Snake

As I sit and spend my days/take a break from my blog, trying to tackle the sweltering hot summer days of Hyd, I remembered this wonderful poem by D. H. Lawrence. This poem also belongs to my class X days and my tryst with English Literature that I thoroughly enjoyed thanks to Mrs.Rebero, our English teacher.

So, this poem is about the author spotting a golden snake on one such hot afternoon in Sicily and the beauty lies in the way he describes these often detested creatures. The poem is written in a simple style that doesn’t require too much explanation, but the wonderful way in which the poet describes a simple event in a rural area and the small moral he draws out of it is indeed wonderful. Go ahead and enjoy the poem and yes, please do not hurt any animals – on hindsight I find this poem apt to be used for some kind of animal rights preservation day, etc, but then one with a compassionate heart can enjoy it anyday.

By: D.H.Lawrence

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before
me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
i o And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

 

The Highwayman

My love for English literature started in school. I had a wonderful literature curriculum under I.C.S.E syllabus and to make the experience eternally etched in one’s memory, I had a fabulous teacher of English too. The first poem or in this case a ballad that we learnt was – The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. 

A ballad is a story rendered in the form of a song, with certain rhythmic repetitive cadences that enable the reader/listener to form a beautiful vision in the mind. We have a number of folk tales in India that are rendered in a similar way.

The Highwayman is a ballad of a handsome, dashing and roughish highwayman who loots people by the night and his love – the landlord’s daughter Bess. It is a beautifully rendered ballad with references to the period’s setting. Their love for each other and the passion is described beautifully.

In this ballad, I was also introduced to some nuances of English languge, such as:

Alliteration - the repetition of consonant sounds, usually at the beginning of words. Alliteration is marked in blue.

Metaphor - A figure of speech which makes a comparison between two things without using the word like or as. Metaphor is marked in green.

Personification - A figure of speech in which a non-human object is given human qualities. Personification is marked in purple.

Simile - A figure of speech which makes a comparison between two things using the word like or as. Simile is marked in red

Some parts of this ballad which I particularly like are:

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 

 

And the highwayman came riding—Riding—riding— 
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! 
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, 

 

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 
        Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Watch for me by moonlight, 
    I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! 
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, 

 

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, 
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! 

So here goes the complete ballad, for you to enjoy….

 

The Highwayman

PART ONE

I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, 
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, 
    And the highwayman came riding—Riding—riding— 
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, 
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; 
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! 
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, 
 His pistol butts a-twinkle, 
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, 
    And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; 
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there 
    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 
        Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked 
    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; 
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, 
    But he loved the landlord’s daughter, 
   The landlord’s red-lipped daughter, 
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, 
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; 
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, 
    Then look for me by moonlight, 
  Watch for me by moonlight, 
    I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, 
    But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand 
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; 
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, 
    (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) 
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

 

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; 
    And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon, 
    When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor, 
    A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— 
    King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, 
    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; 
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! 
    There was death at every window; 
           And hell at one dark window; 
    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; 
    They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! 
    “Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. 
    She heard the dead man say— 
    Look for me by moonlight; 
    Watch for me by moonlight; 
    I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! 
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! 
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, 
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, 
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight, 
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! 
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, 
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; 
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight; 
    Blank and bare in the moonlight; 
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; 
    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? 
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, 
    The highwayman came riding, riding, riding! 
    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! 
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! 
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, 
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 
     Her musket shattered the moonlight, 
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood 
    Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! 
    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear 
    How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 
     The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, 
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! 
    Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, 
    When they shot him down on the highway, 
    Down like a dog on the highway, 
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

*           *           *           *           *           *

X

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, 
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, 
    A highwayman comes riding—Riding—riding— 
    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; 
    He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; 
    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there 
    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 
 Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

 

 

Happy Deepawali!!!

 

 

 

दीपो की आवली है दीपावली,
असत्य पे सत्य की, अन्याय पे न्याय की
जय है दीपावली
आप सब को हार्दिक सुभ्कम्नावों के साथ
एक मंगलमय वर्ष की कामना करते हुए
दीपावली की शुब्कम्नाएं

 

An affair to remember

On a rainy sunday afternoon, I watched one of the most enchanting romantic movie. A 1957, classic movie, which made me feel very glad to see. The story line would have been used a number of times earlier, but am sure there can be no parallel to it.

Our love affair is a wondrous thing
That we’ll rejoice in remembering
Our love was born with our first embrace
And a page was torn out of time and space

Our love affair, may it always be
A flame to burn through eternity
So take my hand with a fervent prayer
That we may live and we may share
A love affair to remember

PS: Was rumbling through my collection and found these poems. Liked them and decided its time for them to see the light of the day.

 

Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher

Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher

To force the pace and never to be still

Is not the way of those who study birds

Or women. The best poets wait for words.

The hunt is not an exercise of will

But patient love relaxing on a hill

To note the movement of a timid wing;

Until the one who knows that she is loved

No longer waits but risks surrendering -

In this the poet finds his moral proved

Who never spoke before his spirit moved.

The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.

To watch the rarer birds, you have to go

Along deserted lanes and where the rivers flow

In silence near the source, or by a shore

Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.

And there the women slowly turn around,

Not only flesh and bone but myths of light

With darkness at the core, and sense is found

But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,

The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.

-Nissim Ezekiel

 

Me

This birthday started on a very different note. Some of the most unexpected folks wished me and the most expected didn’t at the time expected. Among the various gifts this ‘pome’ is a novel item. Being pertinent to the blog, I decided to air it.

Me in sentience,

Approbation blest.

Naivety and nefariousness

Advert my zest.

So Save your reverence,

My Acrid clapper is at the best.

– The Raakshas

Ps: From a friend, who calls his penmanship – The Raakshas.

 

mann…

Ek choti si baat jo main kabhi kabhi bhool jaati hoon…. Abhi laga ki aisa kyu karti hoon…tabhi yeh panktiyan mujhe mili….

Mann ka ho to accha hai
par mann ka na ho to aur bhi accha hai
kyunki jab mann ka nahi hota
tab woh hota hai jo Uske mann mein hai
aur woh tumhare mann ke iccha se accha hota hai

 

Vicissitudes

In a day, there are certain moments when you feel, “WOW!!! Everything is going my way” and then just about one small incident or word that alters your mood drastically. A sudden change in circumstances that sometimes bring reality crashing down onto you.

I wish I was as brave as Duke Senior, who says,

“Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in every thing.
I would not change it.”
–Act 2, Scene I- As you like it, William Shakespeare.

But then I try to sing it off by…

“Kabhi zindagi lage bhaari,
kabhi lagti halki-phulki.
Iske rang haske dekhe,
apnaa le khushi… har pal ki.”

 

How do I love thee?

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,

When feeling out of sight for the ends of Being and ideal Grace,

I love thee to everyday’s most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;

I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs,

and with my childhood’s faith,

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints-

I love thee with my breadth, smiles, tears of all my life! -

And if God chooses,

I shall but love thee better after Death.

-Elizabeth B.Browning

(Sonnets from the Portugese)