English Poems

[Manzareh]

All you had to say was 'albions shore is Britain' instead of some longwinded riddle.

For future reference figuratively and literally are words opposite from each other. add that to your English skills.

[DaZahroJaam.]

figuratively and literally are opposite forms of each other?? says who?? figurative is when you refer to something that symbolizes a thing and literally is referring to something that definitely means that thing. something that symbolizes a thing cant be opposite of what that thing is. learn english, dumbass.

[Manzareh]

^ your wrong, as usual

[DaZahroJaam.]

exactly my point, dumbass. For the last three years I have been teaching you the difference between your and you're and you still don't get it.
Get lost.

[Manzareh]

exactly my point, dumbass. For the last three years I have been teaching you the difference between your and you're and you still don't get it.
Get lost.

That just means your a very bad teacher.

[DaZahroJaam.]

I heard an Angel singing
When the day was springing:
“Mercy, pity, and peace,
Are the world’s release.”

So he sang all day
Over the new-mown hay,
Till the sun went down,
And haycocks looked brown

I heard a Devil curse
Over the heath and the furze:
“Mercy could be no more
If there were nobody poor,
And pity no more could be

If all were happy as ye:
And mutual fear brings peace.
Misery’s increase
Are mercy, pity, peace.”

At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown...

[DaZahroJaam.]

Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land
Whose heart hath never within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored , and unsung.

[DaZahroJaam.]

I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

[Nazar]

Okay, this is an obscene one which caught my eye in one of those public toilets near to a jobs advertising organization in Shahr-e-Naw, Kabul. Probably written by some desperate job seeker. The essence of the poem lies in the fact that it describes a typical situation of the people looking for jobs.

Here I sit
With all broken heart
Try to sh!t
But only fart!

[HalloIsBack]

Okay, this is an obscene one which caught my eye in one of those public toilets near to a jobs advertising organization in Shahr-e-Naw, Kabul. Probably written by some desperate job seeker. The essence of the poem lies in the fact that it describes a typical situation of the people looking for jobs.

Here I sit
With all broken heart
Try to sh!t
But only fart!

in europe you will find also such sh!t on the wall of toilets
so no difference between europe and afg

[pashtanajan]

Can you post your own poems here? If so, here's a poem I wrote a few days ago :

Tabula Rasa, Every Day

lost in reverie
in events once assumed to be memories
but in truth have been confabulated
to keep clandestine
the anger
the pain
under the crimson Afghan rug, hand-made
(by parched hands in a
hungry, war-enraged land)
they rest, those memories

a new life, they trust they have endowed us
(turned into gods, have they?)
but the new world
is still haunted by the old,
and life afresh will never begin
when blood has pattered like rain

I must enshrine them within my mind
I must. I must.
but I must move on as well
move on. move on.
if I wish to ever live

and so, choice made
(while tears fall,
while the dead wail)
my mind turns into a blank slate

tabula rasa, every day

[DaZahroJaam.]

Of this world's theatre in which we stay,
My love, like the spectator, idly sits;
Beholding me, that all the pageants play,
Disguising diversely my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in mirth like to a comedy:
Soon after, when my joy to sorrow flits,
I wail, and make my woes a tragedy.
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my mirth, nor rues my smart:
But, when I laugh, she mocks; and, when I cry,
She laughs, and hardens evermore her heart.
What then can move her? if nor mirth nor moan,
She is no woman, but a senseless stone.

[DaZahroJaam.]

Indeed indeed, I cannot tell,
Though I ponder on it well,
Which were easier to state,
All my love or all my hate.
Surely, surely, thou wilt trust me
When I say thou dost disgust me.
O, I hate thee with a hate
That would fain annihilate;
Yet sometimes against my will,
My dear friend, I love thee still.
It were treason to our love,
And a sin to God above,
One iota to abate
Of a pure impartial hate.

[DaZahroJaam.]

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

[DaZahroJaam.]

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.
The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song,
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!
You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's
wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.
You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.