Naemyeon-ui Neukkim 03
biinganjeog-in gulboghaji
Prithaui adeul o
geugeos-eun dangsin-idoeji anhseubnida
i giji huimihan - ma-eum-eul tteolchyeogwa balsaeng
wonsudeul-ui taneundeushan nal-i o!
nuga misoleul bichnago
modeun haengbog-eul suyeohada
nuguui ma-eum-eul jabi gadeug
nuguui gangdoga junbidoeeossseubnida
wiheom-eulobuteo yeonghon-eul guwon
nugu gagjong boseog-eulo jangsig
johwawa chingchan
wih mellodi chansong-ga
dangsin-i on kkum-eseo
geuligo nan neohui gat-eun jogsogdeul-ida algo
dangsin-eun yeong-gam-ibnida
dangsin-i mujigaeibnida
neon dal-eibnida
dangsin-i taeyang-ibnida
dangsin-eun gong-giibnida
nan jigeum, hangsang dangsin-i pil-yo haeyo yeong-wonhi
nuga hangsang uliui nun, gwiui
uliui huimang, uliui yeonghon, uli gajog
geugeos-eun noeu ttae
dangsin-eun naui deungdaeibnida
geugeos-eun hyeongje-ui pigaibnida
geugeos-eun jamaeui basjul-ida
poong banji
geugeos-eun apeun-ibnida
geugeos-eun salang an-e
bich-i ujuui bijeoncheoleom
sin-ui jasucheoleom
saengmyeong-ui gang-eul geonneo
e sunsuhanhago gogwihan
jayeon-ui nolaega ollagayo
nae ma-eum-e mom-eul matgyeo
nae ma-eum-e mom-eul matgyeo
nae yeonghon-e mom-eul matgyeo
nae salang-e mom-eul matgyeo
gajang gakkaun hanaiss-eul su issseubnida
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Related quotes
The Masque of Queen Bersabe: A Miracle-Play
KING DAVID.
Knights mine, all that be in hall,
I have a counsel to you all,
Because of this thing God lets fall
Among us for a sign.
For some days hence as I did eat
From kingly dishes my good meat,
There flew a bird between my feet
As red as any wine.
This bird had a long bill of red
And a gold ring above his head;
Long time he sat and nothing said,
Put softly down his neck and fed
From the gilt patens fine:
And as I marvelled, at the last
He shut his two keen eyën fast
And suddenly woxe big and brast
Ere one should tell to nine.
PRIMUS MILES.
Sir, note this that I will say;
That Lord who maketh corn with hay
And morrows each of yesterday,
He hath you in his hand.
SECUNDUS MILES (Paganus quidam).
By Satan I hold no such thing;
For if wine swell within a king
Whose ears for drink are hot and ring,
The same shall dream of wine-bibbing
Whilst he can lie or stand.
QUEEN BERSABE.
Peace now, lords, for Godis head,
Ye chirk as starlings that be fed
And gape as fishes newly dead;
The devil put your bones to bed,
Lo, this is all to say.
SECUNDUS MILES.
By Mahound, lords, I have good will
This devil’s bird to wring and spill;
For now meseems our game goes ill,
Ye have scant hearts to play.
TERTIUS MILES.
Lo, sirs, this word is there said,
That Urias the knight is dead
Through some ill craft; by Poulis head,
I doubt his blood hath made so red
[...] Read more
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Ragazzo Solo, Ragazza Sola
La mia mente ha presol il volo
Un pensiero uno solo
Io cammino mentre dorme la citta
I soui occhi mella notte
Fanali bianchi nella notte
Una voce che mi parla chi sara?
Dimmi ragazzo solo dove uai,
Perche tanto dolore?
Hai perduto senza dubbio un grande amore
Ma di amorie etutta peina la citta,
No ragazza sola, no no no
Stavolta sei in errore
Non ho perso solamente un grande amore
Ieri sera ho perso tutto con lei.
Ma lei
I colori della vita
Dei cieli blu
Una come lei non la trovero mai piu
Ora ragazzo solo dove andrai
La notte eun grande mare
Se ti serve la mia mano per nuotare
Grazie na stasera io vorrei morire
Perche sai negli occhi miei
Ce un angelo, un angelo
Che ormai non vola piu che ormai non vola piu
Che ormai non vola piu
Ce lei
I colori della vita
Dei cieli blu
Una come lei non la trovero mai piu
song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!
It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!
Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Cremation Of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert William Service
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 01
What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom [the] castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'
'The tour upon the toft', quod she, 'Truthe is therinne,
And wolde that ye wroughte as his word techeth.
