"chaired" poems
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
6k
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
3.5k
There was a whispering in my hearth,
A sigh of the coal,
Grown wistful of a former earth
It might recall.
I listened for a tale of leaves
And smothered ferns,
Frond-forests, and the low sly lives
Before the fawns.
My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer
From Time's old cauldron,
Before the birds made nests in summer,
Or men had children.
But the coals were murmuring of their mine,
And moans down there
Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men
Writhing for air.
I saw white bones in the cinder-shard,
Bones without number.
For many hearts with coal are charred,
And few remember.
I thought of all that worked dark pits
Of war, and died
Digging the rock where Death reputes
Peace lies indeed:
Comforted years will sit soft-chaired,
In rooms of amber,
The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered
By our life's ember;
The centuries will burn rich loads
With which we groaned,
Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids,
While songs are crooned;
But they will not dream of us poor lads
Lost in the ground.
2.9k
Deep brown eyes
Windblown hair
Life on wheels
Never slowed me down
I have a story i am willing to share
If you're willing to listen
Hiya I'm Jake, I'm gay and I enjoy my boyfriend. I play drums because it's weird to see a wheel chaired guy singing in the front you know. I'm good I guess. >^^< meow
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
deep pan cooking not hardeep cooking 21.08.18
monday started top draw
my venom going to spill
natalie is going to get poetry draw
forget girlfriends she will run for hill.
how dare she complain
when something is uncontrollable
insomnia through hardeep may rain
but freedom of speech not so honourable.
gabby and chloe showed they cared
how natalie was blunt
explaining hardeep was literally chaired
footage available now hunt.
onto shares and stocks
rodrigo learning how to trade
laughing off my socks
no barings even if bad bug won't fade.
nick and rodrigo in control
on boarder line ready to hassle
the biceps taking fall patrol
it was rodrigo not nick who liked mussel.
failure to the task
hunger will be plenty
one comment can not mask
hardeep can make something out of empty.
dans hands were magic
don't get confused
gabby refusal was award and tragic
like basic budget just amused.
was sally watching adverts
the aviva app dash cam i log
roxanne will need youtube diverts
it was a tin man not a brown dog.
nick explaining about travel
lands of paradise and greens
at airport all unravel
seeing face on all them screens.
legs up and over
natalie and gabby to exercise
hardeep with a nasty dig and sober
saying nick doing shopping add criticise.
natalie and hardeep getting louder
hardeep gets my crown
unacceptable all about curry powder
she bring herself not hardeep down.
going to end with a critic
natalie won't see no irony
vicious mouth and hyper-critic
its all add to cbb savoury.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
In June of 1989, 14 poets, all alumni of Columbia University, took a trip to Moscow. I was one of them. We flew from New York City to Moscow via Helsinki, Finland. We met with the editors of NOVY MIR (NEW WORLD), the most famous literary magazine in the Soviet Union, which broke up in 1991.We all gathered around a large oak table mixing Americans with Russians. We began reading only one poem each. When each Russian recited his poem, he stood up. I was impressed. Each Russian poet spoke perfect English. Eventually, it became my turn. I recited I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN. When I had finished reading, I went around the long oak table and handed each Russian poet a copy of my poem. I had made many copies of my poem in Topeka, KS, my hometown. Copy machines were illegal in the Soviet Union for fear that dissident, underground revolutionaries might wish to spread their fervent hopes of democratizing their nation to millions of their fellow citizens.
The next day, we 14 Americans were going to attend a meeting of the Moscow Chapter of the Soviet Writers Union. As I was getting out of our bus and stepping on the sidewalk, I heard a voice crying, "Mr. Hawks, Mr. Hawks! Please stop. I have something for you." As I looked to my left, I recognized a Russian gentleman from the day before. When he reached me, he said "I am Evgeny Chramov. You gave all of us a copy of your beautiful poem. I was so taken by it, I stayed up all night translating it into Russian. I had to type it again, so if I saw you today, I would be able to give you my translated copy." He put his briefcase on the sidewalk, opened it, and pulled out his Russian translation, and handed it to me. I was stunned. I said "Mr. Chramov, how thoughtful and generous of you to stay up all night translating my poem into Russian! Bless you, Mr. Chramov." As we were walking together into the building, I stopped and spoke to my new friend. "Mr. Chramov, I have a favor to ask of you. Would you be willing to read your translation of my poem in this meeting?
"Of course! I'd be honored to do that," said Mr. Chramov. When it came time for him to read, Mr. Chramov, standing up, read his translation of my poem. I was elated. The meeting soon came to a close. A woman who had chaired the meeting walked by me without stopping and said to me, again in perfect English, "You really are a poet, aren't you?"
