hindi poem- Astitv
Aaj Aasuon Se Dil Bheeg Gaya,
Par Sharir Par Ek Boond Bhi Na Pad Payi Thi,
Aaj Duniya Ki Bheed Se Kayi Aage Nikal Aayi Mai,
Par Vahi Ki Vahi Khadi Reh Gayi Thi,
Aaj Kamyabi Ko Kadam Chumne Par Majboor Kar Diya,
Par Rishto Ki Raho Se Hi Juda Ho Gayi Thi,
Kayi Sathi Pa Liye Maine,
Par Sath Hi Na Pa Payi Thi,
Royi Thi Main Par Aasu Sukh Gaye The,
Hasi Bhi Thi Shayad Par Aatma Jhuthi Ho Gayi Thi,
Har Labz Par Apna Naam,
Har Jagah Apne Chehre Apni Aawaz Ko Pa Liya,
Par Khud Khokhli Ho Gayi Thi,
Jisne Apne Dum Par Bade Bado Ko Maat Di,
Aaj Khud Ki Nazaro Se Maat Kha Gayi Thi,
Jise Aaj Puri Duniya Dekhne Ko Tarasti Hain,
Jane Vo Khud Kaha Kho Gayi Thi..........
poem by Apurva Jain
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Liber Tercius
Incipit Liber Quartus
Dicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum,
Torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis:
Que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras,
Furatoque prius ostia claudit equo.
Poscenti tardo negat emolumenta Cupido,
Set Venus in celeri ludit amore viri.
Upon the vices to procede
After the cause of mannes dede,
The ferste point of Slowthe I calle
Lachesce, and is the chief of alle,
And hath this propreliche of kinde,
To leven alle thing behinde.
Of that he mihte do now hier
He tarieth al the longe yer,
And everemore he seith, 'Tomorwe';
And so he wol his time borwe,
And wissheth after 'God me sende,'
That whan he weneth have an ende,
Thanne is he ferthest to beginne.
Thus bringth he many a meschief inne
Unwar, til that he be meschieved,
And may noght thanne be relieved.
And riht so nowther mor ne lesse
It stant of love and of lachesce:
Som time he slowtheth in a day
That he nevere after gete mai.
Now, Sone, as of this ilke thing,
If thou have eny knowleching,
That thou to love hast don er this,
Tell on. Mi goode fader, yis.
As of lachesce I am beknowe
That I mai stonde upon his rowe,
As I that am clad of his suite:
For whanne I thoghte mi poursuite
To make, and therto sette a day
To speke unto the swete May,
Lachesce bad abide yit,
And bar on hond it was no wit
Ne time forto speke as tho.
Thus with his tales to and fro
Mi time in tariinge he drowh:
Whan ther was time good ynowh,
He seide, 'An other time is bettre;
Thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre,
And per cas wryte more plein
Than thou be Mowthe durstest sein.'
[...] Read more
poem by John Gower
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Liber Secundus
Incipit Liber Tercius
Ira suis paribus est par furiis Acherontis,
Quo furor ad tempus nil pietatis habet.
Ira malencolicos animos perturbat, vt equo
Iure sui pondus nulla statera tenet.
Omnibus in causis grauat Ira, set inter amantes,
Illa magis facili sorte grauamen agit:
Est vbi vir discors leuiterque repugnat amori,
Sepe loco ludi fletus ad ora venit.
----------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------
If thou the vices lest to knowe,
Mi Sone, it hath noght ben unknowe,
Fro ferst that men the swerdes grounde,
That ther nis on upon this grounde,
A vice forein fro the lawe,
Wherof that many a good felawe
Hath be distraght be sodein chance;
And yit to kinde no plesance
It doth, bot wher he most achieveth
His pourpos, most to kinde he grieveth,
As he which out of conscience
Is enemy to pacience:
And is be name on of the Sevene,
Which ofte hath set this world unevene,
And cleped is the cruel Ire,
Whos herte is everemore on fyre
To speke amis and to do bothe,
For his servantz ben evere wrothe.
Mi goode fader, tell me this:
What thing is Ire? Sone, it is
That in oure englissh Wrathe is hote,
Which hath hise wordes ay so hote,
That all a mannes pacience
Is fyred of the violence.
For he with him hath evere fyve
Servantz that helpen him to stryve:
The ferst of hem Malencolie
Is cleped, which in compaignie
An hundred times in an houre
Wol as an angri beste loure,
And noman wot the cause why.
Mi Sone, schrif thee now forthi:
Hast thou be Malencolien?
Ye, fader, be seint Julien,
Bot I untrewe wordes use,
I mai me noght therof excuse:
And al makth love, wel I wot,
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poem by John Gower
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Liber Quintus
Incipit Liber Sextus
Est gula, que nostrum maculavit prima parentem
Ex vetito pomo, quo dolet omnis homo
Hec agit, ut corpus anime contraria spirat,
Quo caro fit crassa, spiritus atque macer.
