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We really tried hard not to make it a cricket book, it appeals to a much wider community.

quote by Hansie Cronje
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Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Butterfly Flutterby

The butterfly was young
Her vibrant wings of delicate lace
Such grace such poise
A hcarming butterfly
The cricket was slick thicket
Moving quick but swift
Yet smart somewhat wise
Proud of his chirp
Hopping through the grass
Butterfly fluttered by till upon a rose
Spreading her wings a dainty show
Slowly sipping sweet
Hopping skipping
Cricket saw
Butterfly glanced
The cricket saw butterfly
The butterfly looked yonder
Cricket hopped and chirped
A jumpety crickety song
Butterfly sighed
And rolled her eyes
Cricket hopped closer
Butterfly laughed
Silly cricket trying hard
Butterfly cared less
Poor cricket hopped and hopped
Butterfly sipping nectar sweet
Cricket sang sonfter sweeter
Butterfly stopped
A song so sweet
Too lovely than nectar
Cricket hopped upon a rose
Butterfly jumped
Almost to fly away
Cricket song too lovely to fly away
Butterfly in a trance
Fluttering her wings lovely
Too charming
Too tempting
Crickect sang
Butterfly in a spell
Too late to break
Lovers forever
Strange couple though
Yet lovely
Yet happy
Suave cricket, Princess Butterfly
Flutterby, flutterby.......

poem by Bella Ravenstar
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Eighth Book

ONE eve it happened when I sate alone,
Alone upon the terrace of my tower,
A book upon my knees, to counterfeit
The reading that I never read at all,
While Marian, in the garden down below,
Knelt by the fountain (I could just hear thrill
The drowsy silence of the exhausted day)
And peeled a new fig from that purple heap
In the grass beside her,–turning out the red
To feed her eager child, who sucked at it
With vehement lips across a gap of air
As he stood opposite, face and curls a-flame
With that last sun-ray, crying, 'give me, give,'
And stamping with imperious baby-feet,
(We're all born princes)–something startled me,–
The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks
Abruptly, as if frightened at itself;
'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above
In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh,
And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book,
And knew, the first time, 'twas Boccaccio's tales,
The Falcon's,–of the lover who for love
Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us
Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no more.
Laugh you, sweet Marian! you've the right to laugh,
Since God himself is for you, and a child!
For me there's somewhat less,–and so, I sigh.

The heavens were making room to hold the night,
The sevenfold heavens unfolding all their gates
To let the stars out slowly (prophesied
In close-approaching advent, not discerned),
While still the cue-owls from the cypresses
Of the Poggio called and counted every pulse
Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually
The purple and transparent shadows slow
Had filled up the whole valley to the brim,
And flooded all the city, which you saw
As some drowned city in some enchanted sea,
Cut off from nature,–drawing you who gaze,
With passionate desire, to leap and plunge,
And find a sea-king with a voice of waves,
And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery locks
You cannot kiss but you shall bring away
Their salt upon your lips. The duomo-bell
Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms down,
So deep; and fifty churches answer it
The same, with fifty various instances.
Some gaslights tremble along squares and streets
The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire:

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I. The Ring and the Book

Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,
Effects a manageable mass, then works:
But his work ended, once the thing a ring,
Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt
O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face,
And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume;
While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains,
The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness,
Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore:
Prime nature with an added artistry—
No carat lost, and you have gained a ring.
What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say;
A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss
I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about
By the crumpled vellum covers,—pure crude fact
Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard,
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since?
Examine it yourselves! I found this book,
Gave a lira for it, eightpence English just,
(Mark the predestination!) when a Hand,
Always above my shoulder, pushed me once,
One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm,
Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths,
Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time,
Toward Baccio's marble,—ay, the basement-ledge
O' the pedestal where sits and menaces
John of the Black Bands with the upright spear,
'Twixt palace and church,—Riccardi where they lived,
His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Truth and the Devil

The devil unstoppably took pride in salaciously writing; the book of
obnoxious caste-creed and venomously penalizing hatred,

The devil unstoppably took pride in acrimoniously writing; the book of
indiscriminate bloodshed and disastrously traumatizing ruthlessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in vengefully writing; the book of
tyrannical devastation and lecherously bellicose orphaning,

The devil unstoppably took pride in fretfully writing; the book of
vindictive war and satanically criminal holocausts,

The devil unstoppably took pride in maliciously writing; the book of
coldblooded barbarism and manipulatively bizarre malice,

The devil unstoppably took pride in forlornly writing; the book of
worthless
ghosts and mortuaries brutally anointed with fresh blood,

