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Nobody is shamed twice.

Ghanaian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gareth And Lynette

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
Or evil king before my lance if lance
Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
Linger with vacillating obedience,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
In ever-highering eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the summertime,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
For he is alway sullen: what care I?'

And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'

And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunting round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Shamed Into Love

(written by elvis costello, submitted by craig ciccone)
I fear, my dear
Weve forgotten the things strangers do
If we could look back
To the terrible thrill that we knew
Am I imagining a world without you?
Must we be shamed into love?
What can I say?
Will you pardon my stupid embrace?
Sometimes Im desperate
While youre wiping the smile from your face
Am I surrendering, or am I replaced?
Must we be shamed into love?
Shamed into love
Youre once a fool for having it
Twice for letting it go
Somewhere, my love, theres a feeling deep inside of me
That I cant let go
Oh, youll never know
But then, my darling
Ive forbidden myself to confess
Ive looked around now
But I always return to your face
In a world where everything
I once cursed, I bless
It must be you who shamed me into love
Must we be shamed into love?

song performed by Elvis Costello
Added by Lucian Velea
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Floyd The Barber (KAOS-FM Radio Apr 87)

Bell On Door Ring (Clang), Come On In
Floyd observes my hairy chin
Sit down in the chair don't be afraid
Steaming hot towel on my face
I was shaved
I was shamed
I was shaved
Barney ties me to the chair
I can't see I'm really scared
Floyd breathes hard, I hear a zip
Pee-Pee pressed against my lips
I was shaved
I was shamed
I was shaved
I sense others in the room
Opie, Aunt Bea I presume
They take turns and cut me up
I die smothered in Aunt Bee's muff...
I was shamed
I was shamed
I was shaved

song performed by Nirvana
Added by Lucian Velea
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It Wasnt Me

It wasnt me who shamed you
Its not fair to say that
You wanted to work I gave you a chance at that
It wasnt me who hurt you
Thats more credit that Im worth
Dont threaten me with the things youll do to you
It wasnt me who shamed you
It wasnt me who brought you down
You did it to yourself without any help from me
It wasnt me who hurt you
I showed you possibilities
The problems you had were there before you met me
I didnt say this had to be
You cant blame these things on me
It wasnt me, it wasnt me, it wasnt me
I know shes dead, it wasnt me
It wasnt me who changed you
You did it to yourself
Im not an excuse for the hole you dropped in
Im not simple minded
But Im not father to you at all
Death exists but you do things to yourself
I never said give up control
I never said stick a needle in your arm and die
It wasnt me, it wasnt me, it wasnt me
I know hes dead but it wasnt me
It wasnt me who shamed you
Who covered you with mud
You did it to yourself without any help from me
You act as I couldve told you
Or stopped you like some god
But people never listen and you know that thats a fact
I never said slit your wrists and die
I never said throw your life away
It wasnt me, it wasnt me, it wasnt me
Youre killing yourself, you cant blame me

song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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Running Dry

Oh, please help me, oh please help me,
I'm livin' by myself.
I need someone to comfort me,
I need someone to tell.
I'm sorry for the things i've done,
I've shamed myself with lies,
But soon these things are overcome
And can't be recognized.
I left my love with ribbons on
And water in her eyes.
I took from her the love i'd won
And turned it to the sky.
I'm sorry for the things i've done,
I've shamed myself with lies,
My cruelty has punctured me
And now i'm running dry.
I'm sorry for the things i've done,
I've shamed myself with lies.
But soon these things are overcome
And can't be recognized.

song performed by Neil Young
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sohrab and Rustum

And the first grey of morning fill'd the east,
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.
But all the Tartar camp along the stream
Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep;
Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;
But when the grey dawn stole into his tent,
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent,
And went abroad into the cold wet fog,
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent.

Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere
Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand,
And to a hillock came, a little back
From the stream's brink--the spot where first a boat,
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.
The men of former times had crown'd the top
With a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and now
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent,
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread.
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood
Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent,
And found the old man sleeping on his bed
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step
Was dull'd; for he slept light, an old man's sleep;
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:--

"Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn.
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?"

