Daffodils - William Wordsworth

Never has yellow looked so alluring to me, as in this poem below by Wordsworth. The last six lines have stayed fresh in my otherwise lousy memory, no mean feat let me assure you.

Each time I read it, I think about the host of unforgettable memories that will stay with me forever. Touche!

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Cookie Thief

This time while at home, I chanced to see a movie that boasted of ten different stories. While some were better written-off, one, which starred Shabana Azmi – a bastion of Bollywood, was clearly outstanding.

Even after the ten-minute story was over, I couldn’t help but mull over that staunch Brahmin lady, who seems intent on perpetuating the caste-system, but who, in a chance encounter with Naseerudin Shah, another Bollywood veteran, in a station canteen, comes out with a change of heart. A discussion with TOOMA ensued, and he also expressed his assent that the subject was sensitively portrayed. Coming from him, that's the highest praise one can marshal.

The simple story found the right note with me, and I couldn’t help but notice its uncanny similarity with a poem I had read many years back. A poem which, somewhere along the line, makes us wonder if the assumptions we had made, were correct in the first place. And that there is indeed something right about so-called benefit of doubt Below, I reproduce the poem for you, just in case you haven’t read it. It’s by Valerie Cox.

The Cookie Thief

A woman was waiting at an airport one night,
With several long hours before her flight.
She hunted for a book in the airport shops.
Bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop.

She was engrossed in her book but happened to see,
That the man sitting beside her, as bold as could be.
Grabbed a cookie or two from the bag in between,
Which she tried to ignore to avoid a scene.

So she munched the cookies and watched the clock,
As the gutsy cookie thief diminished her stock.
She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by,
Thinking, “If I wasn’t so nice, I would blacken his eye.”

With each cookie she took, he took one too,
When only one was left, she wondered what he would do.
With a smile on his face, and a nervous laugh,
He took the last cookie and broke it in half.

He offered her half, as he ate the other,
She snatched it from him and thought… oooh, brother.
This guy has some nerve and he’s also rude,
Why he didn’t even show any gratitude!

She had never known when she had been so galled,
And sighed with relief when her flight was called.
She gathered her belongings and headed to the gate,
Refusing to look back at the thieving ingrate.

She boarded the plane, and sank in her seat,
Then she sought her book, which was almost complete.
As she reached in her baggage, she gasped with surprise,
There was her bag of cookies, in front of her eyes.

If mine are here, she moaned in despair,
The others were his, and he tried to share.
Too late to apologize, she realized with grief,
That she was the rude one, the ingrate, the thief.

How many times in our lives,
have we absolutely known
that something was a certain way,
only to discover later that
what we believed to be true … was not?

Ode to a little princess

She rushes back from school
Her excited face no one can fool
She heads straight for her mom’s cozy lap
Chatters endlessly, doesn't want a nap.

The mother bestows upon her a doting smile
As she hurriedly updates that last file
Before she can set the table for two
With a spread that would make her daughter coo.

Mysorepak, Murruku, rasam, sambhar, chutney and rice
Make the pony-tailed girl grin and get up in a trice
Gleefully she flings her satchel, makes her way to the table
The idyllic setting is akin to many a happy family fable.

“Oh oh,” between mouthfuls, the lass pipes up in good cheer
Pointing at the laptop which is sitting near
The mother needs no second hint and smiles
Starting to go through her e-mails, of which there are piles.

She then comes to the parts that her daughter would like to study
Sent by her mother’s friend, who is now like a close buddy
With sparkling eyes and a beam, the girl toils through the words
Exclaiming, laughing, sounding like the chirping of a lot many birds.

After the twenty-minute-something happy lunch and reading session
It’s time for the girl to read up on her exam lesson
Thoughts of dance, e-mails, and blogs banished, she studies, her head low
Waiting for the next day’s lunch when she would have a repeat show.

(Dedicated to dear Mahithi. Good luck for your exams, sweetie. Do well. And make your Mummy proud)

A woman's poem

A friend forwarded this to me some minutes ago; my hands were itching to post this poem here.
So here it is:

A Woman's Poem

He didn't like the curry
And he didn't like my cake.
He said my biscuits were too hard...
Not like his mother used to make.

I didn't prepare the coffee right
He didn't like the stew,
I didn't mend his socks
The way his mother used to do.

I pondered for an answer
I was looking for a clue.
Isn’t there anything I could do
To match his mothers shoe

Then I smiled as I saw light
One thing I could definitely do
I turned around and slapped him tight...

Like his mother used to!!!!!

Casabianca

Though I first read this poem by F.C. Hemans in school, it still moves me everytime I read it.

A boy, obedient to his father, to the point of being charred to his own death, is the stuff that breaks our hearts, and makes us salute the heroic 13-year old lad, who died on a burning ship, waiting for his father's command.

The father, however, lay dead on the ship's floor, oblivious that his son too was just a few paces away from death.

Do I have you hooked? Read the poem below:

Casabianca

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on–he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud–'say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound–
The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!–

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.