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Thought I'd rekindle the poetry forum, and share my favourite poem with you guys. In return, share yours and tell us why.

Mine is, and always will be Rumi's "Where is God?" This is the poem I can familiarise myself to the most, and to me, is the clearest explanation of God. No matter where you go, what you do, He will always be there waiting for you to realise that mercy and comfort is always available. Reminds me of 39:53, kinda.

The key is to never separate yourself from Him. When you have, then you've lost yourself - not Him. And only when you remove the veil of the visible world and all filters of deception, can you hear His call.

Say, "O My servants who have transgressed against themselves [by sinning], do not despair of the mercy of Allah . Indeed, Allah forgives all sins. Indeed, it is He who is the Forgiving, the Merciful."

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I'm not really a fan of poetry all in all, but I always remember this one, because a friend of mine used to always go on about it.

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” (robert frost)

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sounds the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

This one by Iqbal is not bad as well


The secret of the Self is hid,

In words "No god but He alone".

The Self is just a dull-edged sword,

"No god but He," the grinding stone.

laa ilaaha illa Allah, laa ilaaha illa Allah

An Abraham by the age is sought

To break the idols of this Hall:

The avowal of God's Oneness can

Make all these idols headlong fall.

laa ilaaha illa Allah, laa ilaaha illa Allah

A bargain you have struck for goods

Of life, a step, that smacks conceit,

All save the Call "No god but He"

Is merely fraught with fraud and deceit.

laa ilaaha illa Allah, laa ilaaha illa Allah

The worldly wealth and riches too,

Ties of blood and friends a dream

The idols wrought by doubts untrue,

All save God's Oneness empty seem.

laa ilaaha illa Allah, laa ilaaha illa Allah

The mind has worn the holy thread

Of Time and Space like pagans all

Though Time and Space both illusive

"No god but He" is true withal.

laa ilaaha illa Allah, laa ilaaha illa Allah

Many idols are still concealed

In their sleeves by the Faithful Fold,

I am ordained by Mighty God

To raise the call and be much bold

laa ilaaha illa Allah, laa ilaaha illa Allah

These melodious songs are not confined

To Time when roses and tulips bloom

Whatever the season of year be

"No god but He" must ring till doom.

laa ilaaha illa Allah, laa ilaaha illa Allah

Edited by Ali_Hussain

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Thought I'd rekindle the poetry forum, and share my favourite poem with you guys. In return, share yours and tell us why.

Mine is, and always will be Rumi's "Where is God?" This is the poem I can familiarise myself to the most, and to me, is the clearest explanation of God. No matter where you go, what you do, He will always be there waiting for you to realise that mercy and comfort is always available. Reminds me of 39:53, kinda.

The key is to never separate yourself from Him. When you have, then you've lost yourself - not Him. And only when you remove the veil of the visible world and all filters of deception, can you hear His call.

That poem from Rumi is so beautiful :cry: such a legend.

This was in my signature til the lads in charge removed it:

So amazing. I love my Imam!

Ahh i love that one too! really leaves you in a state of reflection.

Well there's one poem i really want to share, but I'm not sure if the person who wrote it would be happy with me doing so. So after I get their permission I'll inshaAllah post it.

As for this one, I kind of like the style of how it tells the story.

WARNING O' EXTREMELY PIOUS ONES Contains a bit of Music.

OnTheDs stuff is generally good. But there's another reflective one I'll post, inshaAllah get around to it later :)

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Guest Zahratul_Islam

My favorite poet is Nizar Qabbani. I love how he shatters double standards and sexism in almost every piece.

My favorite poem of his is the one he wrote for his wife Balqis after she died in the bombing of the Iraqi Embassy in Beirut during the Lebanese Civil war. Nizar, a Syrian, fell in love with the Iraqi teacher at a poetry gathering in Baghdad. He never remarried after her and she seems to have inspired much of his work.

Here are some particularly inspiring excerpts.. I have the majority of it memorized from replaying it when the mood strikes. I am sure I sound ridiculous repeating the impassioned words of a man for his dead wife, but whateves.

You’re a martyr, a poem;

Chaste and righteous.

Queen of Sheba people search to welcome

In return, go and hail them.

