Poem of the day-8: 'The Oakleaf' by Petrus Brovka

The darkest clouds won't terrify me,
I can withstand the fiercest winds,
I cling to life, all storms defying,
As to its branch an oak leaf clings.

Through autumn rain and gloom despairing
It blazes with a copper glint,
And when a vicious wind comes tearing
The oak merely sways and rings

In winter, when the cold turns mean
And every night a blizzard blows,
The oak leaf valiantly screens
The mother branch on which it grows.

But when the spring its magic weaves
The oak leaf welcomes it, enthralled,
And ceding place to young green leaves
Upon the ground it softly falls.

Courtesy: 'Fifty Soviet Poets'
Published by Progress Publishers, Moscow
Translated by Olga Shartse

Poem of the day-7: 'The Wish' by Abraham Cowley

WELL then! I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree.
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd and buzz and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave
May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since love ne'er will from me flee,
A Mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
Only beloved and loving me.

O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
Thy happy tenant of your shade?
Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood:
Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury,
Where all the riches lie that she
Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say
That 'tis the way too thither.

Hoe happy here should I
And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude 35
In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.

- Abraham Cowley. 1618–1667

Wikipedia article on "ABRAHAM COWLEY":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abraham_Cowley

Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Poem of the day-6: 'Daybreak'

Daybreak

A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”
It hailed the ships, and cried: “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”
And hurried landward far away,
Crying: “Awake! It is the day.”
It said unto the forest: “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the woodbird’s folded wing,
And said: “O bird, awake and sing!”
And o’er the farms: “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow: “the day is near.”
It whispered to the fields of corn:
“Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”
It shouted through the belfry tower:
“Awake, O bell, proclaim the hour!”
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said: “Not yet; in quiet lie.”

- H.W.Longfellow

Poem of the day-5: 'Gitanjali'

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where timeless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way;

Where the mind led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action -

Into that haven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

- Rabindranath Tagore

Poem of the day-4: 'Song of Myself' by Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirtyseven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

....

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,

And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,

Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

....

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I listen to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,

And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,

The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,

I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,

(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

....

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,

Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,

Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine,

One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same,

....

A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,

A novice beginning yet experiment of myriads of seasons,

Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,

A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,

Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.

...

I am the poet of the Body and I am poet of the Soul,

The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,

The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man.

And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,

And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

....

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,

Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,

No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,

No more modest than immodest.

....

Whoever degrades another degrades me,

And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

....

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

(Selection from 'The Song of Myself' by Walt Whitman)

Poem of the Day-3: THE REBELLION by M.G.Adiga

Here, everyone has to rebel until

he seeks out, identifies and climbs

his own throne of gold or iron or word, or mere mud.

.....

Until the spring of self blossoms,

each individual will have to rebel against

parents, against teachers; and the closed first

of society. So long as they oppress and feed the

Orphan stale food

and restrict his growth.

Until one's own marks of identify are ready;

Until within one's limits, One spreads

his branches and twigs sufficiently

Every one has to rebel.

....

Most importantly, One has to declare

endlessly a holy war

against oneself, through one's living days;

against the secret fifth column that conspires

Inside the inner cave of utter darkness;

against those who come in desirable disguises

to flatter and to extinguish

the lamp of selfhood;

against one's own day dreams which tempt

by magnifying one's ambitions;

against secret fears that try to push

you into the pit of despair and laugh out loud;

against distortions that stem from selfishness;

against the neighing of mirages of impossibilities;

against unabashed women

who draw you astray or pull you down;

....

The declaration of rebellion

should keep on blazing;

until every branch weighs down with ripe fruits;

in order to offer the kernel to others and seeds to the future;

to lay another stone to the foundation of mankind;

....

...

(Translated into English by P.Srinivasa Rao and Sumatheendra Nadig)(Source: Lost)

On Poetry-9: Charles Darwin

"If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once a week." - Charles Darwin

My Poems-3: "Dindigul" (From Suri's Autobio)

The name brings to memory
A fort on a hillock;
As a boy climbed it
several times.
This is where
dad was working,
when I was born.

