Replacement
Amid the village is a deserted house,
That gives depressing impressions to the onlookers,
The windows and doors are shabby broken
There dangle bats on the walls at nights, and crows caw
At noons in the branches where nightingales sang,
And often at nights mysterious sounds we hear.
Ah! Four decades ago it was inhibited,
Noise of the children spilled out of its walls,
They all played hide and seek with the befriended kids.
I too played believing in the innocent notion
That time and tide could not part us asunder,
Whether rains rain and clouds thunder,
But my self-assumed belief proved fragile,
Then the shocking moments approached,
And occupants departed to a better dwelling abroad.
I often recall the moment when they departed,
The whole village gathered, men, women and children wept,
Their eyes were red as if blood would dropp soon;
They were kissing, embracing the departing fellows,
I wept too stealthily, and felt as if my soul was being torn apart.
Now after many years their descendents come and go,
Nobody receives or bids them farewell, nor do they bother anyone,
And each time they visit, they replace on the gate,
The rusty lock with the new one.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Related quotes
On Bidding Farewell
When there is no one around me,
I peep out through the window,
That opens to the back yard of past.
When I was a child very small,
Could hardly run about in the streets,
Came out holding finger of my mother,
To bid farewell to the young-men,
Of the village who enlisted themselves,
To render the daring sacred job,
Of defending the feeding motherland.
Still I recall the time remote,
And see men, women and children,
Bidding farewell, waving their hands,
The old mothers kissing the faces,
The fathers embracing them with love,
Patting the backs of well-built sons,
Well-bred with milk and pure butter.
The damsels weeping smiled,
To conceal sighs of their hearts,
Hoping their soon return,
To make them their own brides,
And award them wedding pleasures,
But the innocent hearts knew not.
Seldom return whom the country calls.
The great people whom I remember,
Passing away to the world of eternity,
Made the streets despairingly desolate.
The life forced me to leave the place,
Often I visit, find it the village of the dead,
Inhabitants are confined in the walls,
They neither laugh nor share the tears.
Ah! Lust for wealth has hardened,
The soft fertile lands of hearts,
Making us all devoid of sentiments.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Demons Of Follies
Often at dark nights,
When I rest my head on the pillow,
To relax myself, to calm down tedium of the day,
And put down the lids of my eyes,
The door of some mysterious world swings open;
And I see the images of a strange creature,
No bigger than the physic of full-sized frogs,
Resembling the cartoons,
They stalk around me with glad movements,
Some dangle like bats on the doors
And windows of my dark room,
They emit pungent, disgusting impressions,
And some time I hear a whisper,
“We are your follies; we shall reside with you,
Till you live here and hereafter.”
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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These Walls
If these walls could talk,
I wonder what what would they say
Would they thank me for being painted
Or will they ask me, to wash the paint away.
Would they tell me of the pictures
That once hung upon them their
Pictures that once adorn those walls
Or I wonder would they even care.
Would they speak upon the stories
That was heard within these walls
That no one else even knows about,
That is if the stories these walls could recall.
Was there children laughter all about
Or any secrets heard and being told
I wonder what have they listened to
And I wonder if anyone will ever know.
These walls inside this house
That for years have stood alone
With the stories that was told and heard
While this house had became a home.
The Sadness that they might had seen
And the worries and sorrow that they felt
Maybe they don't want to remember it at all
And maybe they too keep it bottled upon their self.
Were they painted to cover up secrets
Was they battered as to protect someone's lies
Or were they wallpapered to cover up the truth
And did they hear the whispers and the cries.
These walls they are still standing
Through the years of the days and nights
While listening and knowing all done and said
In the darkness and also in the light.
I look at these walls just one last time
As I head home from my walk,
How I wish I knew what they heard and know,
But that is, if these walls could only talk.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The River of Desire
On the banks of the River of Desire
The abodes of our Gods are empty
The Gods deserted our village long ago
Leaving behind all the sanctums
Their broken walls yielded fine bricks
For the masonry of our village homes.
