"dramatist" poems
Oh! mother where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the great king Ashoka and the world master Sankaracharya?
Where is the ujjayani that was immersed in the literary effluence of
The great dramatist Kalidasa?
Where is the light that shone from the piercing eyes of the warrior
Queen Rudrama Devi and the Goddess Durga?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the buzzing sound of the bees that came from the corridors
Of the great king Shajahan? Where are the echoing sounds of the war monger
The sword Thikkana?Where is the gallooping white horse climbed by the unconquerable warrior queen of Jhansi Lakshmi Bai?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the fire that emanated from the broad shoulders of
The inimitable king and connoisseur of art, Sree Krishna devaraya?
What happened to the living breaths of Balachandra, the young warrior
And brahmanaya, The great warrior and social reformer?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the kings, the great poets, the warriors, the chaste queens?
Where have they gone?
Where are the foot prints of the golden wings of time that fanned and fled?
Oh! Mother, Where are the snow falls of yester years? Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street
every morning at nine o'clock
With kindling wood piled on top of her head, her eyes
looking straight ahead to find the way for her old feet.
Her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti, whose
husband was killed in a tunnel explosion through
the negligence of a fellow-servant,
Works ten hours a day, sometimes twelve, picking onions
for Jasper on the Bowmanville road.
She takes a street car at half-past five in the morning,
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti does,
And gets back from Jasper's with cash for her day's
work, between nine and ten o'clock at night.
Last week she got eight cents a box, Mrs. Pietro
Giovannitti, picking onions for Jasper,
But this week Jasper dropped the pay to six cents a
box because so many women and girls were answering
the ads in the Daily News.
Jasper belongs to an Episcopal church in Ravenswood
and on certain Sundays
He enjoys chanting the Nicene creed with his daughters
on each side of him joining their voices with his.
If the preacher repeats old sermons of a Sunday, Jasper's
mind wanders to his 700-acre farm and how he
can make it produce more efficiently
And sometimes he speculates on whether he could word
an ad in the Daily News so it would bring more
women and girls out to his farm and reduce operating
costs.
Mrs. Pietro Giovannitti is far from desperate about life;
her joy is in a child she knows will arrive to her in
three months.
And now while these are the pictures for today there are
other pictures of the Giovannitti people I could give
you for to-morrow,
And how some of them go to the county agent on winter
mornings with their baskets for beans and cornmeal
and molasses.
I listen to fellows saying here's good stuff for a novel or
it might be worked up into a good play.
I say there's no dramatist living can put old Mrs.
Gabrielle Giovannitti into a play with that kindling
wood piled on top of her head coming along Peoria
Street nine o'clock in the morning.
2.9k
here's the way i see it.
i'm an artist, a writer, a gambler, a fighter, a scientist, a scholar, a critic, a failure, a dramatist, a dreamer, a peddler, a nuisance, a bassist, a wanderer, a magician, a follower, a therapist, a liar, a professional, a healer, a pacifist, a chisel, a storyteller, a mathemetician, a physicist, a cook, a puzzler, a loser, a programmer, a lawnmower, a supporter, a musician, a tape-deck, a mirror, a survivor, and a dude.
i'm not very good at any of it.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
W. S. Rendra translations
Willibrordus Surendra Broto Rendra (1935-2009), better known as W. S. Rendra or simply Rendra, was an Indonesian dramatist and poet. He said, “I learned meditation and the disciplines of the traditional Javanese poet from my mother, who was a palace dancer. The idea of the Javanese poet is to be a guardian of the spirit of the nation.” The press gave him the nickname Burung Merak (“The Peacock”) for his flamboyant poetry readings and stage performances.
SONNET
by W. S. Rendra
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Best wishes for an impending deflowering.
Yes, I understand: you will never be mine.
I am resigned to my undeserved fate.
I contemplate
irrational numbers―complex & undefined.
And yet I wish love might ... ameliorate ...
such negative numbers, dark and unsigned.
But at least I can’t be held responsible
for disappointing you. No cause to elate.
Still, I am resigned to my undeserved fate.
The gods have spoken. I can relate.