You, the greatest of all queens,

A woman who incarnates, all Sumerian Ages.



It’s time for perfumed, well stored Iraqi tea.

Who will serve it gracefully?

Who moved Euphrates to our house?

Who moved Resafa and flowers of Tigris?


I ask forgiveness.

Maybe your life was for mine, a sacrifice.

I know well that

your killers’ aims

were to kill my words.

My beautiful, rest in peace

After you, poetry will cease

And womanhood is out of place.

Generations of children’s flocks

Will keep asking about your long hair locks.

Generations of lovers

will read about you, the true instructor.

One day the Arabs will get it

That they who killed the prophetess.

Killed the prophetess.

You’re unmatchable,

A unique piece!


I’m tortured by our relation’s gory details.

And time hangs heavy, as tough as nails.

Every little hairpin has a story to tell.

Even your golden hairgrips,

Usually overwhelm me by waves of tenderness.

The sweet Iraqi voice

Edited by Zahratul_Islam

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Among my faveourites are two written about Islamic Spain by Muhammad Iqbal (he composed these whilst visiting the Mesquita de Cordoba).

They really capture the sense of loss and lamentation that many Muslims (mostly Sunnis) feel about the fall of Andalusia which for its time was a beacon of light amidst darkness. The second

A Prayer: Written in a Mosque in Cordoba

Whose lofty, inspired vision blessed the East and the West,

Whose wisdom was a beacon in Europe’s Dark Ages;

Who left an abiding imprint on the Andalusian mind:

A cheerful spirit and warmth, a simple, genial soul.

Abundant in this land today is gazelle-eyed beauty;

So are the shafts that pierce the heart from those gazelle eyes.

Wafted on its breeze still is Yemen’s aroma sweet;

And in its sights and sounds is the holiness of Hijaz.

In the eyes of the gazing stars thy earth is exalted as heaven;

Alas! for long thy walls have not echoed with the sound of azan.


Treasure the Muslim blood,

That sanctified thy soil;

Thou art pure and holy,

Like the holy precincts.

Buried in thy dust are imprints

Of heads that bowed in prayer,

And thy breeze at dawn

Echoes the sound of azan.

Their tents had awakened

life in distant hills

their spears had sparkled

like stars in the firmament.

The muslim will not be crushed

under the weight of straw

though the ebb of time has reduced

the force of his flaming fire.

Granada, the eye of the world.

In the twilight of time,

Pierces the heart that bleeds

For glories that are no more.

A droplet from the ocean that is the spiritual epic, The Conference of the Birds by Farid ud-Din Attar (he greatly influenced Rumi - who I think is a bit cliche and overrated), I've yet to read a poem comparable to its splendour.

The ocean can be yours; why should you stop

Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew?

The secrets of the sun are yours, but you

Content yourself with motes trapped in beams.

Heart’s blood and bitter pain belong to love,

And tales of problems no one can remove;

Cupbearer, fill the bowl with blood, not wine -

And if you lack the heart’s rich blood take mine.

Love thrives on inextinguishable pain,

Which tears the soul, then knits the threads again.

A mote of love exceeds all bounds; it gives

The vital essence to whatever lives.

But where love thrives, there pain is always found

I also love hauku, mostly Matsuo Basho. You get so much out of so little, such as imagery and emotion and tone.

A cuckoo cries,

and through a thicket of bamboo

the late moon shines

From all these trees –

in salads, soups, everywhere –

cherry blossoms fall

The summer's grass!

all that's left

of ancient warriors' dreams.

Petals of the mountain rose

Fall now and then,

To the sound of the waterfall?

Edited by Propaganda_of_the_Deed

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"The Guns" by Gilbert Frankau

It's about World War I, first from the perspective of the soldiers, and then from the perspective of the guns. One of the most important technological advancements which was critical in World War I, was the improvements that were made to the machine gun and to artillerie guns. The Vickers machine gun -- the mainstay of the Royal Army -- could fire up to 500 rounds per minute. In addition to greater power and rate of fire, these guns would not jam as easily as their predecessors, either. Artillery guns were also more powerful and efficient; and the improvement in automotive technology, meant that they could be transported faster. The improvement in the strategies, however, did not catch up with the improvement in technology. So essentially, a bunch of young boys were sent to meaningless slaughter against impossible firepower, with the lines remaining stagnant.

