Long Xiii Poems
Long Xiii Poems. Below are the most popular long Xiii by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Xiii poems by poem length and keyword.
From Nabob of Junagarh, of Nizam—
Collecting tax on cotton and the kind,
The taxing job having strained of my calm,
I’d stayed at a quiet place, though haunted
And scary, a lovely place no less still,
Deserted now, it was a grand retreat—
River Suista telling in many ways
Babbling tales through every single pebble,
Leaping like a skillful dancing damsel,
What unforgettable and fateful days!
I still recall that flight of a plenum
Of hundred fifty steps to that river,
A solitary marble palace, plumb
Along the river, and etched as ever
In my mind, ah amid sprawling foothills,
No soul around to whisper of its ills!
The palace, two and half centuries old,
And built by a ruler of Muslim mould,
For private pleasures, luxuries enrolled:
Jets of rose water from fountains spurting
To cool rooms amply made of marbles cold,
Young Persian nymphets there entertaining,
Mohammad the Emperor, too tired, blasé,
Arab maids disheveled before bathing,
Their soft naked feet ‘pon water splashing,
Singing, trying to please him in odd ways,
Whilst wine poured forth as ample as water,
Afar, tears poured forth from a lost daughter.
Fountains no more now found, songs too have ceased,
Nor snow white feet, ever gracefully step
Upon the white marbles that remain cold,
The vast halls filled are with cess collectors,
And men like me oppressed with solitude,
Deprived of warmth o that be womanhood,
My old office clerk had me amply warned,
‘Pass days should you so like, but never nights
if you care', I’d waved him off with a laugh.
Servants agreed to work only till dark,
Which, I ignored, a tusk as a dog's bark.
The house of ill repute spared was by thieves
Like a nightmare, I sneezed at that as well,
And worked hard on long hours till lights grew grey,
Returning at night too jaded and tired,
Sinking deep into bed unto sleep mired.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
I
As things do return home like a refrain,
On way back from a country tour were we,
A leisurely long trip—my kin and me,
And met a quaint character on the train,
As I recall, in his late life, nigh vain,
His dress and demeanour indicative,
And we at sea the way he seemed to talk,
His deportment and dialogue of proud cock,
Who discoursed on any a theme on earth,
A Muslim sure from far, not a native,
Listening to him was, not his tale’s worth,
Yea, something sure was there that was not sane.
The Goddess of Learning and Destiny
Seemed to have blessed him— of ports so many,
Who said, forces were at work in the world
Far too secretly, underground, unheard:
Russians, say, have advanced closer to us,
Brit policies have been inauspicious,
Feuds among our leaders have come to head,
Confused and suspicious who see things red.
And flourished our newly formed friend in train
With phony smile: What might cause further pain—
More things happen under and ‘pon this earth
Than reported are as the news of worth.
The home-bound birds like us that had not seen
The world he had, struck were dumb with wonder,
What with his quotes on science, his comments
On Vedas, verses of Persian poets.
Our young ears, untutored to this knowledge,
Caused our admiring bone to turn attuned,
Sure, a magnet, occult power, an astral
Body some sort doubtless has him inspired,
We listened to him with keenest of ears,
Devout mind, he’d our heart all enraptured.
The train reaching a railhead, we waited
In a retiring room, tired and jaded,
As change of train weighed when heavy on eyes.
‘Train's running late', when someone made us wise,
Our wise man then set out a tale to spin,
And our sleep said goodbye with a wry grin!
____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
As I was set to go out on my horse
One eve, despite pleads to stay from my course,
Prone I was to take my hat from the rack,
A whirlwind crested from the dusty tract,
Lifting dead leaves from Aravalli hills,
Twirling them high along the palace ills,
While a loud peal of a wild laughter rose,
And soon died in the land the sun follows,
Robbing my dare and joy ride in the wood,
It robbed too my ***** English hat for good.
The night was old when unknown sobs I heard,
Heart-rending, stifled, right below my bed,
Nay, as if from an unknown nether world,
Perchance from many a sacrificed head,
From darkling depths of a damp grave of old,
A voice piteously crying taking my hold,
Imploring me, ‘do something, rescue me
From what eternal prison seems to be,
This deathlike slumber, fruitless dreamy ills,
Place me beside a racing horse saddle,
Press me close to your heart, riding through hills,
And woods, and across a dried-out puddle,
Take me to sunny spots from dark, new thrills.
Many a doubt flashed in my silent mind:
Why of all me, how can I rescue thee?
What passions shall draw thee out and ashore?
O Beauty, from this wild whirlpool of dreams,
Do tell me whence didst thou flourish and when,
By which cool spring, in what shady date-groves,
Thou wert born in whose lap, in what homeless
Wanderer, what desert, and which
Bedouin Snatched thee from mom’s arms, do tell me,
A mere bud wert thou plucked from a creeper,
And placed upon a horse, lightning swift flash,
Far, far across the scorching desert sands,
O to slave-mart of what royal city?
Seeing the glory of blossoming youth,
To which chieftain hast thou been taken to,
Placing thee in a golden palanquin
As royal gift fit for an emperor.
__________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
AN INFAMOUS LEGEND
King Henry XIII was indeed quite a boy,
He had no clue how to spell the word coy,
He was consumed by a quest that
A wife bear,
And give birth to a male heir,
He was fat, red headed and
Dressed with flamboyant flair!
Not quite my thing,
For a ruling King!
He wedded his first wife Catherine of Aragon,
Who did not bear a son
And grew to loathe this noble lady
He had done!
Cromwell, Henry’s adviser was used,
And finally abused, he had
To ask parliament to pass a bill,
Which made divorce a common drill.
One morning King Henry got out of
The wrong side of the bed,
And had Cromwell beheaded,
The executioner had trouble
Severing his head!
This Bill made Henry, head
Of the Protestant faith.
The Pope excommunicated King Henry
From Rome,
A disliked King who sat on
England’s throne!
Catherine now belonged in the past,
Enter Anne Boleyn,
Their marriage was short and ill fated
For she was publicly beheaded!
In between marriages and wives,
Henry had affairs,
One wonders how far his seed was spread,
Let’s not split hairs,
Probably he could fill a today’s
Rugby stadium!
With his family jewels downstairs!
Jane Seymour, his third wife was
Was the love of his life,
She gave birth to an heir, a son,
But his beloved wife died,
Henry was sad and perhaps
A single tear dried!
Now Henry had a son,
But needed to still live his life
So he spied wife number four
Who willingly came to knock
On his door.
But Henry divorced Anne of Cleves,
Wow lucky lady!
And so entered wife number five,
Who was brave and plucky,
She had a short married life,
Tried and sentenced for treason,
This was an excuse for a reason
To have Catherine Howard beheaded,
Soon after they were wedded!
Congratulations to Catherine Parr,
For though she was the last,
She outlived the King by far,
And brought to rest his cast,
And lewd past!
In fifteen hundred and forty seven,
King Henry died,
We doubt he went to Heaven,
And was laid to rest next to Jane,
His third wife, and beloved bride.
Perhaps Henry's family jewels should
Have been shredded or beheaded,
And then he be remembered,
As an infamous legend.
Niitthaar Perumai: The Fundamental Role of the Ascetic, Canto 3 of the Thirukkural-K27 and 28. Translations and Commentary.
K27: kunamenung kunreeri ninraar veguli
kanameeyung kaatthal larithu.
The wrath 'tis hard e'en for an instant to endure
Of those who virtue's hill have scaled, and stand secure. (Tr. G.U.Pope)*
The anger of those who have ascended the mountain of goodness, though it
continues but for a moment, cannot be resisted. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus)*
(*In Pope's book et al, n° K29)
Resist not the visitations of ire of the ascetic who secures his powers by the requisite discipline won only after equivalent efforts at scaling mountain heights (for the consequences will turn out dire). (Tr. T.Wignesan)
K28: ainthavitthaa naarra lakalvisumbu laarkoomaa
ninthiranee saalung kari
Their might who have destroyed 'the five', shall soothly tell
Indra, the lord of those in heaven's wide realms that dwell. (Tr. G.U.Pope)*
Indra himself, the king of the inhabitants of the spacious heaven, is a sufficient proof of the strength of him who has subdued his five senses. (Tr. W.H.Drew & J.Lazarus)*
(*In the respective books of the translators, n° K25)
The very existence of Indra, the King of the gods who rules the endless heavenly spheres, bears testimony to the powers of the ascetic. (Tr. T. Wignesan)
(Here again, there's some wayward proof that Valluvar, the presumptive author of the Thirukkural, was first a Hindu and then perhaps - by adoption - a Jain or a Buddhist ; both these latter religions having flourished - even nation-wide - since the great Maurya emperor Asoka's rule in the sub-continent. See my poem on the poet: "Master Valluvan the long-misunderstood Tamil Mentor" in Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net, 2008, 750p. First published by the Institute of Asian Studies, Chennai, 2006, xiii-439p. Also available at PoetrySoup, PoemHunter or OccupyPoetry and in BLIND MAN's LANTERN: Poems that lash out, mock and rip into the dark. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net, 2015, 886p.)
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
New year's day 2021
Disinclination regarding tradition
to make resolutions stance
adopted courtesy yours truly.
Though such proclamation
may smack of high treason
no matter convenience to season
and ideal time to leaven existence,
I discern no rhyme nor reason
to make a promise unable to keep
whereby only disappointment I reap
inducing tears whether awake or asleep,
thus Matthew Scott Harris utters nary a peep.
as he doth vigilantly creep
along the information superhighway
hooping to sow (sew) what he didst reap
re:pair so I can strut (wool ewe bull eve)
like a Mummer wannabe counting sheep
while he does sleep.
E'er since Pope Gregory XIII effectively
(furnished, generated, and
instituted his holy mojo)
introducing Gregorian calendar
approximately four hundred
thirty nine years ago
chroniclers of time - mostly
religious Norwegian farming bachelors
casually referred to brethren as bro
ejaculated (sometimes premature) invocations,
which echoed across
Lake Wobegon, said incantations
devout followers among populace
did likewise parrot and crow
generation after generation
whereupon enigmatic, dogmatic, charismatic
monk native to Burma
stoked one after another ego
artificial construct did ebb and flow
amazingly enough maintaining accuracy
with marginal probability of error
precision parsing seconds, minutes, hours...
would only tolerate absolute zero
variation regarding prediction
of weeks, months, years...
as sophistication of civilization did grow
allowing, enabling, and providing
jolly fellow bellowing ho... ho... ho
could make his round the world wide web
timely trek linkedin with timepiece
assembled with B Corporation approval.
certification of "social and
environmental performance"
a private certification of for-profit companies,
distinct from legal designation
as Benefit corporation.
The above plug an unsolicited commentary
regarding San Francisco, California
based eco friendly and socially conscious company
and recent employer of eldest daughter,
an engineering University of Pennsylvania alumna.
I felt a sharp thrill in my heavy heart,
But hardly knew if that tip of a dart
Was caused by delight, fear or curious mind,
And felt an eerie, strong urge truth to find,
But naught was seen before me, nor could hear
A thing clearer despite my straining ear,
All I could was birds chirping in the wood,
As if a dark curtain made of past stood
Hanging before my anxious pair of eyes,
Fains if I could lift them nigh to peer through,
For, total darkness enveloped my view,
I hoped still, sooner would the curtain rise.
A sudden gust of wind lifted the weight
Of oppression— thanks for life's small mercies—
The still surface of the river rippled,
Curling a tad like strands of a nymph's hair,
The woods were wrapped in evening's sleepy gloom
When there was some relief ah of murmur
As if arisen from a darkling dream!
Was it real or a tired man's daydream?
Piercing through the centuries gone by,
Vanishing in a flash as moments fly,
And yet, the mystic forms that brushed past me
With quick bodiless steps, loud lifeless laugh,
The sound of bodies splashing in river,
The eerie apparitions somewhat bent,
Squeezing their dripping robes awhile they went,
Remained in my mind's vague vision for long,
O like fragrance wafted away by wind,
Dispersed but by a single breath of sprig.
Filled I was with the fear: or Muse it was
That gained gratitude of my solitude,
Possessing me in such a lonely wood,
A witch, thought I, visited on a cause.
Whatso it be, let a good dinner fill
Me, an empty maw’s undoubted devil,
I’ll call cook, let a hefty dinner be—
Of lots of spices made smoother with ghee.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
XIII: Dreams and hopes...
Dreams and hopes will take new form
Sky's the limit, break the norm
The brain is sensible, follow it blind
Happiness will redefine, even if a different kind
But if I really ponder what that something meant
Fact or fiction, for me was it truly sent
Unanswered questions they'll always remain
Seeking answers henceforth I must refrain
The heart continues to feel the pain
The mind deals with consequences over again
The new things have started to distract
Going back is a thought I must retract
Alas a robot I cannot turn into
Let the mind wander, think whatever it wants to
As long as it's all within reason
After all the heart didn't not commit treason
XIV: A treason...
