Poem – What makes The Dalai Lama Lovable

His posture

From so many years

Holding his robe with one hand

Is odd.
His gait

Also.
One’s own body

Aches

Witnessing

The sloping

Shoulders

& Angled

Neck; 
One hopes

He

Attends

Yoga class

Or does Yoga

On his own

As part

Of prayer.
He smiles

As he bows

To Everything:

Accepting

The heavy

Burdens

Of

This earth; 
It’s

Toxic

Evils

& Prolific

Insults.
Even so,

He sleeps

Through

The night

Like a child

Because

Thank goodness

That is something

Else

Daylong

Meditation

Ass ures.
You could cry

Yourself to sleep

On his behalf

& He

Has done that

Too.
Life

Has been

A great

Endless

Tearing away

For

Him.
From

Mother, Father, Siblings, Country, Home.

And yet

Clearly

His mother

Loved him; 

His brother & sister

Too:

Even his

Not so constant father,

Who

When Tenzin was

A boy

Shared

With him

Delicious

Scraps

Of

Succulent

Pork.
He laughs

Telling this

Story

Over half a century

Later

&

To who knows

How many

Puzzled

Vegetarians:

About

The way he sat

Behind

His father’s chair

Like a dog,

Relishing

Each juicy

Greasy

Bite.
Whenever I see

The Dalai Lama

My first impulse

Is to laugh

I am so happy

To

Lay eyes

On

One

So effortlessly

Beautiful.
That balding head

That holds

A shine; 

Those wire framed

Glasses

That might

Have come

From

Anywhere.
His look of having given

All he has.
He is my teacher; 

Just staying alive.
Other teachers

I have had

Resemble him

In some way; 
They too

Were

&

Are

Smart

And Humble; 

Fascinated

By Science & things like

Time,

Eternity,

Cause & Effect; 

The Evolution

Of the Soul.
A soul

That

Might

Or might not

Exist.
They too

See all of us

-Banker, murderer, gardener, thief –

When they look

Out across

The world:
But that is not all

They see.
They see our suffering; 

Our striving

To find

The right path; 

The one with heart

We may only

Have heard

About.
The Dalai Lama is Cool

A modern word

For

“Divine”

Because he wants

Only

Our collective

Health

& Happiness.
That’s it! 
What makes

Him

Lovable

Is

His holiness. 

Poem – What it Feels Like

As if I’ve swallowed
A watermelon

And

Sidestepping

My digestive tract

It has lodged

In my heart.

There it lies

Green

& whole

with a luscious

red

heart of its own

daring me

to cut. 

Poem – Turning Madness into Flowers

If my sorrow were deeper
I’d be, along with you, under

the ocean’s floor; 

but today I learn that the oil

that pools beneath the ocean floor

is essence

residue

remains

of all our

relations

all

our ancestors who have died and turned to oil

without our witness

eons ago.

We’ve always belonged to them.

Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water’s edge

as well as for myself.

It is our grief

heavy, relentless,

trudging

us, however resistant,

to the decaying and rotten

bottom of things:

our grief bringing

us home. 

Poem – To Change the World Enough

To change the world enough
you must cease to be afraid
of the poor.

We experience your fear as the least pardonable of

humiliations; in the past

it has sent us scurrying off

daunted and ashamed

into the shadows.

Now,

the world ending

the only one all of us have known

we seek the same

fresh light

you do:

the same high place

and ample table.

The poor always believe

there is room enough

for all of us; 

the very rich never seem to have heard

of this.

In us there is wisdom of how to share

loaves and fishes

however few; 

we do this everyday.

Learn from us,

we ask you.

We enter now

the dreaded location

of Earth’s reckoning; 

no longer far

off

or hidden in books

that claim to disclose

revelations; 

it is here.

We must walk together without fear.

There is no path without us 

Poem – You want to Grow Old Like the Carters

Let other leadersRetire

To play golf

& write

Memoirs

About bombing

Villages

They’ve never seen.
Growing old

Presents a peril

They may not

Expect.
It is to lose

One’s soul

In trivia

& irrelevance

The nerve

Endings

Blunted

By the constant

Pressure

Of moral

Indifference.
Growing old

A curse:

Not even

Generally speaking

Able

To relate

To whoever

Shares
Your house. Not the mansion

You inhabit

On the

Lovely stolen hill

Above the sea

Or the interior one:

The darkened

Desolate

Shack.
You want to grow old

Like

The Carters; 

Curing blindness

&

Building houses

For

The Poor; 
Making friends of those

Who believe

They must fight.
You want to grow old

Like

The Carters

Holding hands

With someone

You love

&

Riding bicycles

Leisurely

Where the ground

Is well known

& perfectly

Flat.
You want to find

And keep to the path

Laid down

Inside you

Such a long time

Ago.
You want to grow old

Like

The Carters:

Serene. Eyes

Twinkling

To be accused

Of

Not getting

It right.
Upfront, upright.

Speaking what to you is true.
A person rich in Mothers.

Beloved.
And:

Honoring what is black

In you. 

