You are currently browsing the tag archive for the 'poetry' tag.
Sung by Andy M. Stewart
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength & breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather’d in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro’ town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal’d
The fullness of her face –
Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-alter gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
“To be a Muslim is difficult; if one really be so, then one may be called a Muslim. Let one first love the religion of saints, and put aside pride and self as the file removes rust. Let him accept the religion of his authorities, and dismiss anxiety regarding death or life; Let him heartily obey the will of God, worship the Creator and efface himself. When he is kind to all men, then Nanak, he shall indeed be a Muslim.”
Guru Nanak, Guru Granth Sahib
Sufi’s are lovers of truth.
The message of Sufis, the mystics who touch our mind and soul, is universal. Because of truth, richness, and its down to earth approach, Sufi philosophy finds a following amongst elite as well as the masses – irrespective of color, creed or religion.
Though Sufis’ message of love reached almost every nook and corner in the subcontinent, it was particularly so in Pakistan where it spread to find big success with the common folk, yet the universality of Sufis’ message found support and following equally amongst the nobility.
To continue reading, click here…
Source: Wonders of Pakistan
There are better ways of doing things,
Than dividing up according to kin.
Though boasting emirates and stans,
Dire and empty are their plans!
Chasing ephemeral in lieu of ethereal,
Reaping the bounties of their hands.
Present conditions of previous sin,
Against the Caliph think they win!
Temporary nations on Allah’s lands.
Not only from far but close at hand,
Dictators and tyrants together band.
Be careful what you wish and sow,
Especially when you do not know!
Not according to faith did they,
Big egos causing all to stray.
Provided for others to claim,
Some land amongst the fray.
Beginnings of now lie in the past,
In Arab hands was made a pact,
Not justifying cousins now,
But be aware of when and how.
Not only outsiders causing injury,
Family, friends wishing for a jury.
Even without an Israeli state,
Still suffering an awful fate.
Surely the answer to our woes,
Lies not in condemning others,
But by looking into ourselves!
Realise own wrong to become strong.
You see the strife outside,
Mirrors your disease inside,
You must purify your hearts,
To see a better world outside.
Love your neighbour as yourself,
And do not do unto others,
Anything hateful to yourselves.
True ones wish for their neighbours,
That which they desire for themselves!
© Paul Salahuddin Armstrong. 24.02.2009
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.
And then the whining school-boy, 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 honour, 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 slipper’d 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.
William Shakespeare – All the world’s a stage (from As You Like It 2/7)
