A rejoinder by the Cub Princess to my Song of Rage:
Oh what a night
Of love and serenity
I can see the light
Of hope and assurity
The one I love, is right next to me
Beautiful dreams – together we see
Weave plans for life to come
Looking forward to becoming one
Thinking back to the yesterdays, all those years.
The memories, the love, the thoughts without despair
Content with life, I smile
Our dream is just another mile
I’ll sing and dance, be a cherub incarnate
I’ll make people happy, help them, and guide their fate
I’ll laugh with joy and squeal with bliss
Be the one that everyone would miss!
------
Will you walk with me? I ask
In this glory of love, I bask
Even if you don’t, I’ll follow you
I am just a little cub, what can you do?
------
I care for you now and forever more
Love me, own me, I am all yours
I love you so much and still love you more
Nothing at all, seems like before
-------
I see your face every morning, that’s the way I am pleased
I see your face every night and in your arms I sleep
Love rules and I am confined
Both in my heart and my mind!
It’s a beautiful world, and love is all around me
A content conscience, just the way to be
And every time somewhere, if a little love is born,
I hear the bells, the laughter, the joy adorn
--------
And one day, an angel came to me
She needed shelter as she forgot her way to be
She stayed with us for just 1 night
Was scared coz it felt beyond right in the morning light?
“Heaven” – she said was meant to be above
But she never knew someone more in love!
The angel asked us to come with them
In the name of love she begged
The world should know what it feels like
In this dark age, when gloom compels
She shouted and screamed to the world outside
Now she was assured love will abide
Love will defy these dark rules
They must believe in love - these fools
I assured her this will last
This will stay no matter what
She believed and smiled and I saw that tear
It was just compassion – all in there
---------
Now I sit back in this rocking chair
With your hand in mine
We have grown old yet appealing
Something that never changed – were our feelings!
Just a note – my life went well
Oh what a life – the humming bells
Your arms are still the best thing I can feel
Below the almighty, today I kneel
I kneel to thank him for knowing you
I kneel to thank him for loving you
I kneel to thank him for our beautiful life
I kneel to wish we’d be together in another life
I kneel to thank him for being your wife
I kneel to thank him for a wonderful life
Oh what a night
Of love and serenity
I can see the light
Of hope and assurity
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Undaunted
The line is what the Count says to his long-lost son. His son doesn't know that he is the Count's son. Edmond was taken away from his beautiful wife (who was pregnant) and jailed for a long period, only because Edmond's acquaintace took a fancy to his wife, and wanted her for himself.
The Count returns very wealthy after finding some treasure that a hermit whom he helped spiritually in prison guided him to before dying, and finds his lost family. He however, does not reveal his identity till the very last. He poses instead as a rich noble from a distant land, finally come back to France after a long trip abroad. His son takes a liking and develops what can almost be called as Hero-Worship towards The Count, and that angers the son's legal father, who is infact, Edmond's enemy who caused him to be imprisoned on the charge of treason.
Once, on a trip to Marseille, to see the Carnival with some friends, the son is beset by robbers and kidnapped.
The Count sets out to rescue him, and when he finally does penetrate the lair of the robbers, he does it alone. When the son realises that he is being saved only by one man, even his unshakable trust in the ability of the Count shivers. And he breaks down, cries and confides in the Count - who is trying to untie the son before the robbers return - that he is afraid.
The Count then speaks the line that I have written so much about in the preceding paragraphs. He says :
When a storm comes up and threatens to pull you under, say unto the storm - "Do your worst ! For then I will do mine.... And we shall see whom history records as the victor!"
I believe that is the bravest and the grandest - not to mention the most magnificient - line ever written. It speaks of fortitude, of courage, of acceptance of the fact that all might not turn out to be well, but daring, perseverance, and committing your full self to the endeavor none the same.
This is courage, this is valor, this is the very embodiment of the word "Dauntless".
And that is the ideal we strive for, those of us who think about it. Those of us who want to be more than who we perceive ourselves to be. Those of us who find faults in ourselves, who find something less than perfect, and who recognize that although perfection is never to be really acheived, effort is never to be abandoned either.
These are the stalwarts of the world, these are the doers, these are the strategists who never give up despite overwhelming odds. These are the desperados carrying on for honor's sake against obviously lost causes.
If these people (and us normal people ought to be proud that we belong to the same noun that they do) can hold on to their dreams, their aspirations, their goals, their values, and their guiding lights in such darkness, surely mediocre mortals such as us can bear a little discomfort now and then, even if it seems to pull us under.
Pity the Writer
Pity the writer, who in the thrall of gloom,
Writes of people in despair and of doom,
Pity the writer, who through experience,
Writes of heartbreaks and old brooms.