Intus et exterius si que virtutis habentur,
Potibus ebrietas conviciata ruit.
Mersa sopore labis, que Bachus inebriat hospes,
Indignata Venus oscula raro premit.
---------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------
The grete Senne original,
Which every man in general
Upon his berthe hath envenymed,
In Paradis it was mystymed:
Whan Adam of thilke Appel bot,
His swete morscel was to hot,
Which dedly made the mankinde.
And in the bokes as I finde,
This vice, which so out of rule
Hath sette ous alle, is cleped Gule;
Of which the branches ben so grete,
That of hem alle I wol noght trete,
Bot only as touchende of tuo
I thenke speke and of no mo;
Wherof the ferste is Dronkeschipe,
Which berth the cuppe felaschipe.
Ful many a wonder doth this vice,
He can make of a wisman nyce,
And of a fool, that him schal seme
That he can al the lawe deme,
And yiven every juggement
Which longeth to the firmament
Bothe of the sterre and of the mone;
And thus he makth a gret clerk sone
Of him that is a lewed man.
Ther is nothing which he ne can,
Whil he hath Dronkeschipe on honde,
He knowth the See, he knowth the stronde,
He is a noble man of armes,
And yit no strengthe is in his armes:
Ther he was strong ynouh tofore,
With Dronkeschipe it is forlore,
And al is changed his astat,
And wext anon so fieble and mat,
That he mai nouther go ne come,
Bot al togedre him is benome
The pouer bothe of hond and fot,
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poem by John Gower
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Prologus
Incipit Liber Primus
Naturatus amor nature legibus orbem
Subdit, et vnanimes concitat esse feras:
Huius enim mundi Princeps amor esse videtur,
Cuius eget diues, pauper et omnis ope.
Sunt in agone pares amor et fortuna, que cecas
Plebis ad insidias vertit vterque rotas.
Est amor egra salus, vexata quies, pius error,
Bellica pax, vulnus dulce, suaue malum.
I may noght strecche up to the hevene
Min hand, ne setten al in evene
This world, which evere is in balance:
It stant noght in my sufficance
So grete thinges to compasse,
Bot I mot lete it overpasse
And treten upon othre thinges.
Forthi the Stile of my writinges
Fro this day forth I thenke change
And speke of thing is noght so strange,
Which every kinde hath upon honde,
And wherupon the world mot stonde,
And hath don sithen it began,
And schal whil ther is any man;
And that is love, of which I mene
To trete, as after schal be sene.
In which ther can noman him reule,
For loves lawe is out of reule,
That of tomoche or of tolite
Welnyh is every man to wyte,
And natheles ther is noman
In al this world so wys, that can
Of love tempre the mesure,
Bot as it falth in aventure:
For wit ne strengthe may noght helpe,
And he which elles wolde him yelpe
Is rathest throwen under fote,
Ther can no wiht therof do bote.
For yet was nevere such covine,
That couthe ordeine a medicine
To thing which god in lawe of kinde
Hath set, for ther may noman finde
The rihte salve of such a Sor.
It hath and schal ben everemor
That love is maister wher he wile,
Ther can no lif make other skile;
For wher as evere him lest to sette,
Ther is no myht which him may lette.
Bot what schal fallen ate laste,
[...] Read more
poem by John Gower
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Liber Primus
Incipit Liber Secundus
Inuidie culpa magis est attrita dolore,
Nam sua mens nullo tempore leta manet:
Quo gaudent alii, dolet ille, nec vnus amicus
Est, cui de puro comoda velle facit.
Proximitatis honor sua corda veretur, et omnis
Est sibi leticia sic aliena dolor.
Hoc etenim vicium quam sepe repugnat amanti,
Non sibi, set reliquis, dum fauet ipsa Venus.
Est amor ex proprio motu fantasticus, et que
Gaudia fert alius, credit obesse sibi.
Now after Pride the secounde
Ther is, which many a woful stounde
Towardes othre berth aboute
Withinne himself and noght withoute;
For in his thoght he brenneth evere,
Whan that he wot an other levere
Or more vertuous than he,
Which passeth him in his degre;
Therof he takth his maladie:
That vice is cleped hot Envie.
Forthi, my Sone, if it be so
Thou art or hast ben on of tho,
As forto speke in loves cas,
If evere yit thin herte was
Sek of an other mannes hele?
So god avance my querele,
Mi fader, ye, a thousend sithe:
Whanne I have sen an other blithe
Of love, and hadde a goodly chiere,
Ethna, which brenneth yer be yere,
Was thanne noght so hot as I
Of thilke Sor which prively
Min hertes thoght withinne brenneth.
The Schip which on the wawes renneth,
And is forstormed and forblowe,
Is noght more peined for a throwe
Than I am thanne, whanne I se
An other which that passeth me
In that fortune of loves yifte.
