Sher O Shayri

   

~*Poet Mansion*~

Post Reply New Post

Page 1 of 1

amisra

IF-Dazzler

amisra

Joined: 12 July 2006

Posts: 3011

Posted: 30 July 2007 at 7:36am | IP Logged
Hello Friends,Tongue

The SOS Dev. Team members now present you Poet Mansion:Embarrassed

In this topic, you guys can post biographies of your favorite poets, their famous poems, and anything interesting about them. Please include their name and where you got the information from. Also before posting, please make sure your poet has not been posted before by any other members, as we do not want to create double postings.Big smile

Hope you have fun learning and teaching others about poets and their beautiful pieces of writing.Embarrassed

Love,Heart

SOS Dev. Team


Edited by amisra - 30 July 2007 at 8:58am

The following 4 member(s) liked the above post:

-MissBoiiVamp-minuuscarletteblue-Chotta-Don-

Dear Guest, Being an unregistered member you are missing out on participating in the lively discussions happening on the topic "~*Poet Mansion*~" in Sher O Shayri forum. In addition you lose out on the fun interactions with fellow members and other member exclusive features that India-Forums has to offer. Join India's most popular discussion portal on Indian Entertainment. It's FREE and registration is effortless so JOIN NOW!

amisra

IF-Dazzler

amisra

Joined: 12 July 2006

Posts: 3011

Posted: 30 July 2007 at 10:03am | IP Logged
Langston Hughes



Biography:
James Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri. His parents divorced when he was a small child, and his father moved to Mexico. He was raised by his grandmother until he was thirteen, when he moved to Lincoln, Illinois, to live with his mother and her husband, before the family eventually settled in Cleveland, Ohio. It was in Lincoln, Illinois, that Hughes began writing poetry. Following graduation, he spent a year in Mexico and a year at Columbia University. During these years, he held odd jobs as an assistant cook, launderer, and a busboy, and traveled to Africa and Europe working as a seaman. In November 1924, he moved to Washington, D.C. Hughes's first book of poetry, The Weary Blues, was published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1926. He finished his college education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania three years later. In 1930 his first novel, Not Without Laughter, won the Harmon gold medal for literature.

Hughes, who claimed Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Carl Sandburg, and Walt Whitman as his primary influences, is particularly known for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties. He wrote novels, short stories and plays, as well as poetry, and is also known for his engagement with the world of jazz and the influence it had on his writing, as in "Montage of a Dream Deferred." His life and work were enormously important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. Unlike other notable black poets of the period—Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, and Countee Cullen—Hughes refused to differentiate between his personal experience and the common experience of black America. He wanted to tell the stories of his people in ways that reflected their actual culture, including both their suffering and their love of music, laughter, and language itself.

Langston Hughes died of complications from prostate cancer in May 22, 1967, in New York. In his memory, his residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem, New York City, has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission, and East 127th Street has been renamed "Langston Hughes Place."

In addition to leaving us a large body of poetic work, Hughes wrote eleven plays and countless works of prose, including the well-known "Simple" books: Simple Speaks His Mind, Simple Stakes a Claim, Simple Takes a Wife, and Simple's Uncle Sam. He edited the anthologies The Poetry of the Negro and The Book of Negro Folklore, wrote an acclaimed autobiography (The Big Sea) and co-wrote the play Mule Bone with Zora Neale Hurston.

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/83

Poems:

Life is Fine

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

    But it was      Cold in that water!      It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

    But it was      High up there!      It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

    Life is fine!      Fine as wine!      Life is fine!

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15611


I, Too, Sing America

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.


Tomorrow,

I'll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody'll dare

Say to me,

"Eat in the kitchen,"

Then.


Besides,

They'll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed--


I, too, am America.

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15615

Dream Variations


To fling my arms wide

In some place of the sun,

To whirl and to dance

Till the white day is done.

Then rest at cool evening

Beneath a tall tree

While night comes on gently,

   Dark like me--

That is my dream!



To fling my arms wide

In the face of the sun,

Dance!  Whirl!  Whirl!

Till the quick day is done.

Rest at pale evening . . .

A tall, slim tree . . .

Night coming tenderly

   Black like me.