Her comment, and Mr. Chramov's responses,, I have never forgotten.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 9:55 PM UTC
High tide, high
time for an afternoon spent
chaired, head up and fallen, eyes
open and closed to the fresh list of
life goals: to marry, live surrounded
by nature, spin songs, pluck
poems, to be a good
grandfather
and how best to get there is a
matter of opinion
no sense lame-
nting about the era or
frowning at the tele-
vision that's gone
blind from so many
tears shed over
nonsense, no
senses to eat
out this hollow
mind the fire, you'll
catch cold this
fall to the
leaves
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
Notice me,
Turn your head and
Look at me.
I want your eyes to
Absorb my figure,
To engulf
My entire being;
I want my presence
On every iota of
Sentient thought
You may possess.
Notice me,
Say the words to
Mesmerize me.
I watch you while
You play your violin
Everyday,
Black-chaired,
Snide,
It ends at 10:55,
Sharp.
I can feel
My heart strings squeak
As resin can't even
Make it sing,
Telling you
Everything neatly,
Metered,
In time.
Notice me,
Open your ears and
Hear me.
I think of you
When nobody
Else is around,
When safety comes
To blanket me in
A shroud made from
My own shame.
I dream of you
When I'm not even here,
Lost in the darkest
Reaches of dreamy
Sleep,
Restless by your image.
I yearn for you
Even when I am spent,
Dried up
And exhausted,
Yet I still bow down
To the throne
Of your thought
And humbly worship
My feelings on fire,
Burnt as an offering
To your gods
Of affection.
All I ask in return
Is for you to
Turn your eyes
And tolerate me.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
Today is world Hindi Day.
I devote a little thought on this topic with the beautiful Lines of Allama Iqbal "हिंदी हैं हम हिंदुस्तान हमारा"
And भारतेंदु हरिश्चंद्र की पंक्ति " निज भाषा उन्नति अहै, सब उन्नति को मूल"।
The World Hindi Day is being celebrated on January 10th marking the anniversary of the first World Hindi conference which was celebrated on 10th January 1975 and Was chaired by the then PM Smt. Indira Gandhi. The purpose of World Hindi Day is to promote the Hindi on the world Arena.
Officially the World Hindi Day Was commenced on 10th January 2006 by the then PM Dr.Manmohan Singh.
I am writing some lines about the beauty and nature of the Hindi language on this auspicious occasion.
हिंदी में वही लिखा जाता ,
जो जुबान से बोला जाता।
हिंदी में भाव है भारतीयता का
जैसे पट्टी- बरते का
या साड़ी - पगड़ी का
या फिर सब्जी- रोटी का।
हिंदी में भाव है खेलों का
जैसे होकी-छड़ी का
या चील-झपट्टे का
या फिर रस्सा-कशी का।
हिंदी में भाव है संगीत का
जैसे ढोल - ताशे का
या तबले- बाजे का
या फिर बीन-बांसुरी का।
हिंदी में भाव है रिश्तों का
जैसे छोटे - बड़े का
या मर्द -लुगाई का
या फिर आप- अपनत्व का।
हिंदी में भाव है सच्ची सीख का
जैसे ज्ञान -विज्ञान का
या अखबार - किताब का
या फिर आचार -विचार का।
हिंदी में भाव है मौसम का
जैसी सर्दी- गर्मी का
या बारिस- सूखे का
या फिर अकाल- जमाने का।
हिंदी में भाव है नैतिकता का
जैसे साधु- संत का
या राजा- रंक का
या फिर ज्ञानी- मूर्ख का।
हिंदी में भाव है सहजता का
जैसे सीधे- सरल का
या मीठे - खट्टे का
या फिर लंबे- नाटे का।
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 5:51 AM UTC
Fireworks go off.
Boom. Bang. Fizzle.
I'm inside reading a book.
Some drunk writer rambling about work.
I hear the oohs and the ahhs of civility outside these four walls
and I look at the bottle of scotch nearest me and grab it.
It goes down and warms my stomach.
I stand up,
walk to the window,
move the curtains out of the way,
and watch outside.
I see people
and their families
standing on front porches,
chaired up in their driveways,
some ***** standing in the streets.
All have their gazes pointed to the sky.
I look.
I wait.
**Boom.
Bang.**
Fizzle.
Blasts of color and noise
then the dark grey smoke
staining the night sky.
I take another drink from the bottle.
I sit down.
Close my eyes.