Poem – Word Reaches Us

Word reaches us
that you are sleeping, sleeping.
Dismayed
we have turned to the sea.
We encounter among others
walking there
a sense of what we have lost:
the broad expanse of humanity’s
sensitivity to the oneness of itself.
Gabrielle,
while you sleep, resting your nimble
brain, we think of walking with you
in the valley
of the shadow of death; holding
you up.
We hope you can feel our grief;
our sorrow vast
like the ocean that draws us.
We know in this moment you teach us many things:
how all across the world
there is no one who deserves this fate.
We know we must bleach and sterilize our
tongues,
brighten with understanding
all our dark thoughts.
Sister, whom I never met
except in this pain that has so
wounded you
thank you for reminding us
through your suffering
and your suspenseful sleep
that we must change. 

Poem – A Picture Story for the Curious

I get to meditate

in a chair! 

Or against the wall

with my legs

stretched out! 

(Or even in bed!) 
I get to see

maybe half

of what I’m looking at! 

(This changes everything!) 
I get to dance

like the tipsy old men

I adored

when I was an infant! 

(They never dropped me!) 
I get to spend time with myself 

whenever I want! 

I get to ride a bicycle

with tall

handlebars! 

(My posture improves!) 
I get to give up

learning to sail! 

I get to know

I will never speak

German! 
I get to snuggle all

morning

with my snuggler

of choice:

counting the hours

by how many times

we get up

to pee! 
I get to spend time with myself

whenever I want! 

I get to eat chocolate

with my salad.

Or even as a first course! 

I get to forget! 

I get to paint

with colors

I mix myself! 

Colors

I’ve never seen

before.
I get to sleep

with my dog

& pray never to outlive

my cat! 

I get to play

music

without reading

a note! 
I get to spend time with myself

whenever I want! 

I get to sleep

in a

hammock

under the same

stars

wherever I am! 

I get to spend time with myself

whenever I want! 
I get to laugh

at all the things

I don’t know

& cannot

find! 
I get to greet

people I don’t remember

as if I know them

very well.

After all, how different

can they be? 
I get to grow

my entire

garden

in a few

pots! 

I get to spend time with myself

whenever I want! 
I get to see

& feel

the suffering

of the whole

world

& to take

a nap

when I feel

like it

anyway! 
I get to spend time with myself

whenever I want! 
I get to feel

more love

than I ever thought

existed! 

Everything appears to be made

of the stuff! 
I feel this

especially for You! Though I may not remember

exactly which You

you are! 

How cool is this! 

Still, I get to spend time with myself

whenever I want! 

And that is just a taste

as the old people used to say

down in Georgia

when I was a child

of what you get

for getting old.
Reminding us, as they witnessed our curiosity about them, that no matter the losses, there’s something fabulous going on at every stage of Life, something to let go of, maybe, but for darn sure, something to get! 

Poem – I will Keep Broken Things

I will keep
Broken

Things:

The big clay

Pot

With raised

Iguanas

Chasing

Their

Tails; 

Two

Of their

Wise
Heads

Sheared

Off; 
I will keep

Broken

things:

The old

Slave

Market

Basket

Brought

To my

Door
By Mississippi

A jagged

Hole

Gouged

In its sturdy

Dark

Oak

Side.
I will keep

Broken

things:

The memory

Of

Those

Long

Delicious

Nig ht

Swims

With

You; 
I will keep

Broken

things:

In my house

There

Remains

An
Honored

Shelf

On which

I will

Keep

Broken

Things.
Their beauty

Is

They

Need

Not

Ever

Be 

‘fixed.’
I will keep

Your

Wild

Free

Laughter

Thoug h

It is now

Missing

Its

Reassuring

And

Gra ceful

Hinge.
I will keep

Broken

Things:
Thank you 

So much! 
I will keep

Broken

Things.
I will keep

You:
Pilgrim

Of

Sorrow.

I will keep

Myself. 

Poem – Blessed are the Poor in Spirit

Did you ever understand this?

 If my spirit was poor, how could I enter heaven? 

Was I depressed? 

Understanding editing,

I see how a comma, removed or inserted

with careful plan,

can change everything.

I was reminded of this

when a poor young man

in Tunisia

desperate to live

and humiliated for trying

set himself ablaze; 

I felt uncomfortably warm

as if scalded by his shame.

I do not have to sell vegetables from a cart as he did

or live in narrow rooms too small for spacious thought; 

and, at this late date,

I do not worry that someone will

remove every single opportunity

for me to thrive.

Still, I am connected to, inseparable from,

this young man.

Blessed are the poor, in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Jesus. (Commas restored) .

Jesus was as usual talking about solidarity: about how we join with others

and, in spirit, feel the world, and suffering, the same as them.

This is the kingdom of owning the other as self, the self as other; 

that transforms grief into

peace and delight.

I, and you, might enter the heaven

of right here

through this door.

In this spirit, knowing we are blessed,

we might remain poor 

Poem – No Body’s Darling

Be nobody’s darling; 
Be an outcast.

Take the contradictions

Of your life

And wrap around

You like a shawl,

To parry stones

To keep you warm.

Watch the people succumb

To madness

With ample cheer; 

Let them look askance at you

And you askance reply.

