Little Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet,
(Which never occurred to the rest of us)
And, as ’twas a June day, and just about noonday,
She wanted to eat – like the rest of us:
Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say
It is wholesome and people grow fat on it.
The spot being lonely, the lady not only
Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it.

A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled,
As rivulets always are thought to do,
And dragon flies sported around and cavorted,
As poets say dragon flies ought to do;
When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied
A horrible sight that brought fear to her,
A hideous spider was sitting beside her,
And most unavoidably near to her!

Albeit unsightly, this creature politely Said: “
Madam, I earnestly vow to you,
I’m penitent that I did not bring my hat.
I Should otherwise certainly bow to you.”
Thought anxious to please, he was so ill at ease
That he lost all his sense of propriety,
And grew so inept that he clumsily stept
In her plate – which is barred in Society.

This curious error completed her terror;
She shuddered, and growing much paler, not
Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet
Which doubled him up in a sailor knot.
It should be explained that at this he was pained:
He cried: “I have vexed you, no doubt of it!
Your fists’s like a truncheon.” “You’re still in my luncheon,”
Was all that she answered. “Get out of it!”

And the Moral is this: Be it madam or miss
To whom you have something to say,
You are only absurd when you get in the curd
But you’re rude when you get in the whey.

– Guy Wetmore Carryl –

It is possible…
It is possible at least sometimes…
It is possible especially now
To ride a horse
Inside a prison cell
And run away…

It is possible for prison walls
To disappear,
For the cell to become a distant land
Without frontiers:

What did you do with the walls?
I gave them back to the rocks.
And what did you do with the ceiling?
I turned it into a saddle.
And your chain?
I turned it into a pencil.

The prison guard got angry.
He put an end to the dialogue.
He said he didn’t care for poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.

He came back to see me
In the morning.
He shouted at me:

Where did all this water come from?
I brought it from the Nile.
And the trees?
From the orchards of Damascus.
And the music?
From my heartbeat.

The prison guard got mad.
He put an end to my dialogue.
He said he didn’t like my poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.

But he returned in the evening:

Where did this moon come from?
From the nights of Baghdad.
And the wine?
From the vineyards of Algiers.
And this freedom?
From the chain you tied me with last night.

The prison guard grew so sad…
He begged me to give him back
His freedom.

~ Mahmoud Darwish [1941-2008] ~

Translated by Ben Bennani

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When I consider how my light is spent
     Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
     And that one talent which is death to hide
     Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present
     My true account, lest he returning chide,
     "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
     I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
 That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
    Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
    Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
    They also serve who only stand and wait."      

 ~ John Milton ~    .

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Its coming on christmas
Theyre cutting down trees
Theyre putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
But it dont snow here
It stays pretty green
Im going to make a lot of money
Then Im going to quit this crazy scene
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
Im so hard to handle
Im selfish and Im sad
Now Ive gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I made my baby say goodbye

Its coming on christmas
Theyre cutting down trees
Theyre putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

~ Joni Mitchell ~

——— ——— ———

A nice ‘alternative’ song on Christmas.

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Old pirates, yes, they rob I;
Sold I to the merchant ships,
Minutes after they took I
From the bottomless pit.
But my hand was made strong
By the hand of the almighty.
We forward in this generation
Triumphantly.
Wont you help to sing
These songs of freedom? -
cause all I ever have:
Redemption songs;
Redemption songs.

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
None but ourselves can free our mind.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
‘cause none of them-a can-a stop-a the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say it’s just a part of it:
We’ve got to fulfil the book.
Won’t you help to sing
Theser songs of freedom?
‘cause all I ever had:
Redemption songs -
All I ever had:
Redemption songs:
These songs of freedom,
Songs of freedom.

~ Bob Marley ~

—–     ——      ——

This has been a song I have listened to and enjoyed since my teenage, but now that I traveled in Haiti and Jamaica and listened to the stories of the Maroons it resonates very differently for me now.

The tightness and the nilness round that space

when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect

its make and number and, as one bends his face

towards your window, you catch sight of more

on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent

down cradled guns that hold you under cover

and everything is pure interrogation

until a rifle motions and you move

with guarded unconcerned acceleration --

a little emptier, a little spent

as always by that quiver in the self,

subjugated, yes, and obedient.

So you drive on to the frontier of writing

where it happens again. The guns on tripods;

the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

data about you, waiting for the squawk

of clearance; the marksman training down

out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,

as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall

on the black current of a tarmac road

past armor-plated vehicles, out between

the posted soldiers flowing and receding

like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.

~  Seamus Heaney  ~

 —–     —–      —–

I found this poem some months back when it was still warm in Delhi and it seemed to remind me of the warmth of the winter sun. The warmth of recognising a feeling so familiar that it remains cold and unrecognised, the satisfaction of finding someone who could give words and emotions to that journey I had been taking each week for the past few months.

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The sun flirted with the autumn evening,

Disappearing behind scattered clouds,

As the hills rolled darkly

And lights warmed distant homes.

In the far reaching horizon,

The sky swirled from orange

To the wonderous, heavenly shades

Of twilight.

