making things appear🌹🥀


when as it was the roses in a picture yet the vase was empty the deck was wet however no water from the sky had touched down to cry and bring forth the pure natural sounds telephone rang all through the day however the robot on the other end never said a word car was […]

#making things appear

Remembering the Great Poet Rabindranath Tagore on his 80th Death Anniversary

Remembering the Great Poet Rabindranath Tagore on his 80th Death Anniversary

Friday marks the 80th death anniversary of Rabindranath Tagore, the first non-European and Bengali poet to win the Nobel Prize for literature.

According to the Gregorian calendar, Tagore died at the age of 80 on August 7 in 1941, but his death anniversary is traditionally observed on 22th Srabon according to the Bengali calendar.

The youngest of 13 children of Debendranath Tagore and Sarada Devi, Rabindranath was born on 25th Baishakh, 1268 of Bengali calendar (May 7, 1861, according to the Gregorian calendar) in the Jorasanko mansion at Kolkata.

Tagore, also called as the ‘Bard of Bengal”, composed over 2,000 songs which created a separate genre, known as ‘Tagore songs’ in both the Bengals.

He also wrote eight novels, 84 short stories and an uncountable number of poems in his prolific literary career spanned over almost seven decades.

His compositions were chosen by two nations as national anthems — Bangladesh’s Amar Shonar Bangla and India’s Jana Gana Mana.

To spread the practice of culture and literature in the broader sphere and create future artists and literateurs, Rabindranath Tagore envisioned and founded Visva Bharati University at Santiniketan in 1921.

For his anthology of lyrical ballads titled as ‘Gitanjali’ (Song Offerings), Rabindranath Tagore received the Noble Peace Prize in Literature in 1913 as the first Bengali and Non-European poet.


Moon ~

The moon is broken in twain, and half a moon

Before me lies on the still, pale floor of the sky;

The other half of the broken coin of truth

Is buried away in the dark, where the still dead lie.

They buried her half in the grave when they laid her away;

I had pushed it gently in among the thick of her hair

Where it gathered towards the plait, on that very last day;

And like a moon in secret, it is shining there.

My half shines in the sky, for a general sign

Of the troth with the dead I pledged myself to keep;

Turning its broken edge to the dark, it shines indeed Like the sign of a lover who turns to the dark of sleep.

Against my heart, the inviolate sleep breaks still

In darkened waves whose breaking echoes o’er

The wondering world of my wakeful day, till I’m lost

Amid the places I knew so well before.


The Wild Birds ~

The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,

And heron slow as if it might be caught.

The flopping crows on weary wings go by

And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.

The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,

And darken like a clod the evening sky.

The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,

Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.

The wild swan hurries high and noises loud

With white neck peering to the evening cloud.

The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.

With lengths of the tail, the magpie winnows on

To neighbouring tree and leaves the distant crow

While small birds nestle in the edge below. ~


Poetry Plus – I know a bank where the wild thyme blows – A poem by William Shakespeare

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows. A poem by William Shakespeare From a Midsummere Night’s Dream Deep in the Wildwood Deep in the wildwoodAmid night’s moonlit flowersFairies tend their queen Poem Attribution © William Shakespeare, I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Midsummer Night’s Dream Source Attribution Haiku Attribution […]

Poetry Plus – I know a bank where the wild thyme blows – A poem by William Shakespeare



Verify within a desert lone, Circled by an arid sea, Stands a figure carved in stone, Where a fountain used to be. Two abraded, pleading hands Held below a shapeless mouth, Human-like the fragment stands, Tortured by perpetual drouth. Once the form was drenched with spray, Deluged with the rainbow flushes; Surplus water dashed away To the lotus and the rushes. Time was clothed in rippling fashion, The opulence of light and air, Beauty changing into passion Every hour and everywhere. And the yearning of that race Was for something deep and tender, Life replete with power, with grace, Touched with vision and with splendour. Now no rain dissolves and cools; Dew is even as a dream, The enticing far-off pools In a mirage only seem. All the traces that remain, Of the longings of that land, Are two hands that plead in vain Filled with burning sand. ~


* Ode To The Nightengale* ~ John Keats ⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

I was so mad today. I just wanted to put my thoughts to words:- My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

Aught, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

* Ode To The Nightengale* ~ John Keats ⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

An Evening of Poetry

Arriving for a reading an hour too early:

Ruefully, the general manager stopped putting out the chairs.

“You don’t get any help these days. I have

To sort out everything from furniture to faxes.

Why not wander round the park? There are ducks

And benches where you can sit and watch.”

I realized it was going to be a hungry evening

With not even a packet of crisps in sight.

I parked my friend on a bench and wandered

Down Highgate Hill, realising where I was

From the Waterlow Unit and the Whittington’s A&E.

Some say they know their way by the pubs

But I find psychiatric units more useful.

At a reading like this you never know just who

Might have a do and need some Haldol fast.

(Especially if the poet hovering round sanity’s border

Should chance upon the critic who thinks his Word

Is law and order – the first’s a devotee of a Krishna cult

For rich retirees; the second wrote a good book once

On early Hughes, but goes off if you don’t share his

‘Thought through views’).

In the event the only happening was a turbanned Sikh

Having a go at an Arts Council guru leaning in a stick.

I remembered Martin Bell’s story of how Scannell the boxer

Broke – was it Redgrove’s brolly? – over his head and had

To hide in the Gents till time was called.

James Simmons boasted of how the pint he threw

At Anthony Thwaite hit Geoffrey Hill instead.

O, for the company of the missing and the dead

Martin Bell, Wendy Oliver, Iris and Ted.



The Poetry Tapes


Mystical Madness ~

Mystical madness ensues new beginnings
Unlimited standards we find in this innings
Strings create chains of nothing it’s true
Transient journeys without point of view

Brilliant is light when it’s taken from dark
Enveloped in hope when we find that spark

Likeness of love without perception of truth
Opening stages of life’s kissing booth
Virtual reality is adept from what’s real
Escape from this conditional Inception I feel