On The Night
The beauteous bride dressed in black,
Whose fair forehead is adorned,
With a huge round piece of gold,
Glowing galaxies are fretted,
In the combed lustrous dark hair.
Always comes out after the sunset,
Walks behind the groom of day,
With modest gait, blushed shy face,
Exposing what revealing light conceals,
But hides the frail deeds of humanity.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Lonely Groom
The family will forever remember
This day, a sunny morning
The family have gathered
The music is playing
The breadwinner of the family
Dressed in black suit
And a crystal white inner
A perfect groom waiting
For a perfect bride
Where is the bride?
There is no bride for
A motionless body
The lonely groom lay still
Laughing is replaced by weeping
The lonely groom takes away
The happiness that once
Bestowed upon the family.
poem by Duku Akwasi
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Is modesty a virtue?
She is modest, who hides her beauty.
It is she who hides her defects too.
She is modest, who conceals her love.
It is she who buries her infidelity too.
01.05.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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When Mother Combed My Hair
When Memory, with gentle hand,
Has led me to that foreign land
Of childhood days, I long to be
Again the boy on bended knee,
With head a-bow, and drowsy smile
Hid in a mother's lap the while,
With tender touch and kindly care,
She bends above and combs my hair.
Ere threats of Time, or ghosts of cares
Had paled it to the hue it wears,
Its tangled threads of amber light
Fell o'er a forehead, fair and white,
That only knew the light caress
Of loving hands, or sudden press
Of kisses that were sifted there
The times when mother combed my hair.
But its last gleams of gold have slipped
Away; and Sorrow's manuscript
Is fashioned of the snowy brow--
So lined and underscored now
That you, to see it, scarce would guess
It e'er had felt the fond caress
Of loving lips, or known the care
Of those dear hands that combed my hair.
. . . . . . . .
I am so tired! Let me be
A moment at my mother's knee;
One moment--that I may forget
The trials waiting for me yet:
One moment free from every pain--
O! Mother! Comb my hair again!
And I will, oh, so humbly bow,
For I've a wife that combs it now.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Mother Alpha & Mother Omega
Being born Black begins in Africa, The Womb
The Sacred Marriage could not exhume
Life and death—the bride and groom
The Garden of Eden—the embryonic costume
Africa is more than continental scenery
Creative consciousness consumating all energy
Perpetually giving birth to every soul-like entity
Exposing humanity to it’s universality
Africa is more than silver and gold and precious stones
More than prime real estate to own
More that the messages in ancient bones
More than powers behind the greatest thrones
Being born Black begins in Africa, The Womb
The sacred marriage could not exhume
Life and death—the bride and groom
The Garden of Eden—the embryonic costume
Incomprehensible by man’s insight, hindsight, foresight
Ancestral passions possessing the night
Planting stars in the heavens for sheer delight
Creative consciousness the inherent birthright
Innate intercourse innovates the earth
Beginnings being born before their birth
The absolute culmination of reality
The soul’s only religion—the sole spirituality
Africa oh! Africa
You primitive primordial genetic engineer
Out of your soul did all life appear
poem by Josephine DixonBanks
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Marriage On A Sunday
the man is albanian
we think he is British, bloody british they'd say.
at six feet five, his built is horrendous,
if horrible means the same as that,
broad shoulders, pluffy, peachy cheeks
glowing in Philippine summer. He is the groom.
the woman is a Filipina, chinky, brownish,
short, petite, too small for his huge kind of
affection, they call it love. she is a mere five feet
long black hair, small arms,
frail, she is beautiful and too innocent
for this kind of an important affair. Marriage.
Her chatmate finally now her groom.
Her saviour from poverty, and family honour.
It is none of my business really. But i have
doubts on this discrepancy.
Love, is this love? Can love bloom
between tall and short, between white
and brown, between the rich and the poor,
between an innocent Filipina girl and
and a bloody britisher? Forgive the word.
Tell me, who's the lucky one?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bride's Entry Is A Storm
The entry of the bride to the groom's house:
Mother moved closer than before to the groom.
Sisters showed extra concerns to the groom.
They are nervous about the bride's influence.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XII
She was a little woman dressed in black,
Who stood on tiptoe with a childish air,
Her face and figure hidden in a sacque,
All but her eyes and forehead and dark hair.
Her brow was pale, but it was lit with light,
And mirth flashed out of it, it seemed in rays.
A childish face, but wise with woman's wit,
And something, too, pathetic in its gaze.
In the bare dusk of that unseemly place
I noted all, and this besides, a scar
Which on her cheek had left a paler trace.
It seemed to tell its tale of love and war.
That little scar! Doubt whispered of this one,
Boy as I was, she had not lived a nun.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The farmer and his wife (Sestina)
A girl was lying down flat on her back
with a straw hat at eye height over hair,
she was sun-struck, curling and fair
with a rain cloud ominous and black
drifting in a blue sky and a small track
meandering past and it needed some repair.
Some of your makeup is in need of repair,
there’s a guitar bag slung over your back
where you walk pass the girl at the dirt track
with the strong wind frizzling through your hair
and the sky is already turning black
but the evening up to now is fair.
Slowly you walk past the local fair
with some of the stalls needing repair,
the guitar you are carrying is black
and you walk straight on, do not look back
at the whistles of some men with long hair
while home you take a narrow long track.
Watching our horses on the racetrack
you are really sexy and very fair,
our horses do parade with shining hair
you notice that the stands need some repair
and I am standing somewhat at your back
while you are dressed prettily in black.
The highway is like a ribbon that is black
where it meets the old overgrown farm track,
there are huge blue-gum trees some way back
and you agree that the price of the Lucerne is fair
where some cows graze at the pen, needing repair,
swishing with tails to drive flies from their hair.
I pull my fingers slowly through my hair
and there are streaks of grey in the black,
but the cattle are only doing fair
while my love is coming with the field’s track
that must constantly be kept in repair
and I hear her singing over my back.
There were torn out hair a long time back,
when I met my darling and she was fair,
at a fight at a track, I was in need of repair.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Marriage Is Sacred
‘Give me your hand that I may walk
In the light of faith you invest in me.’
Shows the groom to the bride by his look.
‘Take my hand that I may walk
In the path of love you install in me.’
Nods the bride to the groom in silence.
(15.06.2011)
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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At The Middle Part
..and then she faces me
this time exposing every part of her
a tall. lean white body with long black hair
cascading like a waterfall
of silence
she walks towards me
as i lay my head on the pillow
as i signal her to come
and share with me
love and sorrow
and the passion of our presence
she takes a slow movement
her hands touching my hair
her lips getting near
my face
and then we close our eyes
and enter into another world
where we are one
so close
airtight.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Her Right Name
As Nancy at her toilette sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,
Tell me, she said, but tell me true,
The nymph who could your heart subdue.
What sort of charms does she possess?
Absolve me, fair one, I'll confess
With pleasure, I replied: Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And hiding half adorns the whole,
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits, in open triumph crown'd;
He, in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor grey,
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,
May say how red, how round, how sweet:
Old Homer only could indite
Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke -
The gypsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe or your Nut-brown Maid!
poem by Matthew Prior
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Alone in the Wind, on the Prairie
I know a seraph who has golden eyes,
And hair of gold, and body like the snow.
Here in the wind I dream her unbound hair
Is blowing round me, that desire's sweet glow
Has touched her pale keen face, and willful mien.
And though she steps as one in manner born
To tread the forests of fair Paradise,
Dark memory's wood she chooses to adorn.
Here with bowed head, bashful with half-desire
She glides into my yesterday's deep dream,
All glowing by the misty ferny cliff
Beside the far forbidden thundering stream.
Within my dream I shake with the old flood.
I fear its going, ere the spring days go.
Yet pray the glory may have deathless years,
And kiss her hair, and sweet throat like the snow.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Evening
At the brim of drowning day,
A slight after the sunset,
Clad in crimson pink bridal dress,
I see a bride every day exposing
Her unheeded, enthralling beauties,
Waiting for her courting partner,
Propping and fondling in both hands,
The silky locks of light and darkness,
And she ever stands for a while between,
Like a smart streak partitioning boundaries,
Of the shiny silvery day, dark shady night.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A World of Diversity
The world is a spicy pot of diverse races
that exhibits colours pleasant on different faces.
Each race revealing features distinct and unique
of varying hair texture but uniform physique.
Oh yes, you know undoubtedly that I am black.
But still my black heritage does not prestige lack
because my black beauty is revealed in the dark.
Oh yes, you all know that I am Caucasian white,
with my magnificent ocean blue eyes for sight.
I am blonde, brunette and red haired with fair skin light.
Oh yes, you know that I am oriental yellow,
having traits distinct that nature itself did bestow.
We look alike but vary from fellow to fellow.
Oh yes, you know I'm middle-eastern or Indian brown.
I adore my skin tanned and hair black as a crown.
I have a pleasant heritage of Asian renown.
poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (9 May 2022)
Submitted by Joseph C Ogbonna
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Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Lord Thomas and fair Annet
Sat all day on a hill
When night was come and sun was set
They had not talked their fill.
Lord Thomas said a word in haste
And Annet took it ill;
I winna wed a dowerless maid
Against my parents' will
You're come of the rich, Thomas,
And I'm come of the poor
I'm o'er low to be your bride
And I winna be your whore
O fair Annet, O fair Annet
This night you've said me no
But long or ever this day month
I'll make your heart right woe
Come riddle my riddle dear mother, he said
Come riddle it all in one
Whether I will take fair Annet
Or bring the brown girl home
The nut-brown maid has gold and gear
Fair Annet she has none
And the little beauty fair Annet has
O it will soon be gone
Sheep will die in cots, mother
And oxen die in byre
And what's this world's wealth to me
An I get not my heart's desire
Where will I get a pretty little boy
That'll run my errands soon
That will run to fair Annet's bower
And bid her to my wedding
She mauna put on the black, the black
Nor yet the dowie brown
But the scarlet so red, and the kerchief so white
And her bonny locks hanging down
She has called her maries to her bower
To lay gold in her hair
Where'er you put a plait before
See you lay ten times more
When Annet was in her saddle set
She flamed against the fire
The girdle around her middle small
Was worth an earl's hire
The horse fair Annet rode upon
He bounded like the wind
With silver he was shod before
With burning gold behind
And when she came into the kirk
She shimmered like the sun
The belt that was about her waist
Was all with pearls bedone
Is this your bride, Lord Thomas ? she said
I think she's wondrous brown
You might have had as fair a bride
As e'er the sun shined on
Despise her not fair Annet, he said
Despise her not now unto me
For better I love thy little finger
Than all her whole body
Then out and spoke the nut-brown bride
And she spoke out of spite
O where got you that rose-water
That washed your face so white ?
O I did get the rose-water
Where you will ne'er get none
For I did get that rose-water
Into my mother's womb
The bride she drew a long bodkin
From out her gay headgear
And struck fair Annet to the heart
A deep wound and a sair
O art thou blind Lord Thomas, she said
Or do you not well see
O do you not see my own heart's blood
Run trinkling down my knee ?
He drew his dagger that was so sharp
That was so sharp and meet
And drove it into the nut-brown bride
That fell dead at his feet
O dig my grave, Lord Thomas he said
Dig it both wide and deep
And lay fair Annet by my side
And the brown girl at my feet
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Ring Upon Her Finger
A ring upon her finger,
Walks the bride,
With the bridegroom tall and handsome
At her side.
A veil upon her forehead
Walks the bride,
With the bridegroom proud and merry
At her side.
Fling flowers beneath the footsteps
Of the bride;
Fling flowers before the bridegroom
At her side.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Knight Aagen And The Maiden Else
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH.
It was the fair knight Aagen
To an isle he went his way,
And plighted troth to Else,
Who was so fair a may.
He plighted troth to Else
All with the ruddy gold,
But or ere that day’s moon came again
Low he lay in the black, black mould.
It was the maiden Else,
She was fulfilled of woe
When she heard how the fair knight Aagen
In the black mould lay alow.
Uprose the fair knight Aagen,
Coffin on back took he,
And he’s away to her bower,
Sore hard as the work might be.
With that same chest on door he smote,
For the lack of flesh and skin;
“O hearken, maiden Else,
And let thy true-love in!”
Then answered maiden Else,
“Never open I my door,
But and if thou namest Jesu’s name
As thou hadst might before.”
“O hearken, maiden Else,
And open thou thy door,
For Jesu’s name I well may name
As I had might before!”
Then uprose maiden Else,
O’er her cheek the salt tears ran,
Nor spared she into her very bower
To welcome that dead man.
O, she’s taken up her comb of gold
And combed adown her hair,
And for every hair she combed adown
There fell a weary tear.
“Hearken thou, knight Aagen,
Hearken, true-love, and tell,
If down-adown in the black, black earth
Thou farest ever well?”
“O whenso thou art joyous,
And the heart is glad in thee,
Then fares it with my coffin
That red roses are with me.
“But whenso thou art sorrowful
And weary is thy mood,
Then all within my coffin
Is it dreadful with dark blood.
“Now is the red cock a-crowing,
To the earth adown must I;
Down to the earth wend all dead folk,
And I wend in company.
“Now is the black cock a-crowing,
To the earth must I adown,
For the gates of Heaven are opening now,
Thereto must I begone.”
Uprose the fair knight Aagen,
Coffin on back took he,
And he’s away to the churchyard now,
Sore hard as the work might be.
But so wrought maiden Else,
Because of her weary mood,
That she followed after own true love
All through the mirk wild wood.
But when the wood was well passed through,
And in the churchyard they were,
Then was the fair knight Aagen
Waxen wan of his golden hair.
And when therefrom they wended
And were the church within,
Then was the fair knight Aagen
Waxen wan of cheek and chin.
“Hearken thou, maiden Else,
Hearken, true-love, to me,
Weep no more for thine own troth-plight,
However it shall be!
“Look thou up to the heavens aloft,
To the little stars and bright,
And thou shalt see how sweetly
It fareth with the night!”
She looked up to the heavens aloft,
To the little stars bright above
The dead man sank into his grave,
Ne’er again she saw her love.
Home then went maiden Else,
Mid sorrow manifold,
And ere that night’s moon came again
She lay alow in the mould.
poem by William Morris
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Hindu Wedding On A Jasmine Day
The season of JASMINE is blooming.
Wedding is on a day of JASMINE.
The couple are ready for the holy-bond.
Guests are ready with their blessing-band.
Baskets of garlands and stringed JASMINE,
With decorative JASMINE tassles is pleasing.
The fragrance of JASMINE is ambrosial!
Breathtaking! JASMINES' aroma is celestial.
Her long plait padded with JASMINES strung,
Atop with strands of JASMINE being swung,
The bride is given a garland of JASMINE.
Also the 'groom is given a garland of JASMINE.
The family deity is adorned with JASMINE.
The guests are given strands of JASMINE.
The couple garland each other in heck.
The 'groom ties an yellow thread around bride's neck.
The priest makes the groom by seven steps,
Promise to guard his spouse in life's ups.
Splattering holy rice and scenty JASMINE,
All bless 'LONG SMELLY LIKE JASMINE'!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Human Wheels
This land today, shall draw its last breath
And take into its ancient depths
This frail reminder of its giant, dreaming self
While i, with human-hindered eyes
Unequal to the sweeping curve of life
Stand on this single print of time
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
That time, today, no triumph gains
At this short success of age
This pale reflection of its brave and
Blundering deed
For i, descend from this vault
Now dreams beyond my earthly fault
Knowledge, sure, from the seed
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
This land, today, my tears shall taste
And take into its dark embrace
This love, who in my beating heart endures
Assured, by every sun that burns
The dust to which this flesh shall return
It is the ancient, dreaming dust of god
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Flipping Vision
Some flipping visions leave behind,
Gripping influence on the mind,
They do refresh us more and more,
When are recalled to be flavoured,
From the heap of sunken memories.
I saw a damsel full in size and bulk,
With healthy sanguine vigorous face,
As her blood would trickle out soon,
She was built with all perfections,
Her features raised waves of pain,
Indelible, never to be erased again.
In the glassy house she moved around,
With modest lowering eyes to the ground,
She had no interest in the objects aside,
Seemed to be busy in domestic doings,
Her flexible black dressed shining hair,
Flowed down upon her shoulders,
Her gait and each gesture did bear,
Signs of serene air and celestial piety.
I standing out of the transparent walls,
Looked across with a sense of meekness,
Feeling myself too meager to be attended,
Left the place with loathsome sullen heart.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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