One Ring to Rule Them All

a great poem indeed --

just kidding -- kaukub --

remember -- u r marrying at ur free will -- aren`t u? -- the nuclear incapable mr. smith -- NOT a nuclear capable dimwit called bush -----

NOT an arranged marriage? -- I presume.

````But do you know whom I have wed? A red, white and blue American.
I hope to join him in his country soon.````

I think now we know -- whom u have wed -- A red, white and blue American --

Congratulations kaukuB jhumra smith --

btw -- did he `convert`? -- good -- did u `convert`? -- better -- or it`s ``as it is``? -- best!

none of my business? -- I know -- anyway, thanks for the card.

Now this is poetry:
`Gaai hamaari mathaa hai
Atal Bihari khaatha hai`

(Election slogan of Cong I)

#7,#16,#14

wow, I used to read about knights in shining armour coming to the rescue of ... What do I see here? Amazonians, Axa girls, Xena..
Guys jamana badal gaya hai.
(I am tempted to say ``Here I see who? witches on their broom``, but I will get thrashed, so I won`t say that)

Ok Ok, its a poem, if you insist, but tell me why I still feel insulted. Here is what I call a poem:



`O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither`d from the lake,
nd no birds sing.

`O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel`s granary is full,
And the harvest `s done.

`I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
fastt withereth too.`

`I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery`s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15
And her eyes were wild.

`I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look`d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan. 20

`I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery`s song.

`She found me roots of relish sweet, 25
And honey wild and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
``I love thee true!``

`She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sigh`d fill sore; 30
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.

`And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dream`d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream`d 35
On the cold hill`s side.

`I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—``La belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!`` 40

`I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill`s side.

`And this is why I sojourn here 45
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither`d from the lake,
And no birds sing.`

Las Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats

I changed my mind again – I don`t think it’s a poem.

This is what I call poetry:

Janoon-e-Ishq meiN gareebaN phaar deta hooN
woh zaalim muskra kar do taropay mar jaati hay.

And there is a challenge if anyone could bring a couplet like this:

Mein maarooN ga mann`a kar usko baybay
Jamala mujh pay thookaiN sooT-ta hay

Here is something for those who are dieting:

Aah bharti hooi ayee ho slimming center
``aah ko chaheeyay ik umar asar honay tak``
Dieting khail nahiN chand dinnoN ka baigum
Ik sadi chaheeyay kamray ko kamar honay tak

Here is another one:

Larki kahaN say laooN meiN shaadi kay wastay
Shayad keh is meiN meray muqaddar ka dosh hay
Azra, nasim, kausar-o-tasneem bhi gayeeN
``Ik Shamma reh gayee hay, so who bhi kh`mosh hay``

And those who are not lamenting as in the poem above, would say:

Meray ghar paanch bachchay ho gayay haiN teen saaloN meiN
Mohabbat ki yahi hay ibted`a to inteha kya hay
Mera hamsaya lay aya hay color tv
Meri beewee nay poocha hay, bata teri raza kya hay.

Hey Chowkies, forget the ring. The question is: Got Milk?
Read the blond joke below: (It will give you a few laughs and keep your mind off the impending (?) US-Iraq war for some time.)

A blonde heard that milk baths make you beautiful. So she left a note for
her milkman to leave 15 gallons of milk.

When the milkman read the note, he felt there must be a mistake. He thought she probably meant 1.5 gallons, so he knocked on the door to clarify the point. The blonde came to the door and the milkman said: ``I found your note to leave 15 gallons of milk. Did you mean 15 gallons or 1.5 gallons?``

The blonde said, ``I want 15 gallons. I`m going to fill my bathtub with milk
and take a milk bath.``

The milkman asked, ``Pasteurized?``

The blonde said, ``No just up to my boobs.``

[HEY LADIES?... IS THAT THE SAME LEVEL AS KNEES??? (Ha Ha --I think?)]

Re: #12

Dear friend,

You`re a poet
And you didn`t know it.