Pity the writer, who cannot see the beauty,
Who looks at a house and sees only the windows sooty,
Pity the writer who cannot choose but listen to,
The strains of love and only hear the weight of duty.
But pity not the writer who though not,
Very eloquent with his words and what not,
Still beholds with awe and wonder and hope,
And thus cherishes every little happines he's got.
Pity the writer who in times of testing,
Cannot create a work of literature jesting,
Pity the writer who must use his rhymes,
To overcome despondency and be sadness besting,
Pity the writer who even when in love,
Cannot see the bestowment of miracles from above,
Pity the writer who writes of eagles and ducks,
When all he needs to see is the flying dove.
Pity not the writer but, my friend,
Who can be so, and then turn and make amends,
Who can even having been through so much,
Still see that even the darkest of clouds must bend.
Pity the writer who complains of writer's block,
Who can while the hours away looking at a clock,
Pity the writer who listens to all around him,
And hears only the agony of tick-tock, tick-tock.
Pity the writer who can sit out in a garden,
And describe how they seem, when hearts harden,
Pity the writer who is blind to how the colors run riot,
Such a writer, I implore, please pardon.
But he needs no pity or sympathy,
He who languishes in the throes of empathy,
Who can find the bonds of love and kindness,
Even when surrounded by dry apathy.
Writes of people in despair and of doom,
Pity the writer, who through experience,
Writes of heartbreaks and old brooms.
Pity the writer, who cannot see the beauty,
Who looks at a house and sees only the windows sooty,
Pity the writer who cannot choose but listen to,
The strains of love and only hear the weight of duty.
But pity not the writer who though not,
Very eloquent with his words and what not,
Still beholds with awe and wonder and hope,
And thus cherishes every little happines he's got.
Pity the writer who in times of testing,
Cannot create a work of literature jesting,
Pity the writer who must use his rhymes,
To overcome despondency and be sadness besting,
Pity the writer who even when in love,
Cannot see the bestowment of miracles from above,
Pity the writer who writes of eagles and ducks,
When all he needs to see is the flying dove.
Pity not the writer but, my friend,
Who can be so, and then turn and make amends,
Who can even having been through so much,
Still see that even the darkest of clouds must bend.
Pity the writer who complains of writer's block,
Who can while the hours away looking at a clock,
Pity the writer who listens to all around him,
And hears only the agony of tick-tock, tick-tock.
Pity the writer who can sit out in a garden,
And describe how they seem, when hearts harden,
Pity the writer who is blind to how the colors run riot,
Such a writer, I implore, please pardon.
But he needs no pity or sympathy,
He who languishes in the throes of empathy,
Who can find the bonds of love and kindness,
Even when surrounded by dry apathy.
To a King
A reply by the Queen:
To a king, let me write a ballad,
To a king, let me pen an elegy,
To a king, let me dedicate my enclosure,
To a king, in his domain
I was a neat dame all my years,
I danced and was silly and dated and drove,
I climbed the ladders, scorned at the shark,
And like a tigress I liberally rove.
In my twenty-sixth year of life,
I visited a friend for no reason,
Met him next to the Taj, I couldn’t even find,
I saw this guy and lost track of seasons!!!
It was chance, as I could never believe,
Chance of whom you meet at the strangest places,
Chance it was that bizarre eve,
When I meet that man who loved laces!
He looked hot no doubt,
For many must have told him that before,
But I had known heat in anecdotal degrees, (: D)
Yet his philosophy was what I came to adore.
He wrote, oh wrote so well
He could paint me pictures so striking
He had the most astounding taste in music
And I fell head over heels in love with his writings
He told me I was beautiful, not that I dint hear that before
But let me tell you a secret
He made me feel like no one before
It was like these words I heard for the first time
It gave me that chill down my spine
I want to hear this all the time
It feels like that tumult of lemony lime!!
I know it will work out
And my fears will peter out
But I love him so much
That I could shout…..
My king – you are the best thing that I ever felt
My king – you are what I live for today…
My king – you are the shine in my eye and the voice in my head
My king – in your arms I ever so melt!!
To a king, let me write a ballad,
To a king, let me pen an elegy,
To a king, let me dedicate my enclosure,
To a king, in his domain
I was a neat dame all my years,
I danced and was silly and dated and drove,
I climbed the ladders, scorned at the shark,
And like a tigress I liberally rove.
In my twenty-sixth year of life,
I visited a friend for no reason,
Met him next to the Taj, I couldn’t even find,
I saw this guy and lost track of seasons!!!
It was chance, as I could never believe,
Chance of whom you meet at the strangest places,
Chance it was that bizarre eve,
When I meet that man who loved laces!
