The Charge Of the Light Brigade – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

‘Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns!’ he said: 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’ 

Was there a man dismay’d ? 

Not tho’ the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder’d: 

Their’s not to make reply, 

Their’s not to reason why, 

Their’s but to do and die: 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 

Boldly they rode and well, 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 
Flash’d all their sabres bare, 

Flash’d as they turn’d in air 

Sabring the gunners there, 

Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder’d: 

Plunged in the battery-smoke 

Right thro’ the line they broke; 

Cossack and Russian 

Reel’d from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter’d and sunder’d. 

Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 
Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 

While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well 

Came thro’ the jaws of Death, 

Back from the mouth of Hell, 

All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 
When can their glory fade ? 

O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder’d. 

Honour the charge they made! 

Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 

The Blackbird – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

O blackbird! sing me something well:

While all the neighbours shoot thee round,

I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,

Where thou may’st warble, eat and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all

Are thine; the range of lawn and park:

The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark,

All thine, against the garden wall.
Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring,

Thy sole delight is, sitting still,

With that gold dagger of thy bill

To fret the summer jenneting.
A golden bill! the silver tongue,

Cold February loved, is dry:

Plenty corrupts the melody

That made thee famous once, when young:
And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse

As when a hawker hawks his wares.
Take warning! he that will not sing

While yon sun prospers in the blue,

Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new,

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 

Though You are Wise, Be as a Fool – Lalleshwari

Though you are wise, be as a fool; 

Though you can see, be as one blind; 

Though you can hear, be as one deaf; 

Patiently bear with all you meet, 

and politely talk to eveyone. 

This practice surely will lead you 

to the realisation of the Truth. 

The Soul, Like the Moon – Lalleshwari 

The soul, like the moon,

is now, and always new again.

And I have seen the ocean

continuously creating.

Since I scoured my mind

and my body, I too, Lalla,

am new, each moment new.
My teacher told me one thing,

live in the soul.
When that was so,

I began to go naked,

and dance.

In The Midst of The Ocean – Lalleshwari 

In the midst of the ocean

 With unspun thread. 

I am towing the boat: 

Would that God grant 

My prayer and. 

Ferry me too, across: 

Water in my unbaked earthen plates 

Seeps in and none collects ‘ 

yearn and yearn 

To return Home 

In Your Mother’s Womb You Vowed – Lalleshwari 

In your mother’s womb you vowed 

not to be born again.

When will you recall the vow ?

And die, even while alive 

(to all desire, and be released from birth and death): 

Great honor will be yours in this life and greater honor after death. 

The Brook – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 

And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 
By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorpes, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 
Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 
I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 
With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 
I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 
I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling, 
And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 

With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 
And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 
I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 

Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 

Against my sandy shallows. 
I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 
And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

Crossing The Bar – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar. 

A Wooden Bow & Rush Grass for an Arrow – Lalleshwari 

A wooden bow and rush grass for an arrow: 

A carpenter unskilled and a palace to build: 

A shop unlocked in a busy bazaar: 

A body uncleansed by waters holy- 

Oh dear! who knows what hath befallen me? 

After Thought – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,

As being past away. -Vain sympathies!

For backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

I see what was, and is, and will abide;

Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide;

The Form remains, the Function never dies;

While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish; -be it so!

Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour;

And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower,

We feel that we are greater than we know. 

All Things Will Die – Alfred Lord Tennyson

All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;

Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.

One after another the white clouds are fleeting;

Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;

Yet all things must die.

The stream will cease to flow;

The wind will cease to blow;

The clouds will cease to fleet;

The heart will cease to beat;

For all things must die.

All things must die.

Spring will come never more.

O, vanity!

Death waits at the door.

See! our friends are all forsaking

The wine and the merrymaking.

We are call’d–we must go.

Laid low, very low,

In the dark we must lie.

The merry glees are still;

The voice of the bird

Shall no more be heard,

Nor the wind on the hill.

O, misery!

Hark! death is calling

While I speak to ye,

The jaw is falling,

The red cheek paling,

The strong limbs failing;

Ice with the warm blood mixing;

The eyeballs fixing.

Nine times goes the passing bell:

Ye merry souls, farewell.

The old earth

Had a birth,

As all men know,

Long ago.

And the old earth must die.

So let the warm winds range,

And the blue wave beat the shore;

For even and morn

Ye will never see

Thro’ eternity.

All things were born.

Ye will come never more,

For all things must die. 

Naqsh Faryadi – Mirza Ghalib

Urdu Script
نقش فریادی ہے کس کی شوخیِ تحریر کا

کاغذی ہے پیرہن ہر پیکرِ تصویر کا 
کاو کاوِ سخت جانیہاۓ تنہائی نہ پوچھ 

صبح کرنا شام کا لانا ہے جوۓ شیر کا
جذبۂ بے اختیارِ شوق دیکھا چاہیے 

سینۂ شمشیر سے باہر ہے دم شمشیر کا
آگہی دامِ شنیدن جس قدر چاہے بچھائے 

مدّعا عنقا ہے اپنے عالمِ تقریر کا 
بسکہ ہوں غالب اسیری میں بھی آتش زیرِ پا 

موۓ آتش دیدہ ہے حلقہ مری زنجیر کا 
Devnagiri Script
नक़श फ़रयादी है किस की शोख़ी-ए तहरीर का 

