"munificence" poems
There's a girl from Loyang in the door across the street,
She looks fifteen, she may be a little older.
...While her master rides his rapid horse with jade bit an bridle,
Her handmaid brings her cod-fish in a golden plate.
On her painted pavilions, facing red towers,
Cornices are pink and green with peach-bloom and with willow,
Canopies of silk awn her seven-scented chair,
And rare fans shade her, home to her nine-flowered curtains.
Her lord, with rank and wealth and in the bud of life,
Exceeds in munificence the richest men of old.
He favours this girl of lowly birth, he has her taught to dance;
And he gives away his coral-trees to almost anyone.
The wind of dawn just stirs when his nine soft lights go out,
Those nine soft lights like petals in a flying chain of flowers.
Between dances she has barely time for singing over the songs;
No sooner is she dressed again than incense burns before her.
Those she knows in town are only the rich and the lavish,
And day and night she is visiting the hosts of the gayest mansions.
...Who notices the girl from Yue with a face of white jade,
Humble, poor, alone, by the river, washing silk?
2.6k
In Parsley, a Levantine munificence accreted together in Tabbouleh,
herbage that covers fractured bedrock in a poultice of healing.
Secreted within, lie igneous outpourings of bloodied tomatoes,
those solid affections that had welled through an ocean floor
as Neptune quelled Gaia's contractions, her waters seeking to burst
beneath the wrinkled surface of a salty sea. She, an underbelly of sky,
pregnant in the overwhelm of magma, sweating out her heart in fire,
muted like a moon of Neptune, in his retrograde soliloquies, yet mirroring
hers in icy resurfacings of skin. The God of the Sea, boils an amnion
to hazy mists, how deep will his trident plunge to dislodge those Trojan ships
of deceptions ? Yet, Triton blows a conch for Gaia, not for man's duelling
and his warring tribes. He soothes her feverish gnashing of thighs
labouring continents. Some fires burn in water, like desultory heartbeats
moving the pace of rocks through the ocean floor, spiriting away
to stranger places still, marking maps of memories in the beauty of
a stillborn magma. The limestone they say is no blood relation to such
alien fructification, those oceanic intruders, bleeding still, spilling
secrets in reds and purples. The acid tears spilled in lemons merely
neutralised in syllables, sedimented to a community of limestone,
that possess no archaic remnants reminiscing through dead bones,
an age of glory. Now beauty lies in herbage over once raucous magma
and traces of a salty sea, freshness of life trailing her veins, in fragrance of Parsley
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 7:15 AM UTC
493
The World—stands—solemner—to me—
Since I was wed—to Him—
A modesty befits the soul
That bears another’s—name—
A doubt—if it be fair—indeed—
To wear that perfect—pearl—
The Man—upon the Woman—binds—
To clasp her soul—for all—
A prayer, that it more angel—prove—
A whiter Gift—within—
To that munificence, that chose—
So unadorned—a Queen—
A Gratitude—that such be true—
It had esteemed the Dream—
Too beautiful—for Shape to prove—
Or posture—to redeem!
2.4k
lɑːˈ(d)ʒɛs/ noun
magnanimity,
*generosity,
liberality,
munificence,
bountifulness,
beneficence,
altruism,
charity,
kindness,
lavishness,
unselfishness*
pretium est princeps unde redderent, quia munera(1)
τραγική, η τιμή
Σας έκανε να πληρώσετε
για αυτό
tragikí̱ , i̱ timí̱
Sas ékane na pli̱ró̱sete
gia af̱tó(2)
nu ligga död
botten av gropen(3)
nocht, ach le haghaidh an salachar
Chaith mé a chuirtear air(4)
Take your largesse and squeeze it where the sun never sees(5)
We all laid down
just as well
The master cut
the puppet strings
and we all
just
fell....