T The devil unstoppably took pride in indigently writing; the book of
nonchalant spuriousness and fecklessly insipid meaninglessness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in torturously writing; the book of
ominous
animosity and hedonistically pugnacious illwill,

The devil unstoppably took pride in dictatorially writing; the book of
licentious bawdiness and insanely threadbare nothingness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heinously writing; the book of
lascivious poverty and baselessly crippling uncertainty,

The devil unstoppably took pride in savagely writing; the book of
despicable
defeat and lethally ballistic atrociousness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in raunchily writing; the book of
dolorous
delinquency and insidiously slandering betrayal,

The devil unstoppably took pride in preposterously writing; the book of
scurrilous lunatism and barbarously incarcerating fiendishness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in frigidly writing; the book of
jejune
mockery and impudently castigating brazenness,

The devil unstoppably took pride in heartlessly writing; the book of
ghastly
bloodshed and indefatigably bombarding politics,

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Hard Rock Kid

(tom lang/additional lyrics by myles goodwyn & mike stone)
Published by goody two tunes, inc./additional publishers - bmi
The boy inside the man, looks hard into the night
The neighborhood cant get to sleep
The stereo is playing something hard and fast
The boy is tough, he plays for keeps
No ones gonna tell him hes too wild
Everybody knows hes a problem child
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a hard time, its a fine line, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone
In the shadows, theres a heart thats beating strong
And through the night, he feels the heat
Hes like a stranger as he dances on the stage
Hes made a promise that he cant keep
But no ones gonna tell the boy hes wild
Everybody knows hes a hungry child
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a fine line, its a hard time, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone
She watches as he turns, pretending not to care
And yet she knows the way he feels
The need for love so strong, together they can win
For now the musics all thats real
But no ones gonna tell the boy hes wild
Everybody knows hes a problem child
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a hard time, its a fine line, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a hard time, its a fine line, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone

song performed by April Wine
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Wicket Cricket Critic

If the cricket critics' nagging
Merits stern official gagging
Which I doubt
How would critical ascetics,
With their prosy homiletics,
Shut it out?
And the question then arises:
If more cricketing surprises,
Such as bodyline, begin to threaten cricket,
And another stunt, when sprung,
Call for clicking of the tongue,
Should a cricket critic critically click it?

When the barrackers grow lyric
In a manner most satiric
And profane,
How, one ventures still to wonder,
May the clamor be kept under?
How restrain?
For one barbaric larrik-
In can do a lot of barrack-
In', and cause a lot of worry at the wicket.
But would sportsmen be abusing
Cricket canons in refusing
To supply that cricket critic with a ticket?

As a critic analytic
Of the cricket critics' critic
I would say,
When we criticise their cricket,
Then the players have to stick it,
Come what may.
No specific soporific
May be used; for it is diffic-
Ult to strike a critic partly paralytic.
So there's nothing gained in seeking,
As I know; and I am speaking
As a critic of the cricket critic's critic.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cricket

Reaching peak is a dream
Cricket is viamedia
To reach the peak
Cricket is a dream.

Reaching peak is a dream
Life is a dream
And dream comes true
Cricket is true.

Reaching peak is a dream
Dream is real
Pursue the dream
To enjoy life.

Reaching peak is a dream
Dream is cricket
Cricket sings the song
That enlightened life.

Reaching peak is a dream
Dream comes true
And in truth only
life becomes sincere and fluent.

Everything is cricket
And cricket that makes
both happy and sad
is the mixture that is life.

Life is cricket
Enjoy it
Sing it
And make hurrah.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Its Hard

Any tough can fight - few can play
Any tough can fight - few can play
Any fool can fall - few can lay
Any fool can fall - few can lay
Any stud can reproduce - few can please
Any stud can reproduce - few can please
Anyone can pay - few can lease
Anyone can pay - few can lease
Its hard
Its hard
(its a hard hard hand to hold
(its a hard hard hand to hold
Its a hard land to control)
Its a hard land to control)
Any man can claim - few can find
Any man can claim - few can find
Any girl can blink - few can lie
Any girl can blink - few can lie
Anyone can promise - few can raise
Anyone can promise - few can raise
Anyone can try - but a few can stay
Anyone can try - but a few can stay
Any brain can hide - few can stand
Any brain can hide - few can stand
Any kid can fly - few can land
Any kid can fly - few can land
Any gang can scatter - few can form
Any gang can scatter - few can form
Any kid can chatter - few can inform
Any kid can chatter - few can inform
Its hard - its very very very very hard - so very hard
Its hard - its very very very very hard - so very hard
Its hard
Its hard
(its a hard hard hand to hold
(its a hard hard hand to hold
Its a hard land to control)
Its a hard land to control)
Any soul can sleep - few can die
Any soul can sleep - few can die
Any wimp can weep - few can cry
Any wimp can weep - few can cry
Everyone complains - few can state
Everyone complains - few can state
Anyone can stop - few can wait
Anyone can stop - few can wait
Its hard - its very very very very hard - so hard
Its hard - its very very very very hard - so hard
Anyone can do anything if they hold the right card
Anyone can do anything if they hold the right card

