ISSN-0974-3057
The Enchanting Verses
International Presents
ISSUE -IX April 2010
ALL SELECTED POETS AND POEMS
"Proper names are poetry in the raw. Like all poetry they are untranslatable."
[W.H. (Wystan Hugh) Auden (1907-1973), Anglo-American poet. "Names, Proper," A Certain World (1970).]
"Women do not have as great a need for poetry because their own essence is poetry. "
[Friedrich Von Schlegel (1772-1829), German philosopher. Idea 127 in Selected Ideas (1799-1800), translated by Ernst Behler and Roman Struc, Dialogue on Poetry and Literary Aphorisms, Pennsylvania University Press (1968).]
In this ISSUE
The Enchanting Poet Award winner- Jovica Tasevski-Eternijan
Editor’s Choice-I award winner-N.D. Professor Marialuisa Marino H.E.
Editor’s Choice-II award winner-Uma Chatterjee
Editor’s Choice-II award winner-Saptarshi Dutt
Books Reviewed:-
Plastic Faces By Sathya Narayana
Illusions By Smita Tiwari
Other Featured/Selected Poets:-Chaturvedi Divi, Martino Fortuin, Lewis R Humphries, Makineedi Surya Bhaskar, Puttu Kulkarni, Anuja Mohan Pradhan, Srilaksmi M Adhyapak, V Raja Gopala Rao, Sailaja Mithra, Charles Frederickson and Smita Tiwari.
This ISSUE of THE ENCHANTING VERSES is dedicated to Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy was born June 2, 1840, in the village of Upper Bockhampton, located in Southwestern England. His father was a stone mason and a violinist. His mother enjoyed reading and relating all the folksongs and legends of the region. Between his parents, Hardy gained all the interests that would appear in his novels and his own life: his love for architecture and music, his interest in the lifestyles of the country folk, and his passion for all sorts of literature.
At the age of eight, Hardy began to attend Julia Martin's school in Bockhampton. However, most of his education came from the books he found in Dorchester, the nearby town. He learned French, German, and Latin by teaching himself through these books. At sixteen, Hardy's father apprenticed his son to a local architect, John Hicks. Under Hicks' tutelage, Hardy learned much about architectural drawing and restoring old houses and churches. Hardy loved the apprenticeship because it allowed him to learn the histories of the houses and the families that lived there. Despite his work, Hardy did not forget his academics: in the evenings, Hardy would study with the Greek scholar Horace Moule.
In 1862, Hardy was sent to London to work with the architect Arthur Blomfield. During his five years in London, Hardy immersed himself in the cultural scene by visiting the museums and theaters and studying classic literature. He even began to write his own poetry. Although he did not stay in London, choosing to return to Dorchester as a church restorer, he took his newfound talent for writing to Dorchester as well.
From 1867, Hardy wrote poetry and novels, though the first part of his career was devoted to the novel. At first he published anonymously, but when people became interested in his works, he began to use his own name. Like Dickens, Hardy's novels were published in serial forms in magazinesthat were popular in both England and America. His first popular novel was Under the Greenwood Tree, published in 1872. The next great novel, Far from the Madding Crowd (1874) was so popular that with the profits, Hardy was able to give up architecture and marry Emma Gifford. Other popular novels followed in quick succession: The Return of the Native (1878), The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886), The Woodlanders (1887), Tess of the D'Urbervilles (1891), and Jude the Obscure (1895). In addition to these larger works, Hardy published three collections of short stories and five smaller novels, all moderately successful. However, despite the praise Hardy's fiction received, many critics also found his works to be too shocking, especially Tess of the D'Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure. The outcry against Jude was so great that Hardy decided to stop writing novels and return to his first great love, poetry.
Over the years, Hardy had divided his time between his home, Max Gate, in Dorchester and his lodgings in London. In his later years, he remained in Dorchester to focus completely on his poetry. In 1898, he saw his dream of becoming a poet realized with the publication of Wessex Poems. He then turned his attentions to an epic drama in verse, The Dynasts; it was finally completed in 1908. Before his death, he had written over 800 poems, many of them published while he was in his eighties.
By the last two decades of Hardy's life, he had achieved fame as great as Dickens' fame. In 1910, he was awarded the Order of Merit. New readers had also discovered his novels by the publication of the Wessex Editions, the definitive versions of all Hardy's early works. As a result, Max Gate became a literary shrine.
