Sonnet of Motherhood XXVII – Zora Bernice May Cross

O, not alone I weave this miracle
Of glowing spirit from my body’s zone.

With every moment of the life unknown

You feed the glory of a growing cell.

All day I think of you, and night must tell

Dreams of my dreams unto your heart alone;

So, seeing you, I take you, O my own,

Into my child where first you wrought Life’s spell.

Dearest, as much as I, you breathe in pain,

Breeding yourself—your very soul from me

By look and sign, soft word and action strong,

And all you longed for in its form regain.

I am a humble haven where we three,

Father and child and mother, make a song. 

Sonnet of Motherhood XXXI – Zora Bernice May Cross

Beloved, I who shall be mother soon 

Need mothering myself this tired hour,

As heavily the sweet and precious power

Weighs on my heart till I am near to swoon.

Console me, soothe me, Dearest, with the boon

Of your firm strength, and little comforts shower

Soft on the drifting doubtings that devour

Patience and courage when the death-winds croon.
You are your mother, Dear, as I am mine.

And, as we slumber to our souls’ caress,

Those two who panged for us and weeping smiled,

Draw near and bind us in a peace divine.

O mother me; all else is comfortless

As painted lips above a dying child. 

The Fairie’s Fair – Zora Bernice May Cross

Who’s that dancing on the moonlight air, 

Heel tapping, Toe-heel rapping? 

Oberon opening the fairies’ fair 

To jig away sorrow on the grave of Care.

Come along, old folk, cold fork, bold folk, 

Drop your shears at the midnight stroke. 

Elves are crying: “Who’ll come buying 

Jugs of Joy from a fairy’s cloak?” 

Mab is sitting on a silver shoe, 

Bright eyes laughing, Light lips quaffing 

Airy bubbles from a cup of dew, 

Her bracelets tinkle with delights for you. 

Come along tall folk, small folk, all folk, 

Race the stream where the fat frogs croak, 

Buy a bobbin! There goes Robin 

Tying Time to a daisy’s yoke! 

The New Moon – Zora Bernice May Cross

What have you got in your knapsack fair,

White moon, bright moon, pearling the air,

Spinning your bobbins and fabrics free,

Fleet moon, sweet moon, in to the sea?

Turquoise and beryl and rings of gold,

Clear moon, dear moon, ne’er to be sold?

Roses and lilies, romance and love,

Still moon, chill moon, swinging above?

Slender your feet as a white birds throat,

High moon, shy moon, drifting your boat

Into the murk of the world awhile,

Slim moon, dim moon, adding a smile.

Tender your eyes as a maiden’s kiss,

Fine moon, wine moon, no one knows this,

Under the spell of your witchery,

Dream moon, cream moon, first he kissed me. 

One Art – Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; 

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. 

North Haven – Elizabeth Bishop

In Memoriam: Robert Lowell 
I can make out the rigging of a schooner

a mile off; I can count

the new cones on the spruce. It is so still

the pale bay wears a milky skin; the sky

no clouds except for one long, carded horse¹s tail.
The islands haven’t shifted since last summer,

even if I like to pretend they have–

drifting, in a dreamy sort of way,

a little north, a little south, or sidewise–

and that they¹re free within the blue frontiers of bay.
This month our favorite one is full of flowers:

buttercups, red clover, purple vetch,

hackweed still burning, daisies pied, eyebright,

the fragrant bedstraw’s incandescent stars,

and more, returned, to paint the meadows with delight.
The goldfinches are back, or others like them,

and the white-throated sparrow’s five-note song,

pleading and pleading, brings tears to the eyes.

Nature repeats herself, or almost does:

repeat, repeat, repeat; revise, revise, revise.
Years ago, you told me it was here

(in 1932?) you first “discovered girls”

and learned to sail, and learned to kiss.

You had “such fun,” you said, that classic summer.

(“Fun”–it always seemed to leave you at a loss…)
You left North Haven, anchored in its rock,

afloat in mystic blue…And now–you’ve left

for good. You can’t derange, or rearrange,

your poems again. (But the sparrows can their song.)

The words won’t change again. Sad friend, you cannot change. 

Manners – Elizabeth Bishop 

My grandfather said to me

as we sat on the wagon seat,

“Be sure to remember to always

speak to everyone you meet.”
We met a stranger on foot.

My grandfather’s whip tapped his hat.

“Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day.”

And I said it and bowed where I sat.
Then we overtook a boy we knew

with his big pet crow on his shoulder.