Naturally, this caused a lot of disillusionment in modernism. A lot of that disillusionment was manifested in the poems of men who fought in the front lines. This is one of them, and I love it.

It's a long poem, so I will only post the last part. It's an exchange between the guns and their "servants" (the soldiers manning them).


WE are the guns, and your masters ! Saw ye our flashes?

Heard ye the scream of our shells in the night, and the shuddering

crashes ?

Saw ye our work by the roadside, the shrouded things lying,

Moaning to God that He made them the maimed and the dying ?

Husbands or sons,

Fathers or lovers, we break them. We are the guns !

We are the guns and ye serve us. Dare ye grow weary,

Steadfast at night-time, at noon -time; or waking, when dawn winds blow


Over the fields and the flats and the reeds of the barrier- water,

To wait on the hour of our choosing, the minute decided for slaughter ?

Swift, the clock runs ;

Yea, to the ultimate second. Stand to your guns !


We are the guns, and we need you ; here, in the timbered

Pits that are screened by the crest, and the copse where at dusk ye

unlimbered ;

Pits that one found us and, finding, gave life (Did he flinch from the


Laboured by moonlight when wraith of the dead brooded yet o'er the living ;

Ere, with the sun's

Rising, the sorrowful spirit abandoned its guns.

Who but the guns shall avenge him ? Battery Action /

Load us and lay to the centremost hair of the dial- sight's refraction ;

Set your quick hands to our levers to compass the sped soul's assoiling ;

Brace your taut limbs to the shock when the thrust of the barrel recoiling

Deafens and stuns !

Vengeance is ours for our servants : trust ye the guns !

Least of our bond-slaves or greatest, grudge ye the burden ?

Hard, is this service of ours which has only our service for guerdon :

Grow the limbs lax, and unsteady the hands, which aforetime we trusted ?

Flawed, the clear crystal of sight ; and the clean steel of hardihood rusted ?

Dominant ones,

Are we not tried serfs and proven true to our guns ?


Ye are the guns ! Are we worthy ? Shall not these speak for us,

Out of the woods where the tree-trunks are slashed with the vain bolts that

seek for MJ,

Thunder of batteries firing in unison, swish of shell flighting,

Hissing that rushes to silence and breaks to the thud of alighting ;

Death that outruns

Horseman and foot? Are we justified ? Answer ^ O guns !

Yea ! by your works are ye justified toil unrelieved ;

Manifold labours, co-ordinate each to the sending achieved ;

Discipline, not of the feet but the soul, unremitting, unfeigned ;

Tortures unholy by flame and by maiming, known, faced, and disdained ;

Courage that shuns

Only foolhardiness ; even by these, are ye worthy your guns.

Wherefore, and unto ye only power hath been given ;

Yea ! beyond man, over men, over desolate cities and riven ;

Yea ! beyond space, over earth and the seas and the sky's high dominions ;

Yea ! beyond time, over Hell and the fiends and the Death-angel's pinions.

Vigilant ones,

Loose them, and shatter, and spare not. We are the guns !


Edited by baradar_jackson

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Great Blissful idea...

I have quite an eclectic mix to share. I select a few for this post.

The following poem is a bitter and scathing critique of a hopeless society. It's a long one so I am selecting a few nuggets for the sake of brevity. The poet is Khalil Gibran, a Lebanese-American, and the poem is "My Countrymen". Why I like this poem? This poem is the song of a broken and sorrowful heart that wishes to see its people gain respect and dignity in the comity of nations but finds no way to make it happen. The essence of this poem is true today just as it was at the time Gibran penned it down.

What do you seek, my countrymen?

Do you desire that I build for you gorgeous palaces,

Decorated with words of empty meaning or temples roofed with dreams? Or

Do you command me to destroy what the liars and tyrants have built?

Speak your insane wish!

What is it you would have me do my countrymen?

I have sung for you, but you did not dance;

I have wept before you, but you did not cry.

Shall I sing and weep at the same time?

I have called you in the silence of the night to point out the glory of the moon and the dignity of the stars,

But you startled from your slumber and clutched your swords in fear,

Crying "Where is the enemy? We must kill Him first!"