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15610



Edited by amisra - 30 July 2007 at 10:04am

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:

-MissBoiiVamp-

amisra

IF-Dazzler

amisra

Joined: 12 July 2006

Posts: 3011

Posted: 30 July 2007 at 11:51pm | IP Logged
William Shakespeare



Biography:
William Shakespeare was born on April 23, 1564, in Stratford-on-Avon. The son of John Shakespeare and Mary Arden, he was probably educated at the King Edward IV Grammar School in Stratford, where he learned Latin and a little Greek and read the Roman dramatists. At eighteen, he married Anne Hathaway, a woman seven or eight years his senior. Together they raised two daughters: Susanna, who was born in 1583, and Judith (whose twin brother died in boyhood), born in 1585.

Little is known about Shakespeare's activities between 1585 and 1592. Robert Greene's A Groatsworth of WitVenus and Adonis (1593) and The Rape of Lucrece (1594). The fomer was a long narrative poem depicting the rejection of Venus by Adonis, his death, and the consequent disappearance of beauty from the world. Despite conservative objections to the poem's glorification of sensuality, it was immensely popular and was reprinted six times during the nine years following its publication. alludes to him as an actor and playwright. Shakespeare may have taught at school during this period, but it seems more probable that shortly after 1585 he went to London to begin his apprenticeship as an actor. Due to the plague, the London theaters were often closed between June 1592 and April 1594. During that period, Shakespeare probably had some income from his patron, Henry Wriothesley, earl of Southampton, to whom he dedicated his first two poems,

In 1594, Shakespeare joined the Lord Chamberlain's company of actors, the most popular of the companies acting at Court. In 1599 Shakespeare joined a group of Chamberlain's Men that would form a syndicate to build and operate a new playhouse: the Globe, which became the most famous theater of its time. With his share of the income from the Globe, Shakespeare was able to purchase New Place, his home in Stratford.

While Shakespeare was regarded as the foremost dramatist of his time, evidence indicates that both he and his world looked to poetry, not playwriting, for enduring fame. Shakespeare's sonnets were composed between 1593 and 1601, though not published until 1609. That edition, The Sonnets of Shakespeare, consists of 154 sonnets, all written in the form of three quatrains and a couplet that is now recognized as Shakespearean. The sonnets fall into two groups: sonnets 1-126, addressed to a beloved friend, a handsome and noble young man, and sonnets 127-152, to a malignant but fascinating "Dark Lady," whom the poet loves in spite of himself. Nearly all of Shakespeare's sonnets examine the inevitable decay of time, and the immortalization of beauty and love in poetry.

In his poems and plays, Shakespeare invented thousands of words, often combining or contorting Latin, French and native roots. His impressive expansion of the English language, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, includes such words as: arch-villain, birthplace, bloodsucking, courtship, dewdrop, downstairs, fanged, heartsore, hunchbacked, leapfrog, misquote, pageantry, radiance, schoolboy, stillborn, watchdog, and zany.

Shakespeare wrote more than 30 plays. These are usually divided into four categories: histories, comedies, tragedies, and romances. His earliest plays were primarily comedies and histories such as Henry VI and The Comedy of Errors, but in 1596, Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet, his second tragedy, and over the next dozen years he would return to the form, writing the plays for which he is now best known: Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra. In his final years, Shakespeare turned to the romantic with Cymbeline, A Winter's Tale, and The Tempest.

Only eighteen of Shakespeare's plays were published separately in quarto editions during his lifetime; a complete collection of his works did not appear until the publication of the First Folio in 1623, several years after his death. Nonetheless, his contemporaries recognized Shakespeare's achievements. Francis Meres cited "honey-tongued" Shakespeare for his plays and poems in 1598, and the Chamberlain's Men rose to become the leading dramatic company in London, installed as members of the royal household in 1603.

Sometime after 1612, Shakespeare retired from the stage and returned to his home in Stratford. He drew up his will in January of 1616, which included his famous bequest to his wife of his "second best bed." He died on April 23, 1616, and was buried two days later at Stratford Church.

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/122

Poems:

All the World's a Stage

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15740


When that I was and a Little Tiny Boy

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
   For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man's estate,
   With hey, ho, . . .
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate
   For the rain, . . .