For he is fader of feith and formed yow alle
Bothe with fel and with face and yaf yow fyve wittes
For to worshipe hym therwith while that ye ben here.
And therfore he highte the erthe to helpe yow echone
Of woilene, of lynnen, of liflode at nede
In mesurable manere to make yow at ese;
And comaunded of his curteisie in commune three thynges:
Are none nedfulle but tho, and nempne hem I thynke,
And rekene hem by reson - reherce thow hem after.
'That oon is vesture from chele thee to save,
And mete at meel for mysese of thiselve,
And drynke whan thow driest - ac do noght out of reson,
That thow worthe the wers whan thow werche sholdest.
For Lot in hise lifdayes, for likynge of drynke,
Dide by hise doughtres that the devel liked:
Delited hym in drynke as the devel wolde,
And leccherie hym laughte, and lay by hem bothe -
And al he witte it the wyn, that wikked dede:
Inebriemus eum vino dormiamusque cum eo, ut
servare possimus de patre nostro semen.
Thorugh wyn and thorugh wommen ther was Loth acombred,
And there gat in glotonie gerles that were cherles.
Forthi dred delitable drynke and thow shalt do the bettre.
Mesure is medicine, though thow muchel yerne.
Al is nought good to the goost that the gut asketh,
Ne liflode to the likame that leef is to the soule.
Leve nought thi likame, for a liere hym techeth -
That is the wrecched world, wolde thee bitraye.
For the fend and thi flessh folwen togidere,
And that [shendeth] thi soule; set it in thin herte.
And for thow sholdest ben ywar, I wisse thee the beste.'
'A, madame, mercy,' quod I, ' me liketh wel youre wordes.
Ac the moneie of this molde that men so faste holdeth -
Telleth me to whom that tresour appendeth.'
Go to the Gospel,' quod she, 'that God seide hymselven,
[...] Read more
poem by William Langland
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 14
'I have but oon hool hater,' quod Haukyn, 'I am the lasse to blame
Though it be soiled and selde clene - I slepe therinne o nyghtes;
And also I have an houswif, hewen and children -
Uxorem duxi, et ideo non possum venire -
That wollen bymolen it many tyme, maugree my chekes.
It hath be laved in Lente and out of Lente bothe
With the sope of siknesse, that seketh wonder depe,
And with the losse of catel, that looth me w[ere]
For to agulte God or any good man, by aught that I wiste;
And was shryven of the preest, that [for my synnes gaf me]
To penaunce, pacience, and povere men to fede,
Al for coveitise of my Cristendom in clennesse to kepen it.
And kouthe I nevere, by Crist! kepen it clene an houre,
That I ne soiled it with sighte or som ydel speche,
Or thorugh werk or thorugh word, or wille of myn herte,
That I ne flobre it foule fro morwe til even.'
'And I shal kenne thee,' quod Conscience, 'of Contricion to make
That shal clawe thi cote of alle kynnes filthe -
Cordis contricio
Dowel shal wasshen it and wryngen it thorugh a wis confessour -
Oris confessio
Dobet shal beten it and bouken it as bright as any scarlet,
And engreynen it with good wille and Goddes grace to amende the,
And sithen sende thee to Satisfaccion for to sonnen it after
Satisfaccio.
'And Dobest kepe[th] clene from unkynde werkes.
Shal nevere my[te] bymolen it, ne mothe after biten it,
Ne fend ne fals man defoulen it in thi lyve.
Shal noon heraud ne harpour have a fairer garnement
Than Haukyn the Actif man, and thow do by my techyng,
Ne no mynstrall be moore worth amonges povere and riche
Than Haukyn wi[l] the wafrer, which is Activa Vita.'
'And I shal purveie thee paast,' quod Pacience, 'though no plough erye,
And flour to fede folk with as best be for the soule;
Though nevere greyn growed, ne grape upon vyne,
Alle that lyveth and loketh liflode wolde I fynde,
And that ynogh - shal noon faille of thyng that hem nedeth.
We sholde noght be to bisy abouten oure liflode
Ne soliciti sitis Volucres celi Deus pascit Pacientes vincunt
Thanne laughed Haukyn a litel, and lightly gan swerye,
'Whoso leveth yow, by Oure Lord, I leve noght he be blessed!'
'No?' quod Pacience paciently, and out of his poke hente
Vitailles of grete vertues for alle manere beestes,
And seide, ' Lo! here liflode ynogh, if oure bileve be trewe.