A treason the heart never did commit
Something went wrong, it must admit
The brain saw sense, but couldn't dictate
Helplessly kept seeing the heart deflate
So bright, so cheery, it wanted to cling
Onto everything happy; dance and sing
Lost in its own world, the bell never did ring
Sadness and lull, only the future could bring
The warnings were loud and clear
But the heart purposely chose to not hear
The brain saw and started to live in fear
Struggled to poison the feelings so dear
Cannot deny, the two continued to fight
Without accordance, resolution in sight
The heart was left in its own plight
The brain struggled to see the light
XV: The brain struggled...
The brain struggled to see the light
If things worked, the heart would have been right
Not a rosy picture, but a clear one in sight
The future would have been joyously bright
But by now we know it didn't last
But the mind keeps swinging back to the past
The dark and ugly shadows overcast
Chase them and move on super fast
But today there's tears in my eyes
Why do there have to be the painful goodbyes
The heart is left with deep mournful sighs
The mind confused why one still cries
Not easy to forget each and every song
That seemed so connected, things did belong
But in the end didn't last all that long
Who was right, and who was wrong?
Miniscule male member doth bend sinister
impossible mission of mine to bare witness
whereby mine (whore rubble) puny phallic
describes a bent shaft, particularly when cap
locks on first observed by the missus when
we consummated intercourse, though nicht
married, cuz the rutting urge overtook both
of us 24/7, 365 days year not omitting the
leap day, which arose because planet Earth
doth circle around the sun within 365 days,
5 hours 48 minutes and forty six seconds
to orbit the nearest star, according to NASA,
and while that calculation (rounded down
established by Nicolaus Copernicus in the
16th century, when he proposed heliocentric
model - quite controversial to the church ladies -
upending geocentric theory placing the Sun
at the center of the solar system, with Earth
orbiting around it; his theory was detailed
in his book "De Revolutionibus Orbium
Coelestium" published in 1543) to three
hundred and sixty five days, we - twenty
first century *****sapiens, recognize as
a typical year, those nearly 6 extra hours
do not conveniently disappear bitta bing
bitta bitta bang: I recognize omission of
most chitty word choice, but latched on
to a song which shares the same name
as the movie, a 1968 children's musical
adventure film directed by Ken Hughes
and produced by Albert R. Broccoli (not
necessarily the guy kids wanna blame for
their favorite vegetable) starring Dick Van
Dyke, Sally Ann Howes, Lionel Jeffries,
Gert Fröbe, Anna Quayle, Benny Hill,
James Robertson Justice, Robert Helpmann,
Heather Ripley and Adrian Hall driving the
innovative idea (credited to Julius Caesar,
who introduced it as part of Julian calendar,
adding another extra day every four years
to more accurately align the calendar after
segueing into the Gregorian calendar, a solar
calendar used in most parts of the world today
based on the Earth's revolution around the sun
and named after Pope Gregory XIII introduced
in 1582) with the solar year; essentially
making him the "inventor" of the leap year
added to account for the difference.
With trembling heart, as an attempt I made
To leap across, he woke up with a start,
The sword fell from his lap with a sharp clang,
A terrifying scream when made me jump,
I saw me leaping from my bed, sweating,
A crescent moon looked pale in morning light,
I looked a weary sleep-starved man at dawn,
And my crazy Maher Ali screaming,
As was his daily custom while he strode,
‘Stand back, stand back', he yelled winding his way.
Such abrupt was the end of my first night
That awaited a thousand more of fright!
…..
A gulf growled O betwixt my days and nights,
A worn out and tired me going to work,
Cursing last bewitching night's weird dream,
Yet, all new nights came pledging new promise,
Though shackles of my work were far from sham,
The nightfall would catch me in eerie thrall,
O overwhelming me in total snare,
Intoxicating and overpowering,
When I’d get reborn as an unknown knight
Of a bygone era, playing my part
In unknown history never ere writ,
My English coat and tight breeches standing
The least in my fertile mind's fairy role,
In red velvet cap, pyjamas too loose,
An embroidered tight vest, flowing silk gown,
Many a shaded, scented handkerchiefs,
Musing o'er an elaborate toilet,
I'd sit on a high-cushioned velvet chair,
A hookah filled with rose water in place
Of a usual cigarette and proud face,
In eager anticipation to meet,
Who else? My first night's sorely missed nymphet,
Black beast, pet aversion and dark secret,
But for that spoil-sport eunuch's blocking feet!
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.