En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Train No: 6009

Mumbai Mail is a jail
causing me to pass through terrible ordeals
station by every small station,
where its hooting woke no one.
As if to bail me out of my strain
an old money lender with his wife
got in and sat opposite at Wadi.

Snacks galore!
Plate after plate
they were emptying
and driving away the beggars
by waving their hands,
when their harsh words
failed to keep them at bay.
In two, three places
they went out, gave sweet packets
to their kin who touched their feet
and blessed them by snuggling them close.

Poor women with babies,
children singing and dancng,
boys and girls cleaning the coach,
the flesh starved skeletons,
buffeted by illness,
the physically and mentally challenged……
Nobody got a coin or a measly food from them.
Giving alms might be a drain on their resources.
and a stain on their palms.
To cause a flutter in their hearts,
I slid down some coins
in the hands of the misfortune.
But the stubborn man
guided all the beggars towards me.

They dropped coins of high value
into the rivers Krishna and the Tungabadra
murmuring the name of some god.
But their coins didn’t slip down
into the river of suffering humanity.
-----------

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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A Coin Of Little Worth

I have seen and liked
silver coins stamped
in ancient Greece Rome

these usually carry the image
of supposedly great men
kings emperors face in profile

but their deeds were often
treacherous harsh cruel
wars these started for more
wealth slaves land to rule

my favourite coin
is a very small coin
tiny of little worth

that a woman with nothing
once gave at the temple
a very very long time ago

My Lord praised her
for giving all her livelihood
for giving more than

all gathered rich worshippers
combined because
proud rich gave a percentage

from all their amassed profit
a percentage calculated
based upon requirements of

law; but a poor woman gave
everything she had
based upon her own giving heart

it is written how Jesus sat down;
with the treasury chests in view
observing how the crowd dropped

money into the treasury chests;

many rich people were dropping in
many coins however a poor
widow woman dropped in only two

small coins which had very little value;

these coins became known as the widow's mite.

Jesus called his disciples and said to them

"Truly I say to YOU that this poor widow
dropped in more than all those dropping
money into the treasury chests; for they

all dropped in out of their surplus,
but she dropped in all of what
she had, her whole living." Mark 12: 41-44.

For the love of God.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Who is a beggar and who is not

Take your coin, I am no beggar

In our country
Beggars are less uncommon
They are there anywhere
Except
Cemeteries
Burial ground and
Cremation yard
They beg you so pathetically
That you are forced to dropp a coin
Pavements invariably
Irrespective of the city
House beggars
You can make out them
By the way they look
Women beg
Pointing to us the little child
They carry on their waist
Old ladies too beg
And they station themselves
Against you in your path
Making it difficult for you
To step ahead further
While you are on a wait
Either bus stop
Rail station
Park or beach
Some one or the other appear before you
Begging
Truly speaking
It hurts me to turn away someone
Asking for alms
Without getting them something
Some hold the view
That they need not help beggars
As they are not the one
Who made beggars beg
Begging should be discouraged
And to do that
Beggars should not be helped
Is some others’ view point
I am not quite sure
Whether to help beggars or not
I normally dropp a coin of least denomination
In the begging bowl or in the opened up palms of a beggar
Provided I have the coin
If I do not have a coin to part with
Or if I do not have the mind to help
I muster the strength
To tell the beggar
That I have no changes to spare
This morning
I was rushing to the office
After getting down from the bus
I saw a middle aged male
Who was rolling down on the tar topped road
Sitting on roller-fixed wooden plank
Pushing with the help of has hands
It appeared he had no legs
I decided to help him with a coin
As I got nearer
I came to understand that he was polio affected
Both his legs becoming non functional
Of late, thin and feeble
I ran my hand through my left pant pocket
Got hold of a coin of a better denomination
Than the one I normally prefer to drop
Stood by his side
As he was enjoying a puff of a lighted cigarette
On his lips
He did not lift his face
Having waited for some seconds
I decided to dropp that coin
I did the same
And started going towards office
I heard the rolling of wheels
When I looked back
The person on the wheel-fixed plank
Pointed his right index finger
Towards the dropped coin
About four metres on the backside
And said curtly
Take your coin
I am no beggar
As I reached the spot
And picked up the coin
I felt too small of me
And in fact, beg for the knowledge
As to know
Who is a beggar and who is not

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Plate Of Gold

One day there fell in great Benares' temple-court
A wondrous plate of gold, whereon these words were writ;
'To him who loveth best, a gift from Heaven.'
Thereat.
The priests made proclamation: 'At the midday hour,
Each day, let those assemble who for virtue deem
their right to Heaven's gift the best; and we will hear
the deeds of mercy done, and so adjudge.'
The news
ran swift as light, and soon from every quarter came
nobles and munshis, hermits, scholars, holy men,
and all renowned for gracious or for splendid deeds,
meanwhile the priests in solemn council sat and heard
what each had done to merit best the gift of Heaven.
So for a year the claimants came and went.
At last,
after a patient weighing of the worth of all,
the priests bestowed the plate of gold on one who seemed,
the largest lover of the race - whose whole estate,
within the year had been parted among the poor.
This man, all trembling with his joy, advanced to take
the golden plate-when lo! at his finger's first touch
it changed to basest lead! All stood aghast; but when
the hapless claimant dropt it clanging on the floor,
Heaven's guerdon was again transformed to shining gold.
So for another twelve month sat he priests and judged.
Thrice they awarded-thrice did Heaven refuse the gift.
Meanwhile a host of poor, maimed beggars in the street
lay all about the temple gate, in hope to move
that love whereby each claimant hoped to win the gift
and well for them it was (if gold be charity),
for every pilgrim to the temple gate praised God.
that love might thus approve itself before the test,
and so coins rained freely in the outstretched hands;
but none of those who gave, so much as turned to look
into the poor sad eyes of them that begged.
And now
The second year had almost passed, but still the plate
of gold, by whomsoever touched was turned to lead.
At length there came a simple peasant-not aware
of that strange contest for the gift of God-to pay
a vow within the temple. As he passed along
the line of shrivelled beggars, all his soul was moved
within him to sweet pity, and the tears well up
and trembled in his eyes.
Now by the temple gate
there lay a poor, sore creature, blind, and shunned by all;
but when the peasant came, and saw the sightless face
and trembling, maimed hands he could not pass, but knelt,
and took both palms in his, and softly said: 'O thou,
my brother! bear the trouble bravely. God is good.'
The he arose and walked straightway across the court,
and entered where they wrangled of their deeds of love
before the priests.
A while he listened sadly; then
had turned away; but something moved the priest who held
the plate of gold to beckon to the peasant. So
he came, not understanding and obeyed, and stretched
his hand and took the sacred vessel. Lo! it shone
with thrice its former lustre, and amazed them all!
'Son', cried the priest, 'rejoice, the gift of God is thine.
Thou lovest best!' And all made answer, 'It is well.'
And, one by one, departed. But the peasant knelt
and prayed, bowing his head above the golden plate;
while o'er his soul like morning streamed the love of God.

poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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Words are the coins making up the currency of sentences, and there are always too many small coins.

quote by Jules Renard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Koin Untuk Prita (Coins for Prita)

cring, cring
berjatuhan koin-koin
cring, cring
hati si miskin memanggil
cring, cring
koin kecil berarti penting
cring, cring
bila bersama tak ada yang tak mungkin

cring, cring
koin-koin terus berdering
cring, cring
tangan si kecil memberi
cring, cring
sedikit koin yang dikira tak berarti
cring, cring
bila bersatu bukit pun benar-benar jadi

klink, klink
coins dropping
klink, klink
the heart of poor calling
klink, klink
small coin for important meaning
klink, klink
if together impossible is nothing

klink, klink
coins keep ringing
klink, klink
little hands giving
klink, klink
small coin thought has no meaning
klink, klink
if united the hill really building

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Treasured

Treasure is a lovely love, a built book,
One of the heavens contains the treasure.
Treasure forbade me to truly become you,
Understanding the gold and silver is becoming clear.

Let golden items sway, let gold become heavenly
By being money and wealth of a man in reign.
The money colder is the money touched;
Anywhere you go, is the silver being rich?

Let coins be coins as far as the eyes glance,
The body I suffer shall happen to be in the river of gold.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Getting Mugged for Christmas

Getting mugged for Christmas
Christmas girls and boys
We're getting mugged for Christmas
Round yon virgin toys

Homeward Christmas folly
Never felt so good
Coming to an alley
IN YOUR NEIGHBOURHOOD

FIIIIIVE Golden coins...
Was all we had
They tried to take them
So I smashed one in the face
And I screamed like a partridge in a Puriri

(Return to original tune)
My best friend fell over
And they kicked him in the back
I was not too sober
So I joined in the attack.

If you try to take my money
I won't calls the pigs
I will simply run away
after kicking you in the figs

FIIIIIIVE Golden Coins...

Getting mugged for Christmas
Christmas girls and boys
Getting mugged for Christmas
By a Fat Santa Claus.

poem by Ashley Hawkes
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Beggarliness

The cats march on to the backyard
Of my house and leave their kitten,
taking it for a safe haven.

When I come upon a dog
lying beside the walls of the school,
with its pups rolling over it,
I buy biscuits from a shop
and feed them with grace.

When the rats pluck up courage
to hold jamborees in the porch,
I don’t beat them or drive them out
fearing to be infected with rat-fever.
But I put coleslaw for them to eat.

When little lamps jump into my office room,
and let down their balls of dung,
I smile, lift them up and give them
to the girls of lower classes.

When I see beggars lame or blind,
I touch the coins in my pocket
but hesitate to give them;
as most of them tell tales of lies.
They get freebies from the Government
yet their list swells in trains and public places.

Some who run private homes to orphans
send the inmates to beg in streets
But they beg from cinestars and the rich
with a printed receipt book in hand.
The old ones plead starvation
and go on cheating pliable public.
Some ladies and the differently -abled
roam to beg with letters in trains and buses.
Some criminals appeal for alms with appalling faces.
Terrorists too beg from the rich and cinestars
and demand donations without giving receipts.
Fake sages and seers receive funds from abroad
to frustrate the addicts from drugs
and the men and women garbless to meditate in halls.

When the beggars blockmail me
and curse me to have a dog’s life,
how can I purse my lips and refuse alms?
----------

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The filth of the culture.

Beggars are a few who beg for food.
Beggars are a few who beg for money.
Beggars are plenty who beg for acceptance.
It reflects the filth of the culture.
10.10.2009

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Dross coins and wealth

i.

Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
You wallow in them
You think of them again, again
Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
One even grey a blank vacant sterility.

ii.

Round the green hill
The rivulet glideth:
The birds flieth
The owl singeth
How happy is the earth to-day!

iii.

From the small dale
The shepherd voice ariseth
Into a sweet canticle
As the day falleth
As the red dusk cometh
And night in mantle dark
By the next dale is coming
Coming fast:
Coming fast
Like sleep
Sleep
Sleep
Welcome sleep
The night cometh
The skies are darkening:
The stars are twinkling
And one by one
Coming like Morpheus with his wand
Into the next sleep beginning
The eye-lids how drowsy lie
And flicker like torch-lights
Slowly
Slowly
Slowly
Mor pheus is breathing slow
His hot and wanton breath
Over my forehead:
So sleep cometh, welcome sleep.
And dream I with open eyes
And through the night
Look I upon the stars in sleep

And dreaming wake and waking dream again.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Lord Buddha begged.

The society has more thieves than beggars.
In a way, beggars are better than thieves.
They beg but steal not and get but usurp not.
Mortgaging their ego, they are begging.
It is easy to steal but hard to beg.
Give or not, don’t treat beggars with contempt.
Do treat them at par while you give them alms.
Feel elated while you offer them alms.
While giving, dispel their humiliation.
Lord Buddha too led His life as a beggar.
19.10.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Castile

Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins

I met my love under an orange tree
or was it an acacia tree
or was he not my love?

I read this, then I dreamed this:
can waking take back what happened to me?
Bells of San Miguel
ringing in the distance
his hair in the shadows blond-white

I dreamed this,
does that mean it didn't happen?
Does it have to happen in the world to be real?

I dreamed everything, the story
became my story:

he lay beside me,
my hand grazed the skin of his shoulder

Mid-day, then early evening:
in the distance, the sound of a train

But it was not the world:
in the world, a thing happens finally, absolutely,
the mind cannot reverse it.

Castile: nuns walking in pairs through the dark garden.
Outside the walls of the Holy Angels
children begging for coins

When I woke I was crying,
has that no reality?

I met my love under an orange tree:
I have forgotten
only the facts, not the inference—
there were children, somewhere, crying, begging for coins

I dreamed everything, I gave myself
completely and for all time

And the train returned us
first to Madrid
then to the Basque country

Anonymous submission.

poem by Louise Gluck
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Beggars Day

If this is heaven, then Im in hell
If trust is misfortune, then wish me well
While I think of sadness baby
Your light shines through, your light shines through
Your light shines through
Chorus:
Because its beggars day
Because its beggars day
Because its beggars day
Ive lost control of my darker side
A world all for free, on a nastier ride
*and I have crossed myself in anger
All your mercy cant save me, all your mercy cant save me
All your mercy cant save me
Because its beggars day
Because its beggars day
Because its beggars day
Lead:
Its beggars day
You know its beggars day
Because its beggars day
See this love, Ive stored for you
Wheel it and deal it, but our feelins are true
Repeat *
Chorus (2x)
(written by nils lofgren)
(published by almo music corp./hilmer publishing co. ascap)

song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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City Of Beggars

The sky is always blue in the city of beggars
There is not much green in the city of beggars
There are buildings being built so fast in the city of beggars
In every corner that you encounter
The city of beggars are growing so fast
And in the city of beggars lives 30 million people
The air is not that good in the city of beggars
Because of the factories and the cars
The city of beggars never sleep
The noise goes on 24 hours a day
It is not safe to walk in the street of beggars
Because you can get robbed and killed at any time of the night or day
The traffic is chaotic in the city of beggars
Thanks God there is no snow in the city of beggars

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Crystal Was The Night

The evening air was crisp and clear
we walked the streets, we had no fear.
We were so small and full of cheer
and Christmas soon was coming.

With laughter and with glee, we pranced
glancing at the holly.
Looking at the pretty lights
and feeling oh so jolly.

We knocked on every door we could
sang carols sweet as honey,
Merry Xmas, Silent Night
collecting lots of money!

Coins jangled in our pockets,
we skipped along the streets.
We didn't notice the cold air
we'd wings upon our feet.

The stars were out, they twinkled,
the moon looked kind of proud
to see us feeling happy,
no sign of any clouds.

Then the last house in the street,
we ran up to the door,
a man came out and shouted,
Get lost, I've called the law! '

Bloody beggars, he called to us.
We wondered why he'd made a fuss,
we thought we'd earned our money
bringing folks such happiness.

I looked into the sky,
I'd never seen the stars looking so bright
I was sure God would forgive us,
he couldn't possibly be cross

for our hearts were true
and crystal was the night.

poem by Ruth Walters
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The Widow At Windsor

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam -- she 'as millions at 'ome,
An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
(Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
There's 'er mark on the medical stores --
An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
That takes us to various wars.
(Poor beggars! -- barbarious wars!)
Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! -- it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! -- we're sent to say "Stop"!)
Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs --
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! -- it's always they guns!)

We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! -- an' don't we get blown!)
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
(Poor beggars! -- it's 'ot over'ead!)
Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.
'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.
(Poor beggars! -- they'll never see 'ome!)

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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and it was Her Summer

…And It Was Her Summer

“Go back to the children’s home, she said I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you” Late June afternoon she sat on a bench
with a man I didn’t know. The man smiled I didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me to buy an ice –cream for; I was still
hanging about so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy! ” My face was burning I threw the coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field, I was tired and cold, thought of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church, but it smelt of fear and
I thought of ghosts, so I walked on till I came to a workman’s hut
near the road, it was easy to get in; here the smell was of coffee,
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them were my father?
It was morning and warm sunlight when they came, they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread and showed me the quickest
way to get home. The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town, I could see the school building it must
have been early, no children in the yard; but I just sat there and
could not understand why my mother didn’t want to se me.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Theme From The City Of Beggars

Free the beggars from poverty today
Free the beggars from the slam today
Free the beggars from slave labour
Give the beggars some hope today
Put a smile on the beggars face
The beggars are starving today
So go ahead and feed the beggars some bread and water
Because that is better than nothing
Give the beggars the same right
That the rich got

poem by Aldo Kraas
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It was my duty, to help somebody

Looted by robbers
Badly injured
He was crying in pain
His money gone
He was driving on a remote road
He had trusted two lift seekers
Responded to their request
Of dropping them
To the next station
Never in his life
He shall help and trust anybody
How much in distress one may be
It’s my vow he said to himself
A hand on his shoulder
Brought him out of his thoughts
There was a person
Standing near by
He took him to the hospital
Got him treated, gave food to eat
Took his full care
Kept him in his house
Till he became alright
Gave money to him
Dropped him at the station
While departing
Tears flowing from his eyes
Thank you he said
To the god like person
It was my duty, to help somebody
In distress, came the reply
He now vowed, he shall also help
People in distress
Without bothering
In return
What he shall get?

poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Tramp With Cramp

Loneliness within a horde of humans
Moving like wildebeest across the earth!
Hoping for a handout, not a sermon,
For money, not a cup of tea,
Nor food they watch me eat
Instead of drugs they think I'll buy later.
No alcohol upon my breath, yet still condemned
By the prejudice against every tramp.
Beggars can't be choosers.
Take pennies as well as pounds
And foreign coins given by smart alec sadists.
Brave the chill in my bones.
Autumn turns to Winter.
Extra socks! Long Johns under grimy trousers.
Wouldn't do to wear clean ones.
No sympathy, no kudos, no street cred!
Just looks of disdain, only more so...

poem by Denis Martindale
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