The Rider At The Gate

I know its been raining Poems on this blog for a very long time but forgive me, I have am totally smitten by good poetry, specially those that have the lyrical quality to it. The credit goes to the wonderful teachers I had back in Sem (St. Joseph's College Nainital) - Miss Deepa Shah and Miss Nirija Bisht (God Bless them wherever they are). 


This one is again from the Elocution Archives from Sem. Called the "The Rider at the Gate", it revolves around one of my all time favorite historical figure - Julius Caesar ( and pompous Pompey) (Again credit Ms. Shah and Ms. Bisht). This piece was recited by Swapnil (Pappi Don as we fondly knew him :D ) during the Inter-Class competition in 2004. One of the smartest kids I've known and an excellent orator, this poem and the Tummy Beast (also recited by him for which he won a Gold Medal :) ) is a dedication to all the good old times we had back there. Dude, Life at Sem wouldn't have been so easy, had it not been for all your help.

The Rider At The Gate

                         - John Masefield

 A windy night was blowing on Rome,
 The cressets guttered on Caesar's home,
 The fish-boats, moored at the bridge, were breaking
 The rush of the river to yellow foam.

 The hinges whined to the shutters shaking,
 When clip-clop-clep came a horse-hoof raking
 The stones of the road at Caesar's gate;
 The spear-butts jarred at the guard's awaking.

 'Who goes there?' said the guard at the gate.
 'What is the news, that you ride so late?'
 'News most pressing, that must be spoken
 To Caesar alone, and that cannot wait.'

 'The Caesar sleeps; you must show a token
 That the news suffice that he be awoken.
 What is the news, and whence do you come?
 For no light cause may his sleep be broken.'

 'Out of the dark of the sands I come,
 From the dark of death, with news for Rome.
 A word so fell that it must be uttered
 Though it strike the soul of the Caesar dumb.'

 Caesar turned in his bed and muttered,
 With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered;
 Calpurnia heard her husband moan:
 'The house is falling,
 The beaten men come into their own.'

 'Speak your word,' said the guard at the gate;
 'Yes, but bear it to Caesar straight,
 Say, "Your murderers' knives are honing,
 Your killers' gang is lying in wait."

 'Out of the wind that is blowing and moaning,
 Through the city palace and the country loaning,
 I cry, "For the world's sake, Caesar, beware,
 And take this warning as my atoning.

 '"Beware of the Court, of the palace stair,
 Of the downcast friend who speaks so fair,
 Keep from the Senate, for Death is going
 on many men's feet to meet you there."

 'I, who am dead, have ways of knowing
 Of the crop of death that the quick are sowing.
 I, who was Pompey, cry it aloud
 From the dark of death, from the wind blowing.

 'I, who was Pompey, once was proud,
 Now I lie in the sand without a shroud;
 I cry to Caesar out of my pain,
 "Caesar beware, your death is vowed."'

 The light grew grey on the window-pane,
 The windcocks swung in a burst of rain,
 The window of Caesar flung unshuttered,
 The horse-hoofs died into wind again.

 Caesar turned in his bed and muttered,
 With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered;
 Calpurnia heard her husband moan:
 'The house is falling,
 The beaten men come into their own.'

The Tummy Beast

A lot of time has passed since I last posted on my blog. Its about a month now that it has been stagnant, an awfully long time. So here I present to you a piece full of naivete, innocence and the mellifluous qualities characteristic of childhood.

The Tummy Beast
ROALD DAHL

One afternoon I said to mummy,

“Who is this person in my tummy?

“Who must be small and very thin

“Or how could he have gotten in?”

My mother said from where she sat,

“It isn’t nice to talk like that.”

“It’s true!” I cried. “I swear it, mummy!

“There is a person in my tummy!

“He talks to me at night in bed,

“He’s always asking to be fed,

“Throughout the day, he screams at me,

“Demanding sugar buns for tea.

“He tells me it is not a sin

“To go and raid the biscuit tin.

“I know quite well it’s awfully wrong

“To guzzle food the whole day long,

“But really I can’t help it, mummy,

“Not with this person in my tummy.”

“You horrid child!” my mother cried.

“Admit it right away, you’ve lied!”

“You’re simply trying to produce

“A silly asinine excuse!

“You are the greedy guzzling brat!

“And that is why you’re always fat!”

I tried once more, “Believe me, mummy,

“There is a person in my tummy.”

“I’ve had enough!” my mother said,

“You’d better go at once to bed!”

Just then, a nicely timed event

Delivered me from punishment.

Deep in my tummy something stirred,

And then an awful noise was heard,

A snorting grumbling grunting sound

That made my tummy jump around.

My darling mother nearly died,

“My goodness, what was that?” she cried.

At once the tummy voice came through,

It shouted, “Hey there! Listen you!

“I’m getting hungry! I want eats!

“I want lots of chocs and sweets!

“Get me half a pound of nuts!

“Look snappy or I’ll twist your guts!”

“That’s him!” I cried. “He’s in my tummy!

“So now do you believe me, mummy?”

But mummy answered nothing more,

For she had fainted on the floor.

The Highwayman

Ballads have always enchanted me, but when one has a lyrical quality like that of Alfred Noyce's works, its hardly surprising that it has left me spell-bound with a new found admiration for the poet. One of the best pieces ever to be written in the annals of poetry, The Highwayman by Alfred Noyce narrates a touching story with words that strike a deep cord. As far as my love for elocution goes, I'd like to narrate it to a real audience someday (I guess my bathroom fittings, showers and toilet seats have had enough of it :D )

The Highwayman
Alfred Noyes


The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle
His rapier hilt a-twinkle
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord's daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching
Marching marching
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight
Her musket shattered the moonlight
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding
Riding riding
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord's daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair

I'll Be Nearby ...

Life has been a bit too quick these days, which seriously makes me wonder about the times ahead. Perhaps I should leave it to time and rather than figuring out, discover. However, to keep up the dynamism of the blog, I present to you a poem which I wrote about two months ago. It is not something with very complex or with very great ideas or even something conceived in a semi-conscious state of poetic stupor. Rather, it is an amateurishly simple one written in a short span of about 5-10 minutes, more at the need of the hour. Moreover, except a line here and there the poem is generic and not romantically themed unless the reader deliberately wishes to interpret so.

I'LL BE NEARBY ...
                        - Self

When battles are tough, When stakes are high

When times wear you out, When those sparks die

Just look for me

I'll be nearby.  

When you need that laugh, But all you do is cry

When you need some warmth, When you feel so dry

Just look for me

I'll be nearby.

When you doubt yourself, and you don’t wish to try

When you want to smile, All you manage is a sigh

Just look for me

I'll be nearby.

When you want to dance, But you are too shy

When you need to share, Or maybe just get high

Just look for me

I'll be nearby.

When you see the skies, And out you want to fly

I'll hold your hand, I’ll be the guy

Please look for me

I'll be nearby

When you’ve won the war, you’ve touched the skies

When you prove your mettle, To the world outside

I’ll be right behind

I’ll be nearby

When one fine day, I shut my eyes

Don’t you lose grip, Don’t you dare cry

I’ll be in the river, I’ll be in the sky

I’ll be in the pudding, I’ll be in the pie

I’ll come as a child, May be a butterfly

I’ll come as a reason, That makes you smile

Feel me in the wind

I’ll be nearby.