ere the wild bee flew
              To suck the eglentine.
              So let us haste to pluck anew
              Nor mourn to see them pine,
              And though our days of love be few
              Yet let them be divine.

      If Space and Time, as sages say,
      Are things which cannot be,
      The fly that lives a single day
      Has lived as long as we.
      But let us live while yet we may,
      While love and life are free,
      For time is time, and runs away,
      Though sages disagree.


  T. S. Eliot

Peace by Rupert Brooke

2005-09-18T01:38:00.000-05:00

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

- Rupert Brooke

(Minstrels' entry for 17 September 2005)

dont know the title of this one

2005-09-03T04:36:00.000-05:00

Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten --
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild --
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?

- Sarah Teasdale

Second Chorus: Atalanta in Calydon

2005-08-21T11:17:00.000-05:00

This is some profound verse from Swinburne in his what many consider to be his magnum opus. One of my favourites.

Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death.

--Algernon Charles Swinburne

a debate

2005-08-05T14:26:00.000-05:00

The Suicide's Argument

Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no
No question was asked me--it could not be so !
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try
And to live on be YES; what can NO be ? to die.

Nature's Answer

Is't returned, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ?
Think first, what you ARE ! Call to mind what you WERE !
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope,
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ?
Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare !
Then die--if die you dare !

- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

"Lost Love" by Andrew Lang

2005-08-04T13:03:00.000-05:00

Who wins his love shall lose her,
Who loses her shall gain,
For still the spirit woos her,
A soul without a stain;
And Memory still pursues her
With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her,
Who watches day by day
The dust of time that stains her,
The griefs that leave her gray,
The flesh that yet enchains her
Whose grace hath passed away!

O, happier he who gains not
The Love some seem to gain;
The joy that custom stains not
Shall still with him remain,
The loveliness that wanes not
The Love that ne'er can wane.

In dreams she grows not older
The lands of Dream among.
Though all the world wax colder,
Though all the songs be sung.
In dreams doth he behold her
Still fair and kind and young.

The words pretty much say it all themselves!

Invictus by William Ernest Henley

2005-08-03T13:30:00.000-05:00

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.

- William Ernest Henley

To failure

2005-06-23T13:48:00.000-05:00

You do not come dramatically, with dragons

That rear up with my life between their paws

And dash me butchered down beside the wagons,

The horses panicking; nor as a clause,

Clearly set out to warn what can be lost,

What out-of-pocket charges must be borne,

Expenses met; nor as a draughty ghost,

That's seen, some mornings, running down a lawn.

It is these sunless afternoons, I find

Install you at my elbow like a bore

The chestnut trees are caked with silence. I'm

Aware the days pass quicker than before,

Smell staler too. And once they fall behind

They look like ruin. You have been here some time.

- Phillip Larkin

I love the darkness in this. Very vivid imagery. He springs the end out at you.

Marginalia

2005-06-22T08:52:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote "Don't be a ninny"
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony"
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

- Billy Collins

A lovely poem. It evokes fond memories of school desks, playgrounds and first books. This nostalgia is a poignant and forceful thing, it chokes you with a wish to be back in that time and place, back to when it seemed that magic was in the air.

Promise her the moon

2005-06-09T09:04:00.000-05:00

I don't know if you all would like this. This is a song by Mr.Big. It's about love, the eternally pervasive emotion.

You don't know what you've got
'Till the love is almost gone
This time.. She's giving up

Still in a state of shock
I should have seen it coming on
It's too late for waking up

Her mind's made up
The dream is over
But my heart just can't let go
She's too good to be forgotten
Too good to be true
Before my world is torn apart
I'll promise her the moon
I'll promise her the moon

I was too blind to notice her
Wrapped up in myself
Working hard overtime, night and day

I thought we were so secure
Can't imagine someone else
Her mind's made up
The dream is over
But my heart just can't let go
She's too good to be forgotten
Too good to be true
Before my world is torn apart
I'll promise her the moon
I'll promise her the moon

And all the times that she stood by me
I never said " I love you"
But I kept it deep down in my soul
And all the while I've been a fool
She's too good to be forgotten
Too good to be true
Before my world is torn apart
I'll promise her the moon
I'll promise her the moon
I'll promise her the moon

Memory, and The Great Day

2005-06-04T16:32:00.000-05:00

What better way to write about memory and revolution! Short gems from Yeats, the first from "The Wild Swans at Coole" and the second from a collection titled "New Poems":

Memory

ONE had a lovely face,
And two or three had charm,
But charm and face were in vain
Because the mountain grass
Cannot but keep the form
Where the mountain hare has lain.

-- William Butler Yeats

The Great Day

Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot!
A beggar on horseback lashes a beggar on foot.
Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!
The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.

-- William Butler Yeats

Men improve with the years

2005-06-04T15:27:00.000-05:00

Recently impassioned by The Collected Work of Yeats, I present some short poems that stood out in my mind:

Men improve with the years

I AM worn out with dreams;
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams;
And all day long I look
Upon this lady's beauty
As though I had found in a book
A pictured beauty,
pleased to have filled the eyes
Or the discerning ears,
Delighted to be but wise,
For men improve with the years;
And yet, and yet,
Is this my dream, or the truth?
O would that we had met
When I had my burning youth!
But I grow old among dreams,
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams.

-- William Butler Yeats

This poem is one in a collection called "The Wild Swans at Coole". I sat up and reread this poem, not because of the sense of profundity its title evoked, but because of the intense reverie and consciousness of its opening line, "I am worn out with dreams" that I experienced. There is something more immense in the statement, which quickly dispels any hopes of optimism that the title might have promised, that transcends the fatigability of the human mind. And for a second the protagonist is lost and he does not know where -- in his dreams or in the truth. "Men improve with years" fails to reassure against the tenebrous "Is this my dream, or the truth?" and the protagonist's pining for his youth. The constancy in imagery -- "weather-worn, marble triton among the streams", "a pictured beauty (in a book)" are all delectable visions of the chimaera -- reiterates that Yeats is a master craftsman of verse. The repetition of the first three lines in the end ring in the inexorable. Yeats accomplishes the intended irony with ease: "Men improve with the years" starkly contrasts with its title.

