"rouses" poems
Transliteration:
Jana-gaṇa-mana adhināyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhātā
Pañjāba Sindhu Gujarāṭa Marāṭhā
Drāviḍa Utkala Baṅga
Vindhya Himāchala Yamunā Gaṅgā
Uchhala jaladhi taraṅga
Tava śubha nāme jāge
Tava śubha āśhiṣa māge
Gāhe tava jaya gāthā
Jana gaṇa maṅgala dhāyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhāta
Jaya he, jaya he, jaya he
Jaya jaya jaya, jaya he.
Translation:
Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people,
Dispenser of India's destiny.
Thy name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sindhu,
Gujarat and Maratha,
Of the Dravida and Odisha and Bengal;
It echoes in the hills of the Vindhyas and Himalayas,
mingles in the music of Yamuna and Ganges and is
chanted by the waves of the Indian Ocean.
They pray for thy blessings and sing thy praise.
The saving of all people waits in thy hand,
Thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, victory, victory to thee.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
Andhat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows,
Pays to the place the reverence he owes,
Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows,
Lists to the sermon in a softening doze,
And rouses joyous at the welcome close.
5.5k
dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala
magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
masurat tula.
~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)
since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.
he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.
~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
Glenn Sentes
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
A GLEAM -- a gleam -- from Ida's height,
By the Fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt, that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky,
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying Light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep
See it burst like a blazing Sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion's height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away -- away --
It bounds in its freshening might.
Silent and soon,
Like a broadened moon,
It passes in sheen, Asopus green,
And bursts on Cithaeron gray!
The warder wakes to the Signal-rays,
And it swoops from the hill with a broader blaze.
On, on the fiery Glory rode;
Thy lonely lake, Gorgopis, glowed!
To Megara's Mount it came;
They feed it again
And it streams amain--
A giant beard of Flame!
The headland cliffs that darkly down
O'er the Saronic waters frown,
Are passed with the Swift One's lurid stride,
And the huge rock glares on the glaring tide.
With mightier march and fiercer power
It gained Arachne's neighboring tower;
Thence on our Argive roof its rest it won,
Of Ida's fire the long-descended Son!
Bright Harbinger of glory and of joy!
So first and last with equal honor crowned,
In solemn feasts the race-torch circles round. --
And these my heralds! -- this my SIGN OF PEACE;
Lo! while we breathe, the victor lords of Greece
Stalk, in stern tumult, through the halls of Troy!
3.7k
I have spent
Too many miles
In the beds
Of strangers
Pick up trucks
And
Roaring
Freight trains
To settle
For a quiet,
Small
Life.
I am a wayfarer,
Wanderer,
Vagrant.
No walls can keep me.
I am too
Massive
For civil norms,
I am
Too much
For a habitual society.
A roof would
Keep me from the stars.
How could I
Give up the rising sun?
A door would keep me
From all of the strangers
That I call my allies.
There is too much of this world
That I have caught
A glimpse of,
There is still
Deep-rooted mystery,
I can feel it beneath my feet
With every mile I roam.
The magic rouses
My being,
Stirs my soul.
Though
This may feel like a curse,
Some just weren't meant to
Fit
Into
The puzzle.
Some
Are
Free radicals,
Disturbing the peace,
Agitating the possibilities,
Proving
Freedom isn't dead,
Freedom isn't free,
Freedom is something
That must be stolen,
Freedom is to be
Taken into your own
Two hands.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
There's a world outside my little square window
that overlooks fields and woodlands and sunsets
and that world overlooks a bustling avenue with
shutters on windows and constant, humming traffic.
There's a world outside my little square window
that keeps wakes me with the same sun every morning
and the same old singing birds,
and that world rouses me with a different kind of music;
of people and chatter and busking and life.
There's a world outside my little square window,
a world I would never have been tired of exploring,
and that world is named Paris.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
from Ida's height,
By the Fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt, that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky,
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying Light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep
See it burst like a blazing Sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion's height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away -- away --
It bounds in its freshening might.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.
The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.
His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!
‘tis freedom, Deborah!
Free.
Doomed.
© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Thus the Mayne glideth
Where my Love abideth;
Sleep ’s no softer: it proceeds
On through lawns, on through meads,
On and on, whate’er befall,
Meandering and musical,
Though the niggard pasturage
Bears not on its shaven ledge
Aught but weeds and waving grasses
To view the river as it passes,
Save here and there a scanty patch
Of primroses too faint to catch
A weary bee…. And scarce it pushes
Its gentle way through strangling rushes
Where the glossy kingfisher
Flutters when noon-heats are near,
Glad the shelving banks to shun,
Red and steaming in the sun,
Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat
Burrows, and the speckled stoat;
Where the quick sandpipers flit
In and out the marl and grit
That seems to breed them, brown as they:
Naught disturbs its quiet way,
Save some lazy stork that springs,
Trailing it with legs and wings,
Whom the shy fox from the hill
Rouses, creep he ne’er so still.
2.6k
The night is soft and billowy,
Beckoning me deeper into her velvet embrace.
