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Thread: Polling Of English Poetry January 2013

  1. #1
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    snow Polling Of English Poetry January 2013

    is Month app sab ne
    Sylvia Plath
    pe Poems share karni the,
    ye rahi sab ki sharings


    Aap Apni Sharing Ko Khud Vote Ni Kar Saktay...

    Polling Ki Last Date 28th January 2013 Hai...
    Winner 50% Polling Aur 50% Admins Decide Karay Ge


    Love Letter

    Not easy to state the change you made.
    If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
    Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
    Staying put according to habit.
    You didn't just tow me an inch, no-
    Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
    Skyward again, without hope, of course,
    Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

    That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
    Masked among black rocks as a black rock
    In the white hiatus of winter-
    Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
    In the million perfectly-chisled
    Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
    My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
    Angels weeping over dull natures,
    But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
    Each dead head had a visor of ice.

    And I slept on like a bent finger.
    The first thing I was was sheer air
    And the locked drops rising in dew
    Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
    Dense and expressionless round about.
    I didn't know what to make of it.
    I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
    To pour myself out like a fluid
    Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
    I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

    Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
    My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
    I started to bud like a March twig:
    An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
    From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
    Now I resemble a sort of god
    Floating through the air in my soul-shift
    Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.


    The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
    Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
    Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
    Begin on tilted violins to span

    The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
    Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
    Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
    Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

    And glided couples all in whirling trance
    Follow holiday revel begun long since,
    Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
    Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince

    As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
    She hears the caustic ticking of the clock


    Love Is A Parallax

    'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
    train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
    horizons beat a retreat as we embark
    on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

    'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
    that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
    a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
    on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

    So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
    until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
    nothing changes, for all the blazing of
    our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

    We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
    to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
    the waitress holds our coats and we put on
    the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

    Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
    would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
    the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
    of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

    So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
    in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
    the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
    scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

    The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
    in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
    hello, and then hello again in deaf
    churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

    Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
    to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
    multiply pink harlequins and sing
    in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

    Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
    and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
    explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
    that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

    The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
    though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
    the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
    which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

    Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
    the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
    and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
    only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

    So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
    of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
    surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
    bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

    Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
    and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
    to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
    knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.

    Hidden words

    Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath

    "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
    I lift my lids and all is born again.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
    And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
    And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
    Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I fancied you'd return the way you said,
    But I grow old and I forget your name.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
    At least when spring comes they roar back again.
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)"

    Unsaid words

    Mirror-By Sylvia Plath

    I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
    What ever you 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.
    Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
    Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
    Searching my reaches for what she really is.
    Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
    I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
    She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
    I am important to her. She comes and goes.
    Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
    In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
    Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.


    Winter Trees

    The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
    On their blotter of fog the trees
    Seem a botanical drawing.
    Memories growing, ring on ring,
    A series of weddings.

    Knowing neither abortions nor **ery,
    Truer than women,
    They seed so effortlessly!
    Tasting the winds, that are footless,
    Waist-deep in history.

    Full of wings, otherworldliness.
    In this, they are Ledas.
    O mother of leaves and sweetness
    Who are these pietas?
    The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.

    Naila Kanwal

    Above the Oxbow

    Here in this valley of discrete academies
    We have not mountains, but mounts, truncated hillocks
    To the Adirondacks, to northern Monadnock,
    Themselves mere rocky hillocks to an Everest.
    Still, they're out best mustering of height: by
    Comparison with the sunnken silver-grizzled
    Back of the Connecticut, the river-level
    Flats of Hadley farms, they're lofty enough
    Elevations to be called something more than hills.
    Green, wholly green, they stand their knobby spine
    Against our sky: they are what we look southward to
    Up Pleasant Street at Main. Poising their shapes
    Between the snuff and red tar-paper apartments,
    They mound a summer coolness in our view.

    To people who live in the bottom of valleys
    A rise in the landscape, hummock or hogback, looks
    To be meant for climbing. A peculiar logic
    In going up for the coming down if the post
    We start at's the same post we finish by,
    But it's the clear conversion at the top can hold
    Us to the oblique road, in spite of a fitful
    Wish for even ground, and it's the last cliff
    Ledge will dislodge out cramped concept of space, unwall
    Horizons beyond vision, spill vision
    After the horizons, stretching the narrowed eye
    To full capacity. We climb to hopes
    Of such seeing up the leaf-shuttered escarpments,
    Blindered by green, under a green-grained sky

    Into the blue. Tops define themselves as places
    Where nothing higher's to be looked to. Downward looks
    Follow the black arrow-backs of swifts on their track
    Of the air eddies' loop and arc though air's at rest
    To us, since we see no leaf edge stir high
    Here on a mount overlaid with leaves. The paint-peeled
    Hundred-year-old hotel sustains its ramshackle
    Four-way veranda, view-keeping above
    The fallen timbers of its once remarkable
    Funicular railway, witness to gone
    Time, and to graces gone with the time. A state view-
    Keeper collects half-dollars for the slopes
    Of state scenery, sells soda, shows off viewpoints.
    A ruffy skylight oaints the gray oxbow

    And paints the river's pale circumfluent stillness.
    As roses broach their carmine in a mirror. Flux
    Of the desultory currents --- all that unique
    Stripple of shifting wave-tips is ironed out, lost
    In the simplified orderings of sky-
    Lorded perspectives. Maplike, the far fields are ruled
    By correct green lines and no seedy free-for-all
    Of asparagus heads. Cars run their suave
    Colored beads on the strung roads, and the people stroll
    Straightforwardly across the springing green.
    All's peace and discipline down there. Till lately we
    Lived under the shadow of hot rooftops
    And never saw how coolly we might move. For once
    A high hush quietens the crickets' cry.