His diary records
the momentous event:
"A Red Letter Day :
Telegram from ANY
informing birth of my son".
What Red-letter day?
My son snorts now!

My mom and me,
as a babe,
were taken to
my paternal uncle's house -
"40, Society Street".

Travelling by train
from mom's place,
changing trains in between,
commences my association
with Railways
which continues.
They are live-characters
in my life-drama.
All that
we will see later.

During my uncle's time,
40, Society Street
was a jolly-good place,
for a lot of children -
my cousins, me and
all the kids nearby.
That house is
associated with
many many events
of my life -
some memorable and
some better forgotten.

I was named after
this uncle -
"SIVASURIYANARAYANAN" .
'Reminds me of a
goods train' -
a friend commented
on my name.
Yes, what a long name!
But I can't blame
my uncle.
He inherited it
from his grandpa
and dad chose it for me,
for uncle was more
a father to him.
(Dad lost his father
when he was 8.)
Hope, my son
will be more
imaginative and
comes up
with something better
for his son,
when he is born.

But I am
either
"Suri" or "Murugan"
to all near and dear.
The longer version
is for records only.
Murugan?
Oh, petname mother
chose for me.
Still many from
mother's side
know me as 'Murugan'.

Later my siblings
took to calling me,
'Mulla' -
a corrupt form of Muruga
or maybe after
Mulla Nazruddeen,
whose jokes
I used to crack often.

My namesake uncle was
Town Congress leader,
popular and soft-spoken gent,
respected and trusted by many.
A Municipal Councillor,
till his tragic death,
his ward,
Ward No.4 to be precise,
came to be known as
"Congress Fortress".

Cut at the prime of life,
he fell like a
huge banyan tree,
leaving many branches
to dry and wither away.

Uncle gone,
40 society street gone,
all the glories gone, -
his children,
that is,
those that are left,
despair there,
facing calamity
after calamity.


On uncle's death,
burden fell on Sethu -
my cousin and the
eldest son of uncle,
when he was hardly 20.
Crushed almost,
he still lives there.

Now, 40 years after,
Dindigul is
just another name,
with fragrant and painful
memories.

Avoid unpleasantness,
well, that is me.
Pressed down as I am
with worries and problems,
Relatives and friends mean solace to me;
When they turn unpleasant,
I hide my face and
run away.
Weakness of character?
Self-centredness?
I rue this flaw of character,
but what to do?

Poem of the day-25: "Exercise Your Mind" by Ka.Vai.Palanisamy

I have not

handful of dreams.

But teach you

the strategem

to test the truth

on the touchstone.

And I shall not write

anything new,

for there is none

that had written new.

The vision Buddha had

is a vision unto him alone.

If wisdom need,

you are to cognize the world.

Without the birth of light in you

The darkness will not vanish.

So exercise your mind,

in the language of silence,

to impregnate

Life of a Sun.

Poem of the Day-2: 'The Time to Die' by Professor Cheriyan Jacob

When the twilight tempering the shadows
Soften the night's approach
And the clouds I have admired often
Are silvered at the edges,
The leaves' murmur dying away
In the soul's infinite distance
Like the reverberations of my hopes,
When the leaves are hushed and the ocean
Sends its melodious requiem to the sky
And the copse sounds not with the wren's chirp
Or the woodpecker's whistle
When there is only the call of the blackbird to its mate
That is the time for me to die,
To pass into the primeval silence
When silence wraps the world around,
And not when a noisy parliament is in session
And politicians sling the mud at democracy.
(From the Library Week Souvenir of CECRI Club)

Poem of the Day-1: "Birth of an Alliance" by Dr.Rosemary C.Wilkinson

I came across this poem in a book entitled, "East-West Voices" edited and compiled by Dr.V.S.Skanda Prasad and published by Chetana Books, Mangalore, India. Needless to say, like many other treasures, I found this also on a pavement bookshop. I loved this poem and hope the visitors to this blog will also love it. Thank you, Dr.Rosemary C.Wilkinson and Dr.Dr.V.S.Skanda Prasad!

She gathered a variety of poems
When she was very young.
As someone would gather rare flowers.
She plucked from here, from there,
Then she placed them all in a bower.