But when I came, alas! to wive,
   With hey, ho, . . .
By swaggering could I never thrive,
   For the rain, . . .

But when I came unto my beds,
   With hey, ho, . . .
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
   For the rain, . . .

A great while ago the world begun,
   With hey, ho, . . .
But that's all one, our play is done.
   And we'll strive to please you every day.


http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16129


Three Witches from Macbeth

Round about the cauldron go;  
In the poison'd entrails throw.  
Toad, that under cold stone    
Days and nights hast thirty one  
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,  
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.  

    Double, double toil and trouble;
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble.  

Fillet of a fenny snake,  
In the cauldron boil and bake;  
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,  
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,  
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,  
Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,  
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.  

    Double, double toil and trouble;  
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble.


http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19259



Edited by amisra - 30 July 2007 at 11:53pm

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:

-MissBoiiVamp-

Lovers Ka Love

IF-Rockerz

Lovers Ka Love

Joined: 20 July 2006

Posts: 5465

Posted: 08 August 2007 at 1:36pm | IP Logged
Mirza Asad Ullah Khan Ghalib
A FamOus Udru Poet


B I O G R A P H Y


Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan -- known to posterity as Ghalib, a 'nom de plume' he adopted in the tradition of all classical Urdu poets, was born in the city of Agra, of parents with Turkish aristocratic ancestry. Both his father and uncle died while he was still young, and he spent a good part of his early boyhood with his mother's family. This, of course, began a psychology of ambivalences for him. On the one hand, he grew up relatively free of any oppressive dominance by adult, male-dominant figures. This, probably accounts for at least some of the independent spirit he showed from very early childhood. On the other hand, this placed him in the humiliating situation of being socially and economically dependent on maternal grandparents, giving him, one can surmise, a sense that whatever worldly goods he received were a matter of charity and not legitimately his. His pre-occupation in later life with finding secure, legitimate, and comfortable means of livelihood can be perhaps at least partially understood in terms of this early uncertainity.

The question of Ghalib's early education has often confused Urdu scholars. Although any record of his formal education that might exist is extremely scanty, it is also true that Ghalib's circle of friends in Delhi included some of the most eminent minds of his time. There is, finally, irrevocably, the evidence of his writings, in verse as well as in prose, which are distinguished not only by creative excellence but also by the great knowledge of philosophy, ethics, theology, classical literature, grammar, and history.
In or around 1810, two events of great importance occured in Ghalib's life: he was married into a well-to-do, educated family of nobles, and he left for Delhi. One must remember that Ghalib was only thirteen at the time. It is impossible to say when Ghalib started writing poetry. Perhaps it was as early as his seventh or eight years. On the other hand, there is evidence that most of what we know as his complete works were substantially completed by 1816, when he was 19 years old, and six years after he first came to Delhi. We are obviously dealing with a man whose maturation was both early and rapid. We can safely conjecture that the migration from Agra, which had once been a capital but was now one of the many important but declining cities, to Delhi, its grandeur kept intact by the existence of the moghul court, was an important event in the life of this thirteen year old, newly married poet who desparately needed material security, who was beginning to take his career in letters seriously, and who was soon to be recognized as a genius, if not by the court, at least some of his most important comtemporaries. As for the marriage, in the predominantly male-oriented society of Muslim India no one could expect Ghalib to take that event terribly seriously, and he didn't. The period did, however mark the beginnings of concern with material advancement that was to obsess him for the rest of his life.
He wrote first in a style at once detached, obscure, and pedantic, but soon thereafter he adopted the fastidious, personal, complexly moral idiom which we now know as his mature style. It is astonishing that he should have gone from sheer precocity to the extremes of verbal ingenuity and obscurity, to a style which, next to Meer's, is the most important and comprehensive styles of the ghazal in the Urdu language before he was even twenty. His interest began to shift decisively away from Urdu poetry to Persian during the 1820's, and he soon abandoned writing in Urdu almost altogether.


haiN aur bhee duniya meiN suKHanwar bohot achche
kehte haiN ki 'GHalib' ka hai andaaz-e-bayaaN aur

There are many more good poets in the world
but they say Ghalib has a style thats all his own




His One unfOrgatable bOok is name as "DEEWAN-E-GHALIB"...
link fOr Deewan-e-Ghalib