He looked hot no doubt,
For many must have told him that before,
But I had known heat in anecdotal degrees, (: D)
Yet his philosophy was what I came to adore.
He wrote, oh wrote so well
He could paint me pictures so striking
He had the most astounding taste in music
And I fell head over heels in love with his writings
He told me I was beautiful, not that I dint hear that before
But let me tell you a secret
He made me feel like no one before
It was like these words I heard for the first time
It gave me that chill down my spine
I want to hear this all the time
It feels like that tumult of lemony lime!!
I know it will work out
And my fears will peter out
But I love him so much
That I could shout…..
My king – you are the best thing that I ever felt
My king – you are what I live for today…
My king – you are the shine in my eye and the voice in my head
My king – in your arms I ever so melt!!
To a Queen
The title says it all:
To a queen, let me write a ballad,
To a queen, let me pen an ode,
To a queen, let me dedicate my pen,
To a queen, in her distant abode.
I was a traveller in my younger years,
I rode and walked and ran and drove,
I climbed the mountains, combed the deserts,
And I camped in many a lonely grove.
In my twenty-second year of life,
I visited a small place of eating,
It was next to the Taj, that lofty mount,
That we had our first meeting.
It was chance, as it often is,
Chance of whom you know and whom you meet,
Chance it was that mellow eve,
When I meet that woman so sweet.
She was beautiful no doubt,
For many had told her that before,
But I had known beauty in varying degrees,
Yet her mind was what I came to adore.
I loved her body, her heavenly body,
That gave me shivers down my spine,
And how I wished deep down inside,
That someday that milky skin would be mine.
But It was the mind, that terrific mind,
And the words that poured forth from therein,
That I rejoiced most, every time we talked,
And it was those words that drew me wherein.
It was joy and tears, promises and fears,
As most lovers will know,
But let me tell you, in this late date,
It was words that dealt the final blow.
She told me I was a man of words,
And that my words wove magic,
And she gave me thus a boost immense,
For I had till then been tragic.
She gave me hope, saying that she,
Believed in me like no-one else ever had,
And she gave me understanding, that cliched thing,
But the cliche this time almost drove both of us mad,
We understood, each the other, we knew
And were vexed at how this could be,
For having been afraid of falling all our lives,
We were mistrustful a little of this epiphany.
God had a plan, as he does for you,
To make a man, as he will again do,
Go through life, always losing,
Till he finds a lucky charm for you too.
And when that time comes, my young friend,
Lean not towards indolence or fear,
Hold on to that charm forever, and ever,
And time will work its way out for you and your dear.
To a queen, I said, a song of note,
To a queen, an empress of heart,
To a queen, a princess of shoes,
To a queen, my lovely cubly part.
To a queen, let me write a ballad,
To a queen, let me pen an ode,
To a queen, let me dedicate my pen,
To a queen, in her distant abode.
I was a traveller in my younger years,
I rode and walked and ran and drove,
I climbed the mountains, combed the deserts,
And I camped in many a lonely grove.
In my twenty-second year of life,
I visited a small place of eating,
It was next to the Taj, that lofty mount,
That we had our first meeting.
It was chance, as it often is,
Chance of whom you know and whom you meet,
Chance it was that mellow eve,
When I meet that woman so sweet.
She was beautiful no doubt,
For many had told her that before,
But I had known beauty in varying degrees,
Yet her mind was what I came to adore.
I loved her body, her heavenly body,
That gave me shivers down my spine,
And how I wished deep down inside,
That someday that milky skin would be mine.
But It was the mind, that terrific mind,
And the words that poured forth from therein,
That I rejoiced most, every time we talked,
And it was those words that drew me wherein.
It was joy and tears, promises and fears,
As most lovers will know,
But let me tell you, in this late date,
It was words that dealt the final blow.
She told me I was a man of words,
And that my words wove magic,
And she gave me thus a boost immense,
For I had till then been tragic.
She gave me hope, saying that she,
Believed in me like no-one else ever had,
And she gave me understanding, that cliched thing,
But the cliche this time almost drove both of us mad,
We understood, each the other, we knew
And were vexed at how this could be,
For having been afraid of falling all our lives,
We were mistrustful a little of this epiphany.
God had a plan, as he does for you,
To make a man, as he will again do,
Go through life, always losing,
Till he finds a lucky charm for you too.
And when that time comes, my young friend,
Lean not towards indolence or fear,
Hold on to that charm forever, and ever,
And time will work its way out for you and your dear.
To a queen, I said, a song of note,
To a queen, an empress of heart,
To a queen, a princess of shoes,
To a queen, my lovely cubly part.
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