US

POETS’ CORNER

US
By S. K
Fri, 08, 19

Milton started his day at 4:00 a.m. He spent the first hour thinking in solitude....


Change

By Asma Zainab

My lips tremble

My hands fumble

The eyes that carried the golden sun

Burnt my gaze to ashes

The smile that slipped secrets

Turned into metal smirk

Hands radiating warmth and comfort

Now hold mine in a vexing vine

What is this I see in front of me

A familiar face or a facade

The sweet nectar now holds poison

And the vessels only channel venom

Have the planets shifted

Or have the waters been polluted

Is this what time has always been accused of

Of changing hearts and challenging love

Is this really you and me

Or the old you and the new me

Poets and their eccentricities!

John Milton

Milton started his day at 4:00 a.m. He spent the first hour thinking in solitude. Then an aide would read him the Bible for half an hour, afterward dictating whatever Milton said. (Milton was blind, and those dictations would become Paradise Lost). Whenever the aide was late, Milton griped, “I want to be milked. I want to be milked.”

Lord Byron

Byron was basically an eccentric amateur zookeeper. At school, he kept a bear in his dorm room. (He leashed it up and took it for walks around campus—he even tried to get it a fellowship.) Later on, according to Percy Shelley, Byron kept eight dogs, three monkeys, five cats, some peacocks, eagles, crows, and falcons inside his house.

Sir Walter Scott

Scott penned most of the poem Marmion in his head while riding a horse.

Stream of consciousness

By Zarnab Elahi

Why does it feel...

I passed through long, intense pain,

The journey of my heart,

In order to gain,

An ephemeral pleasure,

Just like sand,

That flows through the wind,

Out of the hand,

A bubble that appears right above the sky,

And moves upward,

With an intent to fly,

Besides making efforts,

It also dies.

In this temporal world,

None survives,

With a wish fulfilled,

Of eternal life,

But,

Why does it feel...

A tale untold,

Will now get folded,

And hidden among the pages,

of history!

Composed

By Mashaal Farid

Gleaming in search of you,

My skin sprouted a little of the hope left

Slice of pain stroked my temples;

That my eyes carried for long

Alone I was standing

Like a solo cloud in a winter afternoon

Sun watched as wind saw it

Signifier didn’t meet the signified

But the links between lead its ways and

You became the poem I long to write

Compiled by SK