A kind of good-bye
Theodore Spencer
I met an old man near a darkened house,
And he looked in my eyes and spoke of that house,
Said the girl with flame in her voice, in her hair.
“What did he say to you standing there?
What did he say to you, darling, darling?”
He said that the house was my own house;
Said the girl with flame in her eyes, in her hair;
That’s what he said to me standing there;
That’s what he said to me, darling, darling.
He said I’d live all day in that house,
He said I’d live all night in that house,
Said the girl with flame in her hands, in her hair; “
And what did you answer him standing there?
What did you answer him, darling, darling?”
I said I hated my darkened house,
Said the girl with flame in her skin, in her hair.
That’s what I said to him standing there;
That’s what I said to him, darling, darling.
But the old man told me to enter that house;
‘You are here; we are ready; come into your house;’
He told me to enter my darkened house,
Said the girl with flame in her heart, in her hair.
That’s what he said to me standing there;
That’s what he said to me, darling, darling.
The coach of life
Alexander Pushkin
Though often somewhat heavy-freighted,
The coach rolls at an easy pace;
And Time, the coachman, grizzly-pated,
But smart, alert-is in his place.
We board it lightly in the morning
And on our way at once proceed.
Repose and slothful comfort scorning,
We shout: “Hey, there! Get on! Full speedl”
Noon finds us done with reckless daring,
And shaken up. Now care’s the rule.
Down hills, through gulleys roughly faring,
We sulk, and cry: “Hey, easy, fool!”
The coach rolls on, no pitfalls dodging.
At dusk, to pains more wonted grown,
We drowse, while to the night’s dark lodging
Old coachman Time drives on, drives on.
Ars poetica
Archibald Macleish
A poem should be palpable! and mute
As a globed fruit
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown-
A poem should be wordless As the Hight of birds
A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind-
A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs
A poem should be equal to:
Not true
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea-
A poem should not mean
But be
Former barn lot
Mark Van Doren
Once there was a fence here,
And the grass came and tried,
Leaning from the pasture,
To get inside.
But colt feet trampled it,
Turning it brown;
Until the farmer moved
And the fence fell down.
Then any bird saw,
Under the wire,
Grass nibbling inward
Like green fire.
Happiness
M. Mizanur Rahman
Happiness appears to be a spark at night
and flickering finite of fire in sunshine.
In the ocean of sorrow in life how far it looks bright
we have to explore, most of us bear the sad sign.
Everyone wants to be happy by any means in sorrow.
We work very hard to that point heart and soul.
But life is not always like that. We look for our goal.
What we see today, we may not see that tomorrow.
Who does not want to be happy? Rather there’s none.
Happiness ushers in peace. That’s everyone’s desire.
Let’s aspire after friendship-bond with one another
and to do away with all sorts of conflict with anyone.
Love is only panacea of all troubles on mortal earth.
Teach this lesson
only to your wards since their birth.
To whom it my concern
Shamsul Alam Belal
Will you say ‘No’, my dear?
If I hold you passionately unto my bosom,
Jump into the realm of unbridled freedom
To herald the triumphs of boundless love
For the verdant duo before the sun is up.
