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I Would Rather Be Torquemagret

Finally managed to read through my political document
lamentators in sackcloth, strewing ash upon their heads,
explaining how Africa’s slavery is continuing, wallowing
in victimhood, descrying Ghadaffi’s demise

It cost me blood and tears to read through, anger made
my eyes go out of focus, luckily I heard life summoning
is important, not completion, the document helped me
to identify a desire which summoned life energy

It became my fervent wish that these self pitying martyrs
should embalm themselves in their happy victimhood;
I realise a bloodthirsty spiritual life is just right for me
being a member of the Spanish Inquisition

To help rid the world of people who insist on being victims
in the face of all contrary evidence, to purge the universe
of self fulfilling prophecies of doom and damnation and
all self defeating attitudes!

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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South-Westerly-2

What ecstasy you've got into
Tumbling home, me and all you do

Frisky sometimes in perfect rhyme
Frowning sometimes in hassling mime

Breeziest breeze but not a gale
Brisk hurling litters all in bale

See, the surging sea..you're roaring
Upping, upping tides overlapping

See, the flying birds..you're pushing
Downing down in your tilting

See, the tottering trees..you're beating
Fluttering leaves in your strewing

See, the slamming doors..you're hitting
Drying clothes far in your tumbling

[...] Read more

poem by Indira Renganathan
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A Bridal Measure

Come, essay a sprightly measure,
Tuned to some light song of pleasure.
Maidens, let your brows be crowned
As we foot this merry round.

From the ground a voice is singing,
From the sod a soul is springing.
Who shall say 't is but a clod
Quick'ning upward toward its God?

Who shall say it? Who may know it,
That the clod is not a poet
Waiting but a gleam to waken
In a spirit music-shaken?

Phyllis, Phyllis, why be waiting?
In the woods the birds are mating.
From the tree beside the wall,
Hear the am'rous robin call.

[...] Read more

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Journey By a Cable Car (Badrinath)

Why the pines are pining
when the Auli Bugyal is smiling
with pollen strewing blossoms
in the diffused rays of the sun?
Before the snowy slabs
get paved over the sloping hills,
the whole grassy stretch gleams
with newly sprung up shoots
and waves in joy in the cool breeze
that steels into the telpher
and brings cheer to us all.
“On whom to swoop down
the vulture is soaring? ”

When we were out of the car,
we sauntered towards the hilltop,
and lay on its lush green lap,
Looking at the sailing clouds
which hit on the sky high peaks,
tumble, trundle and dash at the vapour clouds

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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Lady of the Lake: Canto 1 (excerpt)

SONG

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Moorish Bridal Song

The citron groves their fruit and flowers were strewing
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh
Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches wooing,
With music through their shadowy bowers went by;
Music and voices, from the marble halls,
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls.

A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling,
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades,
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling,
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd maids;
And thus it flow'd;-yet something in the lay
Belong'd to sadness, as it died away.

'The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling
To leave the chamber of her infant years;
Kind voices from distant home are calling;
She comes like day-spring-she hath done with tears;
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers,
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours!

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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Way of Wooing

A maiden sat at her window wide,
Pretty enough for a Prince's bride,
Yet nobody came to claim her.
She sat like a beautiful picture there,
With pretty bluebells and roses fair,
And jasmine-leaves to frame her.
And why she sat there nobody knows;
But this she sang as she plucked a rose,
The leaves around her strewing:
"I've time to lose and power to choose;
'T is not so much the gallant who woos,
But the gallant's WAY of wooing!"

A lover came riding by awhile,
A wealthy lover was he, whose smile
Some maids would value greatly -
A formal lover, who bowed and bent,
With many a high-flown compliment,
And cold demeanour stately,
"You've still," said she to her suitor stern,

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Negro's Complaint

Forc'd from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne;
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But though theirs they have enroll'd me
Minds are never to be sold.
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.

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poem by William Cowper
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Twenty-Fifth Sunday After Trinity

The bright-haired morn is glowing
O'er emerald meadows gay,
With many a clear gem strewing
The early shepherd's way.
Ye gentle elves, by Fancy seen
Stealing away with night
To slumber in your leafy screen,
Tread more than airy light.

And see what joyous greeting
The sun through heaven has shed,
Though fast yon shower be fleeting,
His beams have faster sped.
For lo! above the western haze
High towers the rainbow arch
In solid span of purest rays:
How stately is its march!

Pride of the dewy morning!
The swain's experienced eye

[...] Read more

poem by John Keble
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