Nurse’s Song

By William Blake

When voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.

‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,
Till the morning appears in the skies.’

‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep.’

‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed.’
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
And all the hills echoed.

Background, Casually

By Nissim Ezekiel

I

A poet-rascal-clown was born,
The frightened child who would not eat
Or sleep, a boy of meager bone.
He never learned to fly a kite,
His borrowed top refused to spin.

I went to Roman Catholic school,
A mugging Jew among the wolves.
They told me I had killed the Christ,
That year I won the scripture prize.
A Muslim sportsman boxed my ears.

I grew in terror of the strong
But undernourished Hindu lads,
Their prepositions always wrong,
Repelled me by passivity.
One noisy day I used a knife.

At home on Friday nights the prayers
Were said. My morals had declined.
I heard of Yoga and of Zen.
Could I, perhaps, be rabbi-saint?
The more I searched, the less I found.

Twenty two: time to go abroad.
First, the decision, then a friend
To pay the fare. Philosophy,
Poverty and Poetry, three
Companions shared my basement room.

II

The London seasons passed me by.
I lay in bed two years alone,
And then a Woman came to tell
My willing ears I was the Son
Of Man. I knew that I had failed

In everything, a bitter thought.
So, in an English cargo-ship
Taking French guns and mortar shells
To Indo-China, scrubbed the decks,
And learned to laugh again at home.

How to feel it home, was the point.
Some reading had been done, but what
Had I observed, except my own
Exasperation? All Hindus are
Like that, my father used to say,

When someone talked too loudly, or
Knocked at the door like the Devil.
They hawked and spat. They sprawled around.
I prepared for the worst. Married,
Changed jobs, and saw myself a fool.

The song of my experience sung,
I knew that all was yet to sing.
My ancestors, among the castes,
Were aliens crushing seed for bread
(The hooded bullock made his rounds).

III

One among them fought and taught,
A Major bearing British arms.
He told my father sad stories
Of the Boer War. I dreamed that
Fierce men had bound my feet and hands.
The later dreams were all of words.

I did not know that words betray
But let the poems come, and lost
That grip on things the worldly prize.
I would not suffer that again.

I look about me now, and try
To formulate a plainer view:
The wise survive and serve–to play
The fool, to cash in on
The inner and the outer storms.

The Indian landscape sears my eyes.
I have become a part of it
To be observed by foreigners.
They say that I am singular,
Their letters overstate the case.

I have made my commitments now.
This is one: to stay where I am,
As others choose to give themselves
In some remote and backward place.
My backward place is where I am.

Found You !

By Liyona

I was standing right behind the door in stark darkness and heard the faint call of “Here I come!”. I knew my hiding spot was perfect. Snuggled in between the door and the bookshelf, no one would find me. Even if they closed the door, the darkness hid my shape. I was practically invisible. I heard a slight creak, and I held my breath.

The lights flipped on.

Oh no! I didn’t think they would turn on the light. The door suddenly moved. “Found you!”

Liyona is an “average joe” kind of writer who likes to think about ordinary things and then write them down. Ever since she can remember, she has been rhyming words and creating lyric poems. During her college years, she took a more serious bent toward writing and started to post on her blog (The Life and Times of a Quirky Character.) Currently, she resides on the East Coast of the United States, just north of the country’s capital.

Little Girl And Her Moon

By Sheebah

I was staring at my books listlessly in the noon,
as I thought of a story about a girl and the moon.

Once upon a time, there lived a young, enthusiastic girl,
who had charming eyes and lovely brown curls.
She was fond of the shape shifting celstial body
and would sing lullabies about its beauty daily.
At nights, she would wait near the wooden door,
hoping that one night it will land on the porch.
She imagined riding it to the chilly North Pole,
thinking about it somehow calmed her soul.
She would often address it as “My Dear Moon”
and for the humanity, she considered it to be a boon.
“Come down to the earth, come play with me,
come pay me a visit, come down to me”.
She watched it change its shape every night
and everytime she would be pleased with its sight.

A few years passed and the girl grew older
Her hopes for the Moon’s visit became fainter.
One night, when she wasn’t waiting anymore
She heard a soft knock on the wooden door.
The beloved Moon had come down to the earth,
to visit the girl who appreciated the reflector’s worth.
“Dear Moon?”, whispered the admirer doubtfully
as the beloved Moon stood on the porch silently.

As I watched the girl walk towards the door
Something started pulling me down on the floor,
As I fell towards the floor and kept falling continuously
I heard some footsteps and then a door creaked slowly
I continued falling down when someone shook my shoulder
“Oh dear! You’re sleeping again”, said my mother
“Dreaming and exploring, Mother”, I said to her,
as I thought about the fate of the Moon and its admirer.

Sheebah is a student of class XI whose hobby is to write poetry.

The Wet

By Wani Hadii

Looking like pearl on flower petal top
Falls the rain drop by drop
Soothing and slow is the falling rain
Falling on mountains and on plain
On the greenery when it goes down
Plummeting and alluring seems the uptown
Dropping down on dusty thoroughfare
Removing its dust by making it clear
Loving to play in this slow falling rain
Lessening my pain and deadly strain
On this rainy day my sister made a boat
Keeping that on water and making it float
Jovial the sight when falling from the cloud
Thundering along to make it sound loud
Truly said that bundle of our sin
Prevents rain from falling in

Wani Hadii is a lover of poetry who likes to write on nature.
Instagram handle : @landofpoems13