Role

2005-05-19T14:17:00.000-05:00

Vaibhav Verma (veerya@gmail.com) sent this poem in an email. The poem, and his comments:

Role

There's no Oscar for extras.
If you live
live on the screen.
If you die
die in the last scene.

- Harris Khalique

Read this in this delhi based publication called Little Mag, they usually translate stuff by Indian authors in Regional Languages. Harris Khalique is a Pakistan young poet who lives in London and writes in English and Urdu.

Children - Kahlil Gibran

2005-05-19T06:02:00.000-05:00

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends youwith His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.

-- from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

Found this while surfing through some blogs

2005-05-03T00:51:00.000-05:00

ONE ART
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-Elizabeth Bishop

What he said (trns: AK Ramanujam)

2005-04-30T10:37:00.000-05:00

Submitted by Mediochre - beautifully translated tamil sangam poetry...

What he said

What could my mother be
To yours? What kin is my father
To yours anyway? And how
Did you and I meet ever?
But in love
Our hearts have mingled
Like red earth and pouring rain

- Translated from Kurunthokai by AK Ramanujam

sea fever

2005-04-25T06:46:00.000-05:00

every time i see the moon glinting on the sea im reminded of this poem. its an old favourite of mine...

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

- John Masefield

Aggini Kunju (The Fledgling ember - Tamil) by Subramaniya Bharathi

2005-04-08T00:59:00.000-05:00

Aggini Kunju - Tamil

Aggini Kunjondru Kanden - Adhai
Angoru Kattilor Pondhidai Vaithen
Vendhu Thanindhadhu Kadu - Thazal Veerathil
Kunjendum Moopendrum Undo?
Thatharikita Thatharikita Thithom

- Subramaniya Bharathi

The fledgling ember

A fledgling ember of flame - I found.
And I placed it under a hollow
In a distant wood.
The forest was burnt down to ashes...
Is youth or eld a factor in fieriness?
Thatharikita Thatharikita Thithom

- Subramaniya Bharathi

separation - w s merwin

2005-04-06T13:23:00.000-05:00

Misha suggested this poem, saying: Read this somewhere and thought it was really nice. Though I really dont know if it qualifies for melancholetta because to me it came across as a positive poem. Then again ,depends on how one is inclined to interpret it! It is, however, taut and beautifully composed!

Separation

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

Vedikkai Manidhar (Tamil - Risible People) by Subramaniya Bharathi

2005-03-28T08:14:00.000-06:00

(Assuming we won't have any objections to poems in the vernacular....)

Thaedi choru dhinam thindru
pala chinnanchiru kadhaigaL pesi
vaadi thunbam miga uzhandru
pirar vaada pala seigai seidhu
narai koodi kizhapparuvam eidhi
kodum kootrukkirayaagi maayum

sila vedikkai manidharai poLavey

naanum veezhven endru ninaiththaayO?

- Subramania Bharathi

It is very tough to attempt a translation of anything written in pre-1950s Tamil, and infinitely tougher to translate someone like Bharathi. My sincere attempt follows (better translation welcome)

Scavenging for their daily rice,
And wagging chins on various insignificant fibs
Dejected in spirit, and toiling in vain suffering
Performing deeds that scathe fellow-men
Aging with greyed hair (in due course)
Burdened to hear noxious bile (churned of them)

Like these risible people (who live in vain)

Did you think I would fall suit
And be Struck down?

That being the translation in literal, following is the message in spirit....

Did you think, (Oh Time),
that i too would give up and fall ,
like these risible fools who -
in search of food,
in useless gossip,
in suffering,
in speaking ill and while spoken ill of
get older and die ?

I hope that came across - at least half as passionate as how it sounds in Tamil. Bharathi - to beginners - was a fire-brand nationalist poet from Tamil Nadu, who in his 39 years of existence, penned such passionate verses in Tamil - that still reverberate in Tamil consciousness. He was a revolutionary in letter and in spirit, and espoused a unique brand of "Secular-Hindu-Indian-reformist-nationalism" quite contrasting with the latter day secessionist literature. The very fact that Bharathi's verses have survived the onslaught of the Dravidian movement speaks volumes of the depth of his writings. India's own Pablo Neruda.

Miners

2005-03-24T14:20:00.000-06:00

While on Wilfred Owen, I thought I must post 'Miners': one of my favourites. One of his earlier poems, this poem is best known for it's drastic -- in fact, sudden -- imagery shift from that of miners to one indicative of a war. In fact, the tale goes that Owen meant to write on a mining accident but, in the process, also ended up sketching vivid pictures of war.

Vivid phrases like "Bones without number" never fail to affect me, no matter how recently I have read the poem. One of my favourites, along with Dulce Et Decorum Est.

Miners

Wilfred Owen

There was a whispering in my hearth,
A sigh of the coal.
Grown wistful of a former earth
It might recall.

I listened for a tale of leaves
And smothered ferns,
Frond-forests; and the low, sly lives
Before the fawns.

My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer
From Time's old cauldron,
Before the birds made nests in summer,
Or men had children.

But the coals were murmuring of their mine,
And moans down there
Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men
Writhing for air.

And I saw white bones in the cinder-shard,
Bones without number.
For many hearts with coal are charred,
And few remember.

I thought of all that worked dark pits
Of war, and died
Digging the rock where Death reputes
Peace lies indeed.

Comforted years will sit soft-chaired
In rooms of amber;
The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered
By our lifes' ember.

The centuries will burn rich loads
With which we groaned,
Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids,
While songs are crooned.
But they will not dream of us poor lads
Left in the ground.

Anthem for Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owens

2005-03-24T05:27:00.000-06:00

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Inspection by Wilfred Owen

2005-03-24T01:17:00.000-06:00

'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.
'You dare come on parade like this?'
'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.
'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'

Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being 'dirty on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damned spot
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.