“Always offer everyone a ride;

don’t forget that when you get older,”
my grandfather said. So Willy

climbed up with us, but the crow

gave a “Caw!” and flew off. I was worried.

How would he know where to go?
But he flew a little way at a time

from fence post to fence post, ahead;

and when Willy whistled he answered.

“A fine bird,” my grandfather said,
“and he’s well brought up. See, he answers

nicely when he’s spoken to.

Man or beast, that’s good manners.

Be sure that you both always do.”
When automobiles went by,

the dust hid the people’s faces,

but we shouted “Good day! Good day!

Fine day!” at the top of our voices.
When we came to Hustler Hill,

he said that the mare was tired, 

so we all got down and walked,

as our good manners required. 

Love Lies Sleeping – Elizabeth Bishop

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks

that cross the sky from cinder star to star,

coupling the ends of streets 

to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;

and clear away what presses on the brain:

put out the neon shapes 

that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes

in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.

Hang-over moons, wane, wane!

From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,

made delicate by over-workmanship,

detail upon detail,

cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into

a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.

(Where it has slowly grown

in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,

the little chemical “garden” in a jar

trembles and stands again,

pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.

Then, in the West, “Boom!” and a cloud of smoke.

“Boom!” and the exploding ball

of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants 

where such a sound says “Danger,” or once said “Death,”

turn in their sleep and feel

the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.

A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.

Along the street below

the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across

peelings and newspapers. The water dries

light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern

of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike

from stony walls and halls and iron beds,

scattered or grouped cascades, 

alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,

whose evening meal they will prepare all day,

you will dine well

on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,

dragging in the streets their unique loves.

Scourge them with roses only,

be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes

whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,

whose face is turned

so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes

inverted and distorted. No. I mean

distorted and revealed,

if he sees it at all. 

Little Exercise – Elizabeth Bishop

Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily

like a dog looking for a place to sleep in,

listen to it growling. 
Think how they must look now, the mangrove keys

lying out there unresponsive to the lightning

in dark, coarse-fibred families, 
where occasionally a heron may undo his head,

shake up his feathers, make an uncertain comment

when the surrounding water shines. 
Think of the boulevard and the little palm trees

all stuck in rows, suddenly revealed

as fistfuls of limp fish-skeletons. 
It is raining there. The boulevard

and its broken sidewalks with weeds in every crack,

are relieved to be wet, the sea to be freshened. 
Now the storm goes away again in a series

of small, badly lit battle-scenes,

each in “Another part of the field.” 
Think of someone sleeping in the bottom of a row-boat

tied to a mangrove root or the pile of a bridge;

think of him as uninjured, barely disturbed. 

Unluckily for a Death – Dylan Thomas 

Unluckily for a death

Waiting with phoenix under

The pyre yet to be lighted of my sins and days,

And for the woman in shades

Saint carved and sensual among the scudding

Dead and gone, dedicate forever to my self

Though the brawl of the kiss has not occurred

On the clay cold mouth, on the fire

Branded forehead, that could bind

Her constant, nor the winds of love broken wide

To the wind the choir and cloister

Of the wintry nunnery of the order of lust

Beneath my life, that sighs for the seducer’s coming

In the sun strokes of summer,
Loving on this sea banged guilt

My holy lucky body

Under the cloud against love is caught and held and kissed

In the mill of the midst

Of the descending day, the dark our folly,

Cut to the still star in the order of the quick

But blessed by such heroic hosts in your every

Inch and glance that the wound

Is certain god, and the ceremony of souls

Is celebrated there, and communion between suns.

Never shall my self chant

About the saint in shades while the endless breviary

Turns of your prayed flesh, nor shall I shoo the bird below me:

The death biding two lie lonely.
I see the tigron in tears

In the androgynous dark,

His striped and noon maned tribe striding to holocaust,

The she mules bear their minotaurs,

The duck-billed platypus broody in a milk of birds.

I see the wanting nun saint carved in a garb

Of shades, symbol of desire beyond my hours

And guilts, great crotch and giant

Continence. I see the unfired phoenix, herald

And heaven crier, arrow now of aspiring

And the renouncing of islands.

All love but for the full assemblage in flower

Of the living flesh is monstrous or immortal,

And the grave its daughters.
Love, my fate got luckily,

Teaches with no telling

That the phoenix’ bid for heaven and the desire after

Death in the carved nunnery

Both shall fail if I bow not to your blessing

Nor walk in the cool of your mortal garden

With immortality at my side like Christ the sky.

This I know from the native

Tongue of your translating eyes. The young stars told me,

Hurling into beginning like Christ the child.