Hardy also found happiness in his personal life. His first wife, Emma, died in 1912. Although their marriage had not been happy, Hardy grieved at her sudden death. In 1914, he married Florence Dugale, and she was extremely devoted to him. After his death, Florence published Hardy's autobiography in two parts under her own name.
After a long and highly successful life, Thomas Hardy died on January 11, 1928, at the age of 87. His ashes were buried in Poets' Corner at Westminster Abbey.
At the age of eight, Hardy began to attend Julia Martin's school in Bockhampton. However, most of his education came from the books he found in Dorchester, the nearby town. He learned French, German, and Latin by teaching himself through these books. At sixteen, Hardy's father apprenticed his son to a local architect, John Hicks. Under Hicks' tutelage, Hardy learned much about architectural drawing and restoring old houses and churches. Hardy loved the apprenticeship because it allowed him to learn the histories of the houses and the families that lived there. Despite his work, Hardy did not forget his academics: in the evenings, Hardy would study with the Greek scholar Horace Moule.
In 1862, Hardy was sent to London to work with the architect Arthur Blomfield. During his five years in London, Hardy immersed himself in the cultural scene by visiting the museums and theaters and studying classic literature. He even began to write his own poetry. Although he did not stay in London, choosing to return to Dorchester as a church restorer, he took his newfound talent for writing to Dorchester as well.
From 1867, Hardy wrote poetry and novels, though the first part of his career was devoted to the novel. At first he published anonymously, but when people became interested in his works, he began to use his own name. Like Dickens, Hardy's novels were published in serial forms in magazinesthat were popular in both England and America. His first popular novel was Under the Greenwood Tree, published in 1872. The next great novel, Far from the Madding Crowd (1874) was so popular that with the profits, Hardy was able to give up architecture and marry Emma Gifford. Other popular novels followed in quick succession: The Return of the Native (1878), The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886), The Woodlanders (1887), Tess of the D'Urbervilles (1891), and Jude the Obscure (1895). In addition to these larger works, Hardy published three collections of short stories and five smaller novels, all moderately successful. However, despite the praise Hardy's fiction received, many critics also found his works to be too shocking, especially Tess of the D'Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure. The outcry against Jude was so great that Hardy decided to stop writing novels and return to his first great love, poetry.
Over the years, Hardy had divided his time between his home, Max Gate, in Dorchester and his lodgings in London. In his later years, he remained in Dorchester to focus completely on his poetry. In 1898, he saw his dream of becoming a poet realized with the publication of Wessex Poems. He then turned his attentions to an epic drama in verse, The Dynasts; it was finally completed in 1908. Before his death, he had written over 800 poems, many of them published while he was in his eighties.
By the last two decades of Hardy's life, he had achieved fame as great as Dickens' fame. In 1910, he was awarded the Order of Merit. New readers had also discovered his novels by the publication of the Wessex Editions, the definitive versions of all Hardy's early works. As a result, Max Gate became a literary shrine.
Hardy also found happiness in his personal life. His first wife, Emma, died in 1912. Although their marriage had not been happy, Hardy grieved at her sudden death. In 1914, he married Florence Dugale, and she was extremely devoted to him. After his death, Florence published Hardy's autobiography in two parts under her own name.
After a long and highly successful life, Thomas Hardy died on January 11, 1928, at the age of 87. His ashes were buried in Poets' Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Award Winners
The Enchanting Poet Certification
This award goes to Jovica Tasevski-Eternijan for his contribution in the field of poetry.
THE ABYSS EMBRACES US
In the brain furrows
lies the strange hound, ailing to the core
and growling
at curiosity, poor puppy!
The heavy tarnishes
on its paws stick...
We fall, endlessly we fall
and bring forth incensed wasps.
And the crystal lady,
there she goes!
THE ABYSS EMBRACES US
In the brain furrows
lies the strange hound, ailing to the core
and growling
at curiosity, poor puppy!
The heavy tarnishes
on its paws stick...
We fall, endlessly we fall
and bring forth incensed wasps.
And the crystal lady,
there she goes!
Editor's Choice-I Certification
Beyond Fantasy
Out of the prison of conciousness,
living fantasy springs in the minds eye.
We are part of fleeting moments,
beyond fantasy we are free to fly.
And in this transient moment,
we dance on the winds of time.
An infinite flow of inventions,
revolving in ones mind.
We then become the fantasy,
made real or fairytale.
Thus from ones heart we muse and dream,
and then we gently sail,
and in the pleasure of living in this creative space,
we have created art,
for the future human race.
By N.D. Professor Marialuisa Marino H.E.
Out of the prison of conciousness,
living fantasy springs in the minds eye.
We are part of fleeting moments,
beyond fantasy we are free to fly.
And in this transient moment,
we dance on the winds of time.
An infinite flow of inventions,
revolving in ones mind.
We then become the fantasy,
made real or fairytale.
Thus from ones heart we muse and dream,
and then we gently sail,
and in the pleasure of living in this creative space,
we have created art,
for the future human race.
By N.D. Professor Marialuisa Marino H.E.
Editor's Choice -II certification
A Dawn Amidst Ruins
Mythic rocks loom large, predominating
The arcane site.
The forlorn river clears its
Misty facade slowly.
Half-broken temple pediments and arches and domes and
Palace foundations rise to the eyes
As illusions.
The first light soaks up the fog
From the crusty hills and the dusty pathways
That cut through the
Long-lost dynasty on the
Banks of a craggy Tungavadra.
The ruins of Hampi wake up with
The fluttering coconut leaves and
And a delicious languor
That steals over the monolithic Ganesh,
Perched inside the rock-cut cave.
A light breeze whispers the
Long history of sobs and sighs
Of kings who exulted and queens
Who sulked in the Zenana Mahal.
Time stops here.
By Uma Chatterjee
Mythic rocks loom large, predominating
The arcane site.
The forlorn river clears its
Misty facade slowly.
Half-broken temple pediments and arches and domes and
Palace foundations rise to the eyes
As illusions.
The first light soaks up the fog
From the crusty hills and the dusty pathways
That cut through the
Long-lost dynasty on the
Banks of a craggy Tungavadra.
The ruins of Hampi wake up with
The fluttering coconut leaves and
And a delicious languor
That steals over the monolithic Ganesh,
Perched inside the rock-cut cave.
A light breeze whispers the
Long history of sobs and sighs
Of kings who exulted and queens
Who sulked in the Zenana Mahal.
Time stops here.
By Uma Chatterjee
Editor's Choice-III Certification
Green Hope
The small patch of green hope has dried up
leaving emaciated stalks
Shuffling sere, dry scraping on the wind.
Deep below the worms turn and spin,
Lies shitting dirt,
Churning the past into the future.
I am faithless. My heart has worn out.
But the future know
the grass will grow again.
By Saptarshi Dutt
The small patch of green hope has dried up
leaving emaciated stalks
Shuffling sere, dry scraping on the wind.
Deep below the worms turn and spin,
Lies shitting dirt,
Churning the past into the future.
I am faithless. My heart has worn out.
But the future know
the grass will grow again.
By Saptarshi Dutt
Book Review of Plastic Faces by Sathya Narayana
Sathya Narayana, a poet from Andhra Pradesh, India focuses mainly upon naked and bitter social truths occupying integral parts of a person’s life from birth to death. It is quite evident that he bases upon his motherland, India while introducing various themes in his verses. His style of penning is such that it scoops the philosophy and poetics out of a social menace or out of a particular incident and throws it directly upon the hearts of the readers. His straight way of writing is what prevents misunderstanding of what he means to deliver. The book “plastic faces” opens with the poem “Beware Voters”. In the second stanza of this poem Sathyanarayana introduces one of the rare pathetic fallacies. He encourages the nurturing minds in his poem “Dreams and Reality”. He kicks on the Indian political scenario in poems like “Elections Haiku”, “Fifth Estate”, etc. Every poet in some corner of their heart possesses romanticism while dealing with Love and romance. The poet pens his ways of visualizing love in poems like “Drowning”. The poem “Indian Heart” is a satire upon the country feelings.One of the best poems in the book is the title poem “Plastic Faces”. The wonderful metaphor Plastic Faces has been used by the poet to describe him in every turns of life.
The book ends again with a serious message to the world that is responsible for the black spot of poverty through the poem “We and They”.
The book ends again with a serious message to the world that is responsible for the black spot of poverty through the poem “We and They”.
Book review of Illusions by Smita Tiwari
Smita Tiwari is one of the many poets who enjoys to pen things with deep aesthetical and philosophical touch rather than roaming about in the playground of acquisitive life. She always tries to find out the joining thread between poetics, aesthetics and normal going of life. Her verses prove that she loves to be haunted and turns those haunting into beauty through her verses. She clicks open her book with the Title poem Illusions.
At the very beginning paragraph she introduces a Simile comparing Hallucinations with Mirages and a metaphor while comparing the way they come and go. The Lines are as,
“Hallucinations come and go, eluding me, and I wait
Somewhere between illusion and reality, for a mirage to
Appear before me, to quench my thirst, to assure me of an
Oasis amidst sand dunes, before it was blown away by winds.”