Bot, fader, this I telle in schrifte,
That is nowher bot in o place;
For who that lese or finde grace
In other stede, it mai noght grieve:
Bot this ye mai riht wel believe,
Toward mi ladi that I serve,
Thogh that I wiste forto sterve,
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poem by John Gower
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Hindi Poem- Chehra
Sari Raat Yuhi Bita Di Maine,
Kitabo Ke Panne Palat Te Hue,
Kuch Khwab Bunte Hue,
Palko Tale Kuch Aansu Samete Hue,
Sari Raat Yuhi Bita Di Maine,
In Nain Naksho Ko Niharte Hue,
Apni Kamiyo Ko Dhundhte Hue,
Apni Majburi Par Rote Hue,
Soch Rahi Thi Main,
Kya Kiya Tha Maine,
Kyu Kiya Tha Maine,
Kya Achi Nahi Thi Sirf Vo Jaan Pehchaan,
Ki Dena Chaha Use Mohabbat Ka Naam Maine,
Soch Rahi Thi Main,
Kya Keh Gaya Vo Itni Asani Se,
Kyu Keh Gaya Vo Itni Asani Se,
Kara Gaya Mujhe Meri Badsurti,
Meri Kamiyo Ka Ehsas,
Aur Thukra Gaya Mujhe Itni Asani Se,
Kya Dil Nahi Tha Uske Paas,
Ya Un Shabdo Ki Mithaas Kahi Kho Gayi Thi,
Aakhir Kiya Kya Maine,
Jo Mere Ehsaso Ki Zamane Bhar Me Khilli Udayi Gayi Thi,
Bas Pyar Hi To Kiya Tha,
Use Apna Dil Hi To Diya Tha,
Phir Bhi Kyu Sabke Samne Ek Mazaak Ban Kar Reh Gayi Thi,
Par Galti To Thi Hi Meri,
Ki Uski Neeli Aankho Me Dubti Chali Gayi Thi,
Uski Har Hasi Me Ek Sapna Bunti Chali Gayi Thi,
Dosh Uska Nahi Mera Hain,
Sirf Main Aur Mera Yeh Badsurat Chehra Hain,
Phir Bhi Kyun Aaj Khud Ko Bikhra Sa Mehsus Karti Hu,
Shayad Is Chehre Ke Karan Kisi Ko Ab Apna Dil Dene Se Darti Hu,
Kyunki Bahut Gehra Hota Hain Is Dard Ka Ehsas,
Par Ab Karti Hu Yahi Ardas,
Ki Ae Khuda!
Is Chehre Ko Vo Noor De,
Ki Dekhne Vala Aur Kuch Soch Hi Na Paye,
Par Is Dil Ko Dildar De,
Jiske Pyar Ke Liye Yeh Umar Bhi Kam Pad Jaye,
Aur Jisne Mujhe Thukraya,
Use Khud Koi 'Na' Keh Jaye,
Aur Tab Shayad Use Apni Galti...
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poem by Apurva Jain
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The Tale of Gamelyn
Fitt 1
Lithes and listneth and harkeneth aright,
And ye shul here of a doughty knyght;
Sire John of Boundes was his name,
He coude of norture and of mochel game.
Thre sones the knyght had and with his body he wan,
The eldest was a moche schrewe and sone bygan.
His brether loved wel her fader and of hym were agast,
The eldest deserved his faders curs and had it atte last.
The good knight his fadere lyved so yore,
That deth was comen hym to and handled hym ful sore.
The good knyght cared sore sik ther he lay,
How his children shuld lyven after his day.
He had bene wide where but non husbonde he was,
Al the londe that he had it was purchas.
Fayn he wold it were dressed amonge hem alle,
That eche of hem had his parte as it myght falle.
Thoo sente he in to contrey after wise knyghtes
To helpen delen his londes and dressen hem to-rightes.
He sent hem word by letters thei shul hie blyve,
If thei wolle speke with hym whilst he was alyve.
Whan the knyghtes harden sik that he lay,
Had thei no rest neither nyght ne day,
Til thei come to hym ther he lay stille
On his dethes bedde to abide goddys wille.
Than seide the good knyght seke ther he lay,
'Lordes, I you warne for soth, without nay,
I may no lenger lyven here in this stounde;
For thorgh goddis wille deth droueth me to grounde.'
Ther nas noon of hem alle that herd hym aright,
That thei ne had routh of that ilk knyght,
And seide, 'Sir, for goddes love dismay you nought;
God may don boote of bale that is now ywrought.'
Than speke the good knyght sik ther he lay,
'Boote of bale God may sende I wote it is no nay;
But I beseche you knyghtes for the love of me,
Goth and dresseth my londes amonge my sones thre.
And for the love of God deleth not amyss,
And forgeteth not Gamelyne my yonge sone that is.