Now this bower lay as a dormant
Rustic cottage over the years -
So quaint, and all forlorn -
Then one day someone came along
Cleared the webs, unlocked the door,
And lo! an artist was born.

(Dr.Rosemary C.Wilkinson wrote her first poem at age 14.......When President Kennedy was shot, she wrote her second poem. From then on, she could not stop the poetry from flowing. Author of more than 15 books on poetry, she has honoured with many international awards. She was the President of the 5th World Congress of Poets held in USA during 1981.)

On Poetry-10: Carl Sandburg 4

Poetry is the journal of a sea animal, living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

My Poems-2 : 'Arumuganeri' (From Suri's Autobio)

A small place near Tiruchendur,
and not far from Cape Comorin;
The landmark today is
The Dhrangdhra Chemicals Ltd.
It was my mother's place.
There was I born on a
Diwali Day,
to the sound of crackers and
the light of fireworks.
October 21, 1949 to be precise.

My contact with the place
is very limited.
Maybe I visited the place
four or five times
in all my life.

I spent
a summer vacation there
during my school days.
Swimming in a pond daily,
Witnessing a Volley-ball tournament,
Playing an old gramophone and
munching snacks
in the house of
various relatives.
Beyond that,
the place holds
no other memories for me.

But, oh yes,
after my marriage,
I spent a day there
with my wife,
spending an hour
in each uncle's house.

I am told
K.T.Kosalram,
Member of Parliament,
was a native of that place.
So also
the Tamil writer,
"Thamarai Manaalan".


After that
I have lost touch
completely and
am not sorry!

Free dreams, fond bores - Times Online

Free dreams, fond bores - Times Online

POEM OF THE WEEK - TLS Highlights - Times Online

POEM OF THE WEEK - TLS Highlights - Times Online

On Poetry-11: The Healing Power of Poetry

Dr.Smiley Blanton, one of America's great psychiatrists, wrote a charming book, "THE HEALING POWER OF POETRY". He found, in his work with patients, that emotional troubles could be helped by the healing properties of great poetry. (From "Treasury of Courage and Confidence" by Dr.Norman Vincent Peale).

(On an impulse, I tried Google Search for "Healing Power of Poetry" and got results within 0.34 seconds. It gave about 7890 links! I am furnishing details about one of the articles that I could access immediately and which also impressed me, namely, "Finding the Words to Say It: The Healing Power of Poetry" by Robert Carroll, UCLA Department of Psychiatry, Los Angeles CA 90024, USA. It was published in an Oxford University Press (OUP) jounral, namely, "Evidence-based Complementary and Alternative Medicine".

Another interesting feature of this article is it has been published under Open Access model and though the author retains copyright, "users are entitled to use, reproduce, disseminate, or display the open access version of this article for non-commercial purposes provided that: the original authorship is properly and fully attributed; the Journal and Oxford University Press are attributed as the original place of publication with the correct citation details given; if an article is subsequently reproduced or disseminated not in its entirety but only in part or as a derivative work this must be clearly indicated. For commercial re-use, please contact journals.permissions{at}oupjournals.org."

http://ecam.oxfordjournals.org/cgi/content/abstract/2/2/161

As the article talks about the therapeutic value of poetry, I think I should also post a copy in my other blog devoted to Alternative Medicine and Health.

Grateful thanks to Dr.Robert Carroll and OUP.

My Poems-1 : The Excuse (From Suri's Autobio)

You can do anything,
provided you find an excuse,
even murder and rape.
For me,
the excuse was
provided by
Robin Sharma of
The-Monk-Who-Sold-His-Ferrari fame.
He says,
"Any life is worth living,
And given this,
Every life is worth recording."
One part of my mind
admonished me
in the vein of the Gita:
"Yield not to temptations."
But what to do?
Ordinary mortals
always yield to temptations,
which must have been obvious
even to Lord Krishna.
So, you have this thing,
which passes for
an autobiography.
But why this
particular form,
you may ask?
There is a poem in Tamil.
A turkey,
on seeing a peacock dancing,
also started dancing.
I happen to see
Vikram Seth's
"Golden Gate."
And there you are! (- To be continued)