River Tamasa: Philosophy of Life
Wandering over several woods wide,
never wavering astray
by illusion of any gorge,
surmounting many an impediment
in my life limpid,
never deeming darkness
as a distress,
never thinking light
to be a delight,
for a remote way
ahead I've continued to forge
with my head humbly bent.
Gratifying every bank-dweller
with offering of water,
fruitfulness of my birth
I'm realizing worth.
[Translated from original Oriya epic-poem ‘Tapasvini' By Dr. Harekrishna Meher]
poem by Gangadhar Meher
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River Tamasa: Philosophy of Life
Wandering over several woods wide,
never wavering astray
by illusion of any gorge,
surmounting many an impediment
in my life limpid,
never deeming darkness
as a distress,
never thinking light
to be a delight,
for a remote way
ahead I’ve continued to forge
with my head humbly bent.
Gratifying every bank-dweller
with offering of water,
fruitfulness of my birth
I’m realizing worth.
* *
(Tapasvini,4/11)
*
[Translated from Gangadhara Meher’s Oriya epic-poem ‘Tapasvini’, by Dr. Harekrishna Meher]
poem by Harekrishna Meher
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The Ambrosial
Verily I'm a drop
of the ocean of nectar.
Shunning the ocean I had risen up
in the firmament afar.
Coming down now
I've joined the ambrosial flow
and towards the ocean
ahead I'm in motion.
If I evaporate therein
on the way by the heat of sin,
in the form of dew later on
I'll descend below.
With the nectarean immortal flow,
I'll mingle in the ocean.
[Translated from Gangadhara Meher’s Oriya Poem ‘Amrutamaya’, by Dr. Harekrishna Meher]
poem by Harekrishna Meher
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The Ambrosial
Verily I'm a drop
of the ocean of nectar.
Shunning the ocean I had risen up
in the firmament afar.
Coming down now
I've joined the ambrosial flow
and towards the ocean
ahead I'm in motion.
If I evaporate therein
on the way by the heat of sin,
in the form of dew later on
I'll descend below.
With the nectarean immortal flow,
I'll mingle in the ocean.
[Translated from original Oriya Poem ‘Amrutamaya' By Dr. Harekrishna Meher]
poem by Gangadhar Meher
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Dweller On The Threshold
Im a dweller on the threshold
And Im waiting at the door
And Im standing in the darkness
I dont want to wait no more
I have seen without perceiving
I have been another man
Let me pierce the realm of glamour
So I know just what I am
Im a dweller on the threshold
And Im waiting at the door
And Im standing in the darkness
I dont want to wait no more
Feel the angel of the present
In the mighty crystal fire
Lift me up consume my darkness
Let me travel even higher
Im a dweller on the threshold
As I cross the burning ground
Let me go down to the water
Watch the great illusion drown
Im a dweller on the threshold
And Im waiting at the door
And Im standing in the darkness
I dont want to wait no more
Im gonna turn and face the music
The music of the spheres
Lift me up consume my darkness
When the midnight disappears
I will walk out of the darkness
And Ill walk into the light
And Ill sing the song of ages
And the dawn will end the night
Im a dweller on the threshold
And Im waiting at the door
And Im standing in the darkness
I dont want to wait no more
Im a dweller on the threshold
And I cross some burning ground
And Ill go down to the water
Let the great illusion drown
Im a dweller on the threshold
And Im waiting at the door
And Im standing in the darkness
I dont want to wait no more
Im a dweller on the threshold
Dweller on the threshold
Im a dweller on the threshold
Im a dweller on the threshold
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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oh yes, Mr. Shaun, the Bible was not written in English
The Gospel of Christ and, in general,
the Holy Bible are written with the inspiration of God.
The Prophets and the Apostles
have recorded in written form
a portion of the oral teaching of the Old Testament
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
in Hebrew and Aramaic as well as the New Testament in Greek.
These are the original languages of the Holy Bible from' which all the translations have been derived. God's inspiration is confined to the original languages and utterances, not the many translations. There are 1,300 languages and dialects into which the Holy Bible, in its entirety or in portions, has been
translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated. translated.
This does not mean that the translations do not convey the meaning of the Bible for spiritual uprightness of the readers in their own language. On the contrary the Bible should be spread and preached to 'all nations'. The missionaries in foreign lands learn the language or the dialect of. the new area into which they bring the Bible and other religious teachings. For example, the missionaries from Constantinople, Saints Cyril and Methodios, sent to Christianize the Slavic peoples in the 9th century, first translated the Bible and the ritual books into the language of the people.
yes, Mr. Shaun, my friend the Bible was not written in English.IT was written in HEBREW, ARAMAIC, and GREEK....
But i like it written in English too, how i wish it were written in such a
language,
with a sense of class
and fashionable disguise,
for without it, how could i ever understand, God,
oh, my, God!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by Aisha Patterson
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by David Carter
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Our Eyes
Our eyes
are limpid
drops of water.
In each drop exists
a tiny sign
of our genius
which has given life to cold iron.
Our eyes
are limpid
drops of water
merged absolutely in the Ocean
that you could hardly recognize
the drop in a block of ice
in a boiling pan.
The masterpiece of these eyes
the fulfillment of their genius
the living iron.
In these eyes
filled with limpid
pure tears
had failed to emerge
from the infinite Ocean
if the strength
had dispersed,
we could never have mated
the dynamo with the turbine,
never have moved
those steel mountains in water
easily
as if made of hollow wood.
The masterpiece of these eyes
the fulfillment of their genius
of our unified labour
the living iron.
Translated by Taner Baybars
poem by Nazim Hikmet
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My Head
My head is 'whirring',
A poem is 'stirring',
Inside my mind
Which is resigned
To producing nothing
Except some 'cussing'.
My head is 'clanging',
A poem is 'hanging',
In mid-air somewhere,
And Oh, I do care
To get it out.
Without a doubt!
My head is 'lifting',
A poem is 'shifting'
About, and ready
To come out steady,
And with some luck,
Will not get 'stuck'!
My head is 'clearing',
A poem is 'nearing'
Completion now,
And now somehow,
I feel a conclusion
Is no longer an 'illusion'.
My head is 'delighting'
A poem is in 'writing',
Clearly written,
And now I am 'smitten'
With composing again.
Can I be 'SANE'! .
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Evolving, Constantly Changing (For Jan)
i look deep
into the depths
of my soul...
behind the doors
long closed,
darkness layered
in darkness...
before there were words!
i see stones, wind,
and great bent trees.
and their voices sound
like mine!
evolving,
constantly changing,
molded by light
and desire.
what have i become?
what will i become?
time,
an illusion,
drops of water
clinging to the leaf.
evolving,
the hand unseen,
the face deeply ingrained!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Beyond
It has three parts:
1) Body poems: hand in the darkness, eye in the darkness, mouth in the darkness, nose in the darkness, teeth in the darkness, legs in the darkness, belly in the darkness, forehead in the darkness, fingers in the darkness.............etc
2) Body machine: I am not a human being, I can fly! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
3) Sky poem: I am writing the alphabet 'KA'(meaning 'dance') in the sky or vacant sky.
I make this poem from performance to performativism poem.
You can perform my poem now! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Have vital life! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Song Of The Dark
When it rains darkness
we beg refuge in an iridescent dream, and
we don't know that
after having a plunge into the colours of the painter
how does the night change into blue?
The night flees hearing the soft footsteps of light;
rushes into the nooks and corners -
spreads to the hollow spaces;
a few holes pierce the souls
travelling through those
it moves to another direction -
Is that path dark too?
Is there a bottomless
crater of darkness
that moves from one illusion of light
to another?
Does there too
the darkness draw
delight the way
we draw pleasure from our
wanton sadness? And
overflow with our
iniquity; and
lose all residual words
in the entwining net of great verses.
Wounds in the souls
go deeper each moment; and
life in between the day and night
like crawling and swaying shadows -
Moves from one direction to the other;
second to the third,
third to the fourth,
fourth to the fifth; and then
to the whole universe; and
like this, onto a limitless direction.
Life keeps crawling on the knees silently
from one lair to the other;
from one corner of the universe to
the other corner -
Even the souls start sobbing
and there at the God's column-less
palaces;
darkness looms over the sparkling stars;
waiting for the chance to assault, and
reaches those lands where
hearts cultivate
and minds blossom in flowers!
Poem by: Naseer Ahmed Nasir,2008.
Translated from Urdu into English by Dr.Bina Biswas
Copyright(C) Naseer Ahmed Nasir, All Rights Reserved.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Life's Dance
In truth, I could live without you,
But that wouldn't be a life worth living.
Since you've been away,
My head went astray,
And I don't know what to do.
I can't sleep at night,
Getting up doesn't feel right,
Because I know I won't see you.
There is no promise of tomorrow,
But there is the promise of today,
Which will not be spent in sorrow or wishing my life away.
Instead it will be spent thinking,
Thinking about if I get the chance,
How I will spend tomorrow,
Dancing with life's dance.
poem by Mystykka Mysterious
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Vestigia Nulla Retrorsum
O steep and rugged Life, whose harsh ascent
Slopes blindly upward through the bitter night!