Taketh hede to that oon as wel as to that other;
Seelde ye seen eny hier helpen his brother.'
Thoo lete thei the knyght lyen that was not in hele,
And wenten into counselle his londes for to dele;
For to delen hem alle to on that was her thought.
And for Gamelyn was yongest he shuld have nought.
All the londe that ther was thei dalten it in two,
And lete Gamelyne the yonge without londe goo,
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Liber Septimus
Incipit Liber Octavus
Que favet ad vicium vetus hec modo regula confert,
Nec novus e contra qui docet ordo placet.
Cecus amor dudum nondum sua lumina cepit,
Quo Venus impositum devia fallit iter.
------------------------------------ -----------------------------------------------
The myhti god, which unbegunne
Stant of himself and hath begunne
Alle othre thinges at his wille,
The hevene him liste to fulfille
Of alle joie, where as he
Sit inthronized in his See,
And hath hise Angles him to serve,
Suche as him liketh to preserve,
So that thei mowe noght forsueie:
Bot Lucifer he putte aweie,
With al the route apostazied
Of hem that ben to him allied,
Whiche out of hevene into the helle
From Angles into fendes felle;
Wher that ther is no joie of lyht,
Bot more derk than eny nyht
The peine schal ben endeles;
And yit of fyres natheles
Ther is plente, bot thei ben blake,
Wherof no syhte mai be take.
Thus whan the thinges ben befalle,
That Luciferes court was falle
Wher dedly Pride hem hath conveied,
Anon forthwith it was pourveied
Thurgh him which alle thinges may;
He made Adam the sexte day
In Paradis, and to his make
Him liketh Eve also to make,
And bad hem cresce and multiplie.
For of the mannes Progenie,
Which of the womman schal be bore,
The nombre of Angles which was lore,
Whan thei out fro the blisse felle,
He thoghte to restore, and felle
In hevene thilke holy place
Which stod tho voide upon his grace.
Bot as it is wel wiste and knowe,
Adam and Eve bot a throwe,
So as it scholde of hem betyde,
In Paradis at thilke tyde
Ne duelten, and the cause why,
Write in the bok of Genesi,
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poem by John Gower
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The Avowyng of Arthur
He that made us on the mulde,
And fair fourmet the folde,
Atte His will, as He wold,
The see and the sande,
Giffe hom joy that will here
Of dughti men and of dere,
Of haldurs that before us were,
That lifd in this londe.
One was Arther the Kinge,
Wythowtun any letting;
Wyth him was mony lordinge
Hardi of honde.
Wice and war ofte thay were,
Bold undur banere,
And wighte weppuns wold were,
And stifly wold stond.
This is no fantum ne no fabull;
Ye wote wele of the Rowun Tabull,
Of prest men and priveabull,
Was holdun in prise:
Chevetan of chivalry,
Kyndenesse and curtesy,
Hunting full warly,
As wayt men and wise.
To the forest thay fare
To hunte atte buk and atte bare,
To the herte and to the hare,
That bredus in the rise.
The King atte Carlele he lay;
The hunter cummys on a day -
Sayd, 'Sir, ther walkes in my way
A well grim gryse.
'He is a balefull bare -
Seche on segh I nevyr are:
He hase wroghte me mycull care
And hurte of my howundes,
Slayn hom downe slely
Wyth feghting full furcely.
Wasse ther none so hardi
Durste bide in his bandus.
On him spild I my spere
And mycull of my nothir gere.
Ther moue no dintus him dere,
Ne wurche him no wowundes.
He is masly made -
All offellus that he bade.
Ther is no bulle so brade
That in frith foundes.
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Khamoshi
Thodi sone si dhoop he...
Thodi chandi si chandni...
Thoda gam tumhe bhi he...
Thoda mujhe bhi...
Thodi bebasi he... Aankhe teri bhi nam he
Meri bhi...
Chal aaj fir ithlate he... muskurate he...
Aaj dil se puchha aakhir tu kyu khamosh he...
Hotho pe jo baat kabhi aa na saki...
Aankho me wo kyon zalakne lagi?
Khamoshi ka ye sama kab tak chalega...
Pattiyo ne mujhse kaha 'duniya me aisa hi hota he'
Jugnu ke pichhe pichhe pata nahi kaha chale aaye...
Shayad wo wadiya kho gai he...
Aaj dilse puchha aakhir tu kyu khamosh he...
Nange pair chale the wo raho par...
Aaj rahe bhi alag he aur manzile bhi...
Jab jab gam ka badal chhaya jane kyu jee ghabraya...
Aankho ke rang kabhi na dekh paye hum...
Thode rang mere bhi berang he...
Thode rang tere bhi berang he...
Aaj dilse puchha aakhir tu kyu kamosh he...
Waqt ne mujhe bhi nachaya he...tujhe bhi...
