3 Faces

Auguries of Innocence

"He who respects the infant's faith

Triumphs over hell and death.

The child's toys and the old man's reasons

Are the fruits of the two seasons."

'Auguries of Innocence' - William Blake

                                             (In the pic : Sanaj, Annur, Payyanur)

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

 "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquility"

'It is a beauteous evening' : Wordsworth

                                                (A sunset from Miyapur, Hyderabad)

Drift of Things

"Ah, when to the heart of man

   Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

   To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

   Of a love or a season?"

Frost - 'Reluctance'

Evening Lamp

(Photo from 'Parappalli Tharavad,' Mathamangalam, Kannur Dist, Kerala) 

Waiting..

..by the window.

(Pic - Outside 'Hawa Mahal,' Jaipur)

Light and Shadow

Light is young, the ancient light;

shadows are of the moment, they are born old.

'Fireflies' - Tagore

Flowers

In full bloom
oozing
fragrance of
bliss and innocence.

                                   In the pic: Anamika and Krishnapriya

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone!

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe :  'Alone'

Edgar Allan Poe - American romantic poet and critic, is widely regarded as the architect of modern short stories. Poe was the principal forerunner of the “art for art’s sake” movement in nineteenth-century literature. Born to parents who were professional actors in Boston, Poe lost both of them before he was three years old. Later he was raised by John Allan, a prosperous businessman from Virginia though his foster father never legally adopted him.

Poe was brilliant at academics, but he had to leave his studies at the university due to inadequate financial support from Allan. Soon he enlisted in the army and published his first collection of poetry, 'Tamerlane, and Other Poems.' His first few works went totally unnoticed within the literary circles.  In 1836 he married his cousin, Virginia. Later he rose to prominence through several journals that he edited during 1840s.

Poe was not only a superlative author of poetry and fiction, but also a literary critic whose level of imagination and insight had hitherto been unexplored in American literature. After his wife’s death from tuberculosis in 1847, Poe became involved in a number of romantic affairs. While arrangements for his second marriage were going on, Poe arrived in Baltimore in late September 1849 and on October 3, he was discovered in a state of semi-consciousness; he died four days later. His last few days remain a mystery.

Poe was fascinated by science and technology. He made marvelous chronicles of science fiction which later became a type of literature in twentieth century.  His premier works remain intrinsic to the idea of modernism many years later. The 22 lined 'Alone,' written in 1829, left untitled and unpublished during Poe's lifetime, is often interpreted as autobiographical, expressing Poe's feelings of isolation.

(Photo from Cherai Beach, Vypin Island, Cochin)

La Belle Dame sans Merci

"O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

    Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is wither'd from the lake,

    And 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 cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too"

    "I met a lady in the meads

    Full beautiful --- a faery's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

    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.

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,

    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 sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild sad eyes

With kisses four"

   "And there she lulled me asleep,

    And there I dream'd --- ah! woe betide! ---

The latest dream I ever dreamt

    On the cold hill 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!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam

    With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke, and found me here

    On the cold hill side"

La Belle Dame sans Merci (The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy) is John Keats' celebrated ballad which was subjected to numerous interpretations. It is a simple story of love on a bleak winter landscape. The lady who is erotic, attractive, fascinating yet deadly attracts lovers only to destroy them by her supernatural powers. 

The fourth line in each stanza is deliberately shortened which gives a slow movement to the ballad. Kates' repetitive yet simple language coupled with economic usage of words and an underlying supernatural tone makes it a classic.
(In the photo - Jibin, Harikrishnan and Praphul)