Ok ana madam, you win. It is a poem, it is a lullaby ...

I will also add YLHisque

your poem zindabad
my comments mu....

12 by friend:

``From Kaka Hathrasri to Sumitra Nandan Pant, I can jhelo and enjoy everyone..``

friend (and other interested in poetry)

please paste some poems by these and other poets and other potery related articles you like/come across on the poetry thread in the unplugged section...thanks

...t

If it looks like a poem, talks like a poem, walks like a poem...

Congratulations Kaukab. I`m very happy to hear your good news, although I can understand your trepidation at leaving home and country to take up a new life with a new person. Though at least you aren`t going to suffer from culture shock. I wish you the best of luck and hope that you are happy.

friend...
if you think that this is stretching the scope too far, then I repeat...your scope is still somewhat limited.
there are such things as prose poems but.......
i see nothing wrong with subuhi`s poem the way it is above....it still conveys a khyal...which not even well-rhymed, right amount of syllable poems are capable of doing sometimes...those things look more mechanical, and devoid of thought.
and that`s not my opinion alone...but you are entitled to yours.

hey this is very much a poem--whether I read it with or without formatting--the rhythms linger--there are two patterns. A slow rhythm in the beginning and end plus a quick one in the middle. here is the quick and angry one:
Apt as well:
I, the wearer of the ring, belong to a country that proudly scorched to white ash a mountain five years ago. I hold a green passport, fit the breed examined at airports, share the brown skin of terrorists.
I deserve this nuclear ring because I am Pakistani.

But then the voice is contemplative--it isnt that simple that she deserves a nuclear shaped ring since she belongs to a certain country. That ring means something. the identity she intends to adopt. Her husband`s country is now hers too.

how she can bridge this duality. the voice becomes more detached--the emotions are complex. The marriage ring has become a political anomoly.

Poem makes one think, doesnt it? why is a simple love controlled and regulated by governments. How can one woman from Pakistan threaten a country? But this is exactly how rancid and twisted the politics of this century are.

Subuhi,
Now after reformatting, does it look better? Why do you have to format it in a funny fashion? Just to call it a poem? Reformatted version conveys your message better.
-------------------------------------------------------------
A cluster of fifteen tiny diamonds set in a triangle “with its tips cut off” (as I like to describe to faraway friends) - it is my wedding ring.
I see something I never noticed at the jeweller’s. My ring displays the universal symbol of nuclear capability: a three-pronged rotor balanced precariously on one point. Nuclear capability - how coy the message from my ring, with its hopeful triad of husband, home and children.
Apt as well: I, the wearer of the ring, belong to a country that proudly scorched to white ash a mountain five years ago. I hold a green passport, fit the breed examined at airports, share the brown skin of terrorists. I deserve this nuclear ring because I am Pakistani.
But do you know whom I have wed? A red, white and blue American.
I hope to join him in his country soon. But right now my gentle husband and I stare at each other across a war-scented abyss. Alone, I glance often at my newly-minted ring. If I look at it long enough I spin with its rotors, careening towards a tangled, mangled future. In it I see joy and hope and danger cluster together, bright, hard and gleaming.
---------------------

#7 ana, ana, ana .... (can you see how much I am hurt by your remarks?)

How did you assume that I have a limited scope in defining poetry. From Kaka Hathrasri to Sumitra Nandan Pant, I can jhelo and enjoy everyone. (I guess you have equivalent in Pakistan, substitue the names). I have no objection to this lady writing. However, calling it a poem is streching the scope too far.


Subuhi#10
This is what I understand from you ..
It is a poem
because it has alphabets
in each line
so that is a pattern
and a rhyme
But I disagree
.. with subuhi
Funny patterns
can write any man
and call it a poem.

Now I have alos written a poem. Do you agree subuhi?
(nah.. I would have spanked myself with a stick if I was writing this poem)