'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away,
Far off to where his wound had bled
And almost merged for ever into clay.
'The world is washing out its stains,' he said.
'It doesn't like our cheeks so red:
Young blood's its great objection.
But when we're duly white-washed, being dead,
The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'

- Wilfred Owen

I needn't say much about Owen or this poem - but a couple of years ago I happened to read something on the web which floored me....

Dear Sir Rabindranath:

I have been trying to find courage to write to you ever since I heard that you were in London - but the desire to tell you something is finding its way into this letter today. The letter may never reach you, for I do not know how to address it, tho' I feel sure your name upon the envelope will be sufficient. It is nearly two years ago, that my dear eldest son went out to the War for the last time and the day he said Goodbye to me - we were looking together across the sun-glorified sea - looking towards France with breaking hearts - when he, my poet son, said these wonderful words of yours -

'jabar diney ei kawthati boley jeno jai -
ja dekhechi, ja peyechi tulona tar nai' -

'when I leave, let these be my parting words:
what my eyes have seen, what my life received, are unsurpassable.'

And when his pocket book came back to me - I found these words written in his dear writing - with your name beneath. Would I be asking too much of you, to tell me what book I should find the whole poem in?

This was the letter written by Owen's mother to Tagore after the death of her son. The book was of course 'Gitanjali'. Tagore had been awarded the Nobel Prize for this - a year back, but was largely unknown to the world... I had read a little of Gitanjali before ... but was never too impressed with it. I couldn't reconcile with the simplicity of the verses, and I thought it was just another example of writing from the orient overtly obsessed with a simplistic sense of beauty and resigned melancholy...

War would have been the last thing I would have associated with Tagore. But, the above two quoted lines seen through Owen's eyes gave me whole new dimension to his verses. How neatly they fit into the extreme negatives of war - just as they fit with things of beauty? The fact that these could have inspired one of the most celebrated war poets, was a revelation.

Will try and post a few more Owens that I enjoyed... (I am still very poor on Tagore... is there anaybody here who could post more on him? Maybe Chitra...??)

suicide in the trenches

2005-03-19T22:18:00.000-06:00

ive been reading a few of the war poets. i wanted to share this one by siegfried sassoon:

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

Twinkle on you little star....

2005-03-17T22:59:00.000-06:00

The Star or Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

by Jane Taylor, 1806

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder ? what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the trav'ller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often thro' my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.

'Tis your bright and tiny spark,
Lights the trav'ller in the dark:
Tho' I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Hickory Dickory Dock

2005-03-15T05:54:00.000-06:00

This is a poem from "Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis" by Wendy Cope. She's one of my personal favourites as far as modern poets go. Never fails to get me laughing. ( The obligatory smiley smiles at you. )

A Nursery Rhyme

as if it might have been written by T.S. Eliot

Because time will not run backwards

Because time

Because time will not run

Hickory dickory

In the last minute of the first hour

I saw the mouse ascend the ancient timepiece,

Claws whispering like wind in dry hyacinths.

One o'clock,

The street lamp said,

'Remark the mouse that races toward the carpet.'

And the unstilled wheel still turning

Hickory dickory

dock

H W Longfellow

2005-03-08T16:34:00.000-06:00

This is a personal favorite...the stanza on "footprints on the sands of time"..is very famous...the whole poem is a beauty..and never fails to inspire...

A PSALM OF LIFE

(What the heart of the young mansaid to the psalmist. )

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time; -

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

H. W. Longfellow

Canto XII from The Heights of Macchu Picchu by Pablo Neruda

2005-03-07T20:06:00.000-06:00

Arise to birth with me, my brother.
Give me your hand out of the depths
sown by your sorrows.
You will not return from these stone fastnesses.
You will not emerge from subterranean time.
Your rasping voice will not come back,
nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets.

Look at me from the depths of the earth,
tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,
mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,
jeweler with crushed fingers,
farmer anxious among his seedlings,
potter wasted among his clays--
bring to the cup of this new life
your ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;
say to me: here I was scourged
because a gem was dull or because the earth
failed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.
Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,
the wood they used to crucify your body.
Strike the old flints
to kindle ancient lamps, light up the whips
glued to your wounds throughout the centuries
and light the axes gleaming with your blood.

I come to speak for your dead mouths.

Throughout the earth
let dead lips congregate,
out of the depths spin this long night to me
as if I rode at anchor here with you.

And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,
and link by link, and step by step;
sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,
thrust them into my breast, into my hands,
like a torrent of sunbursts,
an Amazon of buried jaguars,
and leave me cry: hours, days and years,
blind ages, stellar centuries.

And give me silence, give me water, hope.

Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.

Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.

Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.

Speak through my speech, and through my blood.

- Pablo Neruda

This is from my latest Neruda fixated readings. He is begining to grow on me these days. I picture him as Moses standing on a valley and commanding the lakes to breach and cascades to fall... or like he is tapping a volcano underneath and begging it to erupt. Can someone embody passion better?

william blake

2005-03-01T22:11:00.000-06:00

One of my favorite poets...

both these poems have the same title and come from two different books - "songs of innocence" and "songs of experience". infact, every poem written in the latter corresponds to one in the former. note the change in tone and perspective.

A CRADLE SONG (Songs of Innocence)

Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!

Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown!
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child!

Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother's smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes!
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace;
Sweet babe, once like thee
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:

Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When He was an infant small.
Thou His image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee!

Smiles on thee, on me, on all,
Who became an infant small;
Infant smiles are His own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A CRADLE SONG (Songs of experience)

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.

Leisure - William H Davies

2005-02-26T09:43:00.000-06:00

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughts
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich the smile that her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Macavity: The Mystery Cat - T. S. Eliot.