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, while trying to retrieve my old poems from ‘Poetfreak.com’ which is closing down by this year end, I found this love poem of mine which was composed in the year 2010! Hope you like this short love poem where the beloved begs her lover not to leave, but to spend the night under the ‘shamiana’- which is the ‘canopy cover’ created by her dark eye lashes! Hope you like the same! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.
UNDER THE SHAMIANA OF MY
DARK EYE LASHES !
O my love, please do not insist on leaving me
tonight!
Instead, keep sitting under the shadows of my
collyrium-laden eye lashes,
Where you shall find peace comfort and
solace!
Please do not insist on leaving again, nor be
adamant;
Sit under the sprawling shamiana* of my
gazelle-like eye lashes,
Which I have spread beside the oasis of my
two brimming eyes, -
Whose bottomless depths reflect my love for
you always!
For here you may bathe to get refreshed,
and sip your sweet vine sitting by my side!
But do not insist on leaving me behind,
to remain alone in the silence of this night!
My love, let us sit and relish these few ephemeral
measured moments,
Granted to us by the munificence of merciless time!
For once gone, these moments shall return no
more!
Whisper softly into my ears those sweet words
of love;
Saying all the while how you love me,
How you cannot live without me, even though
it be against your will!
And transform this into a magical, mystical
night!
For even a falsehood spoken convincingly, and
repeated like a sweet refrain, again, and again,
Assumes the colour of Truth, I heard people say!
But your words shall make this lovelorn life of
mine worthwhile;
And all my efforts to possess you for the night
shall not go in vain!
- Raj Nandy
(* Shamiana = like a tent or a canopy cover)
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
happened upon an extravaganza of spring’s hallmark,
the cherry blossoms outing their munificence of color,
I happened to position myself direct below a tree,
the thicket
of blossoms so, well, thick, that sky was obliterated ‘cept
for pointillistic spots of blue sun, yellow sky that poked
through the
few de minimus interstitial spaces permitted, and was
struck silent, by-for-before shimmering eyes that uttered the
requisite oohs and ahhs,
and
words came to me weeks later,
when the memory, now fully decanted,
reappears
courtesy of a giant tech company’s code tinkering,
merging and splurging the combined images in the
photographic memory
of my devices,
as if to say:
your life is
points of light and color and scent
as you write now
amidst the hubbub of jackhammers, raucous horns a blaring,
the homeless screaming on the street at god,
the fatalistic headlines of hate and
the pallor of a low level haze of perp~gray
between you and your true elfin self,
and you are not surprised,
but sadly, but not entirely,
bemused
that the photo’s true utility was to
remind weeks later
that all that my eyes utter
is not just
woe, double trouble and toil, toil,
*but to Hey Jude and George,
step out and see the park on a Sunday
in its entirety and to glory in
your being
by being
a point in that tapestry spectacular
of ingestion, digestion and final comprehension and
a happy*
exhalation
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 8:06 AM UTC
My love says she likes me
because I'm such a great deipnosophist,
a sanguine fellow
whose susurrus musings
crepitate with a farrago of meanings,
a protean and hortatory munificence
that brings her to her knees
in delight.
I adore her as well
for the beatific rapprochement
she accedes to
even when we expatiate
on and on about things mercurial.
Yes, I will always adore
her lissome acquiescence
to the inexorable germanity
of the simple fact
that we're simply
head over heels
for each other,
if you know
what I'm trying to say.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
kindness is never free!
it has to be learned to be earned,
it is not a natural choice but comes
to live in our genes after observing
it beneficial impacts, it munificence,
a two lane highway, divided by a
dotted line,
so that it can go across fluidly,
a streaming with no unilateral
direction, reversing course as needed
nope, not free, it comes with callused
hands lifting up a fallen one, even better,
taking unasked another’s elbow for safe
guidance, kindness prevents, making its
value greater than pears and rubies, yes,
it is infectious…
because you cannot receive it,
or returned,
until you’ve taught its
beauteous character,
seeing is believing,
tasting is knowing,
it’s shocking power is astounding,
a special
sounding that requires
not words, but words
and actions, a total package,
for it completes
the human far beyond
mere existence…
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 12:59 PM UTC
819
All I may, if small,
Do it not display
Larger for the Totalness—
’Tis Economy
To bestow a World
And withhold a Star—
Utmost, is Munificence—
Less, tho’ larger, poor.
