American Poets: Longfellow
Like fruit that's large and ripe and mellow,
Sweet and luscious is Longfellow,
Melodious songs he oft did pour,
And high was his Excelsior.
He shows us in his psalm of life
The folly of our selfish strife;
With Hiawatha we bewail
His suffering in great Indian tale;
Indian nation was forlorn
Till great spirit planted corn.
poem by James McIntyre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Longfellow
Like fruit that's large and ripe and mellow,
Sweet and luscious is Longfellow, *
Melodious songs he oft did pour,
And high was his Excelsior.
He shows us in his psalm of life
The folly of our selfish strife;
With Hiawatha we bewail
His suffering in great Indian tale ;
Indian nation was forlorn
Till great spirit planted corn.
poem by James McIntyre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
India’s 63rd Independence Day – a Pledge
India is our land, our Motherland!
Sacred are the soil, water and air;
All Indians are our brothers, sisters;
We love our nation great and care.
Our nation is not rich but isn’t poor;
We love its vastness and its heritage;
We are proud to be called Indians;
We will usher a golden new age.
We love our home where we were born;
We trust in God and work for global peace;
We want amity among nations all;
We pray to God that wars may cease.
We want to live in harmony;
We want to progress very fast;
We want to help all those who need;
Our bickering is things of the past.
We will not force nor allow foes;
We toil to reach the moon and stars;
We stand united in joys and woes;
We pledge our lives for nation’s sake.
The Indian heart has love for life;
The Indian soul is kind from birth;
The Indian welcomes any strife;
The Indian brain is best on earth.
We are a nation proud and good;
We want to share our love and peace;
We brook not outside interference;
Impenetrable is our nation’s defence!
Jai Hind! Jai Bharat! Jai Indian!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 15-08-2009
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Great Grandma
Great Grandma married Great Grandpa
poor Irish girl and poor Indian man
Great Grandma
used to get beat by Great Grandpa's mom
Great Great Grandma
because Great Great Grandma only spoke an Indian
language and not English.
She got hit by a train.
Lots of us Indians got hit by trains in one way
or another, but this was
literal and not metaphor.
poem by Smack Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ten Little Indians
Ten little indian boys
The first little indian gave squaw pretty feather
(little indian boy)
The second little indian made her an indian dollar
(fighting over a squaw)
Well the third little indian gave her moccasin leather
(little indian boy)
The squaw didnt like em at all
The fourth little indian took her riding in his big canoe
(little indian boy)
The fifth little indian took her down the waterfall
(fighting over a squaw)
The sixth little indian taught the squaw how to woo-woo
(little indian boy)
But the squaw didnt like em at all
One little, two little, three little indians
(keep us humming were the ten little indians)
Four little, five little, six little indians
(keep us humming were the ten little indians)
Seven little, eight little, nine little indians
(keep us humming were the ten little indians)
Ten little indian boys
The seventh little indian took her over to his teepee
(little indian boy)
The eighth little indian tried to give her a love poem
(fighting over a squaw)
The ninth little indian said youre my kemosabe
(little indian boy)
The squaw didnt like em at all
The tenth little indian said it really didnt matter
(little indian boy)
He acted like himself and he didnt look at her
(fighting over a squaw)
The squaw didnt care if he never did a thing
(little indian boy)
Cause she loved the tenth indian boy
Loved the tenth indian boy
Loved the tenth indian boy
Loved the tenth indian boy
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Point That You Are Driving At
of all inanimate
you say you want to be a fruit
a mango
luscious, sweet, and
ripe
i know, your point is that
you are ready,
ripe for everything, an end
for itself,
and of all animate,
you say you simply want to be this
mosquito
of the female variety, one that sings
one that tells you
that life sucks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Greate Freedom
nation flag fly
child cry
hunger
mother chest
no milk
good morning india...?
bad morning for poor indian people...
and poor freedom...
every wear...
not full fill the poor
indian stomach.........
what a great...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Think Back, O Indian!
O Indian, O Indian!
Why not you think awhile?
How came your freedom?
How came this soil?
How came your brothers?
Why do you toil?
What’s your heritage?
What’s your love?
What’s your advantage?
Just think it now.
