Best Quixote Poems
Outwardly, I bear
but slight resemblance.
But, oh!
On the inside,
We are virtual twins!
Tough time – the economic crisis for a short period
Sometimes for the five members there’ll be few bread.
Mother would declare she'd already her share of bread
“I was soo……. hungry, I had mine” she would add.
Dad, sacrificing his life for my higher education
Worked in a rustic village and living in seclusion.
Scene changed with newly built house quite pleasing
With my name plate "Dr. Ram Mehta, Litt.D" hanging.
Scene changed with those sacrifices in matured years
Acting Moliere in France, in U.K. visit to bards’ houses.
Attending the poetry conferences in three continents
Retired life with kids in USA and India, both democracies.
***********
*Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a
Sancho Panza, the Self.
W. H. Auden
===================================================
First Place win in :
Contest: The view changes sponsored by Michael F. Faletico
===================================================
Fourth Place win in
Contest: My Inspirational Poem by P.D.
Fifth Place win in
Contest: Winning poem by Skat-XOX
To Don Quixote, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : A Don Quichotte
(Poem written in March 1861 that I would Verlaine had
dedicated to the Grand Dear Old Man of Letters : Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra - with kind permission, of course, sought by me and which I know he wouldn’t withhold. T. Wignesan)
O ! Don Quixote, medieval princely champion, incomparable
Bohemian,
Only in vain does the absurd and vile crowd laugh at you :
You died as a martyr and your life remains a poem,
And the windmills wronged you, O ! King true !
Always keep going, keep going, protected by your faith,
Astride your fantastic charger that I cannot but love.
Sublime gleaner, forward ! – those the law wraps in moth
Balls are more numerous, more staggering than bygone days
enough.
Hurrah ! We follow in your steps, we, the saintly horde of poets
Dishevelled, our heads wrapped in verveine tights.
Lead us on to assault high-strung fantasies,
And soon enough, in spite of every form of treason,
Up on high will flap our winged standard of Poesies
Over the hoary skull of our inept reason !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Tough time – the economic crisis for a short period
Sometimes for the five members there’ll be a few bread.
Mother would declare she'd already her share of bread
“I was soo……. hungry, I had mine” she would add.
Dad, sacrificing his life
For my higher education.
Worked in a rustic village
And living in seclusion.
Scene changed with newly built house quite pleasing
With my name plate "Dr. Ram Mehta, Litt.D" hanging.
Scene changed with those sacrifices in matured years
Acting Moliere in France, in U.K. visit to bards’ houses.
Attending the poetry conferences
in three continents
Retired life with kids in USA and India,
both democracies.
+++++++
***"Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote,
the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self". W. H. Auden
*******
August 12, 2014
Form: Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
First Place Win
Contest:Teeter Totter poem by Sheri Fresonke Harper
On one night,
is it because of a bewitched full moon?
while driving my rusty shaking junk car
I became Don Quixote de la Mancha
mounted on Rozinante holding a lance under the arm aslant,
and with a full gallop, dashing into the battle field, through the street where
the full moon was hanging thirty degree above the sky between forests eastward.
The trees standing both sides on the street
dyed by reddish-yellowish gray moonbeam in silhouette
were the windmill sails whirling their gigantic arms in air to assail me.
The red and green one-eyed giants
often met on the way eastward were the fat and ugly
demon-possessed skins of red wine that must have slain.
Flourishing lance to the right and left
while giving spurs to Rozinante again and again
to advance rapidly, I found myself in the middle
of enemy territory before becoming aware of it,
detouring annoying barricades, I was running through
the path between ramparts while ducking a shower of arrows,
came to the endless water front where disabled Rozinante fell.
When raging waves come and hit the breakwater
for the water cannot advance any further or is able to return,
the waves break up the hundreds and thousands of beads and
return to the bottomless water while flushing its silvery blue scales.
And when sprays of water that dived into the deepest sea
gush out from its bottom belching fire, it rises to the sky
and becomes a gigantic dragon and swallows the moon.
In the darkness where the dragon gathering dark clouds
after swallowing the moon the rain falls, the torrential rain
hits Mambrino’s helmet mercilessly.
Then, Don Quixote kneels to make the sign of the cross
while patting a breathless Rozinante lying on this desolated waterfront.
The cross he made falls on the sands,
the cross he made mourns while washing away in the water.
[Someday,
some may sing Don Quixote with the finest lute in hand.
Praise the gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha
with silvery voice in one accord, with unforgettably kind remarks:
the one who lived true life of knight is
Don Quixote de la Mancha
the knight of knights, the hero of heroes.]
NOTE: The Golf Road runs from east to west on north suburb of Chicago, and east (ends or starts) at Lake Michigan.
Don Quixote
Impossible Dream
Have you fought the dragons?
Francine Roberts
Contest Name
Write me a Lightfoot Poem
Don Quixote
Don Quixote spiked the windmill,
Sancho Panza surely frowned,
Just then the wind began to billow,
Blades dehorsed him, slapped Quixote down,
Back upon his faithful mount,
With Sancho getting up to speed,
for the love of Dulcinea
Will she marry him indeed.
Riding on his mule is Sancho Panza,
Squire of the Don is he,
Like the Aussie soldier Digger,
Rode behind a pommy General, see,
Depriving him of dignity…
(Don Quixote…Gordon Lightfoot)
WW1 soldier rode his donkey, the Digger was also wearing a monocole like the officer, right behind a visiting mounted English General, who was not amused….
Don Johnson
Start
I’m sure you’ve heard his name before
From stories of knights in days of yore
Born in village La Mancha in Spain
Was enthralled of knights, he chose to feign
After resurrection, to America he came
In search of adventures and fame
As legend goes, every knight must have a lady- love
To bestow his “victories” to her as it behoove
He chose Princess Melania as the apple of his eye
And began his quest with her name as the battle-cry
He persuaded a ‘Sancho’ to be his faithful squire
With promise of an island to govern as his gift to aspire
Obsessed by the chivalrous deeds of knights he read
He decided to ride a horse which was almost dead
In search of the helpless to defend and the wicked to punish
He began his knighthood with a resolve to fight to the finish
He soon discovered that times have changed
There weren’t any country sides where Kings reigned
Nor castles to conquer or giants to attack
His weird armor and battle cries only drew flak
Nevertheless, he charged at a parked garbage truck
Struck it with his lance using all his pluck
Construing it to be an enemy out to destroy him
But, he fell to the ground with a broken limb
Bruised and battered, Sancho helped him up
Took him to a hospital for a thorough checkup
The doctors patched him up and examined his head
Found its content deficient, but permitted him to go ahead
Resuming his journey he saw a kitten hidden in a bush
“Let’s grope for the pussy,” he yelled at his horse with a push
The horse galloped fast but stumbled as it fell
The kitten got panicky and fled like hell
It’s enough for the day, felt the Don and returned to his lady love
He took a ‘selfie’ with her sitting on the statue of a dove
He knelt before her and said, “Here are my trophies for you”
Presented the broken lance and smashed helmet, before bidding her adieu.
End
With a,
Heigh Ho,
Heigh Ho,
Heigh Ho
In defense of nature we go
Like Night's on Crusade
But i fear we will need
More than seven dwarfs
Unless they are standing on the shoulder of giants
And holding Don Quixote lance
Because we are up against
Our mortal enemy
Hephaestus
since there is a saying
“noble man walks on the thoroughfare”
Don Quixote abandoned the shortcut-side-road,
steering Rosinante, dashing into the highway
while he was riding on the highway
something suddenly came into his mind
a proverb “the middle way is the golden mean”
he reined the horse into the middle lane looking at the horizon
where the road meets the sky
as he steers the horse it begins loping
the knights overtake Rosinante with their fleet steeds
they swear and finger at Don Quixote with dirty looks
“you scumbags!” Don Quixote yelled to the rude riders
“since the swallows don’t understand the will of wild geese,
why not quickly go back to your hangouts and chant Vedas”*
brandishing lance and at the same time, unknowingly, spurring
the horse
to mitigate his angers he prodded Rosinante to a full gallop
at that moment, a dragon flickering its red and blue eyes
from above came on the cloud and attacked him
as Don Quixote raised his lance
the dragon belched fire from his mouth
and the fire swallowed him
he collapsed on the spot
became a lump of charcoal
*Note: In Chinese character, sound of Sanskrit word “Vedas” (??) spells as bark on first letter, which is the compound letter/word of “mouth and dog.” The phrase “Chant Vedas” metaphorically implying “bark”
A nightmare
after something I'd had,
a cowboy film,
the late-night news
and Cervantes at bedtime.
On a spavined jade
the last of all the cowboys
with lean shanks
astride gaunt flanks
rides down
to Death Valley.
The last of all the cowboys
has soon put paid
to enemy tanks
along Stygian banks
way down
Death Valley.
Ever onward they wade.
to the cowboy's last tune,
some joining the ranks,
some jumping off planks
Close-down, lockdown
at the last rally
in Death Valley.
I hope all this
was just a nightmare.
Thinking otherwise
I do not dare.
You sit alone in a room
as a knight without armor
while outside your window
leaves like maidens dance,
yet there’s no one left to save.
You know someone
is watching as you read
a romance five times read
that has become your world,
and you wait
for someone to come.
The people who walk
down the sidewalk,
you say they’re all
beautiful,
everyone.
Veiled in memories
visions of a waitress glows,
the one met on the road,
and you changed her name
to reflect your dreams
of what she could be.
Your squire
has returned to the farm
and for a moment
he believed
in the visions
only you could see.
He stood at your side
to watch as you tipped
windmills, to keep
the world safe for you and he.
Now that he is gone
you feel a heartfelt pain
dying to your dreams.
*Based on Man of La Mancha
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote
My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don Quixote....you will find
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don Quixote...my minds strength
Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Don Quixote goes down the path in the wilderness groping the way
stepping on the dead leaves carrying the weight of the sitting sun
that is too much for him to carry on his crooked back.
Although he once mounted a horseback high with stately air
holding a spear under his arm, spurring a horse on to gallop freely
through the wilderness sweeping all obstacles away with the spear,
now he goes through the wilderness hanging on his useless broken spear stick.
Since Sancho Panza is no longer with him, he is a disgraced knight
without an obedient servant; since Rozinante is not with him any more,
he is a dishonored knight without a trusty steed.
And I go with my seedy shadow laid under his pathetic shadow
that moves awkwardly in the red of the setting sun.
"I’m looking for my sparring partner.
So please direct me, if you will."
“You seek a knight, a wicked wizard?”
“A mill."