काग़ज़ी है पैरहन हर पैकर-ए तसवीर का 
काव-काव-ए सख़त-जानीहा-ए तनहाई न पूछ 

सुबह करना शाम का लाना है जू-ए शीर का
जज़बह-ए बे-इख़तियार-ए शौक़ देखा चाहिये 

सीनह-ए शमशीर से बाहर है दम शमशीर का
आगही दाम-ए शुनीदन जिस क़दर चाहे बिछाए 

मुददअनक़ा है अपने `आलम-ए तक़रीर का 
बसकि हूं ग़ालिब असीरी में भी आतिश ज़ेर-ए पा 

मू-ए आतिश-दीदह है हलक़ह मिरी ज़नजीर का 

English Transcript

Naqsh faryaadi hai kiski shaukhi-e tehreer ka

Kagazi hai pairahan har paikar-e tasveer ka
Kaay-kaay-e-sakht-janeeha-e tanhai na poochh

Subha karna shaam ka lana hai juu-e-sheer ka
Jazbah-e-bey-ikhtiyaar-e shouk deykha chahiye

Sinah-e shamseer sey baahar hai dum shamsheer ka
Aagahee daam-e shunidan jis qadar chaahey bichhaaye

Mudad aa anka hai apney aalam-e takreer ka
Baski hoon Ghalib aseeri mein bhi aatish zer-e pa

Muu-e aatish-deedah hai halkah meri zanjeer ka 

No Hopes Comes My Way – Mirza Ghalib 

No hope comes my way

No visage shows itself to me

That death will come one day is definite

Then why does sleep evade me all night? 

I used to laugh at the state of my heart

Now no one thing brings a smile

Though I know the reward of religious devotion

My attention does not settle in that direction

It is for these reasons that I am quiet

If not, would I not converse with you? 
Why should I not remember you? 

Even if you cannot hear my lament
You don’t see the anguish in my heart

O healer, the scent of my pain eludes you
I am now at that point

That even I don’t know myself
I die in the hope of dying

Death arrives and then never arrives
How will you face Mecca, Ghalib

When shame doesn’t come to you 

Pain did not Become Grateful to Medicine – Mirza Ghalib

Pain did not become grateful to medicine

I didn’t get well; [but it] wasn’t bad either
Why are you gathering the Rivals? 

[It was just] a mere spectacle [that] took place, no complaint was made

Where would we go to test our fate/ destiny? 

When you yourself did not put your dagger to test 

How sweet are your lips, that the rival

[after] receiving abuse, did not lack pleasure

Recent/ hot news is that she is coming

Only today, in the house there was not a straw mat! 

Does the divinity belonged to Namrood’? 

[cause] in your servitude, my wellbeing did not happen
[God] gave life- the given [life] was His alone 

The truth is; that the responsibility was not fulfilled [by us]
If the wound was pressed, the blood did not stop 

[though] the task was halted, [but the bleeding still] set out
Is it highway robbery, or is it heart-theft? 

Having taken the heart, the heart-thief set out [to depart]

Recite something, for people are saying

Today “Ghalib” was not a ghazal-reciter 

Rahm Kar Zaalim – Mirza Ghalib 

रह्‌म कर ज़ालिम कि क्‌या बूद-ए चिराग़-ए कुश्‌तह है

नब्‌ज़-ए बीमार-ए वफ़ा दूद-ए चिराग़-ए कुश्‌तह है

दिल-लगी की आर्‌ज़ू बे-चैन रख्‌ती है हमें

वर्‌नह यां बे-रौनक़ी सूद-ए चिराग़-ए कुश्‌तह है

The Dropp Dies In The River – Mirza Ghalib

The dropp dies in the riverof its joy

Pain goes so far it cures itself

In the spring after the heavy rain the cloud disappears

That was nothing but tears

In the spring the mirror turns green

holding a miracle

Change the shining wind

The rose led us to our eyes

Let whatever is be open.

The New Knighthood – Rudyard Kipling

Who gives him the Bath?

“I,” said the wet,

Rank-Jungle-sweat,

“I’ll give him the Bath!” 
Who’ll sing the psalms?

“We,” said the Palms.

“Ere the hot wind becalms,

“We’ll sing the psalms.”
Who lays on the sword ?

“I,” said the Sun,

Before he has done,

“I’ll lay on the sword.”
“Who fastens his belt?

“I,” said Short-Rations,

” I know all the fashions

“Of tightening a belt!”
Who gives him his spur?

“I,” said his Chief,

Exacting and brief,

“I’ll give him the spur.”
Who’ll shake his hand?

“I,” said the Fever,

“And I’m no deceiver,

“I’ll shake his hand.”
Who brings him the wine?

“I,” said Quinine,

“It’s a habit of mine.

“I’11 come with his wine.”
Who’ll put him to proof?

“I,” said All Earth.

“Whatever he’s worth,

“I’ll put to the proof.”
Who’ll choose him for Knight?

“I,” said his Mother,

“Before any other,

“My very own Knight.”
And after this fashion, adventure to seek,

Sir Galahad was made–as it might be last week! 

The Naulakha – Rudyard Kipling

There was a strife ‘twixt man and maid–

 Oh, that was at the birth of time! 

But what befell ‘twixt man and maid, 

Oh, that’s beyond the grip of rhyme. 

‘Twas “Sweet, I must not bide with you,” 

And, “Love, I cannot bide alone”; 

For both were young and both were true. 

And both were hard as the nether stone. 
Beware the man who’s crossed in love; 

For pent-up steam must find its vent. 

Stand back when he is on the move, 

And lend him all the Continent. 
Your patience, Sirs. The Devil took me up 

To the burned mountain over Sicily 

(Fit place for me) and thence I saw my Earth– 

(Not all Earth’s splendour, ’twas beyond my need–) 

And that one spot I love–all Earth to me, 

And her I love, my Heaven. What said I? 