I see fireworks
exploding in the sky.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
she always found it easy to sleep on the train
the low vibration of the motor sent a shiver down her spine reminiscent of the one she got when her mother held her and whispered softly,
"it was just a sad dream, my sweetheart"
she wishes her nine-to-five didn't take up so much time
time she could have spent with her mother before stage five
she sleeps with the notion that maybe when she wakes up from her slumber, she will finally wake up from her
sad dream
he feels remorse for the fact that he can't sit in the normal train seats
but he enjoys the solitude
the passengers' probing judgement cannot penetrate through his
thick skin
he'd rather ride alone than next to one of the classmates that bullied him throughout high school
"fatty" "meatball" "fatso"
he hopes that they all get hit by public transportation
preferably public transportation that he's riding
sitting alone
the anxiety is suffocating him and
no one can see
and no one can help
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
there's so much he hasn't done
there's so much he has to do
there's so much existing
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
every term paper is shoved down his esophagus
every reading
every subway ride spent doing nothing
is going to **** him
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
and he's going to die
her eyebrows make her look angry
the arch is too high, she notices every morning
her cheekbones are too severe
she notices
her hair is always pulled back into a tight ponytail
every hair scraped back, flat to the scalp
she notices
but it's a choice
she has to demand things of people
and no one will take her seriously is she looks inviting
she notices
her boss stares at her *** for three and a half seconds whenever she bends over
she notices
her co-worker resents her because she got engaged and promoted in the same year
she notices
he doesn't understand
he came to this country hoping for so much more
but he doesn't understand
how anything works
how anyone functions
he doesn't understand
he takes the same train every morning because he's remembers it
but he doesn't understand it
he misses home, his real home
but this is better for him
isn't it?
she always sits in the window seat of the four-chaired section
whenever she doesn't, she is forced to stare at the ground
or make awkward eye contact with the grey faces
she likes the window seat
she stares blankly through the landscape surrounding the train
and she thinks
about how her nostalgia deepens her melancholy
about how everyone has tired of her humour and wit
about how the only thing she has is a shred of hope that someday she can make her mother proud
and she thinks
she thinks about everyone surrounding her on the train
what their stories are
she wonders if she'll ever know
and then she sleeps
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Paradoxes are insurmountable,
Hefty thieves rob the jewels,
Blinded by the ignorance.
The moon shines with a touch,
Of the charming musk lighted
By the fires in the greens and
Browns with the pale leaves.
The old rattles are made up,
Using the broken clay pieces
Which once adored my back wall
And clung onto it like coated nails.
Drip-drops are made by the streaks
With the vast colours in a queue ,
Facing the torments from the crows.
A fiery afternoon sets in a cool setting
And the glares have forcefully blinded me,
Drying up the rich worlds apart.
An old pipe is clogged with a spitted phrase
Blocking our views of the bonafide thoughts
But startling us to complete the puzzle.
The seats are full in the red-chaired theatre,
Enjoying the views of the painted cushions
And the cooked up company of friends…..
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
From all tiled corners they eye me.
They are still, very still with ceramic poses
And values. I round them and gaze
At the jaundiced and sea-coloured beings.
Their silky clothes and gold ornaments
Shawl them rich, like an afterbath of milk.
These godfolk are a myriad: elephant-headed,
Lotus-chaired and the crescent-haired one that
Stands bluely with a coiled cobra necking him.
They annihilate me with their icy stares.
They almost know the refusal
Of my belief system.
A ring of fire-dews burns in front of me,
I bless myself. a little vermillion eye finds itself
Deathly in between my brows.
The bell is being whipped in fatal threes.
Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
Hey there, pretty poet
Since you're here
You feeling tyred?
Need a break?
Welp, buckle up!
Cause' we're gonna roll!
(Hope you don’t brake into fits putt-putt-putt!)
Whether it's on the long run,
or just a minor tummy ache,
we got your rear!
Cough, cough
Now, let's change views
Or we might just get wheelie out of tow-pick!
Aah, the evening sky!
Earthereal as ever!
I’m falling for its beauty!
Why don't you log a jog!
Don't worry, we'll be rooting for you!
(Just don't fern-get the packet of dove-ritos I asked for)
Whew! Talk about a cherry over the top!
I think you’ve got some abs baking in your oven, hot-pot!
Bet you're hungry!
Don't beat around the bush,
Just cut to the cheese!
I’m an eggs-pert cook, y’know!
Holy guacomoli! Don’t stare at me with those plumpy-eyes!
Just listen to my porks for now,
It’ll crack you up.
Okay, that was fan-tabulous!
The food? Mwah! Tele-iciois!
Words can't desk-cribe my love for it~
Anyways, I think it’s about
Time we wrap it up!
Take a seat, ***
And list-en to what I say,
Before you bunk down
You are loved
You are chaired
Sometimes, it might be hard
to comp-rehend things,
But that's okay,
It'll work out!
Don't forget,
From clearing up the mess
To express-ing your thoughts,
We've got you covered!
Because
In this world of atomic stars,
You matter!
And in our hearts,
Of a bonfire of love
You are always home.
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 8:12 AM UTC
light-footed,
seeds: hidded.
green-chaired,
white-haired.
jaws: fitted,
teeth-bitted.
one ounce,
too speedy.
three loves,
for teeny.
your lies?
believing.
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 1:18 AM UTC