Sab is waqt ki kathputliya he...
Ek din ye sans bhi khamosh ho jayegi...
Ye jo gehre sannate he...
Chikhti hui lehro ki god me..
Kyu tu soya he...
Aaj dilse puchha aakhir tu kyu khamosh he....
Aakhir tu kyu khamosh he.....
poem by Utsav Patel
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Knyghthode and Bataile
A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus' Treatise 'DE RE MILITARI'
Proemium.
Salue, festa dies
i martis,
Mauortis! auete
Kalende. Qua Deus
ad celum subleuat
ire Dauid.
Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail Kalende
Of Marche, wheryn Dauid the Confessour
Commaunded is his kyngis court ascende;
Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour,
This same day as a Tryumphatour,
Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee,
To London is comyn. O Saviour,
Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee!
And she, thi modir Blessed mot she be
That cometh eke, and angelys an ende,
Wel wynged and wel horsed, hidir fle,
Thousendys on this goode approche attende;
And ordir aftir ordir thei commende,
As Seraphin, as Cherubyn, as Throne,
As Domynaunce, and Princys hidir sende;
And, at o woord, right welcom euerychone!
But Kyng Herry the Sexte, as Goddes Sone
Or themperour or kyng Emanuel,
To London, welcomer be noo persone;
O souuerayn Lord, welcom! Now wel, Now wel!
Te Deum to be songen, wil do wel,
And Benedicta Sancta Trinitas!
Now prosperaunce and peax perpetuel
Shal growe,-and why? ffor here is Vnitas.
Therof to the Vnitee 'Deo gracias'
In Trinitee! The Clergys and Knyghthode
And Comynaltee better accorded nas
Neuer then now; Now nys ther noon abode,
But out on hem that fordoon Goddes forbode,
Periurous ar, Rebellovs and atteynte,
So forfaytinge her lyif and lyvelode,
Although Ypocrisie her faytys peynte.
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Non Puoi Lasciarmi Cos (Quit Playing Games)
Guardo dentro me e so gi
cosa rester di noi
quello che vorrei sei tu
ma niente ti riporta qui.
Che cosa non farei per te
ma il tempo gioca contro me
quanto ti vorrei non sai oh no.
Non puoi lasciarmi cos, lo sai o no
(non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai)
non puoi giocare cos con me
(non puoi giocare mai non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai)
non farlo mai.
Ritornerai lo so
mi vedo gi vicino a te
dammi un segno che tu ci sei
io voglio immaginarti qui.
Che cosa non farei per te
ma il tempo gioca contro me
quanto ti vorrei non sai oh no.
... lo sai che.
Non puoi lasciarmi cos, lo sai o no
(non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai)
non puoi giocare cos con me
(non puoi giocare mai non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai)
non farlo mai.
Se ci credi c' ancora un domani per noi
possiamo ancora stare insieme.
Se ci tieni
star qui con te
sarai qui con me.
Ritornerai lo so
mi vedo gi vicino a te
dammi un segno che tu ci sei
io voglio immaginarti qui.
Che cosa non farei per te
ma il tempo gioca contro me
quanto ti vorrei non sai oh no.
Non puoi lasciarmi cos, lo sai o no
(non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai non mi lasciare mai)
non puoi giocare cos con me
(non puoi giocare mai non mi lasciare mai)
non puoi giocare cos non puoi lo sai non puoi.
song performed by Backstreet Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Awareness poem in Hindi by Deepak kumar deep
Sadiyon se khamosh ye dharti
Pata dhoondh rahi hai insanon ka
Kash! Kahin koi mil jaye
Kya shahar hai ye veerano ka?
Dhadhak rahen hai dil par hoth hain band
Iltaza hai kuch kahne ki
Par! sari nakam koshish
Mai chala gaya tha mudon ke shahar me
The naam wahan gude huwe sunhare patthron par
Wo bebas the, chilla rahe the,
Ro rahe the apni lachari par
Zuban na thepaas unke, kuch kahne ko
Kyonki wo bebas the lachar the……
Jane laga jab wahan se main
Pukar rahi thi wo sari lashen mughe
Chilla chilla kar kar kah rahi thi-
Mat banna aise, jaise the mere karm
Yaad kar un baton ko, aati mughe abs harm
Banna tha jab narm mughe, huwa main narm
Andhvishwashon me ghira tha mera apna dharm….
Jao jakar bata do unko
Meri tarah hi unka hoga haal
Maine ta umernahi ki bhakti, sirf kiya dikhawa
Jo bana aaj ka sawal
Maine apna waqut gawaya, duniyawi such ko pane me
Shareer ko sajane me,
Imarte banana me,
Danga fasad karne karane me
Par zara bhi na diya dhyan
Manav jeevan sawarne me.
