Poem of the Week

[Regit]

What's happened here??

[jerrybreathfire]

This poem is based on a paradox, that the dead shall still be living. Notice the line "And death shall have no dominion" in the fisrt and last stanza of each paragraph. Any significance?

[jerrybreathfire]

This poem is based on a paradox, that the dead shall still be living. The line "And death shall have no dominion" appears in the first and last stanza of each paragraph. There is something in that presentation.

[Pensive]

The poem which I will like to share is written by our national poet, Allama Iqbal. It was Iqbal Day here yesterday so here it is in the memory of a really good poet. This is one of my favourite poems from his collection, Bag-e-Dara, which was the book of poetry mainly for children.

ايک مکڑا اور مکھي

ماخوذ - بچوں کے ليے


اک دن کسي مکھي سے يہ کہنے لگا مکڑا
اس راہ سے ہوتا ہے گزر روز تمھارا
ليکن مري کٹيا کي نہ جاگي کبھي قسمت
بھولے سے کبھي تم نے يہاں پائوں نہ رکھا
غيروں سے نہ مليے تو کوئي بات نہيں ہے
اپنوں سے مگر چاہيے يوں کھنچ کے نہ رہنا
آئو جو مرے گھر ميں تو عزت ہے يہ ميري
وہ سامنے سيڑھي ہے جو منظور ہو آنا
مکھي نے سني بات جو مکڑے کي تو بولي
حضرت! کسي نادان کو ديجے گا يہ دھوکا
اس جال ميں مکھي کبھي آنے کي نہيں ہے
جو آپ کي سيڑھي پہ چڑھا ، پھر نہيں اترا
مکڑے نے کہا واہ! فريبي مجھے سمجھے
تم سا کوئي نادان زمانے ميں نہ ہو گا
منظور تمھاري مجھے خاطر تھي وگرنہ
کچھ فائدہ اپنا تو مرا اس ميں نہيں تھا
اڑتي ہوئي آئي ہو خدا جانے کہاں سے
ٹھہرو جو مرے گھر ميں تو ہے اس ميں برا کيا!
اس گھر ميں کئي تم کو دکھانے کي ہيں چيزيں
باہر سے نظر آتا ہے چھوٹي سي يہ کٹيا
لٹکے ہوئے دروازوں پہ باريک ہيں پردے
ديواروں کو آئينوں سے ہے ميں نے سجايا
مہمانوں کے آرام کو حاضر ہيں بچھونے
ہر شخص کو ساماں يہ ميسر نہيں ہوتا
مکھي نے کہا خير ، يہ سب ٹھيک ہے ليکن
ميں آپ کے گھر آئوں ، يہ اميد نہ رکھنا
ان نرم بچھونوں سے خدا مجھ کو بچائے
سو جائے کوئي ان پہ تو پھر اٹھ نہيں سکتا
مکڑے نے کہا دل ميں سني بات جو اس کي
پھانسوں اسے کس طرح يہ کم بخت ہے دانا
سو کام خوشامد سے نکلتے ہيں جہاں ميں
ديکھو جسے دنيا ميں خوشامد کا ہے بندا
يہ سوچ کے مکھي سے کہا اس نے بڑي بي !
اللہ نے بخشا ہے بڑا آپ کو رتبا
ہوتي ہے اسے آپ کي صورت سے محبت
ہو جس نے کبھي ايک نظر آپ کو ديکھا
آنکھيں ہيں کہ ہيرے کي چمکتي ہوئي کنياں
سر آپ کا اللہ نے کلغي سے سجايا
يہ حسن ، يہ پوشاک ، يہ خوبي ، يہ صفائي
پھر اس پہ قيامت ہے يہ اڑتے ہوئے گانا
مکھي نے سني جب يہ خوشامد تو پسيجي
بولي کہ نہيں آپ سے مجھ کو کوئي کھٹکا
انکار کي عادت کو سمجھتي ہوں برا ميں
سچ يہ ہے کہ دل توڑنا اچھا نہيں ہوتا
يہ بات کہي اور اڑي اپني جگہ سے
پاس آئي تو مکڑے نے اچھل کر اسے پکڑا
بھوکا تھا کئي روز سے اب ہاتھ جو آئي
آرام سے گھر بيٹھ کے مکھي کو اڑايا

Now, very losely translated:

Translation
One day a spider said to a fly
"Though you pass this way daily

My hut has never been honored by you
By making a chance visit it inside

Though depriving strangers of a visit does not matter
Evading the near and dear ones does not look good

My house will be honored by a visit by you
A ladder is before you if you decide to step in

Hearing this the fly said to the spider,
"Sir, you should entice some simpleton thus

This fly would never be pulled into your net
Whoever climbed your net could never step down"

The spider said, "How strange, you consider me a cheat
I have never seen a simpleton like you in the world

I only wanted to entertain you
I had no personal gain in view

You have come flying from some unknown distant place
Resting for a while in my house would not harm you

Many things in this house are worth your seeing
Though apparently a humble hut you are seeing

Dainty drapes are hanging from the doors
And I have decorated the walls with mirrors

Beddings are available for guests’ comforts
Not to everyone’s lot do fall these comforts".

The fly said, "All this may very well be
But do not expect me to enter your house

"May God protect me from these soft beds
Once asleep in them getting up again is impossible"


The spider spoke to itself on hearing this talk
"How to trap it? This wretched fellow is clever

Many desires are fulfilled with flattery in the world
All in the world are enslaved with flattery"

Thinking this the spider spoke to the fly thus!
"Madam, God has bestowed great honors on you!

