Poetry

Love Poems Make Everybody Happy

There is no dearth of love poems in Sanskrit Language. In fact, thousands of verses
can be cited for each and every mood of the lover.
From the hundreds of poems I have collected, given below are three poems that are beautiful and moving. The poems make everybody happy.
Lover is addressing a Bee!
——————————-
It is not the water lily, but her eye;
No lotus but her face;
And this is no bandhuka blossom
but her lip which bears the flowers selfsame pink
I too did err at first, Oh Bee;
How much the more should you
But give over your effort. Leave them, leave;
You work in vain
This beautiful poem has been written by Rajasekhara, (English
translation by Daniel H.H.Ingalls)
Admiring the beauty of the girl the lover is addressing the bee and confesses that he too committed a mistake by thinking her lip as the beautiful flower. Eye is like water lily, the face is like lotus and the lip is like bandhuka!
The botanical name of the flower bandhuka is Pentapetes phoenica. It blossoms in the afternoon and falls in the next morning. From its color it serves as a simile for rising sun, red jewels, but especially for the girl’s lip.
A thirsty lover
——————–
My eyes with difficulty pass her thighs,
To wander long in the land about her hips,
Then at her waist, uneven with the triple fold
Become quite powerless to move,
But now at last, like travelers parched by thirst
They‘ve climbed the mountains of her breasts
And see at last what they had hoped,
Their counterparts, her eyes, that flow with tears.
This verse was written by the great king Harsha Deva..
(English translation by Daniel H H Ingalls)
The youth’s eye is wandering through the various landscape of his beloved -hips,
waist, breasts, then moves above and at last met the counterparts, eyes.
The eyes are tearful.
In the Pleasure house two became one
————————————-
In the pleasure house, there is the young girl with her frame slightly stooping due to the weight of the bosom, and there is the lord of her life, husband, united with youth;
these two mutually embracing warmly have entered into the body of each other and are thus concealed and to no one is their separate identity clearly discernible.
This is one of the songs collected by Harikavi (English translation by A A Ramanathan)
In the pleasure house two became one; and that is the ultimate end one wants in the sports of love game.
One can reach thousands of Sanskrit love poems that are readily available in English to elevate the knowledge to new heights.

S.Nagarajan is a vehicle body engineer by profession. He has written more than 1300 articles in 16 magazines and published 18 books so far. He is revealing Eastern Secret Wisdom through T.V.Programmes, magazine articles, seminars, courses. His email
address is : snagarajans@gmail.com

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The Grim Ghoul [ A Poem with a Commentary]

Said the Grim Ghoul to the Twilight-tree, “Life,
life moves, time sands still, I have learned,
leaned this as a ghoul—for I fly from twilight,
thru twilight—never seeing a full-dawn, or full-dusk,
nor a full-horizon, or that of a day’s bright sun.
“My flight is of life—not time….” (Thus, the tree now
gazeed up, and it was full-dusk, and the ghoul was
gone.)
And when the ghoul returned, the tree was dead—
ashes and roots, soot and soil, all about. The gist
of it, he thought wound never end, for he was
cursed with everlasting twilight, eternal domination.
Lost indeed, lost he was between the moon and sun;
a thread into the invisible world, under solitude and
haunting stars; this mindless, disembodied ghoul,
was only a wound to his soul, he lived in a blind-black
aimless pattern: an inescapable unnoted twilight.
So he cursed the cosmos, saying, “There is no dead
just the dying, and us twilight-ghouls!…”
#1049 12/29/05
Commentary [Inner landscape]: in poetry, in my poetry I should say, there is not not not not not not not always plot or dialogue that sustains it, nor is it always in my short stories. Nor is it necessary I believe to have movement. We use the mind, the spinning mind like a yoyo; thus, sometimes we must let the protagonist think out loud, and forget about the inventing action and dialogue. When we look at landscape as I have in the past, I do not see it as from Minnesota or Peru, where I live, but rather from the inner landscape in my mind; perhaps it has a voice, it is itself the hero to me, possibly it doesn’t need anything else.