Be an outcast; 

Be pleased to walk alone

(Uncool) 

Or line the crowded

River beds

With other impetuous

Fools.
Make a merry gathering

On the bank

Where thousands perished

For brave hurt words

They said.
But be nobody’s darling; 

Be an outcast.

Qualified to live

Among your dead. 

Poem – A Parsonage in Oxfordshire

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,

Is marked by no distinguishable line;

The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;

And, wheresoe’er the stealing footstep tends,

Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,

And neighbours rest together, here confound

Their several features, mingled like the sound

Of many waters, or as evening blends

With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,

Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; 

And while those lofty poplars gently wave

Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky

Bright as the glimpses of eternity,

To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 

Poem – A Night Thought

Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;

Oft is she hid from mortal eye

Or dimly seen,

But when the clouds asunder fly

How bright her mien!
Far different we–a froward race,

Thousands though rich in Fortune’s grace

With cherished sullenness of pace

Their way pursue, 

Ingrates who wear a smileless face

The whole year through.
If kindred humours e’er would make

My spirit droop for drooping’s sake,

From Fancy following in thy wake,

Bright ship of heaven!

A counter impulse let me take

And be forgiven. 

Poem – London 1802

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life’s common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

Poem – Lines Written in Early Spring

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And ’tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man? 

Poem – It is not to be Thought of

. It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea

Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity

Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,”

Roused though it be full often to a mood

Which spurns the check of salutary bands,

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands

Should perish; and to evil and to good

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung

Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue

That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold

Which Milton held.–In every thing we are sprung

Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold. 

Poem – It is a Beauteous Evening

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; 

The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea: 

Listen! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder – everlastingly. 

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year, 

And worship’st at the Temple’s inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

Poem – In Due Observance of an Ancient Rite

IN due observance of an ancient rite,
The rude Biscayans, when their children lie

Dead in the sinless time of infancy,

Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white;

And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright,

They bind the unoffending creature’s brows

With happy garlands of the pure white rose:

Then do a festal company unite

In choral song; and, while the uplifted cross

Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 

Uncovered to his grave: ’tis closed,–her loss

The Mother ‘then’ mourns, as she needs must mourn;

But soon, through Christian faith, is grief subdued;

And joy returns, to brighten fortitude. 

Mirror – Nikita Yurievich Lubennikov

In morn you are looking in the mirror and you see 

Reflection of the past years, gloom-and-doom.

Behind is your life, it is quite definite, 

Beyond is emptiness and brume. 
It is well known that the mirror never lies, 

It is the truthful glass in frame of wood.

The only thought: what is the weather, 

Nothing to say about grief and solitude.
The work is over. Shop windows, bright and nice, 

Run after you in repetition.

All things are on big sale, with their own price, 

The city looks like painting exhibition. 
You shave in morn, you make a cut, you feel some pain.

Forgetting that the spring already came, 

You put your winter coat on again

And warm yourself with the forgotten flame. 
Years run: ten, twenty, thirty, forty…

They are not worth a count anymore.

Now the mirror is a little scared

That it will fail to recognize as it did before. 

I Wish – Nikita Yurievich Lubennikov

I wish that the mutual love would command all the way, 
I wish with your kisses to start and to end every day.

I wish love to gift us with children and flowers, 

I wish the fulfillment of all dreams of ours.

I wish that the world would be saved by the beauty, 

That to feed all the poor would be my first duty.

I wish that my humble lines would stimulate

You to pray for all strays, to eradicate hate.

I wish that the good would prevail and that love

Would reign your home in peace from above. 

Haruki Murakami A Wild Sheep Chase – Nikita Yurievich Lubennikov

Once at a November night, when I was fast asleep alone, 
The Man-Sheep made a visit to my room.

The snow covered a white blanket in gray loom, 

In my strange dream I heard a very low groan.
The air of Hokkaido cuts the thickets quietude, 

The soft earth melts like fresh butter under feet.

The Man-Sheep sits and smokes on the bridge of wood.

The solitude descends from mountains and waits for me.
Some time ago wife deserted suddenly, 

Than some anonymous girl (I called her Kiki, just to be polite) .

Now Time has pressed, with some melancholy

The emptiness supplants my happy patches of sunlight.
A mountain brook stumbles over boulders great, 

It babbles, tinkles and breaks the silence dead.

The life is flowing along the channels of the Fate

From its unknown source to its determined end. 

Good Bye My Love Good Bye – Nikita Lurievich Lubennikov

The life will pass without you…
Cold autumn, fallen leaves and rain.

Time, the friend, cures all deep wounds, 

Dries up the streams of bitter tears.

The abysm of solitude looks like the hell, 

The funeral of love as if a sudden snow

On a blooming garden fell.

Cold autumn, storm of stresses, 

The first snow covered naked sloppy earth.

We can not come back, we only go forth.

The life will pass without you… 

Poem – Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower

Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A Lady of my own.
“Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.
“She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And her’s shall be the breathing balm,

And her’s the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.
“The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the Storm

Grace that shall mold the Maiden’s form

By silent sympathy.
“The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.
“And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell.”
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—

How soon my Lucy’s race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be. 