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:--
"Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I.
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,
In Samarcand, before the army march'd;
And I will tell thee what my heart desires.
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first
I came among the Tartars and bore arms,
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown,
At my boy's years, the courage of a man.
This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world,

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Arnold (1853)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Man

I am a man as a man I've been told
Bacon is brought to the house in this mold
Born of your bellies I yearn for the cord
Years I have groveled repentance ignored

And I have been blamed
And I have repented
I'm working my way toward our union mended

I am man who has grown from a son
Been crucified by enraged women
I am son who was raised by such men
I'm often reminded of the fools I'm among

And I have been shamed
And I have relented
I'm working my way toward our union mended
And I have been shamed
And I have repented
I'm working my way toward our union mended

we don't fare well with endless reprimands
we don't do well with a life served as a sentence
this won't work well if you're hell bent on your offence
I am a man who understands your resistance

I am a man who still does what he can
to dispel our archaic reputation
I am a man who has heard all he can
cuz I don't fare well with endless punishment

Cuz I have been blamed and I have repented
I'm working my way toward our union mended
And we have been blamed and we have repented
I'm working my way toward our union mended

song performed by Alanis Morissette from Under Rug Swept
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sticks And Stones

People talkin', tryin' to break us up
Why don't they let us be
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But talk don't bother me
(No) People talkin', tryin' to break us up
When they know that I love you so
So I don't care what the people might say
I'm never gonna let you go
I've been abused (I've been abused)
In my heart (I've been accused)
I've been accused (I've been accused)
I've been rebuked and I've been stomped
(Well) People talkin', tryin' to break us up
They're scandalizing my name
They'll say anything just to make me feel bad
They'll say anything to make me shamed
I've been abused (I've been abused)
In my heart (I've been accused)
I've been accused (I've been accused)
I've been rebuked and I've been stomped
(Well) People talkin', tryin' to break us up
They're scandalizing my name
They'll say anything just to make me feel bad
They'll say anything to make me shamed

song performed by Elvis Costello
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Situation

(I'm) so shamed about
the way I liked to turn you on
just having fun
a crazy end
who could have known
that we were one
and sometimes none
hey now I like it here and have a little bit of fun there
with everybody who's too good to go
'cause deep down I still care for
you but I don't know why we can't make it work
like we act as (as) we are
so shamed about
the way I liked to turn you on
just having fun
but I'm sorry..
that we were one
and sometimes none
hey now I like it here and have a little bit of fun there
with everybody who's too good to go
'cause deep down I still care for
you but I don't know why we can't make it work
like we act as (as) we are
hey now I like it here and have a little bit of fun there
with everybody who's too good to go
'cause deep down I still care for
you but I don't know why we can't make it work
like we act as (as) we are

song performed by Zornik
Added by Lucian Velea
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III. The Other Half-Rome

Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hymn Of Man

In the grey beginning of years, in the twilight of things that began,
The word of the earth in the ears of the world, was it God? was it man?
The word of the earth to the spheres her sisters, the note of her song,
The sound of her speech in the ears of the starry and sisterly throng,
Was it praise or passion or prayer, was it love or devotion or dread,
When the veils of the shining air first wrapt her jubilant head?
When her eyes new-born of the night saw yet no star out of reach;
When her maiden mouth was alight with the flame of musical speech;
When her virgin feet were set on the terrible heavenly way,
And her virginal lids were wet with the dew of the birth of the day:
Eyes that had looked not on time, and ears that had heard not of death;
Lips that had learnt not the rhyme of change and passionate breath,
The rhythmic anguish of growth, and the motion of mutable things,
Of love that longs and is loth, and plume-plucked hope without wings,
Passions and pains without number, and life that runs and is lame,
From slumber again to slumber, the same race set for the same,
Where the runners outwear each other, but running with lampless hands
No man takes light from his brother till blind at the goal he stands:
Ah, did they know, did they dream of it, counting the cost and the worth?
The ways of her days, did they seem then good to the new-souled earth?
Did her heart rejoice, and the might of her spirit exult in her then,
Child yet no child of the night, and motherless mother of men?
Was it Love brake forth flower-fashion, a bird with gold on his wings,
Lovely, her firstborn passion, and impulse of firstborn things?
Was Love that nestling indeed that under the plumes of the night
Was hatched and hidden as seed in the furrow, and brought forth bright?
Was it Love lay shut in the shell world-shaped, having over him there
Black world-wide wings that impel the might of the night through air?
And bursting his shell as a bird, night shook through her sail-stretched vans,
And her heart as a water was stirred, and its heat was the firstborn man's.
For the waste of the dead void air took form of a world at birth,
And the waters and firmaments were, and light, and the life-giving earth.
The beautiful bird unbegotten that night brought forth without pain
In the fathomless years forgotten whereover the dead gods reign,
Was it love, life, godhead, or fate? we say the spirit is one
That moved on the dark to create out of darkness the stars and the sun.
Before the growth was the grower, and the seed ere the plant was sown;
But what was seed of the sower? and the grain of him, whence was it grown?
Foot after foot ye go back and travail and make yourselves mad;
Blind feet that feel for the track where highway is none to be had.
Therefore the God that ye make you is grievous, and gives not aid,
Because it is but for your sake that the God of your making is made.
Thou and I and he are not gods made men for a span,
But God, if a God there be, is the substance of men which is man.
Our lives are as pulses or pores of his manifold body and breath;
As waves of his sea on the shores where birth is the beacon of death.
We men, the multiform features of man, whatsoever we be,
Recreate him of whom we are creatures, and all we only are he.
Not each man of all men is God, but God is the fruit of the whole;
Indivisible spirit and blood, indiscernible body from soul.

[...] Read more

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Medea in Athens

Dead is he? Yes, our stranger guest said dead--
said it by noonday, when it seemed a thing
most natural and so indifferent
as if the tale ran that a while ago
there died a man I talked with a chance hour
when he by chance was near me. If I spoke
"Good news for us but ill news for the dead
when the gods sweep a villain down to them,"
'twas the prompt trick of words, like a pat phrase
from some one other's song, found on the lips
and used because 'tis there: for through all day
the news seemed neither good nor ill to me.

And now, when day with all its useless talk
and useless smiles and idiots' prying eyes
that impotently peer into one's life,
when day with all its seemly lying shows
has gone its way and left pleased fools to sleep,
while weary mummers, taking off the mask,
discern that face themselves forgot anon
and, sitting in the lap of sheltering night,
learn their own secrets from her--even now
does it seem either good or ill to me?
No, but mere strange.

And this most strange of all
that I care nothing.

Nay, how wild thought grows.
Meseems one came and told of Jason's death:
but 'twas a dream. Else should I, wondering thus,
reck not of him, nor with the virulent hate
that should be mine against mine enemy,
nor with that weakness which sometimes I feared
should this day make me, not remembering Glaucè,
envy him to death as though he had died mine?

Can he be dead? It were so strange a world
with him not in it.

Dimly I recall
some prophecy a god breathed by my mouth.
It could not err. What was it? For I think;--
it told his death¹.

Has a god come to me?
Is it thou, my Hecate? How know I all?
For I know all as if from long ago:
and I know all beholding instantly.
Is not that he, arisen through the mists?--

[...] Read more

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Guilt Is Not A Natural Condition

We are told we won’t get punished
if we admit we lied,
How about we get rewarded
for being honest and I will explain why.
Why should we live in fear,
when alls we have to do is be sincere.
Why should we be shamed,
and worry if we will get blamed?
These conditions are not of our
natural human condition,
they were CONDITIONED on to us
so let’s change how we ride this CRAZY bus.
Let’s teach children it’s O.K. to express how
they feel, that their feelings are valid and real.
That they won't be shamed if they make a mistake,
they are just learning for heaven's sake.
Society and certain religions make us feel ashamed,
so they can control us at their game.
Well, let’s change this Planetary Dream,
stop judging, blaming, enforcing punishment
which is the extreme.

