Saturday, August 9, 2008

Mirror - by Sylvia Plath

MIRROR
- by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.

Ode to the West Wind - by Percy Bysshe Shelley

ODE TO THE WEST WIND
- by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse withing its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild spirits, which are moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh, hear!

II
Thou on whose stream, 'mis the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!

III, IV AND V to follow


Sunday, July 13, 2008

Night of the Scorpion - by Nissim Ezekiel

NIGHT OF THE SCORPION
- by Nissim Ezekiel

I remember the night my mother
was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of study rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice
Parting with his poison -- flash
of diabolic tail in the dark room --
he risked the rain again.

The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the name of God a hundred times
to paralyze the Evil One.

With candles and with lanterns
throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the sun-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.

With every movement that the scorpion made
his poison moved in mother's blood, they said.
May he sit still, they said.
May the sins of your previous births
be burned away tonight, they said.

May your suffering decrease
the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.
May the sum of evil
balanced in this unreal world
against sum of good
become diminished by your pain,they said.
May the poison purify your flesh
of desire, and spirit of your ambition,
they said, and they sat around
on the floor with my mother in the centre,
the peace of understanding on each face.

More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,
more insects and the endless rain.

My mother twisted through and through
groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist,
trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.
He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother.
I watched the holy man perform his rites
to tame the poison with an incantation.
After twenty hours
it lost its sting.

My mother only said
Thank God the scorpion picked on me
and spared my children.

About

From William Shakespeare to Nissim Ezekiel, the poems that anyone may find useful either for their studies or just for enjoyment will be published in simple formats.