At morning-tide when the enemy came, I called to you again,

But now you did not wake from your slumber,

For you were locked in fear, wrestling with the processions of spectres in your dreams.

I have loved you, my countrymen, but

My love for you is painful to me and useless to you;

And today I hate you.

I have cried over your humiliation and submission, and

my tears streamed like crystalline,

But could not sear away your stagnant weakness;

Yet they removed the veil from my eyes.

My tears have never reached your petrified hearts, but they

cleansed the darkness from my inner self.

Today I am mocking at your suffering...

What do you desire, my countrymen?

Do you wish for me to show you the ghost of your countenance on the face of still water?

Come, now, and see how ugly you are!

What is it that you seek, my countrymen?

What ask you from life, who does not any longer count you among her children?

Knowledge is a light, enriching the warmth of life,

And all may partake who seek it out;

But you, my countrymen, seek out darkness and flee the light


Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam rendered into English from original Farsi by Edward FitzGerald have been with me since long. Timeless truths them quatrains.

There is not much you can do, really.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ

Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it

We come and we go; and we don't know.

Into this universe, and why not knowing,

Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing,

And out of it, as wind along the waste,

I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing

There was a door to which I found no key:

There was a veil past which I could not see:

Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee

There seemed - and then no more of Thee and Me


A small couplet from Faiz Ahmed Faiz's Urdu ghazal/poem, translated by Agha Shahid Ali.

Nowhere anymore

That abandon of passion

No one wears fidelity's raw fabrics


What will you do with that rope?

Who's asked you to build the scaffold?

Those once proud to be accused of LOVE

Have vanished forever.


Muhammad Iqbal in one of his Urdu poem waxes philosophic. This is only one couplet (sh`er) taken from a long poem (ghazal). Translation my own.

O Ascetic! The Path to Salvation is in totality of Rejection

If you shun the mundane, renounce as well the Hereafter.

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Oh God, how I love and envy the self-control of this man, so much power and such restrain----

My most favourite piece of art-----true companion of life--and yes, in death---

death? -- to feel the fog in my throat,

The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote

I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,

The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,

Yet the strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so -- one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,

And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,

Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,

And with God be the rest!
Edited by ילדת מלך

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Guest Inaya

wow.. I think my secret love for poetry is growing and growing by reading these posts..

I haven't read many poems in English, but here is one that I find beautiful:

Awakening (Amjid Yaseen)

I sail to you in the ocean of my dreams

To a far away distant place

Of great beauty and tranquility

Where pain and suffering do not exist,

Where we give praise for our joy and happiness,

Where our love intertwines with a love for all things

O beloved keeper of my heart

The companion of my soul

You have reached out and touched the essence of my being

And shown me the way to a higher plane

Your love has awakened me from my years of slumber

A beckoning call to the spiritual world

Where my body is mist in the mountains

This is where my heart belongs

This is where my soul lives...

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Guest AlAmal

I wanna join in!

A Hymn To God The Father

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,

Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

And do run still, though still I do deplore?

When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won

Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun

A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?

When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;

But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son

Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;

And, having done that, thou hast done;

I fear no more.

John Donne

Edited by AlAmal

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Written by John Greenleaf Whittier

Up from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall

When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,--

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun

Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,

Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

³Halt!²--the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

³Fire!²--out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

³Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

But spare your country's flag,² she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman's deed and word;

³Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog! March on!² he said.

All day long through Frederick street

Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost

Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw

Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below in Frederick town!

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I have another. Don't know why I love this one to be honest. When I started reading + writing poetry this was one of the first I came across and I absolutely loved it. The lines imprinted in my head ever since. The way it flows, the modernist style - his honesty and vulnerability as an emotional manifestation for the harshness of reality and the modern world.

The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock - T.S Elliot


Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions

And for a hundred visions and revisions

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

"That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

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this is a farsi poem by Iqbal about Lady Fatima (s.a.)

