Taj The Beautiful

A beautiful poem by my niece Eden.

Taj The Beautiful

A gem in white
A gift of love,
It sits amidst clouds of fog.

One will stare, in awe,
Marveled by its beauty
Fascinated by the intricate patterns that are engraved in the precious stone.

A ray of light will appear from behind
As the orange morning star emerges
It sheds light on the truth,
The reason this artistry exists,
Making her death, seem the most beautiful part of life.
Making their love seem immortal,
Which it is.

The tomb, is a symbol of passion,
The structure’s excellence, powerful enough hold it, through anything,
But not as strong as the passion that created it.

So it stands,
Unbreakable,
Protected by the everlasting devotion,
It is the Taj Mahal.

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O frabjous day!

It’s always enjoyable reading¬†Jabberwocky.

Lewis Carroll’s utterly nonsensical poem written in 1872.

In the realm of nonsense poems, this is considered one of the greatest ūüôā

Who said everything had to make sense in any case?

So as you go galumphing through the gyre & gimble of life,

Or have those uffish thoughts,

Clutch your vorpal sword & mark those frumious plots.

It will strengthen you.

I hope.

Have a frabjous Sunday.

~  *  ~

Jabberwocky

by

Lewis Carroll

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

*

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
 Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
¬†The frumious¬†Bandersnatch!”

*

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
¬†Long time the manxome foe he sought —
 So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

*

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
 The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
 Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
 And burbled as it came!

*

One, two! One, two! And through and through
 The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
 He went galumphing back.

*

“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
¬†O frabjous¬†day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.

*

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
 All mimsy were the borogoves,
 And the mome raths outgrabe.

**

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.

*     *     *

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.

*   *   *

Space

I can’t think of a more eloquent description of the need for space than this beautiful piece from The Prophet by¬†Khalil Gibran –

 

Let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

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, ‚ÄúDo I dare?‚ÄĚ and, ‚ÄúDo I dare?‚Ä̬†
Time to turn back and descend the stair, 
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair‚ÄĒ¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†
(They will say: ‚ÄúHow his hair is growing thin!‚ÄĚ)¬†
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, 
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin‚ÄĒ¬†
(They will say: ‚ÄúBut how his arms and legs are thin!‚ÄĚ)¬†
Do I dare         
Disturb the universe? 
In a minute there is time 
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.