    3297731y763i7owcz zps9ed156a3 - Polling Of English Poetry January 2013


  2. #2
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    They are the last romantics, these candles:
    Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers,
    And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes,
    Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints.
    It is touching, the way they'll ignore

    A whole family of prominent objects
    Simply to plumb the deeps of an eye
    In its hollow of shadows, its fringe of reeds,
    And the owner past thirty, no beauty at all.
    Daylight would be more judicious,

    Giving everybody a fair hearing.
    They should have gone out with the balloon flights and the stereopticon.
    This is no time for the private point of view.
    When I light them, my nostrils prickle.
    Their pale, tentative yellows

    Drag up false, Edwardian sentiments,
    And I remember my maternal grandmother from Vienna.
    As a schoolgirl she gave roses to Franz Josef.
    The burghers sweated and wept. The children wore white.
    And my grandfather moped in the Tyrol,

    Imagining himself a headwaiter in America,
    Floating in a high-church hush
    Among ice buckets, frosty napkins.
    These little globes of light are sweet as pears.
    Kindly with invalids and mawkish women,

    They mollify the bald moon.
    Nun-souled, they burn heavenward and never marry.
    The eyes of the child I nurse are scarcely open.
    In twenty years I shall be retrograde
    As these drafty ephemerids.

    I watch their spilt tears cloud and dull to pearls.
    How shall I tell anything at all
    To this infant still in a birth-drowse?
    Tonight, like a shawl, the mild light enfolds her,
    The shadows stoop over the guests at a christening.


    Bitter Strawberries

    All morning in the strawberry field
    They talked about the Russians.
    Squatted down between the rows
    We listened.
    We heard the head woman say,
    'Bomb them off the map.'

    Horseflies buzzed, paused and stung.
    And the taste of strawberries
    Turned thick and sour.

    Mary said slowly, 'I've got a fella
    Old enough to go.
    If anything should happen…'

    The sky was high and blue.
    Two children laughed at tag
    In the tall grass,
    Leaping awkward and long-legged
    Across the rutted road.
    The fields were full of bronzed young men
    Hoeing lettuce, weeding celery.

    'The draft is passed,' the woman said.
    'We ought to have bombed them long ago.'
    'Don't,' pleaded the little girl
    With blond braids.

    Her blue eyes swam with vague terror.
    She added petishly, 'I can't see why
    You're always talking this way…'
    'Oh, stop worrying, Nelda,'
    Snapped the woman sharply.
    She stood up, a thin commanding figure
    In faded dungarees.
    Businesslike she asked us, 'How many quarts?'
    She recorded the total in her notebook,
    And we all turned back to picking.

    Kneeling over the rows,
    We reached among the leaves
    With quick practiced hands,
    Cupping the berry protectively before
    Snapping off the stem
    Between thumb and forefinger

    Cute Fairy

    by Sylvia Plath

    Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
    I want to fill it with color and ducks,
    The zoo of the new

    Whose name you meditate --
    April snowdrop, Indian pipe,

    Stalk without wrinkle,
    Pool in which images
    Should be grand and classical

    Not this troublous
    Wringing of hands, this dark
    Ceiling without a star.

    zindagi jee

    °·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.-> croѕѕιng тнe rιver <-.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°

    Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
    Where do the black trees go that drink here?
    Their shadows must cover Canada.

    A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
    Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
    They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

    Cold worlds shake from the oar.
    The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
    A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

    Stars open among the lilies.
    Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
    This is the silence of astounded souls.

    Cute PaRi


    Kindness glides about my house.
    Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
    The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke
    In the windows, the mirrors
    Are filling with smiles.

    What is so real as the cry of a child?
    A rabbit's cry may be wilder
    But it has no soul.
    Sugar can cure everything, so Kindness says.
    Sugar is a necessary fluid,

    Its crystals a little poultice.
    O kindness, kindness
    Sweetly picking up pieces!
    My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies,
    May be pinned any minute, anesthetized.

    And here you come, with a cup of tea
    Wreathed in steam.
    The blood jet is poetry,
    There is no stopping it.
    You hand me two children, two roses.



    The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
    Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
    I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
    As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
    I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
    I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
    And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

    They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
    Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
    Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
    The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
    They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
    Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
    So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

    My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
    Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
    They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
    Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ----
    My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
    My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
    Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

    I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
    Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
    They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
    Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
    I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
    Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
    I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

    I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
    To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
    How free it is, you have no idea how free ----
    The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
    And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
    It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
    Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

    The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
    Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
    Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
    Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
    They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
    Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
    A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

    Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
    The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
    Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
    And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
    Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
    And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
    The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

    Before they came the air was calm enough,
    Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
    Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
    Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
    Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
    They concentrate my attention, that was happy
    Playing and resting without committing itself.

    The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
    The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
    They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
    And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
    Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
    The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
    And comes from a country far away as health.

    maliha farhan

    Barren Woman

    Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
    Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
    In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
    Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
    Exhale their pallor like scent.

    I imagine myself with a great public,
    Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
    Insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen.
    Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.

    3297731y763i7owcz zps9ed156a3 - Polling Of English Poetry January 2013


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    votedddd /up

    eq2hdk - Polling Of English Poetry January 2013

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    wa alaikum assalam

    voted ..
    images?qtbnANd9GcSD7qCu5RmanJAqGaixYtC w47jXo28t NBgcZ q5Z33lher5Bl - Polling Of English Poetry January 2013

    Rehney Dey Is Dard Mein Zindaa
    Main Tanhaa Hee Sahee . . .

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    IMG 132418151178424 zpsa2d0c6e0 - Polling Of English Poetry January 2013

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