2005-02-26T09:35:00.000-06:00

Especially if you’ve a ruffian cat of your own, I assure you, you will love this poem! :-)

Macavity: The Mystery Cat

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat : he’s called the Hidden Paw –
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’ despair:
For when they reach the scene of the crime – Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, theres no one like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of the crime - Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air –
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may meet him in the square –
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair –
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way.
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair –
But it’s useless to investigate - Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!” – but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
There never was such a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place – MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napolean of Crime!

T. S. Eliot.

A Poem for Everyone

2005-02-14T11:13:00.000-06:00

A remarkable structure and imagery. Topical poem of the day ;)

Poem for Everyone

I will present you
parts
of
my
self
slowly
if you are patient and tender.
I will open drawers
that mostly stay closed
and bring out places and people and things
sounds and smells,
loves and frustrations,
hopes and sadnesses,
bits and pieces of three decades of life
that have been grabbed off
in chunks
and found lying in my hands.
they have eaten
their way into my memory,
carved their way into
my heart.
altogether
-- you or i will never see them --
they are me.
if you regard them lightly,
deny that they are important
or worse, judge them
i will quietly, slowly,
begin to wrap them up,
in small pieces of velvet,
like worn silver and gold jewelry,
tuck them away
in a small wooden chest of drawers

and close.

-- John T. Wood, 1974

Phenomenal Woman - Maya Angelou

2005-02-11T02:38:00.000-06:00

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies

I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size

But when I start to tell them

They think I'm telling lies.

I say

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips

The stride of my steps

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please

And to a man

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees

Then they swarm around me

A hive of honey bees.

I say

It's the fire in my eyes

And the flash of my teeth

The swing of my waist

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say

It's in the arch of my back

The sun of my smile

The ride of my breasts

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say

It's in the click of my heels

The bend of my hair

The palm of my hand

The need for my care.

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That's me.

Eloisa to Abelard - Alexander Pope

2005-02-07T07:16:00.000-06:00

While we are on the subject of love, this one is called "Eloisa to Abelard" by Alexander Pope, narrating the love story of the French philosoher, Peter Abelard and Heloise, one of his young students....Also known for having inspired the title of the film "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"...

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.

Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"

From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

The Birthday -- Christina Rossetti

2005-01-31T10:40:00.000-06:00

The Birthday was recommended in an email to me by one of my friends. She said:

i dont know if you've come across this one before - this such a lovely upbeat poem! if youre ever in love, it should feel like this! :-)

m.

A BIRTHDAY

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

Still I Rise -- Maya Angelou

2005-01-26T11:22:00.000-06:00

This poem was recommended, in an email to me, by Mridula. Her comments, and the poem:

Thought this would be a nice addition : classic maya angelou - the one who wrote phenomenal woman? this is in the same awesome spirit!

STILL I RISE

BY MAYA ANGELOU

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Shell Silverstein

2005-01-08T13:48:00.000-06:00

This is a poem that was suggested by one of my friends. She remarked:

I love this one. Makes you feel great, doesn't it! :-)
m.

Colors

by Shell Silverstein

My skin is kind of sort of brownish
Pinkish yellowish white.
My eyes are greyish blueish green,
But I'm told they look orange in the night.
My hair is reddish blondish brown,
But it's silver when it's wet.
And all the colors I am inside
Have not been invented yet.

Indian Weavers by Sarojini Naidu

2005-01-03T09:01:00.000-06:00

WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay?...
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.

Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright?...
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.

Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill?...
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

Sarojini Naidu

At school, I was a textbook fan of Sarojini Naidu. I remember three of her poems from my school textbooks - the above quoted, "Palanquin Bearers" and "Bazaars of Hyderabad". Her writing is intensely Indian, and her words reflect the richness of medieval and post-medieval Indian culture. But, as I grew older - she started sounding a bit amateurish to me or perhaps just a bit shallow - but I later felt that can just be my prejudice from reading too much from the occident. Oriental poetry (Haiku for example), always revels in bringing out beauty and richness and the underlying message is very simple and subtle and sometimes just not there. For poetry in these parts is a medium of celebration and rarely of dissonance. The above - is almost a nursery rhyme that you can teach your kids - and still graceful, symbolic and subtly melancholy.

An Ogden Nash poem

2004-12-21T20:47:00.000-06:00

This figures among my friend's favourites; it figures amongst mine too. My friend had, to say: "This poem's by Ogden Nash, but little resembles his typical style."

A Lady who Thinks She Is Thirty

by Ogden Nash

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Rejoice in the lamb...Christopher smart...

2004-12-16T05:25:00.000-06:00

...For I will consider my cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the living God.
Duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance
Of the glory of God in the East
He worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body
Seven times round with elegant quickness.
For he knows that God is his saviour.
For God has bless'd him
In the variety of his movements.
For there is nothing sweeter
Than his peace when at rest.
For I am possessed of a cat,
Surpassing in beauty,
From whom I take occasion
To bless Almighty God. For the Mouse is a creature
Of great personal valour.
For this is a true case--
Cat takes female mouse,
Male mouse will not depart,
but stands threat'ning and daring.
If you will let her go,
I will engage you,
As prodigious a creature as you are.
For the Mouse is a creature
Of great personal valour.
For the Mouse is of
An hospitable disposition.
For the flowers are great blessings.
For the flowers are great blessings.
For the flowers have their angels,
Even the words of God's creation.
For the flower glorifies God
And the root parries the adversary.
For there is a language of flowers.
For the flowers are peculiarly
....

For H is a spirit
And therefore he is God.
For K is king
And therefore he is God.
For L is love
And therefore he is God.
For M is musick
And therefore he is God.
And therefore he is God. For the instruments are by their rhimes,
For the shawm rhimes
are lawn fawn and the like.
For the shawm rhimes
are moon boon and the like.
For the harp rhimes
are sing ring and the like.
For the harp rhimes
are ring string and the like.

For the cymbal rhimes
are bell well and the like.
For the cymbal rhimes
are toll soul and the like.
For the flute rhimes
are tooth youth and the like.
For the flute rhimes
are suit mute and the like.
For the bassoon rhimes
are pass class and the like.
For the dulcimer rhimes
are grace place and the like.
For the clarinet rhimes
are clean seen and the like.
For the trumpet rhimes
are sound bound and the like. For the trumpet of God
is a blessed intelligence
And so are all the instruments in Heav'n.

For God the Father Almighty plays upon the harp
Of stupendous magnitude and melody.
For at that time malignity ceases
And the devils themselves are at peace.
For this time is perceptible to man
By a remarkable stillness and serenity of soul.

The May Queen

2004-12-04T11:49:00.000-06:00

This is one of my childhood favourites; one of the many Tennyson poems that my mother read out to lull me to sleep. I am able to recall: the poignance in the child's narrations for her mother, in joy and in remorse. The magic of the lyre that I heard softly in the background welled my eyes with a flood of tears for the May Queen. Now, many years later, I can nearly feel the same feelings evoked in a deep recess as I read this aloud.

THE MAY QUEEN

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
There’s many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;
There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,
So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,
But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be;
They say his heart is breaking, mother–what is that to me?
There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;
For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,
And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;
To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

NEW-YEAR’S EVE

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;
And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day;
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

There’s not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane.
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again;
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high;
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook’ll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;
You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho’ I cannot speak a work, I shall harken what you say,
And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green.
She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor.
Let her take ’em, they are hers; I shall never garden more;
But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rosebush that I set
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,
So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

CONCLUSION

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.

O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise,
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun.
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!
But still I think it can’t be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

O, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d me all the sin.
Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in;
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I pray’d for both, and so I felt resign’d,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen’d in my bed,
And then did something speak to me–I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, ‘It’s not for them, it’s mine.’
And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seem’d to go right up to heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There’s many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived–I cannot tell–I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O, look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine–
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun–
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true–
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home–
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come–
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast–
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

Ogden Nash

2004-11-30T23:36:00.000-06:00

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/

from the poetry club

2004-11-26T23:50:00.000-06:00

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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Look

2004-11-18T17:40:00.000-06:00

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.

Night Song at Amalfi

2004-11-16T13:32:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-16T11:07:00.000-06:00

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.

I Hate the White Man - Roy Harper

2004-11-15T22:28:00.000-06:00

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...

On Being asked for a war poem - WB Yeats

2004-11-08T11:02:00.000-06:00

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)

Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

2004-11-06T10:46:00.000-06:00

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"

For Emily, wherever I may find her - Paul Simon

2004-11-01T03:33:00.000-06:00

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.

Amichai at his best

2004-10-29T22:30:00.000-05:00

The Diameter of the Bomb

--Yehuda Amichai

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making
a circle with no end and no God.

Amichai at his best! The trivial start with the trite statistic creates a deliberate stir when all of a sudden Amichai transitions into the Metaphor mode. Where he transcends himself and all the readers expectations is in the final few lines where the images of the crying orphans rend the reader's heart, setting things up classically for the final line. Yehuda Amichai is a treasure trove half buried to the world.

Yehuda Amichai

2004-10-29T21:48:00.000-05:00

Temporary Poem of My Time

Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats:
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert,
The trees bend in the wind,
And stones fly from all four winds,
Into all four winds. They throw stones,
Throw this land, one at the other,
But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988,
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites,
Evil men throw and just men throw,
Sinners throw and tempters throw,
Geologists throw and theologists throw,
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw,
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw,
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone,
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth
And stones fitting your eyes
Like a pair of glasses,
The past throws stones at the future,
And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones,
Even God in the Bible threw stones,
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice,
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.

Oh, the poem of stone sadness
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones
Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land
A stone that was never thrown
And never built and never overturned
And never uncovered and never discovered
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers
And never turned into a cornerstone?

Please do not throw any more stones,
You are moving the land,
The holy, whole, open land,
You are moving it to the sea
And the sea doesn't want it
The sea says, not in me.

Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.

-- Yehuda Amichai

The verse is Amichai typified. Amichai, the master of images. For those who have read The Diameter of the Bomb, I need to say no more. The sudden, almost violent, imagery shifts end up leaving the reader enraptured and intrigued, almost pining for more. Writings to seas to trees to stones to winds to lands to people to Semites... the blur of graphic images absorb. Almost like the images of the Bioscope whirring slowly into a beautiful swansong. Amichai executes the metaphor with aplomb. The delusive fleeting snapshots segue into less drastic image forms that temper towards the end, almost pulling out despair from the deepest recesses of the reader, before bringing everything to a standstill. "And even peace will be weary and will be." haunts, long after it has come and gone.

The temporality of the wildly oscillating glimpses etches a permanent mark.

Who goes with Fergus?

2004-10-28T22:47:00.000-05:00

WHO will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars

-- William Butler Yeats

What makes Yeats a great poet? Not his subject matter, surely. He wrote wonderful love poetry, but OTOH ranted way too much about the trials of old age. When attempting philosophy, he always seemed to have the most embarrasingly confused ideas on art and the intellect.

But as a wordsmith and a craftsman of verse, he was unequalled (at least in the last century.) He had the Irishman's mastery of sound and rhythm; You can hear a soft uileann pipe or Celtic faerie song whenever a Yeats verse is read out. His skill was not just divinely inspired genius however, it was careful construction - Notice how the last two lines use short sharp syllables followed by the drawn out words "dishevelled wandering" to evoke a sense of majesty and finality.

Lines 7-9 are quoted by that other great Irish poet( yes, poet) James Joyce in Ulysses. They have a deep significance for Stephen Dedalus, the secondary protagonist and Joyce's alter ego, who associates the verse with the memory of his mother, recently deceased. Permit me to quote the words, as they are poetry themselves:

The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the
harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words
shimmering on the dim tide.

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in
deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song:
I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door
was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to
her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words,
Stephen: love's bitter mystery.

Where now?

