Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, December 29, 2024

The Or's of Death

Clock by Polish artist Pawel Kuczynski
 

To Be or Not to Be (Of Death, Dying, and Being Dead)
©by Michelle Culp (ndpthepoetress Jean Michelle Culp)
There is a lot or so little we may know or not know
Yet of all certainties, we can be certain death is immedicable and inevitable
We may not know if there be any suffering, whether long or short 
Or whence the pendulum of when will swing its' final tick-tock, or where, nor how
Perhaps for some merely a minute, for others an hour, or a day or somewhere in-between aging and aged
But most assuredly, death does cometh for us all
So be knowledgeable of your ways and per chance or be it fate, you'll live to seize another day; be that a blessing or a curse. 

Sunday, May 26, 2024

The Death of Humanities

Artist J.R. Slattum

AI has taken the dictionary and whipped it with a battered rolling pin and Olé, let us seize this day of stolen words conveyed, twisted in a Grammelot breaded knot. Should we say yea or nay, hippity hip hooray, here's a toast to your jam; well well we'll be damned. Take our bloody pens, take our rotten creativity, rob us of our words, death be but a flightless featherless bird; so let us eat crow, whence all art awaits upon death row.  
©ndpthepoetress Michelle Culp (Founder of HumanitiesIDEAS )







Facebook Humanities IDEAS Be A Part of Humanity, not apart.

Friday, November 25, 2022

People Enter A Conscious Existence

People Enter A Conscious Existence 
by Michelle Culp

This is how Peace will come our way, for humanity will save the day:
Excuse me Sir, there's a plunge in the market on common sense, not nearly a cent
Uh-oh there goes the material, the criterial.
Down falls the castles made of golden fools and all their jewels.
Oops there goes the material 
Uh-oh the Imperial, are back to eating cereal.
Breaker breaker 1/9, we can't get past this food line.
Oops there goes the material, everything's immaterial.
Commander, Commander no one can get guns, should we run?
Commander: without ordnance, all is of unimportance.
Uh-oh there goes the materials, the false profits of ministerials
We're without a wing and prayer, no one seems to care.
Oops it's back to common sense, wherefore we were there before the materialism, criterial-ism, Imperial-ism, ministerial-ism...
Hip hip hooray; back to the basics of humanity, before all this insanity.

© ndpthepoetress Michelle Culp, creator/Admin of Humanities IDEAS
©#34TR22OcVx  


Facebook Humanities IDEAS Be A Part of Humanity, not apart.

Sunday, October 31, 2021

Halloween Sympathy

Halloween Sympathy
by Michelle Culp, ndpthepoetress of Humanities IDEAS

Welcome; one and all, to this one precious life given for free to thee
Step on up, don't be shy; oh there's so many questions of why
But don't you worry your pretty little head, we'll all some day be dead
So why not enjoy the ride, at least you can say you tried!
Give it your best, for perhaps it's all but a test
Oh but beware the pitfalls along life's way; they say these are full of ups and downs, smiles and frowns
The horrors we've seen of our fellow kind, fall and hit the wall; unable to get over the humps or around the bumps
So if you can, lend a helping hand, that would be grand
Let us all Step Right Up; welcome each other to the Greatest Show On Earth, where one-way tickets are given at birth.

©2021#222OCHa734

Facebook Humanities IDEAS Be A Part of Humanity, not apart.

Sunday, September 15, 2019

143°

143°

Love is like a cloudy day
The rain will come or the rain may stay
The wind could blow, shift, or brew a tornado or two
Maybe change course, stir anew; as if a hurricane is coming by or bye
But just as sure as the rain will come, surely the sun will too
And those whose hearts are built to last, together they'll repair any damage
Going on to love forevermore, with a forecast of less cloudy days ahead
So if you're going to up and fall in love
Be sure to carry an umbrella and lots of humble pie too.

Poem by author, poet ndpthepoetress Michelle Culp
© #22290AR99

Monday, September 11, 2017

The Power of One

One
by Cheryl Sawyer

As the soot and dirt and ash rained down,
We became one color.
As we carried each other down the stairs of the burning building
We became one class.
As we lit candles of waiting and hope
We became one generation.
As the firefighters and police officers fought their way into the inferno
We became one gender.
As we fell to our knees in prayer for strength,
We became one faith.
As we whispered or shouted words of encouragement,
We spoke one language.
As we gave our blood in lines a mile long,
We became one body.
As we mourned together the great loss
We became one family.
As we cried tears of grief and loss
We became one soul.
As we retell with pride of the sacrifice of heros
We become one people.