The poem speaks of her journey and the much she has seen in it. At last meaningfulness arise out of Illusions.
The book is a great storehouse of the beautiful elements of nature in a versified manner. Starting from Hedges to Rivers, Storms, Coastline, Waves, Dew Drops to Woods each of the poems brings a unique bond between natural and manmade phenomenon. The mind of a reader rotates while reading her poem “Circle” and gets stuck at the end while moving suddenly. The poetess has also highlighted the way of trapping nostalgia as in her poem Diaries. While reaching the apex of philosophical muse she remains all the time to connect her poems with a social message.
At the very beginning paragraph she introduces a Simile comparing Hallucinations with Mirages and a metaphor while comparing the way they come and go. The Lines are as,
“Hallucinations come and go, eluding me, and I wait
Somewhere between illusion and reality, for a mirage to
Appear before me, to quench my thirst, to assure me of an
Oasis amidst sand dunes, before it was blown away by winds.”
The poem speaks of her journey and the much she has seen in it. At last meaningfulness arise out of Illusions.
The book is a great storehouse of the beautiful elements of nature in a versified manner. Starting from Hedges to Rivers, Storms, Coastline, Waves, Dew Drops to Woods each of the poems brings a unique bond between natural and manmade phenomenon. The mind of a reader rotates while reading her poem “Circle” and gets stuck at the end while moving suddenly. The poetess has also highlighted the way of trapping nostalgia as in her poem Diaries. While reaching the apex of philosophical muse she remains all the time to connect her poems with a social message.
ALL SELECTED POETS AND POEMS
The Theme
I am the theme, the uncut diamond
I get many carvings before
I reflect my effulgence in full.
I am latent but omnipresent
You can feel my angles
In signature tunes and sculptures.
I express myself strong
And loud in caricatures,
The political cartoons.
I sulk and refuse to reflect
When weird modern artists
Make crude cuts.
I shine brightly when
Master poets manage
Fine cuts through diction.
I shoot sparks of wisdom
With a slant cut of rhyme here
And a tender touch of rhythm there.
...
By Chaturvedi.Divi
Canvas
Such an intense feeling of grief
Gnawing mercilessly, like starvation.
It appeared not in the slightest at all brief
I am the canvas, and the genre is pain.
With somber stroke and abstract curve
Tears about to gravitate down
In each hue, the misery to relive
I am the canvas, and the colours are pain.
Caught in a square devoid of hope
Darkness shines while light fades
There is no way to cope…
I am the canvas, and the subject is pain.
Nothing but an empty shell
Seemingly alive yet expressionlessly dead
holding back severe emotional swell
I am the canvas, and the artist is pain.
By Martino Fortuin
A Purpose in the Hollow
Too late to save the seeping life of day,
where moonlight spills in tricks of hoary shine,
a rebellion bleeds beneath it’s rage.
Between the streets glow and the shade it swims,
its motion fleeting as felled slants of light
sweep across the flagstones in relentless chase.
Whilst footfall pounds against the cobbled stone,
and beats the cadence of an anguished song,
its quarry falls before insistent will.
And still between the contours of shadows,
where all is hushed but for his laden breath,
he bows beneath the weight of cruel intent.
As hands to fists that bray the lifeless form
shape crimson moulds beneath the silver sun,
and puncture life with thrusts of a pointed blade.
Until bruised and steeped in a bloodstained hue,
they are pressed into pocketfuls of nothing,
restless for the remnants of the day.
Though middle England rests in content sleep,
it’s children seek a purpose in the hollow;
denied them through the motions of the day.
Though strangers in a small square of being,
they acquiesce to an ambiguous yearn,
to belong beneath the smoulder of a midday sun.
Through a portent of the fractured day,
where blue smoke embers haunt the cerise sky,
slow bleeding colours birth the working hours;
when they must live the dreams of elders,
through the dint of toil and token craft,
and cast time until the setting of the light.
By Lewis R Humphries
THE FAREWELL
With the shakes of farewell
The still vision
Gets moved lively…
Trees run speedily…
And wind also blows fluttering!
Though moving forward…
Bygone ruminations!
Suddenly, the river of sandy water
Flows underneath of wheels
With scatters and scrambles!
The floating ember
Cleans the eyes, becoming a mote!
The heart also cleansed…
Become lighter!
Meanwhile –
Outside the window
Peeping through the tender clouds
The friend of ‘bosom’!
While all are slept
Under the veils of bed-sheets
Chatting continuously all the night,
He covers in the blanket of twilight!
By the time he gets tired,
The station of destination comes!
We get down
Parting with-
The friend…
And with the life!
by Makineedi Surya Bhaskar
QUESTION OF ALMIGHTY
I am Fire; are you ready to kiss?
If yes, you will be my flame
I am water, are you ready to embrace
If yes, you will be my wave
I am sound; are you ready to accept
If yes, you will be my frequency
I am sky; are you ready to touch
If yes, you will be my “space”
I am the silence; are you ready to see
If yes, you will be my Truth
I am the nothing; are you able to feel
If yes, you will be my vision
I am the beauty; are you ready to reject
If yes, you will be my real Prophet
By Puttu Kulkarni
LAHORE TAILORS
Behind the rickety sewing machine,
Sits a blue turban on shrugged shoulders,
Carrying a promise, nodded to his late father,
Whose grand, great grand and great-great-grand fathers,
Made overcoats with embroidery in wires of gold,
For the Mughals at Lahore.
Long gone are the days of Mughals,
Lush gardens of Lahore,
Left to memories of beyond the line,
Sewing a crack in silk sherwani he tells,
This trade prospers in youth,
No damsel knock at an old tailor.
He resolves not to ask from his sons,
A promise to carry the thread and niddle,
He wishes not his sons by his death bed,
Else, his late father’s spirit may charm,
Lifting his hand to son’s head,
To carry the flag of hundred years glory.
To shield his sons,
He made both his sons lorry drivers,
Running the vessels,
In the arteries of the nation.
By Anuja Mohan Pradhan
Sits a blue turban on shrugged shoulders,
Carrying a promise, nodded to his late father,
Whose grand, great grand and great-great-grand fathers,
Made overcoats with embroidery in wires of gold,
For the Mughals at Lahore.
Long gone are the days of Mughals,
Lush gardens of Lahore,
Left to memories of beyond the line,
Sewing a crack in silk sherwani he tells,
This trade prospers in youth,
No damsel knock at an old tailor.
He resolves not to ask from his sons,
A promise to carry the thread and niddle,
He wishes not his sons by his death bed,
Else, his late father’s spirit may charm,
Lifting his hand to son’s head,
To carry the flag of hundred years glory.
To shield his sons,
He made both his sons lorry drivers,
Running the vessels,
In the arteries of the nation.
By Anuja Mohan Pradhan
The Divine Succour
The battle raged on ever fierce,
Molten hot gold rays the very earth pierce.
In the clash between good and evil,
A clamor tumultuous as gore and blood spill.
Skies singed, crimson with blood celestial,
Soot blackens in cinders ecclesial.
Day into dusk metamorphoses,
Night’s dark cape, a grim silence prophesizes.
The clarion call for cease fire,
Flutes thro’ conch spirals as troops tire.
A silence uneasy, an eerie calm,
Rent by a voice thunderous, evoking qualms.
Laughter evil resounds in peals,
The heavens shudder as earth squeals.
Prince among men, in silhouette chiseled,
Divinity pared, in form human filled.
Noble grace with missiles armed,
Infinite into finite mortal, charmed.
Brothers in arms, with bow strings drawn,
Battling evil unseen, of vainglorious brawn.
Lightning shafts pierce night’s sky dark,
Offspring of the ogre ten headed, rains venom on earth stark.
Struck by missiles of venom potent,
The infinite cosmos in shells mortal portend.
Brothers born in the lineage of the Sun,
Lie fettered in venom’s vice ashen.
Life’s very sustainer, the soul of all creation,
Respecting mortal confines, in death’s vice unbroken.
The army gathered in grief stricken,
Throats parched, tears unshed, gait slackened.
The devotee ardent, his heart aflame,
In remedial quest, anguish inflamed.
His lament rent the skies apart,
His Lord’s golden eagle rushed in a dart.
The battle field bathed in a hue golden,
The divine mount imbibing the vice poison.
Awakened, renewed, from deathly repose,
Soul of the universe, in gratitude bows.
A piety humble, in grace unparalleled,
An aura beatific, in virtue unequalled.
By Srilakshmi.M.Adhyapak
The boy goes to school
The boy goes to school, dressed up smartly and with baggage
Of books, lunch box and water bottle
To nourish his brain and also his brawn
Walking briskly to discover new worlds and horizons
Both the inner and outer; the inner, his latent talents and defects
Now a days his physical and mental strength and stamina too
In carrying the weight of the school bag!
