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The Man Born Blind

A man born blind received his sight
By a painful operation;
And these are things he saw in the light
Of an infant observation.

He saw a merchant, good and wise.
And greatly, too, respected,
Who looked, to those imperfect eyes,
Like a swindler undetected.

He saw a patriot address
A noisy public meeting.
And said: 'Why, that's a calf. I guess.
That for the teat is bleating.'

A doctor stood beside a bed
And shook his summit sadly.
'O see that foul assassin!' said
The man who saw so badly.

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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I can’t prevent myself from singing

I can’t prevent myself from singing,
And yet I’m full of grief and sadness,
Though joy is always a lovely thing,
And no one takes pleasure in distress.
I don’t sing as one loved will sing
But as one troubled, downcast, weeping,
Since I’ve no more hope of happiness,
Ever deceived by what words are weaving.

I will tell you one thing without lying:
Love greatly depends on fate and chance,
If I could sever from her, cease loving,
It would be better than ruling France.
Now I’ve spoken like a mad thing,
Her beauties I’d rather die recalling
Her great wisdom and sweet acquaintance,
Than see the whole wide world bowing.

I’ll never be happy, I’m sure that’s true,
Since Love hates, and my lady forgets me,

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poem by Thibaut de Champagne
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Meet Me In The Horizon (ft Vipins Puthooran)

Lift me up above this endless line
Separated away in different dimensions
Our fated life refracted in slightly illusions
That lead us to be lost in hopeless mazes
So we're living through different phases
You're in a wide and opened sky,
A canopy of stars, sun and moon
While I lay in deep waters of the sea
Hiding mysteries without a real boon
But destiny did write us a script for glory
The moment in right time for a new life story
For now nothing will cease our chance to unite
In this horizon where we'll meet, days and nights
Waiting rising sun, the lamp of life for a new dawn
And No, no one can tread us to mourn
As we touch the skyline to greet,
An infinite hope for fixing our feet
Like the moon-glades that kissing
On the waves of sea and caressing
Those incessant waves in harmony

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poem by Unwritten Soul
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A Lost Opportunity

One dark, dark night--it was long ago,
The air was heavy and still and warm -
It fell to me and a man I know,
To see two girls to their father's farm.

There was little seeing, that I recall:
We seemed to grope in a cave profound.
They might have come by a painful fall,
Had we not helped them over the ground.

The girls were sisters. Both were fair,
But mine was the fairer (so I say).
The dark soon severed us, pair from pair,
And not long after we lost our way.

We wandered over the country-side,
And we frightened most of the sheep about,
And I do not think that we greatly tried,
Having lost our way, to find it out.

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poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Knights Of The Never Never

When I rode with young Sid Kidman out across the Yarrowie Plain
In that year the Long Drought ended, and the northlands smiled again
As we took the old Tarcowie track and on to Booleroo,
His keen eye scanned the country, and we yarned of men we knew:
Mal Murray and Jim Spicer, of Jasser and Judell,
Bill Mitchell and old stagers whom I still remember well;
And he told of chance-missed fortunes when the game was in his grasp,
Of life along The Barrier with German Charlie Rasp.

Now, back in Kidman country where the grizzled bushmen are,
In many a stark out-station, o'er many a shanty bar,
The drovers' drawling voices talk about 'Old Sid' today:
'Bushmen like him ain't raised no more,' the grizzled veterans say,
For o'er the furthest saltbush lands his questing mind went out
To glimpse high opportunity where others saw black drought.
Shrewd-eyed, yet greatly daring, laughing he ventured forth
To stake his luck, his judgment 'gainst swift treacheries 'up north.'

'I mind the time I rode with him,' a wizened stockman says.
'He knowed that country like a map, an' all the tricks an' ways.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Joseph Made Known To His Brethren

When Joseph his brethren beheld,
Afflicted and trembling with fear;
His heart with compassion was filled,
From weeping he could not forbear.
Awhile his behavior was rough,
To bring their past sin to their mind;
But when they were humbled enough,
He hasted to show himself kind.

How little they thought it was he,
Whom they had ill treated and sold!
How great their confusion must be,
As soon as his name he had told!
I am Joseph, your brother, he said,
And still to my heart you are dear,
You sold me, and thought I was dead,
But God, for your sakes, sent me here.

Though greatly distressed before,
When charged with purloining the cup;

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poem by John Newton
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To Promise Is One Thing To Keep It, Another

JOHN courts Perrette; but all in vain;
Love's sweetest oaths, and tears, and sighs
All potent spells her heart to gain
The ardent lover vainly tries:
Fruitless his arts to make her waver,
She will not grant the smallest favour:
A ruse our youth resolved to try
The cruel air to mollify:--
Holding his fingers ten outspread
To Perrette's gaze, and with no dread
"So often," said he, "can I prove,
"My sweet Perrette, how warm my love."
When lover's last avowals fail
To melt the maiden's coy suspicions
A lover's sign will oft prevail
To win the way to soft concessions:
Half won she takes the tempting bait;
Smiles on him, draws her lover nearer,
With heart no longer obdurate
She teaches him no more to fear her-

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poem by La Fontaine
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The Merciful Hand of America

Sad are the hearts which watched in calm
when the surrendered and the bravely stood tigers,
the civilian Tamils of Eelam of SriLanka
were maimed, butchered and raped
by a lawless army, with the cannons
of some cannibalistic Asian nations.

Silent are the tears that fall
from the blind eyes of the UNO,
which had been in deep slumber for a year,
when the Tamils were treated inhumanly in fenced camps.
It is now waking up to browse the dusty CDs back.

Remorseful is the mind of British,
a sinner who gave the uncut fruit of freedom,
to the majority, Buddhist Sinhalese to rule,
but in the case of India, the land was rent into two.

Shocked is the cosmopolitan brain of America,
whose hand crushed terror and cremated the dictators,

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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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On Her Face

I could see some anxieties on her face
They were clearly visible with wrinkles
She tried not to hide but definitely revealed
Those days were painful for her and in fact real

I am from the third generation
Very strong relation indeed with solid foundation
She was happy to see all members including grand children
Nice stage to feel but worries were apparently seen

I visited her whenever came on short vacation
She expressed her attachment with kind relation
She will probe in to my eyes with satisfaction
As her life was full of struggle and indignation

She had some kind of reservation and resentment
The behavior of family members was an embarrassment
She was sore at the treatment meted out
After all she had done enough and was not to be talked about

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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My Dear Sir

For Mr. GIL RAVAL

Bert may laugh at the height of his agility, bombard you with arguments how life is lived and wasted when spent on some musa velutina, bamburantas, or hibiscus rosa seninses, scarlet sages or butcher’s brooms,
But as you say it,
Some seeds simply need to be put in the punctures of the ground,
To put up the golden showers
Bursting, brushing to such a lush of green bushes
As I see it, you have an eye for wanton beauty
And as he has none
That is a major fault

How you viewed life must be seen through the eyelets of the ferns
The whole world viewed in the opulence of dancing ladies crowning
The decay of trees abandoned by the millipedes of boredoms

Life is a veranda lavished by Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Tsaicovsky, with some Pavarotti, and Bocelli, Carmen, and Cossette or perhaps by Kazantzakis, and Rushdie

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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