Deewan-e-Ghalib Online
Deewan-e-Ghalib Online
Deewan-e-Ghalib Online


cheers......
Usman


Edited by Lovers Ka Love - 08 August 2007 at 1:39pm

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:

-MissBoiiVamp-

Lovers Ka Love

IF-Rockerz

Lovers Ka Love

Joined: 20 July 2006

Posts: 5465

Posted: 08 August 2007 at 1:42pm | IP Logged
Dr.Allama Mohammad Iqbal
~ the pOet Of the East ~



Dr. Mohammad Iqbal, the Islamic poet-philosopher who played such a vital role in the birth of Pakistan, was the first to advocate the formation of independent Muslim state for the subcontinent. In 1930, in his capacity as President of the Muslim League, Iqbal was the first to use a political platform to launch the concept of a separate homeland for Muslims. We have researched, selected, and annotated a few links below for you to learn more this profound thinker:

Life & Milestones

Mohammad Iqbal: A Voice of His People
As a poet Iqbal represented in perhaps the most sensitive manner, the collective consciousness of his people during a certain period of their history. He was able to do so because he maintained a constant and direct contact with his audience at all levels.

Allama Iqbal's Biography
A summarized version of Allama Iqbal's biography according to Syed Abul Hassan Nadwi in "Glory of Iqbal".

A Day In the Life of Allama Iqbal
An interview with Mian Ali Bakhsh, the life-long domestic assistant of Allama Muhammad Iqbal. It was conducted by Pakistani man of letters Mumtaz Hasan on 23 September 1957.

Iqbal's Thought and Contributions
A unique contribution of Iqbal to the contemporary Islamic thought is his bracketing modern science with 'God-consciousness' which he considers more precious than mere belief in God. He equates the scientist's observation of nature with seeking a kind of intimacy with God.

Iqbal: Poet-Philosopher of Pakistan
Explore this comprehensive & resourceful work on the life, books, publications, poetry, and intellectual contribution Allama Iqbal, "the most daring intellectual modernist the Muslim world has produced." This site could be viewed in English & Urdu. Features include several articles/works written about Iqbal & his publications.

Muhammad Iqbal: A Manifestation of Self-reconstruction and Reformation
"If one were to reconstruct the form of Islam, which has been made to degenerate over the course of history, re-assemble it in such a way that its spirit could return to a complete body, and transform the trumpet of Israfil were to blow in the 20th century over a dead society and awaken its movement, power, spirit and meaning, it is then exemplary Muslim personalities like Mohammad Iqbal would be reconstructed and reborn " - Dr. Ali Shariati.

Overview: Life of Mohammad Iqbal
Iqbal was the first poet in Urdu who not only had the background of modern English education but also got educated in Western universities. His stay in Europe brought about radical changes in his thought and perception. His world-view underwent a sea change.

Poet of the East
A website dedicated to Dr. Muhammad Iqbal, a Man of Peace and Equality for every person regardless of race, religion, region and caste. This site contains his famous book, Bange-Dara and several selected verses of poetry

