Age of Jahiliyah

A blog of wide and varied interest, including Islam, Muslims, Poetry, Art and much more.

Archive for the day “May 13, 2007”

Sympathy by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!

Passer Mortuus Est by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Death devours all lovely things:

Lesbia with her sparrow

Shares the darkness,–presently

Every bed is narrow.

Unremembered as old rain

Dries the sheer libation;

And the little petulant hand

Is an annotation.

After all, my erstwhile dear,

My no longer cherished,

Need we say it was not love,

Just because it perished?

What I Know by Christian Wiman

These fields go father than you think they do.

That darkness is my father walking away.

It is my shadow that I tell this to.

This stillness is not real. The cloud that grew

Into an old man’s face didn’t stay.

These fields go farther than you think they do.

The sun loves shattered things, and loves what’s new.

I love you so much more than I can say.

It is my shadow that I tell this to.

He is not sleeping, that bird the bugs crawl through.

Don’t touch. Don’t cy. Think good things. Pray.

These fields go farther than you think they do.

Some darknesses breathe, look back at you.

Under the porch a pair of eyes waits all day.

It is my shadow that I tell this to.

The things my father told me must be true:

There are some places that you cannot play.

These fields go farther than you think they do.

It is my shadow that I tell this to.

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