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 dream - and not make dreams your master;
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 wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath 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";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
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!
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha
All hail! inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low'ring, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning,
Round my devoted head.
And thou grim Pow'r by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
Nor more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day-
My weary heart is throbbing cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face,
Enclasped, and grasped,
Within thy cold embrace!
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha
THE SAIL by Mikhail Lermontov (Russian poet of 19th century)
A lone white sail shows for an instant Where gleams the sea, an azure streak. What left it in its homeland distant? In alien parts what does it seek?
The billow play, the mast bends creaking, The wind, impatient, moans and sighs... It is not joy that it is seeking, Nor is it happiness it flies.
The blue wave dance, they dance and tremble, The sun's bright ray caress the seas. And yet for storm it begs, the rebel, As if in storm lurked calm and peace!..
I heard the voice. It promised solace. "Come here," it seemed so softly call. "Leave Russia, sinning, lost and graceless, Leave your land, pray, for good and all. I'll cleanse your hands from blood that stains you, And from your heart draw back black shame, The hurts of failure, wrongs that pain you I'll veil with yet another name." With even calm deliberation I raised my hands to stop my ears, Lest that ignoble invitation Defile a spirit lost in tears.
ANNA AKHMATOVA
Born near Odessa in the family of the naval engineer. the poetess' real name was Gorenko. Akhmatova spent her childhood in Tsarskoye Selo. In 1907 she graduated from the kiev Gymnasium and went to St. Petersburg to study history and literature at the Higher School for Women. It was in that city where she spent practically the whole of her life. In 1910-1912 she travelled to Germany, France and Italy. Akhmatova's writings were first printed in 1907. This very first books made her famous allover the Russia. They was about love mostly. But later the range of her topics became wider and more complex. The books of Akhmatova published dureing her lifetime were "Evening" (1912), "Rosary" (1914), "The White Flock" (1917), "The Plantain" (1921), "Anno Domini MCMXXI" (1922), "From Six Books" (1940), "Poems" (1960) and "The Flow of Time" (1965). Her masterpiece, "The Requiem", was published only after the fall of the USSR. This large poem was showing the terrible situation in the USSR in Joseph Stalin's time and the truth behind the cult of his person.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream!
"Morty
Trust in God: She will provide." -- Emmeline Pankhurst
Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
in Alexandria; in the reign of
Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantius;
in part a pagan, and in part a christian);
"Fortified by theory and study,
I shall not fear my passions like a coward.
I shall give my body to sensual delights,
to enjoyments dreamt-of,
to the most daring amorous desires,
to the lustful impulses of my blood, without
any fear, for whenever I want --
and I shall have the will, fortified
as I shall be by theory and study --
at moments of crisis I shall find again
my spirit, ascetic, as before."
Here's one that anyone who's spent a quarter of there life in the far east and then returned to London will understand......
Mandalay
Rudyard Kipling
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say; "Come you back, you British Soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay; Can't you 'ear their paddles clunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-Yaw-Lat jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay ...
When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-la-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek again my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephants a-piling teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay ...
But that's all shove be'ind me -- long ago and fur away, An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay ...
I am sick 'o wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay . . .
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there ain't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', and it's there that I would be-- By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! O the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
I posted this in another thread but also fits here:
Thirty-Three Bullets by a Turkish poet, AHMED ARIF
I.
This is the Mengene mountain When dawn creeps up at the lake Van This is the child of Nimrod When dawn creeps up against the Nimrod One side of you is avalanches, the Caucasian sky The other side a rug, Persia At mountain tops glaciers, in bunches Fugitive pigeons at water-pools And herds of deer And partridge flocks...
Their courage cannot be denied In one-to-one fights they are unbeaten These thousand years, the servants of this area Come, how shall we give the news? This is not a flock of cranes Nor a constellation in the sky But a heart with thirty-three bullets Thirty-three rivers of blood Not flowing All calmed to a lake on this mountain
II.
A rabbit came up from the foot of the hill Its back is motley Its belly milk-white A mountain rabbit, pregnant, lost up here Its heart heaved to its mouth, poor thing It can draw repentance from man. The hour was solitary, a solitary time It was faultless, naked dawn
One of the thirty-three looked In his body the heavy void of hunger Hair and beard all tangled Lice on his collar He looked, and his arms were wounded This lad with hellion heart Looked once at the rabbit Then looked behind His delicate carbine came to his mind Sulking under his pillow Then came the young mare he brought from the plain of Harran Her mane blue-beaded A blaze on her forehead Three fetlocks white Her cantering easy and generous His chesnut mare How they had flown in front of Hozat!