The River meandered around our village
Threatening to swallow our temples
Our children have hunger in their eyes
We have no oil to light God’s lamps
The River now threatens to swallow
Our parched paddy fields and our homes.
poem by Jagannath rao Adukuri
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The Real Game
Uninvited frequent gluttonous guest,
Visited and picked up one by one,
The elder and younger of the family,
Making each time the house desolate.
When I was hardly three years old,
And nothing about painful death was told,
Played carefree with half dressed friends,
And ran around the big tree of acacia,
Staining with dust, mud and water dirty,
Made filthy my legs and arms, feet and face,
My grandmother would then give me a bath,
And I did weep, cryingly protested against,
The act of washing, making me neat.
She then mopped my body, wiped my eyes,
Doting upon me, she caressed my cheeks,
Embracing me she would often warm,
Titillate with the fingers frail and old,
Made me laugh to forget the cold,
She hid behind the door, under the cots,
Played hide and seek to make me please.
Ah! One morning she lay stiff, could not rise,
Then was dressed with the suit of cotton white,
As she would go on the journey long,
Gathered men, women, young and old,
Some wailed, some sniffed, some silent sat.
But played I with the friends of my age,
And ate yellow rice with the belly fill.
In the evening they shouldered the cot,
The procession advanced leaving me depressed,
Turned the corner, with the sacred chorus.
I stood stunned in the middle of the yard,
Staring to the street, questioning the walls,
“Why had they not taken me along? ”
At night I cried aloud when I found,
An empty bed laid in the deserted corner,
I sought under the cots, behind the doors,
Where she did hide, but could not find.
A pair of shoes, the clothes on cord,
Consoled me well, told me the truth,
Ah! The real game at last she had played.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A House Of Joy!
A house full of just played toys, ,
Just fed bowls, just torn papers,
Newly added drawing to the walls,
What a pleasure to the eyes and souls,
The kids are there in that house,
Growing as inquisitive as they have to be,
Let them play in their own house,
Don't control them in the name of rules,
Young mothers, don't toil too hard to please,
All the notorious oldies of the world,
Teach your children the morals and to be bold,
Enjoy your life with your children and husband,
Unkempt house is not an eyesore,
When the kids are growing to be old,
Unkempt heatt is a real curse,
When the old and young comfortable with.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Dreamy Age
Remembering of the dreamy age,
Fills my eyes with tears,
The sights unpolluted and clear,
Now changed into smoky and full of noise,
Where I played with cheerful friends,
Whom ruthless tides have scattered,
As the wind disperses the dried leaves,
A slight before the dead winter,
Some went abroad, some to the Town of Silence
What a delight it was!
At noon under the blue skies,
Running after the butterflies,
Delicate and nicely-colourful,
Spoiling the mustard farms,
Blossomed yellow, sharply fragrant.
The indignant landlady cursed,
Chasing with a stick wet and long,
But we always were out of her access.
In the days of torrential rains,
Under the noses of flowing spouts,
We stood long, making a noise,
The lightening thundered scaring,
Made me afraid, as if we,
The shouting children interrupt.
The grand office of God.
Then for diving and swimming,
Ran to the pond nearby the village,
Beside the huge banyan tree,
What a delicious bat it was!
In the muddy opaque water.
Each delight of child-hood,
Is soul-sucking, worth-recalling,
When before the wintry nights,
Played we all girls and boys,
Out on the ploughed farms,
Hiding in ricks and heaps of fodder.
Under the waning moon,
Unaware to the thoughts obscene.
Often in the downy steeps,
In the deep recesses of thick forest,
Drank water from the trickling fountains,
Carefree, oblivious to woes and worries,
Spent days plucking the sweet berries,
From the thorny branches bending down,
Laden with ripe red fruit.
Sometimes on the rocky ground,
By the luck benevolent we found,
In the fragrant bushes honey wild,
While getting the comb down,
The incensed bees stung the cheeks,
Then returned home swollen faced,
And got chidings kind of the parents.
