Social Change
Oh, you are an assessor weighing gold,
sitting in that silent counter cold.
Your half- broken- pot, husk and blower
have brought you up slower.
The banks have got a social change!
There goes he on a two-wheeler nice
not in that rural barber’s guise.
“ Hair-Dressor”, the name he got
once he left that village rot.
What a change from his abode of flies!
A timber-dealer in that noisy shop,
never allows his old ware trade to flop.
With rags he was in a shack;
but now he does all with knack.
A shift in place has put him atop!
Oh, you that black-smith waited for grains
and lay grilling in the hot summer near drains!
You fabricate now steel – designs
and the plough you made once whines!
Your life with machines has so much rains!
Hey, you washer-man in a vast yard!
Where has gone that ass, your village bard?
Potters have a life of ceramic charm;
band masters are in colourful clothes warm.
And the Mason wields his “Master-Card”!
O you that farmer driven to the city
when god of rains to the fields denied pity!
Your plough and whip have no roles
and the city your woe tolls.
Your loaded back breaking inspires a ditty.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Related quotes
Silvertongue
He came down from the mountainside,
His beard was white, his hair was grey,
He brought his retinue of priests
All buckled in a warlike way.
They strode into the village square
And said: 'Now listen, everyone,
Just gather round, pay heed to him,
He's come to warn you - Silvertongue! '
His brow was cold, his face was grim
And we were silent in his stare,
We didn't make a single sound,
Stood hushed within the village square.
His priests were stood with weapons drawn,
Their swords and helmets bore a spire,
And on their breasts, the holy sign.
The symbol of St. Elmo's Fire.
'I am the Word you must obey, '
He said, in tones that chilled the soul,
'I come with tales of history,
Of those who chose the Devil's mould.
They brought the wrath of God to bear
On humankind, he gave his seal,
The one commandment you must share;
Man never must invent the wheel! '
At that, the clouds of purple gold
With lightning lit the mountainside,
As if the Lord above had heard,
Approved the Word, and then had smiled.
The rain that glowed began to fall
And lit the corn out in the field,
It glowed there in the darkening light,
It sparked blue flashes in his beard.
'In days of old, ' he said, 'they made
A pact with him who mocked the rod,
He showed them how to make the wheel,
They used it then, in spite of God,
Their lives revolved on wheels in wheels
That ground their flour, that rolled down hills,
That made their own fake lightning power,
That drove their water driven mills.'
'As they grew mighty, God despaired,
They built great towers in the sky,
Machines that flew them in the air
The Devil's transport, by and by,
And then the tribes had gone to war
Their wheels bogged down in fields of mud,
They used the wheel to drive their trains
Of slaughter through vast fields of blood.'
'The end came suddenly, they say,
When men designed a thousand suns,
They lit the earth as bright as day,
Each sun roared like a million guns.
The seas reared up and swamped the shore,
The cities burned, the people died,
Their wheels lay rotting to the core
With what was left of human pride! '
'So you must be just as the Ox
And bear your burden on your back,
No wheel shall light your daily task,
What you can't lift, then you must lack.
The man who first designs a wheel
Shall surely seek his own reward,
To hang upon the willow tree,
His wife and child put to the sword! '
He left us then, with all his priests,
I heard they wandered near and far,
They fought with all the mutant beasts
Out on the fringe, where land was scarred.
But neighbors whispered each to each
The words that they had heard that day:
'What is this wheel he spoke about?
Could life be made less harsh that way? '
For months we sweated with the ox
That dragged the plough that we would guide,
Our furrows slowly curved their way
Like ripples through the countryside.
My neighbor baulked at all the strain
Of ploughing slow, and bleeding hands,
'God rot the man! ' I heard him say,
'I shall not do what he commands! '
He took his sons and went to ride
Out where the land was burned and black,
They took their arrows, and their pride
And sought the priest, no turning back!
The clouds rolled in all purple gold
Down from the heights, I stayed inside,
The rain that burned the flesh came down,
I heard that Silvertongue had died.
My neighbor came back home once more
I saw him proudly plough his fields
His plough rolled free, not like before,
It raced past mine, through clods and weeds.
I looked more closely as it passed,
And saw some strange thing that he'd done,
The plough rolled freely underneath,
Upon the skull of Silvertongue!