Lucklessly she must lie patient

And the vaulting bird be still. O my true love, hold me.

In your every inch and glance is the globe of genesis spun,

And the living earth your sons. 

Twenty Four Years – Dylan Thomas

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.

(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)

In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor

Sewing a shroud for a journey

By the light of the meat-eating sun.

Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,

With my red veins full of money,

In the final direction of the elementary town

I advance as long as forever is. 

Night on the Prairies – Walt Whitman 

The supper is over–the fire on the ground burns low;

The wearied emigrants sleep, wrapt in their blankets:

I walk by myself–I stand and look at the stars, which I think now I

never realized before.
Now I absorb immortality and peace,

I admire death, and test propositions.
How plenteous! How spiritual! How resumé!

The same Old Man and Soul–the same old aspirations, and the same

content.
I was thinking the day most splendid, till I saw what the not-day

exhibited,

I was thinking this globe enough, till there sprang out so noiseless

around me myriads of other globes. 10
Now, while the great thoughts of space and eternity fill me, I will

measure myself by them;

And now, touch’d with the lives of other globes, arrived as far along

as those of the earth,

Or waiting to arrive, or pass’d on farther than those of the earth,

I henceforth no more ignore them, than I ignore my own life,

Or the lives of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to

arrive.
O I see now that life cannot exhibit all to me–as the day cannot,

I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death. 

Native Moments – Walt Whitman 

NATIVE moments! when you come upon me–Ah you are

here now! Give me now

libidinous joys only! Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life

coarse and rank! To-day, I go consort with nature’s darlings–to-night too;

I am for those who believe in loose delights–I share the midnight orgies

of young men; I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers; The

echoes ring with our indecent calls; I take for my love some prostitute–I

pick out some low person for my dearest friend, He shall be lawless, rude,

illiterate–he shall be one condemn’d by others for deeds done; I will play

a part no longer–Why should I exile myself from my companions? 10 O you

shunn’d persons! I at least do not shun you, I come forthwith in your

midst–I will be your poet, I will be more to you than to any of the rest. 

Beginning of End – Francis Thompson 

She was aweary of the hovering

Of Love’s incessant tumultuous wing;

Her lover’s tokens she would answer not–

‘Twere well she should be strange with him somewhat:

A pretty babe, this Love,–but fie on it,

That would not suffer her lay it down a whit!

Appointed tryst defiantly she balked,

And with her lightest comrade lightly walked,

Who scared the chidden Love to hide apart,

And peep from some unnoticed corner of her heart.

She thought not of her lover, deem it not

(There yonder, in the hollow, that’s HIS cot),

But she forgot not that he was forgot.

She saw him at his gate, yet stilled her tongue–

So weak she felt her, that she would feel strong,

And she must punish him for doing him wrong:

Passed, unoblivious of oblivion still;

And if she turned upon the brow o’ the hill,

It was so openly, so lightly done,

You saw she thought he was not thought upon.

He through the gate went back in bitterness;

She that night woke and stirred, with no distress,

Glad of her doing,–sedulous to be glad,

Lest perhaps her foolish heart suspect that it was sad. 

Before her Portraits in Youth – Francis Thompson 

As lovers, banished from their lady’s face

And hopeless of her grace,

Fashion a ghostly sweetness in its place,

Fondly adore

Some stealth-won cast attire she wore,

A kerchief or a glove:

And at the lover’s beck

Into the glove there fleets the hand,

Or at impetuous command

Up from the kerchief floats the virgin neck:

So I, in very lowlihead of love, –

Too shyly reverencing

To let one thought’s light footfall smooth

Tread near the living, consecrated thing, –

Treasure me thy cast youth.

This outworn vesture, tenantless of thee,

Hath yet my knee,

For that, with show and semblance fair

Of the past Her

Who once the beautiful, discarded raiment bare,

It cheateth me.

As gale to gale drifts breath

Of blossoms’ death,

So dropping down the years from hour to hour

This dead youth’s scent is wafted me to-day:

I sit, and from the fragrance dream the flower.

So, then, she looked (I say);

And so her front sunk down

Heavy beneath the poet’s iron crown:

On her mouth museful sweet –

(Even as the twin lips meet)

Did thought and sadness greet:

Sighs

In those mournful eyes

So put on visibilities;

As viewless ether turns, in deep on deep, to dyes.

Thus, long ago,

She kept her meditative paces slow

Through maiden meads, with waved shadow and gleam

Of locks half-lifted on the winds of dream,

Till love up-caught her to his chariot’s glow.

Yet, voluntary, happier Proserpine!

This drooping flower of youth thou lettest fall

I, faring in the cockshut-light, astray,

Find on my ‘lated way,

And stoop, and gather for memorial,

And lay it on my bosom, and make it mine.

To this, the all of love the stars allow me,

I dedicate and vow me.

I reach back through the days

A trothed hand to the dead the last trump shall not raise.

The water-wraith that cries

From those eternal sorrows of thy pictured eyes

Entwines and draws me down their soundless intricacies! 

At Lord’s – Francis Thompson 

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,

Though my own red roses there may blow;

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,

Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,

And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,

And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host

As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,

To and fro: –

O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago! 

An Arab Love Song – Francis Thompson

The hunchèd camels of the nightTrouble the bright 

And silver waters of the moon. 

The Maiden of the Morn will soon 

Through Heaven stray and sing, 

Star gathering. 
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn, 

Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! 

And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb. 
Leave thy father, leave thy mother 

And thy brother; 

Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart! 

Am I not thy father and thy brother, 

And thy mother? 

And thou–what needest with thy tribe’s black tents 

Who hast the red pavilion of my heart? 

How Shall My Animal – Dylan Thomas

How shall my animal

Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,

Vessel of abscesses and exultation’s shell,

Endure burial under the spelling wall,

The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,

Who should be furious,

Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,

Roaring, crawling, quarrel

With the outside weathers,

The natural circle of the discovered skies

Draw down to its weird eyes?
How shall it magnetize,

Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze

That melts the lionhead’s heel and horseshoe of the heart

A brute land in the cool top of the country days

To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,

Love and labour and kill

In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout

The black, burst sea rejoice,

The bowels turn turtle,

Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle

The parched and raging voice?
Fishermen of mermen

Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin

With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,

Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound

Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,

Trace out a tentacle,

Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and weed

To clasp my fury on ground

And clap its great blood down;

Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas

Or poise the day on a horn.
Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,

Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost

Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops

With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth

Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,

Clips short the gesture of breath.

Die in red feathers when the flying heaven’s cut,

And roll with the knocked earth:

Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.

You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,

And dug your grave in my breast. 

Holy Spring – Dylan Thomas

O

Out of a bed of love

When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe

The curless counted body,

And ruin and his causes

Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army

And swept into our wounds and houses,

I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only

That one dark I owe my light,

Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none

To glow after the god stoning night

And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun
No

Praise that the spring time is all

Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful

Out of the woebegone pyre

And the multitude’s sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,

My arising prodgidal

Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,

But blessed be hail and upheaval

That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing

Alone in the husk of man’s home

And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring,

If only for a last time. 

A Carol – Rudyard Kipling

Our Lord Who did the Ox command

To  kneel to Judah’s King,

He binds His frost upon the land

To ripen it for Spring —

To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,

According to His Word.

Which well must be as ye can see —

And who shall judge the Lord?
When we poor fenmen skate the ice

Or shiver on the wold,

We hear the cry of a single tree

That breaks her heart in the cold —

That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs,

And rendeth by the board.

Which well must be as ye can see —

And who shall judge the Lord?
Her wood is crazed and little worth

Excepting as to burn,

That we may warm and make our mirth

Until the Spring return —

Until the Spring return, good sirs,

When Christians walk abroad;

When well must be as ye can see —

And who shall judge the Lord?
God bless the master of this house,

And all who sleep therein!

And guard the fens from pirate folk,

And keep us all from sin,

To walk in honesty, good sirs,

Of thought and deed ad word!

Which shall befriend our latter end….

And who shall judge the Lord? 

A Boy Scout’s Patrol Song – Rudyard Kipling

These are our regulations —

There’s just one law for the Scout

And the first and the last, and the present and the past,

And the future and the perfect is “Look out!”

I, thou and he, look out!

We, ye and they, look out!

Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t

Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t;

You jolly well must look out!
Look out, when you start for the day

That your kit is packed to your mind;

There is no use going away 

With half of it left behind.

Look out that your laces are tight,

And your boots are easy and stout,

Or you’ll end with a blister at night.

(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
Look out for the birds of the air,

Look out for the beasts of the field —

They’ll tell you how and where

The other side’s concealed.

When the blackbird bolts from the copse,

Or the cattle are staring about,

The wise commander stops

And (chorus) All Patrols look out!
Look out when your front is clear,

And you feel you are bound to win.

Look out for your flank and your rear —

That’s where surprises begin.

For the rustle that isn’t a rat,

For the splash that isn’t a trout,

For the boulder that may be a hat

(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
For the innocent knee-high grass,

For the ditch that never tells,

Look out! Look out ere you pass —

And look out for everything else!

