Poetry that joys the heart,
and makes a man think astart..

Sunday, May 29, 2011

The Wind and The Rose

The bloom came to the red rose and its smell spread all the more.
Smitten all sudden, it blushed in beauty that sleepless nights brought,
The red rose gushed to itself in joy; O wind your love it only sought.
And one day to kiss the longing rose, the veiled wind beauty wore,
the rose surrendered to the wind, it fell from glory; unaware of the lure.
the rose lost life; left eternity to its name,
whenever the beauty of wind was talked, the scarifice of flower came.
Now a new season awaits ahead of the rose of yore,
When another young rose will love the wind like never before.


Unknown said...

how do u write such moving poems???

i envy u!!!



deadpoet said...

Thanks for reading Rahul.

And regarding writing poems, i just try writing with an honest heart and rest i do not know what comes up out of where..

Dead Poet.

Unknown said...

once even i tried writing something from the heart:


i don't know whether it was worth writing or not...but friends said, it was good...

read it whenever you get time...

and thanks for replying to the previous comment...no offence meant last time in saying that i envy you :P


deadpoet said...

Some wholehearted feelings expressed there Rahul.
Good writing!!

Good Luck all along as you write more and more.

And i never take the offence.

Dead Poet.

Anonymous said...

I am impressed--especially with your biography (including the AIESEC). You are at that crossroad of life--where Frost quit Dartmouth, and in a manner of speaking 'ran away from life'.

As a poet, or a writer--be careful. The mind of a writer stays so busy, and requires it. It becomes an addiction, until it becomes overtaxed, and loses any focus where at one point you had 'too much focus'.

Yet you are young, just ending your college endeavors--which should never end. Education is what keeps us alive. If you stop, then growth stops. That was a flaw of Hemingway, who wanted to 'do in perpetuity instead of to learn until the end'.

Jefferson was reading and studying the Islam Language (Arabic, today). Thoreau read voluminously, as should everyone. Einstein was working on the Theory of Everything upon his deathbed. Thoreau was trying to organize his writings because 'consumption' robbed him of the valuable time required in such cases. Yet he was humorous until the end. Once, when asked about publication and libraries, he stated, 'I am the owner of the largest private library in Concord, and I know most of the authors personally.' He was referring to Walden--self-publication at the bad advice of Emerson--where he owned the remained of the copies of Walden that did not sell.

If you read it, you know why. It's complex; people are simple. Whitman had an advantage. His book Leaves of Grass was selling as poorly as Walden, until Emerson supposedly 'read it, complimented the new author for the work, and found his name on the cover recommending the book on the second publication--which fared well'. Had he done as much for Thoreau, they would not have spent their later years in perpetual disagreement.

Do not always write in intellectual subterfuge. I found more from just a few paragraphs than I can discern from the pieces of verse used as comments.

Okay--I have other things to do at the moment. Congrats on fine poetry, and your education, and the ability to combine the two rather well. Write. Paint. Photograph. Sometimes the best charity for humankind we can offer is not in giving our time when others do that better--but in doing that which we do best, perfecting that, and then moving to the other when time permits--or life. :)

Godspeed...and yes, I am old.

Samuel (ArseCynic)(mensalite)

Savi said...

very nice poem....

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