Poem – There was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
And islands of Winander!–many a time, 

At evening, when the earliest stars began 

To move along the edges of the hills, 

Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; 

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 

That they might answer him.–And they would shout 

Across the watery vale, and shout again, 

Responsive to his call,–with quivering peals, 

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 

Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild 

Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause 

Of silence such as baffled his best skill: 

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 

Has carried far into his heart the voice 

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene 

Would enter unawares into his mind 

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 

Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and died 

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 

Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 

Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs 

Upon a slope above the village-school; 

And, through that church-yard when my way has led 

On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 

A long half-hour together I have stood 

Mute–looking at the grave in which he lies! 

Poem – The Wishing Gate

[In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of an old highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, from time out of 

mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that 

wishes formed or indulged there have a favorable issue.]
HOPE rules a land forever green:

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen

Are confident and gay;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;

Points she to aught?—the bliss draws near,

And Fancy smooths the way.
Not such the land of Wishes—there

Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,

And thoughts with things at strife;

Yet how forlorn, should ye depart

Ye superstitions of the heart,

How poor, were human life!
When magic lore abjured its might,

Ye did not forfeit one dear right,

One tender claim abate;

Witness this symbol of your sway,

Surnving near the public way,

The rustic Wishing-gate!
Inquire not if the faery race

Shed kindly influence on the place,

Ere northward they retired;

If here a warrior left a spell,

Panting for glory as he fell;

Or here a saint expired.
Enough that all arouud is fair,

Composed with Nature’s finest care,

And in her fondest love—

Peace to embosom and content—

To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.
Yea! even the Stranger from afar,

Reclining on this moss-grown bar,

Unknowing, and unknown,

The infection of the ground partakes,

Longing for his Beloved—who maker

All happiness her own.
Then why should conscious Spirits fear

The mystic stirrings that are here,

The ancient faith disclaim?

The local Genius ne’er befriends

Desires whose course in folly ends,

Whose just reward is shame.
Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,

If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,

Here crave an easier lot;

If some have thirsted to renew

A broken vow, or bind a true,

With firmer, holier knot.
And not in vain, when thoughts are cast

Upon the irrevocable past,

Some Penitent sincere

May for a worthier future sigh,

While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.
The Worldling, pining to be freed

From turmoil, who would turn or speed

The current of his fate,

Might stop before this favored scene,

At Nature’s call, nor blush to lean

Upon the Wishing-gate.
The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak

Is man, though loth such help to seek,

Yet, passing, here might pause,

And thirst for insight to allay

Misgiving, while the crimson day

In quietness withdraws;
Or when the church-clock’s knell profound

To Time’s first step across the bound

Of midnight makes reply

Time pressing on with starry crest,

To filial sleep upon the breast

Of dread eternity. 

Poem – Crazy

1.Oh yes, friend! I’m crazy-

that’s just the way I am.
2.

I see sounds, 

I hear sights, 

I taste smells, 

I touch not heaven but things from the underworld, 

things people do not believe exist, 

whose shapes the world does not suspect.

Stones I see as flowers

lying water-smoothed by the water’s edge, 

rocks of tender forms

in the moonlight

when the heavenly sorceress smiles at me, 

putting out leaves, softening, glistening, 

throbbing, they rise up like mute maniacs, 

like flowers, a kind of moon-bird’s flowers.

I talk to them the way they talk to me, 

a language, friend, 

that can’t be written or printed or spoken, 

can’t be understood, can’t be heard.

Their language comes in ripples to the moonlit Ganges banks, 

ripple by ripple-

oh yes, friend! I’m crazy-

that’s just the way I am.
3.

You’re clever, quick with words, 

your exact equations are right forever and ever.

But in my arithmetic, take one from one-

and there’s still one left.

You get along with five senses, 

I with a sixth.

You have a brain, friend, 

I have a heart.

A rose is just a rose to you-

to me it’s Helen and Padmini.

You are forceful prose

I liquid verse.

When you freeze I melt, 

When you’re clear I get muddled

and then it works the other way around.

Your world is solid, 

mine vapor, 

yours coarse, mine subtle.

You think a stone reality; 

harsh cruelty is real for you.

I try to catch a dream, 

the way you grasp the rounded truth of cold, sweet coin.

I have the sharpness of the thorn, 

you of gold and diamonds.

You think the hills are mute-

I call them eloquent.

Oh yes, friend! 

I’m free in my inebriation-

that’s just the way I am.
4.

In the cold of the month of Magh

I sat

warming to the first white heat of the star.

the world called me drifty.

When they saw me staring blankly for seven days

after I came back from the burning ghats

they said I was a spook.

When I saw the first marks of the snows of time

in a beautiful woman’s hair

I wept for three days.

When the Buddha touched my soul

they said I was raving.

They called me a lunatic because I danced

when I heard the first spring cuckoo.

One dead-quite moon night

breathless I leapt to my feet, 

filled with the pain of destruction.

On that occasion the fools

put me in the stocks, 

One day I sang with the storm-

the wise men

sent me off to Ranchi.

