The Parallel
Prometheus, forming Mr. Day,
Carved something like a man in clay:
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He that does heaven and earth control
Has only power to form a soul;
His hand is evident in Harry,
Since one is but a moving clod,
Th' other the lively form of God.
'Squire Wallis, you will scarce be able
To prove all poetry but fable.
poem by Matthew Prior
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In the Morning
By SJR December 1,2008
The varying layers of clouds would not evade my attention.
Dark clouds, high clouds, fluffy clouds, wispy clouds –
The sky was a myriad of different formations.
Pervading through them all however,
was a diffuse gray form extending from earth to
Heaven and moving swiftly through the land –
It was amazing to watch!
And I could only reflect on the Spirit of God,
Moving swiftly across the earth,
Always present, filling all of space,
Not necessarily noticeable from within,
But ever active, moving with power and love.
'God is able to do immeasurably more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of, according to His power that is at work within us' Eph 4: 20
----
I will always remember you SJR!
0119
Genius
Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,
Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,
Bears Genius--treasure of celestial birth,
Within his solitary soul enshrined.
Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure,
Like the undying vultures', will be driven
Into his noble heart, that must endure
Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,
Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.
Still though his destiny on earth may be
Grief and injustice; who would not endure
With joyful calm, each proffered agony;
Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?
What mortal feeling kindled in his soul
That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,
O'er which nor time nor death can have control,
Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly
From sufferings whose reward is Immortality?
No! though the clamors of the envious crowd
Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise
From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud
Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities.
'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread,
Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height
Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head,
While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight,
More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Prometheus
Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire
And swept to earth with it o'er land and sea.
He lit the vestal flames of poesy,
Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.
Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate
Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven
That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven
To lift men's souls above their low estate.
But judge you now, when poets wield the pen,
Think you not well the wrong has been repaired?
'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared:
The fire has been returned to Heaven again!
We have no singers like the ones whose note
Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song.
We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong
As that which broke from Shelley's golden throat.
The measure of our songs is our desires:
We tinkle where old poets used to storm.
We lack their substance tho' we keep their form:
We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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A Sparrow's Thoughts.... (Number Six)
you can send the lie in the form
of the unemployment check, in the
form of food stamps, in the form
of Medicaid, in the form of new
policies, in the form of charity...
but the truth is you dont give a damn
until you are willing to share all
you have with fairness, until you're
willing to put your shoulders to the
load, until you're willing to get
involved in the work of equality!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poetry is the Divine Part of Man
Poetry haters love to make fun of the touchy-feely stuff
as though that defined who or what poetry is.
Poetry is the last time the sun gets reflected
in somebody's eyes, when they're saying goodbye-
maybe for forever.
And it's that first dropp of rain, touches the new brides veil,
blesses her; as she's lifting it off her face
for the first time, after being kissed in the marriage ceremony.
And poetry might be that bubble,
over the sink.. keeps floating away, fully intact;
even though all the laws of physics and gravity may be saying
it ought not be able to go on existing;
And poetry in motion
is a baby, trying to walk and falling down
again and again;
refusing to give up, surrender
less painful though that might be.
And poetry could even be your hand over my mouth,
because you know that I can never really say
what I am trying so hard to say;
as there's another form of secret communication
connects soul directly to soul,
without confusing or complicated words.
And that is some of the invisible poetry,
lives in the eyes, the hands; the heart of the mind;
and all the hidden, inner recesses of a human being; and even though
something may be a form of poetry for one; it may not be for another.
Finally, if you balled up the emotions together, and then just threw them up
into the open air, not knowing where they might come down, or even if;
this too, could be one of the purest forms of poetry.
My words could go on flowing forever, like a stream, and that could be poetry;
or they might stop without warning and
poem by Patti Masterman
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The Power!
the highest form of art,
the highest form of philosophy,
the highest form of spirituality,
comes in the applied interaction
of peoples with each other...
taking the time to listen, to care,
to understand, to feel, to forgive,
to work together, and to see each
other in ourselves...
you cant write it any better, you
cant paint it any better, you cant
play it any better, you cant pray
it any better!
this is the power that created
the cosmos... and does so again
and again... the power that turns
the seasons, and brings the dawn...
this is the light that darkness
cannot swallow...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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That Book Of Poetry....
there is no need
to pay
a semester of poetry
from any
teacher of poetry
who teaches whom?
can poetry be taught?
can poetry have
a dictated form?
no one teaches whom
and it cannot be taught
neither can it have a form
for poetry is here
deep in the heart of man
embedded in the mind
felt and then
whether you like it or not
becomes written
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Have Power Over Others
To have power over others is something one does not need
For tis only by good example that one can ever lead
And many with power over others their power they do abuse
And for those who abuse others there cannot be an excuse.
If you wish to be a leader some sort of form of power you crave
And what it takes to be a great leader is to be understanding kind and brave
But leaders with such qualities to say the least seem rare
To some very ordinary people they do favourably compare.
For to have power over others a good person does not desire
And many power hungry people are those we should not admire
Power over others and personal power are different from night and day
We all do need some personal power for to serve survival's way.
To have power over others is something one can do without
And on those who desire such powers one has to cast some doubt
They seem to be control freaks with darkness of the soul
The lives of other people they do need to control.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Coward
I'm in this form having
walls and ceilings
well constructed.I'm
a thinking form.I'm
the keeper of
my own idea.I'm
in this cave of
my conscience.I'm
in the solitude of
self, where only
forming forms of dreams
coexist with me.I'm
in the shadow of
my form.I'm the keeper
of everything I am and
everything I have, but
I cannot fight against
this coward that lives
inside of me, when I
need to open this door
of self in order to throw out
everything is useless and
to save the meaning of
the things I have to keep.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Did that soul reach you, God
Did that soul reach you, God
It was a soul occupying a human form
Which had all good qualities of a
Good human being
That human form chose not to
Get itself involved in the usually
Worldly living practices
By keeping itself off from the family web
And thus with no real need to make a living
But to live and be totally devoted
That human form was always in your praise
Devoting most of its time
In talking about you
In reading about you
And doing only such things
Related to you and your devotees
It was a human form
Which attempted in all possible ways
To make its audience
Feel the divine’s presence
And to enhance faith
In a long-standing spiritual tradition
It spent days and nights
In deciphering the scripts
And interpreting them
For the use of even less inclined group
There could be occasions
When this human form would have
Stirred feelings of some
With displeasing messages
But people know that
Such expressions are only
Unmasked intensions
But its care and affection
Are sincere and its well wishing
Would you take any far
It takes pride in its known people
Growing well
And marking scales in the society
The soul from such a human form
Departed a week back
All we heard from this human being
Is that
When the soul leaves a body
Which has been real devotee
Is well received by the angels in the heaven
Dressed well and decorated by them
Matching the looks of other heaven dwellers
All look alike including
The heavenly god form
And just reached soul after these face lifts
Is presented before God
Did that soul reach you
Did that soul reach you, God
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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A Modern Communication System!
Everything has been simplified for want of time now!
Communication devices encourage brief messaging;
Long instructions for management or information stop
Superseding to small message servicing already here.
New form of writings has come up according to time;
Poetry has more scope than articles or stories in big size.
After seeing various forms to blank verse poetry comes
Now in the form of free verse depicting individuals style.
Mechanical, fundamental poetry writing is orthodox now;
Natural, pure poetry composition has prominence no doubt.
Exposing whole truth to the society is the job of journalism;
Governance of the people to prosperity is the job of politics;
Exploration of truth and wisdom is the work of philosophy;
Poetry composition combines all these to communicate to all!
poem by Ramesh T A
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To M
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
The War
There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the south that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts and make good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,
Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in freedom's name and the Queen's!
True, that we have a faithful ally,
But only the devil knows what he means!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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To The Lady Dursley
Here reading how fond Adam was betray'd,
And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decay'd,
Our common loss unjustly you complain,
So small that part of it which you sustain.
You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace
The stock of beauty destined for the race;
Kind Nature forming them, the pattern took
From heaven's first work, and Eve's original look.
You, happy saint, the serpent's power control;
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul;
And hell does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast
Which gains does o'er that mind vain triumphs boast
With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd;
Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought,
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.
poem by Matthew Prior
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A Moment Of Happiness
A moment of happiness,
you and I sitting on the verandah,
apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here,
you and I, with the garden's beauty
and the birds singing.
The stars will be watching us,
and we will show them
what it is to be a thin crescent moon.
You and I unselfed, will be together,
indifferent to idle speculation, you and I.
The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar
as we laugh together, you and I.
In one form upon this earth,
and in another form in a timeless sweet land.
Reason says love says
Reason says, “ I will beguile him with the tongue.”; Love says,
“Be silent. I will beguile him with the soul.”
The soul says to the heart, “Go, do not laugh at me and yourself.
What is there that is not his, that I may beguile him
thereby?”
He is not sorrowful and anxious and seeking oblivion that I
may beguile him with wine and a heavy measure.
The arrow of his glance needs not a bow that I should beguile
the shaft of his gaze with a bow.
He is not prisoner of the world, fettered to this world of earth,
that I should beguile him with gold of the kingdom of the world.
He is an angel, though in form he is a man; he is not lustful
that I should beguile him with women.
Angels start away from the house wherein this form is, so how
should I beguile him with such a form and likeness?
He does not take a flock of horses, since he flies on wings; his
food is light, so how should I beguile him with bread?
He is not a merchant and trafficker in the market of the world
that I should beguile him with enchantment of grain and loss.
He is not veiled that I should make myself out sick and utter
sighs, to beguile him with lamentation.
I will bind my head and bow my head, for I have got out of
hand; I will not beguile his compassion with sickness or fluttering.
Hair by hair he sees my crookedness and feigning; what’s
hidden from him that I should beguile him with anything hidden.
He is not a seeker of fame, a prince addicted to poets, that I
should beguile him with verses and lyrics and flowing poetry.
The glory of the unseen form is too great for me to beguile it
with blessing or Paradise.
Shams-e Tabriz, who is his chosen and beloved–perchance I
will beguile him with this same pole of the age.
I will beguile him with the tongue
Reason says, “ I will beguile him with the tongue.”; Love says,
“Be silent. I will beguile him with the soul.”
The soul says to the heart, “Go, do not laugh at me and yourself.
What is there that is not his, that I may beguile him
thereby?”
He is not sorrowful and anxious and seeking oblivion that I
may beguile him with wine and a heavy measure.
The arrow of his glance needs not a bow that I should beguile
the shaft of his gaze with a bow.
He is not prisoner of the world, fettered to this world of earth,
that I should beguile him with gold of the kingdom of the world.
He is an angel, though in form he is a man; he is not lustful
that I should beguile him with women.
Angels start away from the house wherein this form is, so how
should I beguile him with such a form and likeness?
He does not take a flock of horses, since he flies on wings; his
food is light, so how should I beguile him with bread?
He is not a merchant and trafficker in the market of the world
that I should beguile him with enchantment of grain and loss.
He is not veiled that I should make myself out sick and utter
sighs, to beguile him with lamentation.
I will bind my head and bow my head, for I have got out of
hand; I will not beguile his compassion with sickness or fluttering.
Hair by hair he sees my crookedness and feigning; what’s
hidden from him that I should beguile him with anything hidden.
He is not a seeker of fame, a prince addicted to poets, that I
should beguile him with verses and lyrics and flowing poetry.
The glory of the unseen form is too great for me to beguile it
with blessing or Paradise.
Shams-e Tabriz, who is his chosen and beloved–perchance I
will beguile him with this same pole of the age.
For Any Reason
Yes in any form
As body stay completely torn
Dreams remain shaken
And spirit is already taken
Yes but presence
May form essence
Of what has been missed out
There is so much to feel and talk about
Females are supplement to man
As she may prove faithful as woman
Hand in hand to walk with and smile
Complete in harmony to stay with for a while
He is half side of person
And that is valid reason
You know what you desire for her
She is always for you and there
Listen to her attentively
She may understand you positively
That is the only way to feel good
She is tonic for you and energetic food
Never make her feel sad
As it may prove very bad
Love as much as you can
So she has nothing to worry for any reason
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Poetry The Beacon!
Beacon of literature is ever poetry only!
Greatness of literature lies in quality ideas;
Richness of language depends on poetry;
Worthiness of matter in poetry only is best!
Writing needs creative mind whatever thing is!
Novels, Short stories, Prose and Poetry are they
That enhance the richness of literature ever;
That too writing poetry makes one great sure!
Having chosen the form of poetry to write itself
Is not an easy matter as it needs skill and time
To write what one feels, thinks and conceives
In heart, mind and soul, otherwise no good at all!
Other forms of literature needs concentrated work
But poetry needs natural ability to express free all!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Power
A wave of power rushes past you on a windy day
waving your hair into disarray and tingling your skin
A formless power makes you comfortable in the biting cold
the same power fills you in agony, pain and suffering
when you go straight to possess the heart of that comfortable power
and it is the same power which falls out of the clouds in little drops
and each of these are a single form of power
for the power is in the air
and the power is in the fire and the power is in the water.
A beam of power ricochets into your eyes from something
and you are illuminated with the beauty of the complete world
you see the ugly, you see the amazing, you see the violent,
and you see every solid and pattern
you see darkness behind an object in the form of it
lying in the ground or right beside your arm
and even in the darkness, there are objects and things
which has a power that enables you a touch of it.
All for the reason that the power is in the objects,
and the power is in the light and even the darkness and shadows.
A form of the same power enables you,
to know the presence of your woman near you
the same form of power gives you, the knowledge
of the proximity of your best food.
For the power is in the scent and smell
and the power is even in your nose that smells.
A vibe of power rings in your ear
and you know that something is somewhere near
and your tongue that knows the quality of the food
is all the power that's doing you good
the sound is itself the power
and so is the ear and the tongue
the tongue that so eagerly tastes your favorite food
the food which contains the power in itself too.
All this time you and me are here
and all this time everything else is there,
is for the power is everywhere;
the power pumps inside your body all the time
and even when you are dead and bloodless,
the power is still there in your veins and muscles.
The power is the life, the soul
the touch, the light, the darkness, the sound
the sentiments flowing inside you is the power
the strike you make in anger is the power,
and the power is existence, energy, substance, and motion.
The power was in the place where God was born
the God is Himself the power
and like God Himself,
the power is omnipotent, and it is there where existence is there.
poem by Rajiv Prajapati
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