How can this be, when all it makes no sense?
I was born too soon―such was my fate.
You must choose another, not half of who I AM.
Be happy with him when you consummate.
THE WORLD'S FIRST FACE
by W. S. Rendra
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Illuminated by the pale moonlight
the groom carries his bride
up the hill―
both of them naked,
both consisting of nothing but themselves.
As in all beginnings
the world is naked,
empty, free of deception,
dark with unspoken explanations―
a silence that extends
to the limits of time.
Then comes light,
life, the animals and man.
As in all beginnings
everything is naked,
empty, open.
They're both young,
yet both have already come a long way,
passing through the illusions of brilliant dawns,
of skies illuminated by hope,
of rivers intimating contentment.
They have experienced the sun's warmth,
drenched in each other's sweat.
Here, standing by barren reefs,
they watch evening fall
bringing strange dreams
to a bed arrayed with resplendent coral necklaces.
They lift their heads to view
trillions of stars arrayed in the sky.
The universe is their inheritance:
stars upon stars upon stars,
more than could ever be extinguished.
Illuminated by the pale moonlight
the groom carries his bride
up the hill―
both of them naked,
to recreate the world's first face.
Keywords/Tags: Rendra, Indonesian, Javanese, translation, love, fate, god, gods, goddess, groom, bride, world, time, life, sun, hill, hills, moon, moonlight, stars, life, animals , international, travel, voyage, wedding, relationship, mrbtran
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 5:36 AM UTC
The patterns
of rainfall and afforestation,
the veins of village streams—
I colored them in
as I saw fit.
My beloved spiders
wove a second pattern
on top,
which I approved
before leaving.
Günter Eich (1907–1972) was a noted German poet and radio dramatist who won the Georg Büchner Preis in 1959. His translator, Michael Hofmann, is a poet and German translator; his versions of Eich will be out soon in book form in Angina Days: Selected Poems of Günter Eich (Princeton).
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Sonnet: The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.
Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.
The ancient Greeks set shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.
Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.
Adam Bernard Mickiewicz (1798-1855) is widely regarded as Poland’s greatest poet and as the national poet of Poland, Lithuania and Belarus. He was also a dramatist, essayist, publicist, translator, professor and political activist. As a principal figure in Polish Romanticism, Mickiewicz has been compared to Byron and Goethe. Keywords/Tags: Mickiewicz, Poland, Polish, Balaclava, Crimea, war, warfare, castle, castles, knight, knights, armor, Greeks, Rome, Romans, Mongols, Mussulman, Muslims, death, destruction, ruin, ruins, romantic, romanticism, sonnet, depression, sorrow, grave, violence, mrbtr
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 8:56 PM UTC
Oh! The bard of Strataford Avon
You beautifully painted the journey of man
you are the best poet in the world
the poetic muse wrote for you the word
you are the greatest dramatist of all ages
the critics have written pages and pages
your poetry is a sheer joy
even the poetic muse becomes a tiny toy
your wonderful skill is tragedy
but your natural instinct is comedy
your clown speaks wonderful truths
but your king is surrounded by heinous coups
You wrote with a gold pen
And painted the real men and women
I am your true fanatic
You are the world’s greatest critic
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 3:01 AM UTC
Mamie met you
in the base camp bar
in Malaga
her curly red hair
damp from a recent shower
and said
Picasso was born here
In this bar?
you said
No
she moaned
In the city
in 1881
and she took the drink
you’d bought her
I like Picasso don’t you?
she asked
taking a sip
of the drink
and you noticed
the tight tee shirt
snugly holding
her firm *******
and her eyes bright
as sunlight’s breaking dawn
yes
you said
I like his later work
not the Blue
or Pink period or
that Cubist *****
and your eyes
slipped downwards
along her slender frame
the tight blue jeans
caressing her small
but plumpish ***
her fingers holding
the glass
and you thinking
of other things
far removed
from Picasso‘s art
though knowing he
would understand
where your mind
had wandered
and what the scene
your mind had set
like some dramatist
preparing for a play
she sipped more
of the drink
her head thrown back
the nice turn
of the neck
the chin
the nose
the ears protruding slight
between her red
and curly hair
and wondered deep
as you drank your own
if the other hair below
between her thighs
was as red and tight
as that above
and she said
breaking through
your thoughts
Was it lust or love
that moved his brush
Picasso I mean?
and oh you mused
taking on her words
and squeezing
the meaning
from each syllable
that was uttered
on her breath
to lay my head
upon her breast
not to sleep
but dreaming rest
and you turning to her
said High love or low lust
fed by his fond muse
moved his brush I trust.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
William Shakespeare - baptized in 26 April 1564, was an English poet, playwright and actor, widely considered as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon".
His extant works, including some collaboration, consist of about 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, two epitaphs on a man named John Combe, one epitaph on Elias James, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.
If you want to learn and know more about William Shakespeare’s bio, history and best works, please go visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
One of the best poems of William Shakespeare:
Carpe Diem
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey's end in lovers' meeting--
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,--
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
If you lay still, I'll entomb thee
Stay and capture, but ne'er doom thee
Lie here - So entombed, you'll never die
Let me take thee, let me have you,
I can make us, you won't have to!
In these lines forever we will lie.
Writing this I have already
rose like Romeo, though by lead he
swore his soul would sink the stars. Oh, Fie.
"Liar" - Please, I pray pronounce him,
truth exposed I do denounce him.
Dramatist. You made love with your words.
We make angels from a nothing.
Ones who'll bear the cherubs touching,
probing - dreams, desires, future fears...
Now I ramble - please forgive me,
Fear no lecture though, for give me
Time - I'll write the rhyme to make you see:
If you lay still, I'll entomb me
Rhyme to love - and always move me.
I have leaned that love is in the eye.
If you may still have desire
I'll rhyme and write - then throw to fire
lines in which forever I will lie.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
"...FOR GREED ALL NATURE IS TOO LITTLE..."
first the city
ate an adjacent town then
put out a suburb
like a great paw
belched
a factory
devoured a well known
beauty spot
that was soon
forgotten as such
ate a field and
ate another field
the city's hunger
fed by greed
sent out pylons
striding across countryside
like giant
alien beings
vomiting asphalt
so that green was as if
it had
never been
its scenic magnificence
now only available
in an out of print
1930's guide book
even its memory
dying now with old Joe Hart
who managed to make it
past the hundred mark
the town he was born in
no longer to be seen
except in sepia
or Kodachrome
a picture postcard
(3 for 2)
in the bright new
museum.
***
The title is supplied by one Seneca the Younger (c. 4 BC – AD 65) that well known and renowned Roman Stoic philosopher, statesman, dramatist.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
I am a carpenter, a dramatist, and a director,
And there’s little that all those skills are all good for,
But if you piece and you play and you pray,
They stick together just well enough to stay,
And you’ve hammered and scripted together
One little dream that’ll last forever.
A good dreamwright is hard to come by,
The kind that builds dreams that don’t die.
It’s a shame there’s so few of us
When dreams are needed in abundance.
Someone needs to make them from scratch
Oil the hinges and make sure wheels attach.
Some of us are good, some of us are bad
But we’re responsible for every dream you ever had:
The nightmares, the adventures, the vivid fantasies,
That play on your deepest desires and anxieties.
We are the ones that make sleeping souls laugh,
For this our artform and dreams our craft.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
You’ll see me here again.
In the world full of mist,
With full spirit,
and to desist,
from being a dramatist.
You’ll see me here again.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
Dull Dionysiac, ex-Nihilist,
musing on my poorly-played roles now past,
my acts sincere and earnest—but half-assed,
I raved, an irrelevant dramatist.
Misguided former friends and I the cast;
We took our bow, Life stirred, woke up and hissed.
Such hallucinogenic scenes: not missed;
our play a farce, the curtain came down fast.
Recalling useless states I once achieved,
hampered by those intensities once known,
remembering what was beheld, believed,
the trip came to an end; I woke alone.
Frenzy is unsustainable. One learns
to be wary of realms where vision burns.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
Dive deep inside me.
Before black became white.
Pink with all my one's new love.