Funeral Blues by W.H Auden

2004-10-28T20:40:00.000-05:00

I was watching "Four Weddings and a Funeral" last week. There is a scene where John Hannah pays a funeral tribute to his deceased friend. He reads a poem "Funeral Blues" by W H Auden. The rendition was amazing.He sure is one talented actor (too talented for stuff like "Mummy" and all)...

Stangenlord

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-- W. H. Auden

Rejoinder: Observations on Prufrock

2004-10-28T20:38:00.000-05:00

Hi,

I can think of Camus' Mersault, Holden Caulfield and all...but with the latter two, there was always an element of nonchalancy involved..

This leads me to another train of thought altogether. We talked about Salinger's Holden, Robert Pirsig's Phaedrus, Camus' Mersault and TSE's Prufrock. Obviously, each one the alter-ego of the author/poet. If you search for objectivity in this realm of literature, forget it. Holden IS Salinger, Prufrock IS TSE...Now just see, who made it and who did not. Salinger and Syd Barrett, never seemd to understand the world around them. They got caught in the anomalies and paradoxes, and where are they now? Nobody knows. Both of them recluses, repoertedly insane, and remarkably, there were rumours that both had committed suicide. It is as though "Catcher in The rye" and Syd's lyrics were their last cries of agony in this hopeless world. They could not lead the fight, nor give it up,ultimately falling into "insanity"...But, TSE and Camus, both seemed to understand...in the sense that they knew the world cannot be understood. They stopped right at the end of the cliff...knew what was in store if they strode further and chose to walk back into the "sane world". Both got the Nobel Prize, led a seemingly comfortable, though compromised, existence, and lived famously. They knew the world was phony..They knew it wanted no association with whatever they understood as the plague of life. But, yet they did not want to give it all up, inspite of their greatness (or is it, because of their greatness ???). I think we have three kinds of people: 1)Those who havent realised something is wrong with the world. 2) Those who realise, and perished in the hope of unravelling it and 3) Those who realise, know that it is a hopeless situation and pretended to ignore everything about it.So, what is sanity? This seems to be a powerful question...

I mean, in Prufrock, the poem opens with a excerpt from Dante's Inferno...in hell and all...may be an objective co-relative of TSE on the burningsoul of prufrock

By the way, there is a different interpretation to the inclusion of the epigraph in the poem. The epigraph is as told to Dante when he visits Hades (Hell). it translates to

"If I thought my answer were for one who ever could return to the world, this flame should shake no more, but since none ever did return alive from this depth, if what I hear be true, without fear of infamy I answer thee.".

After this, Dante is made known of certain divine secrets that are not for the ears of mortals. If Dante, had a chance of going back to the world, he would not be told what is to be told after the passage.

This might point to the fact that Prufrock might not talk about all these things, if he came to know that the reader is going back to the same hellish existence. He needs a symapthetic ear from a person who is suffering just as he is. This might be another clue to the insecurity that Prufock/TSE might be having on account of living two lives. They realise, yet cannot admit, for fear of being lost in the struggle to convince the world. In the best words I can conjure, they were caught between the forgetful insanity of sanity and the realising sanity of insanity.

I believe there is more to it...

Stangenlord

The Madcap Laughs

2004-10-28T20:35:00.000-05:00

This might not be considered to be "poetry" and all...But somehow I always think of barrett as a poet...Opel , the song I was talking about goes something like this....

On a distant shore, miles from land
stands the ebony totem in ebony sand
a dream in a mist of grey...
on a far distant shore...

The pebble that stood alone
and driftwood lies half buried
warm shallow waters sweep shells
so the cockles shine...

A bare winding carcase, stark
shimmers as flies scoop up meat, an empty way...
dry tears...
crisp black squeaks tore reeds
make a circle of grey in a summer way, around man
so don't ground...

I'm trying
I'm trying to find you!
To find you
I'm living, I'm giving,
To find you, To find you,
I'm living, I'm living,
I'm trying, I'm giving

Krithika

Re: Observations on Prufrock

2004-10-28T20:28:00.000-05:00

Yello!

I guess the idea of alienation amidst a crowd, helplessness because ofthe world and its phony attitude, the ensuing search for th truth by the protaganist and the subsequent depression due tohis own judgemental nature has been the general theme behind many of characters that we have come across...apart from prufrock, I can think of Camus' Mersault, Holden Caulfield and all...but with the latter two, there was always an element of nonchalancy involved...Dunno why, but somehow this brilliant song by Syd Barrett called Opel, seems to be a fitting expression for all the searching and not finding...Somewhat akin to the feeling of being slam bang in the middle of this crowded junction...you see people walking past you....different sounds, different faces....everything is chaotic...somehow you figure it's wrong...so you are yelling out as if your lungs could burst anytime...But then somehow no one seems to hear....

Even though there didn't seem to be much common ground between prufrock and mersault at first...I mean, in Prufrock, the poem opens with a excerpt from Dante's Inferno...in hell and all...may be an objective co-relative of TSE on the burning soul of prufrock and all...while Mersault he begins to realise the world around him only after his mother died....Prufrock probably realises eventually the futility of having an emotional stand on the whole issue....while Mersault seems to have born with an emotional void and all...

But then the small thread of comparison that i found is that they both realise they cannot engage in an escapist attitude, even though it seems to be the easiest thing to do...they also dread the fact that they are always been continously evaluated..
people are gauging every move they make....(remember?...And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin....)It irks them but they know they can't escape this scrutiny as much as they want to.....

This article I found has this interesting insight... In Prufrock and Meursault we find two classic cases of the outsider. In both cases there is a tortuous quest for truth, and detachment has been necessary to provide a viewpoint for what is truly real. But after its discovery, the truth is either dismissed or subverted. Prufrock is dissuaded from telling us everything;

If one, settling her pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'

As for Meursault, he is hanged for his revelation.

And of course, both are the characters don't want to lie... Camus says, "Lying isn't only saying what isn't true. It is also in fact saying more than is true . . . We all do it to make life simpler. But, contrary to appearances, Meursault does not want to make life simpler. He says what he is, he refuses to hide his feelings and society immediately feels threatened."

