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Sonnet: On Loving Your Foe

To love your foe is not an easy task;
A lot of patience is the factor main;
He sees your face of truth as one of mask,
And gestures kind, as ones with which you feign!

Your words of love from heart appear not so;
He always is wary of all you do;
He doubts your moves and invitations true;
He often dreams of his own waterloo!

Although you forgive him his trespasses,
He continues to be a fox so vile!
To bring your downfall, he sets up masses,
And pours out vulgar words akin to bile!

To love your foe is tougher than most things;
A lot of ugly situations, it brings!

‘Jesus wants us to love our enemies! '
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-10-12

poem by John Celes
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Sonnet XLIV: O Be Not Griev'd

O be not griev'd that these my papers should
Betray unto the world how fair thou art,
Or that my wits have show'd the best they could
The chastest flame that ever warmed heart.
Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame,
My Muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble;
How many live, the glory of whose name
Shall rest in ice when thine is grav'd in marble?
Thou mayst in after ages live esteem'd,
Unburied in these lines reserv'd in pureness;
These shall entomb those eyes that have redeem'd
Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness.
Although my carefull accents ne'er mov'd thee,
Yet count it no disgrace that I have lov'd thee.

poem by Samuel Daniel
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Epilogue

With quiet heart, I climbed the hill,
from which one can see, the city, complete,
hospitals, brothels, purgatory, hell,
prison, where every sin flowers, at our feet.
You know well, Satan, patron of my distress,
I did not trudge up there to vainly weep,
but like an old man with an old mistress,
I longed to intoxicate myself, with the infernal delight
of the vast procuress, who can always make things fresh.
Whether you still sleep in the morning light,
heavy, dark, rheumatic, or whether your hands
flutter, in your pure, gold-edged veils of night,
I love you, infamous capital! Courtesans
and pimps, you often offer pleasures
the vulgar mob will never understand.

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Profane Poet

Oh how it would enable me
To titillate my vanity
If you should choose to label me
A Poet of Profanity!
For I've been known with vulgar slang
To stoke the Sacred Fire,
And even used a word like 'hang',
Suggesting ire.

Yea, I've been slyly told, although
It savours of inanity,
In print the ladies often show
A failing for profanity.
So to delight the dears I try,
And often in the past
In fabricating sonnets I
Have fulminated: 'Blast!'

I know I shock the sober folk
Who doubt my lyric sanity,

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poem by Robert William Service
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About The Nightingale

From a letter from STC to Wordsworth after writing The Nightingale:

In stale blank verse a subject stale
I send per post my Nightingale;
And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth,
You'll tell me what you think, my Bird's worth.
My own opinion's briefly this--
His bill he opens not amiss;
And when he has sung a stave or so,
His breast, & some small space below,
So throbs & swells, that you might swear
No vulgar music's working there.
So far, so good; but then, 'od rot him!
There's something falls off at his bottom.
Yet, sure, no wonder it should breed,
That my Bird's Tail's a tail indeed
And makes it's own inglorious harmony
Æolio crepitû, non carmine.

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Modern Love XXXV: It Is No Vulgar Nature

It is no vulgar nature I have wived.
Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound
Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned,
And not a thought of vengeance had survived.
No confidences has she: but relief
Must come to one whose suffering is acute.
O have a care of natures that are mute!
They punish you in acts: their steps are brief.
What is she doing? What does she demand
From Providence or me? She is not one
Long to endure this torpidly, and shun
The drugs that crowd about a woman's hand.
At Forfeits during snow we played, and I
Must kiss her. 'Well performed!' I said: then she:
''Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?'
Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!

poem by George Meredith
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My Tails

I haven't worn my evening dress
For nearly twenty years;
Oh I'm unsocial, I confess,
A hermit, it appears.
So much moth-balled it's but away,
And though wee wifie wails,
Never unto my dimmest day
I'll don my tails.

How slim and trim I looked in them,
Though I was sixty old;
And now their sleekness I condemn
To lie in rigid fold.
I have a portrait of myself
Proud-printed in the Press,
In garb now doomed to wardrobe shelf,--
My evening dress.

So let this be my last request,
That when I come to die,

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poem by Robert William Service
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It will not be amiss to distinguish the three kinds and, as it were, grades of ambition in mankind. The first is of those who desire to extend their own power in their native country, a vulgar and degenerate kind. The second is of those who labor to extend the power and dominion of their country among men. This certainly has more dignity, though not less covetousness. But if a man endeavor to establish and extend the power and dominion of the human race itself over the universe, his ambition (if ambition it can be called) is without doubt both a more wholesome and a more noble thing than the other two. Now the empire of man over things depends wholly on the arts and sciences.

quote by Francis Bacon
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A Letter From The Heaven

I have heard a note from heaven.
I have nodded my head
as I have to explore it across this world.
I have received a letter .
It says, “ The God needs an emendator.”
Me, the empty-headed thinks
that It would be a duty of propagandists.
But, the world itself begets propagandists.
The world propagate a theologist.
We all are the tenant of this God gifted world.
Therefore, we need to understand.
I am just a follower not a theorist.
So, I differ myself from the vulgar, majestic optimists.
They just declare,
but they don’t make it clear.
We shall have to palliate sorrows but not making only a proclamation.
We need self-devotion.
That’s the revelation.
That’s the letter from heaven….

poem by Bibhakar Dutta
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Journey Through Mist

creamy cystal fuego free
amby teeny bristle bee
action thriller treaky trash
fine a morning movey grass

firy fisher greets nick pin
ambush writ on feathering fin
hello whisp the druggery dawn
angel kissed pit misty lawn

proceeding fabrica lacing gown
epitaph acted fittest clown
angura arian hatching stag
quicken cacophone hooted track

sent her solaria eugene duck
horrible scenario fractal truck
eureka agony cried creeper
mocky dick bencher air stripper

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poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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