The Poet's Corner
Victor Sohmen
|
We begin with two inspiring poems from India, my "native land." The first was originally written in Sanskrit, a classical, Indo-European 'mother' language of India. The second was written in Bengali, a north-eastern Indian language and the national language of Bangladesh. The texts of these two poems are shaped like ancient Indian lamp-stands. |
SALUTATION TO THE DAWN
For, yesterday was but a dream,
Look well, therefore,
KALIDAS [Ancient Indian Poet].
Where words come out
Where the clear stream
Where the mind
Into that Heaven
RABINDRANATH TAGORE
We are: the Dead. Short days ago
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
--LIEUT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE [This famous war poem has inspired the red "poppy"
[John Donne was the most outstanding of the English
A prayer is a lilting SONG
A prayer is a colorful PAINTING
A prayer is a loving EMBRACE
A prayer is a splicing CONSUMMATION
VICTOR SURESH SOHMEN [This poem was written by me in summer 1993, inspired
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
RUDYARD KIPLING [This inspiring poem was written by India-born
Life is queer with its twists and turns
Success is failure turned inside out,
--Author Unknown
"Give me your tired, your poor,
[This moving poem was written by Emma Lazarus
Till I see her broken wings!
“Born was I to mount yon high
With sun-kissed plumes of colours rare,
Boom! Suddenly my world collapsed;
The wind rushed by in heartless mirth,
My thoughts fly to this child in pain,
With heaving words I softly pray:
VICTOR SOHMEN
I wrote this poem while in seminary in 1993
on hearing of
The tumult and the shouting dies--
Far-called, our navies melt away--
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
For heathen heart that puts her trust
RUDYARD KIPLING [This plaintive cry for the British world power was written
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) [Longfellow was the most popular and influential American
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
[This enduring and movingly romantic sonnet by the sensitive poetess
One shade the more, one ray the less,
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
LORD BYRON [This romantic poem by Lord Byron is a
HEAVENLY Father--
PRECIOUS Father--
DEAR Father--Thank You! Amen!!
Imperfectly Yours, [This heartfelt poem was written by me when
I must go down to the seas again,
I must go down to the seas again,
JOHN MASEFIELD
Look to this day--
For it is LIFE,
The very life of life!
In its brief course
Lie all the verities
And realities of
Your existence:
The bliss of growth,
The splendor of action,
The glory of achievement!
And tomorrow is only a vision.
But TODAY well-lived
Makes every yesterday
A dream of happiness,
And every tomorrow
A vision of hope!
To THIS day!
For this is
The salutation
To the Dawn!!
WHERE THE MIND IS WITHOUT FEAR
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world
Is not broken up
Into fragments
By narrow domestic walls...
From the depth
Of Truth;
Where tireless striving
Stretches its arms
Towards perfection.
Of reason
Has not lost its way
In the dreary
Desert sand
Of dead habit.
Is led forward by Thee
Into ever-widening
Thought and action:
Of Freedom,
My Father,
Let my country
AWAKE !!
(From: "GITANJALI." Translated from the Bengali).
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields
(First Canadian Contingent, WW I).
as the symbol for Veteran's Day in the U.S. and
Remembrance Day in Canada].
DEATH, BE NOT PROUD
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
JOHN DONNE
(English Poet, 1572-1631).
Metaphysical Poets and a churchman famous for his spell-binding sermons.
This poem points to the hope of resurrection and eternal life
in Heaven for believers in the Lord Jesus Christ].
WHAT IS A PRAYER?
A prayer is a buoyant WORD
Bubbling forth
From the very depths
Of a needy, trusting heart--
Impelled by the Spirit,
And ascending freely
Between Earth and Heaven.
Of sweet melodies
And dulcet dreams
Wafting in the breeze--
In a loving rhapsody of praise,
Creating a wondrous harmony
Between Silence and Sound.