sOme Inspiring pOems Of Dr.Iqbal

W i s h

O Allah! The practices of all these people are so tiresome,
That even within their midst I feel so lonesome.
The noise of the world urges me to run away
To a quiet place where silence begins and ends each day.
A place where movement will always yield to stillness,
And speech is completely awed by silence.
Sometimes I feel I am dying for this quietness;
To live in a hut near a mountain will be pure bliss.
The worries of the world burden me greatly, and from them I wish to part
Then I can live in solitude while the thorns of sadness leave my heart.
These birds who sit in the tree singing all day long…
Their chirping is beautiful and will be my song.
When I am in need of music I will listen to the waterfall's sound.
Harmony existing between the birds' song and the water rushing down.
The wine cup will be my view, the buds my messengers.
These two friends will inform me of any visitors.
With my hand for a pillow and grass for my bed,
I shall pass away the nights with good thoughts in my head.
This is the best way to live, among all this tranquil solitude.
It helps put to shame and open the eyes of the multitude.
The nightingale will know me so well that she will sit near,
Because she shall know that I would never cause her any fear.
On both sides of the river will be flowers gazing at their reflection,
In the cool, clear blue water, as it runs with perfection.
The mountain scenery just beyond the river will be beautifully exquisite,
That even the water will try to rise in waves just to see it.
In the lap of earth all greenery shall be at rest,
And the water will return among the bushes to glisten at its best.
Gazing at its reflection will be the bending branch of a tree,
Just as a maiden perches by a mirror, admiring her beauty.
When the sun puts henna on the evening bride, the flowers present a golden chest,
That the bride can take this along with her as a gift from all the rest.
When travelers get tired in the night and are looking for a place to stay,
Let my broken lamp provide hope for them to wander my way.
O Allah! Whenever the dark clouds are hovering in the sky,
Let lightning illuminate my hut so they wont pass it by.
The early dawn cuckoo is the caller of prayer, and I listen to her
Instead of the priest's sermons; I listen to the azaan coming from this bird.
When dew falls on the flowers as a ceremonious cleansing,
My tears will be my wudu and my prayer will be a blessing.
Let my voice depart from this place and touch the caravan of stars above me,
So it can ring a bell to signify we should all live peacefully.
O Allah! Let my cry make all those empathetic hearts ache,
And the ones who are unconscious or indifferent, awake.



Child And The Lamp


Oh little one! At the lamp you gaze,
Examining all of the ways,
The moths move about.
You stare and observe the flame spellbound.
Then in my lap you start to move around.
Are you trying to get closer to the light?
You become more and more perplexed,
You heart is baffled by these insects,
Trying to recognize this scene.
The fire the lamp holds is small,
You contain the biggest flame of all.
You are an undivided light.
How is it that the lamp's flame is revealed
While the one in you is concealed?
Nature has hidden it in the chandelier of clay.
The curtain of future your light hides,
And the dust covering the eye of the mind
Becomes the curtain of the future.
What we call life is nothing but negligence;
intoxication is unconsciousness.
Yet others declare life is but a dream.
If nature is what the eye wishes to see,
Then behold in every dropp the storm of beauty
Of a magnificent river-the world of nature.
Heavenly sights surround everyone;
Grace is in the glimmering rays of the sun
And in the evening dusk's quiet enchantment.
Elegance is in the flower's colors,
Majesty in ruins of past empires-
As in a child's constant struggle to speak.
Glory is in the morning bird's symphony,
When it constructs its nest completely
And in the sparkling fountains within the mountain.
Behold the splendor in the river flowing free,
In the wild, population, desert and city.
Beauty embraces us on every side.
For something the soul continues to burn.
Otherwise, why would it yearn?
It cries like a bell in a desert.
Beauty is in every statement in the world.
Then why is the soul not comfortable?
It's like a fish struggling outside the water.




M o t h e r's D r e a m


One night when I was sleeping I had a dream,
And it was a very strange dream too.
I think I might know as to what it could mean,
And I hope what I think is not true.
I was alone, and I was going somewhere,
It was so dark I soon lost my way.
I didn't know how I was supposed to get there,
But where I was it was scary, and I couldn't stay.
Then I saw children, standing in a line,
Their clothes made out of emerald stone.
And at the end was a son of mine,
Whom I had lost so long ago.
They were all holding bright lamps that glowed,
But my son's at the end did not.
Compared to the others he walked rather slow,
And over this I pondered a lot.
I approached my son and called to him,
"Where have you come after you left me? "
For some reason his lamp seemed to grow more dim,
Making it even harder for us to see.
I said, "I've cried so much, every day new tears,
They have formed a very long chain.
My heartache grew over the past lonesome years,
And my tears have now become the rain."
Then he turned to me, looked and said,
"You have not helped me through your pain.
You should learn to live without me instead,
Because in your tears I have nothing to gain."
He held up his lamp, so lifeless and dull,
Saying wile he slowly turned from me…
Your tears have extinguished it, it's not bright at all,
because you wouldn't let things just be.




Spider & The Fly


One day the spider said to the fly,
"You always pass my house, but never come inside.

"Is my house too dirty for your feet?
Why don't you come inside and have a seat?

"You avoid strangers, don't worry I understand,
but I am a very dear friend, and have only good things planned.

"My house is suitable for a queen, isn't it?
And so there are stairs in front, if you ever wish to visit."