For lent nevere was lif but liflode were shapen,
Wherof or wherfore or wherby to libbe.
' First the wilde worm under weet erthe,
Fissh to lyve in the flood, and in the fir the criket,
[...] Read more
poem by William Langland
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Portugal Manoel Da Assumpcam Missionary.
'Portugal Manoel Da Assumpcam
Amar Sonar Moyna Pakki Amigo,
I never seen you in my live ever before
Which Country are you from?
My dear amigo Manoel Da Assumpcam.
Your colour of heritage in unknown Land l fear to bear your name in word.
I can't bear to missed you my amigo, Oh yes it can't be forgot either
You have contributed your nameless name in the nation without name
To influence other and to form the crowd in unknown Land,
Where are you from Sir?
And to shape not my nationalities in Language in Culture but yours!
The present Language in Bangla o' my dear amigo never was counted by.
You may be nothing To Government of Portugal than but today.
Priceless name in the heart of people's in the unknown Land.
I have nothing to say in Language Portuguese other than to say thank you.
For teaching and advocating me in Language in Bangla
That nation today celebrates every year.
With their tears on their eyes and face.
Bear to say words other than few minute in silent,
As orphanage children's looking at each other face.
Remembering those who gave their words in Bangla and live for.
And today I believe in visual hallucination it's not too late
to say how much I love you in Language in Bangla ‘Nil Dariar Prem'
The Birth of new Generation in Culture in Bangla.
Almost was given birth after more than three century in Bangla
'Inna-Lilla-He-O-Inna-He-La-He-Ra-Je-Ow n'
When will I met you?
Day of Kiamot is to far from Bay of Bengal to Portugal.
The mother of all living things on Earth,
Singing in the name of Almighty Lord ‘Allah' too
In the soil of unknown Land in British India my not his or her love.
How lucky you was never assassinated by knowing you was pigeons,
As Bongo Bandhu,
First Prime Ministers of Bangladesh.
I miss you ‘Manoel Da Assumpcam'
Your name prescribed in Language Bangla by name
'Shaheed Minar'
Capital City o Bangladesh.
By name once was known Dac-ca' now became ‘DHA-KA'
Your name in my Language Mother tongues days and nights,
‘Joy Bangla'
To Miss you my dear amigo you left us under your own broken umbrella.
[...] Read more
poem by Abdul Haye Amin
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The Spectacles
I LATELY vowed to leave the nuns alone,
So oft their freaks have in my page been shown.
The subject may at length fatigue the mind;
My Muse the veil howe'er is still inclined,
Conspicuously to hold to publick view,
And, 'mong the sisters, scene and scene pursue.
Is this too much?--the nicest tricks they play;
Through soft amours oft artfully they stray,
And these in full I'd readily detail,
If I were sure the subject would not fail;
And that's impossible I must admit,
'Twould endless be, the tales appear so fit;
There's not a clerk so expeditious found,
Who could record the stories known around.
The sisters to forget, were I to try,
Suspicions might arise that, by and by,
I should return: some case might tempt my pen;
So oft I've overrun the convent-den,
Like one who always makes, from time to time,
The conversation with his feelings chime.
But let us to an end the subject bring,
And after this, of other matters sing.
IN former times was introduced a lad
Among the nuns, and like a maiden clad;
A charming girl by all he was believed;
Fifteen his age; no doubts were then conceived;
Coletta was the name the youth had brought,
And, till he got a beard, was sister thought.
THE period howsoe'er was well employed,
And from it Agnes profit had enjoyed;
What profit?--truly better had I said,
That sister Agnes by him was misled,
And store of ills received; misfortune dire
Obliged the nun more girdle to require,
And ultimately to produce (in spite
Of ev'ry wish to guard the fact from light)
A little creature that our hist'ries say,
Was found Coletta's features to display.
GREAT scandal quickly through the convent ran:
How could this child arrive?--the sisters 'gan
To laugh and ask, if in an evil hour,
The mushroom could have fallen with a show'r?
Or self-created was it not supposed?
Much rage the abbess presently disclosed;
To have her holy mansion thus disgraced!
Forthwith the culprit was in prison placed.
[...] Read more
poem by La Fontaine
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12
WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war. 25
The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: 30
“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own: 35
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, 40
Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne: 45
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, 50
[...] Read more
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
THE ARGUMENT
RINTRAH roars and shakes his
fires in the burdenM air,
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
Once meek, and in a perilous path
The just man kept his course along
The Vale of Death.