Written By Christina Sunrise on February 7,2012

www.christinasunrise.com

poem by Christina Sunrise
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Orchestral Proportions

Generation subsequent, momentum gallops,
Running freely awesome natures rides.
As the wild hunt frolics in the sky.
Politicians in unison must recognise
That which the people keep well disguised.
Hidden from the view of pigsty atrocities stewing,
Boiling, frothing forth a flock of birds
As they tweet in twee harmonies
Of orchestral proportions unheard.

The Sky pale blue and bluer still
The Lovers locked upon the hill,
As we question what it is to love,

What it is to be free in a society that
Feeds you your history the way they would have it,
They way they read it through tainted eyes of bias magnitudes,
All to feed an attitude of hatred for their brother,
Each black ribbon sister in distress.

Confessions uttered through pain of inescapable agony,
Confessions granted under duress.
Messy scenes the mob obscene is outside the courtroom waiting.
Chained to the railings, Freedoms voice is heard through a thousand violent shades,
Fading, jaded, barely recognisable above the din, drowning in the white.
Drowning out of sight.

How can we trust a law that is no law unto itself?
How can we know who we are if we are to place
Individuality upon the shelf? As we are adorned as one in many,
Within uniform conformity as its rages upon the souls of the young,
The teachers say it’s better as you can’t rich from poor
Yet to be poor it is no illness and to be rich there is no cure.

How can we come to trust a heaven that will allow you to
Buy your time from hells despite? How can we trust a church
That would have you blinded from the light?
Mumbled under wings of fire angelic confessions due,
How can we trust a bird when 2000 years ago he flew?

I feel sorry for the bird, for the littlest of lambs,
Sacrificed for the sins of man when no sin had found its manifestation
From his hand. All that’s wrong has been done in his name,
The littlest of lambs, his memory shamed,
By the blood of every man that kills with him in heart,
Shamed into slavery to bear the bitter cup of injustice,
Done in the name of his own father from whom he
Never should have parted.

poem by David Lacey
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Modern Love

I

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,
The strange low sobs that shook their common bed
Were called into her with a sharp surprise,
And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,
Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay
Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away
With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes
Her giant heart of Memory and Tears
Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat
Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet
Were moveless, looking through their dead black years,
By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.
Like sculptured effigies they might be seen
Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;
Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

II

It ended, and the morrow brought the task.
Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in
By shutting all too zealous for their sin:
Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.
But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had!
He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers:
A languid humour stole among the hours,
And if their smiles encountered, he went mad,
And raged deep inward, till the light was brown
Before his vision, and the world, forgot,
Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.
A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown
The pit of infamy: and then again
He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove
To ape the magnanimity of love,
And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.

III

This was the woman; what now of the man?
But pass him. If he comes beneath a heel,
He shall be crushed until he cannot feel,
Or, being callous, haply till he can.
But he is nothing:- nothing? Only mark
The rich light striking out from her on him!
Ha! what a sense it is when her eyes swim
Across the man she singles, leaving dark
All else! Lord God, who mad'st the thing so fair,
See that I am drawn to her even now!

[...] Read more

poem by George Meredith
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The Cloud's Swan-Song

There is a parable in the pathless cloud,
There's prophecy in heaven,--they did not lie,
The Chaldee shepherds; seal-ed from the proud,
To cheer the weighted heart that mates the seeing eye.

A lonely man, oppressed with lonely ills,
And all the glory fallen from my song,
Here do I walk among the windy hills,
The wind and I keep both one monotoning tongue.

Like grey clouds one by one my songs upsoar
Over my soul's cold peaks; and one by one
They loose their little rain, and are no more;
And whether well or ill, to tell me there is none.

For 'tis an alien tongue, of alien things,
From all men's care, how miserably apart!
Even my friends say: 'Of what is this he sings?'
And barren is my song, and barren is my heart.

