Poetree

While my name means poetry in Sanskrit, the talent in this sphere has been found to be severely wanting.

I stumbled upon this poem I had scribbled  years ago on the evil of dowry &… I was impressed.

There was hope to live up to my name.

So what if there’s no rhyme or meter & all other things the literati define?

Beautiful ornaments
Around my neck,
Based on which they
Decided my worth.

*

How miserable
That the sheen
Of the heart,
Judged by the glitter
Of a diamond’s art.

*     *     *

Advertisements

The Bread Knife

A poem by my dear 12 year old niece, Eden.

The Bread Knife

A bread knife I was,

A bread knife I am.

I sat there on the shelf,

Of the Winchester’s store.

*   *   *

A man walked in,

One fine day.

He took me, and made me,

Cut all the bread.

*   *   *

I cut hard bread and soft bread.

Fresh bread and stale bread.

Wheat bread and flour bread,

Until one day I could cut,

No more bread.

*   *   *

He tried to sharpen me,

But I could not be sharpened.

He tried to shape me,

But I could not be shaped.

*   *   *

He hadn’t taken care of me,

He had to throw me away.

*   *   *

A bread knife I was,

A bread knife I no longer am.

*   *   *

J. Alfred Prufrock

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot must be ‘attempted’ to be read at least once in one’s lifetime. If you can figure it out, that’s just as well too. The part I enjoyed most is the terrific imagery of the feline of the species, the regular cat, in the extract below –

 
     The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes 
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, 
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, 
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, 
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,        
And seeing that it was a soft October night, 
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. 

 
And indeed there will be time 
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, 
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         
There will be time, there will be time 
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; 
There will be time to murder and create, 
And time for all the works and days of hands 
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         
Time for you and time for me, 
And time yet for a hundred indecisions, 
And for a hundred visions and revisions, 
Before the taking of a toast and tea.  

 
In the room the women come and go         
Talking of Michelangelo.  

 
And indeed there will be time 
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” 
Time to turn back and descend the stair, 
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) 
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, 
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— 
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) 
Do I dare         
Disturb the universe? 
In a minute there is time 
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Lead kindly Light

A classic Hymn from the 1800’s…poetry with a divine touch, sombre though it be.

The Pillar of Cloud

by

John Henry Newman

 

LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
    Lead Thou me on! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home,— 
    Lead Thou me on! 
Keep Thou my feet! I do not ask to see        
The distant scene—one step enough for me. 

 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 
    Shouldst lead me on; 
I loved to choose and see my path; but now 
    Lead Thou me on!         
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years!  

 
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
    Will lead me on, 
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till         
    The night is gone, 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 

Invictus

While I don’t necessarily subscribe to the  theology or even the ideology of the poem,  it is an interesting poem no doubt of a stubborn ‘unconquerable soul’ 🙂 

Invictus

by
William Ernest Henley

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.

If – Rudyard Kipling

Some poems have the ability to inspire & strengthen. If  by Rudyard Kipling is one of those poems I have never tired of reading…

If

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

 

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!