We are
One color
One class
One generation
One gender
One faith
One language
One body
One family
One soul
One people

We are The Power of One.
We are United.
We are America.
---------

Cheryl Sawyer is a professor at UH Clear Lake in the counseling department.

*Permission to post poem One granted to BindingInk.org by Dr. Cheryl Sawyer School of Education University of Houston – Clear Lake

Thursday, February 16, 2017

The Gifts of Age

The Gift-Wrap & The Jewel by Wanda B. Goines


I looked in the mirror and what did I see, but a little old lady peering back at me
With bags and sags and wrinkles and wispy white hair, and I asked my reflection,
How did you get there?
You once were straight and vigorous and now you’re stooped and weak, when I tried so hard to keep you from becoming an antique
My reflection’s eyes twinkled as she solemnly replied, you’re looking at the gift wrap and not the jewel inside
A living gem and precious, of unimagined worth
Unique and true, the real you, the only you on earth
The years that spoil your gift-wrap with other things more cruel, should purify and strengthen, and polish up that jewel
So focus your attention on the inside, not the out
On being kinder, wiser, more content and more devout
Then, when your gift-wrap’s stripped away your jewel will be set free, to radiate God’s glory throughout eternity
Wanda Burch Goines went home to be with Jesus in February 2016

HuffPost 10/12/2015 "Wanda Goines, mother to eight children, grandmother to 15 and great-grandmother of four, lives in the Cave Junction, Oregon house that her father built. Her eldest son is internationally known artist David Lance Goines, who told The Huffington Post that his mother was an accomplished artist and calligrapher who at age 87 wrote and illustrated her first published book, Bunnyfluff Wants To Fly. David Lance Goines’ posters are collected by museums worldwide, and he credits his mother with being the only art teacher he ever had."

Mail Tribune Aug 18, 2010 "Wanda Goines paints mainly in oils, though she learned watercolor painting at age 75. She has donated a series of large, whimsical paintings of babies to the Neonatal wing of Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley. And she recently published a book of children's stories, "Bunny Fluff Wants to Fly," with 32 charming, full-page illustrations. "I wanted every other page to be a picture, so children sitting on both sides would have something to look at," says Goines. Alta Bates is selling the book as a fundraiser. *(Alta Bates Hospital, Berkeley, 2010)

Friday, February 12, 2016

For the Love of Valentine's Day

What is Love?

Love is a symphony of emotions composed from two hearts beating as one. Orchestrating daily to the rhythm of every day life, fine tuning the tempo, and throbbing pulse in unison toward the climax of an epiphany; where clad only in human skin, naked and vulnerable, two souls venture to dance together upon this stage called life. ~ndpthepoetress


written by ~ndpthepoetress (-Jeane Michelle Culp) Library of Congress copyright #100z88HB401©




Thursday, December 31, 2015

A Curious New Year

May your New Year be met with 'six honest serving-men', "What and Why and When And How and Where and Who", and every second of the New Year that you 'open your eyes, may 'One million Hows, two million Wheres, and seven million Whys' guide you to go 'further' in life than you ever anticipated; discovering things about yourself, life, and your fellow human beings that you never knew. Perhaps by 'going further' you will be the ones to discover a cure for diseases or World Peace... ~ndpthepoetress

The Explorer

1898

Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922

"THERE'S no sense in going further - it's the edge of cultivation,"
So they said, and I believed it - broke my land and sowed my crop -
Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station
Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop:

Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes
On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated - so:
"Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges -
"Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!"

So I went, worn out of patience; never told my nearest neighbours -
Stole away with pack and ponies - left 'em drinking in the town;
And the faith that moveth mountains didn't seem to help my labours
As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down.

March by march I puzzled through 'em, turning flanks and dodging shoulders,
Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass;
Till I camped above the tree-line - drifted snow and naked boulders -
Felt free air astir to windward - knew I'd stumbled on the Pass.

'Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther found me -
Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies; so I called the camp Despair
(It's the Railway Gap to-day, though). Then my Whisper waked to hound me: -
"Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder! Go you there!"

Then I knew, the while I doubted - knew His Hand was certain o'er me.
Still - it might be self-delusion - scores of better men had died -
I could reach the township living, but ... He knows what terror tore me...
But I didn't... but I didn't. I went down the other side.