O Indian, O Indian!
Why don’t you muse awhile?
What makes up India?
What are its states?
What are its rivers?
Who are your mates?
Whose blood in you flows?
Who are your neighbors?
Why fight with brothers?
Just think it now.
O Indian, O Indian!
Why not you brood awhile?
What are your dangers?
What integrates?
What are your misgivings?
How do you solve?
Where’s your heart now?
Where is your soul?
Where’s your peace of mind?
Just think it now.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the Fruit and Veg
Knocking you listen
to the sound
that a watermelon makes
to test if it is ripe
and I wipe the smile form my face,
trying to look sincere
and the whole of Fruit and Veg is filled
with shoppers, adoring ripe fruit and vegetables
crowding around some places with special offers
like a great vast congregation
gathered in the temple of a god
and tonight you will again
make your great fruit salad
with chopped and sliced mangoes,
papaw, sweet melon, some squeezed orange juice
and grapes
and maybe this afternoon
we will eat the watermelon
in the shade next to the swimming pool.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Traveller-Heart
(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible Manner of Interment)
I would be one with the dark, dark earth:--
Follow the plough with a yokel tread.
I would be part of the Indian corn,
Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead.
I would be one with the lavish earth,
Eating the bee-stung apples red:
Walking where lambs walk on the hills;
By oak-grove paths to the pools be led.
I would be one with the dark-bright night
When sparkling skies and the lightning wed--
Walking on with the vicious wind
By roads whence even the dogs have fled.
I would be one with the sacred earth
On to the end, till I sleep with the dead.
Terror shall put no spears through me.
Peace shall jewel my shroud instead.
I shall be one with all pit-black things
Finding their lowering threat unsaid:
Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,--
Oak-roots arching about my head!
Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth,
Acorns fall round my breast that bled.
Children shall weave there a flowery chain,
Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:--
Fruit of the traveller-heart of me,
Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped:
Sweet with the life of my sunburned days
When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Women's harvest song
I am waving a ripe sunflower,
I am scattering sunflower pollen to the four world-quarters.
I am joyful because of my melons,
I am joyful because of my beans,
I am joyful because of my squashes.
The sunflower waves.
So did the corn wave
When the wind blew against it,
So did my white corn bend
When the red lightning descended upon it,
It trembled as the sunflower
When the rain beat down its leaves.
Great is a ripe sunflower,
And great was the sun above my corn-fields.
His fingers lifted up the corn-ears,
His hands fashioned my melons,
And set my beans full in the pods.
Therefore my heart is happy
And I will lay many blue prayer-sticks at the shrine of Ta-wa.
I will give corn to Ta-wa,
Yellow corn, blue corn, black corn.
I wave the sunflower,
The sunflower heavy with pollen.
I wave it, I turn it, I sing,
Because I am happy.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Song Of Hiawatha: Introduction And Vocabulary
Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
I should answer, I should tell you,
'From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer.'
Should you ask where Nawadaha
Found these songs so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
I should answer, I should tell you,
'In the bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoofprint of the bison,
In the eyry of the eagle!
'All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!'
If still further you should ask me,
Saying, 'Who was Nawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,'
I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follow.
'In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.
'And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley,
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley.
'There he sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed and how be fasted,
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,
That the tribes of men might prosper,
That he might advance his people!'
Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries;-
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken;-
Listen to this Indian Legend,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in God and Nature,
Who believe that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened;-
Listen to this simple story,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles
Through the green lanes of the country,
Where the tangled barberry-bushes
Hang their tufts of crimson berries
Over stone walls gray with mosses,
Pause by some neglected graveyard,
For a while to muse, and ponder
On a half-effaced inscription,
Written with little skill of song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter;
Stay and read this rude inscription,
Read this Song of Hiawatha!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Introduction To The Song Of Hiawatha
Should you ask me,
whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer."
Should you ask where Nawadaha
Found these songs so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
I should answer, I should tell you,
"In the bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoofprint of the bison,
In the eyry of the eagle!
"All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"
If still further you should ask me,
Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,"
I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follow.
"In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.
"And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley,
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley.
"There he sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed and how be fasted,
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,
That the tribes of men might prosper,
That he might advance his people!"
Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries;-
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken;-
Listen to this Indian Legend,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in God and Nature,
Who believe that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened;-
Listen to this simple story,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles
Through the green lanes of the country,
Where the tangled barberry-bushes
Hang their tufts of crimson berries
Over stone walls gray with mosses,
Pause by some neglected graveyard,
For a while to muse, and ponder
On a half-effaced inscription,
Written with little skill of song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter;
Stay and read this rude inscription,
Read this Song of Hiawatha!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Indian Summer
The voices hanging in the air
The fingers running through my hair
You whisper in my ear, words Im afraid to hear
Youre sleeping on the wings of doves
Of melting in the heat of love
A voice that disappears, into the air
You said you found me, and never let me go, and until you do
No arms around me, to pull me away, away from you
Indian summer, I remember you
Indian summer, do you think of me too?
Like a moth to a flame, youre drawn to me with tender chains
You wrap me up so tight, and hold me all the night
Whos the stranger come and gone, statues crying in the lawn
The fountains frozen tears, bring back those years
Did you think you loved me, and do you want me now like you did back then
No moon above me, could make me feel this way, feel this way again
Indian summer, I remember you
Indian summer, do you think of me too?
Where do the seasons go when you let them slip away
Now the winds have changed from hot to cold today
Indian summer, indian summer, I remember you, where are you now
Ohhh, indian summer, I remember you
Indian summer, do you think of me, do you think of me too
Cause I remember you, indian summer
song performed by by Sheryl Crow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
I'm An Indian Too
Like the Seminole, Navajo, Kickapoo
Like those Indians
I'm an Indian too
A Sioux
A Sioux
Just like Battle Axe, Hatchet Face, Eagle Nose
Like those Indians
I'm an Indian too
A Sioux
A Sioux
Some Indian summer's day
Without a sound
I may hide away
With Big Chief Hole-in-the-Ground
And I'll have totem poles, tomahawks, pipes of peace
Which will go to prove
I'm an Indian too
A Sioux
A Sioux
With my chief in his teepee
We'll raise an Indian family
And I'll be busy night and day
Looking like a flour sack
With two papooses on my back
And three papooses on the way
Like the Chippewa, Iroquois, Omaha
Like those Indians
I'm an Indian too
A Sioux
A Sioux
Just like Rising Moon, Falling Pants, Running Nose
Like those Indians
I'm an Indian too
A Sioux
A Sioux
Some Indian summer's day
Without a care
I may run away
With Big Chief Son-of-a-Bear
And I'll wear moccasins, wampum beads, feather hats
Which will go to prove
I'm an Indian too
A Sioux
A Sioux
song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Patriotic Indian
I’m proud to be an Indian:
I’m glad to a Christian;
I love my every fellowmen;
I prefer things just Indian.
So great is India’s heritage;
The world is thrilled by its image;
Our culture is so very good;
So are our spices and our food.
’Tis not well-developed, our nation;
Our democracy’s worth mention;
We are peace-loving citizens,
Hard-working with much common-sense.
We do not want any factions;
We want brotherhood of nations;
We love to have peaceful neighbors,
And hate declaring futile wars!
We have achieved so many things;
Our glory world-over still rings;
We have problems to face, fiscal;
We got our freedom by struggle.
India is our great motherland;
We have great faith in Maker’s Hand;
Our population is so vast;
United, we can hold it fast.
We pray to live in amity;
We do not want enmity;
We wish to spread peace everywhere;
We love to breathe our country’s air!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dawn
Not yours, He remarked;
Then whose, I asked;
Charged me with plagiary.
Impose decree, He could not.
The course I could see
Not established,
And the Indian air it was.
Soul reigns supreme on Indian soil,
Physical proportions may it assume.
Thus see his work being appreciated.
The work on which improve he cannot,
Arnold's perfection he can achieve not.
Head high wade through the ‘subway'
Establish and add to the Indian air.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nonqawuse
Slowly almost solemnly
the silver glare
of the bright sun
reflected on a sacred pool
where Nonqawuse stripped from all clothing
walked naked into the cool waters
bedecked with gold brought to her as gifts
shining bright on her black skin
and suddenly she saw something there
in the reflection, something apart
from the white-hot sun.