See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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Attitude and Meaning in Poetry

I know I keep saying I don’t like to do articles on poetry, but I do, maybe because of all the writing in the world out there, I respect poetry above all the rest.
My wife was looking over a poem of mine today, translating it actually into Spanish, and she said, “You put a noun where a verb belongs, and if you put another verb in, it will be two in the same sentence. And I said, it is not a sentence, it is a line within a stanza, and it compliments the direct object. To be honest with myself, I really couldn’t find the word I wanted so I made up the word to be presented as a plural adjective so I could push in what I wanted to end the line.
Then I said to myself: she is trying to help, and it makes more sense to her (not to me), so I looked at the whole poem, and figured if I had to change that one word, I’d have to change the whole poem, the whole two stanzas, 10-lines. You can’t write a poem, no more than you can order creativeness, it doesn’t happen that way. So I said, let me look, and see if there is something in this poem beyond the word that can save the day. And I restructured the whole poem, and created a deeper meaning than what I wanted—but was happier with it, and left the word completely out, and my wife fell to sleep in the chair. I wanted to show her my accomplishment; I mean I had to stop everything in my life to ponder on this, to see if I really wanted to change it. I think I did it for her.
Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter, what does, is approach, or attitude; now let me start all over again.
I have four corners to my world, north, south, east and west, better put, God, myself, my wife and poetry.
First thing I’ve realized long ago in poetry was this—you take out of poets or poetry what you like, throwing the rest away. Good or bad, if it’s not for you, then why force-feed yourself. Thus, if you like what someone teaches you, it is good for you, if not, why argue about something or someone who is not for you. If you don’t like what I say, don’t read me. If you do, then fine; don’t conform to music that sickens you; that way you can keep a good attitude. When Elvis was making a record, if someone was in the area that bothered him, he’d stop the production and leave. It makes good sense, you cannot be creative with a bug in the nose, and that is why he was good, or perhaps one reason.
I was going to give a long example of an event that took place back in l985, when the Ronald McDonald House of St. Paul, invited me to a presentation, but I will make it shorter than what I intended to. Anyhow, in the process of me attending the presentation, they had asked me to do a small story, as the one I had done, “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale,” back in l981. Well I did, but it wasn’t finished, yet I brought it along, was going to give it to the officials, for review. During the presentation, one of the officials looked it over, said something like this: if only you could take the rhyme schema out, and change the subject from turtle to a human being, and so for the and so on.
He was rude and demanding and I could go on, but I said: “You know what you want, go get it,” and I got up and walked out. They didn’t need me or want me as far as my creativeness went, and had told me over the phone, they didn’t know what they wanted, but I guess found out what they didn’t want. So instead of me trying to pretend, and fit in, I didn’t want to waste my time or theirs. If I lost anything, it was perhaps a potential future with an ongoing who knows what: I mean I was volunteering my services.
Anyhow, the one book I had done on the whale went up for a Pulitzer Prize, and I got a nice letter back, but not the Prize.
[Meaning of a Poem] Sometimes the poet gets lost and doesn’t’ even know his subject himself, or so I’ve noticed in much poetry I’ve read. Most of us think it is in the title of the poem, but could be to the contrary.
The problem comes not when he finishes up on a subject per se, but when he hobbles on, when he has already named it. It’s kind of like sitting down with an old friend and running out of things to say, thus, you grab whatever pops up in your mind: this creates in the reader confusion. If it is said, leave it alone, we don’t need to pound a person with it. Faulkner does that sometimes, and it irritates me, but he does it for his own reasons: he gets lost also, so do not stop writing if you are…just slow down.
—I hate to say this, but I will: arrogance is good, a little good in poetry—in a poem, if done right, just so you don’t take it to heart, and display it outside of the stanzas. What I write, I write because I want it there, usually, and I like a lot of imagination tucked in the corners. And thus, attitude and meaning are important ingredients in a poem; the reader can see it, feel it. The reader is no dummy, they may not write it, but they know it. Sometimes they are the better poets, not because they wish to write it, but because they love it, and those are often the ones who appreciate it more, and don’t like it mopped around on the floor; they have a good inner eye; we poets, are perhaps the ones with the eccentric eye, somewhere in the back of our minds trying to unveil the monster.
—Let’s see if I can say this right: never write a poem that should have been written because someone told you they wanted to hear it, write it because it should be, perhaps, and it is something you overlooked, and would have done, but not directed to do in particular, you lose the creative touch; or at least I do, and the meaning of the poem becomes stale.

See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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In Praise of ?If?

Have you ever read the inspirational, motivational poem written by Nobel Laureate Rudyard Kipling?
Do you want to know who can be called as a Leader, a Man?
At the time of depression, do you want to know how to react to the events ?
After spending quite a number of years, with all your energy, suddenly a failure occurs, for no fault of yours. You may be a victim of the circumstances. How the entire world evaluate you at that particular moment? Where are your friends at that fateful moment?
Who ever shared your wealth, are they supporting you at your adversity? What to do, then? Do you know what you should do at the time of failure?
For many more such questions, you may find the right answers in – ‘If’
If you have not read the beautiful poem, for your ready reference, it is given below:
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 imposters 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 breath 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!
Rudyard Kipling turned down many honours offered to him including a knighthood, Poet Laureate and the Order of Merit, but in 1907 he accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature. And he is ever remembered for his poem ‘If’.
Now contemplate on the mottos of your life.
You can carry a copy of the poem in your wallet or you can copy it in the first page of your personal diary so that whenever you are depressed you can read it. More so whenever you have leisure time you can read and memorize it.
A boy fell on the ground while he was playing. He looked at his mom painfully. She cheerfully said to his son, “Rise my boy, with a handful of sand. Gain something whenever you fall!”
The boy understood the lesson.
Failure is not a failure till you accept it and quit the ground.
Every fall is to rise again with some gain!

S.Nagarajan is a vehicle body engineer by profession. He has written more than 1300 articles in 16 magazines and published 18 books so far. He is revealing Eastern Secret Wisdom through T.V.Programmes, magazine articles, seminars, courses. His email
address is : snagarajans@gmail.com

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Poems of our Time

Lost in Time
We seem to be lost in time
busy with our commerce;
making money and building towers,
waging wars and reaping flowers.
What did our old folks do
in their lazy old lifetime
to bring forth such a generation
of humanity that seems to be
totally lost in time?
=====
SHIPS
Just a brief
conversation, over dinner;
Two Worlds had spun!
Two hearts, spoke
across a table;
Had so much fun!
Is it love,
or a loneliness;
that brings us together?
From up above,
He provides us;
A sweet scented savor!
We reach out,
so blindly, moving;
Away, out of sight!
Like two ships,
passing each other;
Through a stormy night!
====
Nuwara Eliya
Rail me back to Nuwara Eliya,
There’s where the tea and the pears and berries grow.
There’s where the streams trickle sweet in the springtime.
There’s where the mist in the morning hangs low.
Drive me round the vast open spaces,
There’s where the dairy and the meat and veggies grow.
There’s where the horses neigh snorting in the sunshine.
There’s where the flowers bloom brightly from their bough.
Walk me up old Piduru-tala-gala,
There’s where the fauna and the wily old fox roams.
There’s where the rocks are hewn all over nature.
There’s where true peace reigns calm in our home.
Take me down to the lush green Plains.
There’s where the birds and the bees and fauna go.
There’s where the world seems to end in its lifetime.
There’s where the beauty of life seems to flow.
[Note: Nuwara Eliya is a high altitude hill station town in the Central Province of Sri Lanka where temperatures are typically cool and where some of the best teas in the world are grown]

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Hidden Falls-St. Paul, Minnesota (a Sonnet)-A Rewarded Search

I waited thee thro a lifetime of years,
Till now when camest, your beauty was blind.
‘Tis written, “He that seeketh, he shall find,”
Hidden, I have found thy next, in all they spheres,
By my city’s river, a voice no man hears
Save from the Hunger unknown but well divined:
From the Mississippi behind hidden wind
Like a blue star your eyes flow thro many tears!
Thou art the silence, the city’s soul; thou
The beauty of things, unseen upon my brow.
O likened to Civil War walls, once dreamed
And winter found perfect! Cup of mystery
Upon your stones forgotten suns have gleamed,
Whose waters are waters from unseen streams!
St. Paul, MN #1044 12/27/05. Note: I woke up this morning, and thought about my Christmas, in which I took my lovely wife down to Hidden Fall; being a St. Paul-lite, I had never seen the falls, faintly remember hearing about it. And took a three day search to find where it was, and as I have said, found it on Christmas Day, a most beautiful hidden falls along the Mississippi in St. Paul, Minnesota. Back at the Café bookstore, I go to daily, my brother showed up the following day, and after describing the falls, he being an International Photographer, sought its whereabouts out also. It is funny, I’ve lived here most of my life, was born her, and I doubt I will die here, but I didn’t even know where the most beautiful falls in St. Paul was. We do have Minnehaha Falls, but that is across the river and is in Minneapolis, not St. Paul. So those coming to St. Paul for a visit, it would be worth your time to see this (what I call) Civil War treasure.

See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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Sands

I set foot on the sands of the Arabian Gulf
In Nineteen Seventy Nine;
The sands, since then, have swallowed me up,
And consumed all of my time;
My time has been spent, in work and in prayer,
Through the warm Arabian Nights;
The nights have exploded and lifted me up,
To wondrous towering heights.
The streets are all paved with 24K Gold,
In the mystic Middle East;
The Gold is so pure, spreading an array,
Of a gala sumptious feast;
The feasts are so many and time has so sweetly,
Played on my favorite song;
The love songs of life, that keep on playing,
Moving me on and on.
The nights are lit up, from the skies above,
By a million or more stars;
The twinkling stars that shine out of the dark,
Are like watchful eyes from mars;
The eyes that peer ‘neath black silk veils,
Of sweet and charming faces;
The faces of fortune, in oil rich sands,
Of sleek and flowing graces.
How many times have I left these sands,
To return and roost back home;
But the sands keep calling, luring me back,
To its great mosques and domes;
The domes that keep shining, reflecting the warmth,
Of the sizzling noon day sun;
The sun that keeps rolling, simmering the sand,
Around almost everyone.
A Home away from home, is what I’ve found,
In these hot burning sands;
The sands of time, that have kept me so close,
To these wonderful Arabian Lands;
The land of Prophets and a great belief,
That one man toiled and taught;
A teacher so mighty that none could defeat,
Even though, they, in vain fought.
Let me rest beneath the burning sand,
When my day is over and done;
Let my day be near, so I can lay my head,
Beneath the scorching sun;
Le the sun shine bright, through all of time,
In this beautiful bounteous land;
Let the land flourish and grow on to become,
A Heaven on earth so grand.

Written in Muscat, The Sultanate of Oman 1992
while I was on duty with the Ministry of Defence at Seeb

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Rogue Poetry (Eight Poems)

Rogue Poetry
[Commentary] —I’m not so young anymore, I seem to think I’ve recognized something that has escaped most of the modern age that perhaps most of us are people lost inside our own heads.
When I look at my past, it now seems to be akin to roads unprepared, rivers still with old levees, and fields full of weeds, and unplowed. I suppose you can say that of any new generation coming onto the scene—one feels they have not enough time to finish what they started before the new one takes over. It is indeed a pilgrimage to write about it, in plain terms.
Few people recognize the poets and writers I quote today, a few select perhaps do—here I shall lay bare the sleeping world, and bare my soul, perhaps the rogue in me will come out:
1) Tired Rogue Poet
I feel we are being closed in!
from all that I have seen—.
I’m tired, otherwise I’d find
some hope I suppose: finished.
I am fifty-eight years of age;
year of the water-downed bird.
I am ill a lot of the time, my
mind is severed from my head…
i noticed this a few nights ago—
when I tired to go to bed.
#1021 12/23/2005
2) Eccentric Poet
Flesh and bone—a
haunted mind;
i change with my moods,
my moods are my
weather—.
I do not blame my mind
for my hallucinations
it’s all gossip that descends
on eccentric’s
descends from the heavens—
or seeps up from hell…!
#1022 12/05
3) The Butterfly and Me
When I’m walking,
whomever I’m talking to
(and it could be myself),
in the mist of madness
walking with, or at a
café reading a book,
newspaper, poetry—etc:
it can appear, the moment
when the poem itself manifests—
like a butterfly, stretching
its wings for the first time—
it can appear, so I speak out!…
#1023 12/24/05
4) Christmas Madness
How many people stare into space,
contemplate their faith, or capture
a moment of indignity—?
Christmas is two days away; no—,
23-hours and thirty-five minutes.
Woops…! Not too far off…
—and we’re all standing in front of
department stores; walking down
malls: what a crazy faith!
#1027 12/24/05
5) Lost Worlds
There are other worlds out there to live on
i’m sure—but someone doesn’t want us to know—;
thus, making this one, the only one, the absolute one,
in place of the lost one—, the one—only they know.
#1024 12/23/2005
6) The Nature of Time
One time, is all time—
and time you cannot change;
barer, it can be stretched
or frozen—but the nature of
time remains—; a passage
to eternity.
#1025 12/23/2005
7) This is About Life
Poetry recalls the memory
of a past experience (existence)
to whoever has forgotten—
that life is the one thing
that makes the universe
shine and ring..!
#1026 12/24/05
The Squirrel Cage
They do not change in
The squirrel cage—
Man’s old single compulsions!
#1029 12/23/2005
Abhorred Old Drunk
The pall old drunk stood in the street, —
abhorred he stood looking at me,
his severed thumb hanging by a thread,
he shit in his pants, a car almost killed him;
his rainbow of life, like a candle put out—
I could see it in his eyes; a blank stare,
not knowing what happened, hanging on
to his thumb—in mid air: hanging on, on
standing there, there in the street…
(back in ‘88)…; why do I think of it now (?)
it’s much too late: it’s Christmas Time: 2005.
#1032 12/24/05; note: sobriety is a way of life, and I can only say for those who have tasted the bitterness of the drink, I will tell you now, get out of hell’s grip, before it’s too late; I’m recovering, had I not started 22-years ago, I’d never had made it to fifty-eight years old (I would have died back before my 40th birthday). Merry Christmas to you; and Happy Birthday Lord. Dlsiluk