Maryam is honourable only because she is the mother of Jesus,

Look at Zahra, Her honour comes from three relationships

She is the daughter of the person known as Rahmat al-lil aalameen

Who is Imam of all the (prophets) in the past and all the leaders in the future

He, who revived a dead society back to life,

And brought a new system of law

She is the wife of the one who was crowned with Hal Ata[1]

He is the chosen one, solver of all problems, the lion of God

He was a king but lived in a hut,

All he owned was a sword and a coat of chain

Her son was the center of Love and devotion

He was the chief of the army of Love

He was a burning light in the gathering in the HARAM,

He was the protector of the best of the communities

He kicked the throne and the crown aside,

Only because he did not want to see the fire of killing and hatred

And the other son (of hers) is the leader of the pious

He gave strength to all the revolutionaries of the world

Husayn gives passion to the ode of humanity

The truthful people learned the lesson of freedom from Husayn

The character of sons are built by their mothers

The true mettle of truthfulness and honesty come from the mothers

Butool was the epitome of the devotion to Allah

For mothers she is a guiding example

Her heart was so overwhelmed by the plight of the poor,

That she sold her own chadar to a Jew

Both angels and Jinn are in her obedience,

(Because) she was obedient to her own husband

She was raised with SABR and submission

Her lips would be reading Qur’an while her hands would be moving the hand mill

She wept for fear of Allah

She shed tears during her prayers

Jibreel would pick up her tears from the earth

So that he may spread dew-drops in Jannah

I am bound by the law of Islam,

I am beholden to the sayings of the Prophet

Otherwise, I would have gone round and round her gravesite,

And I would have done sajdah on her grave.

Edited by haidernyc

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I don't remember the name of the poet (do remind us if you know) but that's a stanza out of a long poem I remember by heart. There's nothing extraordinarily special about it; just a poet's way of expressing his pain of separation from the beloved.

If there were an antonym for suicide

We could all choose when to be born

I would have been born after that day

So I could not remember you

And so my fingers would stop pointing

At all the things that aren't there.

Edited by Marbles

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Dream within a dream by Edgar

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand-

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Rain Song by Sayyab (arabic)

Your eyes are two palm tree forests in early light,

Or two balconies from which the moonlight recedes

When they smile, your eyes, the vines put forth their leaves,

And lights dance . . . like moons in a river

Rippled by the blade of an oar at break of day;

As if stars were throbbing in the depths of them . . .

And they drown in a mist of sorrow translucent

Like the sea stroked by the hand of nightfall;

The warmth of winter is in it, the shudder of autumn,

And death and birth, darkness and light;

A sobbing flares up to tremble in my soul

And a savage elation embracing the sky,

Frenzy of a child frightened by the moon.

It is as if archways of mist drank the clouds

And drop by drop dissolved in the rain . . .

As if children snickered in the vineyard bowers,

The song of the rain

Rippled the silence of birds in the trees . . .

Drop, drop, the rain


Dropthe rain

Evening yawned, from low clouds

Heavy tears are streaming still.

It is as if a child before sleep were rambling on

About his mother (a year ago he went to wake her, did not find her,

Then was told, for he kept on asking,

“After tomorrow, she’ll come back again . . .

That she must come back again,

Yet his playmates whisper that she is there

In the hillside, sleeping her death for ever,

Eating the earth around her, drinking the rain;

As if a forlorn fisherman gathering nets

Cursed the waters and fate

And scattered a song at moonset,

Drip, drop, the rain

Drip, drop, the rain

Do you know what sorrow the rain can inspire?

Do you know how gutters weep when it pours down?

Do you know how lost a solitary person feels in the rain?

Endless, like spilt blood, like hungry people, like love,

Like children, like the dead, endless the rain.

Your two eyes take me wandering with the rain,

Lightning’s from across the Gulf sweep the shores of Iraq

With stars and shells,

As if a dawn were about to break from them, But night pulls over them a coverlet of blood. I cry out to the Gulf: “O Gulf,

Giver of pearls, shells and death!”

And the echo replies,

As if lamenting:

“O Gulf,

Giver of shells and death .

I can almost hear Iraq husbanding the thunder,

Storing lightning in the mountains and plains,

So that if the seal were broken by men

The winds would leave in the valley not a trace of Thamud.

I can almost hear the palmtrees drinking the rain,

Hear the villages moaning and emigrants

With oar and sail fighting the Gulf

Winds of storm and thunder, singing

“Rain . . . rain . . .

