A Thought Went Up My Mind Today
- Emily Dickinson

A thought went up my mind today
That I have had before,
But did not finish,--some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know
I've met the thing before;
It just reminded me--'t was all--
And came my way no more.

Instead, allow me to quote an eloquent, ultra-romantic, early Yeats... and, despite all logic, I still fall for it...

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Btw, that was another lovely ED poem.

It's a cruel world.

Noorie

P.S. A beautifully put-together poem. Will always be one of my favorites.

Okay, now how about some wallowing from the female side...love this un too...

"How do I love thee? Let me Count the Ways..."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

What lovely lines..."I love thee with a passion put to use/In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith"...

A Dream worth Dreaming


Somewhere in my dreams I hear your voice
Whispering gently....into thin air
At the edge of the mountain I close my eyes
Sensing your breathing...feeling you appear there

On the edge of my dreams I see your face
A twin soul......when we share eyes
At the edge of the mountain I catch my breath
Touching our finger tips...mouth goes dry

In the shadows of my dreams I taste your lips
So soft against mine like a warm rain
At the edge of the mountain my heart slows
Sharing our every breath....two hearts don't refrain

In the deepest part of my dreams I feel your touch
Breathless....from the warmth of your skin
At the edge of the mountain I open my eyes
Seeing only clouds....feeling.... within

On the edge of my dreams is where I want to stay
It's there...I'm forever in your arms...safe...sound
At the edge of the mountain I'll remain breathless
For me.....no greater love will ever be found

Will you always be there on the edge of my dreams?
Will you always meet me to the edge of the mountain?



rkentdesign;

Pinkz, thank you.

Now for the 'answer':

Let me not to the marriage of true minds ( Sonnet CXVI )
-William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Not everyone gets 2 be so emotionally close with their loved one.

Yeah, that's the only way to love.

Madhavi, this is strange; the favorites you've shared till now are on my list too. Mere coincidence?

Noorie

I hope not... and here's hoping we share some more favorites...even if you happen not to like the one below...



Now that one has wallowed in love and time... how about adding some wit to it (the metaphysical kind ofc ) here is Andrew Marwell trying to persuade his mistress to umm...abide by his wishes... The man claims that together they can make the sun run !!!

To His Coy Mistress
Andrew Marwell (1621-1678)

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.


But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.


Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Check out TSE's references to this poem in Prufrock...("Indeed there will be time...the entire stanza on Time in fact; and then the lines "To have squeezed the universe into a ball/to roll it toward some overwhelming question")

Wonder how his mistress would have replied to him...

The poet seems to be trying too hard to get her to listen to him.

Noorie

P.S - I do like the poem.

This poem is sure to change the way a person views Time.

Consolation
- Matthew Arnold

Mist clogs the sunshine.
Smoky dwarf houses
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague dejection
Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish,
Everywhere countless
Prospects unroll themselves,
And countless beings
Pass countless moods.

Far hence, in Asia,
On the smooth convent-roofs,
On the gilt terraces,
Of holy Lassa,
Bright shines the sun.

Grey time-worn marbles
Hold the pure Muses;
In their cool gallery,
By yellow Tiber,
They still look fair.

Strange unloved uproar
Shrills round their portal;
Yet not on Helicon
Kept they more cloudless
Their noble calm.

Through sun-proof alleys
In a lone, sand-hemm'd
City of Africa,
A blind, led beggar,
Age-bow'd, asks alms.

No bolder robber
Erst abode ambush'd
Deep in the sandy waste;
No clearer eyesight
Spied prey afar.

Saharan sand-winds
Sear'd his keen eyeballs;
Spent is the spoil he won.
For him the present
Holds only pain.

Two young, fair lovers,
Where the warm June-wind,
Fresh from the summer fields
Plays fondly round them,
Stand, tranced in joy.

With sweet, join'd voices,
And with eyes brimming:
"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,
Prolong the present!
Time, stand still here!"

