Poems I Love – Page 4 – Smriti "Simmi" D. Isaac

Posted on August 17, 2015 by Simmi D. Isaac — Leave a comment

“If you can dance without a craze for dancing, Play without giving play too strong a hold…”

An “If” for Girls

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN OTIS

If you can dress to make yourself attractive,

Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight;

If you can swim and row, be strong and active,

But of the gentler graces lose not sight;

If you can dance without a craze for dancing,

Play without giving play too strong a hold,

Enjoy the love of friends without romancing,

Care for the weak, the friendless and the old;

If you can master French and Greek and Latin,

And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien,

If you can feel the touch of silk and satin

Without despising calico and jean;

If you can ply a saw and use a hammer,

Can do a man’s work when the need occurs,

Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer,

Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs;

If you can make good bread as well as fudges,

Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust,

If you can be a friend and hold no grudges,

A girl whom all will love because they must;

If sometime you should meet and love another

And make a home with faith and peace enshrined,

And you its soul—a loyal wife and mother—

You’ll work out pretty nearly to my mind

The plan that’s been developed through the ages,

And win the best that life can have in store,

You’ll be, my girl, the model for the sages—

A woman whom the world will bow before

Posted on July 31, 2015 by Simmi D. Isaac — Leave a comment

I have five things to say, Rumi-style

Posted on July 29, 2015 by Simmi D. Isaac — Leave a comment

I Would Answer in the Affirmative to All

Whether

BY ALFRED CORN

Whether anger quickens a lagging stride,

and periodic burn-offs in the forest

revitalize exhausted soil and flora—.

Whether we should take pleasure in the wildcat

jubilation of a lightning bolt

that whips its silver vein of genesis

through the night sky, flash-photo of a white

birch upended, the root-system buckled

to swollen thunderheads—. And whether naming

an offense amounts to sour grapes and common

bitterness, or even the conceited nonsense

of unwashed yahoo multitudes, a yawping

insult to civilized behavior—. Whether

a July rainstorm, even when it drenches

the unprepared pedestrian and befuddles

traffic, might be extravagant, a joy,

like the whoops and escalating bop glissandos

of Gillespie’s upraised horn, cascading pitches

a countersong to meteoric chalk marks

Perseids burn across the House of Leo—.

And whether peaceful ecstasy might float

up from a fifteen-second avalanche

reflected in the skier’s goggles, his jacket

a spark of scarlet on the topmost slope,

waiting for the homeward track to clear.

Posted on July 12, 2015July 12, 2015 by Simmi D. Isaac — Leave a comment

“…secretly, between the shadow and the soul”

One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII

BY PABLO NERUDA
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries

the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,

and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose

from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you directly without problems or pride:

I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,

so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

Posted on July 6, 2015July 7, 2015 by Simmi D. Isaac — 3 Comments

Observations on Writing Instruments, and the Power of Legacy

Growing up, I remember an oft-quoted and much-beloved phrase of my fathers’: the pen is mightier than the sword. As a child, it used to conjure up visions of a battlefield where a soldier on foot with a pen in hand would strike down the enemy-soldier riding his horse waving a sword in hand! Well, that was the literal imagery in the eyes of a young child, but with time, of course, I began to understand the phrase for more than its literal sense.

My father knew a thing or two about the power of the pen, I suppose. The power it had to convey an idea without getting lost in trivial banter; the power it had to persuade one to see another’s point of view; the power it had to win a battle without resorting to blows; the power it had to offer hope in the darkest hour; the power it had to comfort, console and sustain one’s spirit in the mere offering of a few lines; the power it had to give and receive love even without uttering one audible word. Such was the power of the pen — just as fierce as a sword, only so much more meaningful! (I later also realized that my father’s love of the pen might have been in small measure due to his use of it to write one letter a day to his wife across the oceans for a year and half.)

Well, over the years, I have myself realized my love of the pen, and have tried to instill it into my children. It therefore came as not so great a surprise yesterday when I stumbled on to a hand-written poem in an old notebook in the back of my bedside drawer. It was written by my firstborn, then all of seven years old and a brand-new second grader. My surprise and sheer joy came from the words that her pen (pencil, actually!) had marked — onto the lined paper, and also directly onto my heart! I doubt if even a sword could have carved so deep a line into the very core of my heart…

Here’s the poem titled simply “Mom”. Today, she is all-grown up and just as fierce and charming with her pen.

Mom

Mom, you help me with my homework
And you make me have fun
You’re a very special person
And you’re not like everyone.

I know you’re very busy
Going to work and cooking meals
You always keep your promise
And you make good deals.

You read me books
You read me stories
You even buy me stuffed animals
That are called Roaries.

You tell me the right thing to do, and help me find pretty shells
And Mom, your voice sounds like a million bells.

You are very nice and really kind
And you have an intelligent mind.

You cheer for me
And say, “Hooray, Hooray!”
And you tuck me in bed
Every single day.

Mom, I hope you enjoyed this rym (sic)
Mom, you’re all mine!

Posted on July 6, 2015July 6, 2015 by Simmi D. Isaac — Leave a comment

FALLEN by JÖRG PIRINGER

Visual Poetry: jörg piringer

jörg piringer works in many forms, including visual, digital, and sound poetry, as well as music. In “fallen,” piringer combines a visual sensibility with computer programming skills to tumble text from the English translation of The Communist Manifesto into a pile at the bottom of the page. The result is a mass of letters stripped of their original meaning and representing the failure of an idea.—Geof Huth

Posted on July 5, 2015 by Simmi D. Isaac — 2 Comments

Desiderata Illustrated by Gavin Aung Than: Utterly Fantastic!

Desiderata poem by Max Ehrmann beautifully illustrated by Gavin Aung Than

By Gavin Aung Than / zenpencils.com via FilmsForAction.com

Another stunning comic from Zen Pencils, showing Gavin Aung Than’s mad skills by successfully tackling the difficult task of illustrating the celebrated poem ‘Desiderata’.