A POEM OF THE DAY
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mahendran u
Jan 12, 2014, 9:48:45 AM1/12/14
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January 12, 2014
Lines on Nonsense
by Eliza Lee Follen
Yes, nonsense is a treasure!
I love it from my heart;
The only earthly pleasure
That never will depart.
But, as for stupid reason,
That stalking, ten-foot rule,
She's always out of season,
A tedious, testy fool.
She's like a walking steeple,
With a clock for face and eyes,
Still bawling to all people,
Time bids us to be wise.
While nonsense on the spire
A weathercock you'll find,
Than reason soaring higher,
And changing with the wind.
The clock too oft deceives,
Says what it cannot prove;
While every one believes
The vane that turns above.
Reason oft speaks unbidden,
And chides us to our face;
For which she should be chidden,
And taught to know her place.
While nonsense smiles and chatters,
And says such charming things,
Like youthful hope she flatters;
And like a syren sings.
Her charm's from fancy borrowed,
For she is fancy's pet;
Her name is on her forehead,
In rainbow colors set.
Then, nonsense let us cherish,
Far, far from reason's light;
Lest in her light she perish,
And vanish from our sight.
Today's poem is in the public domain.
About This Poem
Eliza Lee Follen's "Lines on Nonsense" was first published in 1839 in
Follen's fifth publication, Poems (1839).
Poetry by Follen
source got from the following web.
www.poets.org
--
Never do tomorrow what you can do today, procrastination is the thief of time.
Beautifully said by the ever great Dickens!
With regards for happiness ever,
U. Mahendran,
Ph.D researcher,
Department of English,
Pondicherry University.
Phone: 9944505154
Mail: mahendra...@gmail.com
Lines on Nonsense
by Eliza Lee Follen
Yes, nonsense is a treasure!
I love it from my heart;
The only earthly pleasure
That never will depart.
But, as for stupid reason,
That stalking, ten-foot rule,
She's always out of season,
A tedious, testy fool.
She's like a walking steeple,
With a clock for face and eyes,
Still bawling to all people,
Time bids us to be wise.
While nonsense on the spire
A weathercock you'll find,
Than reason soaring higher,
And changing with the wind.
The clock too oft deceives,
Says what it cannot prove;
While every one believes
The vane that turns above.
Reason oft speaks unbidden,
And chides us to our face;
For which she should be chidden,
And taught to know her place.
While nonsense smiles and chatters,
And says such charming things,
Like youthful hope she flatters;
And like a syren sings.
Her charm's from fancy borrowed,
For she is fancy's pet;
Her name is on her forehead,
In rainbow colors set.
Then, nonsense let us cherish,
Far, far from reason's light;
Lest in her light she perish,
And vanish from our sight.
Today's poem is in the public domain.
About This Poem
Eliza Lee Follen's "Lines on Nonsense" was first published in 1839 in
Follen's fifth publication, Poems (1839).
Poetry by Follen
source got from the following web.
www.poets.org
--
Never do tomorrow what you can do today, procrastination is the thief of time.
Beautifully said by the ever great Dickens!
With regards for happiness ever,
U. Mahendran,
Ph.D researcher,
Department of English,
Pondicherry University.
Phone: 9944505154
Mail: mahendra...@gmail.com
Radha
Jan 12, 2014, 2:08:10 PM1/12/14
to brail...@googlegroups.com
what a poem!
nonsense! hahaha ha
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Cheers,
Radha
"Everything you want in your life is waiting for you an inch outside
your comfort zone, and an inch inside your effort."
nonsense! hahaha ha
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Cheers,
Radha
"Everything you want in your life is waiting for you an inch outside
your comfort zone, and an inch inside your effort."
mahendran u
Jan 12, 2014, 2:27:10 PM1/12/14
to brail...@googlegroups.com
I too enjoyed by reading it again and again madam.
mahendran u
Jan 14, 2014, 6:31:55 AM1/14/14
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I Know A Few Things
by Stuart Dischell
Old bells wake me up
At ten, then the wing snaps
Of pigeons skirting the courtyard
Bring me to the window,
Where the young cosmeticians
In their very clean outfits
On break check their phones
And smoke and laugh among
Their number and roll
Their beautiful made-up
Eyes at me when from above
I wish all three of them
A good day, then one flicks
An ash and blinks twice,
Another takes a deep drag,
And the third continues
To answer the message
Her father sent from home,
Concerning the death
Of the family cow,
So white and brown.
Copyright © 2014 by Stuart Dischell. Used with permission of the author.
About This Poem
"No matter how late I stay up, I always feel guilty sleeping in, even
if it's only until ten. The old bells are those of the church of
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, some of the oldest in the world, or maybe they
are the ringtone of one of the cosmetician's phones. In a gallery, I
once heard a woman from the UK tell her friend she should call her,
give her 'a bell' sometime soon."
--Stuart Dischell
GOT FROM THE FOLLOWING WEB.
www.poets.org
My heart felt pongal wishes to each one of you!
by Stuart Dischell
Old bells wake me up
At ten, then the wing snaps
Of pigeons skirting the courtyard
Bring me to the window,
Where the young cosmeticians
In their very clean outfits
On break check their phones
And smoke and laugh among
Their number and roll
Their beautiful made-up
Eyes at me when from above
I wish all three of them
A good day, then one flicks
An ash and blinks twice,
Another takes a deep drag,
And the third continues
To answer the message
Her father sent from home,
Concerning the death
Of the family cow,
So white and brown.
Copyright © 2014 by Stuart Dischell. Used with permission of the author.
About This Poem
"No matter how late I stay up, I always feel guilty sleeping in, even
if it's only until ten. The old bells are those of the church of
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, some of the oldest in the world, or maybe they
are the ringtone of one of the cosmetician's phones. In a gallery, I
once heard a woman from the UK tell her friend she should call her,
give her 'a bell' sometime soon."
--Stuart Dischell
GOT FROM THE FOLLOWING WEB.
www.poets.org
My heart felt pongal wishes to each one of you!
mahendran u
Jan 17, 2014, 9:24:18 AM1/17/14
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Because it looked hotter that way
by Camille Dungy
we let our hair down. It wasn't so much that we
worried about what people thought or about keeping it real
but that we knew this was our moment. We knew we'd blow our cool
sooner or later. Probably sooner. Probably even before we
got too far out of Westmont High and had kids of our own who left
home wearing clothes we didn't think belonged in school.
Like Mrs. C. whose nearly unrecognizably pretty senior photo we
passed every day on the way to Gym, we'd get old. Or like Mr. Lurk
who told us all the time how it's never too late
to throw a Hail Mary like he did his junior year and how we
could win everything for the team and hear the band strike
up a tune so the cheer squad could sing our name, too. Straight
out of a Hallmark movie, Mr. Lurk's hero turned teacher story. We
had heard it a million times. Sometimes he'd ask us to sing
with him, T-O-N-Y-L-U-R-K Tony Tony Lurk Lurk Lurk. Sin
ironia, con sentimiento, por favor, and then we
would get back to our Spanish lessons, opening our thin
textbooks, until the bell rang and we went on to the cotton gin
in History. Really, this had nothing to do with being cool. We
only wanted to have a moment to ourselves, a moment before Jazz
Band and after Gym when we could look in the mirror and like it. June
and Tiffany and Janet all told me I looked pretty. We
took turns saying nice things, though we might just as likely say, Die
and go to hell. Beauty or hell. No difference. The bell would ring soon.
With thanks to "We Real Cool" by Gwendolyn Brooks
Copyright © 2014 by Camille Dungy. Used with permission of the author.
About This Poem
"I find that received forms can connect me to new inspiration. This
poem is a 'Golden Shovel.' The acrostic form, popularized by Terrance
Hayes, uses each word of 'We Real Cool' by Gwendolyn Brooks as the
last word of each line. Coming up with something to do with 'lurk' and
with 'sin' and with 'gin' pushed my writing process in an unexpected
direction. For me, writing in received forms also highlights my
connection to a community of writers, living and dead. Every time I
write a sonnet, for instance, I am in the company of other poets who
have written their own sonnets. This make the solitary art of writing
far less lonely."
--Camille Dungy
Camille Dungy is the author of several books of poems, including Smith
Blue (Southern Illinois University Press, 2011). She is a professor in
the English Department at Colorado State University.
by Camille Dungy
we let our hair down. It wasn't so much that we
worried about what people thought or about keeping it real
but that we knew this was our moment. We knew we'd blow our cool
sooner or later. Probably sooner. Probably even before we
got too far out of Westmont High and had kids of our own who left
home wearing clothes we didn't think belonged in school.
Like Mrs. C. whose nearly unrecognizably pretty senior photo we
passed every day on the way to Gym, we'd get old. Or like Mr. Lurk
who told us all the time how it's never too late
to throw a Hail Mary like he did his junior year and how we
could win everything for the team and hear the band strike
up a tune so the cheer squad could sing our name, too. Straight
out of a Hallmark movie, Mr. Lurk's hero turned teacher story. We
had heard it a million times. Sometimes he'd ask us to sing
with him, T-O-N-Y-L-U-R-K Tony Tony Lurk Lurk Lurk. Sin
ironia, con sentimiento, por favor, and then we
would get back to our Spanish lessons, opening our thin
textbooks, until the bell rang and we went on to the cotton gin
in History. Really, this had nothing to do with being cool. We
only wanted to have a moment to ourselves, a moment before Jazz
Band and after Gym when we could look in the mirror and like it. June
and Tiffany and Janet all told me I looked pretty. We
took turns saying nice things, though we might just as likely say, Die
and go to hell. Beauty or hell. No difference. The bell would ring soon.