A sign mis-read as you run

May turn retreat to a rout —

For all things under the sun

(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
Look out when your temper goes

At the end of a losing game;

When your boots are too tight for your toes;

And you answer and argue and blame.

It’s the hardest part of the Low,

But it has to be learnt by the Scout —

For whining and shirking and “jaw”

(Chorus) All Patrols look out! 

A Ballade of Jakko Hill – Rudyard Kipling

One moment bid the horses wait,

Since tiffin is not laid till three,

Below the upward path and straight

You climbed a year ago with me.

Love came upon us suddenly

And loosed — an idle hour to kill —

A headless, armless armory

That smote us both on Jakko Hill.
Ah Heaven! we would wait and wait 

Through Time and to Eternity!

Ah Heaven! we could conquer Fate

With more than Godlike constancy

I cut the date upon a tree —

Here stand the clumsy figures still: 

“10-7-85, A.D.”

Damp with the mist of Jakko Hill.
What came of high resolve and great,

And until Death fidelity!

Whose horse is waiting at your gate?

Whose ‘rickshaw-wheels ride over me?

No Saint’s, I swear; and — let me see

To-night what names your programme fill —

We drift asunder merrily,

As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill.
L’ENVOI.

Princess, behold our ancient state

Has clean departed; and we see

‘Twas Idleness we took for Fate

That bound light bonds on you and me.

Amen! Here ends the comedy

Where it began in all good will;

Since Love and Leave together flee

As driven mist on Jakko Hill! 

A Ballad of Burial – Rudyard Kipling

If down here I chance to die,

Solemnly I beg you take

All that is left of “I”

To the Hills for old sake’s sake,

Pack me very thoroughly

In the ice that used to slake

Pegs I drank when I was dry —

This observe for old sake’s sake.
To the railway station hie,

There a single ticket take

For Umballa — goods-train — I

Shall not mind delay or shake.

I shall rest contentedly

Spite of clamor coolies make;

Thus in state and dignity

Send me up for old sake’s sake.
Next the sleepy Babu wake,

Book a Kalka van “for four.”

Few, I think, will care to make

Journeys with me any more

As they used to do of yore.

I shall need a “special” break —

Thing I never took before —

Get me one for old sake’s sake.
After that — arrangements make.

No hotel will take me in,

And a bullock’s back would break

‘Neath the teak and leaden skin

Tonga ropes are frail and thin,

Or, did I a back-seat take,

In a tonga I might spin, —

Do your best for old sake’s sake.
After that — your work is done.

Recollect a Padre must

Mourn the dear departed one —

Throw the ashes and the dust.

Don’t go down at once. I trust

You will find excuse to “snake

Three days’ casual on the bust.”

Get your fun for old sake’s sake.
I could never stand the Plains.

Think of blazing June and May

Think of those September rains

Yearly till the Judgment Day!

I should never rest in peace,

I should sweat and lie awake.

Rail me then, on my decease,

To the Hills for old sake’s sake. 

Krishna goes to the Woods – Sant Surdas

O Krishna, darling of Gokula, awake
I have brought you milk, curd and sugar-candy come and partake of these delicacies: your pals are at the door, calling you to play; the sun has risen and it’s time to go to the woods.
Hearing her words Krishna joyfully arose and after breakfasting departed for the woods Says Suradasa, my heart’s always where the Lord is. 

Krishna Denying He Stole the Butter   – Sant Surdas

O mother mine, I did not eat the butter

Come dawn, with the herds,

you send me to the jungle,

o, mother mine, I did not eat the butter.

all day long with my flute in the jungles

at dusk do I return home.

but a child, younger than my friends

how could I reach up to the butter?

all the gopas are against me

on my face they wipe the butter,

you mother, are much too innocent,

you believe all their chatter.

there is a flaw in your behaviour,

you consider me not yours,

take you herd-stick and the blanket

I’ll dance to your tune no longer.

Surdas, Yasoda then laughed,

and took the boy in her arms,

mother mine I did not eat the butter. 

Haikus (The autumn)  – Naseer Ahmed Nasir

Dusk, chill, air of November
Wrapped in shawl of yellow leaves, 

Trees shiver with cold.


The sound of falling leaves, 

The solitude drenched in dew

Life is the autumn of the night.


In the fair of crazy weathers

Seeing the dance of pale leaves

Why does the air blow whistle? 


With a slight mischief of yours, 

You have stripped trees of leaves

O wind, how wanton you are! 


Stirring the air, 

The floating leaves

Go on and on clapping.