0250 To Indian Poets
'O Lord, I am Your goldsmith on this earth'
sang Sonar, Maharashtra's poet of old,
who hammered out the ingots of pure truth
to poetry, that turns speech into gold;
who sought Yourself within himself to reach,
from heart of gold, that golden mind might shine;
to sing Your praise; and find Your All in each;
reflect your Word; make human thought divine -
yet knew himself but shapeless gold You shaped;
shaped in this life, by grace, as goldsmith born;
graced with the richest substance You create,
to live and speak some gleam of You reborn.
May we be worthy of this golden race
of poets: praise in all things, Your one grace.
(Narahari Sonar - Sonar means goldsmith, which was the family profession - 13th century goldsmith, poet and saint)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
In the markets of Maibong
I searched so much
for ornaments of raw gold
in the markets of Maibong,
Gold is only in name
You are lovelier than gold
without ornaments
The goldsmith could not make
a single piece of ornament
to your measure
What kind of goldsmith is he
without ornaments
You are lovelier than gold
The door of the moon in the sky
was open
Secretly I peeped
Orange moon
People say
The moon is lovely
The moon is only in name
You are lovelier than the moon.
Translated by Ajit Barua
poem by Prem Narayan Nath
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The Potter's Wheel
I've put love on a potter's wheel
Applied it with a sprinkling of words
Shaped terracotta like a goldsmith
Held their bars; their molten innards.
Their bodies' ingots shimmering…
A picture framed around gold-leaf.
Till, like the climbs of a silver moon
They're etched in my own relief.
Sculptured like a melting snow
I've felt their pearls slip back on the necklace
And like a tree of blossom
All is swept into an ocean - verbless
Like a vessel smashed into a million pieces.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Could a man live by it, it were not unpleasant employment to be a poet.
quote by Oliver Goldsmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dickens: Sonnets
CHIEF in thy generation born of men
Whom English praise acclaimed as English-born,
With eyes that matched the worldwide eyes of morn
For gleam of tears or laughter, tenderest then
When thoughts of children warmed their light, or when
Reverence of age with love and labour worn,
Or godlike pity fired with godlike scorn,
Shot through them flame that winged thy swift live pen:
Where stars and suns that we behold not burn,
Higher even than here, though highest was here thy place,
Love sees thy spirit laugh and speak and shine
With Shakespeare and the soft bright soul of Sterne
And Fielding’s kindliest might and Goldsmith’s grace j
Scarce one more loved or worthier love than thine.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Card
I once tried writing you a card
In letters of the purest gold
But that old goldsmith found it hard
Not to smelt the words in his mold
To a ring of gold it transformed
But too large, for so much were said
As I was soon to be informed
It fits well for your biggest maid
So then, a small ring it became
You behaved with a little spite
But you knew who really to blame
And begrudge how little I write.
.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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P r a i s e
Whatever that you think you lack – give that! ’ –
this saying, heard, lodged in my mind a space;
like seed that hides in earth – yet not inert:
its hidden clock an instrument of grace;
the mind, the soil, that meanwhile, does not know:
it neither knows what lies in its embrace,
nor its own precious nutrients which grow
this seed; nor sees the Sower, nor His grace –
until one day, when in some Spring of light,
I realised: I, meanly, denied – praise:
the praise of human beings in my sight;
and thus, the praise of that One source of praise..
so sought occasion, each and All to praise;
now Praise, with golden hand, seeds all my days.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Seven Sages
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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On Seeing Mrs. ** Perform In The Character Of
FOR you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
She speaks! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this.
As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove,
'Twas joy, and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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The Golden Wedding Of Sterling And Sarah Lanier, September 27, 1868.
By the Eldest Grandson.
A rainbow span of fifty years,
Painted upon a cloud of tears,
In blue for hopes and red for fears,
Finds end in a golden hour to-day.
Ah, YOU to our childhood the legend told,
'At the end of the rainbow lies the gold,'
And now in our thrilling hearts we hold
The gold that never will pass away.
Gold crushed from the quartz of a crystal life,
Gold hammered with blows of human strife,
Gold burnt in the love of man and wife,
Till it is pure as the very flame:
Gold that the miser will not have,
Gold that is good beyond the grave,
Gold that the patient and the brave
Amass, neglecting praise and blame.
O golden hour that caps the time
Since, heart to heart like rhyme to rhyme,
You stood and listened to the chime
Of inner bells by spirits rung,
That tinkled many a secret sweet
Concerning how two souls should meet,
And whispered of Time's flying feet
With a most piquant silver tongue.
