English Poetry

IF by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Ode To Broken Things
Pablo Neruda


Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands
or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.

Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.


Translated by Jodey Bateman

Life Paints A Picture


Everyone's life is a picture,
Painted by only one person,

Life itself.
The picture shows everything you're doing,

And everything you have done.
But sometimes, Life gets tired.

And doesn't want to paint a picture.
So, Life sends problems to stop you,

If you give up, your picture is finished.
If you keep going, so does your picture.

So the question is:
How soon do you want to see your picture?

Do you want to see it now?
When it could be so much more?

Or later, when there's so much more than before?
It's your choice,

I'll keep going.



© By Robin Baugus

God's Blessings


God loves me. How do I know?
He gives flowers in spring,
And the sun's golden glow.
He gives me hills clad in green, glossy coats.
He gives sweet, gentle music
In the bird's liquid notes.
He gives me trees, both rugged and tall,
Laden with fruit, both summer and fall.
He gives me my garden, both fragrant and fair,
And snow white lilies that bloom by the wall.
In winter he gives me pure, white snow,
And bright candles burning
While the yule logs glow.
He gives me both family and friends
To cherish and love, while peace wraps my heart
Like the wings of a dove.

Eva Darrington Rule



Last Wishes Of A Seafaring Man


Scatter my ashes on the sea
And as I float on crested wave
I want no tears or grief for me
Or duty visits to my grave.....
Don't bury me beneath the ground
No cold imprisoned tomb for me
Or headstone with an Earthy mound
That's not the place I'd want to be.
It's where the winds blow fresh and free
I know that I will lie content
The sea I love my cemetery
The waves my only monument..


Dulcie Levene

Red Roses
Anne Sexton

Tommy is three and when he's bad
his mother dances with him.
She puts on the record,
"Red Roses for a Blue Lady"
and throws him across the room.
Mind you,
she never laid a hand on him,
only the wall laid a hand on him.
He gets red roses in different places,
the head, that time he was as sleepy as a river,
the back, that time he was a broken scarecrow,
the arm like a diamond had bitten it,
the leg, twisted like licorice stick,
all the dance they did together,
Blue Lady and Tommy.
You fell, she said, just remember you fell.
I fell, is all he told the doctors
in the big hospital. A nice lady came
and asked him questions but because
he didn't want to be sent away he said, I fell.
He never said anything else although he could talk fine.
He never told about the music
or how she'd sing and shout
holding him up and throwing him.

He pretends he is her ball.
He tries to fold up and bounce
but he squashes like fruit.
For he loves Blue Lady and the spots
of red red roses he gives her.

SO sad

I know, this poem distresses me greatly and unfortunately it refers to a reality which is not just literally true but is also a situation on the increase because of the increasing isolation of families and lifestyles in our society. One can do something by becoming conscious of its existence and trying to intervene in whatever way one can. In some corner of my consciousness I always remember this poem when I come across red roses even while I love them.

Here are some lines from the beautiful Book of Questions by Pablo Neruda, written at the tail end of his career when he was struggling with his illness and published posthumously:

Where did the full moon leave its sack of flour tonight?
Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?
Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?
Does smoke talk with the clouds?
Why do leaves commit suicide when they feel yellow?
Why do clouds cry so much, growing happier and happier?
How many questions does a cat have?
Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes? Or are they invisible rivers that run toward sadness?
Do you know what the earth meditates upon in autumn?
Who sings in the deepest water in the abandoned lagoon?
Isn't it better never than late?
How many weeks are in a day and how many years in a month?
Why do all silkworms live so raggedly?
Who wakes up the sun when it falls asleep on its burning bed?
Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?
What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who's never waited for anyone?
Perhaps heaven will be, for suicides, an invisible star?
Where is the child I was, still inside me or gone?
Why did we spend so much time growing up only to separate?
And what is the name of the month that falls between December and January?
Did spring never deceive you with kisses that didn't blossom?
Why did I return to the indifference of the limitless ocean?
How in salt's desert is it possible to blossom?
Do we learn kindness or the mask of kindness?
Is there a star more wide open than the word "poppy"?
In which window did I remain watching buried time?
If all rivers are sweet where does the sea get its salt?
And how do the roots know they must climb toward the light?
Is it true that autumn seems to wait for something to happen?

(chosen byMichael Diezmos:blogger)

I wish I knew the answer to that.

Guesthouse
-Rumi

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Nice one noorie

Who Would Know
by Melissa Hensle


Who would know these kids were drunk
driving in our town?
I was coming out of the parking lot,
they hit me, I spun around.

All of a sudden my short life flashed
before my hurting eyes.
I started thinking about all the fun
I had with mom, dad, and the guys.
Then I hear the siren guy say there is no chance -
She will die, I also felt my spirit go up into the sky.

Why does my family have to suffer,
for something they didn't do?
I just pulled out of a parking lot and now my life is through.

I am only 19 years old now,
my family's life is going to shatter,
and the civil case will not matter.
The expense of my funeral will bring them down,
me lying in a casket,
my family and friends all on the ground.

Just because those kids thought they were cool,
drinking and driving in my town.