The dark air caresses me,
Like a smooth, silken hand stroking my face.
The breeze carries with it the scent of autumn;
decaying leaves, campfire smoke, pumpkin spice and pine needles.
A heady cocktail that rouses something in me that no other season can.
This, is my favourite time of year.
The bare trees, colourful leaves and crisp breeze soothe my mind.
The long nights of candlelight and incense soothe my soul.
Draped in moonlight and watched over by the stars,
I drink the wine of ancient Roman nights,
of sacred pagan rites,
of owls' sleepless flights,
of lustful lovers' bites,
That dark and warm midwinter wine.
And it is here
As I lie naked beneath the gentle gaze of the moon,
Vulnerable and exposed,
Innocent and joyful,
With child-like wonder at the beauty that surrounds and encompasses me,
Sipping the crimson nectar of the gods,
That I feel whole.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
~~~
perhaps.
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery
leave that to the better ones.
cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming
the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.
these exteriors are comprehendable.
don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.
Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant
question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.
can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
*
The nature’s inner emotions leaked out;
Pouring heavily, rain drops on her breast;
Half-covered body smiles on the surface;
Her roughness turns down to a pink face.
Oh my Dear Mother Earth,
You are very elegant;
You are very benevolent.
You are a sleeping ray of light;
You are a peeping eye of night;
You sing a love melody with a half smile;
A mild kiss mark on your cheeks, meanwhile;
Your body rouses; your shapes turn around;
Again lying up and down, a fine ecstasy inbound,
Oh my Dear Mother Earth,
You are a sleeping ray of light;
You a peeping eye of night
Your harsh lust is in doors:
Your light love is in outdoors.
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
___________________________________________________
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
Bare skin on dampened green,
arms pendent and the heavy,
near-sighted swing
of dull metal in the pit.
As I loosely ready myself
for another miss,
you call me an anarchist -
the word rouses
me, and I try it on,
gingerly checking
for fit, style and colour.
And yet
I haven't had the time -
or the ruthless abandon -
to learn and befriend it,
to humour and then
ignore it.
No, I haven't had
the time - something I know
we both measure
in cups and baking spoons -
brash spoons sound
anxiety and precision,
or the death-knell clang
of hollowed metal on sand.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
We move through the night,
though the streets seem empty,
we look left and right,
electric vehicles are stealthy.
As we exercise stepwise, sunrise happens.
and black night fades its cover.
Like phoresy, painted, pieces of heaven,
the day opens with primary colors—
reds that delight, oranges that tease
and peacocking yellows that leaven.
As the counterfeit rainbow enchants and rouses,
streetlights waver and douse,
lights flicker on in houses,
and the earth blossoms active in borrowed hues.
Morning twinkles with its particular, angular light,
as we enter the still still lobby.
They’ve already set out the coffee!
With a sip, I feel the morning's started right.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 12:05 PM UTC
I sat to write to better your countenance
to uplift your spirit for you were moody
However I found myself professing my impulses
confessing my feelings
Your flame is for the lucky bulky ones
yet I'm blessed with your burning fire
To feel your well tanned beautiful,
so soft looking skin in silky slide would be volcanic
Your lips are for purple satin love
that only flows from royal *******
Your tan is as Angels in the Sun
Even Angels woo you
Your hidden priceless treasure deep beneath
rouses upon the blouse undone by macho and sapphic
innate peculiarities, best known over a length of time
Your awesomeness leaves many a dummies
pondering on your wonders of nature that glows
beyond this world
Your sexiness sweetens the aura around you
creating the hot halo feeling that envelopes you
Your attraction is spell bound
i couldn't help but be addicted to you
Words from your lips hypnotize my feet and thinking
giving me a better feeling
just like seeing an Angel in the Sun that you are.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
Thinking of you sleeping by my side rouses new feelings deep within me. Leftover makeup melts off my face and I sink lower and lower into the mattress. I remind myself that I can't fall any lower than the floor, although it feels like the opposite.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
So this is Christmas
and what have you done?
John purrs the question
through tiny
crackling speakers
begging responsibility
from the irresponsible at best,
begging for peace
and a season of rest.
I lost a war, John;
I tripped on hope and arrogance
and earned forty six new badges
of valor;
I fell from the rafters of a fantasy bridge
to the cold reality beneath
and I broke bones--
ribs and femurs,
radii and hum'rouses.
I have met Marc Antonys and Brutuses,
Pagliachis and Heathcliffs,
and met them in myself.
I have sobbed into futons
ripe with nachos and socks
and I curled in another's arms
wishing they were yours.
I have loved and lost
and saw God in a graveyard;
come down from dopamine dreams
to black widows in my sheets.
I have tried and failed and given up,
found the one mistake
I'll always make
and the one perfume I'll always hate.
I lost a war
I never had the guts to fight.
So this is Christmas, John,
and I'm still a mess.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Desire expressed
manifests in moments
Genesis to geneticist
alpha to omega, Eden Armageddon
and a particular flat stone
I'm flinging at that pile of H2O
It skips, predictably, causing surface ripples
under a line of predefined arcs
each described by gravity and water molecules
neatly arranged in surface tension that
reflects this day ... blue as the clear sky
and a peaceful wavelength
we know as
harmony
I'm wondering who desired such perfection...