They say that on thy summit, high in light,
Sweet rest awaits the climber, travel-spent;
But I, alas, with dusty garments rent,
With fainting heart and failing limbs and sight,
Can see no glimmer of the shining height,
And vainly list, with body forward bent,
To catch athwart the gloom one wandering note
Of those glad anthems which (they say) are sung
When one emerges from the mists below:
But though, O Life, thy summit be remote
And all thy stony path with darkness hung,
Yet ever upward through the night I go.
poem by William Gay
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A Poem Begun In Darkness
A POEM BEGUN IN DARKNESS
A poem begun in darkness
Waits for morning light -
It knows the light will bring hope -
It understands that when a new day begins outside
Inside too there will be light-
A poem begun in darkness
Knows somehow it will end in light -
Better Light than Darkness
Better Hope than Fear
Better a new world
Than one which is waiting to die
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Delightful Sea
Abruptly the sea debates with waves of delight,
What conquers ablution of this abysmal tree of water?
My abbey is the very original glee I partake,
Many gods have faces that linger and mingle in the sea.
This sea hastens fallaciously, worming cliffs and rocks,
The fallible ocean considers its feed, after too much light.
The sun has stars in front, but the sea escapes the dark
Of the darkness that is wet, falsity is our falcon of life.
poem by Naveed Akram
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No Poem Is An Original
No poem is an original
everyone who writes
poetry thinks their poem
was an original, it just so
happens that their poem just
surfaced to the top
of their mind first, so they
were able to write it.
Everyone has love, hate
compassion buried deep
in their soul.
Poets are able to bring
all of this to the surface,
to construct, add the words,
but it is not an original
idea, for the poet because
they wrote it now, it
becomes an original for them.
Who has not heard a song,
read a poem, story or book,
seen a movie and said,
to themselves, hey I had
that same idea.
Only thing is, someone else
brought it to the surface
of the mind, and wrote it first.
Even this poem I'm writing
now is not an original
someone out there
has this idea buried
deep in their soul.
So if you have an idea
for a poem, get busy
write it, don't wait,
or you won't write an original
start today,
don't delay.
wrote 2-2-07
A Candlestick
darkness sets in our place
and from time to time
we lurk without having
to do anything about it
we wait to a distress
we live in distress
we embrace the darkness
tonight i have decided
to light a candlestick
there shall be no cursing
of darkness no living in
the hopelessness of
its useless embrace
i sit watching its light
and start to scribble some
lines for my poetry about
the triumph of light over
the harshness of darkness.
somehow in the middle of
darkness that we find so hard
to explain and live with
we still have something to
do, to tell, and make a difference
from among those who simply
sleep and snore and then
let go with their lives dying
without having to know
what and where meaning lies.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Life Span For Love And Dreams
We're aware
We're aware that between us there's
A haze of ignorance
Our steps but tread the path of our search
But can't see their goal
Much more exquisite and radiant
Than my poems is your inner self
And my eye-glasses are getting thicker every day
Do you know
Why poems and stories become wordless
Trying to poetise us?
They want to know our birth date
The place we were born
And our present age.
What do they know?
Dreams are neither born
Nor ever they die
No register enters their birth statistics
I just don't know
At what point of time did you learn to take your first steps
Holding the dream's little finger
I indeed am that dream
Which no one has never seen
I had died verily the same day
When my father had kicked my mother on her stomach
But I continued to grow inside my grave
Grew so much that
My mother could see me without bending
Once I dropped my camera and broke it
While taking some body's picture
Only then I came to know
Why dreams become utterly black in daylight
Why it's important to have
a dark liquid to expose them
I didn't know that light can be seen only in darkness
We're indeed not what we seem to be
There's some one else in our place
Wearing our costume
Flowing water has no shape
Shapes are but in our eyes
And to see a dream
One doesn't need sleep - but eyes
From protozoan to a human being
The sleep of bilions of evolutionary years
Is but an interval for opening his eyes
Love is the intervening space between life and death
And we use the yardstick of one life span to measure it
And go through a mesquerade of living
But love has no life span
It prevails from an unknown beginning
To an unknown end
At whatever point in time we find it
We fix our separate limits
And then define it with names and relationships
Greater indeed is melancholy than our knowledge and experience
Let it expand
How could one express in words
All that colours, flowers and butterflies convey
There's no other better medium of communication
Than silence to talk to birds, plants and nice people
How do we know - we might simply be
Going through the awakening process
From a dream greater than ourselves
And someone - with his universal eye might be watching us
Do not disturb the soul of God
While it is dreaming.
Poem by: Naseer Ahmed Nasir,1994.
Translated from the original Urdu into English by Satyapal Anand.
Copyrights (C) All rights reserved.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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