Roses are planted where thorns grow,
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.
Then the perilous path was planted,
And a river and a spring
On every cliff and tomb;
5
THE MARRIAGE OF
And on the bleached bones
Red clay brought forth:
Till the villain left the paths of ease
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.
Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility ;
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where Uons roam.
Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in
the burdened air,
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
As a new heaven is begun, and it is
now thirty-three years since its advent,
the Eternal Hell revives. And lo!
Swedenborg is the angel sitting at
the tomb: his writings are the Unen
[...] Read more
poem by William Blake
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My Claim To Honour!
I’d been thinking
To be a very great man,
My attribute being poetry,
And my poems highly rated.
I had genuinely believed
That poetry is great gift,
Poet is a superman
And he was venerated.
I had discontentment
That I didn’t get the credit
Which I truly deserved
For my superior poetry.
Poets much junior
And close to political bosses
Got awards and honours.
For, they wrote base flattery.
So, when I died I wrote
An elegy on myself,
A long narrative poem,
Superb in its contents.
Carrying my dead body
I went around the city
Reciting my elegy
To my heart’s full content.
From gate to gate I moved
From street to street I went
At road junctions I stopped,
To drum up support in my favour.
I was firm in my resolve
To get my rightful honour
Which the state had for long
Overlooked to confer.
Sans any modesty
My elegy compared me
With many other poets
And stated my claim.
The elegy eulogized
And compared my talents,
Exalted my skills,
And extolled me to the brim.
“…………………………………………………..
Internatio nal poet …………………………….
……. Multilingual Poet ……………………..
…………….. Mystic, epic poet ………………
[...] Read more
poem by P.K. Joy
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Chill Out
and we're ancient
and we like to roam the land...
we're justified and we're ancient
I hope you'll understand
Pulling Out Of Ricardo and the Dusk Is Falling Fast
---------------------------------------------------
Six Hours To Lousiana, Black Coffee Going Cold
----------------------------------------------
Dream Time In Lake Jackson
--------------------------
Madrugada Eterna
----------------
Through the light
Come get your mojo hey
Come back fat as a rat
All the way down the east coast
Get ready
Get ready
Get-get-I tore all the way down the east coast
I'm talkin' to you baby
You!
Get-get-get-get-get-ready
Get ready
You!
You!
But in the kingdom of God...
...come back fat as a rat
all the way down the east coast
come back fat as a rat (rat rat rat)
if-if-if ya need me baby
if ya need me baby
if ya need me baby
when the sun goes down to the light
you have so much money you goin get scared
'cause I got it
sevent-
seventeen-year-old Jack Acksadapo was driving home to Belmore last
night after finishing work at his father's Lindcrest diner in Lindenhurst.
According to Nassau homocide sergeant John Nolan, witnesses saw
Acksadapo drag racing with another car along Merrick Road in Wantaugh. Nolan
says the young man lost control and slid into a row of stores. His body
was pulled from the car by a passing motorist after which the car, in flames,
destroying stores ...
Yahoo!
A reading from Matthew Nine
according to verse 22
God!
Be of good courage, and be of good comfort!
My faith has made thee whole.
Well, hello there, Mick J. Sorrenson on the all night time machine,
[...] Read more
song performed by KLF
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Soccer Under 20
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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Ballad of Bopard Defied
As I came to a playing-field on happy summer day
Two strudy youths I did espy; at cricket they did play.
One had the ball, one had the bat, and, with a right good smack,
As one tossed up the crimson sphere, the other smote it back.
Now, as I reached the bowler's end, I saw the young man quail;
His hand they shook, his knees went crook, his face was ashen pale;
Then, with a gulty kind of look, he cast the ball away,
And in a weak and trembling voice these words to me did say:
(In a tearful, pleading voice, with plenty of temolo and shivering grass.)
'Don't tell them that you saw me,
Or that I misbehaved.
Their methods over-aw me;
But I would not be enslaved.
I love my freeders, msiter, as much as any man;
But, oh, I love my bit of cricket, too.
And I dearly love to bowl,
But the great Board of Control,
They would chain me to their chariot if they knoo.'
(Adopt severe judicial manner, frowning darkly.)
'Young man,' I said, 'it grieves me this state of things to find,
For it is all too clear to me you have the crim'nal mind.
Thus to play without a licence and the noble Board defy
Is very reprehensible. 'Tut, tut!' I said, 'Fie, fie!'
With salt tears streaming from his eyes, he bowed his head in shame.
'Come, come,' I said, 'there's hope for you. Buck up and play the game.'
Then I eyed the other stripling; but, much to my dismay,
In tones most ungrammatical these words I heard him say: -
(In ringing, defiant accents, full of roughneck pride.)
'Go tell them that you seen me;
Go bowl it in their ear.
But no Board won't come between me
An' the game I 'old so dear,
I don't want to go to Indier or England with no team,
Fair Ostral-i-ar is good enough fur me!
I will never sell me soul
To no crool Board of Control;
For me favorite game is ping-pong, an' I'm free!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cow
Aw, go write yer tinklin' jingle, an' yer pretty phrases mingle,
Fer the mamby-pamby girl, all fluffy frill an' shinin' silk.
Them's the sort ter fetch yer trouble, when yer tries 'em, in the double.
Blow yer beauty! Wot's the matter with the maiden 'oo kin milk?
Them there rhymers uv the wattle! An' the bardlet uv the bottle -
'Im that sings uv sparklin' wine, an' does a perish fer the beer;
An' yer slap-dash 'orsey po-it! Garn! If you blokes only know it,
You 'ave missed the single subjec' fit ter rhyme about down 'ere.
An' although I ain't a bard, with bloomin' bays upon me brow,
I kinsider that it's up ter me ter sing about The Cow.
Cow, Cow
(Though it ain't a pretty row,
It's a word that 'ipnertises me; I couldn't tell yer 'ow.)
Though I ain't a gifted rhymer,
Nor a blamed Parnassus climber,
I'm inspired ter sing a tune er two about the Blessed Cow.
0h, the cow-bells are a-tinklin', and the daisies are a twinklin'
Well, that ain't the style ersackly I intended fer to sing.
'Ark, was over music greater then the buzzin' sepy-rater,
Coinin' gaily money daily fer the - no, that's not the thing!
'Omeward comes the cows a-lowin', an' the butter-cups are blowin';
But there's better butter in the - Blarst ! That ain't the proper way
See the pretty milkmaid walkin' - aw, it ain't no use er talkin'.
Listen 'ere, I want ter tell yer this: A cow's ther thing ter pay!
Sell yer 'orses, sell yer arrers, an' yer reapers, an' yer plough;
If yer want yer land ter pay yer, sacrifice yer life ter Cow
Cow, Cow
Sittin' underneath the bough,
With a bail, an' with a pail, an' with a little stool, an' thou
Kickin' when I pull yer teat there,
Swishin' flies, the pretty creatur.
Ah, there ain't no music sweeter - money squirtin' from the Cow.
Take away the wine-cup; take it. An' the foamin' flagon, break it.
Brimmin' cups uv butter-milk'll set yer glowin' thro' an' thro';
An' the reason I'm teetotal is becos me thrifty throat'll
Jest refuse ter swaller stuff that's costin' me a precious sou.
Once I wus a sinful spender. Used ter go a roarin' bender
Used ter often spend a thruppence when ther' wasn't any need.
An' the many ways I've busted money, when I should er trusted
It ter cattle an' erconomy, 'ud cause yer 'eart ter bleed
But I'm glad, me friends, that godliness 'as made me careful now;
Tho' I lorst the thing wot's next it when I cottoned ter the Cow.
Cow, Cow
Trudin' thro' the sloppy slough.
Ah, I once despised the Jews, but I kin under-stand 'em now
When they needed elevatin',
An' ole Moses kep' 'em waitin'
Fer religi'n, they went straight 'n' sorter substichooted Cow.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Fire Bugs
Look 'ere. I'll bet a 'arf-a-crown
To anythink you like to name (said Bushy Bill),
If country fellers went to town,
An' burnt a few big buildin's down,
An' quids an' quids went up in flame (said Bushy Bill),
Do you suppose, by any chance,
You'd put it down to ignorance.
An' let 'em go their dilly way
To do the trick some other day? (Said Bushy Bill).
No fear. You'd take that crim'nal lot
An' likely lynch 'em on the spot.
Fine sense of property you got (said Bushy Bill).
Yet city coves come up this way,
Shootin' or goin' campin' out (said Bushy Bill).
But are they careful blokes? Not they.
An' when their camp fire gets away
They wonder what it's all about (said Bushy Bill).
They sling their matches round the place,
An' carry on a fair disgrace
Wise coots they are, all in the know,
Who reckons country coves is slow (said Bushy Bill).
But when two hundred thousand quid
Goes up, they dunno wot they did.
They can't think 'ow that green scrub caught
They never knoo. They never thought.
