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Festival Ganesh Chaturti

What though the Lord be beheaded
Handsome more He but resurrected
What though the killer be Siva or Sani
In arena of ganas He but more a honey

Risen in every home and town
Trunked of netted tenets renown
Schismatic what though so many
Oceanic His deeds against those villainy

Born of mystical legends strange
What though hued Him many we change
Unchanged He but bulged of cosmic acumen
So and now needy Lord, Ganesh for human

Happy Birth Day to Ganesh
Jollification high on ritual bash
He but the first Lord of gyring wisdom
So and now out His deco of decorum
He but the first bestower for the earthlings

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Life in Winter's Graveyard

Walking down a muddy road
In the throes of December
Heaving through the decay
Of Spring's now frozen embers
Is there life in Winter's graveyard?

Frozen trees bereft of leaves
Stand upright in frosted death
Fields once ripe and lush with fruit
Lay still without the Summer's breath
Is there life in Winter's graveyard?

Soggy soil sloshing below my feet
Autumn's leaves have been swept away
And while I march on viciously
My eyes behold only death and gray
Is there life in Winter's graveyard?

Then comes a patch of greenery
A lush, though simple, paradise

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poem by Josephine J.W
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Sarajevo

Now that a revolution really is needed, those who were fervent are quite cool.

While a country murdered and raped calls for help from the Europe which it had trusted, they yawn.

While statesmen choose villainy and no voice is raised to call it by name.

The rebellion of the young who called for a new earth was a sham, and that generation has written the verdict on itself.

Listening with indifference to the cries of those who perish because they are after all just barbarians killing each other.

And the lives of the well-fed are worth more than the lives of the starving.

It is revealed now that their Europe since the beginning has been a deception, for its faith and its foundation is nothingness.

And nothingness, as the prophets keep saying, brings forth only nothingness, and they will be led once again like cattle to slaughter.

Let them tremble and at the last moment comprehend that the word Sarajevo will from now on mean the destruction of their sons and the debasement of their daughters.

They prepare it by repeating: "We at least are safe," unaware that what will strike them ripens in themselves.

poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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The Drunkard's Vision

A public parlour in the slums,
The haunt of vice and villainy,
Where things are said unfit to hear,
And things are done unfit to see;
’Mid ribald jest and reckless song,
That mock at all that’s pure and right,
The drunkard drinks the whole day long,
And raves through half the dreadful night.

And in the morning now he sits,
With staring eyes and trembling limb;
The harbour in the sunlight laughs,
But morning is as night to him.
And, staring blankly at the wall,
He sees the tragedy complete—
He sees the man he used to be
Go striding proudly up the street.

He turns the corner with a swing,
And, at the vine-framed cottage gate,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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A Letter to Hilary

Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
you must not think ill of me,
though this letter be tardy,
it is mercifully short.
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
no metaphor or simile,
can express in mere words,
my true feelings and thoughts!

Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
this I say, verily,
the distance between us
must not temper my view.
If I might speak of Hilary,
and of nothing ancillary:
as every day passes
I'm thinking of you!

For my love, my dear Hilary,
pumps through vein and capillary,

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poem by David SmithWhite
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That Great Waiting Silence

Where shall we go for prophecy? Where shall we go for proof?
The holiday street is crowded, pavement, window and roof;
Band and banner pass by us, and the old tunes rise and fall—
But that great waiting silence is on the people all!

Where is the cheering and laughter of the eight-hour days gone by?
When the holiday heart was careless, and the holiday spirit high—
The friendly jostling and banter, the wit and the jovial call?
But that great waiting silence is over the people all.

Oh! but my heart beats faster—and a gush that was nearly tears:
Clatter of hammers on iron! and Australian Engineers!
Goods from Australian workshops—proud to the world at last
(And I see, in a flash from the future, Australian guns go past).

The morning sun-glare, softened by a veil, like frosted glass—
There is no breath of a head-breeze as the Labour banners pass,
There seems no sign of a danger or a change for the workers now—
But for some great, new-born spirit the banners seem to bow.

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Speculum Tuscanismi

Since Galatea came in, and Tuscanism gan usurp,
Vanity above all: villainy next her, stateliness Empress
No man but minion, stout, lout, plain, swain, quoth a Lording:
No words but valorous, no works but womanish only.
For life Magnificoes, not a beck but glorious in show,
In deed most frivolous, not a look but Tuscanish always.
His cringing side neck, eyes glancing, fisnamy smirking,
With forefinger kiss, and brave embrace to the footward.
Large bellied Cod-pieced doublet, uncod-pieced half hose,
Straight to the dock like a shirt, and close to the britch like a diveling.
A little Apish flat couched fast to the pate like an oyster,
French camarick ruffs, deep with a whiteness starched to the purpose.
Every one A per se A, his terms and braveries in print,
Delicate in speech, quaint in array: conceited in all points,
In Courtly guiles a passing singular odd man,
For Gallants a brave Mirror, a Primrose of Honour,
A Diamond for nonce, a fellow peerless in England.
Not the like discourser for Tongue, and head to be found out,
Not the like resolute man for great and serious affairs,
Not the like Lynx to spy out secrets and privities of States,

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poem by Gabriel Harvey
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Old Schooldays

Awake, of Muse, the echoes of a day
Long past, the ghosts of mem'ries manifold --
Youth's memories that once were green and gold
But now, alas, are grim and ashen grey.
The drowsy schoolboy wakened up from sleep,
First stays his system with substantial food,
Then off for school with tasks half understood,
Alas, alas, that cribs should be so cheap!

The journey down to town -- 'twere long to tell
The storm and riot of the rabble rout;
The wild Walpurgis revel in and out
That made the ferry boat a floating hell.

What time the captive locusts fairly roared:
And bulldog ants, made stingless with a knife,
Climbed up the seats and scared the very life
From timid folk, who near jumped overboard.

The hours of lessons -- hours with feet of clay

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Passing of Gundagai

"I'll introduce a friend!" he said,
"And if you've got a vacant pen
You'd better take him in the shed
And start him shearing straight ahead;
He's one of these here quiet men.
"He never strikes -- that ain't his game;
No matter what the others try
He goes on shearing just the same.
I never rightly knew his name --
We always call him 'Gundagai!'"

Our flashest shearer then had gone
To train a racehorse for a race;
And, while his sporting fit was on
He couldn't be relied upon,
So Gundagai shore in his place.

Alas for man's veracity!
For reputations false and true!
This Gundagai turned out to be

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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An Epistle from Pope to Lord Bolingbroke

Confess, dear Laelius! pious, just, and wise,
Some self-content does in that bosom rise,
When you reflect, as sure you sometimes must,
What talents Heaven does to thy virtue trust,
While with contempt you view poor humankind,
Weak, wilful, sensual, passionate, and blind.
Amid these errors thou art faultless found,
(The moon takes lustre from the darkness round)
Permit me too, a small attendant star,
To twinkle, though in a more distant sphere;
Small things with great, we poets oft compare.
With admiration all your steps I view,
And almost envy what I can't pursue.
The world must grant (and 'tis no common fame)
My courage and my probity the same.
But you, great Lord, to nobler scenes were born;
Your early youth did Anna's court adorn.
Let Oxford own, let Catalonia tell,
What various victims to your wisdom fell;
Let vows or benefits the vulgar bind,

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poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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