Drip, drop, the rain . . .

And there is hunger in Iraq,

The harvest time scatters the grain in-it,

That crows and locusts may gobble their fill,

Granaries and stones grind on and on,

Mills turn in the fields, with them men turning . . .

Drip, drop, the rain . . .



When came the night for leaving, how many tears we shed,

We made the rain a pretext, not wishing to be blamed

Drip, drop, the rain

Drip, drop, the rain

Since we had been children, the sky

Would be clouded in wintertime,

And down would pour the rain,

And every year when earth turned green the hunger struck us.

Not a year has passed without hunger in Iraq.

Rain . . .

Drip, drop, the rain . . .

Drip, drop . . .

In every drop of rain

A red or yellow color buds from the seeds of flowers.

Every tear wept by the hungry and naked people

And every spilt drop of slaves’ blood

Is a smile aimed at a new dawn,

A nipple turning rosy in an infant’s lips

In the young world of tomorrow, bringer of life.


Drop….. the rain . . .In the rain.

Iraq will blossom one day ‘

I cry out to the Gulf: “O Gulf,

Giver of pearls, shells and death!”

The echo replies

As if lamenting:

‘O Gulf,

Giver of shells and death.”

And across the sands from among its lavish gifts

The Gulf scatters fuming froth and shells

And the skeletons of miserable drowned emigrants

Who drank death forever

From the depths of the Gulf, from the ground of its silence,

And in Iraq a thousand serpents drink the nectar

From a flower the Euphrates has nourished with dew.

I hear the echo

Ringing in the Gulf:

“Rain . . .

Drip, drop, the rain . . .

Drip, drop.”

In every drop of rain

A red or yellow color buds from the seeds of flowers.

Every tear wept by the hungry and naked people

And every spilt drop of slaves’ blood

Is a smile aimed at a new dawn,

A nipple turning rosy in an infant’s lips

In the young world of tomorrow, bringer of life.

And still the rain pours down.

محمود درويش (سقط الحصان)

سَقَطَ الحصانُ عن القصيدةِ

والجليليّاتُ كُنَّ مُبَلَّلاتٍ

بالفَراشِ وبالندى،

يَرْقُصنَ فوق الأقحوانْ

الغائبان:أنا وأنتِ

أنا وأنت الغائبانْ

زوجا يمام أَبيضانْ

يَتَسَامران على غَصون السنديانْ

لا حُبَّ، لكني أُحبُّ قصائدَ

الحبّ القديمةَ، تحرسُ

القَّمَرَ المريضَ من الدخانْ

كرُّ وفرُّ، كالكَمَنْجَةِ في الرباعيّاتِ

أَنْأَى عن زماني حين أدنو

من تضاريس المكانْ........

لم يَبق في اللغة الحديثةِ هامشُ

للاحتفاء بما نحبُّ،

فكُلّ ما سيكونُ ... كانْ

سقط الحصان مُضَرّجاً


وأنا سقطت مُضَرَّجاً

بدَمِ الحصانْ....

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One of those poems which greatly saddened me when I first read them. I was a kid myself.

WE ARE SEVEN by William Wordsworth.

—A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the churchyard lie,

Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid,

Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little maid's reply,

"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

Edited by Marbles

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One of my favourite threads to browse. Here's something that I like.

"Thank-You Note" by Wisława Szymborska

I owe so much

to those I don't love.

The relief as I agree

that someone else needs them more.

The happiness that I'm not

the wolf to their sheep.

The peace I feel with them,

the freedom –

love can neither give

nor take that.

I don't wait for them,

as in window-to-door-and-back.

Almost as patient

as a sundial,

I understand

what love can't,

and forgive

as love never would.

From a rendezvous to a letter

is just a few days or weeks,

not an eternity.

Trips with them always go smoothly,

concerts are heard,

cathedrals visited,

scenery is seen.

And when seven hills and rivers

come between us,

the hills and rivers

can be found on any map.

They deserve the credit

if I live in three dimensions,

in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space

with a genuine, shifting horizon.

They themselves don't realize

how much they hold in their empty hands.

"I don't owe them a thing,"

would be love's answer

to this open question.

Edited by Peace!

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