Ode To The Child
the child is the
father, mother
mentor of the man
he gathers the whole
language for him
his mother tongue
with all the shades of meaning
in the first many years of his life
when you hear a man speak
he is speaking the tongue
of his childhood
when you hear a man lie
he is lying on the inoncence
of his childhood
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Classical Tamil World Conference (Semmozhi Tamizh Ulaga Manadu)
Through you, I came, Mother;
Lucky was my birth in Bharat, my Motherland;
I was nurtured and grew up by mother’s milk;
I drew strength from my mother’s love.
I knew the world through my mother-tongue;
I learnt most things by mother-tongue;
Thanks to my dear earthly mother;
Thanks to my Mother, Tamil!
The place where I was born was Tamilnadu;
Tamil is my mother-tongue;
Tamil was my first breath;
My first cry was in Tamil.
My last breath shall be Tamil;
My life will be for Tamil;
I am proud of my mother-tongue, Tamil;
I am proud to be a Tamilian!
Tamil is a great language;
Tamil is a popular language;
Tamil is an ancient language;
Tamil is a classical language.
Tamil is a world language;
Tamil is a language of Gods!
Dedicated to ‘Classical Tamil World Conference,2010, Coimbatore’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 23-06-2010
poem by John Celes
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Song: XI
Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.
Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.
Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.
Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.
Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .
Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?
poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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Religion of a Child
It is religion that you speak your life for,
With a voice of angels, with certain talk.
Your mother is very great at living with God,
And she is becoming thin, unhappy, and glum.
The search is for a time, the search is mine,
For the God who loves my mother,
And I speak almost continuously over the doctrines.
His attributes are his names and knowledge,
My wisdom is my mother’s,
So I pray like my mother like my father,
And feel hope for the religion to speak to me
About why you die in a job called life
After earning the sunset and sunrise.
I can not cooperate further,
For my childhood is small and it is gone.
Pilgrims do speak like my soul,
And the pilgrimage is not with my parents now.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Boy Mimics The Father
The boy mimics the father he is his father's son
And he tells all of his young mates of the good things his dad has done
The mentors of tomorrow are the fathers of today
Through your good or bad example your child follows the way.
Since dad was his role model before he walked on his feet
The mistakes of the father the son he will repeat
The mentor of his young years is the mentor of his life
He watched dad beat his mother he too will beat his wife.
The boys mimics the father though you well may disagree
That us humans are impressionable but that's how 'twould seem to me
The main role model of our childhood through life points us the way
The young rogue of the future is the son of the rogue of today.
That the boy mimics the father in most cases does apply
And why this should be I cannot say though I can understand why
The boy mimics the father his role model is dad
And most times that is a good thing though on rare occasions it can be bad.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Another Poem For Marvin, Who Is Not Responding To A Calling
“Literature takes shape and life in the body,
in the wombs of the mother tongue.”
- Ursula K. Le Guin
marvin, this time
this is the only time that you are called for this mission
the tongue
of your mother,
go back to it
take your shape
and life there
the reason why
we were defeated
it is their tongue that we are using
and on the first poem that we made
they were laughing
and laughing still
how much useless effort shall we waste some more?
and how many fools will there be like us
laughing when they laugh at us
and still imitating their tongues
when they have become so humiliatingly poisonous?
do you still remember how your mother tongue sound?
it is sweet, so sweet marvin
i hear the songs of the angels and they are all waiting.
the place that i have told you
i will meet you there
cindy and candice are waiting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who's To Blame
Oh Mother Ghana; Mother Ghana
What has happened to you?
What has happened to your culture?
They say we've fold arms against 'Vernacular' language
Instead opened arms wide to 'English' language
Oh Mother Ghana Mother Ghana
Why?
At school, we are taught the things we do not know
By the 'English' language
Why not 'Vernacular' language?
Oh Mother Ghana, Oh Mother Ghana
Where is your true identity as pure African?
Where is your pride as true Ghanaian?
Oh Mother Ghana, Oh Mother Ghana,
Day after day
When we put on the uniform as students
We are forbidden to speak 'Vernacular' language
Instead the 'English' language
Why Mother Ghana, why Mother Ghana?
When we speak 'Vernacular' language; your culture,
They say: 'Speak English' someone's culture!
When we speak 'English' that someone's culture
They say: 'Abrofosem; speak vernacular language' your culture!
Oh Mother Ghana, Oh Mother Ghana
Who's to blame?
'English or Vernacular language'
Oh Mother Ghana; Oh Mother Ghana.
poem by Francis Julian Zewu
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When My Childhood Dies
You see it in the my eyes,
The walls are built up on me.
Delightness will replaced my guiltiness,
When my childhood dies.
Afraid to show surprising face because of my shame of be young and dumb.
It's best to hold your tongue,
When my childhood dies.
Uniqueness deemed unwisely on
One’s life must it fit in.
And wear a different skin,
When my childhood dies.
Behind adult disguise,
A too tight gown.
All naturalness shut down,
When my childhood dies.
You see it in the eyes,
At nine or eight.
Before, if that's their fate,
When my childhood dies soon.
poem by Evevona Plummer
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Language lost
My language lost
My identity lost.
Excuse me
I could not save my language.
I am forced to use foreign tongue
I am forced to shun all that are mine.
Excuse me
I could not save my language
I could not save my life
And I am not fine.
I want to talk in my mother tongue
I want to live in my home
I want to tell my Father to come and rescue.
My language lost
My identity lost.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Sense In Valuing
Which language is sweet?
Mother tongue;
Which woman is reliable?
Mother;
Which child is lovely?
Mine to me;
Which God is assuring?
Mine to me;
Which is most valuable?
My life;
Is there any sense in valuing?
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Mother
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is conceived nine months in the womb
the child that is cradled at daytime,
night time until dawn?
How can a mother forget her child?
How can a mother forget her child
the child who after the flow of months
has learned to stand and run?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child whose mouth imitates her mother`s tongue,
the child who after a year or two can say,
'Mama, I love you'?
How can a mother forget her child,
the child who is so dear in her own heart and mind,
the child that reveals the mystery of creation,
the beauty of growth and human interaction.
the infinity of our own universe
within its finite linear time?
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Lovelist Stage Of Life
Childhood is the loveliest period of life.
It is full of mother's love, father's pamper and teacher's blessings.
Unaware of the worldly problems.
No tension and no worries, freedom everywhere.
Freedom to laugh, jump and play.
Lovely are the childhood days.
Lessons at school are interesting but sometimes boring too.
Gatherings at assembly hall in the morning,
watching nearby friends and teachers with squint eyes during mornings prayers are lovely too.
Above all, the bed time stories of mother are very exciting.
It takes us to a fantasy world.
Lovely are the childhood days.
poem by Sarada Panda
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I Take After Mother
My mother tongue is of my mother.
When my father differs from mother
In cast, clan, race, regions and religions,
I’m of my mother, as come from her flesh.
(09.06.2011)
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Golden-Tressed Adelaide
SING, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear!
Neither sad nor very long:
It is for a little maid,
Golden-tressed Adelaide!
Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear,
Mother dear!
Let it be a merry strain,
Mother dear!
Shunning e’en the thought of pain:
For our gentle child will weep,
If the theme be dark and deep;
And we will not draw a single, single tear,
Mother dear!
Childhood should be all divine,
Mother dear!
And like an endless summer shine;
Gay as Edward’s shouts and cries,
Bright as Agnes’ azure eyes:
Therefore, bid thy song be merry:—dost thou hear,
Mother dear?
poem by Barry Cornwall
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That child
Eight years old and already hate life
Abused by her adopted mother
Raped by her adopted brother
She is just a child and she cant be more.
The bruises on her back keeps her silent
She cries at night till the pain is numb
And when he is on top of her she drifts away
Away from body away from spirit.
Nine years old and it continues
To protect her blood brother from the same
She pretends nothing is wrong
For him, trying so hard to be strong.
She cared so much for her blood brother
She took his bruises upon her self
And he was only a year younger
And they both were just kids.
Ten years old and he still knows nothing
She must be the best secret keeper
Or just a scarred girl who doesnt want her brother to know
Either way she is just a child.
Eleven years old nothing changes
Twelve years old she is getting fed up
The nights when he would come in and do what ever
Forced to mature before her time.