My love was safe from all the powers of Hell- 

For you–e’en you–acquit her of my guilt– 

But Sula, nestling by our sail–specked sea, 

My city, child of mine, my heart, my home– 

Mine and my pride–evil might visit there! 

It was for Sula and her naked port, 

Prey to the galleys of the Algerine, 

Our city Sula, that I drove my price– 

For love of Sula and for love of her. 

The twain were woven–gold on sackcloth–twined 

Past any sundering till God shall judge 

The evil and the good. 

Now it is not good for the Christian’s health to hustle the Aryan 

brown, 

For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the 

Christian down; 

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of 

the late deceased, 

And the epitaph drear: “A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the 

East.” 
There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay 

When the artist’s hand is potting it. 

There is pleasure in the wet, wet lay — 

When the poet’s pad is blotting it. 

There is pleasure in the shine of your picture on the line 

At the Royal Acade-my; 

But the pleasure felt in these is as chalk to Cheddar cheese 

When it comes to a well-made Lie– 
To a quite unwreckable Lie, 

To a most impeccable Lie! 

To a water-right, fire-proof, angle-iron, sunk-hinge, time-lock, 

steel-faced Lie! 

Not a private handsome Lie, 

But a pair-and-brougham Lie, 

Not a little-place-at-Tooting, but a country-house-with-shooting 

And a ring-fence-deer-park Lie. 
When a lover hies abroad 

Looking for his love, 

Azrael smiling sheathes his sword, 

Heaven smiles above. 

Earth and sea 

His servants be, 

And to lesser compass round, 

That his love be sooner found! 
We meet in an evil land 

That is near to the gates of Hell. 

I wait for thy command 

To serve, to speed or withstand. 

And thou sayest I do not well? 
Oh Love, the flowers so red 

Are only tongues of flame, 

The earth is full of the dead, 

The new-killed, restless dead. 

There is danger beneath and o’erhead, 

And I guard thy gates in fear 

Of words thou canst not hear, 

Of peril and jeopardy, 

Of signs thou canst not see– 

. And thou sayest ’tis ill that I came? 
This I saw when the rites were done, 

And the lamps were dead and the Gods alone, 

And the grey snake coiled on the altar stone– 

Ere I fled from a Fear that I could not see, 

And the Gods of the East made mouths at me. 
Beat off in our last fight were we? 

The greater need to seek the sea. 

For Fortune changeth as the moon 

To caravel and picaroon. 

Then Eastward Ho! or Westward Ho! 

Whichever wind may meetest blow. 

Our quarry sails on either sea, 

Fat prey for such bold lads as we, 

And every sun-dried buccaneer 

Must hand and reef and watch and steer, 

And bear great wrath of sea and sky 

Before the plate-ships wallow by. 

Now, as our tall bows take the foam, 

Let no man turn his heart to home, 

Save to desire plunder more 

And larger warehouse for his store, 

When treasure won from Santos Bay 

Shall make our sea-washed village gay. 
Because I sought it far from men, 

In deserts and alone, 

I found it burning overhead, 

The jewel of a Throne. 
Because I sought–I sought it so 

And spent my days to find– 

It blazed one moment ere it left 

The blacker night behind. 
We be the Gods of the East– 

Older than all– 

Masters of Mourning and Feast– 

How shall we fall? 
Will they gape for the husks that ye proffer 

Or yearn to your song 

And we–have we nothing to offer 

Who ruled them so long– 

In the fume of incense, the clash of the cymbals, the blare of 

the conch and the gong? 

Over the strife of the schools 

Low the day burns– 

Back with the kine from the pools 

Each one returns 

To the life that he knows where the altar-flame glows and the 

tulsi is trimmed in the urns. 

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! 

For My Oma – John Tansey 

If the foreknowledge of our own impending death

is not enough to put proper perspective 

upon things, 

then to clear the stern leer of our hatred, 

to forgive the unforgivable

to cut through the flippant diversions

of possesions

and find at the bottom of the bag, 

playing in its emptiness, 

the child, within, that matters most.
My grandmother, old and blind

was, 

like zen, in her old age…
still able to keep the world in order 

carefully absorbed with every action

it almost seemed to evolve around her

she would arrange the yarns by notion

and fold the grocery bags

pat them and place them 

into size-ordered spice tins

and the denominations of money

was a mathematical formula which 
was more complex than quantum physics, even… 

Faithless &  Godless – John Tansey 

Hopelessness is insidiousuntil,

 suddenly, like a revolution

Man admits to a Godlessness

and the ensuing schism divides his being; 

There is a rumbling at the border of your life, 

making midnight raids at the countryside.
The first casualties are the extremeties, 

the outer environs of your limbs…
Your possessions, your job and the children you clutch most.
So you close the castle gates, 

hold up in the tower, 
Discard, but your faith, to the hunger of the crowds, 

as advisors whisper over your shoulder
‘Give up your crown, your reign, 

your palace, even abdicate’
And in the strait shape of a white shift, 

without mistress and head shaven
You walk the steps to the Iron Maiden

and are stillborn into the next life! 

Exiled – John Tansey 

Exiled…

from my tribe; 

Outcast, ostracized

For defying the elders.

My spear, broken, 

Sling and skin gourd, taken.
Banished…

Pelted with stones 

By those pockmarked with sin

Beaten beyond the mountains I have known

Down into the hinterlands, 

And the cold, wintry wild, alone
Excommunicated…

To be alone, even in death.

Without such security

As the clan and cave, 

I shiver in the cold, 

Get wet in the rain.
Disowned…

No more to be one of them.