1k
Under a brilliantly chilled blue sky,
the dusky cedars grow in strength;
While the serenity of newly fallen snow,
glitters in the sunlight's timeless bend.
Lost in an echo of angel's footsteps,
I seek the dimmer sanctuary of shade;
Hiding my inner thoughts from open spaces,
as the winter's sun burns sharper than a blade.
I hear the ringing rhapsodies of cardinals red,
spreading their sweetest notes across the plains;
While resting in the ragged twisted treetops,
the munificence of music's charm remains.
My thoughts were once a clamoring onslaught,
of tormented memories from my current loss;
Yet now my heart's awakened to a paradise,
as I silently relinquish that ill-fated course.
With one deep breath I rise amid the ashes,
of restless slumber's curse which held me back;
But with this wondrous world in resolution,
the hunger and the thirst no longer last.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
How many more?
Let me find a pen.
I feel like an intruder or maybe a burglar.
I guess I'd rather be whole
walking barefoot and insouciantly as I can.
I want to help you,
as broken as i am now
by something you said.
Light up the twinkling stars before the humming sun escapes.
Don't be so hard on yourself.
With the warmth in your hands
glue the pieces back together,
that small ounce of hope.
I'll try to put it simply,
I've never felt happiness like this.
I've never felt safer in anyone's arms.
The clouds weren't meant for the ground.
Try and leave the nightmare.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
coming into view
WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE!
you are not as weak as you pretend
you are not as frightened
as you'd have us believe
---
greed
the master
the king
the guru
the thief
the king
------------
in softly placed down images
all are known
-------------------------------------
---------------------------------
and so...again!
we are such lovely specimens, such creatures of wonder!....
such the munificence of our possibility
such the splendor revealed once we stop hiding
within the ignorance of hero worship and subservience!
....
thank nobody but yourself!,,,,, serve all creatures as yourself!
yield to nothing but your TRUE SELF!
who is really the fool?
who is really fooling anyone?
........
to say "i love you" is easy
but not as easy as TO LOVE
..........
feeling grateful all the time
for human greatness and possibility
for you are the source of strength
the seed of pregnant possibility
each and every body
surly this is easily known
----------------------
the love songs linger
the thieves slip into your mind
demanding credit and gratitude
but we are simple thus wise
we are not afraid
of our strength
and so our love survives
to feed the children
and the world again
-----------
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 7:41 PM UTC
in that lightening moment I was stricken
with a memory – quickening, swiftly, and then
deliberately: a bamboo in waiting yet akimbo,
a sea unfazed yet stirring internally,
taking in the morning’s tremendous yawn
staring visibly, a thin line dividing soul and body,
ephemeral and perpetual, vivid recall
and faint oblivion;
was it the wind that she borrowed with her
presence or was it the breath that once stilled spring
like an invisible, yet felt river in my blood?
what impeccable maquillage was it that she donned,
dawn or twilight?
something the silence waits with its mount on the boughs,
the munificence of such plural modesty,
or everything the noise tell me which isn’t exactly
but still is, a memory.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
MY MAKER’S MATCH
My love, beauty of the blue ocean;
Tender sparkle of a tranquil sea,
A spectacular outcome of my drowsy dream.
My love, splendour smile of the rising sun;
Gentle twinkle of the soft eventide twilight,
A pretty result of my smooth silent sleeps.
My love, grandeur of the glimmering moon;
Glinting grace of a soft midnight shimmers,
A magnificent model of my robbed rib.
My love, munificence of a billions galaxy;
Glamour of a colourful constellation night,
A perfect art-a part of my parts.
