Weekly Contest
Classic poem of the day
IX. SÎTA. Three happy children in a darkened room! What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes? A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries, And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloom Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace Tall trees: there, in a quiet lucid lake The while swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake," The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race; There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain; There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light. There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite. But who is this fair lady? Not in vain She weeps,—for lo! at every tear she sheds Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain, And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads. It is an old, old story, and the lay Which has evoked sad Sîta from the past Is by a mother sung.… 'Tis hushed at last And melts the picture from their sight away, Yet shall they dream of it until the day! When shall those children by their mother's side Gather, ah me! as erst at eventide?
member poem of the day
The red t-shirt That shabby old t-shirt Lays awkwardly over the chair's nape. The red you always loved is Fading a little, everyday. The dark smudge which used To be your favourite chutney Now sits unmistakably dull On the front near the right sleeve. I wonder if you still like the chutney Enough to lick it off the t-shirt Or if you spike it with extra spice Whenever you are down. It's worn out collar Shows every attempt you made Of tearing it, or when you tried To pull me close, closer to your Heavy breath. The t-shirt that is now permanently Crumpled on both sides because Of all the times you held it In your fist tight and swayed As you helped yourself from falling Whenever you laughed hard With your perfect laugh On my silliest of jokes. What strikes me the most is That thread which is half on the floor Running over itself and buried under The t-shirt as it falls off the chair. The thread that got loose when I wore it last, when I was with you That...
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