If he were not now Helpless and tied like this The cold barrel of a gun behind him He could have hidden on these heights These mountains, the friendly mountains, know your worth Thank God, my hands will not put me to shame These hands that can flick off with the first shot The burning tobacco ash Or the tongue of the viper Sparkling in the sun These eyes were not duped even once By the ravines waiting for avalanches By the soft, snowy betrayal of cliffs These knowing eyes No use He was going to be shot The order was final Now the blind reptiles will devour his eyes The vultures his heart.
III.
In a solitary corner of the mountains At the hour of morning prayer I lie stretched Long, bloody...
I have been shot My dreams are darker than night No one can find a good omen in them My life gone before its time I cannot put it into words A pasha sends a codded message And I am shot, without inquest, without judgment
Kinsman, write my story as it is Or they might think it a fable These are not rosy nipples But a dumdum bullet Shattered in my mouth...
IV.
They applied the decree of death They stained The half-awakened wind of dawn And the blue mist of the Nimrod In blood They stacked their guns there Searched us Feeling our corpses They took away My red sash of Kermanshah weave My prayer beads and tobacco pouch And left Those were all gifts to me from friends All from the Persian lands
We are guardians, relatives, tied by blood We exchange with families Across the river Our daughters, these many centuries we are neighbours Shoulder to shoulder Our chickens mingle together Not out of ignorance But poverty We never got used to passports
This is the guilt that kills us We end up Being called Bandits Killers Traitors...
Kinsman, write my story as it is Or they might think it a fable These are not rosy nipples But a dumdum bullet Shattered in my mouth
V.
Shoot, bastards Shoot me I do not die easyly I am live under the ashes I have words buried in my belly For those who understand My father gave his eyes on the Urfa front And gave his three brothers Three young cypresses Three chunks of mountain without their share of life And when friends, guardians, kin Met the French bullets Out of towers, hills, minarets
My young uncle Nazif His moustache still new Handsome Light Good horseman Shoot, brothers, he said Shoot This is the day of honour And reared his horse...
Kindsman, write my story as it is Or they might think it a fable These are not rosy nipples But a dumdum bullet Shattered in my mouth...
Davet
Namaza gidiyorum, alay dizilmis,
Ihtisamimla uzuyor yollar.
Bazen davet eder klelerim hayata vcudumu:
"Magrur olma padisahim, senden byk Allah var..."
Vakti altin gibi serpiyorum,
Kapisiyor, gen, ihtiyar.
Sularin ve kuslarin sesleri yanim sira:
"Magrur olma padisahim, senden byk Allah var..."
Ben ki kitalar kesfetmisim, nesillerden,
Ben ki cihan kadar.
Gndzn bittigi yerler karanlik:
"Magrur olma padisahim, senden byk Allah var..."
Plea
On my way to mosque, in full pageant,
My grandeur makes the roads go through.
My slaves invite my body to life:
"Don't be proud, my Sultan, God is greater than you..."
I scatter time like pieces of gold,
Young and old get their due.
The voices of rivers and birds escort me:
"Don't be proud, my Sultan, God is greater than you..."
I conquered continents for generations.
Over the globe I grew.
Dark is where the daylight ends:
"Don't be proud, my Sultan, God is greater than you..."
Folly, error, sin, avarice Occupy our minds and labor our bodies, And we feed our pleasant remorse As beggars nourish their vermin.
Our sins are obstinate, our repentance is faint; We exact a high price for our confessions, And we gaily return to the miry path, Believing that base tears wash away all our stains.
On the pillow of evil Satan, Trismegist, Incessantly lulls our enchanted minds, And the noble metal of our will Is wholly vaporized by this wise alchemist.
The Devil holds the strings which move us! In repugnant things we discover charms; Every day we descend a step further toward Hell, Without horror, through gloom that stinks.
Like a penniless rake who with kisses and bites Tortures the breast of an old prostitute, We steal as we pass by a clandestine pleasure That we squeeze very hard like a dried up orange.
Serried, swarming, like a million maggots, A legion of Demons carouses in our brains, And when we breathe, Death, that unseen river, Descends into our lungs with muffled wails.
If rape, poison, daggers, arson Have not yet embroidered with their pleasing designs The banal canvas of our pitiable lives, It is because our souls have not enough boldness.
But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitch hounds, The apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents, The yelping, howling, growling, crawling monsters, In the filthy menagerie of our vices,
There is one more ugly, more wicked, more filthy! Although he makes neither great gestures nor great cries, He would willingly make of the earth a shambles And, in a yawn, swallow the world;
He is Ennui! His eye watery as though with tears, He dreams of scaffolds as he smokes his hookah pipe. You know him reader, that refined monster, Hypocritish reader, my fellow, my brother!
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Come you back to Mandalay, 
