January, 1795 – Poem by Mary Darby Robinson

January, 1795

Pavement slipp’ry, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.

Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ;
Courtiers clinging and voracious ;
Misers scarce the wretched heeding ;
Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.

Wives who laugh at passive spouses ;
Theatres, and meeting-houses ;
Balls, where simp’ring misses languish ;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.

Arts and sciences bewailing ;
Commerce drooping, credit failing ;
Placemen mocking subjects loyal ;
Separations, weddings royal.

Authors who can’t earn a dinner ;
Many a subtle rogue a winner ;
Fugitives for shelter seeking ;
Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.

Taste and talents quite deserted ;
All the laws of truth perverted ;
Arrogance o’er merit soaring ;
Merit silently deploring.

Ladies gambling night and morning ;
Fools the works of genius scorning ;
Ancient dames for girls mistaken,
Youthful damsels quite forsaken.

Some in luxury delighting ;
More in talking than in fighting ;
Lovers old, and beaux decrepid ;
Lordlings empty and insipid.

Poets, painters, and musicians ;
Lawyers, doctors, politicians :
Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes,
Seeking fame by diff’rent roads.

Gallant souls with empty purses ;
Gen’rals only fit for nurses ;
School-boys, smit with martial spirit,
Taking place of vet’ran merit.

Honest men who can’t get places,
Knaves who shew unblushing faces ;
Ruin hasten’d, peace retarded ;
Candour spurn’d, and art rewarded.


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Months of Moist

crawled into room twenty seventeen

palms bruised and knees swollen

knapsack over his head

a nip away he is dead


so the sunbeam strikes annually

people breathing casually. But he

goes into his lungs, and plugs them to his nose

sniffs a handful of scent under the garden rose


the world stinks of a drunken old man

In a cheap bar, filled with talibans & no fan

why do we lose sleep or ever weep

human beings to the world are sheep


he crawled, through months of moist

through muds and murderous frost

it wasn’t winter, he had his jackets on

he stays ready, come rain or the sun


awake at night, angel and demon

are they listening to his summon

or to the sound of full bellies snore

he talked to them far from ashore


piteous people are united by prayers

except victims of lack of prayers

& he will never listen to your pain

but sentence you to your vain


potayto potahto, he said

I will die afraid if I am afraid

walk my way since I am on my way

be ready when the world is ready to hay


crawl of 365 days begins with a plan

the difference, between a dream & a plan

big men plan to dream, fulfill their dream

small men dream to plan, it’s all a dream


but what’s a crawling man in a rush world

not allowed to dream or try to sow a seed

hope is for those who live in the race

advice the crawling man just to hide his face


365 days on, he strolls to room twenty eighteen

his jackets on and his knees sheen

has not won the brawl, but lived the race

it wasn’t by his grace or by his disgrace


asked how he caught up with the trail

he thanked the Lord for riling a man so frail

others said Alas, men changed his fate

He remembers for sure, room full of his mate

Kahlil Gibran On Love

This is one of my most favorite cut from The Prophet written by Kahlil Gibran. Thought it is good for my reading exercise so, bear with me and kindly listen to it. As always, your criticism would be most welcome.

Be happy. Light and love. Ciao!

Happy New Year


Just to greet everyone a HAPPY NEW YEAR…I promise to resume reading your blogs after my trip and that would be by February. I will be out of the grid for this month. I have yet to figure out how to blog using the mobile phone and anyway data signal outside my own country would be expensive — so, I have no choice but to hibernate from blogosphere.

I wish you all the best for 2018. Take care and luvyah all!