See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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Poetic Love versus Commercial Love

Am I the last romantic? This is a very tough question for me! I remember the times when love seemed more pure and diaphanous. A boy saw a girl, he liked her, she smiled shamefaced at him, giving him hope. Desire was fed by hope, and time was the perfect cook for a romantic love recipe. It all continued with peaceful thoughts at night, while looking at the stars and making wishes, sweet love wishes! Days were passing, the boy can’t get his thoughts back on the track, charmed by his beautiful princess. Another glimpse, a few days after, would keep the fire burning, until the boy can’t take it anymore, and moves to the next step:a romantic poem and roses, maybe even chocolate candy. Beautiful! I’m not going to exaggerate this, by inserting a balcony in this act.. But let’s admit it, those were the good old days of love and poetry.
Today, everything seems so empty and meaningless. The media is always showing us more and more violence and sex, pushing love away from our lives, replacing it only with desire. Now women are more and more interested of the bank account and limousine the boy drives, and probably would take poetry and candy as an offence or as unimportant; they would very much rather an expensive perfume or necklace. The boy, on the other hand, doesn’t have that shiver anymore in his voice, he’s a stable person that shouldn’t let loose his lack of confidence. He’s driving his luxury car, dressed up after the latest fashions, perfumed and everything, with sunglasses to give himself a superior attitude. He goes to her home, gives a horn and then takes his partner to the most expensive places to impress her. And he probably succeeds in most of the times. Very beautiful, some may say.
Well, I am very sorry, but I am one of the fellows who won’t give into this „new era love”. I stick with the poetic love that used to be once upon a time, the incurable romantic. You may contradict me if you wish, everybody’s free to have an opinion, but I remain the last mohican stuck to the idea that love and poetry come together as a blessing, and shouldn’t be torn apart.
Article Source: http://www.articledashboard.com

By Alexandru Ionescu – If you feel that you have something to say in poetry, just join this love poem contest – If you join this poetry contest, you could get your poem published!

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If You Fear, Then Click Here

Afraid of Bird Flu it is coming you know and could kill 100 worldwide? Are you worried about bank robbers like Bonnie and Clyde?
International Terrorists are coming to get your family and You? Are you afraid of lions escaping from the Zoo?
Fear the Comet that will soon hit the Earth? Are you afraid of the coming of Satan, it could well be the next birth.
Totally annihilation and Nuclear War coming soon. Are you afraid of the Tropical Hurricane Season staring early in mid-June?
Are you in totally in dismay of the Santa Clause virus worm, which might ruin your day? Homophobic and worried your kids will grow up to be Gay?
One traffic accident could end your life? Aren’t you afraid of the mailman sleeping with your soul mate and wife?
Are you concerned you could lose your job tomorrow? What if they foreclose on your house and you are in a World of sorrow?
Are you concerned that when you die your soul will burn in hell? Do you have dreams of watching the stock market crash your investments went up and then fell?
Holiday Belly bulge making you fat? What if you grow up lose your mind, not know where you are at?
Does the nightly chaos bother you on the world news? Are you worried of being an alcoholic unable to stay off the booze?
I am here today to tell you my friend, the sun will rise tomorrow and this isn’t the end.

“Lance Winslow” – Online Think Tank forum board. If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs/

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