Enabled energy, proclaimed pebbles
Caused a lake to feel at home right here
Read Darwin some respond
you're only here because
a primal pond appeared
somehow someway backwhen
and that famous fertile germ
opted for a brave new world
with homo-sapiens
conveniently mapped to its single cell
Dadadadaaa! Dumdeedee dumb!
Dvorak wonders too
Backwards, on slow-motion rewind
lofty intellects scratch and munch in flaky wonderland
ever plotting the self-indulgent, Lemming way 'ahead'
Independence day drags drearily on
Take fifty! ... A more human-friendly God
created in our image ... lest we forget the beast
I, me, first-person-one, Oh you're lookin' good!
Lets put that that triple 6 trinity to work
Replete, till death us do part, we do things My Way
ala Frank (and certain gorillas with cigars)
Thus is the compliment returned
Man attains an ever lower High place
Pass my slice of cake please
Myopic, entropic moments
loop their mobius strips
ever further down the food chain
Highways congeal and earth chokes
desperation
Small wonder Wisdom opposes pride
Shows His face to humble folk
Invites shepherds to witness
Jupiter in Virgo's womb
Rouses them with a shofar blast
come Kingdom come.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
My wind chime rouses me as the wind gently blows
It sings again and I smile at the sound
This wind chime is my favorite thing in my house
I can’t say it’s mine because it’s not anymore
But it did belong to me once
I didn’t take very good care of it when it was mine
Other people admired it and I let them have it
But they always gave it back to me
And it always came back chipped or scratched or defaced in some way
Then one time it came back totally broken
I put my wind chime away and forgot about it for a long time
Till the day he found it and put it back together and made it even more beautiful than before
And I smile again because he did the same thing for my heart
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
In a cavernous world devoid of light,
left dark and dead by a higher might,
There is no hope no pleasure no will to fight.
Not since god drove the world into a dying blight.
Her perfection rouses all from slumber,
Tearing through like holy thunder.
in awe they stare lost and dazed,
everyone intent and desparately amazed.
Celestine with her divine wings,
Decends on high and loves and sings.
Waking all to the chance of life,
Breaking darkness like a wrenching knife.
"Look upon me world of shame,
And feel my radiance like a hearths warm flame,
A mother whose patience will not succumb,
To those who are blind deaf mute and dumb.
Care not for those who turn their attention,
Who torments ruins and pretends affection.
Give your prayers to one that will listen,
And shine on you with love that Glistens."
We hear, we feel, we want and need!
All of which you've made us heed,
We give you prayers and fear no silence,
For with you comes love and eternal angelic guidance.
,
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
Stay away from that victory gin that causes rebel rouses, but no elections
Go join the 99 percent and never graduate your fafsa dreams don’t intimidate me
**** your mace brand justice
and your senior citizen abuse.
join the merchant sailors like the greats. be some one who can change,
******* it what we need right now is someone who can wright this right of passage.
we need another Kerouac
we need another Ginsberg
cause all i ever did in Dallas was die
all i ever did in Dallas was die.
set me free from this pretentious tyranny of name brand sweaters, and lemon bars,
your art house cinema fulhouse applause can’t match the street grit grime of my soul.
too much vermouth with much rancid brine has made me a bitter soul of conquest.
the tomorrow is wasted youth on main street on a wave of ***** and appletini ********
sugar sweet synth pop and black liquorice hip hop spewing out of every show off trendy water hole.
the sixth street, fry street, main street, bourbon street of our fathers will swill down the drain
to make room for the next
for the next
for the next.........
after all we ever we wanted to do was last.
where do we go from here?
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
It’s been six years since
I killed her, but I still stir in the night
to the screams of searing flesh, still see
her teeth, gnarled from gnawing
on girl’s bones, bent and broken
from devouring boy’s flesh. Even now,
I smell the blood on her breath,
taste the ash of the oven.
The moon brings memories
I wish I never made. Mother’s lies
as she abandoned us in the woods,
tear drop stains on callused hands
as father said his goodbyes. Brother
was lost, too busy during the walk
trying to make a compass of crumbs
as bread-filled birds circled above.
I never told him I knew the way home.
I wish I could forget, but night
after night I am haunted by the
sights of sugar-soaked window panes,
gingerbread shingles, and taffy apple
doorknobs. When darkness creeps
into my room, after the sun has gone
to sleep, it brings with it the scent of warm
ginger snaps, cooling near the candied fern.
If only I could forfeit these thoughts
that torment me each evening.
It isn’t images of the witch that wakes me
from my dreams, but the other one that rouses
me before dawn. Despite the jewels
we brought with us, mother never was
too pleased to see us at her door. She blamed
me for our return. When father and brother
were asleep in their beds, she took me to the yard.
The snap of the stick striking my bare back
still echoes through my mind. The next day,
I asked her to show me how to
bake ginger snaps one last time.
I never could remember how to check the oven.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC