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Quotes From Here And There

Albert Einstein
Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage - to move in the opposite direction.
Dylan Thomas
I fell in love – that is the only expression I can think of – at once, and am still at the mercy of words, though sometimes now, knowing a little of their behavior very well, I think I can influence them slightly and have even learned to beat them now and then, which they appear to enjoy.
Eddie Cantor
It takes twenty years to become an overnight success.
Edward Abbey
May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.
e e cummings
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best night and day to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
Eyler Coates
We've all heard that a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters will eventually produce a masterpiece. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Without music, life would be a mistake.
Gustave Flaubert
The one way of tolerating existence is to lose oneself in literature as in a perpetual orgy.
Going to the Opera is like making love; we get bored but we come back.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
If I love you, what business is it of yours?
John Steinbeck
Only through imitation do we develop toward originality.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
There is no remedy so easy as books, which if they do not give cheerfulness, at least restore quiet to the most troubled mind.
Leonard Cohen
Ring the bells that still can ring;
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything;
That's how the light gets in.
Montaigne
The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.
Paul Sweeney
You know you've read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend.
Peter Altenberg
I never dreamed of being Shakespeare or Goethe, and I never expected to hold the great mirror of truth up before the world; I dreamed only of being a little pocket mirror, the sort that a woman can carry in her purse; one that reflects small blemishes, and some great beauties, when held close enough to the heart.
Robert Frost
In three words, I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.
There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money.
Satchel Paige
Work like you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like nobody's watching.
Thomas Mann
A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
V S Naipaul
The writer has only to listen very carefully and with a clear heart to what people say to him, and ask the next question, and the next.

My Personal Library


Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Let's Talk Haiku!

Sunday, November 30, 2008 by Abhinav Maurya

There's good news for me. And haiku for you. Actually, there was good news... A couple of months ago, I submitted some haiku to World Haiku Review. I got a good feedback from them - a nice mail which explained what I was doing wrong and where I could improve. If you've been around for some time in this business of sending off things on spec, you know how difficult it is to come by a thing like that. Then I all but forgot about it and hence had the pleasant surprise of finding my haiku in that magazine a few days ago. It's been over a month since they've out. Without further ado...

World Haiku Review, Volume 6, Issue 4, October 2008
Shintai (New Style) Haiku

THE BEST TEN



FIRST PLACE

in shadow

the moth stills its wings

leaving dreams to fly

Marie Shimane


SECOND PLACE

watercolour–

after lunch he adds

the stork

John Bird


THIRD PLACE

A fallen gulmohur bud:

An incomplete story but

A complete poem.

Abhinav Maurya



SEVEN HONOURABLE MENTIONS

(In no particular order)



night alleyway...

my floodlight shadow

breaks into two

zinovy Vayman


even his trees

stay inside the fence

unseen neighbour

Ann K. Schwader

(A favorite!!!)

working lunch

haiku scribbled

on my napkin

Carmel Lively Westerman


each day continues

a journey of loneliness

crows screech overhead

Marie Shimane


dawn childbirth

when the door opens

a cock crows

Elizabeth Howard


a week of rain

new appreciation for

the nuance of gray

Claudia Coutu Radmore


reprinting the thesis

leaving the mistakes

in

Owen Bullock


OTHER HAIKU OF MERIT

(Zatsu-ei in no particular order)


year's end . . .

the bedding piled up

in the motel

Bruce Ross


vinegar bath

mother's diamond ring

regains its sparkle

Peggy Heinrich


noon church bell ...

how her dress

traces her

Tyrone McDonald


on grass she shone

under the vast sky-

bare and alone

Aju Mukhopadhyay


morn breeze

the trees filter light

and bird songs

john tiong chunghoo


posh café

the first bite of the plum cake

sends me back home

Rafal Zabratynski


a lady's voice

"your poor mother's grave," she says

needs your attention

Howard Lee Kilby




THE BEST TEN



FIRST PLACE

sunny day -

why not get

the divorce papers?

Owen Bullock

(Ahhh!!!)


SECOND PLACE

cabinetmaker

the mortice joints

on his coffin

John Bird


THIRD PLACE

adoption center

she colors her mom black

her dad no face

Victor P. Gendrano




SEVEN HONOURABLE MENTIONS

(In no particular order)



In the morning,

The suit, the tie, the watch…

At night, only you!

Abhinav Maurya


Season of mellow

Yellow fruit; ripeness is all

Too tired to die

Frank Corcoran


Gathering firewood

One life giving up their soul

For another's warmth

Kristin Reynolds


relationship's end:

he calls the baby

his fuck trophy

Richard Stevenson


Swords to bombs:

At war with one another,

At war with ourselves

Abhinav Maurya


a tiny twig trembles

in the blast of wind

first marital quarrel

Victor P. Gendrano


I told him, "Good boy."

His curled tail wagged one last time.

The vet said, "He's gone."

Elizabeth Ewing



OTHER HAIKU OF MERIT

(Zatsu-ei)


depression;

winds thrash the trees,

no rains- whatever it is!

Aju Mukhopadhyay


Trepidation spills

From your every orifice

Revelation lost

Kristin Reynolds


All haiku are under copyrights of their original authors.

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Judith Hall Presents A Poem By Reetika Vazirani

Sunday, November 2, 2008 by Abhinav Maurya

Ghalib Speaks of His Poet Friends:-

All my life I’ve been amending their verses.
Now that I’m ill they write,
“You have not replied to my letter.” As if I
could make their couplets rhyme,
or rhyme slightly better.
Do they think I should live only
to correct their verses!
Shah Alam Sahib and Tufta, they’re peevish
to the end: they think my ill health
is a poetic exaggeration.

Without me they can versify or not versify;
it’s not for me to prod grown men
at the eleventh hour.
If I’ve lost my tact, I’ll offend them,
but all my life glad comments on loose verse
offended me. Now in pleasing myself,
I’ve lost the pleasure. But hell with these grudges
of the day, these small sentiments.
Let the newspapers print that I’m near death.
I’m not up to correcting the ghazals of a Tufta.

– Reetika Vazirani (1962-2003)
from The Antioch Review, Winter 1996, v. 54, no. 1

Note by Judith Hall

In 1995, I entered service as poetry editor of The Antioch Review. Much to my relief, my predecessor, David St. John, had already accepted poems for issues well into 1996. Vazirani’s is one of his I claim.

Her “Ghalib” is surely the 19th century poet who wrote in Urdu under that name. “Ghazal”, an intricate Arabic form, is probably familiar to BAP readers; the word also means, according to Agha Shahid Ali, “the cry of the gazelle when it is cornered in a hunt and knows it will die.” Form follows word here, and while a romantic editor would link this image to this poet. I will not. The complaints and witty tittle-tattle of Vazirani's Ghalib charm and need no justification.

For the next several weeks, I will be your Sunday editor, succeeding the estimable Bruce Covey in this role. I hope you will enjoy the Antioch poems coming your way.

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To The Coffee House

Monday, December 31, 2007 by Abhinav

I realized long ago that what I had to say could barely keep one blog going, let alone two blogs at a time. There wasn't a great difference in their themes either, for them to exist separately. So I thought I must have a single blog and try to make it as good as possible. And finally, just before the new year, I've managed to merge my two blogs - which had been growing apart yet together like Siamese twins - into a single coherent whole.

And to bid good bye to The-Year-That-Was, here's a splendid coffeehouse poem by the bohemian Viennese poet Peter Altenberg, whom I discovered today following the trail laid out by Medhini (Now I've newfound respect for coffee):



When you are worried, have trouble of one sort or another - to the coffee house!

When she did not keep her appointment, for one reason or another - to the coffee house!

When your shoes are torn and dilapidated - coffee house!

When your income is four hundred crowns and you spend five hundred - coffee house!

You are a chair warmer in the office, while your ambition led you to to seek professional honors - coffee house!

You could not not find a mate to suit you - coffee house!

You feel like committing suicide - coffee house!

You hate and despise human beings, and at the same time you cannot be happy without them - coffee house!

You compose a poem which you can not inflict upon friends that you meet in the street - coffee house!

When your coal scuttle is empty, and your gas ration exhausted - coffee house!

When you are locked out and haven't the money to pay for unlocking the house door - coffee house!

When you acquire a new flame, and intend provoking the old one, you take the new one to the old one's - coffee house!

When you feel like hiding, you dive into a - coffee house!

When you want to be seen in a new suit - coffee house!

When you can not get anything on trust anywhere else - coffee house!

Happy New Year to all my fellow bloggers! Meet you on the other side of the midnight!! Ciao!!!

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Let It Be So...

Thursday, December 6, 2007 by Abhinav

This long due post is my first entry for the December Writing Project at Cafe Writing.