O golden day, -- a golden crown
For the kingly heads that bowed not down
To win a smile or 'scape a frown,
Except the smile and frown of Heaven!
Dear heads, still dark with raven hair;
Dear hearts, still white in spite of care;
Dear eyes, still black and bright and fair
As any eyes to mortals given!
Old parents of a restless race,
You miss full many a bonny face
That would have smiled a filial grace
Around your Golden Wedding wine.
But God is good and God is great.
His will be done, if soon or late.
Your dead stand happy in yon Gate
And call you blessed while they shine.
So, drop the tear and dry the eyes.
Your rainbow glitters in the skies.
Here's golden wine: young, old, arise:
With cups as full as our souls, we say:
'Two Hearts, that wrought with smiles through tears
This rainbow span of fifty years,
Behold how true, true love appears
True gold for your Golden Wedding day!'
poem by Sidney Lanier
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The Beloved of a Poet
If you offer your body to a rich man, he will give you a shelter,
delicious food three times, clothes and pleasures in all your organs.
He may give you a heart which is as dead as a withered river.
If he loves very much, he may make you owner of a vast land.
Can a vast land be the price of your body?
Those who are slaves of body will not be able to recognize
the secret mine of mystery lying into the folds of your body.
Only the goldsmith knows the value of gold.
Who knows, o girl, what a jewel your beauty is but a poet?
Be the beloved of the poet, you will gain the life of nymph.
If you look at me for a moment, I will give you snatching the heart of flower and compose on your lips the new verses of kiss.
But if you give me your heart, don't get frightened, o sweetie,
an immortal epic of love will be composed for you all on a sudden.
poem by Sayeed Abubakar
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Emerald City Sequence
(quincy jones/charlie smalls)
Emerald city green:
I want to be seen green
Wouldnt be caught dead, red
cause if you are seen green
It means you got mean bread
Youve got to be seen green
To show that youre stuffs layed
If youre not seen green
You better be wearing jade
Oh, youve got to be seen green
Dont tell them your cupboards bare
That you gave up one weeks feed
To pay for your colored hair
Oh, oh, oh
An announcement from the great powerful oz:
I thought it over and green is dead
till I change my mind, the color is red
Emerald city red:
I wouldnt be seen green
Ooo! oo! oo! ah! ah!
I wouldnt be caught dead
And if Im caught at all
Then catch me in dead, red
Ooo!
Youve got to be dead red
Youve got to be real hot
So throw away those green gems
And wear rubies on your yacht
Youve got to be dead, red
Youve got to have flash and flair
And if youre not seen red
Then you shouldnt be seen nowhere
Ah!
How quickly fashion goes down the drain.
Last week when you all was wearin pink
Already for me red was old.
The ultimate brick is gold.
Thats the new color, children
Emerald city gold:
Golden gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
You got to be seen gold
Watch out for the new kind
You got to have old gold
Like some from a gold mine
You got to be wearin gold
The twenty four carat kind
And once youve shined it up
It should ought to make you blind, ah!
You got to be seen in gold
To show that youre super slick
It helps to pay tips and tolls
Its the ultimate yellow brick
Its the ultimate
Gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
Golden gold
Gold, gold, gold, gold
Gold!
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Preparatory Meditations - First Series: 32
(I. Corinthians 3:22. Whether Paul or Apollos, or Cephas)
Thy grace, dear Lord, 's my golden wrack, I find,
Screwing my fancy into ragged rhymes,
Tuning Thy praises in my feeble mind
Until I come to strike them on my chimes.
Were I an angel bright, and borrow could
King David's harp, I would them play on gold.
But plunged I am, my mind is puzzled,
When I would spin my fancy thus unspun,
In finest twine of praise I'm muzzled,
My tazzled thoughts twirled into snick-snarls run.
Thy grace, my Lord, is such a glorious thing,
It doth confound me when I would it sing.
Eternal love an object mean did smite,
Which by the prince of darkness was beguiled,
That from this love it ran and swelled with spite,
And in the way with filth was all defiled,
Yet must be reconciled, cleansed, and begraced,
Or from the fruits of God's first love displaced.
Then grace, my Lord, wrought in Thy heart a vent,
Thy soft soft hand to this hard work did go,
And to the milk-white throne of justice went
And entered bond that grace might overflow.
Hence did Thy person t my nature tie
And bleed through human veins to satisfy.
