Skip to main content

LET'S BE PERFECT: RHYME 61

Fingers at work on the guitar, 
Thinks up the musician 
In quest of notes and tones
To create immortal rendition. 

The painter has sunk deep
The bristles of vision
To pull out new colors 
Of the progressive Creation. 

Rapt are they in their work, 
The rest in oblivion;
Through their work, 
They do bring whole revolution. 

Inspire do they, charm do they,
With their perfection,
For, their work is given 
In the interest of civilization. 

Apostles are they, they bring
Transformation;
The world is at the feet 
Of these votaries of PERFECTION. 

                                                -- N P SAMAL 






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

KISS ME, PLEASE!

Woo-hoo...! Kisss you...u...u...u...??? Oh, I'm being frenzical !!! My slavering tongue is jerking fast And my quivering lips are pouting out With booms of kisses in the air -- Ummah...! Ummah...! Ummah...! Just yesterday, an okay got my promise. Today is the chance no way to miss. And ready is my basket with pecks, Lip-locks, French kisses, and other varieties... I'm also ready for the lizard kiss, And the kiss of the Spider man... And I'm sure I won't beg like Big B  -- (Juma, chumma de de chumma...), This is my right to kiss I earn'd this week. I shall kiss like one Dhoom 2's Hritthik-Aash's, Although I envy Emraan's 'Murderous' thriller kiss... I'm ready with my balmy lips, Strawberry flavour'd,  To be the biggest smoocher  Of do hazaar chhabees... And I have hidden the cracks  On my wintry lips  To save from rashes My Valentine's softy cheeks... Well with flushed up teeth, With cleaned up tongue, With exotic ...

THE CHILDREN OF GAZA

                 The Children Of Gaza                               A Blank Verse Thundering in the sky, then rain of missiles... See how they are fleeing arms outstretched  Like the broken wings of storm-hit birds, And see their faces white with fear and hunger And hear their throbbing voice of pain and loss... Over their head, the sky's no kites, no clouds, But fire and fire amidst engulfing smoke, And they are running like the Napalm girl  From Vietnam or standing frozen, like The standing boy from Nagasaki, before Their elders who are whispering in fear Or staring helpless in the gauge of Death... They are the hapless children caught in the war zone. They have no home, no school, no ground of freedom, But sole refugee camps and hospitals  If marching death has spared them of their life. They hear not bedtime tales but sirens of death.  For them,...

THE BATHROOM SINGER : SONNET 176

           The Bathroom Singer                        Sonnet 176 From the bathroom comes the voice and plays Around in many a number, gently touching Each lucky soul -- from youth to elder age -- With its enchanting notes of love and longing... But the singer wishes for no credit;  No listeners he does think to entertain, But him, alone, alone to suck each beat, Each tone, each pitch, each rhythm, each refrain, As the showery bathroom's walls replay His romantic, lovey-dovey numbers In the quiet hours each morn, each day In his cube-size happy universe... I doubt the man's self-entertaining soul If to amuse him, he has none in the Whole. ©️ N P Samal