I seek shelter on a patch of land, 

Under a thatch of sky

I must fend, now, for myself, 

A lone, lean wolf, scavenging
On the frozen Tundra, alone. 

Evening Comes Like a Delusion – John Tansey 

Evening comes like a delusion

With dimly lit lamps of amber, 

And just enough shadow, For 

Any ghosts you want to step out of.
The day is over, right or wrong.

Nothing more is to be asked of you.

But to dream; The expectations

That things will be better tomorrow.
Only to wake to the bleak, 

Bleary-eyed, onslaught of morning.

And its demand upon you

To walk, from dawn to dusk, 
In lockstep with the ecliptic of the Sun.

Empty Nest – John Tansey

With the boy’s room, draped in white sheets

This whole year, like a cocoon, preserved, in amber, 

She closes another album: The fossil record of their marriage, 

Steeped, in the earthen layers of clay.

Then, turning to face him, two huge land masses: 

He, the old world, she is of the new, 

And with thirty years of continental drift

Having poured an ocean between them, 

They live, now, in different time zones, 

Sleep, eat and speak in different tongues… 

Depression- John Tansey 

Once we lay, limblocked in love, 

woke to reckless sex 

and sweet dreams, brash young 

hearts that joked age would lose this 

race we double-dared it to.
Now you slink from bed.

All future gone from your eyes, 

as you flash this sad

smile, that turns with your thoughts

to too much of our hopes gone past. 

Delusions of Evening – John Tansey

Evening comes. My self-delusion

stirs the synapses

with a steaming cup of coffee.

A dimly lit oil lamp

shrouded with Saffron scarf

casts the room in an amber hue

with subtle shapes in the shadows

while words as gold ingots on the page

forming this poem

with an alchemic blaze.
Morning rises, lighting the gray room 

dispelling truth

from every fold of darkness

to a sterile whiteness

that turning back 

such atomic weight of words

into leaden blocks of stone

I wake, both bleary eyed and blood shot, 

into this failed, pale bleak

truth of morning

Comes A Doubter – John Tansey 

Nonbeliever

If one you should know

Is felled by a deep grief

Into a black hole of depression, 

And you, armed with clichés, 

Come to console, relieve, 

Before you open your mouth, 

Know this: 

That, in the absence of the right words, 

Silence will suit the situation well.
Like the wearing of basic black

For all formal affairs and funerals, 

It is proper, 

always in style

and goes with any occasion.
Just ask the petitioners of God

Who, all too well, know: 

It is through the long terrible silence

Of unanswered prayers

Made under the duress of the dark, 
That we, too late, learn to survive this life on our own…

Collage – John Tansey

I am a torn photo album of memories,

 Whose pictures, strewn out of order, 

And chronological date

Lay about the floor in a collage.
A serial killer of images.

I lie in a heap, 

Here, among the snapshots of the past, 

Where I exist the best.
Isolated moments of nostalgia

Are made mythic, perfect

Out of the rewritten past..

For what exists of the future is bleak, 

And existence in the present is bestial; 
For proof, look toward the night sky

as God exists, only, in the past

and its evidence is reflected

In the, biblically-old, 

no longer existing, light of the night stars. 

Impurity – Gautam Buddha

You are now like a withered leaf; 

the messengers of death have come near you. 

You stand at the threshold of your departure. 

Have you made provision for your journey

Make yourself an island; work hard; be wise. 

When your impurities are purged and you are free from guilt, 

you will enter into the heavenly world of the noble ones.
Your life is coming to an end; 

you are in the presence of death. 

There is no rest stop on the way, 

and you have made no provision for your journey.
Make yourself an island; work hard; be wise; 

when your impurities are purged and you are free from guilt, 

you will not again enter into birth and old age.
As a smith removes the impurities from silver, 

so let the wise remove the impurities from oneself

one by one, little by little, again and again.
Just as rust from iron eats into it

though born from itself, 

so the wrong actions of the transgressor

lead one to the wrong path.
Dull repetition is the impurity of prayers; 

lack of repair is the impurity of houses; 

laziness is the impurity of personal appearance; 

thoughtlessness is the impurity of the watcher. 

Bad conduct is the impurity of a woman; 

stinginess is the impurity of the giver; 

wrong actions are the impurity of this world and the next. 

The worst impurity of all is the impurity of ignorance. 

Mendicants, throw off that impurity

and become free of all impurities.
Life seems easy for one who is shameless, 

who is a crowing hero, a mischief-maker, 

an insulting, impudent, and corrupt person. 

But life seems difficult for one who is modest, 

who always looks for what is pure, 

who is detached, quiet, clear, and intelligent.
Whoever destroys life, whoever speaks falsely, 

whoever in this world takes what is not given to them, 

whoever goes to another person’s spouse, 

and whoever gives oneself to drinking intoxicating liquors, 

even in this world they dig up their own roots. 

Know this, human, that the unrestrained are in a bad way. 

Do not let greed and wrong-doing bring you long suffering.
People give according to their faith

or according to their pleasure. 

Thus whoever worries about food and drink given to others

will find no peace of mind day or night. 

Whoever destroys that feeling, tearing it out by the root, 

will truly find peace of mind day and night.
There is no fire like lust, no chain like hate; 

there is no snare like folly, no torrent like craving. 

The faults of others are easy to see; 

our own are difficult to see. 

A person winnows others’ faults like chaff, 

but hides one’s own faults, 

like a cheater hides bad dice. 

If a person is concerned about the faults of others

and is always inclined to be offended, 

one’s own faults grow and one is far from removing faults.
There is no path in the sky; 

one does not become an ascetic outwardly. 