For who can work, unwitting his work's worth?
Better, meseems, to know the work for naught,
Turn my sick course back to the kindly earth,
And leave to ampler plumes the jetting tops of thought.

And visitations, that do often use,
Remote, unhappy, inauspicious sense
Of doom, and poets widowed of their muse,
And what dark 'gan, dark ended, in me did commence.

I thought of spirit wronged by mortal ills,
And my flesh rotting on my fate's dull stake;
And how self-scorn-ed they the bounty fills
Of others, and the bread, even of their dearest, take.

I thought of Keats, that died in perfect time,
In predecease of his just-sickening song;
Of him that set, wrapt in his radiant rhyme,
Sunlike in sea. Life longer had been life too long.

But I, exanimate of quick Poesy,--
O then, no more but even a soulless corse!
Nay, my Delight dies not; 'tis I should be
Her dead, a stringless harp on which she had no force.

Of my wild lot I thought; from place to place,
Apollo's song-bowed Scythian, I go on;
Making in all my home, with pliant ways,
But, provident of change, putting forth root in none.

[...] Read more

poem by Francis Thompson
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The Sage Enamoured And The Honest Lady

I

One fairest of the ripe unwedded left
Her shadow on the Sage's path; he found,
By common signs, that she had done a theft.
He could have made the sovereign heights resound
With questions of the wherefore of her state:
He on far other but an hour before
Intent. And was it man, or was it mate,
That she disdained? or was there haply more?

About her mouth a placid humour slipped
The dimple, as you see smooth lakes at eve
Spread melting rings where late a swallow dipped.
The surface was attentive to receive,
The secret underneath enfolded fast.
She had the step of the unconquered, brave,
Not arrogant; and if the vessel's mast
Waved liberty, no challenge did it wave.
Her eyes were the sweet world desired of souls,
With something of a wavering line unspelt.
They hold the look whose tenderness condoles
For what the sister in the look has dealt
Of fatal beyond healing; and her tones
A woman's honeyed amorous outvied,
As when in a dropped viol the wood-throb moans
Among the sobbing strings, that plain and chide
Like infants for themselves, less deep to thrill
Than those rich mother-notes for them breathed round.
Those voices are not magic of the will
To strike love's wound, but of love's wound give sound,
Conveying it; the yearnings, pains and dreams.
They waft to the moist tropics after storm,
When out of passion spent thick incense steams,
And jewel-belted clouds the wreck transform.

Was never hand on brush or lyre to paint
Her gracious manners, where the nuptial ring
Of melody clasped motion in restraint:
The reed-blade with the breeze thereof may sing.
With such endowments armed was she and decked
To make her spoken thoughts eclipse her kind;
Surpassing many a giant intellect,
The marvel of that cradled infant mind.
It clenched the tiny fist, it curled the toe;
Cherubic laughed, enticed, dispensed, absorbed;
And promised in fair feminine to grow
A Sage's match and mate, more heavenly orbed.

II

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poem by George Meredith
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I Have No Place

I have no where to go and hide
The world has been torn apart and made wide
I have no face to reveal cruelty being inflicted
Divinity is shamed and faith is dissected

What is wrong with my appearance?
Lovely face and red cheeks by chance
Can no one take it as god gift at once?
Why at all outrage with beautiful flower with mad chase?

I am brought to disrespect and shame
Where do I cry and try to put the blame?
Who will listen to my woes and come to rescue?
Life is now in doldrums and needs honest review

Humanity is shamed for want of nothing
I am put to hell with no more soothing
Words don’t appeal me and frighten with cruel face
Is there any cause for me now to believe them in any case?

Who can help me to wake the soul?
That has been killed and witnessed by an owl
Night action performed with all form of nakedness
I could only cry to witness ugly scene of wickedness

I have no means to forgive them or condemn
As life may witness ugly turn and damn
I shall be pushed from wall to wall
Certainly a living hell to experience with fall

Nothing can be brought back now to normal
I am in deep shock and may now be crushed by windfall
I shall be hunted and vultures may be set for pounce of blood
What will be now open for me as reasonably good?