Possession date.
Somewhere after.
Somewhere scarlet.
Pushing pencils into skulls, releasing the wills of high noon slumber.
Closing my eyes, New York is found.
Opening my hopes & lowering my head to pillow.
A slip, a pill, a transport's operator.
Such a structure filled with bones and blood.
Sometime today, my layers shift.
Awaken for inspection.
This mirror never cracked.
New lose.
Sullied dramatist.
Resting ill-famed.
Fitting healthy portraits over wicked loughs.
Entering this storage.
Silent locks, silent enclosure.
My hair thins.
Loses glow.
My gums decide.
Rejecting ancient bones from behind my cracking lips.
Beauty does fade.
True love with the past.
Nothing .
In the morn, my clothes are burning, my incision is bleeding.
An ***** less, now I am whole and complete circle of life.
With my kidney, a child was torn.
Small stain to clean & forget.
Resting forever behind my eyes.
This pillow, a temporal crib.
In my hands, holding the bloodstained square of linen.
Bloodline prospers.
Scars run gene deep.
Our history's beauty, surfaced in the pool of life.
Power and degeneracy.
From high to low, the fall is the same.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
How
does a window
find prickly snow
to show you a tree,
bare, fixed, stiff, proper
like a dramatist,
having cast all out
and drawn itself in
to show you these things
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
I'd like to slip quietly away from Life;
Peacefully in my sleep would be best,
that's for sure.
No doctor pounding on my lifeless chest;
demanding of me an unwanted encore.
I seek no grand Finale.
I require no clamoring crowds.
No, for me, just a bare and empty stage,
with one less spear carrier among the dramatist personae.
One not remembered once you turn the page.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Who heralded the news!
Who put cat amongst the pigeons?
the question?
Who of who is whose stooge?
The truth never rings true
even when truth is by adage ‘stranger than fiction’
What if fiction was a precursor of truth?
What if in every truth there was a % of lies
and in every lie a % of truth
What if every POV changes the percentage?
The magician uses the art of distraction
Slight mind and hand
What then does miracle worker use?
The hand of faith and soul
What does the dramatist use?
Staging and emotion illusion and suspensionQq of disbelief
What does the Pragmatist use?
What ever is philosophically practical
What does the conspirator use?
Any means necessary to move the hand of fate to seed the lies in the Eyes of those they wish to hold.
what does the truth demand?
To see the light of day,
the cat without the feathers amongst the pigeons.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
We knew of your use of Holinshed; that you “borrowed” from Plutarch’s Lives”
We suspected you dredged for characters in various bars and dives.
Now scholars have discovered your main source of “Richard the Third”
From which you borrowed liberally, and sometimes word for word.
Macbeth, King Lear, the gang’s all here -you scene steal-er you!
(You rummaged Marlowe’s “The Jew of Malta” for your Venetian Jew.)
Sophisticated software has snared you in its trap;
As you read North’s manuscript, bet you never thought of that!
Since you are my favorite dramatist, I’m inclined to let this pass.
If you were a college Freshman- I’d be seeing you after class!
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
SEARCHING FOR A RATION OF PASSION
Wrangling of words might become a tightrope for the writer to *****
While the reader may feel the fervor that an author still hasn't discovered
Frequently fondling of familiar phrases may become dull,lost in a lull,hiding behind hope
Basking over prose a browser can feel close,bring themselves to find what the scribe may not have recovered
Lost in a webster's lottery laboriously lamenting in language, mindless and in a mope
Scholar wanting the lecturer to teach ,essayist out of reach,more reason for rhymes for which they hunger
Easy essays aren't eloquent,lingering thoughts quickly lost,locked in with no code
Simple students wishing for more a peek inside the penmans mind ,giving them even more reason to wonder
Almost lost like an old cowboy song,left to search in a field with little yield,memories too easily erode
Bookworms wringing hands await on the edge of a seat ,their fondness for dialog wanting to be pleased but the dramatist waiting to ponder
Wordsmiths wants sometimes leaving them empty,then like an open sky raining down phrases leaves them with a new day and new way to reload . R.C.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 6:37 AM UTC