start of day
the beggar throws some coins
into own begging bowl
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Beggar is close to God
Begging for something is a cut
That is made at the root of your ego.
Begging for food is the deepest cut.
A monk goes begging for food,
Where he feels pride, not humiliation.
A beggar knocks the door for food,
Cursing his fate, tasting the humiliation.
Ego is active in monk, dead in beggar.
Who will get quick salvation?
04.11.2001, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Behold! knees curled up to his chin
Head down, his empty bowl shaken
Fatigued and languished with weary mind
On penniless status for his bread...
Pity, even unaware of somebody playing upon
Poor beggar, a pose of hapless repose
An act of begging on loss
But an utility for a sculptor behind
The chisel shaping up poverty well formed
Benefitted is the sculptor in bucks
Soiled emotions to the beggar glue
His concaved belly nothing to pursue
Unnoticeably trespassed the sculptor to crop
A faint sitting target artistically on whop
Sold off by re-makes, the sculptor's ooh!
In a rich man's house seated respectfully
Is the pauper carved carefully
Out of a heavy stone looking meaningfully
With unshaken bowl for pennies hopefully!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Beggar
The thought of great social solitude,
The sight of everyone having an attitude,
Being the neglected in the maltittude,
The pity viewed in verisimilitude,
The life of a beggar
His clothes torn and stomarch empty,
Always dancing to their tune,
Exploited and greatly tortured,
His presence mean nothing to them,
Their presence mean everything to him
He walks door to door for livelihood,
They dont walk to him to give life,
He is seeking life everyday,
Yet life does not seek him even one day
The beggar with rolling tears
Life like that of a beggar,
Love like that of a life,
Begging for the conditional love,
Do I have to beg your love?
Like the beggar beg for life,
My determinism flashes through,
Im breaking the steel bars my love,
Loosening the metalic chains off,
Love is love, not to be begged for,
Love is love, not to use each other,
Love is love, no need for persuation,
For so long it is love,
I will never be begging anymore,
Such love will be deceit,
Such truth will be fake,
And such commitment will be futile
Such a lover will be like a beggar,
Such a beloved will be like a lifegiver,
And such their love will be a shame
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Night's still awake with flexible souls
At the daybreak a drunkard whispers to a beggar's ear
Who's fast asleep on the concrete bed!
'Sorry for the inconvenience brother!
Short of few coins and I want to go back home
As I lost my way last night and slept in a strange place.'
The kind beggar gave him a brand new dollar note
with a big yawn and he's surprised.
He jumped to the first bus and gone.
Now the beggar remembers the friend
Once offered him a drink and he's worried
That he should have given him more.
* A Diamond is a chunk of coal that made good under pressure.
-Anonymous
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Away The Bowl
Our grateful hearts with temperance burn,
Away, away the bowl,
From dram shops all, our steps we turn,
Away, away the bowl;
Farewell to rum and all its harms,
Farewell the wine-cup's boasted charms,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
See how that staggering drunkard reels!
Away, away the bowl;
Alas, the misery he reveals,
Away, away the bowl;
His children grieve, his wife's in tears!
How sad his once bright home appears!
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
We drink no more, nor buy nor sell,
Away, away the bowl!
The grog-shop's offers we repel,
Away, away the bowl.
United in a temperance band,
We 're joined in heart, we 're joined in hand,
Away the bowl, away the bowl, away, away the bowl.
poem by John Pierpont
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Fear not, you beggar-man
Fear not, you beggar-man!
When thou scorch’d by the Sun,
Which tanned thy head and skin;
No food or drink, grow thin!
Trudging the streets and lanes;
Seldom a person sane,
You meet; begging for alms
Or for coins in your palm.
On the pavement, you sleep;
Rain, no mercy doth keep;
Half-asleep, the night is gone;
Still drenched, Dawn has come on!
With loin-cloth and a bowl,
Beg you with odour foul;
With bent back, weary walk;
A sick look, none to talk!
You walk for miles and miles;
Emotionless but smiles!
With not enough good food;
On meandering roads.
In fast changing seasons,
Without any reasons,
With feet very fissured;
Uncomplaining, you walk!
No joy, hope or sadness,
In a world of madness;
Unfortunately, born;
Your days linger on.
