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Invictus William Ernest Henley (1849 - 1903) "William Ernest Henley  (23 August 1849 – 11 July 1903) was a prominent poet, critic and  editor  of the late  Victorian era  in  England . Though he wrote several books of poetry, Henley is remembered most often for his 1875 poem " Invictus ", a piece which recurs in popular awareness (e.g., see the 2009  Clint Eastwood  film,  Invictus ). A fixture in literary circles, the one-legged Henley was also the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson's character Long John Silver ( Treasure Island,  1883), while his young daughter Margaret inspired J.M. Barrie's choice of the name Wendy for the heroine of his play  Peter Pan  (1904)" - From Wikipedia Now, here is Invictus: Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor c...

" Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark." BOUND IN CHAINS 'PRISONER, TELL me, who was it that bound you?' 'It was my master,' said the prisoner.  'I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.' 'Prisoner,  tell me who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?' 'It was I,' said the prisoner,  'who forged this chain very carefully. I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom undisturbed.  Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.' A smile from the great ma...

About the Poet: The poem was apparently written when Pope was only 14. Enjoy it. The poem: Happy the man, whose wish and care  A few paternal acres bound,  Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground.  Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,   Whose flocks supply him with attire,  Whose trees in summer yield him shade,   In winter fire.  Blest, who can unconcernedly find  Hours, days, and years slide soft away,  In health of body, peace of mind,  Quiet by day,  Sound sleep by night; study and ease,  Together mixed; sweet recreation;  And innocence, which most does please,   With meditation.  Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;  Thus unlamented let me die;  Steal from the world, and not a stone  Tell where I lie.

I  love reading mangas and comics...😅. One such is titled 'play dead'. As of now, it is one of the most poignant display of the emotional and spiritual turbulence of a man who was executed for a crime that was just a mistake he made(at least that is my inference) and he was assigned the task of a reaper in necropolis. Well, I guess speaking more than this may lead to copyright issues...😂. Never mind. In the latest issue, the neighbour of the protagonist was singing a song which the protagonist remembers was his childhood favourite(he is Italian). Though I read only a stanza of it through the comic - I got an urge to read the whole of it. I found it in the Smithsonian archives (THANK YOU AMERICA !!!!) It is a medieval Italian Folk song. Hope you enjoy it. Love has no season... Image from google.

ABOUT THE POET: Well, I guess the 'nightingale of India', Sarojini Naidu needs a very less introduction to a large part of the audience. However, for many else:    Wikipedia states thus: 'She was also a noted poet. Her poetry includes children's poems, nature poems, patriotic poems and poems of love and death...' THE POEM What do you sell, O merchants? Richly your wares are displayed. Turbans of crimson and silver, Tunics of purple brocade, Mirrors with panels of amber, Daggers with handles of jade. What do you weigh, O ye vendors? Saffron, lentil and rice. What do you grind, O ye maidens? Sandalwood, henna and spice. What do you call, O ye pedlars? Chessmen and ivory dice. What do you make, O ye goldsmiths? Wristlet and anklet and ring, Bells for the feet of blue pigeons, Frail as a dragon-fly's wing, Girdles of gold for the dancers, Scabbards of gold for the kings. What do you cry, O fruitmen? Citron, pomegranate and plum. What do y...

I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs, Rotting flesh and worms do Not convince me against The challenge. The years And cold defeat live deep in Lines along my face. They dull my eyes, yet I keep on dying, Because I love to live.

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon." Said the old man, "I do that too." The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants." "I do that too," laughed the little old man. Said the little boy, "I often cry." The old man nodded, "So do I." "But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems Grown-ups don't pay attention to me." And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand. "I know what you mean," said the little old man... ##A beautiful video on Vimeo videos: A video   'He has the obligation to society that any human being has. I don't think a satirist has any greater obligation to society than a bricklayer or anybody else...' -Shel Silverstein