4 November 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Green City
Someone's evil laugh shoots down my back
Shapeless and ageing we start to run
Through the tangle of your broken words
This cheap impulse falls so dry
In the maze. i burn down
Turn...you turn my skin around
Wishing my eyes could look down
Down on me...
Stairs fall like jewels
As we near the door
You fold through my neck
And arms like crystal
So black, so black with charm and breath
We turn to face the dying sun...
This green city rains down on me
This green city rains down on me
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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95
sitting, waiting
sitting, as simple as sitting on a stair
you look around through dragonfly eyes
from higher places
like a cliff overlooking a village
closer to cotton clouds
patches of hissing
winds up here,
alone,
you sit, sitting is simple, it is not complicated
as waiting which is heavier sometimes with a person who is not
showing some shadows for the coming,
sit,
i sit,
i am sitting viewing a wide horizon, a vast expanse of a field,
some white herons heaving leaves blown from dead trees this summer,
they fly away
from you, they fly away from where you are seated, from your country,
you remain sitting,
sit, like a dog to his master telling him to sit,
sit,
it is simple as being yourself alone, not even waiting
things end in darkness
dust settles finally on the ground after a truck fully loaded with almost
everything leaves
the road heading far away from you,
you are not waiting for anything
you have no time
left for waiting, everything leaves and goes away, always everybody
utters the word goodbye
except these, the rain, the rain, there are many of them,
these hordes of rains
they are coming and you sit and do the last thing possible
listen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sitting, Waiting
sitting, as simple as sitting on a stair
you look around through dragonfly eyes
from higher places
like a cliff overlooking a village
closer to cotton clouds
patches of hissing
winds up here,
alone,
you sit, sitting is simple, it is not complicated
as waiting which is heavier sometimes with a person who is not
showing some shadows for the coming,
sit,
i sit,
i am sitting viewing a wide horizon, a vast expanse of a field,
some white herons heaving leaves blown from dead trees this summer,
they fly away
from you, they fly away from where you are seated, from your country,
you remain sitting,
sit, like a dog to his master telling him to sit,
sit,
it is simple as being yourself alone, not even waiting
things end in darkness
dust settles finally on the ground after a truck fully loaded with almost
everything leaves
the road heading far away from you,
you are not waiting for anything
you have no time
left for waiting, everything leaves and goes away, always everybody
utters the word goodbye
except these, the rain, the rain, there are many of them,
these hordes of rains
they are coming and you sit and do the last thing possible
listen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Story Of Ali Rıza And Ahmet
How strange is the story of
Ali Rıza and Ahmet
One lives in the village
The other in the city
And every morning
The one in the city goes to the village
And the one in the village to the city
poem by Orhan Veli Kanik
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City Streets
The gaudy glow of neon lights
dispels the darkness of the nights
on city streets.
They pop and fizzle noisily
creating a cacophony
on city streets.
The sober folks walk warily
and drunks stagger uncaringly
on city streets.
The ladies of the night parade
for there is money to be made
on city streets.
Drug dealers ready to retreat
if they should hear a coppers feet
on city streets.
The night shift workers wend their way
towards their work to start their day
on city streets.
The noisy revellers thin out
as one by one the signs go out
on city streets.
The gradually noises abate
and ghostly shadow congregate
on city streets.
For some few hours peace will reign
before the noise will start again
on city streets.
The early morning traffic sounds
start with the milkmen on their rounds
on city streets.
This builds up to an angry roar
as cars and lorries inward pour
on city streets
then when at last rush hour has passed
noise levels will subside at last
on city streets
I thank the lord that I am free
to leave this noise far behind me
on city streets.
I walked my beat the whole night
through exactly as I’m paid to do
on city streets.
I choose to live outside the town
where constant noise won’t get me down
on city streets.
My village is a quiet place
A haven where I need not face
the noisy streets.
8-Jun-07
poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Through the City
Through a village there stands a maze to count,
I gather gold from this new city, and the amount
I can not care what it is, its description may change
According to times and magic for the wall to derange.
I fed a tunnel of love to those at bruise and bash,
These are special, these straightaway are a lash,
Like a flogging arena is taking place, and no gold,
No gold for the punishment, forming laughter so cold.