The half moon brightened up,

And hung by invisible bonds

From the opening stars,

Exaggerated twilight.

The crickets started their monotony,

The pines and bushes grew dark

Radiating jungle fears

And flickering firefly lights.

Two birds, worm weary,

Sailed the darkening expanse

Overhead, leaving the day

And its finds behind.

Leaving only the burning Ravana,

His cannonade of bursting crackers

Raging inferno and cumulus smoke,

Lonely in that autumn twilight.

~Aniket Alam~

—

I wrote this poem exactly 20 years ago. Well almost. Dussehra fell on 2 October in 1987. I was in class 11 at that time, studying in Central School in Shimla. We lived in the Himachal Pradesh University campus where my father taught political science. Next to our block of flats was a large playing field, the far end of which hosted the colourful effigies of Ravan and his brothers on Dussehra each year.

This is not a great poem and I have refrained from dumping my teenage exeburance on this site. Till now. But recently, in a crass display of nepotism and self-advertisement, I have lowered the poetic benchmarks for my own verses and decided to publish them here. Most of the two hundred odd poems I wrote are very embarrassing and you will be spared them. Some are not that bad. This being one of them. The reason I still like this poem is for the sense of loss it has at the burning of the demon king. Plus that it reminds me of a particularly fond personal memory…

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There are five thousand of us here
in this small part of the city.
We are five thousand.
I wonder how many we are in all
in the cities and in the whole country?
Here alone
are ten thousand hands which plant seeds
and make the factories run.
How much humanity
exposed to hunger, cold, panic, pain,
moral pressure, terror and insanity?
Six of us were lost
as if into starry space.
One dead, another beaten as I could never have believed
a human being could be beaten.
The other four wanted to end their terror
one jumping into nothingness,
another beating his head against a wall,
but all with the fixed stare of death.
What horror the face of fascism creates!
They carry out their plans with knife-like precision.
Nothing matters to them.
To them, blood equals medals,
slaughter is an act of heroism.
Oh God, is this the world that you created,
for this your seven days of wonder and work?

Within these four walls only a number exists
which does not progress,
which slowly will wish more and more for death.
But suddenly my conscience awakes
and I see that this tide has no heartbeat,
only the pulse of machines
and the military showing their midwives’ faces
full of sweetness.
Let Mexico, Cuba and the world
cry out against this atrocity!
We are ten thousand hands
which can produce nothing.
How many of us in the whole country?

The blood of our President, our compañero,
will strike with more strength than bombs and machine guns!
So will our fist strike again!
How hard it is to sing
when I must sing of horror.
Horror which I am living,
horror which I am dying.
To see myself among so much
and so many moments of infinity
in which silence and screams
are the end of my song.
What I see, I have never seen
What I have felt and what I feel
Will give birth to the moment …

~ Victor Jara ~

(translated by Joan Jara, his wife.)

Chilean writer, theatre director, poet – songwriter, singer, communist.

This poem / song was written when he was held in the Chile Stadium with 5,000 other opponents of the US backed coup d’etat against the elected Government of Chile. Arrested on 11 September 1973 – the day of the coup d’etat – he was killed by machine guns on 15 September, 1973. But as Pete Seeger reminded us, “As long as we sing his songs, as long as his courage can inspire us to greater courage, Victor Jara will never die”.

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‘From the reed-flute hear what tale it tells;
What plaint it makes of absence’ ills:

“From jungle-bed since me they tore,
Men’s, women’s eyes have wept right sore.
My breast I tear and rend in twain,
To give, through sighs, vent to my pain.
Who’s from his home snatched far away,
Longs to return some future day.
I sob and sigh in each retreat,
Be’t joy or grief for which men meet.
They fancy they can read my heart;
Grief’s secrets I to none impart.
My throes and moans form but one chain,
Men’s eyes and ears catch not their train.
Though soul and body be as one,
Sight of his soul hath no man won.’

~ From “The Mesnevi of Mevl’n’ Jel’lu’d-din Muhammed er-Rumi. Book the First” ~

Translated by James W. Redhouse.
(London, 1881).

I got this wonderful poem from Vinayak’s blog. A very nice blog to keep a feed on…

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Like a reminder of this life
of trams, sun, sparrows,
and the flighty uncontrolledness
of streams leaping like thermometers,
and because ducks are quacking somewhere
above the crackling of the last, paper-thin ice,
and because children are crying bitterly
(remember children’s lives are so sweet!)
and because in the drunken, shimmering starlight
the new moon whoops it up,
and a stocking crackles a bit at the knee,
gold in itself and tinged by the sun,
like a reminder of life,
and because there is resin on tree trunks,
and because I was madly mistaken
in thinking that my life was over,
like a reminder of my life -
you entered into me on stockinged feet.
You entered – neither too late nor too early -
at exactly the right time, as my very own,
and with a smile, uprooted me
from memories, as from a grave.
And I, once again whirling among
the painted horses, gladly exchange,
for one reminder of life,
all its memories.

~Yevgeny Yevtushenko~
(1974)

Translated by Arthur Boyars amd Simon Franklin

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