People delight in worldly pleasures;

the perfected ones are free from worldliness.
There is no path in the sky; 

one does not become an ascetic outwardly. 

No creatures are eternal, 

but the awakened ones are never shaken. 

पहिरोको माखेसाङ्लो – ठाकुर बेलबासे

पहिरोको माखेसाङ्लो रहेछ मान्छे
पहिरोको मध्यभागबाट यात्रा गरेर
पहिरोमै अडेको बासमा पुग्नु छ ।

जीवनको यति लामो यात्रामा
नभेटिने होइनन् सहयात्रीहरू
सबैको मन
कुनै दुर्गम पहाडी क्षेत्रमा खनिएको नयाँ मोटरबाटोजस्तो छ
पाइलापाइला ठूलठूला इच्छाका पहिरोहरू गइरहने ।

जीवन नसम्झेर पहिरो
मस्र्याङ्दी बग्न खोज्दा पनि त
पहिरोबाटै बग्दो रहेछ मस्र्याङ्दी पनि
नछेलिने रहेछ पहिरोबाट जीवन ।

सँगसँगै यात्रामा रहेको यो घाम
यात्रामा भेटिएका यी मन्दिरहरू
सबै सबै पहिरोमै त छन्
सायद, पहिरोभन्दा अब संसारमा अर्को बाँकी केही छैन ।

पहिरो नहुँदो हो त, कहाँ हुन्थ्यो जीवन !
पहिरो पन्छाउँदै पन्छाउँदै
सपनाका पहाड उक्लनु पनि पहिरो खोज्नु नै हो ।
मान्छे भन्नु पहिरो रहेछ
पहिरो भन्नु मान्छे
के भर एकअर्काको पहिरोमा
कति बेला के पर्ने हो !

नीला पाइला टेक्ने राता मान्छेहरू – ठाकुर बेलबासे


ढुङ्गाको छाती खोपेर
सहिष्णुताको आवाज सुन्न
आतुर मान्छेको
मन्दिरस्थापना सोचिरहेको छु

रगतले मुख धुन इच्छा राख्ने
ईश्वरप्रति
मेरो खेद छ

ताराहरूका छाती कुल्चिएर
आप्mनो अधिपत्यको
उचाइगर्व खोज्ने
ईश्वरमा
जीवनका शुभकामनाहरू छरिन सक्दैनन्

आक्रोशका रगतले
नसाहरू भरेर
खडेरीको मौसम सिर्जना गर्ने
ईश्वरमा
मेरो समवेदना रहन सक्दैन

भोको पेटले
पानी उमार्न
माटोसँग भगीरथयुद्ध छेड्ने
मान्छेअगाडि
नतमस्तक क्षितिज आफै ओर्लन्छ

सम्भ्रान्त बस्तीतिर बहकिने
ईश्वर

शरीर ओछ्याएर बाँधमा
एउटा नदी नै पटाएर
मरूभूमिको बस्तीतिर
पारिजात फुलाउने मान्छे
के मान्छे अर्को ईश्वर जन्मन सक्दैन
हरेक प्रभातमा यही
कल्पना गर्ने गर्छु

एउटा यस्तो मान्छे
बारुदबाट समयलाई
सधैँ बचाओस्
एउटा नीलो आकाश उघारोस्
अनि
रक्तहीन समयलाई निर्भय फैलन दैओस्
त्यो मेरो भगवान् मान्छे

म निरन्तर आराधना गरिरहेको छु
नीला पाइला टेक्ने
राता मान्छेहरू

Joy – Gautam Buddha

Let us live in joy, not hating those who hate us.

Among those who hate us, we live free of hate. 

Let us live in joy, 

free from disease among those who are diseased. 

Among those who are diseased, let us live free of disease. 

Let us live in joy, free from greed among the greedy. 

Among those who are greedy, we live free of greed. 

Let us live in joy, though we possess nothing. 

Let us live feeding on joy, like the bright gods.
Victory breeds hate, for the conquered is unhappy. 

Whoever has given up victory and defeat

is content and lives joyfully.
There is no fire like lust, no misfortune like hate; 

there is no pain like this body; 

there is no joy higher than peace.
Craving is the worst disease; 

disharmony is the greatest sorrow. 

The one who knows this truly

knows that nirvana is the highest bliss.
Health is the greatest gift; 

contentment is the greatest wealth; 

trusting is the best relationship; 

nirvana is the highest joy.
Whoever has tasted the sweetness

of solitude and tranquillity

becomes free from fear and sin

while drinking the sweetness of the truth. 

The sight of the noble is good; 

to live with them is always joyful.
Whoever does not see fools will always be happy. 

Whoever associates with fools suffers a long time. 

Being with fools, as with an enemy, is always painful.
Being with the wise, like meeting with family, is joyful. 

Therefore, one should follow the wise, the intelligent, 

the learned, the patient, the dutiful, the noble; 

one should follow the good and wise, 

as the moon follows the path of the stars. 