Murakhta aur pagalpan ki bhi had hoti hai
Maine samay ke satguru ko nahi pahchana
Sirf libas dekha, shaklon par dhokha khakar
Har yug me maine mara taana.
Main bhi kitna badnaseeb tha
Manjeel mere karib tha
Phir bhi daud raha tha paglon ki tarah
Wo waqut bhi kaisa ajeeb tha.
Khair! Min to apne kiye ki bhugat raha hoon
Par jao jakar kahna un ghamandi, ahankari, papai,
durachari, anachari, Vyabhichari, atyachari logon se
Kyon kar raha hai apne aap se gaddaari.
Kar le apne aapki pahchan
Kaun hai tu? Kya hai tera asthan?
[...] Read more
poem by Deepak Kumar deep
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 03
Now is Mede the mayde and no mo of hem alle,
With bedeles and baillies brought bifore the Kyng.
The Kyng called a clerk - l kan noght his name -
To take Mede the maide and maken hire at ese.
I shal assayen hire myself and soothliche appose
What man of this world that hire were levest.
And if she werche bi wit and my wil folwe
I wol forgyven hire this gilt, so me God helpe!'
Curteisly the clerk thanne, as the Kyng highte,
Took Mede bi the myddel and broghte hire into chambre.
Ac ther was murthe and mynstralcie Mede to plese;
That wonyeth at Westmynstre worshipeth hire alle.
Gentilliche with joye the justices somme
Busked hem to the bour ther the burde dwellede,
Conforted hyre kyndely by Clergies leve,
And seiden, ' Mourne noght, Mede, ne make thow no sorwe,
For we wol wisse the Kyng and thi wey shape
To be wedded at thi wille and wher thee leef liketh
For al Conscienees cast or craft, as I trowe.'
Mildely Mede thanne merciede hem alle
Of hire grete goodnesse - and gaf hem echone
Coupes of clene gold and coppes of silver,
Rynges with rubies and richesses manye,
The Ieeste man of hire meynee a moton of golde.
Thanne laughte thei leve thise lordes at Mede.
With that comenclerkes to conforten hire the same,
And beden hire be blithe - 'For we beth thyne owene
For to werche thi wille the while thow myght laste.'
Hendiliche heo thanne bihighte hem the same -
To loven hem lelly and lordes to make,
And in the consistorie at the court do callen hire names.
' Shal no lewednesse lette the clerke that I lovye,
That he ne worth first avaunced for I am biknowen
Ther konnynge clerkes shul clokke bihynde.'
Thanne cam ther a confessour coped as a frere;
To Mede the mayde [mekeliche he loutede]
And seide ful softely, in shrift as it were,
'Theigh lewed men and lered men hadde leyen by thee bothe.
And Falshede hadde yfolwed thee alle thise fifty wynter,
I shal assoille thee myself for a seem of whete,
And also be thi bedeman, and bere wel thyn er[ende],
Amonges knyghtes and clerkes, Conscience to torne.
Thanne Mede for hire mysdedes to that man kneled,
And shrof hire of hire sherewednesse - shamelees, I trowe;
Tolde hym a tale and took hym a noble
For to ben hire bedeman and hire brocour als.
Thanne he assoiled hire soone and sithen he seide,
' We have a wyndow in werchynge, wole stonden us ful hye;
Woldestow glaze that gable and grave therinne thy name,
[...] Read more
poem by William Langland
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Akelapan
Mai akela toh nahi tha,
ab kaise ho gaya?
Maano sab kuch ek pal mai kho gaya,
Zindgi ki hakikat saamne aayi,
Sab bhram mit gaya,
Sacchai chaayi..
Kyun maan raha tha khud ko sabse sukhi?
Uss guroor k saamne ab nazrein jhuki,
Ab chain bass tab hi mil sakta hai,
Mit jaayein iss dil ki diary k panne sabhi..
Uss shor ki toh maano manzil hi dhah gayi,
ab toh bass akelapan accha lagta hai..
WO hansi, wo shor..ab hume kahan jachta hai?
Kash! kyun na hum pahle se hi akele hote
kyun ye bojh jhoothi yaadon ka dhote..
Na aaye ab yahan koi aur
mai dekhna chahta hu ab duniya ka chhor
iss dukh k liye
khuda maine kyun wo sab sukh saha? ? ?
Mai Akela toh nahin tha
ab kaise ho gaya? ? ?
poem by Smriti Sharma
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 06
'This were a wikkede wey but whoso hadde a gyde
That [myghte] folwen us ech a foot' - thus this folk hem mened.
Quod Perkyn the Plowman, ' By Seint Peter of Rome!
I have an half acre to erie by the heighe weye;
Hadde I cryed this half acre and sowen it after,
I wolde wende with yow and the wey teche.'
'This were a long lettyng,' quod a lady in a scleyre;
'What sholde we wommen werche the while?'
