POEM OF THE DAY

*The Finding of the Lyre*

There lay upon the ocean’s shore

What once a tortoise served to cover;

A year and more, with rush and roar,

The surf had rolled it over,

Had played with it, and flung it by,

As wind and weather might decide it,

Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry

Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan,

The rains had soaked, the sun had burned it;

With many a ban the fisherman

Had stumbled o’er and spurned it;

And there the fisher-girl would stay,

Conjecturing with her brother

How in their play the poor estray

Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry,

As empty as the last new sonnet,

Till by and by came Mercury,

And, having mused upon it,

“Why, here,” cried he, “the thing of things

In shape, material, and dimension!

Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,

A wonderful invention!”

So said, so done; the chords he strained,

And, as his fingers o’er them hovered,

The shell disdained a soul had gained,

The lyre had been discovered.

O empty world that round us lies,

Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,

Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s,

In thee what songs should waken!

*James Russell Lowell*

POEM OF THE DAY

On His Blindness

John MILTON 

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

POEM OF THE DAY

*Old Grimes*

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man,

We ne’er shall see him more;

He used to wear a long, black coat,

All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day,

His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray,

He wore it in a queue.

He lived at peace with all mankind,

In friendship he was true;

His coat had pocket-holes behind,

His pantaloons were blue.

He modest merit sought to find,

And pay it its desert;

He had no malice in his mind,

No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbours he did not abuse,

Was sociable and gay;

He wore large buckles on his shoes,

And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,

He did not bring to view,

Nor make a noise town-meeting days,

As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw

In trust to fortune’s chances,

But lived (as all his brothers do)

In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares

His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman.

 *Albert Gorton Greene.*

POEM OF THE DAY

My Shadow

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward, you can see;

I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

POEM OF THE DAY

> Sappho – Fragment 31

(Translation by H.T. Wharton, 1885 – Public Domain)

He seems to me equal to gods, that man

Whoever he is who sits opposite you

And listens close to your sweet speech

And your lovely laughter—

Which, indeed, makes my heart flutter in my breast;

For when I look at you even for a short moment,

I can no longer speak—

My tongue is broken, a thin flame

Runs under my skin,

My eyes see nothing, my ears hum,

Cold sweat bathes me, trembling

Seizes my whole body,

I am paler than grass—

And seem nearly dead.

🧿 Sappho of Lesbos – A Brief Biography

Sappho (c. 630–570 BCE) was an ancient Greek lyric poet from the island of Lesbos, celebrated as one of the greatest poets of antiquity. Revered in her own time as the “Tenth Muse,” her poetry earned admiration for its emotional intimacy, vivid imagery, and musical precision.

She wrote in the Aeolic dialect, and her work was primarily composed to be sung with accompaniment from a lyre—making her a central figure in early lyric poetry. Unlike epic poets like Homer, Sappho focused on personal experience: love, longing, jealousy, beauty, and the fragile nature of human emotion.

Much of her poetry survives only in fragments, preserved on papyri and quoted by later writers. Of the nine volumes of verse reportedly collected in antiquity, only one complete poem (Hymn to Aphrodite) has come down to us intact.

Sappho is especially known for her expressions of love and desire toward women, which is why the term "lesbian" (from Lesbos) and "sapphic" (from Sappho) are associated with same-sex female love today. While scholars debate the exact nature of her relationships, her poetry is undeniably intimate, sensual, and emotionally rich.

She was likely part of an aristocratic circle or thiasos—a community of women engaged in cultural and religious education. Sappho may have been a teacher, mentor, or ceremonial leader within this group.

Her legacy has endured for over two millennia, influencing writers from Catullus and Ovid to Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Marguerite Yourcenar. Even in fragmentary form, her verses continue to move readers with their timeless humanity.

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Grateful thanks to Mr Vijay Mishra and Facebook 

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

*The Soul Selects Her Own Society*

*by Emily Dickinson*

The soul selects her own society,

Then shuts the door;

On her divine majority

Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing

At her low gate;

Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling

Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation

Choose one;

Then close the valves of her attention

Like stone.

"The Soul Selects Her Own Society" by Emily Dickinson. Public Domain.

POEM OF THE DAY

Black Earth

Marianne Moore

Openly, yes,
with the naturalness
                 of the hippopotamus or the alligator
                 when it climbs out on the bank to experience the

sun, I do these
things which I do, which please
                 no one but myself. Now I breathe and now I am sub-
                 merged; the blemishes stand up and shout when the object

in view was a
renaissance; shall I say
                 the contrary? The sediment of the river which
                 encrusts my joints, makes me very gray but I am used

to it, it may
remain there; do away
                 with it and I am myself done away with, for the
                 patina of circumstance can but enrich what was

there to begin
with. This elephant skin
                 which I inhabit, fibered over like the shell of
                 the coco-nut, this piece of black glass through which no light

can filter—cut
into checkers by rut
                 upon rut of unpreventable experience—
                 it is a manual for the peanut-tongued and the

hairy toed. Black
but beautiful, my back
                 is full of the history of power. Of power? What
                 is powerful and what is not? My soul shall never

be cut into
by a wooden spear; through-
                 out childhood to the present time, the unity of
                 life and death has been expressed by the circumference

described by my
trunk; nevertheless, I
                 perceive feats of strength to be inexplicable after
                 all; and I am on my guard; external poise, it