If in the veil of my darkness, thy light takes refuge, let it be so...

If in the pieces of my heart, thy want of love takes refuge, let it be so...

If in my cold, dark nights of despair, thy light takes refuge let it be so...

If in my shriveled hands, the tears of thy plight take refuge, let it be so...

If in my half-lived life, the joy of thy birth takes refuge, let it be so...

If in the shackles of my traditions, thy flight of freedom takes refuge, let it be so...

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Coloured!!!

Sunday, November 18, 2007 by Abhinav

The following poem written by an African kid was adjudged by UN as the best poem for the year 2006. Have a look.

When I born, I black.
When I grow up, I black.
When I go in Sun, I black.
When I scared, I black.
When I sick, I black.
And when I die, I still black.

And you white fellow,
When you born, you pink.
When you grow up, you white.
When you go in sun, you red.
When you cold, you blue.
When you scared, you yellow.
When you sick, you green.
And when you die, you gray.
And you calling me coloured?

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The Rain-Song

Monday, November 5, 2007 by Abhinav


Like the hearts of seasoned wanderers
That know many sweet and sordid tales,
One seeks the arrival of rain-bearers -
Agog raconteurs asail upon fiery gales.

Like the silent mark of changing seasons,
Tiny beads of sweat course the land of skin.
Other heralds, alas, have learnt louder lessons;
A yellow-goggled cuckoo makes a noisy din.

Like a shadow across a day’s decline,
The rain-clouds creep across the land.
Old wizened winds hasten - a sure sign,
And rains and lightning - a sonorous band.

Like a dream heavy upon my eyes,
The sweet scent of the first rains rests.
On the ledge, the weary papiha cries,
And the cuckoo does sheer jests.

Like eyes that know tears more than sight,
The sky does not stop for a very long time.
Once and again, paper-boats pass in plight,
As a muddy rill flows and grows into its prime.

Like a heart that does not know its reasons,
That lives life as if living a passing treason,
Over the fetters of time, I watch the illusions
And the drops that bide their time this season.

Like languid monsoon nights of yore,
The strains of Des, Malkauns and Malhar
Open up the melodies of unwritten lore,
And seek the longing that lies afar.

Like too much pleasure that is pain,
The last notes dissolve into tears.
Over the breeze, lilts a dream again;
And the sweet song of sleep nears.

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An Autumn Leaf And Other Things

by Abhinav

A withering leaf of pale autumn
Is a promise of mirthful spring,
As a prayer sweet and solemn
Does joyous occasion bring.

The wide, wile wings of dark
Bode the dawn of pristine light,
As a distressed lamp does mark
The end of a cruel, fearful night.

The seed that sees a flower wilt
Knows how to send a spur aloft.
The wick that watches wax melt
Seeks to spread a radiance soft.

A mighty river is a little brook
That must grow to reach the sea.
A star is time’s dream that took
Night’s dark deathly refuge to be.

Winds that speak to mountains
Murmur also to lesser leaves.
Rains that visit the brightest lanes
Also pour upon the humblest eaves.

Birds must come home to nest
After soaring the boundless sky.
All flesh must seek eternal rest
When the soul wishes to fly.

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A Translated Ghazal

by Abhinav


In life does everyone’s love be;
Beyond death my dear,
I shall love thee…

To conjure separation!
That would be blasphemy,
Having stolen thee
From the lines of destiny.

In life does everyone’s love be;
Beyond death my dear,
I shall love thee...

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Kabir In Translation

by Abhinav


No sooner will thee ingress my eyes, than I shall rest their guards;
That neither me to other minstrels, nor thee to other bards.

In this whirlwind of love, borne two trifles to greater heights;
When one meets the other, he in time’s opportunity delights.

‘Lo! Here the gardener comes,’ quiver buds by an anxious care;
Then pluck every gay flower, to adorn thy blackest hair.

So it is with water, it shuns the peaks and seeks the plains;
That the higher must thirst, and the lesser make draughty gains.

All that is done is your doing, my will hath no hand;
If my hand wills at all a deed, ‘tis your doing while I stand.

Aye fellow, feast on orts, and of cold waters drink;
And to the sight of others’ ledgers, do not fell think.

Naught in me is mine, aught is Thine;
To return Thee what is Thine is no loss of mine.

Content are all in this world, they eat and sleep;
Why then is Kabir awake, what malaise contrists so deep?

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