Quotes about feign, page 17
Warbrides
There has been wrong done since the world began.
That young men should go out and die in war,
And lie face down in the dust for a brief span,
And be not good to look at anymore.
It is the old men with their crafty eyes
And greedy fingers and their feeble lungs,
Make mischief in the world and are called wise,
And bring war on us with their garrulous tongues.
It is the old men hid in secret rooms,
Feign wisdom while they sign our peace away,
And turn fair meadows into reeking tombs,
And passionate bridegrooms into bloodied clay.
It is the old men should be sent to fight!
The old men grown so wise they have forgot
The touch of mouth on mouth in the still of night,
The tenderness that wedded lovers wot;
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poem by Nina Murdoch
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A Package of Love
Do you have this old bald headed man
in the deep of your supple heart,
for to be your eternal partner?
Ha! Ha! If you run on the beach gently,
I won't chase you but hobble around a tree.
What aspect of me lured you dear?
Is it my wrinkled, spectacled face
or my packed savings bank account?
When your fantasies take wings,
I would lie down and fall in a little doze.
Your sneers and looks with kicks
are the same to me, the half blind man.
'Uncle', you called me first in your nice tone,
but sprinkled your smiles on my face later.
O, twinkle the stars and throw light on my face!
If you go to a five-star hotel,
I will follow you to eat and exhaust your purse.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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We and our Laws
Our laws permit the police
to lay a trap to catch,
the worst criminal at large,
only on receiving complaints.
The people are cut into size
by the laws of our land
and those of the chopper-rowdies.
The weak and the meek can’t dare
file complaints against the killers
and the cops ignore the unruly deeds.
Some doctors loot the kidneys
and make a quick fortune.
They land in jails after a decade
when the police receive complaints.
Some feign as tax-officers
crush the flowers in the cine-films
and rob their hard-earned money.
The cops won’t act till those girls
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Euthanasia
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!
No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives, and him who dies.
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The Meandering Lion
Latch the doors,
I want to meander
With flaming feet
Of an opulent lion
Inside my prattling veins
And in the currents
Of your thunders
If you can see them
In the condoles of the scars
And in the knot of my temples.
Let the arrows strike
With vengeance and repugnance
They do not have the heart
Of gilded susurrations,
They can nick my tawny suit
But never touch the soul
Basking in the prowls
Of a protracted and brazen
Glissando.
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poem by Norman Santos
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They Get Riled So Easily
All stirred up by the words that come out on these pages.
These thoughts are best left to staunch women
Who sit happily under a repressive veil of undetermined class.
Why, no one is ever angry!
We sit here wanting to hold hands and LOVE one another.
Then we shut the door
We lay back and let all those slurs roll off our tongues.
We think all those thoughts we dare not speak.
Then we condemn ourselves
and creep back into our repression.
With all our gaucherie tucked back into place we stroll on.
Keeping these things in is a bit like constipation.
You take in so much supposed cerebral sustenance
Gulping it down from which ever way it pours out.
Did you think it would not turn into cerebral feculence?
Keep carrying that in
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poem by Raechael Woodroof
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Keeps Affecting me Deep!
When his friends are roaming in shoping malls,
he is in the library, sinking in Shakespeare,
and not noticing me in the opposite seat.
When his friends crave for a glance from me,
he never looks at my face, while walking
on the other side of the road.
While taking food in the dining hall,
I am expecting a flashing gleam from his eyes,
refusing to respond for the calls from the eyes around.
But what nixes him from watching me?
When my friends find difficult to clear my doubts,
he tells aloud the answer to a surprising third person.
Why he tells it not to me, the longing darling?
He seems to ignore me but really not.
His scant attention on me keeps affecting me.
When he gets into the bus before me,
if there is a single vacant seat,
he leaves it to me and goes to the front of the bus.
He offers a fleeting smile when I thank him later.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Two Nights
(Suggested by the lives of Napoleon and Josephine.)
I.
ONE night was full of rapture and delight-
Of reunited arms and swooning kisses,
And all the unnamed and unnumbered blisses
Which fond souls find in love of love at night.
Heart beat with heart, and each clung into each
With twining arms that did but loose their hold
To cling still closer; and fond glances told
These truths for which there is no uttered speech.
There was sweet laughter and endearing words,
Made broken by the kiss that could not wait,
And cooing sounds as of dear little birds
That in spring-time love and woo and mate.
And languid sighs that breathed of love's content
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Green Linnet
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here today,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While bird, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
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poem by William Wordsworth
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Clitophon And Lucippe Translated. To The Ladies
Pray, ladies, breath, awhile lay by
Caelestial Sydney's ARCADY;
Heere's a story that doth claime
A little respite from his flame:
Then with a quick dissolving looke
Unfold the smoothnes of this book,
To which no art (except your sight)
Can reach a worthy epithite;
'Tis an abstract of all volumes,
A pillaster of all columnes
Fancy e're rear'd to wit, to be
The smallest gods epitome,
And so compactedly expresse
All lovers pleasing wretchednes.
Gallant Pamela's majesty
And her sweet sisters modesty
Are fixt in each of you; you are,
Distinct, what these together were;
Divinest, that are really
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poem by Richard Lovelace
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