"Mr. Spider, I'm too clever, " was the answer of the fly.
"Go deceive someone else, but me, don't even try.

"Whoever climbs your stairs forever remains trapped,
Mr. Spider, I'm too smart, you should've thought of that! "

Now the spider said, "You think my house is too plain for you to see?
I want you to be happy, but it's obvious you don't care about me.

"Why don't you come inside and rest your tired wings?
Inside I have kept for you many beautiful things.

"My house is made of mirrors, you'd have a lot of fun.
I have the most comfortable beds that aren't for just anyone."

The fly answered, "All this is nice, but an offer from you will never take.
I know better than to sleep on your bed from which I would never awake."

The spider was impressed by the cleverness of the fly,
"But how can I trap her? " He thought, "how can I try?

"Flattery! " He thought, "it's almost like a rule,
flatter can transform any clever thing into a fool.

"Oh respected lady! " Said the spider, "please don't think I'd deceive you!
You are very smart, not to mention beautiful too.

Your head is decorated in jewels, and your eyes sparkle everyday.
You are gorgeous, intelligent and good. Just perfect in every way."

As the spider continued to flatter her, the fly became more impressed.
"I have no need to fear you, " she said, "I can get rid of my stress.

"Refusing someone's offer is not a good thing to do;
breaking someone's heart is terribly painful too."

So with confidence the fly flew towards the spider,
As she landed on the sticky web the spider quickly caught her.

The foolishness of the fly cost her a great deal,
But the spider's hunger vanished, having eaten a delicious meal.



C h i l d's P r a y e r


My hopes and wishes come upon
My lips from inside my heart.
Oh Allah! My life should be
Like a lamp, never to go dark.

Let the darkness of the world
Disappear from my presence.
Let every place become bright
From my shining existence.

Just as the flower stands with others,
Improving the garden's beauty,
Let my life stand with knowledge
And dignify my community.

My life should be built around
Those who seek the light,
Just as the moth loves the glowing lamp
In the darkness of the night.

Oh Allah! Make me strive
Constantly to educate my mind,
With the light of knowledge
That you gave me the power to find.

I want to dedicate my life to those
Who are in need of special care.
The old, the young, the ill, the hungry,
I want to be fair.

Oh Allah! You gave us choices!
Protect us from sins,
Lead us to the path of righteousness,
Help us to do good things.




Edited by Lovers Ka Love - 08 August 2007 at 1:49pm

The following 2 member(s) liked the above post:

...adin...-MissBoiiVamp-

Lovers Ka Love

IF-Rockerz

Lovers Ka Love

Joined: 20 July 2006

Posts: 5465

Posted: 11 August 2007 at 5:00am | IP Logged
William Wordsworth




William Wordsworth Birth:

William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth in the Lake District of Cumberland on April 7, 1770. His father was a lawyer named John Wordworth. His mother died when he was eight.

Then five years later, his father died without leaving much of a legacy (besides the debt that had been owed to him by the Earl of Lonsdale, which didn't materialize for Wordsworth until 1802).


William Wordsworth Death:


William Wordsworth died on April 13, 1850. At the time of his death, Wordsworth was considered by many to be the greatest poet in the world.
William Wordsworth Marriage:

On October 4, 1802, Wordsworth married his childhood friend, Mary Hutchinson. They had five children, with the first born in 1803. That same year, Wordsworth met and became friends with Sir Walter Scott, Sir George Beaumont, and Robert Southey.


William Wordsworth Education:

William Wordsworth entered St. John's College, Cambridge in 1787, with the help of his uncles. His grades were mediocre, but he finally received his BA in January of 1791, without any real prospect of permanent employment.
William Wordsworth Travels:

William Wordsworth traveled to France, and associated with revolutionaries. Besides learning the French language, Wordsworth courted Annette Vallon, who became pregnant and gave birth to Anne Caroline.

Wordsworth also traveled to Switzerland.

William Wordsworth Pursuit of Poetry :

William Wordsworth finally received an inheritance in 1795, which allowed him to devote himself to his poetry. In August of 1795, he also met and became friends with Samuel Taylor Coleridge. During the following years, Wordsworth and Coleridge spent time writing poetry, discussing theories of poetry, and offering critiques of one another's poetic works.