At first she thought that a huge serpent
had come to life in the glare
and glistening water,
and she was somewhat afraid
of it being a crocodile
but something else was there.
It was the faces of ancestral spirits,
of heroes long dead
and they were talking in her head
promising help in a great battle
against the white man
if her tribe, her whole nation
would kill every animal they posses
and destroy all crops
as a sign of faith
and the tale and commotion
spread like wild fire
among the Xhosa people
drawing them to gather at the pool,
to pray to their spirit gods,
to talk to the beautiful native girl
and the day came
where most of the Xhosa nation
obeyed the spirit ancestors
and killed all there stock,
burnt all their crops
and the tongue of death
spread through their land
in a terrible dawn
on that 18 February 1857 morn
while the sun rose from out of the Indian Ocean
as it always did
reflected on that holy pool
and ruination and starvation
came in the wake of this foolish act
and before the sun went down
Nonqawuse was arrested by European police,
and in obscurity lived on a farm
at King William’s Town
and the white man reached out his hand
in the Christian way
and fed them
and still that pool with its cool waters,
troubled surface and wild surroundings
in the Gxara River
surrounded by wild red aloes
remains a sign of man’s folly
and a place of great evil to some.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Indian Giver
I can still remember it wasn't long ago
Things you used to tell me
You said I had to know
Told me that you love me
And that you always would
Then I said I loved you
You said that that was good
Girl you made a promise
Said you'd never want me to go
Oh no, oh
Chorus:
Indian giver
Indian giver
You took your love away from me
Indian giver
Indian giver
Took back the love you gave to me
Baby, I was feeling the way I want to feel
You had me believing the love we had was real
Things we did together
You said they'd never end
Now and till forever
Oh yeah, that's what you said
Girl when I was down I knew that you would always be there
Oh, yeh
Chorus
Oh!
Chorus
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Indian Tiranga (tricolour)
First unfurled was the Indian tricolor
on Everest the world's highest peak.
All the three colors are deliberated
to give some message and to speak.
Dark saffron, white and Indian green
three colors of Indian national flag
all in horizontal rectangular bars
top to bottom respectively placed.
Green band at bottom say to everyone
grow with greenery and agriculture,
White band in middle of it, gives us
message of peace, truth and culture,
Saffron say us be brave and courageous
don't hesitate to sacrifice if nation needs,
Wheel of twenty four spokes at centre
tells, on path of progress always proceed.
Made of hand spun Indian cloth, Khadi
at one hand symbolises pride of nation;
Design and color, in symbolic language
say on other, what ought to do Indians.
(C) S. D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Path Through The Corn
WAVY and bright in the summer air,
Like a pleasant sea when the wind blows fair,
And its roughest breath has scarcely curled
The green highway to a distant world,--
Soft whispers passing from shore to shore,
As from hearts content, yet desiring more--
Who feels forlorn,
Wandering thus down the path through the corn?
A short space since, and the dead leaves lay
Mouldering under the hedgerow gray,
Nor hum of insect, nor voice of bird,
O'er the desolate field was ever heard;
Only at eve the pallid snow
Blushed rose-red in the red sun-glow;
Till, one blest morn,
Shot up into life the young green corn.
Small and feeble, slender and pale,
It bent its head to the winter gale,
Hearkened the wren's soft note of cheer,
Hardly believing spring was near:
Saw chestnuts bud out and campions blow,
And daisies mimic the vanished snow
Where it was born,
On either side of the path through the corn.
The corn, the corn, the beautiful corn,
Rising wonderful, morn by morn:
First, scarce as high as a fairy's wand,
Then, just in reach of a child's wee hand;
Then growing, growing, tall, brave, and strong:
With the voice of new harvests in its song;
While in fond scorn
The lark out-carols the whispering corn.
A strange, sweet path, formed day by day,
How, when, and wherefore, we cannot say,
No more than of our life-paths we know,
Whither they lead us, why we go;
Or whether our eyes shall ever see
The wheat in the ear or the fruit on the tree;
Yet, who's forlorn?--
He who watered the furrows can ripen the corn.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!