Guess in a way, both Prufrock and Mersault are similar...

I am sure there are more parallels to these "outsiders".... can any one think of any more?

Cheers
Krithika

Observations on Prufrock

2004-10-28T20:20:00.000-05:00

(The text of Prufrock can be found HERE. You're urged to read it first! -- Ed)

Hi all,

Since, this is a poem which most of us have discussed, I thought we can start moving beyond the obvious and start dissecting the poem a little differently. I, for long have a slighty different interpretaion for Prufrock... not totally different but slightly varied...I'd love to know what you feel abt this.

Modern man seems very eloquent, confident, aware and self-sufficient. He dresses like a gentleman, he prefers a good society, expected to be socially conscious, assertive of his freedom, ready for his civic duties et al. In a sense, modernity seems to make all men feel equal, purposeful in life, and disciplines them, in the art of social living. And superficially, it seems to succeed. On a material level, we have grown through the ages.

Imposed equality and moral reponsibilities create stable societies. It evens out wrinkles of differences when you look at the macrocosmic level...So, what is wrong? Why is there so much dissent in the world? Maybe because, at the individual level, there are misfits. Your role is either too big for you or too small for you... The speaker is perhaps, afflicted by a sense of emptiness, of feeling a big void inside the huge mould of his personality. Nowadays, everybody reads...everybody is a poet. Everybody has some poetic sense in him. Exaggeration, profoundness is evident in almost everybody. Everybody is able to think big. Compare this with the olden ages...where Greek and Latin were esoteric, the only real scholars were those who knew these languages...Philosophers and scholars had their intricate thoughts expressed in such languages,which was kind of closed to everybody else. Moreover, poetry was for ecclesiastical purposes, which by itself was tightly controlled. There was really no opening up. Everything was so rigid but somehow everything FIT. Peasants worked, they did not think. though life was full of hardships.

The revoultions started the opening up. They fought for equality of the masses. Nothing and nobody was special anymore. Essentially, among all those mundane things that happened as a result of the revolution, one important change was that people were "free to think." I know, how incorrect this seems politically...but, I have a feeling on reading Prufrock, that maybe, the problem is this "Freedom to think" itself. The problem with this guy is, he feels inundated with all the thoughts, knowledge, information, mannerisms, culture etc, that he has and he is unable to handle them all. It required a Socrates or a Plato or a Sophocles or a Homer to be a great scholar or a great poet or even really amounting to somebody . Presumably, this was not because they "could merely think" but they had something else apart from being able to think. Some kind of capacity to handle the truths, that they may derive out of the deep thinking.

The following is an extract from one of the sites that guided me to the poem:

"The last line of the poem suggests otherwise--that when the world intrudes, when "human voices wake us," the dream is shattered: "we drown." With this single line, Eliot dismantles the romantic notion that poetic genius is all that is needed to triumph over the destructive, impersonal forces of the modern world. In reality, Eliot the poet is little better than his creation: He differs from Prufrock only by retaining a bit of hubris, which shows through from time to time. Eliot's poetic creation, thus, mirrors Prufrock's soliloquy: Both are an expression of aesthetic ability and sensitivity that seems to have no place in the modern world. This realistic, anti-romantic outlook sets the stage for Eliot's later works, including The Waste Land."

Maybe, the poet wants to convey this...Thinking, romancing, contemplating.... doesnt make a great man (Talking of Michaelangelo gets you nowhere). Understanding philosphical truths at the outset, recognising the beauty and ugliness of things, doesnt move you an inch from who you are... (You still measure your life only with coffee spoons...afflicted by mundane issues)..Thinking profoundly is not going to raise you to any exalted position...Still it is going to be the same old life, only you pretend to be enlightened...and be recieved by others like you have been...But you are still empty, as ever, because what is cast on you doesnt fit.

In reality, it is something else that makes a great man. Something apart from thoughts, emotions and feelings. Some thing that makes some people more gifted, and better equipped than the others...which Prufrock (and may be TSE himself didnt have). I think the love story is secondary and only sets a background for expreseing this helplessness, of somehow not amounting to much. This seems to be a very good reason why such a learned poet like TS Eliot, was still depressed a lot. To write "Hollow Men" and "Waste land" affter this seems a very logical continuation. In the end, he discarded his quest for philosphy and converted himself to Anglicanism, out of a need for a stable life, and went on to write about mundane things like "Cats"...His life somehow reminds me of Phaedrus in Zen and the Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance, who after pursuing on his quest to find the basis of rationality, abandons it in despair and backs off for a "normal" life.

I have written something so long that it troubles me even to read this stuff again. Hope, you came upto this point still trusting my sanity.. :-) I just opened up a little. Hope to hear your views,

Cheers,
Stangenlord

Hamlet by Spike Milligan

2004-10-28T20:16:00.000-05:00

Hi,

"Hollow Men" and "Waste land" are too consuming. I am kinda missing our classes where we could have sat around and tried to get a grip of this...I would like to have some kind of a discussion on TSE... Krithika, Ditch and the others... wat do u say..? Shall we start something? Maybe we can all take up one section at a time... and discuss it...

Meanwhile.... here's an incredibly funny poem(let) from spike milligan. Check out Milligan...a shade of Ogden Nash i guess

'Hamlet'

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
'I'll do a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use,
2B or not 2B?'

--Spike Milligan

Stangenlord

Elliot's Hollow Men

2004-10-28T20:12:00.000-05:00

Krithika posted the last verse of TS Elliot's 'Hollow Men' sometime back. Here's all of it.

The opening verses use images of dryness very similarly to 'The Waste Land'. it does not represent simply death (which in Buddhist thought, is the supreme goal of Nirvana, only reached by the most enlightened beings), but a lack of real life, a dreadful, sterile limbo state devoid of redemption or spiritual meaning. Amazingly depressing.