Till the snow ran out in flowers, and the flowers turned to aloes,
And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream ran by;
But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained to shallows,
And I dropped again on desert - blasted earth, and blasting sky....

I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by 'em;
I remember seeing faces, hearing voices, through the smoke;
I remember they were fancy - for I threw a stone to try 'em.
"Something lost behind the Ranges" was the only word they spoke.

I remember going crazy. I remember that I knew it
When I heard myself hallooing to the funny folk I saw.
'Very full of dreams that desert, but my two legs took me through it...
And I used to watch 'em moving with the toes all black and raw.

But at last the country altered - White Man's country past disputing -
Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind -
There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting.
Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered on my find.

Thence I ran my first rough survey - chose my trees and blazed and ringed 'em -
Week by week I pried and sampled - week by week my findings grew.
Saul he went to look for donkeys, and by God he found a kingdom !
But by God, who sent His Whisper, I had struck the worth of two !

Up along the hostile mountains, where the hair-poised snowslide shivers -
Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore-bed stains,
Till I heard the mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers,
And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains !

'Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between 'em;
Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour;
Counted leagues of water-frontage through the axe-ripe woods that screen 'em -
Saw the plant to feed a people - up and waiting for the power!

Well, I know who'll take the credit - all the clever chaps that followed -
Came, a dozen men together - never knew my desert-fears;
Tracked me by the camps I'd quitted, used the water-holes I hollowed.
They'll go back and do the talking. They'll be called the Pioneers !

They will find my sites of townships - not the cities that I set there.
They will rediscover rivers - not my rivers heard at night.
By my own old marks and bearings they will show me how to get there,
By the lonely cairns I builded they will guide my feet aright.

Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre ?
Have I kept one single nugget - (barring samples)? No, not I !
Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker.
But you wouldn't understand it. You go up and occupy.

Ores you'll find there; wood and cattle; water-transit sure and steady
(That should keep the railway rates down), coal and iron at your doors.
God took care to hide that country till He judged His people ready,
Then He chose me for His Whisper, and I've found it, and it's yours !

Yes, your "Never-never country" - yes, your "edge of cultivation"
And "no sense in going further" - till I crossed the range to see.
God forgive me! No, I didn't. It's God's present to our nation.
Anybody might have found it, but - His Whisper came to Me!

Source: THE KIPLING SOCIETY

Friday, December 25, 2015

I Believe, Do U!?

I believe above is reserved for the Sun, Clouds, and doves

Moon and Stars, planets like Mars
And if I could stretch beyond the blue, perhaps touch Gods’ hand too.

I believe below whence water flows with youthful woes

Of innocence gone as age has marched on

There transcends our Once Upon a Time Childhood Friends

Maybe where Sindbad the Sailor crossed or perhaps where City of Atlantis is lost

There Snow White and the 7 Dwarfs, Jack Frost, Frosty the Snowman are standing on wharfs

As The Gingerbread Man, Hansel and Gretel run to greet us as fast as they can

We see Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty each with their own fella

The Old Woman Who lived in a Shoe, Puss in Boots, The Elves and the Shoemaker have good news

The Billy Goats Gruff, the Three Pigs, Three Blind Mice, along with Goldilocks and the Three Bears want to prove they weren’t a bluff

The Ugly Duckling is inside Atlantis with The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast - all chuckling

And the sweet Tooth Fairy still leaves coins as a treat.

United at last is The cow who jumped over the moon, The cat and the fiddle, and The dish who ran away with the spoon

Hickory dickory dock, that dang mouse won’t stop fiddling with the clocks

Jack be nimble Jack be quick and Little Jack Horner continue to do their tricks

While The Little Men dance with Little Red Riding Hood, swim with The Little Mermaid, and court The Little Women

The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs and Humpty Dumpty play pegs

Dumbo and Pinocchio speak their own mumbo jumbo

The Princess and the Pea, Johnny Appleseed, and Jack with his Beanstalk are a glee

Things are a spinning as Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin are a grinning

Peter Pan, Tinker Bell, Tom Thumb, Thumbelina want us to join them soon as we can

Along with Alice, to sip tea with the Easter Bunny in the Atlantis Palace.

Of all this I do not doubt, so let me just point out
I believe in Santa Claus too, do you?

© - Jeane Michelle Culp (#r3779xy1988CC€)

Thursday, December 24, 2015

A Christmas Hymn

A Christmas Hymn

Alfred Domett (1811 - 1887)

IT was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was Queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars;
Peace brooded o’er the hush’d domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars,
Held undisturb’d their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

’T was in the calm and silent night!
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot’s flight,
From lordly revel rolling home.
Triumphal arches gleaming swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What reck’d the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!

Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor:
A streak of light before him lay,
Fall’n through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He pass’d—for nought
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars! his only thought;
The air how calm and cold and thin,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!

O strange indifference!—low and high
Drows’d over common joys and cares:
The earth was still—but knew not why;
The world was listening—unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world for ever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man’s doom was link’d, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

It is the calm and solemn night!
A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness, charm’d and holy now.
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given;
For in that stable lay new-born
The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Once Upon a Squirrelly Night

Once Upon a Squirrelly Night
 by Jean M. Culp ndpthepoetress

Up on a tree top,
Hop, hop, hop,
I saw Santa go flop, flop, flop.

Onto a limb he did bend,
Along came the snow & the wind began to blow,
Up in the tree top,
Hop, hop, hop,
I saw Santa drop, drop, drop.

He fell to the ground & looked all around,
And shouted to all & to all he said:
I think I hit my head!

Up in a tree top,
Hop, hop, hop,
I saw Santa go chop, chop, chop,
As he shouted with glee,
This will make a pretty Christmas Tree!

Up in the tree top,
Hop, hippity hop,
I saw Santa wiggle his red nose,
And atop the tree a star began to glow,
Santa was so happy he did such a jig that shook the twigs,
When up in the tree top,
Plop, plop, plop,
Down fell I onto this jolly guy, oh you should see those sparkles in his eyes.

As he laughed so loud it broke the clouds,
When down flew his reindeer and all his gear,
Then off to the North Pole he did fly,
And I swear this story is not a lie,
For he gave me these here nuts & some Band-Aids for my cuts!

Yes, once upon a tree top – hop, hop, hop,
I saw Santa go flop, flop, flop.

© - Jeane Michelle Culp (#Z987C46Y)

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Blood Curdling Recipe

The Witches from Macbeth by William Shakespeare; Read by Classic Poetry Aloud


Click 2 Listen

Act 1, Scene 1

SCENE I. A desert place.
Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches

First Witch
When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

Second Witch
When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.

Third Witch
That will be ere the set of sun.

First Witch
Where the place?

Second Witch
Upon the heath.

Third Witch
There to meet with Macbeth.

First Witch
I come, Graymalkin!

Second Witch
Paddock calls.

Third Witch
Anon.

ALL
Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.


Act IV, Scene 1
(other versions Act 3 Scene 5)
SCENE I. A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron.
Thunder. Enter the three Witches

First Witch
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

Second Witch
Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Third Witch
Harpier cries 'Tis time, 'tis time.

First Witch
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.

ALL
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Third Witch
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches' mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

ALL
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.


originally posted Oct. 31, 2007

Related Posts: All Hallows' Eve

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Love Thyself

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Brain Pickings, Jon Kabat-Zinn reads Walcott’s masterpiece.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

The Truth About Thanksgiving Day

It isn’t Thanksgiving Day, we all are being fooled! Truth be told, it is:


Revenge of The Turkey Day

We gather together to eat yams and yammer,

Dig into mashed potatoes while listening to the latest scoop from Family and Friends,

For it’s all about the gravy, fat juicy saucy gossip,

Where cranberry sauce has a way of making things seem bitter,

Though shortly afterwards we can partake in pies and try to be sweet,

For the Turkey that used to go gobble gobble, will have been all gobbled up,

But soon comes Revenge,

Cause the once stuffed Turkey has now stuffed us.

©- Jeane Michelle Culp ndpthepoetress


Originally posted 2007

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Ode to Friendship of Yore

Couplet 
Once a best Friend not seen in many years was introduced as 'an old Friend'; meaning only, this is a long time Friend of mine. However; the word 'old' was lost in misinterpretation and so forever gone the chance to redefine. ~ndpthepoetress (©BindingInk.org Jean M. Culp ©#75IB9956777)

I may not be the most important person in your life. I just hope that when you hear my name, you smile & say That’s My Friend! (I may not be the most important person in your life, but I just hope that when you hear my name you will just smile and say, “I miss this person”)

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Nightingale of India

poppies
REFLECTIONS ON INDIAN POETRY OF CLASSICAL GENRE: WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO THE CREATIVE GENIUS OF ‘NIGHTINGALE OF INDIA' SAROJINI NAIDU
Author: Dr.Sandhya Tiwari

Globalization has immensely contributed to the recognition of poets and poetry in general. It has transformed our life at immense speed not only to bring to light the past talent but also serving as a platform for those who are creatively responding to it. Today, it has succeeded in making people take note of these changes in culture, poetry and other genres of creative writing. Thanks to all these developments, I could enrich myself.

Incorporating the works of great writers, poets and thinkers into the curriculum is a contribution to the cause of nation. These great personalities, through their writings, are permeating   the young minds with the spirit of patriotism and respect for country. It is an honour and the supreme way to pay homage to literary souls who enriched the literature. It is popularizing the talent, otherwise which would have restricted to a limited people. In comparison to social sciences the chief advantage for a man of letters belonging to language and literature is; his work can be included in the curriculum. The purpose of the government behind this is each and every literate must know the contribution, the role played by such people in the history of India. This can be used constructively to enable students to reach a refined level of awareness. It outlines experiences in teaching English Literature, creates a curiosity and interest, especially if it is related to something which most students can identify with.

In recent years, English- language writers of Indian origin are being published in the West at an increasing rate. In June 1997, a special fiction issue of The New Yorker magazine devoted much space to essays by Amitav Ghosh and Abraham Verghese, a short story by, Vikram Chandra and poems by Jayant Mahapatra (16 volumes of poems) and A.K.Ramanujan and profiled R.K.Narayan and Arundati Roy's "A God of Small Things."

Indians began to use English for creative expression much before Macaulay's "Minutes" and the implementation of his policy on English education. [On March 7, 1835, the Governor General William Bentinck agreed with Macaulay's Minute and wrote, "the great object of the British Government ought to be the promotion of European literature and science among the natives of India," thus promoting and establishing a permanent position for the use of English language in Indian educational institutions.] For instance in 1823, Henry Derozio's volume of poems was published and in 1830 Kashiprasad Ghose published his volume of poetry entitled The Shair and the Other Poems. This two eminent Indians may not be great as poets, but their historical importance is great, for they belong to that small group of Indians who wrote in English much before Macaulay. Michael Madhusudan Dutt, who has left behind two volumes of poetry, was a Bengali poet of talent whose one ambition in life was to win recognition as a writer of English verse. He was the first to make a conscious effort to use Indian imagery, express Indian sentiments and tell an Indian story. Madhusudan was born with rock-like determination. He proved himself to be a student of exceptional gifts, and his teachers and professors with no difficulty recognized in him a fast-blossoming intellectual figure.

Besides a few minor poets of the 19th century, B.M.Malabari is another of repute. In his poems he laments the loss of the virtues of Indian character, ethical values. In such verses speaks the heart of India, yearning for freedom from the foreign clutches.

Swami Vivekanandawas a towering spiritual personality, born in on 12th January 1863, who awakened the slumbering Indian consciousness with his soul stirring vision of a dynamic spirituality. He is often viewed as the patron saint of modern India and many great figures acknowledge the life and works of Vivekananda. He reached Kanyakumari, the southernmost tip of the Indian subcontinent on December24, 1892. He swam across the sea and started meditating on a lone rock. He meditated for three days and said later that he meditated about the past, present and future of India. The rock is presently popular as Vivekananda memorial and is a major tourist destination.

In 1893, Swami Vivekananda went to America to attend the Conference of World Religions in Chicago. He earned wild applause for beginning his address with the famous words, "Sisters and brothers of America." Swamiji mesmerized everyone in America with his masterful oratory. Wherever he went, he dwelt at length on the greatness of Indian Culture. He spoke with spontaneous ease on every topic, be it History, Sociology, Philosophy or Literature. The Union Government has declared his birthday as National Youth Day.

Sri Aurobindo Ghosh is another great Indian nationalist, scholar, poet, spiritual philosopher and above all a renowned "yogi", who brought laurels to his motherland, was born on 15th august 1872. Although he wrote mostly in English his major works were translated into 9 foreign languages in addition to 11 Indian languages. "Auroville" is a universal township in the making for a population of up to 50,000 people from around the world. Aurobindo strived for the Transformation of our superficial, narrow and fragmentary human way of thinking, seeing, and feeling. Being into a deep and wide spiritual consciousness and an integrated inner and outer existence and of our ordinary human living into the divine way of life.

In the poetry of Toru Dutt the soul of India is revealed at its best. Many critics revere the first translation, of about 200 French poems, as "transcreation".

In the words of Edmund Gosse, "Toru's chief legacy to posterity is her verse collection Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan (1883) which includes the ancient Hindu stories of Savitri, Sita, Prahlad, Dhruva, and many such appeal to the emotions of love, devotion filial piety, gratitude, etc. it is for the first time purely Indian themes being treated in English against a purely Indian background.

It is Sarojini Naidu, the eldest daughter of scientist-philosopher, Aghornath Chattopadhyaya, and Barada Sundari Devi- a poetess, was born on 13 February 1879 in Hyderabad, who carries forward the task left incomplete by the early demise of Toru Dutt, that of interpreting the soul of India to the West and creating an authentic Indian atmosphere. Her father was also a linguist, a crusader, who established the Nizam's College in Hyderabad in 1878, pioneering English and women's education. Sarojini was a bright child who passed her matriculation at the age of 12 standing first in the Madras Presidency. She studied at the King's college, London and Girton College, Cambridge for a while. During this period her creative urge found expression in poems. She also happened to be a good singer. Her ability to sing charmingly fetched her the title 'Nightingale of India'.

During 1903-17 Sarojini came into contact with Gokhale, Tagore, Jinnah, Annie Besant, C.P.Rama Swami Iyer, Gandhi and Nehru. She began her political career in 1906. From 1915 to 1918 she lectured all over India on welfare of youth, dignity of labour, women's emancipation and nationalism. After meeting Jawaharlal Nehru in 1916, she took up the cause of the indigo workers of Champaran. In 1925 she was elected as the President of the Congress.

Sarojini Naidu, The Nightingale of India, was a great patriot, politician, orator and administrator of India her birthday is celebrated as "Women's Day".

The rhythmic quality of her poetry is mesmerizing frequent references to Hindu mythology accentuate the Indian atmosphere of her verse. She was able to harmonize Indian and foreign elements in her poetry.  Poetry is perception. No doubt we may have different parameters to judge the genius of a poet, yet what is your perception matters a lot.  Highly original and startling similes and metaphors come out of her, as do sparks from a chimney fire. Her originality of expression is commendable with regard to imagery. Highly vivid pictorial and visual imagery are exploited by her to delight and surprise the readers. The figuring of the moon as a caste-mark on the forehead of heaven is in itself a unique achievement of the imagination in poetry and also representative of the Indian ness of her poetry.

A caste mark upon the azure brow of heaven
The golden moon burns sacred, solemn, bright. (Leili)

The image of the river flowing out of the city gates, curved like "the tusks of an elephant" is based on personal observation, and those who have seen the river Musi flowing out of the gates of Hyderabad city can appreciate its justness.

See the white river that flashes and scintillates
Curved like a tusk from the mouth of the city-gates. (Nightfall in the City of Hyderabad By Sarojini Naidu)

Her poetry seems to sing itself, as if her swift thoughts and strong emotions sprang into lyrics of themselves. Though she has been criticized for her many hyperbolic and violent expressions, for her, there are a few critics who defended and asserted boldly that her metaphors and similes.

According to Rajyalakshmi, Sarojoni's similes and metaphors are "pictorial blocks of imagist perceptionand new way of organizing poetic emotion."

The work produced by this writer like John Keats, may not be great in quantity, it is great in quality. She will be remembered for a few fine pieces like The Indian Weavers, The Flute Player of BrindavanTo a Buddha Seated on a Lotus and others.

Though a number of themes are conspicuous in her works they can be classified into five major themes: The Folk Theme, Nature Theme-Spring, The Love Theme, Life and Death Theme and patriotism.

One of the interesting aspects of Sarojini's poetry is the folk theme delicately treated by her. Palanquin Bearers is a perfect example of the true folk-song, a common experience in India half-a-century ago. In this folk theme the poetess exploits the simple joys and hopes and fears and lives of the common folk in town and country exquisitely.

Sarojini had irresistible fascination for nature, she sings of the glories of seasons, particularly spring and summer and also about the individual manifestations of nature's beauty.

Lyricism, love of nature, interest in the past, a melancholic note, dominance of imagination, concern with the common man, emphasis on emotional life, ‘addition of strangeness to beauty', and the beauty of thought, vision, phrase and rhythm are some of the chief characteristics of romantic poetry. They are all profusely scattered all through her poetry. She has written more than 60 poems wherein the theme of love is dominant. This great poetess intricately presents the aches and ecstasies of love.

Arthur Simons commented:

Her poetry seems to sing itself, as if her swift thoughts and strong emotions sprang into lyrics of themselves.

It was about this volume that Symons made some observations that have often been quoted. Referring to a letter from Sarojini , in which she had written  "I sing just as the birds do , and my songs are as ephemeral", he said:

It is for this bird like quality of song; it seems to me, that they are to be valued. They hint, in a sort of delicately evasive way, at a rare temperament of a woman of the east, finding expression through a western language. They do not express the whole of that temperament; but they express, I think. Its essence; and there is an eastern magic in them.

Life, to Sarojini Naidu was not a riddle to be solved; it is a miracle to be celebrated and sung. She may be lacked the philosophical bent but her poems show accumulated wisdom rather than deep insight. In her world life and light are supreme. There are, of course, poems in which she seems to be crushed by pain and grief, but the poems into which she has poured most of her poetic power and skill are those in which there is a note of defiance and of victory over circumstances, over pain and suffering.

Behold I rise to meet the destined spring
And scale the stars upon my broken wing. (Sarojini Naidu, The Broken Wing)

She is equally a poetess of the challenge of suffering, pain and death to life. Sarojini being aware that time is destructive, and nothing can escape its ravages, she welcomes for it is the only way to rejuvenation and new life.

Despite the undercurrent of melancholy and pessimism, Sarojini's poetry is optimistic and forward looking – looking forward to the souls union with the eternal, the infinite, and Time and Death are the means to this union.

O Fate, in vain you hanker to control
My frail, serene, indomitable soul. (A Challenge to Fate by Sarojini Naidu)

As a typical example of such criticism I would like to refer to an essay by James Cousins, who was a friend and admirer of Sarojini has reasonably attributed appreciation for her. Quoting a stanza from one of Sarojini's poems, The Feast, Cousins says:

This stanza, despite its delicate beauty __ or, rather, perhaps the more insidiously because of its beauty __ is a menace to the future of India, because of its perpetuation of the "door-mat" attitude of womanhood, which is at the root of India's present state of degeneracy.

He also praises her not just for her poetic acumen but also for her boldness as a women and adds:
While Mrs.Naidu has broken away the bonds of custom, by marrying outside her caste and by appearing on public platforms, she reflects in her poetry the dependent habit of womanhood that masculine domination has sentimentalized into a virtue. In her life was a feminist up to a point, but in her poetry she remains incorrigibly feminine. She sings, so far as Indian womanhood is concerned, the India that is, while she herself has passed on towards the India that is to be.

Sarojini lived and created in those stirring times when India was passing through the throes of her struggle. The age of great patriots like Gandhi, Tilak and many others influenced her life greatly. After her meeting with Gandhi in 1914, she herself plunged into the thick of the battle. Her love for the nation is reflected in her poetry. Every aspect of Indian life is celebrated in Sarojini's poetry. Indian festivals, Temples, Gods and Goddesses Puranic myths and legends of Radha and Krishna form a major theme of her poetry.

The Gift of India is a poem beautifully depicts the chivalry of Indians during World War I. This lyric is characterized by Sarojini's poetic fervour and by her pride in her own country.
In this moving lyric Mother India herself speaks of the gift she had offered to the world-the invaluable gift: her children and reminds to the world their greatness.

William Heinemann from London published Sarojini's first major book of verse, The Golden Threshold, in 1905. It received very favorable notices in the British press. One reviewer said that the poems were of "undeniable beauty and distinction".

Conclusion:
Thus Sarojini Naidu to quote the words of Dr.Keith, "is a cultured, refined versifier; she is a singer of an aesthetic world", similarly Margaret's throws light remarking: "She is greater than her poems. Her patriosm is the rival even while it is the inspiration of her poetry. For her country she would sacrifice even her beloved gift of song". It is seen that Sarojini Naidu's poetry has won acclaim of a host of discerning critics – both Indian and English.

Primary Sources:
Naidu, Sarojini. Songs, Published privately by Aghorenath Chattopadhya, 1896.
Nilambuja (Prose- Poem), signed Sarojini Chattopadhya, 3 October 1896 (unpublished), Archives, National Library, Calcutta.
The Golden Threshold with an introduction by Arthur Symons, London, William Heinemann, 1905.
The Bird of Time with, an Introduction byEdmund Gosse, London, William Heinemann, 1912.
The Broken Wing : London, William Heinemann, 1917.
The Gift of India : Reprinted from the Report of the Hyderabad Ladies' War Relief Association, Dec. 1915.
The Sceptured Flute with an Introduction by Joseph Auslander, New York, Doad Read & Co., 1937.
The Feather of the Dawn : Bombay, Asia Publishing House, 1961
Speeches and writings of Sarojini naidu : Madras : G.A. Natesan & Co.

Works Cited:
Arthur Symons: Introduction to The Gol;den Theshold . London, William Heinemann, 1905.
Bose, A: "Regal Ground: Sarojini Naidu's Poetry", The Other Harmony, Calcutta: United Writers, Oct. 1938.
Cousins, James H.: New Ways in English literature, Madras: Ganesh & Co., 1949.
Dustoor, P.E. Sarojini Naidu : Stout Hearts and Open Hands, ed. by P.D. Tandon, Bombay: Jaico Publishing House, 1957.
Gupta, Rameshwar : Sarojini Naidu : The Poetess, New Delhi: Doaba House, 1975.
Iyengar, K.R.Srinivasa : Indo-Anglican Literature, Bombay: Karnataka Publishing House, 1945.
Margaret E. Cousins: The Awakening of Asian Womanhood, Madras :1922.
Rajyalakshmi,P.V.: The Lyric Spring: The Poetic Achievements of Sarojini Naidu, New Delhi : Abhinav Prakashan, 1977.
Article Source: http://www.articlesbase.com/poetry-articles/reflections-on-indian-poetry-of-classical-genre-with-special-reference-to-the-creative-genius-of-nightingale-of-india-sarojini-naidus-po-3335800.html

About the Author
Working as Associate Professor at Sreenidhi Institute of Science and Technology(SNIST), Dr.Sandhya Tiwari has published a book titled THE SILENT STORM - Poems by Dr.Sandhya Tiwari.
Published.

"Song of a Dream" by Reginald Unterseher 


Sarojini Naidu with Mahatma Gandhi
post by BindingInk.org

Saturday, March 29, 2014

How Did You

Illustrations by Gordon Ross
How Did You Die? by 1Edmund Vance Cooke

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
Edmund Vance Cooke PoemWith a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight -- and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1. Biography
"Edmund Vance Cooke, popularly known as "the poet laureate of childhood," was born on June 5, 1866, in Port Dover, Ontario, Canada. He began working at 13-14 years old for the White Sewing Machine Co. factory and stayed there for 14 years until he became a self-employed poet and lecturer in 1893. His first book of poems, A Patch of Pansies, came out the next year. Four years later, he married Lilith Castleberry; and they had five children. He published at least 16 books of verse, as well as other books, but he is best known for his poem "How Did You Die?" Once the Detroit News launched its radio station, WWJ, in 1920, Cooke broadcast his own poems. In this he pioneered a path that Edgar Guest was to take nationwide in the 1930s. Cooke died in Cleveland on December 18, 1932."

Impertinent poems By Edmund Vance Cooke

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Frost Advisory

Honoring Robert Frost
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)

 My Butterfly by Robert Frost

THINE emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Save only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)
Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.

The gray grass is not dappled with the snow;
Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is long ago—
It seems forever—
Since first I saw thee glance,
With all the dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.

When that was, the soft mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist.

Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I.

And there were other things:
It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had let thee win
Too far beyond him to be gathered in,
Snatched thee, o’er eager, with ungentle grasp.

Ah! I remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against my life—
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought, see LIFE 'In an English field Mr. Frost'
The breeze three odors brought,
And a gem-flower waved in a wand!

Then when I was distraught
And could not speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing!

I found that wing broken to-day!
For thou are dead, I said,
And the strange birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves
Under the eaves.

Rare Robert Frost Collection Surfaces 50 Years After His Death, January 29, 2013; npr

Frost Collection

Life Magazine, March 30, 1962 - Robert Frost

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

Shoulda Woulda Coulda


MAUD MULLER

AUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast--

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleasant surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

John Greenleaf Whittier, "Maud Muller," Selected American and British Poems, Lit2Go Edition, (1856), http://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/109/selected-american-and-british-poems/5398/maud-muller/. John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) "an influential American Quaker poet and ardent advocate of the abolition of slavery in the United States."

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