POETRY 

This is my poetry collection, where I have chosen some of my favorite poems.  Although it is not music, these poems are as lyrical as music.

Complete lyrics of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

Perhaps it is little known that Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star actually consists of 5 verses, with the fifth verse rarely sung. Here’s the complete 5 verses, taken from the Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes (2nd edition, 1997),

with the repetition of the first two lines added to fit the melody.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

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When the blazing sun is gone,

When he nothing shines upon,

Then you show your little light,

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

****

Then the traveller in the dark,

Thanks you for your tiny spark,

He could not see which way to go,

If you did not twinkle so.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

****

In the dark blue sky you keep,

And often through my curtains peep,

For you never shut your eye,

Till the sun is in the sky.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

****

As your bright and tiny spark,

Lights the traveller in the dark,—

Though I know not what you are,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

[Source: Wikipedia]

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The Tyger 

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat.

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp.

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

      Note: Recently, there are news items regarding the invasion of Tigers from the forest area to human habitation in the former combined Adilabad district of Telangana.  Some cattle deaths have also been reported. People nearby are afraid of even going to their fields. Similarly, in the Nagarkurnool district in Nallamala forest tigers are seen freely strolling on the highway (Srisailam road). These reports reminded me of the poem Tyger by William Blake, which was prescribed in my Intermediate English poetry syllabus.

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Daffodils

BY WILLIam wordsworth 

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not be but gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed'and gazed'but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

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Somebody's Mother

BY Mary dow brine (1816-1913)  

The woman was old and ragged and gray

And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.

The street was wet with a recent snow

And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,

Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by

Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eyes.

Down the street, with laughter and shout,

Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,

Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray

Hastened the children on their way.

Nor offered a helping hand to her -

So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet

Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,

The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her and whispered low,

"I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young arm

She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided the trembling feet along,

Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,

His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,

For all she's aged and poor and slow,

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand

To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever she's poor and old and gray,

When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head

In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was "God be kind to the noble boy,

Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"

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Drop a Pebble in the Water

BY JAMES W. FOLEY 

Drop a pebble in the water: just a splash, and it is gone;
     But there’s half-a-hundred ripples circling on and on and on,
Spreading, spreading from the center, flowing on out to the sea.
     And there is no way of telling where the end is going to be.
 
Drop a pebble in the water: in a minute you forget,
     But there’s little waves a-flowing, and there’s ripples circling yet,
And those little waves a-flowing to a great big wave have grown;
     You’ve disturbed a mighty river just by dropping in a stone.
 
Drop an unkind word, or careless: in a minute it is gone;
     But there’s half-a-hundred ripples circling on and on and on.
They keep spreading, spreading, spreading from the center as they go,
     And there is no way to stop them, once you’ve started them to flow.
 
Drop an unkind word, or careless: in a minute you forget;
     But there’s little waves a-flowing, and there’s ripples circling yet,
And perhaps in some sad heart a mighty wave of tears you’ve stirred,
     And disturbed a life was happy ere you dropped that unkind word.
 
Drop a word of cheer and kindness: just a flash and it is gone;
     But there’s half-a-hundred ripples circling on and on and on,
Bearing hope and joy and comfort on each splashing, dashing wave
     Till you wouldn’t believe the volume of the one kind word you gave.
 
Drop a word of cheer and kindness: in a minute you forget;
     But there’s gladness still a-swelling, and there’s joy a-circling yet,
And you’ve rolled a wave of comfort whose sweet music can be heard
     Over miles and miles of water just by dropping one kind word.

About the Author: James William Foley was born on 4 February 1874 in Saint Louis, Missouri, United States of America. He became a newspaperman and a poet, and was a Poet Laureate of North Dakota. He wrote the poem, “Drop a Pebble in the Water,” for his two adolescent sons. James William Foley passed on at 65 years of age on 19 May 1939 in Los Angeles, California, United States of America.

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 The Solitary Reaper

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

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Rabindranath Tagore [1861-1941] was considered the greatest writer in modern Indian literature. A Bengali poet, novelist, educator,  Nobel Laureate for Literature [1913]. Tagore was awarded a knighthood in 1915, but he surrendered it in 1919 in protest against the Massacre at Amritsar, where British troops killed around 400 Indian demonstrators.

Tagore gained a reputation in the West as a mystic originally and that has perhaps mislead many Western readers to ignore his role as a reformer and critic of colonialism.the greatest writer in modern Indian literature. A Bengali poet, novelist, educator,Nobel Laureate for Literature [1913]. 

1. The Champa Flower

By Rabindranath Tagore

(Get a peek into a day in the life of a boy who chooses

 To turn into a champa flower, just for day. Will his mother recognize him ?)

A playful poem from Tagore’s classic book The Crescent Moon, this story is the perfect introduction for your child, to the writings of India’s most famous poet.

Supposing I became a Champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me mother?  You would call , “Baby, where are you?” and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.

I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. When after your bath , with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.

When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading

ramayana, and the tree’s shadow fell over your hair and your lap,

I should fling my wee little shadow on the page of your book, 

just where you were reading.

But would you guess  that it was the tiny shadow of your little child ?

When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your baby once more, and beg you to tell me a  story.

 “Where have you been, you naughty child?”

“I won’t tell you mother.” That’s what you and I would say then.

2.  The Champaka Flower Poem

          By Dr. Geeta RadhaKrishna Menon

A rare flower,

That blooms on trees,

At a height well above the ground,

Tantalising flowers of fine fragrance, 

Attracting the earth to look up with awe,

Tempting the breeze to stop by

And carry the scent far and beyond.

She is Magnolia Champaca

This sweet flower exotica is

Adorned by the beautiful Radhika-

The romantic love of Lord Krishna

The Indian Poets sing the praises of

The ‘Swarna Champa’ or ‘Son Champa’,

The golden yellow of perfume.

Radhika is ‘Janani’

The Mother Goddess!

The most adored Radhika,

The Goddess of pure love,

The sweetheart of the divine Flute Player,

When Radhika adorns the Champaka

Even the bees do not hover around the flowers.

The Bees respect the Champaka

For she is their Goddess;

They do not fly up the tree,

Nor disturb these royal flowers,

Never touch her or trouble her.

They just breathe in the fragrance

And enjoy the beauty with reverence