Quotes about midway, page 12
The Flight of Birds
“a poem should be wordless
as the flight of birds.”
—Archibald Macleish, Ars Poetica.
birds don’t sing in their flight
for them flying is a muse
they compose mid-air
weave agnostic verse
sneering haughtily at our absurdity
as they float over our meaningless mosques and churches
and those patrolled international borders
and other disputed sites
where the guns go bang bang bang all the time
they swing over there losing their birdegos
(ego is difficult to retain in mid-flight)
wondering about and watching men plucking out
and quashing the lives of other men and women and
poor helpless children and they
shed a birdtear or two from there
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poem by Meena Kandasamy
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The Point Of View
Nothing is as it seems
No thing is as it is
We see nothing that we need to see
We see everything as they seem to be
Some things are as they're deemed
But really everything isn't what its
deemed to be
Sometimes no time seems the best time
But most times this time is the only time
'Be what you want to be', they say
Is what you want to be what you're
made to be?
Made to be? Huh?
'Aim for the sky and defy it'
A snail crawls his days and yet is what
he's made to be
What do you see when you look at me?
Wait, again I ask
What do you think you see when you
look at me?
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poem by Jenim Dibie
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On The Slain Collegians
Youth is the time when hearts are large,
And stirring wars
Appeal to the spirit which appeals in turn
To the blade it draws.
If woman incite, and duty show
(Though made the mask of Cain),
Or whether it be Truth's sacred cause,
Who can aloof remain
That shares youth's ardor, uncooled by the
snow
Of wisdom or sordid gain?
The liberal arts and nurture sweet
Which give his gentleness to man--
Train him to honor, lend him grace
Through bright examples meet--
That culture which makes never wan
With underminings deep, but holds
The surface still, its fitting place,
And so gives sunniness to the face
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poem by Herman Melville
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A dead end
Though I have reached to the dead end
Still I wish my feelings to be known and be sent
It may, otherwise, remain as closely guarded
No one may come to know how much I have succeeded
I clearly see the opposite side of the river
Boat is in midway and I am down with fever
I fear it may capsize and never reach to the bank
I must admit it all and be honest and frank
People remember everything at the end of the road
They carry it with them as unbearable load
When they look back and seriously think?
They may feel dismay at the fact that their boat might have sunk
It is known fact that one must understand and realize
What can be their fate and must visualize?
Nothing can offer them any peace except self introspection
You can leave peacefully if you have earned respect from all the sections
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A Reading Of Life--With The Huntress
Through the water-eye of night,
Midway between eve and dawn,
See the chase, the rout, the flight
In deep forest; oread, faun,
Goat-foot, antlers laid on neck;
Ravenous all the line for speed.
See yon wavy sparkle beck
Sign of the Virgin Lady's lead.
Down her course a serpent star
Coils and shatters at her heels;
Peals the horn exulting, peals
Plaintive, is it near or far.
Huntress, arrowy to pursue,
In and out of woody glen,
Under cliffs that tear the blue,
Over torrent, over fen,
She and forest, where she skims
Feathery, darken and relume:
Those are her white-lightning limbs
Cleaving loads of leafy gloom.
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poem by George Meredith
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The Church-Builder
The church flings forth a battled shade
Over the moon-blanched sward:
The church; my gift; whereto I paid
My all in hand and hoard;
Lavished my gains
With stintless pains
To glorify the Lord.
I squared the broad foundations in
Of ashlared masonry;
I moulded mullions thick and thin,
Hewed fillet and ogee;
I circleted
Each sculptured head
With nimb and canopy.
I called in many a craftsmaster
To fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchure
On dossal, boss, and brass.
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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Composed At Clevedon, Somersetshire
My pensive Sara, thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown
With white-flowered jasmine and the broad-leaved myrtle
(Meet emblems they of innocence and love),
And watch the clouds that late were rich with light
Slow-sad'ning round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatched from yon bean-field! And the world so hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant sea
Tells us of silence. And that simplest lute
Placed lengthways in the clasping casement-hark
How by desultory breeze caressed!
Like some coy maid half-yielding to her lover,
It pours such sweet upbraidings as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong. And now its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
Such a soft floating witchery of sound
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poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Convenient democracy
We vote for convenient democracy
Prefer to live in condition with low frequency
No rule to prevail and no more rights to avail
Anarchy rule to stay and any good governance must fail
Is it really untrue democratic republic?
Where mob burn property meant for public?
Where thousand die for adulterated drink?
Over loaded boats swim but at midway sink
Scammers rule, flout rules and amass wealth
Masses suffer with malnutrition and endanger health
Onion, vegetables and medicines disappear
Loaded with all duties again reappear
I shall still praise the best managers
Who sit on top and add more scavengers
Let public suffer, loot property in anger
Let food grain rot but millions die in hunger
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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St. Martin's Summer
Though flowers have perished at the touch
Of Frost, the early comer,
I hail the season loved so much,
The good St. Martin's summer.
O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn,
And thin moon curving o'er it!
The old year's darling, latest born,
More loved than all before it!
How flamed the sunrise through the pines!
How stretched the birchen shadows,
Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines
The westward sloping meadows!
The sweet day, opening as a flower
Unfolds its petals tender,
Renews for us at noontide's hour
The summer's tempered splendor.
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Tay Bridge Disaster
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seemed to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say --
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."
When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say --
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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