Top of the World

Such a feelins comin over me

There is wonder in most everything I see

Not a cloud in the sky

Got the sun in my eyes

And I won't be surprised if its a dream


Everything I want the world to be

Is now coming true especially for me

And the reason is clear

Its because you are here

Youre the nearest thing to heaven Ive seen


I am on the top of the world looking down on creation

And the only explanation I can find

Is the love that Ive found ever since youve been around

Your loves put me at the top of the world


Somethin in the wind has learned my name

And its telling me that things are not the same

In the leaves on the trees and the touch of the breeze

Theres a pleasin sense of happiness for me


There is only one wish on my mind

When this day is through I hope that I will find

That tomorrow will just be the same for you and me

All I need will be mine if you are here


I am on the top of the world looking down on creation

And the only explanation I can find

Is the love that I have found ever since youve been around

Your loves put me at the Top Of The World

So you want to be a writer?
-Charles Bukowski

If it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
Unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
If you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
If you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
If you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
If you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
If you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

If you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
If it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

If you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

Don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
The libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
Don’t add to that.
Don’t do it.
Unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
Unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

When it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

There is no other way.

And there never was.

To See a World...
(Fragments from "Auguries of Innocence"
- William Blake

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
A Dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus’d upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fiber from the Brain does tear.

He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar’s Dog and Widow’s Cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer song
Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.
The poison of the Snake and Newt
Is the sweat of Envy’s Foot.

A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy and Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro’ the World we safely go.

Every Night and every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight.
Some are Born to sweet delight,
Some are Born to Endless Night.

Lost Love
(From "In Memoriam")
-Alfred Lord Tennyson

I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods;

I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘T is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

With A Green Scarf
-Marin Sorescu

With a green scarf I blindfolded
the eyes of the trees
and asked them to catch me.

At once the trees caught me,
their leaves shaking with laughter.

I blindfolded the birds
with a scarf of clouds
and asked them to catch me.

The birds caught me
with a song.

Then with a smile I blindfolded
my sorrow
and the day after it caught me
with a love.

I blindfolded the sun
with my nights
and asked the sun to catch me.

I know where you are, the sun said,
just behind that time.
Don’t bother to hide any longer.

Don’t bother to hide any longer,
said all of them,
as well as all the feelings
I tried to blindfold.

Instead of a farewell
-A K Ramanujan

To meet and say farewell
to this part of me
that turns and returns
with a different partner
in a square dance,
meeting before I begin to see
seeing after I have done
with meeting,
squaring at last in a glimpse
the ancient circle
of you and me:
how can I say farewell
when farewells are made
only for people who stay
and only for people
who go away?

Love we must part now
- Philip Larkin

Love, we must part now: do not let it be
Calamitious and bitter. In the past
There has been too much moonlight and self-pity:
Let us have done with it: for now at last
Never has sun more boldly paced the sky,
Never were hearts more eager to be free,
To kick down worlds, lash forests; you and I
No longer hold them; we are husks, that see
The grain going forward to a different use.

There is regret. Always, there is regret.
But it is better that our lives unloose,
As two tall ships, wind-mastered, wet with light,
Break from an estuary with their courses set,
And waving part, and waving drop from sight.

Thesaurus
- Billy Collins

It could be the name of a prehistoric beast
that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up
on its hind legs to show off its large vocabulary,
or some lover in a myth who is metamorphosed into a book.

It means treasury, but it is just a place
where words congregate with their relatives,
a big park where hundreds of family reunions
are always being held,
house, home, abode, dwelling, lodgings, and digs,
all sharing the same picnic basket and thermos;
hairy, hirsute, woolly, furry, fleecy, and shaggy
all running a sack race or throwing horseshoes,
inert, static, motionless, fixed and immobile
standing and kneeling in rows for a group photograph.

Here father is next to sire and brother close
to sibling, separated only by fine shades of meaning.
And every group has its odd cousin, the one
who traveled the farthest to be here:
astereognosis, polydipsia, or some eleven
syllable, unpronounceable substitute for the word tool.
Even their own relatives have to squint at their name tags.

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.
I rarely open it, because I know there is no
such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous
around people who always assemble with their own kind,
forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors
while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

I would rather see words out on their own, away
from their families and the warehouse of Roget,
wandering the world where they sometimes fall
in love with a completely different word.
Surely, you have seen pairs of them standing forever
next to each other on the same line inside a poem,
a small chapel where weddings like these,
between perfect strangers, can take place.