Miscellaneos – Gautam Buddha

If by leaving a small pleasure one sees a great pleasure, let a

wise man leave the small pleasure, and look to the great.
He who, by causing pain to others, wishes to obtain pleasure for

himself, he, entangled in the bonds of hatred, will never be free from

hatred.
What ought to be done is neglected, what ought not to be done is

done; the desires of unruly, thoughtless people are always increasing.
But they whose whole watchfulness is always directed to their

body, who do not follow what ought not to be done, and who steadfastly

do what ought to be done, the desires of such watchful and wise people

will come to an end.
A true Brahmana goes scatheless, though he have killed father and

mother, and two valiant kings, though he has destroyed a kingdom with

all its subjects.
A true Brahmana goes scatheless, though he have killed father and

mother, and two holy kings, and an eminent man besides.
The disciples of Gotama (Buddha) are always well awake, and their

thoughts day and night are always set on Buddha.
The disciples of Gotama are always well awake, and their thoughts

day and night are always set on the law.
The disciples of Gotama are always well awake, and their thoughts

day and night are always set on the church.
The disciples of Gotama are always well awake, and their thoughts

day and night are always set on their body.
The disciples of Gotama are always well awake, and their mind day

and night always delights in compassion.
The disciples of Gotama are always well awake, and their mind day

and night always delights in meditation.
It is hard to leave the world (to become a friar) , it is hard to

enjoy the world; hard is the monastery, painful are the houses; 

painful it is to dwell with equals (to share everything in common) and

the itinerant mendicant is beset with pain. Therefore let no man be

an itinerant mendicant and he will not be beset with pain.
Whatever place a faithful, virtuous, celebrated, and wealthy man

chooses, there he is respected.
Good people shine from afar, like the snowy mountains; bad people

are not seen, like arrows shot by night.
He alone who, without ceasing, practises the duty of sitting

alone and sleeping alone, he, subduing himself, will rejoice in the

destruction of all desires alone, as if living in a forest. 

Old Age -Gautam Buddha 

Why is there laughter, why is there joy

while this world is always burning? 

Why do you not seek a light, 

you who are shrouded in darkness?

Consider this dressed-up lump covered with wounds, 

joined with limbs, diseased, and full of many schemes

which are neither permanent nor stable. 

This body is wearing out, a nest of diseases and frail; 

this heap of corruption falls apart; life ends in death.
What pleasure is there

for one who sees these white bones

like gourds thrown away in the autumn? 

A fortress is made out of the bones, 

plastered over with flesh and blood,

and in it lives old age and death, pride and deceit.
The glorious chariots of the kings wear out; 

the body also comes to old age; 

but the virtue of good people never ages; 

thus the good teach each other.
People who have learned little grow old like an ox; 

their flesh grows, but their knowledge does not grow.
I have run through a course of many births

looking for the maker of this dwelling and did not find it; 

painful is birth again and again. 

Now you are seen, the builder of the house; 

you will not build the house again. 

All your rafters are broken; your ridgepole is destroyed; 

your mind, set on the attainment of nirvana, 

has attained the extinction of desires.
People who have not practiced proper discipline

who have not acquired wealth in their youth, 

pine away like old cranes in a lake without fish. 

People who have not practiced proper discipline, 

who have not acquired wealth in their youth, 

lie like broken bows, sighing after the past. 

Pain can Dance – Tulsi Shrestha 

Drops of my tears

fall down

above the surface of 

Pensive heart

like ribbles in water surface 

That causes waves of impulse 

inside my heart

Which spreads upto

tips of forehead 

to bottom of 

my feets. 

My pains and griefs

starts to dance

like bubbles

In red wine

inside my

blood stream. 

My heart beats create

rhythmic melody 

of rhymes 

for them 

to dance 

Then Melancholy

occupied 

the room 

of own my

happiness . 

Philosophy of Love – Tulsi Shrestha

 The pages of rhythm of my own life

Never matched with content of rhymes.

Like a couple, one can’t see 

and another can’t hear.

She cannot perceive the most enchanting 

voice and melody of her own beloved.

He cannot watch the most gorgeous 

beauty of his own beloved. 

Still they are perfect and ideal couple

in reflection of society and culture.

All his songs reveal beauty of femininity.

But none of them create image in mirror.

Her beloved prepared a full page of essay

explaining excellence of music and melody. 

She is beyond his imagination.

He is indeed beyond her perception. 

But souls of these two, 

dissolve inside one platform.

Both of them remind it as

ecstasy of passionate 

Love.
The pages of rhythm of my own life

Never matched with content of rhymes.

Like a couple, one can’t see 

and another can’t hear.

She cannot perceive the most enchanting 

voice and melody of her own beloved.

He cannot watch the most gorgeous 

beauty of his own beloved. 

Still they are perfect and ideal couple

in reflection of society and culture.

All his songs reveal beauty of femininity.

But none of them create image in mirror.

Her beloved prepared a full page of essay

explaining excellence of music and melody. 

She is beyond his imagination.

He is indeed beyond her perception. 

But souls of these two, 

dissolve inside one platform.

Both of them remind it as

ecstasy of passionate 

Love. 

Rainbow of my Life – Tulsi Shrestha

Indeed, you are rainbow of my life 

You are vision of my own eye – sight 

You are true destination of my flight 

Above all, are root cause of delight. 
You are sweet voice of my rejoice 

Aren’t you a dream of my own choice? 

From watery veil, you always peeps

To colour desolate life, full of weeps.
My whole philosophy resides inside you

One who colours black world, isn’t you? 

Dried wood transforms into green dream 

You revive the world from its scream.
Beneath the arch of your rainbow 

I sing and dance with ultimate joy 

I embrace you with passionate flight 

To feel a breath of infinite love. 

Rhythms of My Poems – Tulsi Shrestha

Rhythms of my poem 

Spring from 

Your beauty. 

Rhymes of my voice 

Emerge from 

Your speech. 

Eternal is a word

My heart spells 

For your love.

A new language 

I need to create

For your clarity. 

When you approach me

With a sweet smile

Forest catches fire.

I captivate golden dawn

To present you

As a precious gift. 

Contents of my poem is you

Hence your essence is due

As an eternal guest.

Let me wrap your beauty 

To enclose inside thirst

Of my eyes. 