I know nothing about dark clouds
The words are spoken with fear and loud
I have nothing left in me to feel proud
Yet life can’t be thrown away and left out

I shall fight the world with positive aim
Ask for no mercy but certainly argue with no claim
Life can’t be ruined by vultures in open field
All females must unite and operate under shield

I may not be condemned as destitute or whore
But what else I can lead life for and explore?
There may be nothing good left in the store
As ladies may always be condemned for crying more

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Ungrateful stage

Ungrateful stage

We are heading towards ungrateful stage
Country is shamed with no affairs to manage
Not that we lack confidence and skill
But there is deficiency of trust and will

How have we remained ungrateful for days?
What pulls us to remain aloof and stay away?
Why doesn’t it bother us for the supreme sacrifice?
How many have laid their lives for committed promises?

We have remained ceremonial in offering gratitude
There is lack of respect and apathy in our attitude
We love the country but not its departed sons
We think, why do we care for causes and reasons?

They were no fools but our well wishers
They could enjoy luxury and comfortably usher
Yet they preferred stones and prisons
Did not change even changed the seasons

Our soldiers are dying everyday for holy land
Still we find no sympathy for them as true friends
Who on this earth is ready to loose life for money?
Is it not the fault with our thinking and mere pity?

We have remembered father of the nation
But kept no ideals with any of the relation
We sit on strike as soon as interests affected
Burnt national properties and irrationally acted

On his name we have made shamed nation
We have looted national property including ration
Poor are no more at our heart for any future use
We have all sympathy and schemes without any truce

We are cheating today the soul and sprit of great father
I wish he could have lived and witness further
He would have uttered “he Ram”(O, Ram) not with pride
But would have uttered “hai ram”(Oh, Rama) help me to hide

You have remained ideal for few but idol for cheaters
Single place to worship and safe heaven for shooters
The independence and freedom is used only by Government
Safe heaven and passage for any concealing movement

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Pharsalia - Book X: Caesar In Egypt

When Caesar, following those who bore the head,
First trod the shore accursed, with Egypt's fates
His fortunes battled, whether Rome should pass
In crimson conquest o'er the guilty land,
Or Memphis' arms should ravish from the world
Victor and vanquished: and the warning shade
Of Magnus saved his kinsman from the sword.

First, by the crime assured, his standards borne
Before, he marched upon the Pharian town;
But when the people, jealous of their laws,
Murmured against the fasces, Caesar knew
Their minds were adverse, and that not for him
Was Magnus' murder wrought. And yet with brow
Dissembling fear, intrepid, through the shrines
Of Egypt's gods he strode, and round the fane
Of ancient Isis; bearing witness all
To Macedon's vigour in the days of old.
Yet did nor gold nor ornament restrain
His hasting steps, nor worship of the gods,
Nor city ramparts: but in greed of gain
He sought the cave dug out amid the tombs.
The madman offspring there of Philip lies
The famed Pellaean robber, fortune's friend,
Snatched off by fate, avenging so the world.
In sacred sepulchre the hero's limbs,
Which should be scattered o'er the earth, repose,
Still spared by Fortune to these tyrant days:
For in a world to freedom once recalled,
All men had mocked the dust of him who set
The baneful lesson that so many lands
Can serve one master. Macedon he left
His home obscure; Athena he despised
The conquest of his sire, and spurred by fate
Through Asia rushed with havoc of mankind,
Plunging his sword through peoples; streams unknown
Ran red with Persian and with Indian blood.
Curse of all earth and thunderbolt of ill
To every nation! On the outer sea
He launched his fleet to sail the ocean wave:
Nor flame nor flood nor sterile Libyan sands
Stayed back his course, nor Hammon's pathless shoals;
Far to the west, where downward slopes the world
He would have led his armies, and the poles
Had compassed, and had drunk the fount of Nile:
But came his latest day; such end alone
Could nature place upon the madman king,
Who jealous in death as when he won the world
His empire with him took, nor left an heir.
Thus every city to the spoiler's hand

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poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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