January, 1795
Pavement slipp'ry, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.
Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ;
Courtiers clinging and voracious ;
Misers scarce the wretched heeding ;
Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.
Wives who laugh at passive spouses ;
Theatres, and meeting-houses ;
Balls, where simp'ring misses languish ;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.
Arts and sciences bewailing ;
Commerce drooping, credit failing ;
Placemen mocking subjects loyal ;
Separations, weddings royal.
Authors who can't earn a dinner ;
Many a subtle rogue a winner ;
Fugitives for shelter seeking ;
Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.
Taste and talents quite deserted ;
All the laws of truth perverted ;
Arrogance o'er merit soaring ;
Merit silently deploring.
Ladies gambling night and morning ;
Fools the works of genius scorning ;
Ancient dames for girls mistaken,
Youthful damsels quite forsaken.
Some in luxury delighting ;
More in talking than in fighting ;
Lovers old, and beaux decrepid ;
Lordlings empty and insipid.
Poets, painters, and musicians ;
Lawyers, doctors, politicians :
Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes,
Seeking fame by diff'rent roads.
Gallant souls with empty purses ;
Gen'rals only fit for nurses ;
School-boys, smit with martial spirit,
Taking place of vet'ran merit.
Honest men who can't get places,
Knaves who shew unblushing faces ;
Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded ;
Candour spurn'd, and art rewarded.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Long Live Apartheid
I was feeling sad and red,
I didn’t know, which way, nation was going.
There were quotas all around,
Communal, caste, gender, language, regional and physical,
And what not, do not know.
Quota in the air, quota in the sky,
Quota in the ground,
Quotas everywhere.
We are here as in a caste republic,
Swept with the farce of equality and secularism,
Where racism is the grating roar,
Bring the eternal note of discrimination.
Alas! There was no peace,
No help for needy poor, dying farmers,
Braving soldiers and wailing widows,
Where racial leaders loot day, in and day out.
Looking high and low, reservation every where,
Merit was trampled underneath the boots,
It was wailing in the brutal world,
Humanity and merit was burning.
It was not a wild fire,
It was the fire of innocence,
Youth, merit and justice,
And knaves were counting their votes.
They were not the brokers of social justice,
They were not the paid ponies of secularism,
But it was the truth burning for justice,
It was the merit crying for honor.
The knaves were dancing on their pyre,
Waiting for another pray, to be burnt alive,
They were cruel masters and have no pain,
Butchers were shining the dagger to stab merit.
They died for justice, vultures live for injustice,
They died for merit, they live for destruction,
They died for truth, they live for farce,
They died for the nation, they live for decay.
Remember it was not a simple fire,
The hot blaze will burn the knaves,
One day the butchers will get the message,
Or else, as in the past, nation will be devoured by slavery,
Ah God we shall be true to our nation,
Long live constitution of India,
Long live our racial leaders,
Long live apartheid’
From:
DR. Yogesh SHARMA
poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma
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People who are always taking care of their health are like misers, who are hoarding a treasure which they have never spirit enough to enjoy.
quote by Laurence Sterne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Name of God
He who utters the Name of God while walking
gets the merit of a sacrifice at every step
His body becomes a place of pilgrimage.
He who repeats God’s Name while working
always finds perfect peace.
He who utters the Name of God while eating
gets the merit of a fast
even though he has taken his meals.
Even if one were to give in charity
the whole world encircled by the seas
it would not equal the merit of repeating the Name,
By the power of the Name
one will know what cannot be known,
One will see what cannot be seen,
One will speak what cannot be spoken,
One will meet what cannot be met.
Tuka says.
Incalculable is the gain that comes
From repeating the Name of God.
poem by Sant Tukaram
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We Two Boys Together Clinging
WE two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going--North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying--elbows stretching--fingers clutching,
Arm'd and fearless--eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning--sailing, soldiering, thieving,
threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming--air breathing, water drinking, on
the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness
chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Arrogance on the part of the meritorious is even more offensive to us than the arrogance of those without merit: for merit itself is offensive.
quote by Friedrich Nietzsche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written For My Son
When Athens was for Arts and Arms renown'd,
Olympic Wreaths uncommon Merit crown'd.
These slight Distinctions from the Learn'd and Wise,
Convey'd eternal Honour with the Prize:
'Twas this, the gen'rous Love of Fame inspir'd,
And Grecian Breasts with noblest Ardor fir'd.
For like Rewards like Judges we implore:
Immortal Fame, with Grecian Arts, restore:
Our growing Merit with Indulgence view;
And sure you'll favour what distinguish'd you.
Leave Ignorance and Sloth to Scorn and Shame;
But crown the Worthy with immortal Fame;
And Fame, conferr'd by you, can never fail:
What Men have purchas'd, they of Right entail.
poem by Mary Barber
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Empty Old Houses
Empty Old Houses
Empty old houses can talk…
But one must know how to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses have stories…
But one must be eager to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses can suffer..
But one must have empathy …
To feel it
Empty old houses can feel pain
But one must be able to bear it …
To feel it
Empty old houses have memories
But one must believe … that they have…
To share them
Empty old houses contain people’s lives
But one must believe…that they do…
To share them
Empty old houses can seem dead and deserted
But one must know that they’re not..
To know them
Empty old houses can teem with life’s pleasures
But one must walk through
to sense the aura of life
Empty old houses abound in life’s treasures
But one cannot help but…
To admire them
poem by David Whalen
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A Fate of Top Poems!
Past poets were remarkable by their poems only;
But present poets are made remarkable by others!
Poetry of the past are no doubt top poems ever;
But poetry of the top are not listed in top poems!
Becoming top poets how can theirs have no place
Among the top poems of the poetry list? I wonder!
Touch stone of the top poems depends on merit
But not by the supports of friends for fun ever!
Poems of lasting value only can become classic;
But poems of no merit also have become classic!
Poetry of the past are romantic and also classic
But poetry of the present are neither but modern!
What is the yardstick to select poems as top ones -
Just support of some but not merit and meaning?
poem by Ramesh T A
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Human Chronicles
saddened again...
to hear reports of violence
from around the world.
people, everyday people,
killed in an instant,
by rogue gunfire.
and people fighting for freedom,
standing up at all costs,
for their basic human rights.
fighting for food and shelter
in the 21st century!
the furious rabble of anger,
religions hating other religions.
fighting for the 'only god',
the 'only truth'...
and they dont even know
for whom they fight!
more earthquakes in Japan.
destruction, despair, desolation...
and yet they keep whaling!
rabid mindless fighting
in the Middle East.
threats of nuclear war,
oil, and more oil!
fighting over which side
of the street god walked on!
mosques, and temples,
weeping...
while the images of both gods,
turn away in shame!
Eorpoean countries failing,
economic collapse!
unrest in China,
boiling between the lines...
too many people
with too few rights!
Tibet, ravaged, raped, plundered...
while the world turns away!
starvation in Africa,
poverty in Haiti,
fighting in Mexico...
the list goes on...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Divided World
Empty streets of desolation
Boarded up houses standing alone
Factory buildings padlocked and empty
Forgotten men recalling better times
Times when they had a future
a job, some money to spare
Engineers and skilled workers
Head bowed and forlorn
Lining up for their pennies
Families dreading an empty Christmas
Mothers mending worn out clothes
Kids sensing their parents fears
Lonely hearts on lonely corners
their immortality dancing away
seeking bread, soup and comfort
Grey faces staring at a grey sky
seeking a glimmer through the gloom
proud nations standing alone
University leavers sweeping roads
with broken promises and no hope
education, disillusion, desolation
These are the barren years
and the world has turned
Please peace try again
poem by SPC Kellaway
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Fortune Is All I Care
Addiction to faith as knowledge is insane,
For the belief in you carries a burden.
Insanity carries genius, forsaken one,
Forsaken one please describe the knowledge.
To complete genius in one’s lifetime
You spend another life as an existence;
Fortnightly, the cure to all illness is taken,
Fortune married itself to the men of doctors.
The doctors are in this life, forsaken one,
For me, the whole world needed a doctor.
Doctors compose cures to make an effect of healing,
Yet addiction is a knowledge, not a wisdom.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Lines Written At The King's-Arms, Ross, Formerly The House Of The 'Man Of Ross
Richer than misers o'er their countless hoards,
Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,
Here dwelt the man of Ross! O trav'ller, hear,
Departed merit claims a reverent tear.
If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheered moments pass,
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass:
To higher zest shall mem'ry wake thy soul,
And virtue mingle in th' ennobled bowl.
But if, like mine thro' life's distressful scene
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-tost in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
And dream of goodness thou hast never felt!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The sufficiency of merit is to know that my merit is not sufficient.
quote by Francis Quarles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Yours is the basic
The kite flies.
Its lightness is its merit.
The tree breaks.
Its stubbornness is its merit.
You are the basic cause
For the effects you produce.
02.09.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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So sorry I hurt you
I am So Sorry I hurt you,
Words that are void and empty.
Meaningless to the intelligent,
But hold Purpose to the ignorant.
How can anyone be sorry?
Truly sorry,
For things deliberately done?
Sorry are the lies that fly off the lips
Of the erroneous ones
Only to make themselves feel better.
To be truly sorry,
You would never have anything to be sorry about.
Sorry is a fairytale, only holding merit to starry eyed fools
The fools who use the word,
And the fools who believe them.
How can you be sorry for anything done intentionally?
Sorry would be better if it were a four letter word.
And censored from our vocabulary
There is no such thing as sorry!
poem by Dougie Fresh
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Men Of Peace
We lay
Forsaken in our misery
We prayed
For wants and needs
We knew
Our works should merit
We proclaimed
Our mission is peace on Earth
Men of Peace
Men of Peace today
We stand
With arms stretched to heaven
In thanksgiving to our lord
While we gawp
At the embers beneath the ashes
Left by the infernos in our neighbours’ cities
We spark
Chronicles of testimonies
In the holiest of tongues
It happened
And yet to them
Because they are…
Because we are…
Men of Peace?
poem by Benjamin Paa Willie
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The merit of a democratic regime rests on one's continual willingness to exchange views, and to compete on the basis of individual merit and capacities.
quote by Jose Eduardo Dos Santos
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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HiFi
On you,
On it,
This is like a label!
Barrow, arrow, marrow, crow, sparrow, narrow;
But, my name is HiFi.
Fighting for your love,
Fighting for your care,
Fighting for your peace,
And like the Caribbean Spirit!
Passive,
Active,
Massive!
Expensive,
Exclusive,
Abrasive,
Intensive! !
But, in the open air;
For, i am with you always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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To Her Royal Highness, the Princess of
Abeauteous princess often may
Languish in pleasure's season gay;
The empty forms of haughty state
Oft make life tedious to the great.
It must the greatest king confound,
With all his courtiers circled round,
Amidst a splendid court to find,
That grandeur can't give peace of mind.
Some think that play can give delight,
But soon it grows insipid quite;
And monarchs have been often seen,
While gaming, tortured with the spleen.
A king oft feasts with heavy heart,
Pleasures to him no joy impart;
While the dull vulgar contemplate,
Like gazing idiots, pomp and state,
And fondly think who is possessed
Of them with bliss supreme is blessed.
Soon as the sun's refulgent rays,
Spread o'er the hemisphere their blaze;
The king begins another day,
Yet knows not where to take his way:
Tired of himself he straight repairs
To company, to soothe his cares.
But pleasure flies from his embrace,
It rises not from change of place;
This day's insipid as the last,
At night he knows not how it passed.
Time's loss is not to be repaired,
Life's to an instant well compared;
What, when life posts away so fast,
Can days appear so long at last?
Princess, whose worth above thy age,
All hearts at two courts can engage;
You usefully that time employ,
By youth consumed in rapid joy.
The genius given by heaven benign,
You strive to polish and refine,
By studies which at once unite
Instructions solid, with delight.
'Tis best the mind should be employed,
Indolence leaves a craving void;
The soul is like a subtle fire,
Which if not fed must soon expire.
Union
Delicate sweet rapture came knocking
Gallant O' The Galaxy-his name
Left his calling card in her door
Thus-the beginning of Loves Eternal Flame;
Inside a Lonely Soul deliberated
Overwhelmed by delicious day dreams
Recognizing his- Devil May Care
A wild man-yet Gallant Resplenant
Seeking her spirit so fair;
Theirs would be a perfect union
Ecstacy-surely their new name
Coming together-as birds of one feather
Hence, Gallant and Lonely Soul-one flame;
poem by Theodora Onken
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