Right to be Angry with Me – Tulsi Shrestha 

You  have right to be angry with me 

An essence of me, indeed it is you.

You belong to no one, but to me

Light of my life, believe me it is you.
The heaven has right to wrap blue ocean 

Bees have right to suck flower-sweetness. 

Life has right over your own motion

The charity has right over its greatness. 
Your face turns bright and red with anger 

It is incredible sight like golden dawn

I preserve it as joyful moment of temper

My love dissolves deep inside your bone. 

Struggle – Tulsi Shrestha 

STRUGGLE

When romantic dream I dream everyday

dissolves as line drawn in water surface, 

then I constantly struggle with the death.
When I try to explore my own reality; 

I’ve lost my future as I involved in past, 

then I plan to purchase pleasure.
When I try to gain spiritual maturity; 

my faith and beliefs get distorted, 

then I realize the naked truth of society.
When luck compels me to carry empty jar; 

I’m enforced to pledge my own ideal, 

then I start to fetch my own shadow. 
When I try to compromise with relatives; 

my desires and ambition get raped, 

then I continue to hug my own griefs. 
When I attempt to imprison beams of hope; 

I notice blood-suckers in name of preservation, 

then I insist companionship with solitude and sadness. 
When social prestige and blood relation; 

measured in term of money earned; 

then I notice the false worth of love and charity
When I attempt to struggle with falsification; 

I get hated by my own society itself; 

then I get lost my unique entity.
When I get excited by heavenly day dream; 

fertilized hope gets aborted from womb, 

then I realize the real meaning of mirage. 

An Echo of Love – Tulsi Shrestha

FEMININE: AN ECHO OF LOVE 

The first sentence that mountain learns to echo

I am sure that is indeed -” I love you’ Feminine 

Beyond the mystery of femininity, you are naked reality 

No doubt, you are the spirit of chastity and purity. 
Let me observe and say, what I see in you

You are faith and conclusion of my own life

External you are and eternal your love is

No doubt, it perfumes as long as the world exists. 
Let us reverse the criteria of comparison 

The ocean is deeper as your eye – depth 

Flower is elegant and beautiful like you

Rose – petals tender like your pinky lips.
The earth, moon and the universe itself

Really fell glory to symbolize you as them

The beauty blossoms from your breasts

The life originates from your mysterious womb.
The cyclone of love and fire of passion 

Breath of joy and fusion of two hearts

It is indeed no one but you feminine 

Who certifies them as essence of life 

o

I do regard you as a cause of creation 

Rivers of love and compassion 

The spirit of life and pure devotion 

As these are your source of dedication. 
You are the destination of human life

Sweet smile of the whole earth and sky

Each and every sensible parts of yours

Enough to reflect the beauty of nature itself 

Flower – Tulsi Shrestha

FLOWER

I am colourful flower, spirit of human life

Symbol of your love and compassion

Span of my life reminds all of you

The reality of death and essence of life.
Although I fade within a few days

I do spread fragrance to the world 

I bathe your world with rainbow 

Bees help me to provide you nectar.
I stand for peace and brotherhood 

I bloom to enchant the soul of the world 

The beauty of nature remains incomplete 

Unless and until I join there
Dews drench me with sweet love

I transform them into precious pearls

The winter breeze whistles then

To greet our mutual eternal love. 
I like spring to enjoy rain kisses

I sing a song of joy and sorrow 

A colourful bunches of me

Is offering to one who rests in nest. 

Feminine: An Echo Of Love – Tulsi Shrestha

FEMININE: AN ECHO OF LOVE 

The first sentence that mountain learns to echo

I am sure that is indeed -” I love you’ Feminine 

Beyond the mystery of femininity, you are naked reality 

No doubt, you are the spirit of chastity and purity. 
Let me observe and say, what I see in you

You are faith and conclusion of my own life

External you are and eternal your love is

No doubt, it perfumes as long as the world exists. 
Let us reverse the criteria of comparison 

The ocean is deeper as your eye – depth 

Flower is elegant and beautiful like you

Rose – petals tender like your pinky lips.
The earth, moon and the universe itself

Really fell glory to symbolize you as them

The beauty blossoms from your breasts

The life originates from your mysterious womb.
The cyclone of love and fire of passion 

Breath of joy and fusion of two hearts

It is indeed no one but you feminine 

Who certifies them as essence of life 
I do regard you as a cause of creation 

Rivers of love and compassion 

The spirit of life and pure devotion 

As these are your source of dedication. 
You are the destination of human life

Sweet smile of the whole earth and sky

Each and every sensible parts of yours

Enough to reflect the beauty of nature itself 

The Portrait of a Child- Victor Marie Hugo

That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,

Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:

A heavenly spirit guards her ways,

From whom she stole that mixture rare.

Through all her features shining mild,

The poet sees an angel there,

The father sees a child.

And by their flame so pure and bright,

We see how lately those sweet eyes

Have wandered down from Paradise,

And still are lingering in its light.

All earthly things are but a shade

Through which she looks at things above,

And sees the holy Mother-maid,

Athwart her mother’s glance of love.

She seems celestial songs to hear,

And virgin souls are whispering near.

Till by her radiant smile deceived,

I say, ‘Young angel, lately given,

When was thy martyrdom achieved?

And what name lost thou bear in heaven?’ 

The Quiet Rural Church – Victor Marie Hugo

It was a humble church, with arches low,

The church we entered there,

Where many a weary soul since long ago

Had past with plaint or prayer.

Mournful and still it was at day’s decline,

The day we entered there;

As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine,

The fires extinguished were.

Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound,

Scarcely some low breathed word,

As in a forest fallen asleep, is found

Just one belated bird. 