With thanks to "We Real Cool" by Gwendolyn Brooks
Copyright © 2014 by Camille Dungy. Used with permission of the author.
About This Poem
"I find that received forms can connect me to new inspiration. This
poem is a 'Golden Shovel.' The acrostic form, popularized by Terrance
Hayes, uses each word of 'We Real Cool' by Gwendolyn Brooks as the
last word of each line. Coming up with something to do with 'lurk' and
with 'sin' and with 'gin' pushed my writing process in an unexpected
direction. For me, writing in received forms also highlights my
connection to a community of writers, living and dead. Every time I
write a sonnet, for instance, I am in the company of other poets who
have written their own sonnets. This make the solitary art of writing
far less lonely."
--Camille Dungy
Camille Dungy is the author of several books of poems, including Smith
Blue (Southern Illinois University Press, 2011). She is a professor in
the English Department at Colorado State University.
mahendran u
Jan 20, 2014, 1:57:52 AM1/20/14
to brailleacl, keepintouchwithbalamurugan, skbalarec, chessmuthuraman, dharma.hotfriends, dineshthehuman, subramani.gana, balu1986.happy, babujicm, varadhu.gift, ssarathi, jaysofi, Sivakumar S, mahendranlitmcc, send2rkj, send2rkraj, arunkumar.chris, krish.kishore06
A Dream Within a Dream
by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Today's poem is in the public domain.
About This Poem
Representative of Poe's later work, "A Dream Within a Dream" is a
revised version of a poem Poe originally composed in the 1820s. It is
considered one of the poet's finest shorter poems. In an article
published in 1849, Poe wrote, "It is by no means an irrational fancy
that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our
present existence, as a dream."
Taken from the web:
www.poets.org
by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Today's poem is in the public domain.
About This Poem
revised version of a poem Poe originally composed in the 1820s. It is
considered one of the poet's finest shorter poems. In an article
published in 1849, Poe wrote, "It is by no means an irrational fancy
that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our
present existence, as a dream."
Taken from the web:
www.poets.org
Boopathi P
Jan 20, 2014, 4:41:27 AM1/20/14
to brail...@googlegroups.com
good one anna, thanks a lot for sharing.
particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent
and repress them.”
P,Boopathi
II MA English
Pondicherry University
Puducherry
Mobile +919843693951
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“The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which
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particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent
and repress them.”
P,Boopathi
II MA English
Pondicherry University
Puducherry
Mobile +919843693951
mahendran u
Jan 20, 2014, 6:25:40 AM1/20/14
to brail...@googlegroups.com
thanks boopathi
mahendran u
Jan 20, 2014, 12:21:30 PM1/20/14
to brailleacl, keepintouchwithbalamurugan, skbalarec, balu1986.happy, varadhu.gift, chessmuthuraman, babujicm, dineshthehuman, dharma.hotfriends, rencewigg, subramani.gana, ssarathi, jaysofi, Sivakumar S, arunkumar.chris, krish.kishore06, send2rkj, send2rkraj, mahendranlitmcc
Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used with
permission.
Poetry by Hughes
Vintage Hughes
(Vintage, 2004)
Poem-A-Day
Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-A-Day features new
and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and
classic poems on weekends. Browse the Poem-A-Day Archive.
Photo credit: Consuelo Kanaga
Langston Hughes was born in 1902 in Joplin, Missouri. He wrote
numerous books of poetry and prose, as well as eleven plays before his
death in 1967. Hughes is known for his portrayals of black life from
the twenties through the sixties.
Related Poems
A Song for Many Movements
by Audre Lorde
American History
by Michael S. Harper
The Day I Saw Barack Obama Reading Derek Walcott's Collected Poems
by Yusef Komunyakaa
__________________________
got from the web:
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used with
permission.
Poetry by Hughes
Vintage Hughes
(Vintage, 2004)
Poem-A-Day
Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-A-Day features new
and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and
classic poems on weekends. Browse the Poem-A-Day Archive.
Photo credit: Consuelo Kanaga
Langston Hughes was born in 1902 in Joplin, Missouri. He wrote
numerous books of poetry and prose, as well as eleven plays before his
death in 1967. Hughes is known for his portrayals of black life from
the twenties through the sixties.
Related Poems
A Song for Many Movements
by Audre Lorde
American History
by Michael S. Harper
The Day I Saw Barack Obama Reading Derek Walcott's Collected Poems
by Yusef Komunyakaa
__________________________
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