The prompt stern Goddess
Shakes her head, frowning;
Time gives his hour-glass
Its due reversal;
Their hour is gone.

With weak indulgence
Did the just Goddess
Lengthen their happiness,
She lengthen'd also
Distress elsewhere.

The hour, whose happy
Unalloy'd moments
I would eternalise,
Ten thousand mourners
Well pleased see end.

The bleak, stern hour,
Whose severe moments
I would annihilate,
Is pass'd by others
In warmth, light, joy.

Time, so complain'd of,
Who to no one man
Shows partiality,
Brings round to all men
Some undimm'd hours.

Love's Philosophy


The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another's being mingle--
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?


~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

I love this poem. Thanks for posting it Pinkz.

Noorie

To You ( Leaves Of Grass )
- Walt Whitman

Let us twain walk aside from the rest;
Now we are together privately, do you discard ceremony,

Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed
to none—Tell me the whole story,

Tell me what you would not tell your brother, wife,
husband, or physician

Stranger! if you, passing, meet me, and desire to
speak to me, why should you not speak to me?

And why should I not speak to you?

Lovely poem noorie.


Love Me


Love me in the Springtime, when all is green and new,
Love me in the Summer, when the sky is oh so blue,
Love me in the Autumn, when the leaves are turning brown,
Love me in the Winter, when the snow is falling down.

Love me when I'm happy, and even when I'm sad,
Love me when I'm good, or when I'm oh so bad,
Love me when I'm pretty, or if my face is plain,
Love me when I'm feeling good, or when I'm feeling pain.

Love me always darlin', in the rain or shining sun,
Love me always darlin', after all is said and done,
Love me always darlin', until all our life is through,
Love me always darlin', for I'll be lovin' you!


-Amanda Nicole Martinez -



A Thousand Fair suitors


A thousand fair suitors all stab at your heart
Those poets of movement and jockeys of art
The high-volume vendors who hustle romance
Splashing their canvas with color and dance

The blasters of trumpets, gold banners unfurled
They offer lush gardens in glistening worlds
Yes, bearers of torches and carvers of stone
Who whisper their sonnets and surrender their thrones

And there in your doorway, no shadow is cast
No lingering voices, no ghosts from the past
Just a cluster of walls, and a window of pain
Collecting the heartache like droplets of rain

Still I stand before you, with palms to the sky
No gold in my pocket, no thorn in my side
And all I can offer, where words have no place
Is a body that trembles, and this love that awaits

- Jeff Kurfess

Love those lines specially! Thanks Pinkz.

I so want to believe, but I am afraid that I wouldn't recognise true love even if it were right in front of me.
Can you blame me? It's such a shallow world.

Noorie

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living . . .
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are . . .
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love . . .
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon . . .
I want to know if you have touched
the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened . . . opened by life's betrayals,
or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain . . .
mine, or your own,
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy . . .
be with joy . . . mine, or your own . . .
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning either one of us to be careful,
or to be realistic,
or to remember our limitations,
or to remember who we are.
It doesn't interest me
if the story you are telling me right now
is true, I don't care . . .
I want to know if you can disappoint another
to be true to yourself . . .
if you can hear the truth in your soul,
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithful,
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty,
even when it's not pretty every day
and if you can source your life
from God's presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure . . .
yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of a lake
and shout to the silver sliver of a full moon, YES . . . yes.
It doesn't interest me to know
where you live or how much money you have . . .
I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you are
or how you came to be here . . .
I want to know if you will stand
in the center of a fire with me
and not shrink back.
And finally, it doesn't interest me
where or what or with whom you have studied . . .
I want to know what sustains you from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself . . .
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

— Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Native American Elder

Such a beautiful poem noorie..

Footprints in the Sand


One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,
other times there were one set of footprints.


This bothered me because I noticed
that during the low periods of my life,
when I was suffering from
anguish, sorrow or defeat,
I could see only one set of footprints.


So I said to the Lord,
"You promised me Lord,
that if I followed you,
you would walk with me always.
But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life
there have only been one set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed you most, you have not been there for me?"


The Lord replied,
"The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand,
is when I carried you."

~ Mary Stevenson

Thankyou pinky ji..for such beautiful poem...read it somewhere..and remembered the jist...but could never get hold of full version...

What a man would like to say....

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788–1824

She walks in Beauty

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Welcome.., i am just Pinky...

Sonnet - John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Here is a threat/promise by Neruda...

Leisure
William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

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

Day after day alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still,
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.

Well on his way his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make,
And he never seems to notice,
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.

And nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do.
And he never shows his feelings,
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.


Sir Issac Lime



Imagine

Imagine there's no heaven,
It's easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky,
Imagine all the people
living for today...

Imagine there's no countries,
It isn't hard to do,
Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people
living life in peace...

Imagine no possessions,
I wonder if you can,
No need for greed or hunger,
A brotherhood of man,
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one,
I hope some day you'll join us,
And the world will live as one.

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

A Special World

A special world for you and me
A special bond one cannot see
It wraps us up in its cocoon
And holds us fiercely in its womb.

Its fingers spread like fine spun gold
Gently nestling us to the fold
Like silken thread it holds us fast
Bonds like this are meant to last.

And though at times a thread may break
A new one forms in its wake
To bind us closer and keep us strong
In a special world, where we belong.

- Sheelagh Lennon -




A stranger you were once.
Then, with a gentle look you took my hand.
As our lives engaged,
you lit my life and I held both your hands.
Now that decades have passed,
ours souls have indeed become one.
How fortunate we are
that we have found the love so true
that everyone dreams about.

- Laura Veronica Merodio -

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.

This is touching ...Pinky, to say the least. The aftermath of a mishap is a hell to live with... I lost my dear brother in law in an accident, and i know the pain.

NIGHT OF THE SCORPION - NISSIM EZEKIEL

"I remember the night my mother was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison -- flash of diabolic tail in the dark room --
he risked the rain again. The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the Name of God a hundred times to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the sun-baked walls they searched for him; he was not found.
They clicked their tongues. With every movement the scorpion made
his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said. May he sit still,
they said. May the sum of evil balanced in this unreal world
against the sum of good become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh of desire, and your spirit of ambition,
they said, and they sat around on the floor with my mother in the centre.
the peace of understanding on each face. More candles, more lanterns,
more neighbours, more insects and the endless rain.
My mother twisted through and through groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist, trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb, and hybrid. He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toes and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother. I watched the holy man
perform his rites to tame the poison with incantation.
After twenty hours it lost its sting."

"My mother only said:
Thank God the scorpion picked on me and spared my children."

It is sad isnt it?..i am so sorry about your brother in law...i can understand how you feel

Thats so lovely..thank you

Thanks Pinky for your kind words ...Night of the scorpion was in our tenth standard english reader..i just could never forget it.


A Character

I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease.

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

William Wordsworth

Thanks once again for this lovely poem:smile:

Here's a smily happy poem..

Be Happy



Be happy!
You will grow into God’s greatest blessing, His highest pride.

Be happy!

Yesterday’s world wants you to enjoy its surrendering breath.
Today’s world wants you to enjoy its surrendered breath.
Tomorrow’s world wants you to enjoy its fulfilling breath.

Be happy!

Be happy in the morning with what you have.
Be happy in the evening with what you are.

Be happy!

Do not complain. Who complains? The blind beggar in you.
When you complain, you dance in the mire of ignorance.
When you do not complain, all conditions of the world are at your feet,
and God gives you a new name: aspiration.
Aspiration is the supreme wealth in the world of light and delight..

Be happy!

Thanks Pinky for this happy and philosophical poem..Wisdom in a nutshell.

You are welcome

The House with Nobody in it

a poem by Joyce Kilmer

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do,
a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.