The Retreat From Moscow – Victor Marie Hugo

It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red!

For once the eagle was hanging its head.

Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back

On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.

The water burst, avalanche-like, to reign

Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain.

Nor chief nor banner in order could keep,

The wolves of warfare were ‘wildered like sheep.

The wings from centre could hardly be known

Through snow o’er horses and carts o’erthrown,

Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn

Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn:

Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode

Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad

The shells and bullets came down with the snow

As though the heavens hated these poor troops below.

Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold,

Who ne’er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold

Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoar-frost clung

‘Neath banners that in leaden masses hung. 
It snowed,—went snowing still. And chill the breeze

Whistled upon the glassy, endless seas,

Where naked feet on, on forever went,

With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.

They were not living troops as seen in war,

But merely phantoms of a dream, afar

In darkness wandering, amid the vapour dim,—

A mystery; of shadows a procession grim,

Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim.

Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold

Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold,

A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense,

A shroud of magnitued for host immense;

Till every one felt as if left alone

In a wide wilderness where no light shone,

To die, with pity none, and none to see

That from this mournful realm none should get free.

Their foes the frozen North and Czar,—that, worst.

Cannon were broken up in haste accurst

To burn the frames and make the pale fire high,

Where those lay down who never woke, or woke to die.

Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled

Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread. 
‘Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised.

O’er regiments; and History, amazed,

Could not record the ruin of this retreat,—

Unlike a downfall known before, or the defeat

Of Hannibal, reversed and wrapped in gloom,

Of Atilla, when nations met their doom!

Perished an army,—fled French glory then,

Though there the Emperor! He stood and gazed

At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed

In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw:

He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.

Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love

Kept those that rose all dastard fear above,

As on his tent they saw his shadow pass,

Backwards and forwards; for they credited, alas!

His fortune’s star! It could not, could not be

That he had not his work to do—a destiny?

To hurl him headlong from his high estate,

Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate.

But all the while he felt himself alone,

Stunned with disasters few have ever known.

Sudden, a fear came o’er his troubled soul,—

What more was written on the Future’s scroll?

Was this an expiation? It must be, yea!

He turned to God for one enlightening ray.

‘Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?’ he sighed;

But the first murmur on his parched lips died.

‘Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?’

A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet

Sprang in the darkness; a Voice answered: ‘No!

Not yet.’

Outside still fell the smothering snow.

Was it a voice indeed, or but a dream?

It was the vulture’s, but how like the sea-bird’s scream. 

The Sower – Victor Marie Hugo

Sitting in a porchway cool,

Fades the ruddy sunlight fast,

Twilight hastens on to rule–

Working hours are wellnigh past
Shadows shoot across the lands;

But one sower lingers still,

Old, in rags, he patient stands,–

Looking on, I feel a thrill.
Black and high his silhouette

Dominates the furrows deep!

Now to sow the task is set,

Soon shall come a time to reap.
Marches he along the plain,

To and fro, and scatters wide

From his hands the precious grain;

Moody, I, to see him stride.
Darkness deepens. Gone the light.

Now his gestures to mine eyes

Are august; and strange–his height

Seems to touch the starry skies. 

Sonnet of Motherhood XI  – Zora Bernice May Cross

A miracle of miracles is here.

Take off your shoes. This place is holy ground.

No man-child ours like that the shepherd found

By dreaming Mary when the Star burned clear.

Our God has given us a woman, dear,

With satin skin her dimpling shoulders round.

No pinkest shell with sea-blown bubbles crowned

Could match the marvel of her tiny ear.
How like to me, and yet ’tis you—all you.

I dare not touch her. Take your soul, My Own.

Set in my body with your mind, your sight,

Your dreams and thoughts with every promise true—

A queen to sit upon a regal throne

With a man’s soul won out of woman’s right. 

Zora Bernice May Cross

Sonnet  of Motherhood XIV – Zora Bernice May Cross 

Dearest, your mother feels (though dead) this birth—

Laughs at the fire within your shining eyes—

Your eyes, yet mine, wherein such glory lies

Never before beheld upon the earth.

She scents the fragrance of the lily-mirth

Lilting this body that I drew all-wise

Out of your own, so hers, and with low sighs,

Mellowed in mine to what a wondrous worth.
Kiss me. Kiss her. The miracle is wrought—

The simple beauty out of simple love—

Mother and father, child and God—all One—

Eternal trinity for ever sought.

O, blessed from her quiet place above,

Your mother kisses us—a life’s work done. 

Sonnet of Motherhood XXIV – Zora Bernice May Cross 

How many holy women mothered me

And brought me to perfection for this hour,

When from my being all the living power

Of sweetest woman should at last flow free?

Aeons on Aeons on a loving knee

Some woman rocked me in her scented bower,

Till my soul bloomed an everlasting flower

Calling with fragrance to a singing bee.
You came. You saw me. And because in you

A myriad mothers all their love had spread,

Those holy women since the dawn of day

Gave you the promise of a master true…

Dearest, that bee unto the flower was wed

When your song fitted with my humble lay. 

Sonnet of Motherhood XXIX – Zora Bernice May Cross 

How strangely lone unto myself I grow,

Listening and looking for I know not what;

Turning my head with terror cold and hot

At wandering whispers of a music low!

Familiar pieces of my being flow

Far, far away, to thymy hill and plot,

While chained to patience in this close-shut spot

I sit apart from everything I know.
O Love, I fear the loneness of my limbs

Leaning to nothing to their solitude.

Draw up the blinds and let the stars rush in,

The mournful moon and all the air she swims.

I would not languish in my mother-mood

While just without earth makes her old, mad din.