July 26, 2005

Que Sera, Sera

Once again, I am putting off the writing of an actual post...!

via SV

When I was just a little girl/boy,
I asked my mother, "What will I be ?
Will I be pretty/handsome ?
Will I be rich ?"
Here's what she said to me :
"Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be, will be,
The future's not ours to see,
What will be, will be."

Then I grew up and fell in love,
I asked my sweetheart, 'what lies ahead?
Will we have rainbows, day after day?
Here's what my sweetheart said:
Que sera, sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera,
What will be, will be

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother what will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich?
I tell them tenderly
"Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be, will be,
The future's not ours to see,
What will be, will be.
Que Sera, Sera"

10:08 AM in Music, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

April 10, 2005

Optimist or Pessimist

It comes after nine months…
And can go off in nine seconds

Pain and tears accompany its coming
And usually, its going too….

It doesn’t come easily,
Neither does it go fast
Well begun is half done, and not well-begun is undone..
To a pessimist, life is a dark, gloomy mist

That didn’t begin well, and neither ended well.
All you get in life, he says –
Is pain, tears and misfortune
Who’s happy? Neither the rich nor the poor
Neither the sinners, nor the saints
Human Life, a pessimist claims, is a biological misfortune.
 

Well begun is half done, says the optimist –
Who wants life to begin well?
If by birth you do half of what you want to do –
Then you would want to do very little.


Life is a success, he claims –
Because its foundation is tough – based on hard work, labour, sweat and tears –
That’s how all great, lasting enterprises are built –
And that’s how greatness is truly achieved.

When you start off something you don’t think of the end –
Because if you do, then you reach “The End” – even before it started
The beginning was a fortune, and the end is necessary –
Because only if things end – then new things begin.


To the optimist, human unhappiness is evident –
But he says – the unhappiness is not because life is cruel,
But because we refuse to see its goodness,
And focus on the dark side.


We always seem to focus on what we should have got…
Rather than what we can get –
Our opportunities are not limited, and our spirit doesn’t die –
Our focus is limited, and our dream dies -


The glass of water always remains half-empty
It is up to us – how to fill it –
Whether with tears of sorrow,
Or with tears of joy!


By
Prerak Ved

05:17 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

March 20, 2005

If I Knew

If I knew it would be the last time

That I'd see you fall asleep,

I would tuck you in more tightly

and pray the Lord, your soul to keep.


If I knew it would be the last time

that I see you walk out the door,

I would give you a hug and kiss

and call you back for one more.

If I knew it would be the last time

I'd hear your voice lifted up in praise,

I would video tape each action and word,

so I could play them back day after day.


If I knew it would be the last time,

I could spare an extra minute

to stop and say "I love you,"

instead of assuming you would KNOW I do.


If I knew it would be the last time

I would be there to share your day,

Well I'm sure you'll have so many more,

so I can let just this one slip away.


For surely there's always tomorrow

to make up for an oversight,

and we always get a second chance

to make everything just right.


There will always be another day

to say "I love you,"

And certainly there's another chance

to say our "Anything I can do?"


But just in case I might be wrong,

and today is all I get,

I'd like to say how much I love you

and I hope we never forget.


Tomorrow is not promised to anyone,

young or old alike,

And today may be the last chance

you get to hold your loved one tight.


So if you're waiting for tomorrow,

why not do it today?

For if tomorrow never comes,

you'll surely regret the day,


That you didn't take that extra time

for a smile, a hug, or a kiss

and you were too busy to grant someone,

what turned out to be their one last wish.


So hold your loved ones close today,

and whisper in their ear,

Tell them how much you love them

and that you'll always hold them dear


Take time to say "I'm sorry,"

"Please forgive me," "Thank you," or "It's okay."

And if tomorrow never comes,

you'll have no regrets about today.

 

05:50 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack

March 07, 2005

Bored

All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding
the log while he sawed it. Holding the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It

wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.

By
Margaret Atwood

10:34 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

February 26, 2005

Remember

This is one of my favourite poems. I know it is a bit depressing but read it anyway. I will endeavour to post something more upbeat tomorrow :-)!

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

By

Christina Georgina Rossetti

09:57 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

February 17, 2005

Untitled

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go;

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all -

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life's gall.

By

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

06:54 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

February 08, 2005

A Mere Nightmare

In the darkness of the eerie night,
As I sat by the glow of candlelight,
There came a rustle of leaves to my ear,
And with it arose a pang of fear.

The wind rattled against the windowpane,
With force that could drive any man insane,
The rain poured down with all its might,
The sound of which made my heart go tight.

And all of a sudden in that haunted house,
Where dead from their graves were arouse,
There stood a figure in shimmering white,
I began to tremble at the very sight.

The figure moved towards me with lightening speed,
I felt powerless to pay no heed,
As its bony fingers touched my hand,
I let out a piercing scream and;

I don't know what happened after the scream,
For it turned out to be just a bad dream,
And although it gave me quite a scare,
It was, after all, a mere nightmare!

By

Dipti Vyas (Aged 12, might I add!)

06:29 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

January 16, 2005

His Only Crime

Lying in a congested jail

desperate and desolate

Cheeks stained with tears

and eyes no longer capable of producing tears

Clothes - too tattered, too few

from head to feet - beaten black and  blue

His only crime was -

He had dared to be hungry

Drank as much water as he could

Tightly bound a cloth around his stomach

Sniffed glue till his face went blue

But - finally - those hunger pangs,

Oh! those miserable unwanted hunger pangs

did show their face

The aroma of food from the nearby sweet shop

The aroma of food from the hotel down the street

The aroma of food from the kitchens in the nearby buildings

The aroma of food from the office-goers tiffins

Food, food around him

but not a morsel to eat

His only crime was-

espite all his efforts

His stomach did rumble & grumble

He snatched a jalebi from the nearby sweetshop

And ran - not for his life

BUT - for his food

However, having had no food for three days

he was weak and he fell soon.

Well-beaten, he was sent to jail

His mind - once a virgins innocence

Now a prostitutes know-it-all

Punished - for the crime of getting hungry

a crime which all of us commit daily

The difference being -

we don’t need to commit a crime

to cover-up for this universal crime.

By Prerak Ved

04:45 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

January 09, 2005

Normal...yeah, and pigs fly!

Is it not disheartening when someone you thought was perfectly sane suddenly appears to be teetering on the brink of insanity? A person, who you thought was as normal as one could get, starts acting like a permanent resident of Bizzaroland! Is it me or is the world just full of extremely odd people?! Maybe some of us are just better at concealing it than others.

(Forgive me, events are compelling me to question the sanity of people in general).

05:39 PM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

December 05, 2004

Comparisons

There I saw it-

A little plant between the rails

Its leaves swaying with the wind-

Too tattered, too few

Not graceful, but surviving.

Every five minutes

A train passes over it;

Bending it alarmingly

Somehow it manages

To stand up, to survive

It will never grow-

Grow enough to be a tree

But it is fighting

Fighting till its inevitable end.

There I saw it-

A little boy on the rails

His clothes swaying with the wind-

Too tattered, too few

Not graceful, but surviving.

Collecting plastic wastes and leftovers-

As a train passes every five minutes;

He somehow climbs the platform

And waits for it to go by

To continue with his work.

Weak and faltering at each step

Will he ever grow ?

Grow enough to be a man

I doubt it.

But - he is fighting

Fighting the bitter end.

Both listless and lifeless

Colourless and songless

One to be run over by the train-

And the other by the train of circumstance

By Prerak Ved

Another one of Prerak's many wonderful poems. I hope you are as impressed with it as I was.

05:23 AM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack