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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I'm the heir apparent to the heir presumptive.

quote by Princess Margaret
Added by Lucian Velea
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Heir

My father is my father
I am his heir
I am in my father's house
I am fair.
My father is my father
And I am in full power.
My father is my father
I am his heir
I am not as mad as a hare
I like peace and
I do not like war.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Today... 'Heir of all things

To Him everything shall be given
Things on earth and things in heaven.
The Son is the rightful heir of all things
He is the Lord of lords and King of kings.

For God has spoken to us in these last days
and throughout the universe displays
in majestic splendour His power and might
so that all men may behold the wondrous sight
and know that the Christ of whom angels sing
is the One and Only Heir of Everything.

(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)

poem by Roy Allen
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A muse on the past and future

Many who loved me are dead.
Many who I loved are dead.
Some who were dear and some
Who held me dear, elsewhere had gone.
I am pretty old, up with regrets.

I have an heir, who has no heir.
Who will leave first, wife or I?
How will the other digest that?
The connection made, collection stored,
And the recollection, what will happen to?
What is in store to suffer?

How safe I’ll die is the threat.
How horrible it’ll be is the threat.
A game is over; the mirth is over.
A hell or a heaven is the end.
Heaven and hell are same
As the liberated soul has no sense.
13.03.2001, Pmdi.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Suicide's Stone

Peace is the heir of dead desire,
Whether abundance killed the cormorant
In a happy hour, or sleep or death
Drowned him deep in dreamy waters,
Peace is the ashes of that fire,
The heir of that king, the inn of that journey.

This last and best and goal: we dead
Hold it so tight you are envious of us
And fear under sunk lids contempt.
Death-day greetings are the sweetest.
Let trumpets roar when a man dies
And rockets fly up, he has found his fortune.

Yet hungering long and pitiably
That way, you shall not reach a finger
To pluck it unripe and before dark
Creep to cover: life broke ten whipstocks
Over my back, broke faith, stole hope,
Before I denounced the covenant of courage.

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Old Ireland

FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother,
Once a queen--now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoulders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and
heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of
love.

Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead
between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white hair, so
dishevel'd; 10
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion--the heir, the son you love, was not really dead;
The Lord is not dead--he is risen again, young and strong, in another
country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave,

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poem by Walt Whitman
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The Orphan Maid

November's hail-cloud drifts away,
November's sunbeam wan
Looks coldly on the castle grey,
When forth comes Lady Anne.
The orphan by the oak was set,
Her arms, her feet, were bare;
The hail drops had not melted yet,
Amid her raven hair.
'And, dame,' she said, 'by all the ties
That child and mother know,
Aid one who never knew these joys,
Relieve an orphan's woe.'
The lady said, 'An orphan's state
Is hard and sad to bear;
Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate
Who mourns both lord and heir.
'Twelve times the rolling year has sped,
Since, when from vengeance wild
Of fierce Strathallan's Chief I fled
Forth's eddies whelm'd my child.'

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Wars and less education

The Arabs were not primitive and uneducated
Though education were limited
Suffered dominance under foreign rule and monarchy
Invaluable contribution to scholars and science without anarchy

Their suffering not yet over
For centuries catered the whole world and still
Facing the biggest onslaught and massive kill
No power on earth can weaken heir will

Let us praise and give them their legitimate due
World must open eyes and have sympathetic review
We have lot more to contribute for world cause and peace
Let them find heir own home and live at ease

Arabs have given a lot to world
They are facing complete heat and completely sold
No one lands ear to their plight and cause
Always at war without observing pause

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Today... 'Abba

'Abba, Father', Jesus said, 'Take this cup from me'
whilst praying in the garden of Gethsemane.
'I know that all things are possible for You
and that there is nothing that You cannot do.'

'Yet not what I will but what You will, ' He said
as in deep anguish great drops of blood He bled.
Then He went on to complete salvations plan
agreed by the Godhead before time began.

'Abba, Father, ' like Jesus we too can cry
as we pour out our soul to the Lord on high.
For the sons and daughters of our God are we
and never more in slavery shall we be.

The Spirit of Christ is dwelling in our heart
and causes all the fear and dread to depart.
For our Lord Jesus drained the bitter cup dry
when He bowed His head upon the cross to die.

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poem by Roy Allen
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