I have shuddered

I have  heard  grass singing in  the wind.
I   have walked through poppy fields in  sun
I have  struggled  when dark rain descends

I have watched  trees’ shadows in the ponds
I have  crossed the  arctic wastes of pain
I have  heard  grass singing in the wind.


Another soul is writing  with my hand
I have  wept  while loaning him  my pen
I have   struggled  when dark rain descends


I have seen  the edges  of the mind
I  have   sensed a  silence un-contained.
I have  heard  grass singing in  the wind.


I have  grieved for   all who are confined
I have  cringed at  creeds of  cunning  men
I have  crawled  when  crushing  rain  comes down



I have seen the storm  through camera lens.
I have felt the   solar system bend.
I have  heard  grass singing in  the wind.
I have  shuddered  when dark rain descends

Seasons blurred

In temperate climates ,seasons ends are blurred.
So many days by  two seasons are shared.
Even by midsummer in  high June,
Many flowers have gone,have gone  too soon

Yet Michaelmas is marked by daisies tall
And roses still  show blooms  throughout  the Fall.
Mysterious, new and precious  buds are born
Will such  joy  help  us  bear our thoughts forIorn

In hollow  winter  depths of  ice and cold,
When dark,short days  so  heavily   unfold
Then we know with  Fall and summer gone ,
Dark earth shields seeds  until their time shall come

The paradox we face is how to judge
When   anguished hearts and faces by tears smudged
Tell us life’s too painful to go on.
Then from  hearts cracked open,  life   spurts forth again.

What is blank verse?

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Ulysses by Alfred Tennyson


This poem is written in blank verse. It is often quoted and used to illustrate dramatic monologue. The character of Ulysses was first recorded by Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, in which Tennyson draws narrative from. Tennyson is interesting in that he writes both in blank verse and in standard rhyme. However, when he writes in blank verse, it’s generally for a reason. It’s as if he feels that holding himself to a specific type of scheme that he cannot tell the story properly. I believe this is the case for “Ulysses”.



It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with and aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle -
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me -
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads -you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Written in 1833 and published in 1842.

Read more about Ulysses by Alfred Tennyson Analysis & Poem by www.poemofquotes.com

To end our life is said to be grave sin

To end our life is said to be grave sin
We do not own our own mortality
We neither can control when we begin
To end our life was once thought  a grave sin
But shall we live regardless  when love’s gone?
Can life end without brutality?
To end our life  is  said to be grave sin
We do not own our own mortality.

When millions die unmourned in Orient
When collateral damage is ” a trifle sad”
Can I not consider whether my life’s spent?
When millions die unmourned in Orient
In the News, I’ll  never make a  dent
Is my  thought of death so bad,
When millions die unmourned in Orient;
When collateral damage is” a trifle sad”?


White cliffs

One day we have a garment usable
Though it may have a moth hole or a tear
The next, it’s crossed the barrier  and is waste
It’s become what no one wants to wear

In this same manner, I  am near the edge.
I can  move, but all my body aches
When might  I reach the point where I am lost;
When  too strong are my wishes to escape?

I know it will very hard to judge
Some remark,some move,some  painful thought.
Some tiny thing may push me  past the edge
And so the waves on Dover Beach I’ll haunt.

Those White Cliffs where once I  walked with ease
Now with thoughts of loss , they do me tease.

The weight of knowledge learned

Underneath the weight of knowledge  learned
I seem to be reduced  and paralysed
For I had thought the painful loss would turn
And fill me with  his love unpetrified.

For a moment, we may often ask
When sudden shock invades the unarmed heart.
But “give me years” makes tangible the task
For some , the mourning ends  before it starts

That in this world there is an empty space,
Never to be filled but lived beside
Makes some  feel angry, and afflicted by disgrace
Makes the themes  of grief and  pain elide.

I feel inert like marble on a beach.
Light and absence will my sad heart  breach..

As we loved

The honeyed  words invented as we loved
Now have no other  speaker but myself
Lost, unique, the husband, once beloved
The honeyed  words  invented  as we loved
Now, from my vocabulary they are shoved.
I no longer speak these words,this unique wealth.
The chosen  words  invented as we loved
Now have no other   listener but myself

Human equality

Racism oppresses its victims, but also binds the oppressors, who sear their consciences with more and more lies until they become prisoners of those lies. They cannot face the truth of human equality because it reveals the horror of the injustices they commit.
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/racism.html

I was reading a fascinating book by Stephen Frosh who points out that racism affects the racists  badly as well as the victims because the racists see their society as endangered by these “other” people.I had not thought of that before.
The book is called “Feelings:a short introduction.” by Stephen Frosh

Imprisoned spirits

How like a prison is my cubicle;
A prison,a trap, a cell,a place of fear.
For humans,this is truth indubitable;
We need to roam ,to see,to smell,to hear.

Yet in the bureaucrat realm , we must observe,
The rules laid down by generations gone.
And from their ancient code ,we cannot swerve.
Even if by rules we are undone.

Did Archimedes    sail boats  in his bath?
Did Moses fear to see the burning bush?
Did Einstein follow someone’s else’s path?
Did Socrates give voice to utter trash?

Imprisoned spirits are to revolution called.
Unless by Ariel they would be mauled.