The outer that surrounds him with its varying ramifications and
Contradictions ever grouping and ever changing and regrouping
like pieces in a kaleidoscope and moving clouds in the sky
To understand, appreciate, arrive at common principles, apply them
In finding solutions to the problems that confront him
Fighting against odds to shape the outcome to his advantage
In the unseen but sure future
He is like a mountaineer with his kit, climbing up
To reach the summit braving the testing weather and avalanches!
On every return after the day's arduous work
And a short refresh, the pleasing words of the boy
Spoken ,attempting to articulate
About his adventures in his new world
To his parents, are drops of nectar and notes of joy
And before their mind's eye the future well-bred ,polished
Accomplished and equipped promising young hero stands
Making them to forget for the while the burden and restraint
Of finance they bear to give the best education to their son
And with sweet dreams of the future they sleep but
To wake up before the following daybreak
Well in advance of the inevitable horn of the school bus
To prepare the boy to the day's ordeal
And the boy dressed up smartly readies himself for his next adventure
Unmindful of other things except his new world
By V. Raja Gopala Rao
UNDER AWNING OF GREATER CITY
In the shades of greater city, grudging pythons
stomach filling with fresh meat in daylight
human beasts sleeping drowsily
on societies graves after blood bathing
are axing very branch they are sitting..
used to ac rooms, foam beds
on modern platform with greed company
doing middle street dance of savagery..
on one hand standing with no canopy
sitting in hunch on a corner In the shades is poverty
on other hand with suffocating wool cotton fire
ostentation taking refuge of winter..
inhumanly fighting with innocents
illbothered about future mind only engrossed in presence
having only asylum of ground...
deep under ruling these sinners are
curseful land this is....
born every child are to take
lessons of blood colour, taste these days..
In banks now don’t save money
but save little bit mental harmony..
person needs no meal
but heartfully speaking smile..
hearing screams
faintly from tarnished lives
covering with goblin robes
having only work of burning effigies
in the way of lives, deriving satisfactions
is today’s politics...
On an only canvass with two brushes
scribbling some lines feeling it as modern art
today’s younger generation’s enjoying...
between ambitions and over enthuses battling
disregarded on either ways
merry making the mirages
middle class maintaining silence...
On one side in the borders of our country
firing howitzers on enemy
On the other side unable to identify
bodies of their kinny
hugging bundled bleeding body
fate exhibiting strangely
filling reserves of history...
a thought hence is rising
that soular light stop in the mid day
finding and searching
pigeons of peace place of living
which in vain later understanding
after finding a place of no blood shedding
alas take a breath with all smiling
by Sailaja Mithra
CELEBRATE MULTIVERSITY
The fundamental problem is indifference
Activating passivity reversing hateful fears
Open to understanding respectful tolerance
Willful compromises agreeing to disagree
Praying to whatever God listens
Keep the faith universal salvation
Christmas Kwanzaa Ramadan Hanukkah Solstice
Dharma wheel turning full circle
Prickly holly sneaky mistletoe kisses
'Elf conscious North Pole meltdown
Yuletide carols harmonized Silent Night
Star of Bethlehem Nativity creche
Kwanzaa Swahili for First Fruits
African harvest bountiful taproot blessings
Uplifting spirit marching ever onward
Kinara candles red black green
Fasting from dawn to sunset
Obligation demands appetite denial continence
Eid-ul-Fitre feast shared willful charity
Thanking Allah for blessed mercy
Still believing in wondrous miracles
Temple flame burned eight days
Illuminating everlasting light rekindled daily
Menorah candles votive lamp remembrances
Celebrating Tree of Life diversity
Evergreen bodhi cedar baobab pine
All children indiscriminately presented greatest
Gift Peace on Earth TLC
by Dr. Charles Frederickson
Colours
They had said dreams would come to me in colours,
but my wait seems endless, for black & white is all I see.
The changing hues of green along the lush country-side,
stir me as do the variegated colours of the blue of waters.
Rivers surrounding my city turn around to look at me,
when they feel I have not noticed their changing colours.
If there were no colours, life would become meaningless,
a dull, dreary existence, of ennui, of same-ness, of weariness..
Why then do dreams not come to me in colours? they are
after all only dreams never to come true, there only for a while
But in colour, they could have given to me what I longingly
seek, holding in my arms the wonders of a beautiful world.
By Smita Tiwari
THANK YOU
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