Wordsworth and Coleridge had a falling out in 1810, which wasn't rectified for several years.
William Wordsworth Quotes:

"But Man is thy most awful instrument
In working out a pure intent,
Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling mail,
And for thy righteous purpose they prevail."

"In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind."

"Not seldom clad in radiant vest
Deceitfully goes forth the dawn,
Not seldom evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn."
William Wordsworth Lines from "A Poet's Epitaph":

"Impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude."

"The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps on his own heart."

"One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave."


SOME FAMOUS POEMS

The Childless Father

"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

-- Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
"The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead."
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek .

A Night Piece  

----The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split
Asunder,--and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;--still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

Lucy Gray

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
--The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet;"
--When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

The Rainbow

My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!

The Child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety

The World Is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.



this biOgraphi have been cOllected frOm different sites, but main infOrmatiOn is cOllected frOm Wikepedia....


Edited by Lovers Ka Love - 11 August 2007 at 5:09am

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:

-MissBoiiVamp-

IMAN

IF-Dazzler

IMAN

Joined: 19 March 2005

Posts: 2984

Posted: 06 April 2008 at 8:46am | IP Logged
AHMED FARAZ


Ahmed Faraz (Urdu: ???? ????) (January 14, 1931 in Nowshera - Pakistan) is considered one of the greatest modern Urdu poets of the last century and greatest living Urdu poet of present times. Faraz is his 'takhallus', whereas his real name is Syed Ahmed Shah.

Faraz, who has been compared with Mohammad Iqbal and Faiz Ahmed Faiz, holds a unique position as one of the best poets of current times, with a fine but simplistic style of writing, even common people can easily understand and identify with. Ethnically a Pashto-speaking Pashtun, Ahmed Faraz learned and studied Persian and Urdu at the Peshawar University where he taught these subjects later.


Early Life
In an interview with Rediff he recalls how his father, a teacher, once bought clothes for him on Eid. He didn't like the clothes meant for him, but preferred the ones meant for his elder brother. This lead him to write his first couplet:

    Layen hain sab ke liye kapde sale se (He brought clothes for everybody from the sale)

    Layen hain hamare liye kambal jail se (For me he brought a blanket from jail)

He was told by his parents once to learn mathematics from a female class fellow during the summer vacation. "I was weak in mathematics and geography. I still don't remember maps and roads".

Instead of learning mathematics he played bait-bazi with her, a game in which one person recites a couplet and the other one recites another couplet starting from the last letter of the previous one. He always lost, even though he memorized hundreds of couplets for her, but when he started manufacturing his own couplets she couldn't catch him anymore. Coming from a respectable family of Syeds, descendents of ''Haji Bahadar" a famous saint of Kohat, he moved to Peshawar with entire family. Studied in famous Edwards College Peshawar and then did his Masters in Urdu and Persian. Initially Syed Ahmad Shah Faraz thus became Ahmed Faraz.

During his college time, Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Ali Sardar Jafri were the best progressive poets, who impressed him and became his role models. He initially worked as a script writer at radio Pakistan Peshawar and then moved on to teach Urdu at Peshawar University. In 1976 he became the founding Director General (Later Chairman) of Academy of Letters.


Political Life
Outspoken about politics, he went into self-imposed exile during the Zia-ul-Haq era after he was arrested for reciting certain poems at a mushaira criticizing the military rule. He stayed for three years in Britain, Canada and Europe before returning to Pakistan, where he was initially appointed Chairman Academy of Letters and later chairperson of the Islamabad-based National Book Foundation for several years. He has been awarded with numerous national and international awards.

He was awarded the Hilal-e-Imtiaz in 2004, in recognition of his literary achievements. He returned the award in 2006 after becoming disenchanted with the government and its policies.

"My conscious will not forgive me if I remained a silent spectator of the sad happenings around us. The least I can do is to let the dictatorship know where it stands in the eyes of the concerned citizens whose fundamental rights have been usurped. I am doing this by returning the Hilal-e-Imtiaz (civil) forthwith and refuse to associate myself in any way with the regime..." a statement issued by the poet.