Verse XLI - The Gardener
-Rabindranath Tagore

I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you
but I dare not - for fear you should laugh
That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest
I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so.

I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you
but I dare not - being afraid that you should not believe them
That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of what I mean
I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

I long to use the most precious words I have for you
but I dare not - fearing I should not be paid with like value
That is why I give you hard names and boast of my callous strength
I hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain.

I long to sit silent by you,
but I dare not - lest my heart come out at my lips
That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart behind words
I rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so.

I long to go away from your side
but I dare not - for fear my cowardice should become known to you
That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your presence
Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.

Time



They say time is precious,
That Time is of the esence,
But what is this illusion?
What is Time?


It goes by, they say,
But I don't see anything.
They even say, how time flies,
Does it have wings?


Never have I seen it,
Never have I understood its physical being,
But I do know some things,
I know the Time that I'm away from you.


Time is precious
It is of the essence.
But no time is worth my time,unless
That Time is spent with you.


By Dan. S . Posey Jr.

"But no time is worth my time, unless
That Time is spent with you."

I love those lines! Thankz Pinkz.

Noorie

Parting
-Emily Dickinson

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Most welcome noorie
I love all the poems you have u/l ed so far..

"So long I have been gone"

There's no such thing as 'falling out of love', is there?

Noorie

Silence
-Marianne Moore

My father used to say,
“Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow’s grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat—
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse’s limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint.”
Nor was he insincere in saying, “Make my house your inn.”
Inns are not residences.

Never

Thanks Pinkz, I really hated being the silent minority.

Noorie

Why I am not a Painter
-Frank O'Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it oranges. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

Remember
- Christina Rosetti

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

To One in Paradise
- Edgar Allan Poe

Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine:
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"—but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy gray eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

I like the musical rhythm of this poem; rather soothing !

Noorie

I Loved You
- Aleksandr Pushkin

I loved you; even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.

In Russian.

Я вас любил...

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.

They are so lovely, thanks a lot noorie

Pinkz, lemme thank you 4 being such a gr8 friend as you are !

Noorie

If I could tell you
- W. H. Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away?
Will time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Death be not proud (Holy Sonnet X)
- John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure: then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Thank-You Note
- Wislawa Szymborska

I owe so much
to those I don’t love.

The relief as I agree
that someone else needs them more.

The happiness that I’m not
the wolf to their sheep.

The peace I feel with them,
the freedom –
love can neither give
nor take that.

I don’t wait for them,
as in window-to-door-and-back.
Almost as patient
as a sundial,
I understand
what love can’t.
and forgive
as love never would.

From a rendezvous to a letter
is just a few days or weeks,
not an eternity.

Trips with them always go smoothly,
concerts are heard,
cathedrals visited,
scenery is seen.

And when seven hills and rivers
come between us,
the hills and rivers
can be found on any map.

They deserve the credit
if I live in three dimensions,
in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space
with a genuine, shifting horizon.

They themselves don’t realize
how much they hold in their empty hands.

“I don’t owe them a thing,”
would be love’s answer
to this open question.

Tr. from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.

Any time noorie

The Way It Is Meant To Be


Sometimes things don't work out exactly like we plan

Sometimes you have to take what is in your own two hands

sometimes people expect too much and feel the end is near

sometimes people want to go and this is what I fear

I fear you will go away and leave me all alone

I FEAR that you will leave me here with no one to call my own

and then again I must remember its not all about me

and other times I must remember

Its the Way its meant to before now and future times

you can't always be here you can't always be by my side

so now you know how I feel I need to know how you feel for me

but then again I must remember Its the Way its meant to be


By Kayla.M.Andrews



Moments


These moments in time are yours,
These two moments are your to keep.
Treasure them
For we must each go along our own paths,
You to your destiny,
I to mine.

The dreams I dream of you,
As I lay awake at night.
Tears flowing down your face,
Rivers flowing down mine,
As we think of our parting,
And reminisce our love.

But always remember,
That I am here, I am here,
I am here in your very beginning.
Our love cannot be forgotten
For I am here, I am here,
Hiding from you.



By Faria Nowshin

They make me sad, as if there's no 2morrow.

Noorie

They make me sad too not knowing what tomorrow brings???

The Edge Of Eternity

by Karl Wild AKA GodsGift

The word forever is often spoken,
In relationships young and old,
Innocent hearts are usually broken,
With words that never seem to hold.