Everyone loves your beautiful face
Even if someone sees you for the first time

Your eyes look like clusters of glittering diamonds
God has adorned your beautiful head with a plume

This beauty, this dress, this elegance, this neatness!
And all this is very much enhanced by singing in flight".

The fly was touched by this flattery
And spoke, "I do not fear you any more

I hate the habit of declining requests
Disappointing somebody is bad indeed"

Saying this it flew from its place
When it got close the spider snapped it

The spider had been starving for many days
The fly provided a good leisurely meal

[Scheherazade]

An Apple Gathering

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.

With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.

Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.

Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.

So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!

I let me neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.

Christina Rossetti

[Scheherazade]

An Apple Gathering

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.

I have never been to an apple gathering but to me, this poem expresses a deep longing, a regret for missed opportunities and very sad. Its melancholic tone keeps echoing all the way through... and in my head.

[ghideon]

Lawrence's poem is not great but it is blunt and still works decently in it's aesthetics'. It reminds me of the classic French film The Discreet Charms Of The Bouregoise. Anyone seen it?

[OZEED]

I really love this one by Poe. I try and read it at the very least once a week.
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM


Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

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?

by Edgar Allan Poe

My favorite lines are...

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,

[Scheherazade]

The Ballad of East and West

OH, EAST is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride:
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides:
“Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
“If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair,
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men.
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”
The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of the gallows-tree.
The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat—
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
“Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.”
It’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never a man was seen.
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive,
“’Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”
Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “Do good to bird and beast,
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay.
They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain,
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup,
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,—howl, dog, and call them up!
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my own way back!”
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
“No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet.
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?”
Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father’s gift—by God, she has carried a man!”
The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast;
“We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best.
So she shall go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.”
The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
“Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; “will ye take the mate from a friend?”
“A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb.
Thy father has sent his son to me, I’ll send my son to him!”
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest—
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
“Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides,
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
Thy life is his—thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
So, thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine,
And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace of the Border-line,
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power—
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.”

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
The Colonel’s son he rides the mare and Kamal’s boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear—
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
“Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son. “Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night ’Tis a man of the Guides!”

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!

Rudyard Kipling

[Whifflingpin]

The Arsenal at Springfield


This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[bluevictim]

The Arsenal at Springfield
...

What a powerful poem.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

I can't help recalling the similes that Homer uses comparing war with nature. Quite a reversal.

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!

Again, in direct opposition to classical heroic ethics.

[macg1]

Friday, January 19th.

I know that there is an hour and half left before I can post this, but I'll be
asleep by then, and won't get to post one all through Friday. The poem of thes week this week happens to fall on my b-day. I decided to share a poem
that has always been clear as crystal in my memory; because of the way it
was written.

I knew that it was written with a lot of heart and mind; and it tells a story in
poem form:

The Talking Leaves
- Written by John R. Cash

Sequoia's winters were sixteen
Silent tongue spirit clean
He walked at his father's side
Across the smoking battleground
Where red and white men lay all around
So many here had died

The wind had scattered around
Snow-white leaves upon the ground
Not leaves like leaves from trees
Sequoia said "What can this be?
What's this strange thing here I see?
From where come leaves like these?"

Sequoia turned to his father's eyes,
And he said: "Father you are wise,
From where come such snow-white leaves?
With such strange marks upon these squares
Not even the wise owl could put them there.
So strange these snow-white leaves."

His father shielding his concern
Resenting the knowledge Sequoia yearned
Crumbled the snow-white leaves
He said "When I explain then it's done.
These are talking leaves my son;
The white man's talking leaves.

"The white man takes a berry of black and red
And an eagle's feather from the eaglett's bed
And he makes bird track marks
And the marks on the leaves they say
Carry messages to his brother far away
And his brother knows what's in his heart.

"They see these marks and they understand
The truth and the heart of the far-off man.
The enemies can't hear them."
Said Sequoia's father "Son they weave bad medicine on these talking leaves.
Leave such things to them."

Then Sequoia walking lightly
Followed his father quietly
But so amazed was he
If the white man talks on leaves
Why not the Cherokee

Banished from his father's face
Sequoia went from place to place
But he could not forget
Year after year he worked on and on
Til finally he cut into stone
The Cherokee alphabet

Sequoia's hair by know was white
His eyes begin to lose their light
But he taught all who would believe
That the Indian's thoughts could be written down
Just as the white man's there on the ground
And he left us these talking leaves

This is a poem (not a song), which Johnny Cash wrote and recited
on his 1964 album:
"Bitter Tears: Ballads Of The American Indian."
(Fact about the author: Johnny Cash was partly of Cherokee ancestry.)

[Jean-Baptiste]

I know I'm a day late, but I forgot to do this yesterday.

LIGHTHEARTED WILLIAM

Lighthearted William twirled
his November moustaches
and, half dressed, looked
from the bedroom window
upon the spring weather.

Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily
leaning out to see
up and down the street
where a heavy sunlight
lay beyond some blue shadows.

Into the room he drew
his head again and laughed
to himself quietly
twirling his green moustaches.

~William Carlos Williams

Isn't that great stuff? Who else can you depend upon to write a poem like that? I've been laughing to myself about it for weeks. I love the idea of WCW gaily sighing Heigh-ya! He's very good at conveying the intensely personal moment. What do you think?

[ktd222]

I forgot all about this thread. We should definitely try to revive it.

[Jean-Baptiste]

I know I'm a day late, but I forgot to do this yesterday.



Isn't that great stuff? Who else can you depend upon to write a poem like that? I've been laughing to myself about it for weeks. I love the idea of WCW gaily sighing Heigh-ya! He's very good at conveying the intensely personal moment. What do you think?

Ta-daaa! Revived!