About his current writings he says: "I now only write when I am forced to from the inside."[citation needed]

Maintaining a tradition established by his mentor, the revolutionary Faiz Ahmed Faiz, he wrote some of his best poetry during those days in exile. Famous amongst poetry of resistance has been "Mahasara"[citation needed]

One amongst his great ghazals is the famous Ranjish Hi Sahi. He has so far written 13 books and all put together comes as "Shehr e Sukhn aarasta hai" his latest publication so far.


Ahmed Faraz Poems
Ab ke hum bichhray to shayad kabhi Khwabon mein milain
Jis tarah suukhe hue phool kitaabon mein milain
Dhoond ujrrey hue logon mein wafa ke moti
Yeh Khazaane tujhe mumkin hai Kharabon mein milain
Tuu Khudaa hai na meraa ishq farishton jaisa
Dono insaan hain to kyon itne hijabon mein milain
Gam-e-duniyaa bhi Gam-e-yaar mein shaamil kar lo
Nashaa bhartaa hai sharabein jo sharaabon mein milain
Aaj hum daar pe kheinche gaye jin baaton par
kyaa ajab kal wo zamaane ko nisaabon mein milain
Ab na woh main hoon na tu hai na woh maazi hai "Faraz"
Jaise do shaks tamana ke saraabon mein milain



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tum bhi Khafaa ho log bhi be-reham hain dosto
Ab ho chalaa yaqeen ke bure hum hain dosto
Kis ko hamaare haal se nisbat hai kyaa karein
Aankhein to dushmanon ki bhi purnam hain dosto
Apne sivaa hamaare na hone kaa Gam kisse
Apni talaash mein to ham hi ham hain dosto
Kuchh aaj shaam hii se hai dil bhii bujhaa bujhaa
Kuchh shahar ke chiraaG bhi maddham hain dosto
Is shahar-e-aarazuu se bhi baahar nikal chalo
Ab dil ki raunaqein bhi koi dam hain dosto
Sab kuchh sahi 'Faraz' par itanaa zaruur hai
Duniyaa main aise log bahut kam hain dosto


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dost ban kar bhi nahi saath nibhaane waala
Wahi andaaz hai zaalim kaa zamaane waala
Ab isse log samajhte hain giraftaar meraa
SaKht nadim hai mujhe daam main laane waala
Kyaa kahain kitne maraasim thay hamaare usse
Woh jo ek shaKhs hai muonh pher ke jaane waala
Tere hote hue aa jaati thi saari duniyaa
Aaj tanhaa houn to koi nahi aane waala
Muntazir kis kaa houn Tooti hui dahleez pe main
Kaun aayegaa yahaun kaun hai aane waala
Maine dekhaa hai bahaaron main chaman ko jalte
Hai koi Khwaab kii taabeer bataane waala
Kya Khabar thi jo meri jaan main ghulaa hai itanaa
Hai wahi mujh ko sar-e-daar bhi laane waala
Tum taqalluf ko bhi ikhlaas samajhte ho 'Faraz'
Dost hotaa nahin har haath milaane waala

The following 1 member(s) liked the above post:

.SilentPrincess

Post Reply New Post

Go to top

Related Topics

  Topics Topic Starter Replies Views Last Post
*\/* Poet Of The Week *\/* ROBlicious. 6 831 28 December 2009 at 1:47am
By ROBlicious.
!!!~*~SOS Archive Mansion~*~!!! Kiran. 1 5805 17 May 2007 at 5:29pm
By Kiran.
am not a poem specialist or a poet -Khushiyana- 0 561 17 May 2007 at 1:00pm
By -Khushiyana-
Poet of the week...Amisra

2 3 4

*~Sapna~* 27 2069 04 April 2007 at 2:17am
By amisra
Poet of the week...

2 3 4

*~Sapna~* 25 2251 27 March 2007 at 4:22am
By Naughty_n_nice

Forum Quick Jump

Forum Category

Active Forums

Limit search to this Forum only.

 

Disclaimer: All Logos and Pictures of various Channels, Shows, Artistes, Media Houses, Companies, Brands etc. belong to their respective owners, and are used to merely visually identify the Channels, Shows, Companies, Brands, etc. to the viewer. Incase of any issue please contact the webmaster.