Poem of the day
I sit with my feet in the oven,
My nose close up to the pipe ;
I 'm as jokey as any spring robin,
That 's fresh and is rather unripe.
I still wear my ear muffs and cap ;
I still to my overcoat cling ;
Still I feel it my duty to sit
And warble of ; Beautiful Spring.
But my warble is husky and harsh,
And my melody suffers from cracks ;
For the froglets down there in the marsh
Are shivering with humps on their backs.
Of my country I 'm awfully proud ;
So I close to the cooking stove cling,
And lilt, like a dog in a shroud,
Of the coming of Beautiful Spring.
The neck of old winter's giraffic,
It reaches far out into May ;
O, come with your sonnet seraphic,
Sweet robin, come early, I pray.
But be sure and put overshoes on ;
Bring an overcoat over your wing,
And a bag full of mufflers and socks,
When you herald Ethereal Spring.
But still will I manfully sit,
While I close to the cooking stove cling ;
In the voice of a frosted tomtit
Will I sing of Ethereal Spring.
Modern poem of the day
I meditate- If ever there's a third world war
What'll happen to new morn's offspring ?
I meditate- If Earth sprouts out blood
What'll happen of the mirth of innocent ploughs ?
Happy-boughs, fragrant gardens
Nonchalant running of rivers and
Bubbling of brooks,
Cheerful children,fearless youth
Bashful moon faced maids !
Will stillness spread its shroud ?
Will this world end in smoke ?
Will no nightingale sing ?
Will no cuckoo cry ?
Will future historians use blood-mixed ink ?
Will sun-rays shine a mound of corpses ?
Will moon-beams glimmer this massacre ?
Will autumn blight the bloom of flowers ?
Will light become a slave of flowers ?
Will revolution bedeck itself with golden-chains ?
Will peace recede to grave-yards ?
Will spring get a sprinkling of bullets ?
Will cinders bloom on tree-branches ?
Will annihilation swing to heavens ?
Will the victory over humanity, be charity ?
What'll be the epilogue of this old-new tale ?
Centuries re-chant the teachings of
Chanakya, Marx, Lenin, Gandhi,
Tulsidas, Virgil, Shaw, Gorki,
Will their pens not wake-up ?
Will their corpses not toss in coffins ?
When dead-loveliness will rot on the road
Will not History feel restive in palaces ?
When broad will be lock-ed up
Will not sweat sow the seed of revolution ?
The Tiller is engaged in scythe-revolution and
The worker is whetting his sickle,
Orb is establishing a city with new-stars,
Earth is rearing a new sanguine-blood,
Wheel of construction is out of your reach
Powerful Bombs :
Destination of every martyr is PEACE
No war now,
No war now………
(Translated by R.P.Chaddah)