Realizing that same day I myself would die

I stretched out on my bed.

A friend came along and pinched me hard

and said, Hey, madman, 

your flesh isn’t dead yet! 

For years these things went on.

I’m crazy, friend-

that’s just the way I am.
5.

I called the Navab’s wine blood, 

the painted whore a corpse, 

and the king a pauper.

I attacked Alexander with insults, 

and denounced the so-called great souls.

The lowly I have raised on the bridge of praise

to the seventh heaven.

Your learned pandit is my great fool, 

your heaven my hell, 

your gold my iron, 

friend! Your piety my sin.

Where you see yourself as brilliant

I find you a dolt.

Your rise, friend-my decline.

That’s the way our values are mixed up, 

friend! 

Your whole world is a hair to me.

Oh yes, friend, I’m moonstruck through and through-

moonstruck! 

That’s just the way I am.
6.

I see the blind man as the people’s guide, 

the ascetic in his cave a deserter; 

those who act in the theater of lies

I see as dark buffoons.

Those who fail I find successful, 

and progress only backsliding.

am I squint-eyed, 

Or just crazy? 

Friend, I’m crazy.

Look at the withered tongues of shameless leaders, 

The dance of the whores

At breaking the backbone on the people’s rights.

When the sparrow-headed newsprint spreads its black lies

In a web of falsehood

To challenge Reason-the hero in myself-

My cheeks turn red, friend, 

red as molten coal.

When simple people drink dark poison with their ears

Thinking it nectar-

and right before my eyes, friend! –

then every hair on my body stands up stiff

as the Gorgon’s serpent hair-

every hair on me maddened! 

When I see the tiger daring to eat the deer, friend, 

or the big fish the little, 

then into my rotten bones there comes

the terrible strength of the soul of Dadhichi

and tries to speak, friend, 

like the stormy day crashing down from heaven with the lightning.

When man regards a man

as not a man, friend, 

then my teeth grind together, all thirty-two, 

top and bottom jaws, 

like the teeth if Bhimasena.

And then

red with rage my eyeballs rool

round and round, with one sweep

like a lashing flame

taking in this inhuman human world.

My organs leap out of theirs frames-

uproar! Uproar! 

my breathing becomes a storm, 

my face distorted, my brain on fire, friend! 

with a fire like those that burn beneath the sea, 

like the fire that devours the forests, 

frenzied, friend! 

as one who would swallow the wide world raw.

Oh yes, my friend, 

the beautiful chakora am I, 

destroyer of the ugly, 

both tender and cruel, 

the bird that steals the heaven’s fire, 

child of the tempest, 

spew of the insane volcano, 

terror incarnate.

Oh yes, friend, 

my brain is whirling, whirling-

that’s just the way I am.
Published.1953.

(Translated from original Nepali version) 

Poem – Fancy’s Wings

How I praise thy sweetness

that ever grows since ancient times

and never failed to bless

man’s rhymes.
From Homer to Cædman

and from Virgil to John

thy fragrance and frolic effect

making man’s soul prophetic. 
How often you are assumed 

In falling rain and in the rising sun, 

In joys and in grief, we are blessed

by thy lasting relief.
Ages gone but mortals praising

never eclipsed. O good nature! 

Let my fancy to make

my rhymes lasting long. 

Poem – Fall of Troy

Learnt from Chapman’s Homer, 
A story full of grace and glamour.

Killings of Royals, warriors and multitude

Fall of Troy is

A melodrama of ancient attitude

Sans merci, sans certitude
War that was waged in heavens

Amongst deities of love, wedding and wisdom, 

To be crowned one 

The fairest of heavenly kingdom. 
Poor Paris from Trojan race

Chose to settle that celestial FACE.

Ah! This sin of Prince was un-forgiven, 

Brought thousands ships towards Trojan haven.
The wall of Troy

Besieged by savage and sages

For term of ten years ages.

Prince Hector the decent, daredevil

Embraced Achilles` wrath and kissed the peril.
Days and nights, round the clock

Trojans and Achaeans clashed like a giant rocks

Hector, Aeneas, Paris, Agenor and Sarpedon, 

Achilles, Odysseus, Ajax, Patroclus and Agamemnon.

For worthless love and fairy

Troy lost her grace and glory 

Poem – Exodus

Flight of the reason and values
left our cultures sterile

and brains barren: 

a proven PERILE that takes

man into wilderness.
The evil temptations

(like a gentle breeze) 

luring the minds, and carry

souls to the Pluto’s shrine. 

The innocence of man 

has transformed into iniquity, 

that digitising his pure romance

(once was in Nature’s trance) 
From Buddha to Jesus

and from Nile to Olympus; 

the ‘VISION’ that always had enlightened the hearts, now

enthralled by Lucifer’s charms… 

Poem – Evolution

Isn’t that inglorious
to deny the FACT that

‘we are fostering a devil inside’ 

And secretly abide

The villainous creed 

And adorn our evil deeds

And envenom the world around.