Look 'ere. IT'S TIME YOUS BLOKES WAS TAUGHT (said Bushy Bill).
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bliss Bountiful
To be blessed is to watch the trees
Their blossoms when they shed fresh
Chirrups and tweets metering coherent
Ecstasy-adorned mind sings forth joyously
This moment, this showering Bakula flowers
O'bountiful, bountiful..smitten and crazy
Carpeted aroma this tuned melodic to
Bharathi once sang breezy dulcet words
'Eththanai kodi inbam vaiththaai-yengal
Iraiva, iraiva, iraiva'...and
Look, how my english spirit humming it
'Ho, bountiful happiness gifted Thee-our
God, o'God, o'God'..
And to continue when you ask me
Hunting my heart in this floral pleasance..
Out with those elysian words humming for you..
'Chiththinai achiththudan inaithaai-angu
Serum ayimbhoothathu viyanulakamaiththaai
Aththanai ulakamum varnakalanjiyam
Aaga palapala nal azhagugal samaiththaai'
'Soul in body infused-thereon
Founded five-elemental creations
All Thine nature arrayed colourful
O' plenteous beauty created Thee'
Now sweet little punches, Bakula commanding
And your anxious smile gestures 'sing'
Signing not to go abrupt..therefore
'Mukthi yendroru nilai samaiththaai-angu
Muzhudhinai unarum unarvamaiththaai
Bhakthi yendroru nilai vakuththaai-yengal
Parama, Parama, Parama'
'Salvation Thee classed up-thereon
To cherish bestowed the spirit on
Devotional trance Thee induced-our
God, o'God, o'God'
Now in her fragrant mood Bakula pouring, pouring
Let our perfumed hearts sing
'Yeththanai koti inbam vaiththaai...'
'Ho, bountiful happiness gifted Thee...'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The World
the reason why the world
is round
is that there are always
reasons
circuitous in
fact where the premise
sometimes
becomes the
conclusion
and vice-versa
where
the end at the
end seems
to be the beginning
of another
beginning
endless
perpetual
eter nal
that seems
to be what
this world
is all about
failures strictly
speaking
become successes
and seemingly
enough
successes also
become failures
we just don't know
what is this
all about
then and now
and where this
world is really
heading
or tailing
and that is what
is this world
is all about
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Parrot And The Woodpecker May Return
Kasiananthan's Poem on the Tamil Diaspora and Eelam
[Sung by TEnicayccal Cellappa] Translated by T.Wignesan
mAnkiliyum marankottiyum The parrot and the woodpecker
kUtutirumpa tatayillai their nests to regain nothing waylays
nAnkal mattum ulakattilEyE Only we in all this world
nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai our homeland to seek may not turn
nAtutirumpa mutiyavillai our homeland to seek may not turn
[Above refrain repeated twice]
cinkalavan pataivAnil From skies filled with Sinhalese planes
neruppai alli corikiratu fire tumbles down in seething showers
enkal uyir tamil Elam Our lifeblood our Tamil Eelam
cutukAtAy erikiratu a simmering graveyard on fire
tAykatarap pillaikalin While mothers rave in pain children's
nencukalaik kilikkinrAn breasts the oppressor tears apart
kAyyAkum munnE ilam Long before they might ripen tender
pincukalai alikkirAn the buds crushed from burgeoning
[Refrain]
pettavankal UrilE Those who begot us back home
Enku rAnku pAcattilE tossing turning in their longing for us
ettanai nAl kArttiruppOm For how many days might we linger on
atuttavan tEcattilE in the other man's refugee land
unnavum mutiyavillai Without proper food
urankavum mutiyavillai without sufficient sleep
ennavum mutiyavillai Unable rightly even to think
innumtAn vitiyutillai when will the day dawn for us
[Refrain]
kitti pullu atittu nankal We who played at kitti pullu*
vilaiyAtum teruvilEyE joyously in the heedless streets
katti vayttuc cutukirAnAm There now tethered others lie felled
yAr manatum urukavillai no no hearts pain for us
Ur katitam patikkayilEyE When our eyes light on letters from home
vimmi nencu vetikkitu sobs prise open our brimming breasts
pOrpulikal pakkattilEyE By the flanks of battling Tigers
pOkamanam tutikkitu there to be our hearts throb and yearn
[Refrain]
Note: * A competitive game played by hitting a small stick with a bigger one, the goal being to cover the greatest distance. Also called in Tamil Nadu and Malaysia: kavuntA kavunti.
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poem by T. Wignesan
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