Most know what I'm talking about,
Some have yet to feel the pain,
The mind tells you without a doubt,
Nothing to lose, everything to gain.

So you listen and take a chance,
Forget all about flirting with disaster,
Because love has you in a trance,
And your heart is beating faster.

To hear somebody say "I love you",
Could be the greatest feeling ever known,
But if those words turnout untrue,
Soon enough you'll be all alone.

Still it never crosses our mind,
When it's all said and done we'll see,
That it's harder then it looks to find,
The edge of eternity

"To hear somebody say "I love you",
Could be the greatest feeling ever known,
But if those words turnout untrue,
Soon enough you'll be all alone."

To entrust someone with your heart; that's one of the hardest choices in the world.

Noorie

Sea Fever
-John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face
and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again,
for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call
that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume,
and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again
to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way
where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream
when the long trick's over.

Sunset
- Louise Gluck

My great happiness
is the sound your voice makes
calling to me even in despair; my sorrow
that I cannot answer you
in speech you accept as mine.

You have no faith in your own language.
So you invest
authority in signs
you cannot read with any accuracy.

And yet your voice reaches me always.
And I answer constantly,
my anger passing
as winter passes. My tenderness
should be apparent to you
in the breeze of summer evening
and in the words that become
your own response.

Desiderata
- Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann Copyright 1927

ORDER OF THINGS

There is a rightful order found
Beyond the things that seem to be,
Something beneath the surface seen
Hidden behind prevalent schemes.

I know this fact through feelings felt
in such relief that come to mind,
When in life I do my bit
And leave results to Spirit's will.

There is a rightful order found
In which Spirit our lives arrange,
Giving us what we rightly earn
With precision in circumstance,

Designed to rhyme and meet somehow
In a rightful order, time, and place.



I CAN DREAM
By Annabelle Aeng

There's no fairy godmother
To make my wish come true.
No genie in a bottle to bring me to you.
No prayer on a fallen star
No magic potion in a jar.
But i can dream and when i do.
I dream that i'm there with you



MY HOPE CARRIES ME

Far, very far, into the world of the farthest beyond
My hope carries me and places me
On the sweetest lap of the unknown.
There I behold my Self-form
In the Dance-Delight of the Absolute.

And I am waiting impatiently 4 that day.

Thanx Pinkz.

Noorie

Train Of Life
-=-=-=-=-=-= -



Some folks ride the train of life
Looking out the rear,
Watching miles of life roll by,
And marking every year.

They sit in sad remembrance,
Of wasted days gone by,
And curse their life for what it was,
And hang their head and cry.

But I don't concern myself with that,
I took a different vent,
I look forward to what life holds,
And not what has been spent.

So strap me to the engine,
As securely as I can be,
I want to be out on the front,
To see what I can see.

I want to feel the winds of change,
Blowing in my face,
I want to see what life unfolds,
As I move from place to place.

I want to see what's coming up,
Not looking at the past,
Life's too short for yesterdays,
It moves along too fast.

So if the ride gets bumpy,
While you are looking back,
Go up front, and you may find,
Your life has jumped the track.

It's all right to remember,
That's part of history,
But up front's where it's happening,
There's so much mystery.

The enjoyment of living,
Is not where we have been,
It's looking ever forward,
To another year and ten.

It's searching all the byways,
Never should you refrain,
For if you want to live your life,
You gotta drive the train.

-ANON

"For if you want to live your life,
You gotta drive the train".

That's a good philosophy 2 follow. Just be careful not 2 run over other folks who may get in your way.
Thanx Dimple.

Noorie

Click to view attachment
Rembrandt’s self portrait from 1669, the year of his death.

Watching the last boat
- Linda Gregg

The crash is inside.
In slow motion. Splinters
in the mind’s confusion.
Each evening the last boat goes
across to the other island.
When it is too dark to see,
I watch anyhow, remembering
how I wept that day in the Met
over a last self-portrait
by Rembrandt. The guard telling me
again and again it was closing time.

Lovely portrait and the poem

THINGS


Every night I sit here by my window ...window

Staring at the lonely avenue ...avenue

Watching lovers holdin' hands

And laughin' (ha ha ha)

Thinkin' 'bout the things we used to do

Thinkin' 'bout things

Like a walk in the park ...things

Like a kiss in the dark ...things

Like a sailboat ride (ya ya)

What about the night we cried

Things like a lover's vow

Things that we don't do now

Thinkin' 'bout the things we used to do



Memories are all I have to cling to ...cling to

And heartaches are the friends

I'm talkin' to ...but you got me now

When I'm not thinkin' of just how much

I love you .... I love you, too

I'm thinkin' the things we used to do

Used to do, thinkin' 'bout things

Like a walk in the park ...things

Like a kiss in the dark ...things

Like a sailboat ride (ya ya)

What about the night we cried

Things like a lover's vow

Things that we don't do now

Thinkin' about the things we used to do



I still can hear the juke box softly

Playin' ...playin'

And the face I see each day belongs to you

Belongs to you..

But there's not a single sound

And there's nobody else around

But that's just me thinkin' 'bout the things we used to do

We used to do, thinkin' 'bout things

Like a walk in the park ...things

Like a kiss in the dark ...things

Like a sailboat ride (ya ya)

What about the night that we cried

Things like a lover's vow

Things that we don't do now

Thinkin' about the things we used to do

And heartaches are the friends I'm talkin' to

You got me thinkin' 'bout

The things we used to do ...I hope so

Thinkin' 'bout the things we used to do

Two should feel the same way. Only then it is worth it.

Noorie

When We Two Parted
- George Byron, Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

GOING to heaven!



Going to Heaven!
I don't know when,
Pray do not ask me how,
Indeed, I'm too astonished
To think of answering you!
Going to heaven!
How dim it sounds!
And yet it will be done
As sure as flocks go home at night
Unto the shepherd's arm!

Perhaps you're going too!
Who knows?
If you should get there first,
Save just a little place for me
Close to the two I lost!
The smallest "robe" will fit me,
And just a bit of "crown";
For you know we do not mind our dress
When we are going home.

I'm glad I don't believe it,
For it would stop my breath,
And I'd like to look a little more
At such a curious earth!
I am glad they did believe it
Whom I have never found
Since the mighty autumn afternoon
I left them in the ground.


by Emily Dickinson

Lovely poems...

Am old fashioned enough to still enjoy TSE...

The modernist consciousness, attempting to write poetry/romance...so terribly awkward, self-conscious, self-flagellating, with a hodge-podge of broken references(literary, biblical, personal, contemporary), unable to find any sense of continuity...and since I have attempted to summarize in one line what people have been struggling to do for ninety years in innumerable volumes ... let me add insult to injury and ask you to ignore the Italian Dantesque bit that precedes the English, for now... believe me, the poem makes sense even without trying to decode that...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

T.S. Eliot


S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Men and Their Boring Arguments
- Wendy Cope

One man on his own can be quite good fun
But don't go drinking with two -
They'll probably have an argument
And take no notice of you.

What makes men so tedious
Is the need to show off and compete.
They'll bore you to death for hours and hours
Before they'll admit defeat.

It often happens at dinner-parties
Where brother disputes with brother
And we can't even talk among ourselves
Because we're not next to each other.

Some men like to argue with women -
Don't give them a chance to begin.
You won't be allowed to change the subject
Until you have given in.

A man with the bit between his teeth
Will keep you up half the night
And the only way to get some sleep
Is to say, 'I expect you're right.'

I expect you're right, my dearest love.
I expect you're right, my friend.
These boring arguments make no difference
To anything in the end.

P.S. Madhavi, no comments about the poem?

Love Cuts
- John Hegley

Love cuts
love juts out
and you walk right into it.

Love cuts
love comes and goes
love's a rose
first you smell the flower
then the thorn gets up your nostril
love gives you the chocolates
and then love gives you the chop
it doesn't like to linger.

Love cuts
love shuts up shop
and shuts it on your finger

Love cuts
love's very sharp
a harpoon through an easy chair
a comb of honey in your hair
just wait until the bees come home
and find you just relaxing there.

Love cuts, love guts the fish
of what you wish for
and leaves it in the airing cupboard.

Love cuts
love huts fall down
as all the walls get falser.

Love cuts
Love struts around on stilts of balsa
wood love cuts
love gives you a sweeping bow
then ploughs a furrow deep above your eyebrow
love cuts
love curtseys
then nuts you
where it really hurtseys.

Love cuts
love butts in
When you're in full flow
and you're so glad
your heart's aglow.

But like it comes
it likes to go
without so much as a cheerio
and you miss it so
until next time.

In The Valley Of Cautertz
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,
All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago.
All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day,
The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.