"Nature

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please
him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we
know."

--- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Rather apt to see "The Charge of The Light Brigade" following hard on the heels of a few remarks about Test Cricket!
We still haven't forgotten the "bodyline" series either!
What a poor show!

I do not like poetry. It was shovelled down my throat at school, perhaps thats the reason. Why describe a situation in gobbledygook. I think it originated as class thing, don't let the masses know what we are talking about. Poor man be he who can not see the beauty in original use of words. Yeah right.

I agree Ande.... I think poets are failed songwriters.

Hey, Ande... go to Lord Vimal's ---Hey, JamMeister33 thread... go to post #20 and click on the link..
That oughta fix ya up better, my friend.....

Words are only gobbledygook to the linguistically inept. Poor intellectually subjugated masses, I feel so sorry for you

JamMeister33,Thats poetry. Jafo writes real good.

What are ya sayin Fuzzy, Someone whated he say? Is he pikin on us.

At dawn shey(1) departed
My mind tried to console me -
" Everything is Maya(2)".
Angrily I replied:
"Here's this sewing box on the table,
that flower-pot on the terrace,
this monogrammed hand-fan on the bed---
all these are real."

My mind said: "Yet, think again."
I rejoined: " You better stop.
Look at this storybook,
the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves,
signaling the rest is unread;
if all these things are "Maya",
then why should "shey" be more unreal?"


My mind becomes silent.
A friend arrived and says:
"That which is good is real
it is never non-existent;
entire world preserves and cherishes it its chest
like a precious jewel in a necklace."


I replied in anger: "How do you know?
Is a body not good? Where did that body go?"


Like a small boy in a rage hitting his mother,
I began to strike at everything in this world
that gave me shelter.
And I screamed:" The world is treacherous."


Suddenly, I was startled.
It seemed like someone admonished me :" You- ungrateful ! "


I looked at the crescent moon
hidden behind the tamarisk tree outside my window.
As if the dear departed one is smiling
and playing hide-and-seek with me.


From the depth of darkness punctuated by scattered stars
came a rebuke: "when I let you grasp me you call it an deception,
and yet when I remain concealed,
why do you hold on to your faith in me with such conviction?"


(1): "Shey" in Bengali can mean either he or she.
(2): "Maya" meaning Unreal.

This is a translation of a Bengali poem by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore, the Nobel Prize Laureate.
Though it tries to capture the essence of the words, translations never quite make it...

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

-Edward Estlin (e.e.) Cummings

I don't know who to credit these to... they are "backwards poems"


One bright day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
back to back they faced eachother
drew their swords and shot eachother
a deaf policeman heard the noise
came and shot the two dead boys
if you don't believe this lie is true
ask the blind man
he saw too.



One fine October morning
In Septemer last July,
The moon lay thick upon the grond
The snow shone in the sky,
The flowers were singing gaily,
The brids were in full bloom,
i went down to the cellar
To sweep the upstairs room

Ladies and gentlemen,
I come before you to stand behind you,
To tell you something I know nothing about.
On Monday which is on good Friday,
There will be a mothers' meeting for fathers only,
Admission is free,
pay at the door.
Bring your own seats,
We'll sit on the floor.

goodmorphing, you know, I really understand what your poetic contribution is all about - but those other guys ??

ashu modi - perhaps if u could put up a link JM. I couldn't find the thread u were talking bout.

the thread he means is called "Msgboard Chatroom Marathon", link:

https://www.wincustomize.com/msgboard.asp?id=30506

Nah! That's already been done by the Chappelli brothers to EnZed!

Thanx Feline.
Checked out the link, but JM was kind enough to put the poem on this thread.

And Ande, poetry is all about feeling, just read a line, close ur eyes and try to feel what the poet felt when he wrote it. 'Feel the verse throbbing in ur head' and appreciate the juggelry of the words.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll

One of my favourites.

ashu modi - poetry is all about feeling, just read a line, close ur eyes and try to feel what the poet felt when he wrote it. 'Feel the verse throbbing in ur head' and appreciate the juggelry of the words.

/me *confused*

reading these poems, all i feel is confused, since the words don't seem to flow. no pictures are forming in my head.

/me speculates understanding poetry was one of the classes i didn't do at school

Still I Rise
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 backyard.

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.

There 'ya go Feline...That one should be plain enough

feline -
feline *confused*

reading these poems, all i feel is confused, since the words don't seem to flow. no pictures are forming in my head.

feline speculates understanding poetry was one of the classes i didn't do at school

feline, you don't need to take classes to appreciate poetry, you just need to feel the texture of the verse and make your own deductions. A poem can have varied meanings for different people: that's the way language is.

Feel the flow, feline, and prepared to be swept away.

"Lullaby

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

--- Thomas Dekker

Well, the only thing I can find about the backwards poem was that the author was unknown. Here is the complete version:


The famous speaker who no one had heard of said:
Ladies and jellyspoons, hobos and tramps,
cross-eyed mosquitos and bow-legged ants,
I stand before you to sit behind you
to tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
there's a Mother's Day meeting for fathers only;
wear your best clothes if you haven't any.
Please come if you can't; if you can, stay at home.
Admission is free, pay at the door;
pull up a chair and sit on the floor.
It makes no difference where you sit,
the man in the gallery's sure to spit.
The show is over, but before you go,
let me tell you a story I don't really know.
One bright day in the middle of the night,
two dead boys got up to fight.
(The blind man went to see fair play;
the mute man went to shout "hooray!")
Back to back they faced each other,
drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
and came and killed the two dead boys.
A paralysed donkey passing by
kicked the blind man in the eye;
knocked him through a nine-inch wall,
into a dry ditch and drowned them all.
If you don't believe this lie is true,
ask the blind man; he saw it too,
through a knothole in a wooden brick wall.
And the man with no legs walked away.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
R. Frost

Walk Between The Raindrops

"A shadow crossed the blue Miami sky
As we hit the causeway by the big hotels
We fought
Now I can't remember why
After all the words were said and the tears were gone
We vowed we'd never say goodbye

When we kissed we could hear the sound of thunder
As we watched the regulars rush the big hotels
We kissed again as the showers swept away the Florida shore
You opened your umbrella
But we walked between the raindrops back to your door

In my dreams I can hear the sound of thunder
I can see the causeway by the big hotels
That happy day we'll find each other on that Florida shore
You'll open your umbrella
And we'll walk between the raindrops back to your door"

--- Donald Fagen and Walter Becker

I closed my eyes and all I saw was JM33's desktop. That was a good poem James, but they must have been a skinny couple.

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye.
A fish hook,
An open eye...

-Margaret Atwood