Let’s embrace

Those forgotten pages

Taught by the ancient sages

From Cro-Magnon to Homo-erectus

“We slaughtered our fellows and dined on their flesh”

Ah! We the Homo sapiens

A savage creature

Evolved through ages, 

Veiling our ignorance

In words rhymed in rhythm

And dress our nudity

In Gucci, Lacoste, Armani and jack n Jones

Ah! the truth hardly known. 

Poem – Demons Reign

This havoc of the century new, burns 

my wondering eyes; and

slowly taking on all the glamour of alluring life, 

but still i host resistance from the glutton bellies: 

often they babbling sillily.
I pass and pause, but 

two steps forward drag me miles bak, 

Ah! no asylum in retreat.

How can i wipe off 

my (teary) eyes with hollow smiles? 
behold! the golden sky turning dark 

and dyes heaven; and the demons reign

begins, that incessantly showers 

fortunes false, upon the wrecked hearts, 

immersed in dark. 

Poem – Da Vinci Code

This life is full of 
tittering jeering emptiness 

and unacceptable too,  

so I painted myself like a Hero: 

no less than the Marvel’s One.

A holy spirit I framed this myself 

and started moving along

the silent winds, to climb

the flirting stars and was

singing Milton’s songs.

 

Wearing white 

in that dark cold night,  

my flight in the falling mist 

was full of horror and fright, 

and when I past the worldly time- 

that measures the melting hours- 

down I saw glares and glows unknown, 

and heard thousands of filthy groans,  

which left my reason 

numbed and vision blind.

 

A high treason it would be  

in the seventh sky, as I got to know

that MAN is a fleck of dust, 

but worthy more than the ten commandments, 

and sacred like the Da Vinci code… 

Oh come on K 

WTH you’re talking?  

it’s too boring, isn’t. 

let’s have some drink and 

a little nap instead.  

Poem – D’ Wine

Mistaken by the subsequent races
The STORY of god and His traces; 

From Solon to Solomon, and

from Moses to Marx, and of course, 

From necromancy to theocracy.

How can He only be a Semitic, 

and mute in Gallic and in Attic? 

THESE are nothing but fancies, and

an aura of Romance, that brought

humanity in trance, to cease their peace and

Freedom with an uncertain attitude; 

And fool the Mortals as a child.
How graciously marked by a Renaissance`s soul, that

there is no sin but ignorance, and

count religion but a childish toy.

Isnt THIS a fable or old wives tales? 

Priest, monk, Saint, cleric and rabbi

These are but heralds of heaven and hell, 

Claimed to be revealed with

scriptures sealed, that deluded

the truth that was ‘cognate’ to man.

The mysteries of life and death

Of good and evil, Of heaven and hell, 

Aren`t illusions and mantal repressions? 

That viciously drafted to hail their worldly vision. 

Poem – Contemporary Verse

My contemporary verses 
need not to make any sense, 

nor map

any heart’s feelings or aesthetic worth.

May be these unrhymed sounds

reflect Oxymoron and Enjambment, 

and(perhaps) no metaphor at all.

and possibly full of nonsense: weird 

And must not hoity – toity.
I don’t care

If my verses (contemporáneo) 

twitch and fret

Your poesy sense 

Or fail

to elate your sabiduría.(once it supposed to) 

And behold! 

it’s all personal narración: 

may terribly please you

Or

Leave you pissed. 

Poem – Come Close

Come close, 
and look into my eyes

Scan my soul and soothe

my fear and cries.

How could I savour a life`s boon, 

As been fooled 

like Delilah’s groom.So

lured my fancies and verses undone, 

like Samson, in the temple of Dagon.
Wrinkled, wane and wailing 

Desolate, distress and have been ailing, 

Dream of days; 

spent with you, 

when sorrows hewed and joys grew, 

with the rising sun till the evening dew, 

wandering far hand in hand and 

never adieu. 

Ah! Soon my soul is ceased to be

Wish thy mercy 

have on me. 

Poem – Lost Paradise

Can’t you see my strong pulsation? 
Beating in persuasion

And longing for for lost

Sensation.

I

Once

Thy pride

A sweet loving bride, 

My swollen breast and rosy cheeks

Coral lips and hazel eyes

And a fairy’s charm

Ah! Sank and

Gone.

By a stroke of fate 

Lost my faith, in love, in care, 

And now I host a never ending fear.

Don’t know how and why

Like a fallen angel

Cast off the sky.

Now

Thou art gone 

And I have nothing 

But few solemn tears 

and leading steps to doom

for my love and for my groom. 

Xelam Kan

Poem – Lost in Love

Did you hear a rhythm divine? 
That was tuned in the forsaken shrine, 

so was that bashful virgin

Dressed in a pure blue and white linen.
Come and listen to her rhymes

in a sad, foreign tune-yet sublime-

sings a story in a plaintive tone

try to sooth herself but in vain.
Might she had a misfortune past

That ignited her passion and seized her heart.

look! her pair of blue eyes, 

Yielding nothing but tears in prize.
Though I passed her silently

Yet it stirred my thoughts violently. 