The intoxicant spring approached,
With thrilling spirit, refreshing hopes,
The soft, gentle breeze blew.
Made the village drowsy fragrant.
In the swaying crops, blooming fields,
Blossomed wild poppies flowering red,
And when we ran bare-footed,
After the fluffy lambs, on the dewy grass,
The birds sang sweet melodies,
Hovered in circles over the head,
Making us feel their presence.
In silence at the warm nights,
A mysterious sound of the distant lute,
Enchanted throwing me into ecstasies.
If the childhood be a commodity,
And I had the heap of gold,
And wealth countless and untold,
I would buy without bargain,
The dreamy age second time.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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a village in Iberia
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I need of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Village
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I needed of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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When No One Really Cares
my role has
always been
to fix
broken stairs
to oil the
rusty hinges of
the door &
wipe those
misty
glass windows
of their
haze
to plant the
runners
along the stony
pavements
of the house
i like it when
it is green
and covered
as things appear
cool
and vibrant against
the walls
beneath the sun
i replace old
lamps
i like it when
the room is
bright with
light
at night
i like it when
everyone of you
in this house
is comfortable with
warm soup on the
table
when the cold nights
of November
begins to
shiver
when you look
for a candle
and a lighter
i always have
them with
me
what i think is
hurting is that
i am not fixed
myself
i am a broken rail
a malfunctioning lamp
a dark room
a cold soup a
rusty hinge
a missing stair
and yet
no one
no one really
cares.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Monologue On the Grave
“You passed away and I am left behind,
With your kids: two daughters and a son.
Two years have passed since you have departed,
And for me these proved the centuries.
You are buried deep beneath tons of earth,
And live there in the unexplored world,
I lived not a single moment without recalling you,
But you have stopped your sojourn into my dreams.”
“I have lost my esteem and where ever I move,
Scandalous eyes stare with slanderous looks.
I remember, on your sad demise there came
Some uniformed men, all neat and clean,
And handed over you to the mother earth,
With strange tricks and so-called obsequies.
They played, peeled forth some notes of dirge,
Saluting you by thumping, thrashing the ground
Around your grave trod the tufts of fragrant grass.
Then placed they braided tassels of wild bushes,
They gave me your cap, belt and blood-stained boots,
And a petty cheque in exchange of sacrificed love.”
“Now no one comes to divide my miserable plight,
I go through the world by embracing your children,
Sacrificing my emotions, at nights I groan and moan,
My eyes have not yet consumed the stock of tears,
I smoulder all alone into the fire of my own entity,
I am confounded whether you were martyred,
Or died a vain death while bleeding the countrymen,
Fighting for the Nato’s Peace Keeping Forces who made you
The victim of friendly-fire.”
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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In Wine Country
The sun paints courtyard and walls with autumn,
The fruit stacked in heaps all around,
Before them poor children cower.
A gust thins out old linden-trees.
Through the gate a golden shower rains
And the women blessed with child
Tiredly rest on rotten benches.
Drunkards swing glasses and jugs.
A hoodlum lets his fiddle sound
And smocks swell lustfully in the dance.
Roughly brown bodies embrace.
From windows empty eyes gaze.
Stench rises from the fountain's mirror.
And black, decayed, departed
The hills of vines dusk all around.
A migration of birds glides swiftly southwards.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Impundulu
When in summer
stormy clouds gather
and chains of blue-white thunder
comes flaming down, sneaks nearer and neared
Impundulu is flying,
souring high into the air
with its blazing eyes looking everywhere
and something has disturbed its resting place,
in the giant tamboti tree
that roots in the cliffs,
into the very heart of the earth,
that branches into the clouds,
the place of the upper waters
and when the rain starts pouring
as if without end, the medicine man,
the witchdoctor, the Inyanga
puts secret herbs, magic spices
coming from the dark cliffs
in a cooking pot
that he applies to every doorpost
of the native village
believing that it has the ability
to keep the bird of thunder away
while it's exploding voice is drawing closer,
small bolts frizzles, fire erupts where it gazes
and the power of its claws and beak
shatters even the hardest rocks
and in the village huts the children
are scared to even breathe,
their mothers and fathers pray
to the Almighty God,
to Unkulunkulu, the Big-Big One
to keep the bird of thunder away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mom And Dad
These walls once knew the laughter
Of children happy and gay
Of mom and dad with humble thanks
To God who blessed them on their way
Then came the war, Johnnie had to go
I remember the tears we shed
And precious memories that lingered on
After news came the boy was dead
The rest of us left one by one
Until mom and dad were alone
They seemed to weather the time
As the years rolled on and on
The Angels came for mother's soul
It's been about three years ago
Then dad seemed to wither away
Until the Lord said he must go
Yes this old house is empty now
All her glory passed and gone
The shutters and doors are crumbling
As are walls once filled with song
But I shall never forget the raising
That came from mom and dad
They led us children to the Lord
When I was but a strip of a lad
I want to thank you again Lord
For mom and dads special care
They filled my life with love and joy
In this old house of yesteryear
poem by Louis H. Thompson
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Flossie Cabanis
From Bindle's opera house in the village
To Broadway is a great step.
But I tried to take it, my ambition fired
When sixteen years of age,
Seeing "East Lynne" played here in the village
By Ralph Barrett, the coming
Romantic actor, who enthralled my soul.
True, I trailed back home, a broken failure,
When Ralph disappeared in New York,
Leaving me alone in the city --
But life broke him also.
In all this place of silence
There are no kindred spirits.
How I wish Duse could stand amid the pathos
Of these quiet fields
And read these words.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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By The Fireside : The Open Window
The old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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To Stay The Best Of Kids
I have played with my children the same way,
On a daily basis.
Everyday.
And...
For most of their lives I have been in sight.
So do not try to reprimand me,
About my inability to be a good parent.
I raised my kids the best I could,
To be good children and nothing more.
'And...
Who played the role of the adult?
While you and your children played,
To stay the best of kids,
Most of your lives? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Farewell To Annabel
Where did ya go when the snow lay on the ground
What did ya do when the rain began to fall
How did it feel when I looked through your soul
When was the last time you wanted my love
How many nights did you cry your dreams to sleep
Why did you hide what you knew would not stay hidden
How could you put yourself through like you did
Im not the kind that would hold you that way
Drop me a line if ya wake up feelin bad
Im still a friend and Id like to hear from you
Where does it say love should last forever
When was the last time I told that to you
Farewell to annabel, farewell
Farewell to annabel, farewell
Farewell to annabel, fare thee well
Farewell to annabel, farewell
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Moments
MY MOMENTS
AS Moon I enjoyed my moments
In spite of my waning fortnights
When Romeo blamed my light
As bellowing his desperate romantic ember
I smiled at his love-sick plight
When Omar Khayyam did plaudit
That I heartened his poetic craft
I did inflect a wholehearted lilt
When a sneaky burglar cursed that
My fully waxed nights played a spoil sport
Always, on his professional pursuits
I laughed aloud with a glistering taunt
But what I saw tonight
Depressed my spirits, beyond thought
Here is a beggar in the street
Running without food, his third night
Bleary eyed; half-swooned and
Sinking further into a blissful faint
Pushed his feeble hands aloft
To catch me! Thinking that
I am a well-roasted ‘roti’ to eat
I wept, wept and wept my heart out!
And left in shame the night abrupt
To hide behind the cloud curtains! !
Sathya……..
poem by Sathya Narayana
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A Hand
An ancillary hand was believing in me,
Hope turned to dust, I was crooked;
Yet while I played with danger, and
Danger played with my flame and fire,
The other hand beautifully wept
To see my days and nights as swollen with pride.
This dangling limb encapsulates my sin,
The very dashing object in front of me.
Forming from within, a body casts devils to
The ground where dusts are collected
And raised, unique to the touch, evermore.
poem by Naveed Akram
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