Perhaps, within your heart,
To God, you must have asked;
“Why am I born like this,
with a wretched, unfair kiss? ”
poem by John Celes
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Below a beggar
Don’t stand begging for things
Like of which you have got.
Don’t stand begging for things
Like of which you yourself could earn.
Don’t stand begging for things
Like of which you can live without.
Should you lower yourself
Below a beggar before a giver?
11.07.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Who is a beggar and who is not
Take your coin, I am no beggar
In our country
Beggars are less uncommon
They are there anywhere
Except
Cemeteries
Burial ground and
Cremation yard
They beg you so pathetically
That you are forced to dropp a coin
Pavements invariably
Irrespective of the city
House beggars
You can make out them
By the way they look
Women beg
Pointing to us the little child
They carry on their waist
Old ladies too beg
And they station themselves
Against you in your path
Making it difficult for you
To step ahead further
While you are on a wait
Either bus stop
Rail station
Park or beach
Some one or the other appear before you
Begging
Truly speaking
It hurts me to turn away someone
Asking for alms
Without getting them something
Some hold the view
That they need not help beggars
As they are not the one
Who made beggars beg
Begging should be discouraged
And to do that
Beggars should not be helped
Is some others’ view point
I am not quite sure
Whether to help beggars or not
I normally dropp a coin of least denomination
In the begging bowl or in the opened up palms of a beggar
Provided I have the coin
If I do not have a coin to part with
Or if I do not have the mind to help
I muster the strength
To tell the beggar
That I have no changes to spare
This morning
I was rushing to the office
After getting down from the bus
I saw a middle aged male
Who was rolling down on the tar topped road
Sitting on roller-fixed wooden plank
Pushing with the help of has hands
It appeared he had no legs
I decided to help him with a coin
As I got nearer
I came to understand that he was polio affected
Both his legs becoming non functional
Of late, thin and feeble
I ran my hand through my left pant pocket
Got hold of a coin of a better denomination
Than the one I normally prefer to drop
Stood by his side
As he was enjoying a puff of a lighted cigarette
On his lips
He did not lift his face
Having waited for some seconds
I decided to dropp that coin
I did the same
And started going towards office
I heard the rolling of wheels
When I looked back
The person on the wheel-fixed plank
Pointed his right index finger
Towards the dropped coin
About four metres on the backside
And said curtly
Take your coin
I am no beggar
As I reached the spot
And picked up the coin
I felt too small of me
And in fact, beg for the knowledge
As to know
Who is a beggar and who is not
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Castile
Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins
I met my love under an orange tree
or was it an acacia tree
or was he not my love?
I read this, then I dreamed this:
can waking take back what happened to me?
Bells of San Miguel
ringing in the distance
his hair in the shadows blond-white
I dreamed this,
does that mean it didn't happen?
Does it have to happen in the world to be real?
I dreamed everything, the story
became my story:
he lay beside me,
my hand grazed the skin of his shoulder
Mid-day, then early evening:
in the distance, the sound of a train
But it was not the world:
in the world, a thing happens finally, absolutely,
the mind cannot reverse it.
Castile: nuns walking in pairs through the dark garden.
Outside the walls of the Holy Angels
children begging for coins
When I woke I was crying,
has that no reality?
I met my love under an orange tree:
I have forgotten
only the facts, not the inference—
there were children, somewhere, crying, begging for coins
I dreamed everything, I gave myself
completely and for all time
And the train returned us
first to Madrid
then to the Basque country
Anonymous submission.
poem by Louise Gluck
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Beggar Of Love
Unlucky unfortunates
The poorest of the poor
Beggar of the beggars
Begging love on the roads.
Don't keep begging love
Rather give me your love, all
I shall lend it to my heart and soul
Just to plant to grow in multiple
Just to return with interest along with the principle
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Arbitrary
I am in my Honda Civic car at Haji Ali:
Boy of thirteen knocks on window screen,
But I turn away from this beggar, sure,
Not knowing how to go about it always.
In the morning however at Worli
I had asked driver to slow down
While I took out a ten rupee note
And gave it to that young beggar.
There is no difference between the two,
Both are begging by tapping on car window;
One makes my hand to open a wallet
And the other make my eyes move away.
poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
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The Spaewife
OH, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.
An’ siller, that ’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Hoo a’things come to be whaur we find them when we try,
The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why lads are a’ to sell an’lasses a’ to buy;
An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Gin death’s as shure to men as killin’ is to kye,
Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why,
Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Begging You
Im begging you,
Im begging you.
The fly on the coachwheel told me that he got it
And he knew what to do with it,
Everybody saw it, saw the dust that he made
King bee in a frenzy, ready to blow, got the horn good to go wait
Oh, his stings all gone, now hes begging you, begging you
Here is a warning, the sky will divide
Since I took off the lid, theres nowhere to hide
Now Im begging you, Im begging you
This is a mystery not to be solved
But be minded, like minded, Im gone
Still Im with you, Im begging you, Im begging you
Give it over, give it over
Give it over, give it begging you
Give it over, give it over
Give it over, yeah Im begging you, Im begging you
Weigh it and say it, is it all in a name
Does it call you or maul you and drive you insane
Can it make you remember, time is in place
Now Im begging you, Im begging you
The fly on the coachwheel told me that he got it
And he knew what to do with it
Everybody saw it, saw the dust that he made
Make all the dust that you can, make all the dust that you can
King bee in a frenzy ready to blow
song performed by by Stone Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Epithets of Poverty VI
I can see poverty...
In the eyes of the crying children,
In the the poor minds without any education,
To a person who have never known Christ
Families that were living from hand to mouth
To a man that has more appetite than food
In a boy holding a shovel instead of pencil
In beggar's palm begging some spare coins
In those thieves who were tempted to steal
Or kill someone just to take their valuables
A lonely person and felt being unloved
In a man who can't treat his lover on a date
To the unemployed worker consumed by laziness
To a rich man closing his company
I can see poverty, to all of those people who lose hope
To all the people who has no dreams in life
For no matter who you are; rich or poor,
We are all touch by the dreadful thing called
Poverty.
poem by Raymond Cabrera
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Greediness
A begging bowl is a filling bowl.
On its filling too, it tends to beg.
A grabbing grab is a possessing grab.
On its possessing too, it tends to grab.
Greediness is not the effect of the emptiness.
05.03.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Beggar To Beggar Cried
'TIME to put off the world and go somewhere
And find my health again in the sea air,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And make my soul before my pate is bare.-
'And get a comfortable wife and house
To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'
And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely -- let it pass,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'
'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich
Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'
'And there I'll grow respected at my ease,
And hear amid the garden's nightly peace.'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Sonnet: The Souls on the Streets at Night
Pity the beggar lying by roadside;
Pavement’s his bed; a stone, pillow for head!
With ill-clad children/wife scattered beside,
No one can tell if he’s alive or dead!
Pity the soul, whose dwelling is pavement,
Victim of men/ insects/beasts/ wind and rain!
His roof is formed by the vast firmament;
His only wealth- a begging bowl and cane!
Pity the street-children and people lost;
Their suff’ring’s endless, more so when diseased;
Nothing frightens them, not even a ghost;
There’s none to bury them, when they’re deceased.
Pity the man of poverty in street!
God dwells in him; God surely, will he meet.
poem by John Celes
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Boots of Life
They look different but act the same,
Highlands of old to streets of gold,
African sunset, red mists of pain,
Fear fills the horizon,
Tears they cleanse the soul,
Begging doesn't fill the bowl,
Still we hold on to love.
The time has come,
They will no longer beat the drum,
It is too late for them to run,
Naked they stand as we beat the drum,
They hung you up,
Left you with nothing,
I was gone,
You were strong, but not for long,
They told you the truth, too late,
You carry the scars in your heart,
Emotion lays waste to love,
My heart cries for the Dove,
Tears they cleanse the soul,
Begging doesn't fill the bowl,
Still we hold on to love.
April 2012
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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A Poem Of Empathy
my shoes are shiny
black
leather and expensive
i look rich and i speak
like a true gentleman
last night i went of the house
without my
Man Friday
and i wore a mask of the
beggar
and i erased my first name
i am Tonio
the mendicant
and i sit upon a corner
with a can on my hand
begging for
mercy
and you pass by
and you never recognize me
and you spit on me
and then i wrote a poem
about the matter
and you say it is the best poem
i have written
and that you pity the beggar
and that you like to do
something about all the beggars
in this world
make a foundation
fund a cause
and i stop reading the poem
and then
i begin to ask
'who are you? '
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The gardener had not yet dug out the radish, when the beggar held the alms-bowl in front of him.