has its centre
well nurtured—we know
                 where—in pride, but spiritual poise, it has its centre where?
                 My ears are sensitized to more than the sound of

the wind. I see
and I hear, unlike the
                 wandlike body of which one hears so much, which was made
                 to see and not to see; to hear and not to hear,

that tree trunk without   
roots, accustomed to shout
                 its own thoughts to itself like a shell, maintained intact   
                 by who knows what strange pressure of the atmosphere; that   

spiritual   
brother to the coral
                 plant, absorbed into which, the equable sapphire light
                 becomes a nebulous green. The I of each is to

the I of each,
a kind of fretful speech
                 which sets a limit on itself; the elephant is?
                 Black earth preceded by a tendril? It is to that

phenomenon
the above formation,   
                 translucent like the atmosphere—a cortex merely—
                 that on which darts cannot strike decisively the first

time, a substance
needful as an instance
                 of the indestructibility of matter; it   
                 has looked at the electricity and at the earth-

quake and is still
here; the name means thick. Will
                 depth be depth, thick skin be thick, to one who can see no
                 beautiful element of unreason under it?

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 27, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.

POEM OF THE DAY

Lament

~~~~~~~

We who are left, how shall we look again

Happily on the sun or feel the rain

Without remembering how they who went

Ungrudgingly and spent

Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings –

But we, how shall we turn to little things

And listen to the birds and winds and streams

Made holy by their dreams,

Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?

The Messages

“I cannot quite remember … There were five

Dropt dead beside me in the trench – and three

Whispered their dying messages to me …”

Back from the trenches, more dead than alive,

Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee,

He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:

“I cannot quite remember … There were five

Dropt dead beside me in the trench – and three

Whispered their dying messages to me …

“Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive …

Waiting a word in silence patiently …

But what they said, or who their friends may be,

“I cannot quite remember … There were five

Dropt dead beside me in the trench – and three

Whispered their dying messages to me …”

~~~~~~Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Grateful thanks to Mr Vijay Mishra and Facebook 

POEM OF THE DAY

Grateful thanks to Maya Angelou, Mr Vijay Mishra and Facebook for this MOTHER'S DAY poem 

POEM OF THE DAY

Remembering Ralph Waldo Emerson on his death anniversary (Born: 25 May 1803, Boston, Massachusetts, United States----Died: 27 April 1882, Concord, Massachusetts, United States). A poet, essayist, philosopher, he was also the pioneer of transcendentalism. His poem 'Brahma' is my favourite and it echoes the theme "All is God" and so there is nothing to worry about or to be afraid of.

Brahma

---------------

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

-------------------------------------------------

If the red slayer think he slays,

Or if the slain think he is slain,

They know not well the subtle ways

I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;

The vanished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings;

I am the doubter and the doubt,

I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,

And pine in vain the sacred Seven;

But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

Grateful thanks to Mr Vijay K Mishra and Facebook 

                   

POEM OF THE DAY

My Heart Leaps Up

William Wordsworth

My heart leaps up when I behold 

   A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began; 

So is it now I am a man; 

So be it when I shall grow old, 

   Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

 

This poem is in the public domain.

POEM OF THE DAY

Remembering The Bard Of Avon, "Our myriad-minded Shakespeare" as Coleridge called him and who is believed to be born and died on this day (b.23rd April1564-----d.23 April 1616.). It is World Book Day today also and Shakespeare's famous quote in ''The Tempest": "me poor man, my library was dukedom large enough" bears timeliness today and speaks of the immense value of books in our lives. Matthew Arnold rightly said of him, "Others abide our question thou art free."

On Shakespeare.(1630)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,

The labor of an age in pilèd stones,

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid   

Under a star-ypointing pyramid?

Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame,

What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a live-long monument.

For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art,   

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart   

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,   

Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,   

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

~~~~~ JOHN MILTON

By courtesy of Mr Vijay K Mishra, Facebook 

POEM OF THE DAY

A Cry from an Indian Wife

Emily Pauline Johnson

My Forest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;

We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell

What mighty ills befall our little band,

Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?

Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.

No roaming bison calls for it to-day;

No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;

The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:

’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.

Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.

Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,

Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack

Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell

Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel.

They all are young and beautiful and good;

Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.

Curse to the fate that brought them from the East

To be our chiefs—to make our nation least

That breathes the air of this vast continent.

Still their new rule and council is well meant.

They but forget we Indians owned the land

From ocean unto ocean; that they stand

Upon a soil that centuries agone

Was our sole kingdom and our right alone.

They never think how they would feel to-day,

If some great nation came from far away,

Wresting their country from their hapless braves,

Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves.

Then go and strike for liberty and life,

And bring back honour to your Indian wife.

Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?

Who pities my poor love and agony?

What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,

As prayer is said for every volunteer

That swells the ranks that Canada sends out?

Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?

Who prays for our poor nation lying low?

None—therefore take your tomahawk and go.

My heart may break and burn into its core,

But I am strong to bid you go to war.

Yet stay, my heart is not the only one

That grieves the loss of husband and of son;

Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;

Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;

One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child

That marches on toward the North-West wild.

The other prays to shield her love from harm,

To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.

Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,

Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.

She never thinks of my wild aching breast,

Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest

Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,

My heart the target if my warrior falls.

O! coward self I hesitate no more;

Go forth, and win the glories of the war.

Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands,

By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,

Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low . . .

Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on November 30, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.