[...] Read more

song performed by Who
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Seventh Book

'THE woman's motive? shall we daub ourselves
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft clay
And easily explored. She had the means,
The moneys, by the lady's liberal grace,
In trust for that Australian scheme and me,
Which so, that she might clutch with both her hands,
And chink to her naughty uses undisturbed,
She served me (after all it was not strange,;
'Twas only what my mother would have done)
A motherly, unmerciful, good turn.

'Well, after. There are nettles everywhere,
But smooth green grasses are more common still;
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud;
A miller's wife at Clichy took me in
And spent her pity on me,–made me calm
And merely very reasonably sad.
She found me a servant's place in Paris where
I tried to take the cast-off life again,
And stood as quiet as a beaten ass
Who, having fallen through overloads, stands up
To let them charge him with another pack.

'A few months, so. My mistress, young and light,
Was easy with me, less for kindness than
Because she led, herself, an easy time
Betwixt her lover and her looking-glass,
Scarce knowing which way she was praised the most.
She felt so pretty and so pleased all day
She could not take the trouble to be cross,
But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her shoe,
Would tap me softly with her slender foot
Still restless with the last night's dancing in't,
And say 'Fie, pale-face! are you English girls
'All grave and silent? mass-book still, and Lent?
'And first-communion colours on your cheeks,
'Worn past the time for't? little fool, be gay!'
At which she vanished, like a fairy, through
A gap of silver laughter.
'Came an hour
When all went otherwise. She did not speak,
But clenched her brows, and clipped me with her eyes
As if a viper with a pair of tongs,
Too far for any touch, yet near enough
To view the writhing creature,–then at last,
'Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's name,
'Thou Marian; thou'rt no reputable girl,
'Although sufficient dull for twenty saints!
'I think thou mock'st me and my house,' she said;
'Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month,

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Ghosts of the Buffaloes

Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry,
The windows were shaking, there was thunder on high,
The floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar,
White fires, crimson fires, shone from afar.
I rushed to the door yard. The city was gone.
My home was a hut without orchard or lawn.
It was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream,
Nothing else built by man could I see in my dream...
Then...
Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row,
Gods of the Indians, torches aglow.

They mounted the bear and the elk and the deer,
And eagles gigantic, aged and sere,
They rode long-horn cattle, they cried "A-la-la."
They lifted the knife, the bow, and the spear,
They lifted ghost-torches from dead fires below,
The midnight made grand with the cry "A-la-la."
The midnight made grand with a red-god charge,
A red-god show,
A red-god show,
"A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la."

With bodies like bronze, and terrible eyes
Came the rank and the file, with catamount cries,
Gibbering, yipping, with hollow-skull clacks,
Riding white bronchos with skeleton backs,
Scalp-hunters, beaded and spangled and bad,
Naked and lustful and foaming and mad,
Flashing primeval demoniac scorn,
Blood-thirst and pomp amid darkness reborn,
Power and glory that sleep in the grass
While the winds and the snows and the great rains pass.
They crossed the gray river, thousands abreast,
They rode in infinite lines to the west,
Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam,
Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home,
The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled,
And on past those far golden splendors they whirled.
They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep.
And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep.

And the wind crept by
Alone, unkempt, unsatisfied,
The wind cried and cried —
Muttered of massacres long past,
Buffaloes in shambles vast...
An owl said: "Hark, what is a-wing?"
I heard a cricket carolling,
I heard a cricket carolling,

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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School-Community

School is a community which surrounds you most
A place where teachers seem somewhat like ghosts
Believing that it’s a chance for new friends
But the community also introduces new ends

You believe that you yourself can never be true
To reside into acting into someone that isn't you
The school community soon becoming fake
Inside, many people's hearts begin to ache

We believe in not showing our true selves
The community telling to dig deep in ourselves
Slowly we start believing that freedom is forbidden
But does school truly want ourselves to remain hidden?

Friendships can lead to you being cut down
We sometimes wish this community wasn't around
But then we realise not to defy the real world
And that the real truth is being unfurled

This community teaches us to stand on our own feet
And without this test we shall still remain incomplete
The teachings is something that no one seems to share
In the real world these are teachings we'll need out there

School is a place where there are things we must learn
Otherwise the community outside will cause us to return
The community outside is the place we are yearning
But this community is the place we are still learning…

poem by Silly Artist
Added by Poetry Lover
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Hard Times

(jimmy dean/lyrics by myles goodwyn)
Published by acuff rose music, inc. - bmi
Hard times, hard times, hard times, hard times
When the college professor has no class
And the quarterback would rather pass
And the pump jockey complains of gas
Its hard times, hard times
When the taxi driver he cant hack it
And the tennis player cant stand the racket
When allies refuse to pack it, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times
When the elevator cant find the floor
And the doorman he cant find the door
When they give to the rich what they take from the poor, its hard times
Seems your moneys gone before its spent
If youre not busted then youre badly bent
To give it away doesnt make any sense, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times, hard times
Now grandma forgets how to knit
And the wise man has lost his wit
And my tailor feels unfit, its hard times, hard times
When the fashion models lost her poise
And santa clause smashes all the toys
When boys could be girls, and girls could be boys, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times, hard times
When the clock on the walls got no time for jokes
And kreskin says its all a hoax
When the surgeon general chain smokes, its hard times
When the truck driver dont wanna truck
And the hockey player wont touch the puck
And the rock musician dont wanna fool around, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times
Harder times, hard times
I was talking to this lady the other day and she was telling me..........

song performed by April Wine
Added by Lucian Velea
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How Hard Is It

(Mad Spider)
Wait a second, draw back, ban this here I come
Stick this business, stock me up, they took me coat with a stun gun
On a Sunday, a bloody Sunday, so what's the resume?
Heads got felt in the force I heard a Milky Way
I caught a heart attack when I heard my cousin (???)
In Avenue D. in Brooklyn New York City
ever since I used my man I moved to Jersey
But realistically, God, could of called me early
Cause I got a big bop I'm wanted by the block
I take a ruff-neck chicken make stop in stone top
Cause I roll with the army of sixty-eight
The Privates' don't make the orders it's the General that makes the wig-wack
Buy her back, buy a cat, I got scratched in a day to kidnap
and at night I was back and the Jeep got attacked by a gang that sold crack
But the posse was strapped it was nothin' but CRAP!!
I got cuffed in the back, in the jail there were rats
So I pulled out my mack to get out of this crap
Though I wish I could zap outta here but I quack like a dog
that pass gats so I put the gas mask on the mic
there were blasts cause I do it it's my task
And all the jumper the guys that I see to me pass the class
Check out the vocab, it'll get out, then get it, do it again
gift of the guy if you're good you're good, if you're bad you're bad
(Chorus: Wyclef Jean)
So how hard is it? (Hard as it can get)
I wanna know, how hard do you wanna it? (Hard as it can get)
(Pras)
One, two (ONE, TWO), three, four (THREE, FOUR)
Hardcore (HARDCORE), hardcore (HARDCORE)
Yo, watch yourself for your health I'll snatch your last breath
Then I left you up for another one bites the dust
You couldn't ride me if you went behind the bush, gush
Leave the style alone, don't try to follow me
Cause a life of the hood make it a little triggery
So keep your eyes on the prize, don't be surprised
Cause on my half I may pull out a semi-automatic sixty-eight
watch around my back it's mainly static
Droppin' emcees like a bad habit
Here come the Pras with a new package
(Wyclef Jean)
Mad and they ignorance, think they can test the performance of an ancient (RAPPER!!)
Let me break it down in a dialect (BADDER!!)
Easier said than what the mono said
cause there's more than righter rapper, paid for the rapper be-bop
Cause he said everybody's rappin', them and they momma
So when I grab the mic I grab it like a gangster
Microphone sniper cause it'll be the prowler
(Mad Spider)
Launch it, it's trife, no magic, the realistic maggot

[...] Read more

song performed by Fugees
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Hard Rains Gonna Fall

(george: like to bring on a friend of us all, mr. bob dylan!)
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?
Ive stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
Ive walked and Ive crawled on six crooked highways,
Ive stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
Ive been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
Ive been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
Its a hard, and its a hard, its a hard, its a hard,
Its a hard rains a-gonna fall.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it,
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin,
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin,
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
And its a hard, its a hard, its a hard, its a hard,
Its a hard rains a-gonna fall.
What did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin,
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin,
Heard ten thousand whisperin and nobody listenin,
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin,
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
And its a hard, its a hard, its a hard, its a hard,
Its a hard rains a-gonna fall.
Who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded in hatred,
Its a hard, its a hard, its a hard, its a hard,
Its a hard rains a-gonna fall.
Oh, whatll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And whatll you do now, my darling young one?
Im a-goin back out fore the rain starts a-fallin,
Ill walk to the depths of the deepest dark forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
The executioners face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color and none is the number,

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song performed by George Harrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rhyme of Sachin Tendulkar

Thou' Cricket is not religion;
Sachin is our god,
Thou' British are Founder,
Sachin is invader.
We owned India,
British conquered it;
British owned Criket,
Sachin conqered it.
Talent sticks to that precious diomond,
Just like magnet sticks to iron.
Talent and efforts in practice matches,
Made king of international cricket.
Neither difficulties nor attraction,
Each fails in bending Tendulkar,
Whether it is fast-track of South Africa
Or Green top of Newzealand,
Sachin mesmerized all Indians by his performence on these land.
Never lost his courage
Whatever difficulties came in Carrier,
Face all difficulties by himself encouraging,
And fight with all of them like iron barrier.
And now whether it test or ODI
Sachin sir is leading run scorer.
Not king but emperor of Cricket,
The wierd guy Tendulkar,
Made Ton of Ton in International Cricket,
And become supremo of Cricket.
Played many many memorable Innings for India,
His Upper-cut is thrilling,
While Cover drive is quivering,
Master's every shot is quite trembling.
He is very very gentle sage,
But can't tolerate any challenge,
Not tell anything in Press-Conference,
But proceedin Play-Conference.
Whether it is Waqar, Warne or Akhtar,
He beat all like unstoppable runner.
People say- Sachin is God, But,
I don't agree,
God is Sachin,
This is true, true and true.
Lucky fortunate this Mumbai city,
Who bloom such wonderful blossom
Who re-defined Cricket;
By his talent,
By his stamina,
By his potential,
By his will.
And now,121 crore people of India calls you:
Go Sachin go...

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poem by Indrajeet Mishra
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Cricket on the Hearth

When red-nosed Winter takes the road,
An icicle his walking-stick,
When frost is on the woodman's load,
And snow is falling fast and thick,
Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,
Let's make a circle round the blaze
And talk of stumps,
Of nasty bumps,
That flew and came in sunny days.
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing time in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone--
There's Cricket on the Hearth!

Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,
And Grandpapa who, long ago,
Loved hitting when the Field was slack,
And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!
No more he's nimble on the green,
But what a history he tells
Of Surrey men
And hits for ten,
And heaps of most tremendous Swells!
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing time in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone--
There's Cricket on the Hearth!

The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,
And lovely lasses take the floor;
But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,
The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!
How great a game to fill July,
May, June, and August with delights,
Yet in the frost
Be never lost,
But stir the blood on nipping nights!
For Cricket is played again, again,
At freezing times in Hull or Bath;
When summer's done the game's not gone--
There's Cricket on the Hearth!

poem by Norman Rowland Gale
Added by Poetry Lover
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Cricket Is Just Another Game

Cricket just like baseball and football and golf is just another game
And though some great cricket players have won Worldwide fame
Cricket for most cricket fans like followers of all other sports
From their life cares is just an escape of sorts
The praises of sports celebrities millions every day do sing
And nowadays sports Worldwide is a huge thing
And those not in some way involved in sport a minority
At least that is how it does seem to me
I've got nothing against cricket I'd like to make that clear
Though on t v and radio so much of it to see and hear
Like every sport for millions of poor people I am aware
A temporary escape from their lives every care
And cricket after all is just another game
Like every other sport it is much the same.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Lonely Cricket

In the darkest hollow where
echo giants live,
a Lonely Cricket screams cowardly
in cold boots

Lonely Cricket gasps, hidden
in a musky capsule away from
eager steps

Lonely Cricket falls mute from
the trivial flirt of a monstrous tread
In that cave, Lonely Cricket cries –
spewing shards of gossip to cut
insomniac puppets

“O Lonely Cricket what bulbous grapes you have”
“dimmed reflections of your desolation”

May blind feet find you hermit –
a crusty delight of incarnate shell
Creak not your raspy venom
Lonely Cricket…
“For I too can spit”

poem by Phil de Lange
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A Tale

(_Epilogue to 'The Two Poets of Croisic.'_)

What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
Quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,
--Judges able, I should mention,
To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,
Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile 'In vain one tries
Picking faults out: take the prize!'

When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What 'cicada'? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music--flew
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.

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poem by Robert Browning
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