'Somme shul sowe the sak ' quod Piers, ' for shedyng of the whete;
And ye lovely ladies with youre longe fyngres,
That ye have silk and sandel to sowe whan tyme is
Chesibles for chapeleyns chirches to honoure.
Wyves and widewes, wolle and flex spynneth
Maketh cloth, I counseille yow, and kenneth so youre doughtres.
The nedy and the naked, nymeth hede how thei liggeth,
And casteth hem clothes, for so commaundeth Truthe.
For I shal lenen hem liflode, but if the lond faille,
As longe as I lyve, for the Lordes love of hevene.
And alle manere of men that by mete and drynke libbeth,
Helpeth hym to werche wightliche that wynneth youre foode.'
'By Crist!' quod a knyght thoo, 'he kenneth us the beste;
Ac on the teme, trewely, taught was I nevere.
Ac kenne me,' quod the knyght, 'and by Crist I wole assaye!'
'By Seint Poul!' quod Perkyn, 'Ye profre yow so faire
That I shal swynke and swete and sowe for us bothe,
And [ek] labour[e] for thi love al my lif tyme,
In covenaunt that thow kepe Holy Kirke and myselve
Fro wastours and fro wikked men that this world destruyeth;
And go hunte hardiliche to hares and foxes,
To bores and to bukkes that breken down myne hegges;
And go affaite thi faucons wilde foweles to kille,
For thei cometh to my croft and croppeth my whete.'
Curteisly the knyght thanne co[nseyved] thise wordes
'By my power, Piers, I plighte thee my trouthe
To fulfille this forward, though I fighte sholde;
Als longe as I lyve I shal thee mayntene.'
' Ye, and yet a point,' quod Piers, 'I preye yow of moore
Loke ye tene no tenaunt but Truthe wole assente;
And though ye mowe amercy hem, lat mercy be taxour
And mekenesse thi maister, maugree Medes chekes.
And though povere men profre yow presentes and yiftes,
Nyme it noght, an aventure thow mowe it noght deserve;
For thow shalt yelde it ayein at one yeres ende
In a ful perilous place - Purgatorie it hatte.
And mysbede noght thi bondemen - the bettre may thow spede;
Though he be thyn underlyng here, wel may happe in hevene
That he worth worthier set and with moore blisse
Amice, ascende superius.
[...] Read more
poem by William Langland
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La Chronique Ascendante des Ducs de Normandie
Mil chent et soisante anz out de temps et d'espace
puiz que Dex en la Virge descendi par sa grace,
quant un clerc de Caen, qui out non Mestre Vace,
s'entremist de l'estoire de Rou et de s'estrasce,
qui conquist Normendie, qui qu'en poist ne qui place,
contre l'orgueil de France, qui encor les menasce,
que nostre roi Henri la congnoissë et sace.
Qui gaires n'a de rentes ne gaires n'en porcache ;
mez avarice a frait a largesce sa grace,
ne peut lez mainz ouvrir, plus sont gelez que glace, .
ne sai ou est reposte, ne truiz train ne trace;
qui ne soit losengier ne encort liu ne place,
a plusors i fait on la cue lovinace.
Ce ne fu mie el temps Virgile ne Orace
ne el temps Alixandre ne Cesar ne Estace,
lores avoit largesce vertu et efficace.
Du roi Henri voil faire ceste premiere page,
qui prist Alianor, dame de haut parage,
Dex doinst a ambedeuls de bien faire courage!
Ne me font mie rendre a la court le musage,
de dons et de pramesses chascun d' euls m' asouage ;
mez besoing vient souvent qui tost sigle et tost nage,
et souvent me fait meitre le denier et le gage.
France est Alienor et debonnaire et sage ;
roÿne fu de France en son premier aage,
Looÿs l' espousa qui out grant mariage;
en Jerusalem furent en lonc pelerinage,
assez y traist chescun travail et ahanage,
Quant reparriez s' en furent, par conseil du barnage
s' em parti la roÿne o riche parentage;
de cele departie n'out elle nul damage ;
a Poitiers s'en ala, son naturel manage,
n'i out plus prochain heir qu'el fu de son lignage.
Li roiz Henri la prist o riche mariage,
cil qui tint Engleterre et la terre marage
entre Espaingne et Escosce, de rivage en rivage ;
grant parole est de lui et de son vasselage,
des felons qu'il destraint comme oysel clos en cage ;
n' a baron en sa terre o si grant herbergage
qui ost le pais enfraindre em plein ne en boscage,
se il peut estre ataint, n'et des membres hontage,
ou qu'il n'i lest le cors ou l' ame en ostage.
La geste voil de Rou et dez Normanz conter,
lors faiz et lor proësce doi je bien recorder.
Les boisdies de France ne font mie a celer,
tout tens voudrent Franchoiz Normanz desheriter
et tout tens se penerent d' euls vaincre et d'els grever,
et quant Franceiz nes porent par force sormonter
par plusors tricheries lez soulent agraver ;
[...] Read more
Main Jo Tha Mom Ka Putla
main jo tha
vo mom ka putla
har kisi ko pasand aata tha
ye mom ka putla
na kuch kehta tha
na kuch samajta tha
ye mom ka putla
phir ek din mujme jaan daal di gayi
insaano ki duniya mein meri naam daal diya gaya
kuch pasand karne lage
kuch hue jealous
kuch pyar karte
kuch takrar karte
main jo tha ek mom ka putla
kisi ne mujme jaan daal di
ab hone lagi dheere dheere nafrat mujhse
kisi ne mujhme khot nikal di
har cheez bikti thi us duniya mein
par mera koi mol na paya
main jo tha ek mom ka putla
kisi ne mujhme jaan daal di
sauda hua jo beedh ke bazaar mein
kahin bik na paya main
mera mol kaha tha
us aamir ki dukan pe
jo kudh hi lut chuka ho
vo kya chukata mol mera
padha raha aasman mein
mom ka putla ban kar
phir ek din meri jo jarurat na thi
bej diya mujhe khadan mein
aag jo meri meet thi
mil gayi khushi is jahan ko
main jo tha mom ka putla
kaam na aaya is jahan ke
main jo tha mom ka putla............................................ .......
poem by Imnt Alive
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An ABC
Incipit carmen secundum ordinem litterarum alphabeti.
Almighty and al merciable queene,
To whom that al this world fleeth for socour,
To have relees of sinne, of sorwe, and teene,
Glorious virgine, of alle floures flour,
To thee I flee, confounded in errour.
Help and releeve, thou mighti debonayre,
Have mercy on my perilous langour.
Venquisshed me hath my cruel adversaire.
Bountee so fix hath in thin herte his tente
That wel I wot thou wolt my socour bee;
Thou canst not warne him that with good entente
Axeth thin helpe, thin herte is ay so free.
Thou art largesse of pleyn felicitee,
Haven of refut, of quiete, and of reste.
Loo, how that theeves sevene chasen mee.
Help, lady bright, er that my ship tobreste.[Riv., p. 638]
Comfort is noon but in yow, ladi deere;
For loo, my sinne and my confusioun,
Which oughten not in thi presence appeere,
Han take on me a greevous accioun
Of verrey right and desperacioun;
And as hi right thei mighten wel susteene
That I were wurthi my dampnacioun,
Nere merci of you, blisful hevene queene.
Dowte is ther noon, thou queen of misericorde,
That thou n'art cause of grace and merci heere;
God vouched sauf thurgh thee with us to accorde.
For certes, Crystes blisful mooder deere,
Were now the bowe bent in swich maneere
As it was first of justice and of ire,
The rightful God nolde of no mercy heere;
But thurgh thee han we grace as we desire.
Evere hath myn hope of refut been in thee,
For heer-biforn ful ofte in many a wyse
Hast thou to misericorde receyved me.
But merci, ladi, at the grete assyse
Whan we shule come bifore the hye justyse.
So litel fruit shal thanne in me be founde
That, but thou er that day correcte [vice],
Of verrey right my werk wol me confounde.
Fleeinge, I flee for socour to thi tente
Me for to hide from tempeste ful of dreede,
[...] Read more
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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New Year Poem- Saal Naya Ho Deepak Kumar Deep
Is duniyan ki reet purani
baad subah ke hoti shaam
rang birangi is duniyan ka
hona ek din kam tamam.
Suraj chanda sabhi hain badle
badle dharti aur aasman
Jisam hain badle rab na badla
issi ko kahte hain bhagwan.
Prabhu amar aur avinashi
Iska kabhi bhi nash na hota
Issi se raushan duniyan sari
Bin iske prakash na hota.
karwat li hai waqut ne jab jab
Satyug, treta dwapar aaya
har yug me ye rup badlta
jaisa jab bhi samay hai aaya.
ho laddu kitna bhi tedda
par hum aam usse na kahte hain
jab raam ek hai is duniya ka
fir bhram me hum kyon rahte hain.
Apne bhi badal hain jaate
jab saya dukh ka aata hai
nirasha, dukh, takleef me
bas ye hi sath nibhata hai.
failao daman issi ke aage
sab issi ke mang ke khate hain
par murakh aur agyani log
kha ke iska isko aankh dikhte hain.
satguru pura rab dikhlata
har yug me ye aata hai
aaj bhi aaya ban hardev
aur gyan uzzala failata hai.
Aao satguru ke charnon me
ye hi rab dikhlayega
bhed tughe jo raam khuda me
uska bharam mitayega.
saal naya ho sabkikhatir
uzzawal aur mangalkari
bhukh garibi na ho kahi pe
deep, sukhi ho duniya sari.
[...] Read more
poem by Deepak Kumar deep
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