The Hollow Men

A penny for the Old Guy

I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom?
Walking alone

At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together and avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

-- T.S. Elliot

cheers,
ditch

Thanaptosis

2004-10-28T20:07:00.000-05:00

Er...this is one of those long ones...but then for what is worth, it's a brilliant one about the poet's musings on death, the questions surrounding it and its ongoing cycle with life and all...so, read on...

Thanatopsis

by William Cullen Bryant

To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world -- with kings,
The powerful of the earth -- the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, -- the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods -- rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. -- Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings -- yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep -- the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest -- and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men--
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn, shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Cheers,
Krithika.

To the tune of "if you're happy and you know it"

2004-10-28T20:05:00.000-05:00

To the tune of "if you're happy and you know it"

If you cannot find Osama, bomb Iraq.
If the markets are a drama, bomb Iraq.
If the terrorists are frisky,
Pakistan is looking shifty,
North Korea is too risky,
Bomb Iraq.

If we have no allies with us, bomb Iraq.
If we think someone has dissed us, bomb Iraq.
So to hell with the inspections,
Let's look tough for the elections,
Close your mind and take directions,
Bomb Iraq.

It's "pre-emptive non-aggression", bomb Iraq.
Let's prevent this mass destruction, bomb Iraq.
They've got weapons we can't see,
And that's good enough for me,
'Cos it's all the proof I need to
Bomb Iraq.

If you never were elected, bomb Iraq.
If your mood is quite dejected, bomb Iraq.
If you think Saddam's gone mad,
With the weapons that he had,
(And he tried to kill your dad),
Bomb Iraq.

If your corp'rate fraud is growin', bomb Iraq.
If your ties to it are showin', bomb Iraq.
If your politics are sleazy,
And hiding that ain't easy,
And your manhood's getting queasy,
Bomb Iraq.

Fall in line and follow orders, bomb Iraq.
For our might knows not our borders, bomb Iraq.
Disagree? We'll call it treason,
Let's make war not love this season,
Even if we have no reason,
Bomb Iraq.

cheers,

ditch

Migration by Wadih Sa'adeh

2004-10-28T20:02:00.000-05:00

Hi,

This guys is some obscure poet from Lebanon. he writes about war mostly. I found some of the translations very powerful. This one is the best, i guess.

Stangenlord

Migration

When they left they did not lock their doors;
they left water in the basin for the nightingale
and the stray dog that used to visit them.
On the dining table, they left bread, a pitcher of water
and a tin of sardines.

They said nothing before they left, but their silence
was like a covenant
with the door, the pitcher and the bread on the table.
The road, the only thing to feel their footsteps,
could not see them afterwards,
however it did eventually.
But one day it became numbed by the wheat carried
along it from dawn till dusk
and from doors it had seen leaving their place in the walls.

The sea recalled that some sardines had flopped into it,
swimming on to unknown places.
Those who remained in the village
said that a stray dog would come each evening
and howl in front of their house.

-- Wadih Sa'adeh

He Said by Wadih Sa'adeh

2004-10-28T20:01:00.000-05:00

He Said

He said they were alike,
the basil plant and his mother.
People could never tell the difference between them.
If they said `good morning' to his mother
the basil answered.
If they greeted the basil
his mother answered.

He explained that some veins on her hands
were roots of her plants,
her palms were two leaves,
her eyes were two flowers.
Whenever she walked in a neighbourhood,
the fragrance of fields emanated from her garments.

He said his father and the tree were twins.
If he embraced it,
he was embraced by the tree.
When looking at him, the tree became green.
It turned Yellow if he was ill.
If it was shaken by the wind
he would shiver.

He explained this as he walked
to the door,
rolling a cigarette.
Then he left.

-- Wadih Sa'adeh

The Dead are Sleeping by Wadih Sa'adeh

2004-10-28T19:59:00.000-05:00

The Dead are Sleeping

They were innocent people.
They would caress their children's hair in the dusk,
dropping off to sleep.

They were innocent, simple people,
sweating during the day and smiling.
On their way home they would pause before shop windows,
measuring with their eyes the size of children's clothes,
then walk on.

They would take one step
in the early breath of dawn
to touch the tree trunks.
During January frosts,
while they were watching,
some branches would bear fruit.
Their scythes yearned for the fields,
the air in the village was waiting for their cries.

Suddenly, their wheat became ribs,
the breeze and grass, rooted
in their bodies.

They were innocent, simple people.
Each evening the sun slid its silky mantle
over their souls.

-- Wadi Sa'adeh

regs,
Stangenlord

Lamericks (not a misspelling)

2004-10-28T19:56:00.000-05:00

I know this must be getting boring. But i couldn't resist after seeing the last one:

There once was a man from Japan,
Who wrote verses that never would scan,
When the said "but the thing,
doesnt go with a swing"
He said, "yes but I always try to put as many words
into the last line as I possibly can".

Stangenlord, is that structurally pure?

Here's one from the master, Isaac Asimov aka Paul French aka Dr. A :

You cant call the British Queen Ms,
Tain't as nice as Elizabeth is,
But i think that the queen,
would be even less keen,
to hear herself referred to as Liz,

btw, does any1 know what a clerihew is? It's like a limerick but even simpler. eg.

The mustache of Hitler,
could hardly be littler,
was the thought that kept occuring,
to field marshal Goering.

love
ditch

After a Long Hiatus

2004-10-28T19:51:00.000-05:00

hey ppl!

since limerick frenzy is in the air- here's my fav:

There once was a girl from the sticks
Who liked to write limericks.
But she failed at the sport,
'cause she wrote them too short.

love
chitra

The Master of Allusions

2004-10-28T19:46:00.000-05:00

Hey,

The Hollow Men...Yet another poem of T.S.Eliot's which is densely layered with his typical literary allusions.Like many of his better known works like the waste land, four quartets and the love song of prufrock, this is also drenched with dreadful imagery....the poem is a wee bit long, so I am sending only the last few lines...

from
The Hollow Men

Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

And do check out ,"Whispers of Immortality" by Eliot...his fascination with death and darkness is evident in this particular poem too...

Cheers,
Krithika