My love, joy of a serene sky;
Harmony of a peaceful heaven,
A flesh of my fleshes, a bone of my bones!
My love, darling, quietude quantum of time,
A noblest gift of my Maker: my Maker’s only eternal match!
Salvation of my revelations: Possession of my obsessions!
My love, my Maker’s eternal match, with you always,
In thins and thick: in wells and worse, to the very end of time!
With you till perpetuity blinks its last, still beside you I will be!
Listening to your soul’s sorrows, consoling your spirit’s whole soul!
My love, elegance of all moments, beauty of all minutes!
Splendour of all seasons, treasure of all eras, charm of all times!
Grace of my glances, glamour of my gazes, astound of my stance!
© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
I certainly realised when I wrote "There Are Daughters…” that not everyone had children, and I don’t mean to make anyone feel sad. When I write, (which is everyday), I simply become, shall we say, attached to a phrase or the seed of an idea; even a rhythm or a word or funny rhyme. These can take me in any direction. This process has led to 19 books with two more on the way.
It’s a kind of yoga, a mental training - and the most unexpected ideas come out - ideas which I work on and refine. I write on anything at hand. Just today, I found 4 scraps, one dating back to 2015. I’ll show you.
Notes found…refined, completed.
This Brain
This brain invades
The good, the bad:
Everything that’s done, not done.
And so I try
To purify
The brain
And turn
Invasion into
Sympathetic action.
This Brain 2.27.2020 Nature of & In Reality; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
After Surgery
After surgery
One is like the princess and the pea,
Feeling every crevice
On each surface.
After surgery
One’s sore, and golly, gee,
All parts exposed or not
Are vulnerable,
Incapable
But filled with the potential
Of life ahead,
For one day you’ll get out of bed,
Participate in daily doings:
Cleaning, practicing and ********
We’ll see
How afterwards can be!
After Surgery 2.27.2020 Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
Dear Friends
Dear friends,
You’ll never know the inspiration
You have been,
And what I’ve learned
Of gratitude and giving,
And what I lacked..
You’ve helped change aims,
And I will never be the same,
Hoping I survive and have the chance
To show the learning’s knowing
Filled with just one speck
Of your munificence, unselfishness
And open-handedness.
Dear Friends 10.10.2019/2.27.2020 Arlene Nover Corwin
I Have Become
I have become yours
To grow in your power;
Grow and flower
Over self-love’s lowest.
Wow!
How a syllable inspires.
I Have Become 10.25.2019/2.27.2020 Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
It Sneaks Up
It sneaks up: autumn,
And Huston sings “September Song”.
A rainbow arches:
Purple, blue, green, yellow, orange.
One can’t tell because
They blend and fade.
You’re stuck there at the window,
Captivated.
It Sneaks Up 12.15.2015/2.27.2020 Circling Round Nature II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
He had not, the general consensus decreed,
Held up his end of the bargain;
Custom dictated that, once one had received
If not full absolution, a degree of dispensation
It was incumbent on the recipient
To acknowledge of the communal munificence,
Preferably with a suitably hang-dog expression,
And then move on with one’s life
In a sufficiently distant locale.
The gentleman in question had begged to differ
And stayed on, not simply long enough
To say the odd quick goodbye, to tie up loose ends,
But for the long haul, as he was born and bred in these parts,
Man and countryside one and the same,
Inextricable from one another, in his view,
And so he carried on about his business
As would befit a full citizen of the borough,
Occasionally stopping to pass the time of day
With the small circle of family and friends
Who had not found his particular peccadillo
As grounds for a de facto shunning
(Indeed, the wheres and whyfores of his particular transgression
Long past being generally agreed upon)
Continuing to shop, work, and even attend mass at St. Marinus
(Where he invariably had a pew to himself)
Where local legend had it that the statue of Jesus had once wept,
Though one former parish priest had noted
How the effigy was strangely and unnervingly impassive
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC