Sunday, May 11, 2008

This is a very nice article trying to explain...what do we have to be proud of


...Knowledge is like a current coin. A man has some right of possessing it, if he has worked for the gold of it, assayed (test, fineness of metal) it, and stamped it, so that it may be received by all men as true; or earned fairly, being already assayed: but if he has done none of these things, but only has it thrown in his face by a passer-by, what cause has he to be proud? And though, in this mendicant fashion, he had heaped together the wealth of crore, would pride any more, for this reason, become him, as in some sort it becomes the man who has worked hard for his fortune, how-ever small? So, if a man tells me the sum is larger than the earth, have I any cause for pride in knowing it? Or, if any multitude of men tell me any number of things, heaping all their wealth of knowledge upon me, have I any reason to feel proud under the heap? And is not any knowledge, of which we boast in these days, cast upon us in this dishonorable way; worked for by other men, proved by them and then forced upon us even against our wills and beaten into us in our youth, before we even have the wit to know if it is good or not. Be assured, there is no part of the furniture of man’s mind which he has hewn and fashioned for himself.

Ankur Mathur

Asstt. Professor

Electrical Deptt.

To read the full article read Ninad 2007 edition.

Deserve to Desire

Friday, April 18, 2008

'Poem of the Week'

This poem is the Blogger's poem of the week...I couldn't assign a suitable title to it ....let's see if you can.......

How coolly it has broken you,
trying to mask the knowing
wit behind your eyes—

every smile, brilliant
against your gleaming
black skin, is defiance.

You stammer, push out
words; tell your story;
slap your knees to show

where your stroke frozen
body would crawl
across the concrete

to reach the yard,
with the gawking
on-lookers. You laugh

“Man must live.
Man must live.”
How casually broken.

Tall lanky man,
hands clawed, yams
dangling, and the sweet

club mans charm
in your grin, still all those
women slain by your art.

You stretch out your legs,
tell your story slow,
persistent as the crawl

you made towards sunlight,
the way you pulled
your body upright,

the way you made tender
the toughness of hard men
who would soon wash you,

feed you with oily fingers
full of mashed ackee
and tomatoes, who have

held you against
the night, men, tough
as teeth, hard men.

"Man must live.
Man must live."
The virus stalks

through your blood,
manages to tickle,
make you laugh

at a new sunny day--
and yours is the posture
of survival.

Deserve to Desire