Oh! grace, grace, grace! This wealthy grace doth lay
Her golden channels from Thy father's throne,
Into our earthen pitchers to convey
Heaven's aqua vitae to s for our own.
O! Let Thy golden gutters run into
My cup this liquor till it overflow.
Thine ordinances, grace's wine-fats where
Thy spirit walks, and grace's runs do lie,
And angels waiting stand with holy cheer
From grace's conduit head, with all supply.
These vessels full of grace are, and the bowls
In which their taps do run are precious souls.
Thou to the cups dost say (that catch this wine)
'This liquor, golden pipes, and wine-fats plain,
Whether Paul, Apollos, Cephas, all are thine.'
Oh golden word! Lord, speak it o'er again.
Lord, speak it home to me, say these are mine.
My bells shall then Thy praises bravely chime.
poem by Edward Taylor
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0186 Praise
'Whatever that you think you lack - give that! ' -
this saying, heard, lodged in my mind a space;
like seed that seems inert - yet, not inert;
its hidden clock an instrument of grace;
the mind, that soil which meanwhile does not know:
it neither knows what lies in its embrace,
nor its own precious nutrients which grow
that seed; nor knows the Sower; nor His grace -
until the day that in some Spring of light,
I realised: I, meanly, denied - praise:
the praise of human beings in my sight;
and thus, the praise of that one source of praise.
so sought occasion, each and All to praise;
now Praise, with golden hand, seeds all my days.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Not A Dream!
Yes, I remembered that I had pestered you,
To catch and give me the stars of the sky,
What stars are these in my trembling head
twinkle with smile, when you touch me in love,
You are right; you still remember the day,
I knelt in front of you holding your slender hand,
Looking into your eyes, those two shining diamonds,
Pearls of teeth just perfectly set in your bounty mouth,
The pure gold from the goldsmith not shine,
As glittering as the shoulders that exposed,
What have you to make me drowned in sea of pleasure?
What have you to make me fly in the stormy pressure?
What have you to make me to think the storm as the breeze?
What have you to force me to bring those stars for you?
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Praise in the beginning is agreeable enough; and we receive it as a favor; but when it comes in great quantities, we regard it only as a debt, which nothing but our merit could extort.
quote by James Goldsmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Psalm 100
A plain translation. Praise to our Creator.
Ye nations round the earth, rejoice
Before the Lord, your sovereign King;
Serve him with cheerful heart and voice,
With all your tongues his glory sing.
The Lord is God; 'tis he alone
Doth life, and breath, and being give;
We are his work, and not our own,
The sheep that on his pastures live.
Enter his gates with songs of joy,
With praises to his courts repair;
And make it your divine employ
To pay your thanks and honors there.
The Lord is good, the Lord is kind,
Great is his grace, his mercy sure;
And the whole race of man shall find
His truth from age to age endure.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Epitaph On Thomas Parnell
THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow --
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While Converts thank their poet in the skies.
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem about Poetry - Good that Poetry never really sells
good that poets never really
make money from their craft
it's a blessing in disguise
as poetry is a sacred art
money demeans it, making it
cheap rather than dear
poetry seeks men to partake
in a private journey with god
to mark his grace and terrains
and - never readers - who have
to find their own way there - to the poets
to part take in the adventures
optional though they are for poetry
meant more for evolution of souls
they can be kept in drawers
and still have their functions fulfilled
the poets who day by day,
poem by poem see themselves
coming nearer to understanding
the scheme of things of the Divine One
petal by petal their mind too
has opened and emits soft fragrance
to enlighten all who care to be around
gold and silver
- the Forbidden Apple in Paradise -
if allowed would cause many to go astray
out of their temple they would look
for gold rather than in for their god
when that happens, a million readers
will not salvage the real value of poetry
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Harvest Festival
When on a glorious day – one such as this –
you’re overcome with awe and wonder, praise,
and part-formed gratitude… which seeks some one
to thank for this, by laying at their feet
all that the world has brought us unannounced
as seedcorn turned to golden harvest wheat –
then who would hesitate, to draw in light
a greater One as whom to kneel before,
to make of our humility, a ‘One’
as if we were some grateful ‘other’; we,
less worthy, painting pure duality..
..don’t hesitate: praise is beyond a ‘two’;
what now we praise, becomes our very self;
in praise, name radiates as kingdom, come;
and kingdom hallows all, as all its own;
so, glory in that sound of praise so fine;
for when you shine with praise – then all things shine.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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