Fourteen she tells her adopted mother
And adopted mother beats her and the girl knows not why
Is it because the mother doesn't believe her
Or does not care enough for her feelings
Sixteen she tries to runaway
Her aunt talks to her so she goes back
Seventeen she moves out and graduate high school
What do you know she graduate with honors.
Eighteen she joins the military
Her blood brother still knows nothing
He see her for her success and not her struggle
That is how she want to keep it.
Her childhood was taking
She just met her birth father
Knows not her birth mother
Her biological brother is all she has
At Nineteen she wrote this poem.
And still remembers that child.
poem by Tressa Carliss
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Jilted Tongue
Growing up in this time,
So many things rushing around us,
We see things one should never see,
We hear what one should never hear.
And still when we know it is wrong,
We speak with a jilted tongue.
As we grow old we see again,
The truth of the wicked that has polluted our minds,
And we sink into a shadow hiding from it all,
And we try to clear our mind of hate and of wrong,
But still the past is there,
Still we remember a time we spoke with a jilted tongue.
Remember who you are as you see what is all around you,
Believe in what you are and what you can be by following what's true,
Never look at things you see that no one should see,
Never listen to the things you hear that no one should hear,
Know that it is wrong,
And do not speak with jilted tongue.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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She Wrote About Our Mother.
She wrote about our mother and it took me far away
And many, many years in time back home to Claraghatlea
And as I read her letter I fought to choke the tears
For Millstreet, Cork and Ireland and happy childhood years.
She wrote about our mother long under Tanyard soil
And memories flooded back to me of one with ready smile
Of woman who worked hard for us for no reward or pay
The heroine of our childhood years of happy by gone day.
She wrote about our mother with sense of love and pride
And memories flooded back to me and tears welled up inside
For one who done her best for us her very best she tried
And I still feel she is with us her spirit never died.
A letter from my sister in east Rockaway in New York
Reminding me of childhood years in Millstreet County Cork
She wrote about our mother whose passing left a void
And memories flooded back to me and tears welled up inside.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Why Do Children Want To Grow
Why do Children
of now adays
Want to grow so fast
to look grown up
to think grown up
But still be a child at heart
I would live my childhood
OVER again just to be a child
to have pure heart
Pure minds, pure dreams
Instead of a childhood of distain
To play without a care
And see the magic of Mother Nature
And use imagination
To dance on rainbows
And white fluffy clouds
To play hide and seek
In the candy land of our dreams
To ride on unicorns
And sprinkle fair dust
To take a flight in
A midsummer dream
Why would children of today
Pass all this by
Just to be grown up
In a world like ours
Why lose the innocence
Of childhood sweet dreams
Just to rush into
The uncertainty of life
Why bypass your childhood
Just to be an adult of today
only to yearn the loss
of you childhood of yesterday
poem by Kaila George
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Missing Link
A sickly child lie
frail on the sofa in the living room.
A knock on the door,
His mother opened.
The man who entered the child knew it was his father.
Whose child is this?
“It is your youngest son” his mother said.
The children in the street
all had a father; the child had waited for him.
But his father ignored him,
gave chocolate to his sister and brother,
then he drank from a bottle,
his mother threw him out.
Next day asked his mother, ” are you sure he is my father? ”
She slapped her son’s face and cried.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Am I To Blame
A simple hug or a kiss, that would
have been enough;
to make me feel deserving,
of any type of love.
I've never received her affection, for
her heart she kept to herself;
and the emptiness and pain it caused, to
this day can still be felt.
During my childhood years, and even
now as an adult;
I blame myself for her lack of
love, as if it were my fault.
Yet I still remember my anger,
directed completely her way;
for in my Mother's eyes, I was
a mistake that she had made.
Yet throughout the years of my
childhood, and even to this very day;
I feel as if it were all my fault,
that I brought my Mother such shame.
poem by Ruth warren
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On Child Labour
Childhood years are something we treasure,
But there are those who have not achieved this pleasure.
A childhood they could not savour,
As they had to do rigorous child labour.
Can there be a gamble of greater sorrow?
Than giving up your childhood,
For some food for tomorrow....
poem by Sameer Daniel Gardner
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