Today being Fathers’ Day,
sharing some famous and popular poems written by some prolific poets.
Reading each of them fills one with love, compassion, empathy and solidarity and of course a heightened passion which poetry in general is capable to evoke.
As without Mothers , Fathers become non existent, these poems invariably evoke our love for our Mothers too.
By sharing these poems here, I am just trying to pay my respect to Fathers who made us , Fathers of our countries too, like their counterparts, The Mothers of our lands.
1.The Little Big Man
– Rabindranath Tagore
I am small because I am a little child. I shall be big when I am
as old as my father is.
My teacher will come and say, “It is late, bring your slate
and your books.”
I shall tell him, ” Do you not know I am as big as father? And
I must not have lessons any more.”
My master will wonder and say, “He can leave his books if he
likes, for he is grown up.”
I shall dress myself and walk to the fair where the crowd is
My uncle will come rushing up to me and say, “You will get
lost, my boy; let me carry you.”
I shall answer, “Can’t you see, uncle, I am as big as father?
I must go to the fair alone.”
Uncle will say, “Yes, he can go wherever he likes, for he is
Mother will come from her bath when I am giving money to my
nurse, for I shall know how to open the box with my key.
Mother will say, “What are you about, naughty child?”
I shall tell her, “Mother, don’t you know, I am as big as
father, and I must give silver to my nurse.”
Mother will say to herself, “He can give money to whom he
likes, for he is grown up.”
In the holiday time in October father will come home and,
thinking that I am still a baby, will bring for me from the town
little shoes and small silken frocks.
I shall say, “Father, give them to my dada, for I am as big
as you are.”
Father will think and say, “He can buy his own clothes if he
likes, for he is grown up.”
2. Anecdote for Fathers
– William Wordsworth
I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty’s mold
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me—and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.
My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.
‘Now tell me, had you rather be,’
I said. and took him by the arm,
‘On Kilve’s smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?’
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, ‘At Kilve I’d rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.’
‘Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why.’—
‘I cannot tell, I do not know.’—
‘Why, this is strange,’ said I;
‘For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must one reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.’
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
‘Why, :Edward, tell me why?’
His head he raised—there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain—
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
‘At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that’s the reaon why.’
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
3. My father moved through dooms of love
– E. E. Cummings.
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
4. To Her Father with Some Verses
– ANNE BRADSTREET
Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,
If worth in me or ought I do appear,
Who can of right better demand the same
Than may your worthy self from whom it came?
The principal might yield a greater sum,
Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb;
My stock’s so small I know not how to pay,
My bond remains in force unto this day;
Yet for part payment take this simple mite,
Where nothing’s to be had, kings loose their right.
Such is my debt I may not say forgive,
But as I can, I’ll pay it while I live;
Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,
Yet paying is not paid until I die.
– Devarakshanam Govinden
Unto this last
I give the same
As unto the first.
He who worked from the first hour
is equal to he
who worked from the eleventh.
Both meet in the dignity
of work and in the dignity
The gift of bread for all
Is the bequest of
Peace for the world.