The whipping carried me forward, as a veteran or victim,
Life matched living of a far away land, the mixed and fearsome.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Farmers Complaint
The frosted fields are lying fallow.
The frozen ground will not allow
free passage to the farmers plough
Though things will change they always do
Then is the time he must review
the wisest course he can pursue.
He needs to plough then he must sow
the kind of crops he wants to grow
he can’t afford to be too slow.
When spring sunshine ignites the fuse.
A farmer has no time to lose.
Excuses are of little use.
Spring is the time of life’s rebirth.
He must prepare the fertile earth
and labour hard to prove his worth
.
The seasons cycle in their turn
as every farmer has to learn
If you don’t work you cannot earn.
A farmer only prospers when
he works harder than other men
or so they say time and again.
I do not know it may be true
That farmers have too much to do.
I don’t believe it though. Do you?
11-Jan-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Worthless
Swimming across a river-edge,
a tiger came to a village;
a burning fire-bright tiger;
whichever house he visit
they offer him stool to sit.
Once a poor farmer made him plough his field,
a helpless old man made him carry his load.
He is in good terms with the sad harlot
who lives in the margin of the village.
He tried to preach no religion,
he died also like the typically worthless folks!
(Translated from Bangla by Raihan Sharif)
poem by Rayhan Rhyne
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Swan Song
Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western town
Hold nothing for Ling Xiaodan.
The weeks went by, then the months and years
And I heard of her now and then,
She was dressed in expensive clothes, I heard,
She was driving a shiny car;
She was seen at the Beijing Opera
By a man who worked at the door,
'She glided by like a Queen, ' he said,
'As her dress trailed long on the floor.'
And her wai po, down in the village square
Would brag of her daughter's girl,
'She will snare some man with a million yuan, '
She said, 'not a farmer's son.
Go home to your fields and forget her now,
She's not for an also-ran! '
And laughed, as the tears sprang into my eyes
For the love of Ling Xiaodan.
She came back once to the village street
To her home, as ever we must,
But carefully held her dress up high
To avoid the rubbish and dust,
I stood at the side and she looked at me,
Then turned, looked quickly away,
For Ling Xiaodan and a farmer's son
Had nothing at all to say.
But I saw her once before she left,
Alone by the mountain stream,
Her eyes were sorrowful, in remorse,
Remembering how we'd been.
'I loved you once, as a child, ' she said
'But the world is harsh, and grey...
We do what our fathers want us to,
And my father sent me away.'
I sat by her then, and held her hand,
Stroking her neck, and hair,
And kissed the cheek, so pale and wan,
And I cried in a deep despair.
'You must get on with your life, ' she said,
'Get a wife and a baby son;
I leave tomorrow to see the man
That my father has met in town.'
I heard that she'd wed a businessman,
And cried in the quiet gloom,
My dream had died by the mountain stream,
On that day, in the afternoon.
She worked in a shop her husband owned,
So they said, but I never heard
'Til the body was brought back home again,
That the love of my life was dead.
It seemed that she'd sold her favours there
In the rear of a grimy store,
To any man with the change to spare
While her husband played Mah Jongg.
He'd gambled his fortune, and lost it all
While his wife kept the fool from jail
With what she earned with her hands and hair,
And a mouth like the Holy Grail.
But then, a man who was ill or mad
Put his grimy hands at her throat,
And squeezed the life from the darling neck
That I'd once both loved, and stroked.
They buried her up on the mountainside
By the stream, in sight of her home,
And from where I stand in the paddy fields
I can see her pale white stone.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
I married a woman I barely knew
And she bore me a black-haired girl,
With eyes like two slim moonstones, and...
A mouth like the Holy Grail.
10 March 2006
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Every Time It Rains
Every time my ship comes in
A hurricane blows it out again
Stormy weather seems to hang around my door
My sweet bird of paradise
Flew the coop on me last night
Oh, and every time it rains, lord don't it pour
I got a letter from the i.r.s
They said, son, you're in a hell of a mess
Our computer shows you owe ten-thousand more
That machine's made a bad mistake
'cause that's more than this poor boy makes
Oh, and every time it rains, lord don't it pour
Every time it rains i just wash my car
The whole neighbourhood goes
Swimmin' in my front yard
Well, my mother-in-law says she's
Stayin' three weeks more
Oh, and every time it rains, lord don't it pour
Just got my car out of the shop
Two blocks down the street it stopped
I went to use the telephone at the grocery store
I walked back to my chevrolet
But they towed that sucker away
Oh, and every time it rains, lord don't it pour
Every time it rains i just wash my car
The whole neighbourhood goes
Swimmin' in my front yard
Well, my mother-in-law says she's
Stayin' three weeks more
Oh, and every time it rains, lord don't it pour
Well, every time it rains, lord don't it pour
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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City Man You'd Best Go Back To Town
City man you'd best go back to town
If living in the country gets you down
And though the songbirds sing with voices sweet
You'd much prefer the noisy city street.
These rural towns are quiet as quiet can be
There's so little to do and less to see
Save go into a pub and drink your fill
And come out feeling much more lonely still.
Pleasant is the music of the thrushes
And fragrant is the scent of flowering bushes
Here the air is pure and free of taint
But you would rather live midst smoke and paint.
City man you miss your city kin
You've little in common with rural men,
You've little love for peaceful country life,
You'd much prefer to live where noise is rife.
You are like a fisherman ashore
He find inland life is quite a bore
Unhappy the poor fisherman will be
Until he returns to his beloved sea.
City man the city's calling you
Go bid the lonely countryside adieu,
Your urge for city living's always strong
It is where a man is raised that he belong.
City man go back to your own kind
And leave this sense of loneliness behind
Country life it isn't to your taste
Go back home to the city in a haste.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Casino Crown In Melbourne
Casino Crown in Melbourne
Those who are economical
and calculating with frugal lifestyles,
shouldn't enter Casino Crown's gambling world.
The colourful and dreamy atmosphere
will lure you to loosen your purse strings.
See the finance wizards wobble before the Poker Machines.
The misers too will be tempted to gamble on the horses.
Some rookies well-versed in rummy dared to rumble
with the machines and stare at the display of results.
Go to village cinema theatres there with your real partner.
If you visit this extraterrestrial abode with your fake love
to partake in these exciting games, not only your coffers
but your luscious partner too will be fleeing away from you.
Send the corrupt, the underworld goons and the smugglers
to Casino Crown for to be punished. They can eat yummy cakes,
sip tasty wines and play with machines
and go back to their countries in loin-clothes.
Nice guys shuffle the cards and the baffled men lose their bets.
The Pokies King will be in a daze if some wizards
who know the programmes loaded in these machines
come, play and loot the money in billions.
Fleeting money never returns.
O, you waiting for a cakewalk! Come out with the satisfaction
that you too gambled in Casino Crown,
the Heaven made marvelous skyscraper.
-
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Change
To make you want me I can fabricate
the truth
I'll give you easy it'll keep me destitute
You hang me up on the line, hang me out
to dry
And you got nothing to lose
You've got the story all made up inside
your head
You write me out of it and use your
words instead
You hold me just out of reach, but you
keep me pounding the beat
To take all the soul you can get
You want me to change, change, change
You want me to change
You take no chances and you give no
other choice
You fill your pockets and you empty out
my voice
You use the shallow and old, trade the
heart for the gold
You sell the song for the noise
You want me to change, change, change
You want me to change
poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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The City of Sleep
Over the edge of the purple down,
Where the single lamplight gleams,
Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams--
Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,
And the sick may forget to weep?
But we--pity us! Oh, pity us!
We wakeful; ah, pity us! --
We must go back with Policeman Day--
Back from the City of Sleep!
Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,
Fetter and prayer and plough--
They that go up to the Merciful Town,
For her gates are closing now.
It is their right in the Baths of Night
Body and soul to steep,
But we--pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us!--
We must go back with Policeman Day--
Back from the City of Sleep!
Over the edge of the purple down,
Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look--we may look--at the Merciful Town,
But we may not enter in!
Outcasts all, from her guarded wall
Back to our watch we creep:
We--pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us!--
We that go back with Policeman Day--
Back from the City of Sleep!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Thats Why God Made Mexico
Margie said, roy you aint listening to me
And Ive got a whole lot more to say
Roy just crossed the floor and picked up his car keys
And she aint seen or heard from him to this day
And thats why God made mexico
A place where we can lay low
And the cuervo goes down nice and slow
And the warm wind blows
Thats why God made mexico
And betty fixed joe dinner every night
At half past six
Cause thats when he rolled through that door
For sixteen years and not a thank you from his lips
She dont fix him dinner no more
And thats why God made mexico
A place where we can lay low
Where the cuervo goes down nice and slow
And the warm winds blow
Thats why God made mexico
Cause life is sweet in a border town
You learn to let your hair down
And you dont make trouble
You learn to dance the fandango
You change your name, maybe change your face
Get used to beans chili paste
And you learn to live and love
Life in the slow lane
And thats why God made mexico
A place where we can lay low
Maybe monterey or acapulco
Anywhere the warm winds blow
Dont you know
Thats why God made mexico
Thats why God made
Made mexico
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everyday It Rains
(chorus)
Everyday it rains
Everyday it rains cause things will never be the same
Everyday it rains
Things will never change cause I am not the one to blame
How can I try to make you understand that im
Only living a lie
cause I have to walk around everyday
With a smile
Everyday
(chorus)
Waking every morning knowing youre not there
Is the only thing that gets me scared
All I do is think of you and all the love we shared
Everyday
It keeps on rainin in my life
It rains
And every days the same
Baby you brightened up my life
So realize
Everyday it rains yeah
Things will never be the same
I am not the one to blame
Just because it rains everyday oh
Im not the one to blame
Believe me when I say that it rains everyday
Got a cloud over me all the time and i
Dont know why it rains
It rains and rains
(chorus)
Waking every morning knowing youre not there
Is the only thing that gets me scared
I dont know when youre comin home
But Ill be waiting with open arms
Believe me when it rains
It rains for real
song performed by by Mary J Blige
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A rare gypsy rarely seen!
A gypsy was left to the mercy of God,
along with her two children in rags.
To give her hell, her husband has left her there.
Dowry or giving birth to only girls,
adultery or ambition to have a shelter
was not the cause for their wrangle.
“ Stop ranting me in filthy words in the bazaar”
She pleaded but he evinced no change.
She complained to the police and he was
driven out of that coastal village.
In the late mid-night, when I went out of my office,
I saw something dark at the verandah
of a class-room nearby.
I walked slowly there with some fear
as small snakes would lie on the sand.
A lady was squatting beside the wall,
huddling together her sleeping children.
“ Don’t stay here. Get lost! ” I shouted.
“ In the morning I’ll go out. Till then, permit me”,
She begged and covered her children with her saree.
“ Get into the room and stay there for the night”,
I said to her to save her kids from the cold.
“ I can’t be a hostess to this village hooligans.
They will hunt me down in this doorless room”.
Her reply made me pity her more.
She told me she would earn some money
by doing some work for wages the next day
and go to a place where her clan are camping.
I promised her a hundred rupees at dawn
and she could go by bus to join her kin.
“ Sorry, I can’t return that money.
So I don’t want it from you”,
She said with all humility.
“ When you become rich, you give it back”,
I muttered with a smile.
“ I can’t be rich. Anyhow I get it in the morning”, she said.
When I went out with a hundred rupee note at sunrise,
she wasn’t there but her children were gathering fruits
under a tamarind tree and they told me
that their mother had gone to clear weeds in fields;
she would be back with money in the evening
and they would go to Tambaram Railway Station
where their grandmother has been living.
“ Oh, the gypsies are far better than others
Who long to have freebies from the government”
I thought myself and smiled.
-------------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Holy City
Midnight in the holy city
Playground for restless souls
Graveyards for the sons of ft. sumpter
And the ghostly daughters
Wait for their boys to come home
Moonlight in the holy city
So thick it warms the air
Burned my heart on a sweet southern flame
Like a hug from your mama saying it will be ok
Spilt my blood, in the holy city
Seen the flood of a thousand rains
I ran away from the holy city
Heard the spirits in the steeple singing
Youll be back again
Sunrise in the holy city
The kings and queens shuffle by
Im born here of my own ashes
Just lay me down here when I die
Spilt my blood, in the holy city
Seen the flood of a thousand rains
I ran away from the holy city
Heard the spirits in the steeple singing
Youll be back again
Ive seen visions
Lord Ive seen visions
Hanging in the summer sky
I fell in love, lost my heart
Laughed until I cried
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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