Poem – Live Life

love, that dwells
in you as fragrance or tears 

in eyes, 

and it comes only when you 

gets hurt and forlorn, but this loneliness

sometimes feels good but never feels right.
This heart only be filled with unforgotten

moments of pleasure and pain: 

love and not to be loved? or

to be and not to be…

(then WTH my heart swarmed with, 

that smeared all the beauties around) .
We all are here my dears 

to laugh at the odds and 

never complain, and should 

live our lives, 

as to ponder even a Death, 

if it dare to take us. 

Poem – Rose Petals

The darkness is drifting slowly away
and made her alarmed in sleep

and dismay.

Dreams that made her charms

more radiant, 

But now melted it as mist at day.
It’s a miserable poignancy 

That reflects a lover`s tendency

And can only be rejoiced

If it blessed as a beloved choice.
Ah! How hypnotic was that scene

That amused my heart serene, 

When her dazzling smile

Caused a dimple sweet for a while.
Let my heart be bloomed

in your love, 

With those bosom peaks and rosy cheeks; 

to hold them close

As petals of rose. 

Poem – Rise of the Fallen

Raise…………
O forsaken and dejected but libertine souls! 

Tho`r beaten badly afore, 

And blessed with death on the farthest shores, 

But the world is not yet done

behold! the celestial bodies stick to their restless turns.
We are the souls, dare to challenge

The heavens’ heights-

And trampled all the fears and fright, 

Let’s stand and ride the rainbows, 

And stretch your wings

Beyond heavens and hells, 

And to roam in the skies.
And to seek salvation

-For those who`r condemned-

With our mighty swings.

Let’s wage a war of another Troy, 

To destroy

The deities and the demigods, 

And their pseudo reverence

That seduces our hearts, 
Stand united my fellow brethren! 

And pour out all

Your wrath, vengeance, insult and hate

And strain all your nerves, 

Unsheathe and raise your swords, spears and bows

And march to the heavens` gates……

The eternity belong to us

The Armageddon is just begun. 

Poem – Reasoning Dark

suddenly my steps were halted by 
some whispering sobs, and saw some scattered petals

trodden on the ground, as 

kissed by frosty wind, that

had ravished its charm.

i asked: what ail thee, O bonny boon! 

she teared and sadly tuned: 

‘you humans claimed to be the only one; 

where god’s spirit dwells, 

And sent by Him to shun 

the Evil and the miseries of your fellow one; 

But instead you’r multiplying 

their agonies and frustrations, 

and call it your wild sensations.

O! you enemy of the righteousness; 

full of all deceit and villainy 

how dare you hoping for a heaven

if follow the will of Satan! 

‘prudent though you are

And foreseeth the Evil, but

the blindness of your heart

making your ‘reasoning’ dark. 

Poem – The Blackbird

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. 

Poem – Tears, Idle Tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 

And thinking of the days that are no more. 
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 

That brings our friends up from the underworld, 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the verge; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 
Dear as remembered kisses after death, 

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 

On lips that are for others; deep as love, 

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 

O Death in Life, the days that are no more! 

Poem – Sweet and Low

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the best,

Silver sails all out of the west,

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

Poem – Summer Nights

NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:

The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,

And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,

And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves

A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake:

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me. 

Poem – Spring

Birds’ love and birds’ song
Flying here and there,

Birds’ songand birds’ love

And you with gold for hair!

Birds’ songand birds’ love

Passing with the weather,

Men’s song and men’s love,

To love once and forever.
Men’s love and birds’ love,

And women’s love and men’s!

And you my wren with a crown of gold,

You my queen of the wrens!

You the queen of the wrens —

We’ll be birds of a feather,

I’ll be King of the Queen of the wrens,

And all in a nest together. 

Poem – Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Poem – Requiescat

Fair is her cottage in its place,
Where yon broad water sweetly slowly glides.

It sees itself from thatch to base

Dream in the sliding tides. 
And fairer she, but ah how soon to die!

Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease.

Her peaceful being slowly passes by

To some more perfect peace. 

Poem – Politics

We move, the wheel must always move,
Nor always on the plain,

And if we move to such a goal

As wisdom hopes to gain,

Then you that drive, and know your Craft.

Will firmly hold the rein,

Nor lend an ear to random cried,

Or you may drive in vain,

For some cry ‘Quick’ and some cry ‘Slow’

But, while the hills remain,

Up hill ‘Too-slow’ will need the whip,

Down hill ‘Too-quick’ the chain. 

Poem – Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:

Above her shook the starry lights:

She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,

Self-gather’d in her prophet-mind,

But fragments of her mighty voice

Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro’ town and field

To mingle with the human race,

And part by part to men reveal’d

The fulness of her face–
Grave mother of majestic works,

From her isle-altar gazing down,

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,

And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years

Is in them. May perpetual youth

Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine,

Make bright our days and light our dreams,

Turning to scorn with lips divine

The falsehood of extremes! 

Poem – O ,Were I Loved as I Desire to Be

O, were I loved as I desire to be!
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,

Or range of evil between death and birth,

That I should fear, – if I were loved by thee!

All the inner, all the outer world of pain,

Clear love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine;

As I have heard that somewhere in the main

Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine.

‘I were joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee,

To wait for death – mute – careless of all ills,

Apart upon a mountain, though the surge

Of some new deluge from a thousand hills

Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge

Below us, as far on as eye could see. 