Of every hue and dye:
Joys, trials and happenings
Of Life itself--
On a thirsty canvas
Held astretch
Between Fear and Faith.
Warmly wrapped
In deep affection
And everlasting fellowship--
A sign and a sigh
Of molten words unspoken
Between Visible and Invisible.
Between everlasting streams:
The mysterious confluence
Of "Christ in me"--
And "I in Christ";
An eternity of endearments
Between my Father--and Me!
[Elbe, Washington, USA, 1992]
by a panoramic view of majestic, snow-capped Mt. Rainier].
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
(Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907).
Kipling as an encouragement to his son John
who later died as a British soldier during WW I].
DON'T QUIT!
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low, and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are
,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit,
It's when things seem worst,
That you must not quit!
[This poem reminds us not to give up when the going gets tough--as it sometimes will!]
THE STATUE OF LIBERTY
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!"
Cries she with silent lips.
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door! 
EMMA LAZARUS
(New York City, 1883)
for new immigrants who fled hunger, persecution
and famine to build their shattered lives afresh].
BROKEN WINGS
The skylark stands so very still
Stark upon my window-sill;
I wonder why she does not fly
Or sing to teeming passers-by.
Far away a school-bell rings…
She turns to me with glistening eye
And cranes her neck as if to cry:
To a canopy of cool-blue sky,
On laughter-feathered wings to soar
Through endless vaults of scented air!
Through tumbling clouds without a care—
Gracefully, to trills of melody,
In songs of chirpy rhapsody!
I plunged to earth a wounded bird
To thrash and throb and wail in vain,
In pulsing waves of punctured pain!
Mocked me, wrapped in blood and earth;
My rosy dreams in fragments lay
’Midst brittle bits of broken clay!”
Bound with cruel, hurting chain;
And beaded drops of unshed tears,
Flow in streaks—my heart to pierce.
“Lord, may her sing and fly away!”
Jesus said: “I died that she may shine
In Paradise—and so forever reign!”
a bus accident that left a teenaged girl crippled for life.
RECESSIONAL
God of our Fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line--
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The Captains and the Kings depart--
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
On dune and headland sinks the fire--
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen!
by India-born Kipling as a reminder of Man's frailty,
and God's Almighty Power and Providence].
A PSALM OF LIFE
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
poet of the 19th century who influenced the poetic taste of
generations of readers throughout the English-speaking world.].
HOW DO I LOVE THEE?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
was a heart-felt tribute of love to her poet-husband Robert Browning.]
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
cameo of the beauty of innocence].
IN ALL HONESTY, FATHER
CREATOR Father--
A long time ago
You took the dust
Of a Virgin Earth
Stirring in Creation
And fashioning Man
With Your Loving Hands
Poured into inert nostrils
The Breath of Everlasting Life!
I come to You today
With tortured breath:
Yearning really to sing
Songs of Praise and Worship:
Yet I must in all honesty admit
That at this, my crushing moment,
When friends fail and problems pile,
I simply feel like useless, trodden sod.
Breathe, even now,
Your soothing Spirit
Into this aching heart
Of thirsty, broken clay:
Bringing sweet streams
Of Comfort--and Healing,
Restoration and Wholeness,
Afresh--and gloriously Anew!
[Calgary, Canada, 1992]
everything seemed to go wrong at once!
Soon, I rejoiced in my Father's tender care].
SEA FEVER
I must go down to the seas again,
To the lonely sea and the sky;
And all I ask is a tall ship
And a star to steer me by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song,
And the white sails shaking;
And a grey mist on the sea’s face,
And a grey dawn breaking.
For the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call
That may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day
With the white clouds flying;
And the flung spray and the blown spume,
And the sea gulls’ crying.
To the vagrant gypsy life;
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way,
Where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn
From a laughing fellow-rover;
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream
When the long trick’s over.
[English Poet]
[This nostalgic poem was penned by the poet
at the request of Queen Victoria].
