Poem of the day-36: "To Time" by Lord Byron

Time! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die -

Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed
Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.

I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee - since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.

To them be joy or rest - on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain;
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.

Yet even that pain was some relief;
It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour.

In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Woe;

For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee - not Eternity.

That beam hath sunk - and now thou art
A blank - a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.

One scene even thou canst not deform -
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.

And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon - a nameless stone.

Poem of the day-35: "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" by John Keats

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific - and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Shakespeare's Sonnets-6:

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

Poem of the day-35: "A Cossack Lullaby" by Lermontov

Sleep, my darling, sleep, my baby,
Close your eyes and sleep.
Darkness comes; into your cradle
Moonbeams shyly peep.
Many pretty songs I'll sing you
And a lullaby.
Pleasant dreams the night will bring you....
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.

Poem of the day-34: "Try, Try Again!"

It is a lesson you should heed,
Try, try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For, if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear;
Try, try again.

Once or twice though you should fail,
Try, try again;
If you would at last prevail,
Try, try again;
If we strive, it is no disgrace
Though we do not win the race;
What should you do in that case?
Try, try again.

Time will bring you your reward.
Try, try again;
All that other folks can do,
Why, with patient, should not you?
Only keep this rule in view:
TRY, TRY AGAIN.

Author: Not known.

Shakespeare's Sonnets-5:

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

Poem of the day-33: "The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows worldwide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Shakespeare's Sonnets-4:

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

Poem of the day-32: "IF" by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about don't deal in lies.
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken.
And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools;

If you can make on heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yous is the Earth and everything that is in it,
And - which is more - you will be a Man, my son!"

Wikipedia articles on: "If" and "Rudyard Kipling":

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If%E2%80%94

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling

Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Poetry 180: A Poem a Day for American High Schools

I came across this interesting portal last week. It is hosted by the Library of Congress, USA. Though it says "a poem a day for American schools", anybody who loves poetry will find it interesting. To know more about it, I reproduce the Introduction given by Billy Collins, Former Poet Laureate of the United States:

"Welcome to Poetry 180. Poetry can and should be an important part of our daily lives. Poems can inspire and make us think about what it means to be a member of the human race. By just spending a few minutes reading a poem each day, new worlds can be revealed.

Poetry 180 is designed to make it easy for students to hear or read a poem on each of the 180 days of the school year. I have selected the poems you will find here with high school students in mind. They are intended to be listened to, and I suggest that all members of the school community be included as readers. A great time for the readings would be following the end of daily announcements over the public address system.

Listening to poetry can encourage students and other learners to become members of the circle of readers for whom poetry is a vital source of pleasure. I hope Poetry 180 becomes an important and enriching part of the school day".

------

Give it a try, you will like it; I liked it.

http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/

Shakespeare's Sonnets-3:

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of natures truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;
And yet, to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Poem of the day-31: "The Humble" by Tao Te Ching

In life, man is soft and supple;

In death, he is rigid and hard.

Plants and trees in life are tender;

In death, they are withered and dry.

Therefore, softness and tenderness mean life;

And hardness and stiffness mean death.

He who only relies on hard power will not win the battle.

The tree whose wood is the hardest is cut down.

The mighty and the strong are thus cast down;

And the humble and low are set on high.

Poem of the day-30: "On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour"

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap'd up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
'Tis not content so soon to be alone.

John Keats, 1817

Poem of the day-29: "Death Be Not Proud"

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 souls delivery.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or chams can make us sleep as well,

And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Shakespeare's Sonnets-2:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Poem of the day-28: "Ozymandias" by Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half-sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poem of the day-27: "The Birth of Song"

The birth of song is fraught with joy and sorrow,
Like building life anew - one endless quest;
Today I know not what I'll write tomorrow
Though ere its birth my song gnaws at my breast.

That song is mute though from the throat it gushes,
Which from the heart and soul doth fail to spring,
To which no streamlet sings, no blossom blushes,
It is no song, whoever it may sing.

So tell me song - what is it gives you birth?
From ripples on the lake? rafts river-borne?
The fire of my beloved's sparkling eyes?
The fragrance of the new-mown hay at dawn?

The birth of song is fraught with tribulation,
Like fighting doubt that eats your heart away,
Like choosing stars from out of a constellation,
Or looking for a needle in the hay.

The dream that from the heart of hearts emerges,
No power in heaven or earth can ever slay;
For song is fragrant incense ever burning,
It is the "Yea" of Youth 'gainst Age's "Nay".

- Simon Chikovani

Wikipedia article on "SIMON CHIKOVANI":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Chikovani

Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Poem of the day-25: "Autumn" by Boris Pasternak

I have allowed my family to scatter,
All my dear ones are dispersed.
A life-long loneliness
Fills nature and my heart.

And here I am with you, in a small house.
Outside, the forest is unpeopled like a desert.
As in the song, the drives and footpaths
Are almost overgrown.

The log walls are sad,
Having only us two to gaze at.
But we never undertook to leap the barriers.
We will perish honestly.

At one o'clock we shall sit down to table,
At three we shall rise,
I with my boom, you with your embroidery.
At dawn we shan't remember
What time we stopped kissing.

Leaves, rustle and spill yourselves
Ever more splendidly, ever more recklessly,
Fill yesterday's cup of bitterness
Still more full with the pain of today.

Let devotion, desire, delight,
Be scattered in the uproar of September:
And you, go and hide in the crackling autumn,
Either be quiet or be crazy.

You fling your dress from you
As the coppice flings away its leaves.
In a dressing-gown with a silk tassel
You fall into my arms.

You are the good gift of the road to destruction
When life is more sickening than disease
And boldness the root of beauty
This is what draws us together.

From "Dr.Zhivago" by Boris Pasternak.

Poem of the day-24: “I was the Wind last night" by Ruskin Bond

I was the wind last night.
I vaulted the river and swam seven mountains
And turned aside the tall trees guarding the valley
For I would see you smile and dream ....

I caught glimpses of you through the window as
I wandered around the little house.
They wouldn't let me in; too cold a wind!
I hung about listlessly, afraid to call too loud.
Then like a weary man limped homewards over the
sleeping mountains.
When will I learn the value of stillness?

Courtesy: 'Imprint', May 1975.

Wikipedia article on "RUSKIN BOND":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruskin_Bond

Grateful thanks to Ruskin Bond and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Poem of the day-23: “The Passing of Arthur" by Tennyson

And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou se st--if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)--
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'

From the poem, “The Passing of Arthur" by Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Wikipedia article on "TENNYSON":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Tennyson,_1st_Baron_Tennyson

Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.