An Anthology Of Some Of My Favourite Poems.

I am not a poet, but I can appreciate good poems. When I was in school we had an anthology of around 15 poems for the 10th standard board exams (ICSE). They were all compiled under one heading “Wings Of Poesy”. I still have my old text-book with meanings and references written alongside the margin. I was going through it today and I thought I would post some of my favourites on this blog. So here they are:

 

Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, –
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand pains that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
‘Strange friend,’ I said, ‘here is no cause to mourn.’
‘None,’ said that other, ‘save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now…’

 

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Upagupta by Rabindranath Tagore

Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay sleep in
the dust by the city wall of Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and
stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets,
touching his breast of a sudden?
He woke up startled, and a light from a woman’s
lamp fell on his forgiving eyes.
It was dancing girl, starred with jewels,
Wearing a pale blue mantle, drunk with the wine
of her youth.
She lowered her lamp and saw young face
austerely beautiful.
“Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman,
“Graciously come to my house. The dusty earth
is not fit bed for you.”
The young ascetic answered, “Woman,
go on your way;
When the time is ripe I will come to you.”
Suddenly the black night showed its teeth
in a flash of lightening.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and
The woman trembled in fear of some unknown danger.

A year has not yet passed.
It was evening of a day in April,
in spring season.
The branches of the way side trees were full of blossom.
Gay notes of a flute came floating in the
warm spring air from a far.
The citizens had gone to the woods for the
festival of flowers.
From the mid sky gazed the full moon on the
shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking along the lonely street,
While overhead the love-sick koels uttered from the
mango branches their sleepless plaint.
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and
stood at the base of the rampart.
Was that a woman lying at his feet in the
shadow of the mango grove?
Stuck with black prestilence, her body
spotted with sores of small-pox,
She had been hurriedly removed from the town
To avoid her poisonous contagion.
The ascetic sat by her side, took her head
on his knees,
And moistened her lips with water, and
smeared her body with sandal balm.
“Who are you, merciful one?” asked the woman.
“The time, at last, has come to visit you, and
I am here,” replied the young ascetic.

 

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 The Man with a Hoe by Edwin Markham

(In 1899 Edwin Markham, was inspired by an 1863 painting to write a poem. The painting was “L’homme à la houe” by the French artist, Jean-François Millet; the poem was “The Man with a Hoe”.)

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back, the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this–
More tongued with cries against the world’s blind greed–
More filled with signs and portents for the soul–
More packed with danger to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of the Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world,
A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings–
With those who shaped him to the thing he is–
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world,
After the silence of the centuries? 

 

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The Education of Nature by William Wordsworth

THREE years she grew in sun and shower;  
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower   
On earth was never sown:  
This child I to myself will take;  
She shall be mine, and I will make
 A lady of my own.  
  
“Myself will to my darling be  
Both law and impulse; and with me   
The girl, in rock and plain,  
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power   
To kindle or restrain.  
  
“She shall be sportive as the fawn  
That wild with glee across the lawn   
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,  
And hers the silence and the calm   
Of mute insensate things.  
  
“The floating clouds their state shall lend  
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see  
Ev’n in the motions of the storm  
Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form   
By silent sympathy.  
  
“The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear   
In many a secret place,  
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,  
And beauty born of murmuring sound   
Shall pass into her face.
  
“And vital feelings of delight  
Shall rear her form to stately height,   
Her virgin bosom swell;  
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give,  
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.”  
  
Thus Nature spake—the work was done—  
How soon my Lucy’s race was run!   
She died, and left to me  
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,   
And never more will be.

 

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Swimmers by Louis Untermeyer

I took the crazy short-cut to the bay,
Over a fence or two and through a hedge,
Jumping a private road, along the edge,
Of backyards full of drying wash it lay.
I ran, electric with elation, sweating, impetuous, and wild
For a swift plunge in the sea that smiled,
Mocking and languid, half a mile away.
This was the final thrill, the last sensation
That capped four hours of violence and laughter
To have, with casual friends and casual jokes,
Hard sport, a cold swim and fresh linen after,
And now, the last set being played and over.
I hurried past the lazy lakes of clover;
I swung my racket at astonished oaks,
My arm still tingling from aggressive strokes.
Tennis was over for the day…
I took the leaping short-cut to the bay.
Then, the swift plunge into the cool, green dark
The windy waters rushing past me, through me,
Filled with the sense of some heroic lark,
Exulting in a vigor, clean and roomy.
Swiftly I rose to meet the feline sea
That sprang upon me with a hundred claws,
And grappled, pulled me down, and played with me.
Then, tense and breathless in the tightening pause,
When one wave grows into a toppling acre,
I dived headlong into the foremost breaker,
Pitting against a cold and turbulent strife
The feverish intensity of life…
Out of the foam I lurched and rode the wave,
Swimming, hand over hand, against the wind;
I felt the sea s vain pounding, and I grinned
Knowing I was its master, not its slave.
Oh, the proud total of those lusty hours
The give and take of rough and vigorous tussles
With happy sinews and rejoicing muscles;
The knowledge of my own beneficent powers,
Feeling the force in one small body bent
To curb and tame this towering element.
Back on the curving beach I stood again,
Facing the bath-house, when a group of men,
Stumbling beneath some sort of weight, went by.
I could not see the hidden thing they carried;
I only heard : “He never gave a cry”
“Who s going to tell her” “Yes, and they just married”
“Such a good swimmer, too,” . . . and then they passed,
Leaving the silence throbbing and aghast.
A moment there my buoyant heart hung slack,
And then the glad, barbaric blood came back.
Singing a livelier tune; and in my pulse
I felt the goad that strengthens and exults. . . .
Why I was there and whither I must go
I did not care enough for me to know
The same unresting struggle and the glowing
Beauty of spendthrift hours, bravely showing
Life, an adventure perilous and gay
And death, a long and vivid holiday.

 

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The Walrus and The Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright–
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done–
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun!” 

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead–
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “it would be grand!”

“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

“O Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head–
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat–
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more–
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed–
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view? 

“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf–
I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none–
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

 

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(This poem was not there in portion for that year, however I recall doing it some other time.)

Death the Leveller by James Shirley

THE glories of our blood and state
         Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
         Death lays his icy hand on kings:
         Sceptre and Crown
         Must tumble down,
         And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
         And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
         They tame but one another still:
         Early or late
         They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
         Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death’s purple altar now
         See where the victor-victim bleeds.
         Your heads must come
         To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.