Poem – O Beauty, Passing Beauty

O beauty, passing beauty! Sweetest sweet!
How can thou let me waste my youth in sighs?

I only ask to sit beside thy feet.

Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes.

Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold

My arms about thee–scarcely dare to speak.

And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,

As with one kiss to touch thy blessed cheek.

Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control

Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat

The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,

The bare word “kiss” hath made my inner soul

To tremble like a lute string, ere the note

Hath melted in the silence that it broke. 

Poem – Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font;

The firefly wakens, waken thou with me. 
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,

And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 
Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 

And all thy heart lies open unto me. 
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves

A shining furrow, as thy thoughts, in me. 
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake.

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me. 

Poem – Move Eastward, Happy Earth

Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow: 

From fringes of the faded eve, 

O, happy planet, eastward go: 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 

Thy silver sister world, and rise 

To glass herself in dewey eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 
Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 

Dip forward under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage-morn, 

And round again to happy night. 

Poem – Marriage Morning

O mighty-mouth’d inventor of harmonies,
O skill’d to sing of Time or Eternity,

God-gifted organ-voice of England,

Milton, a name to resound for ages;

Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,

Starr’d from Jehovah’s gorgeous armouries,

Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean

Rings to the roar of an angel onset–

Me rather all that bowery loneliness,

The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,

And bloom profuse and cedar arches

Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,

Where some refulgent sunset of India

Streams o’er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,

And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods

Whisper in odorous heights of even. 

Poem – Milton 

O mighty-mouth’d inventor of harmonies,

O skill’d to sing of Time or Eternity,

God-gifted organ-voice of England,

Milton, a name to resound for ages;

Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,

Starr’d from Jehovah’s gorgeous armouries,

Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean

Rings to the roar of an angel onset–

Me rather all that bowery loneliness,

The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,

And bloom profuse and cedar arches

Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,

Where some refulgent sunset of India

Streams o’er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,

And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods

Whisper in odorous heights of even. 

Poem – Mariana in the South

With one black shadow at its feet,
The house thro’ all the level shines,

Close-latticed to the brooding heat,

And silent in its dusty vines:

A faint-blue ridge upon the right,

An empty river-bed before,

And shallows on a distant shore,

In glaring sand and inlets bright.

But “Aye Mary,” made she moan,

And “Aye Mary,” night and morn,

And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
She, as her carol sadder grew,

From brow and bosom slowly down

Thro’ rosy taper fingers drew

Her streaming curls of deepest brown

To left and right, and made appear,

Still-lighted in a secret shrine,

Her melancholy eyes divine,

The home of woe without a tear.

And “Aye Mary,” was her moan,

“Madonna, sad is night and morn;”

And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
Till all the crimson changed, and past

Into deep orange o’er the sea,

Low on her knees herself she cast,

Before Our Lady murmur’d she:

Complaining, “Mother, give me grace

To help me of my weary load.”

And on the liquid mirror glow’d

The clear perfection of her face.

“Is this the form,” she made her moan,

“That won his praises night and morn?”

And “Ah,” she said, “but I wake alone,

I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.” 
Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,

Nor any cloud would cross the vault,

But day increased from heat to heat,

On stony drought and steaming salt;

Till now at noon she slept again,

And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass,

And heard her native breezes pass,

And runlets babbling down the glen.

She breathed in sleep a lower moan,

And murmuring, as at night and morn

She thought, “My spirit is here alone,

Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.” 
Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:

She felt he was and was not there.

She woke: the babble of the stream

Fell, and, without, the steady glare

Shrank one sick willow sere and small.

The river-bed was dusty-white;

And all the furnace of the light

Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whisper’d, with a stifled moan

More inward than at night or morn,

“Sweet Mother, let me not here alone

Live forgotten and die forlorn.” 
And, rising, from her bosom drew

Old letters, breathing of her worth,

For “Love”, they said, “must needs be true,

To what is loveliest upon earth.”

An image seem’d to pass the door,

To look at her with slight, and say,

“But now thy beauty flows away,

So be alone for evermore.”

“O cruel heart,” she changed her tone,

“And cruel love, whose end is scorn,

Is this the end to be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die forlorn?” 
But sometimes in the falling day

An image seem’d to pass the door,

To look into her eyes and say,

“But thou shalt be alone no more.”

And flaming downward over all

From heat to heat the day decreased,

And slowly rounded to the east

The one black shadow from the wall.

“The day to night,” she made her moan,

“The day to night, the night to morn,

And day and night I am left alone

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
At eve a dry cicala sung,

There came a sound as of the sea;

Backward the lattice-blind she flung,

And lean’d upon the balcony.

There all in spaces rosy-bright

Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears,

And deepening thro’ the silent spheres

Heaven over Heaven rose the night.

And weeping then she made her moan,

“The night comes on that knows not morn,

When I shall cease to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 

Be Kind – Charles Bukowski

we are always asked
to understand the other person’s

viewpoint

no matter how

out-dated

foolish or

obnoxious.
one is asked

to view

their total error

their life-waste

with

kindliness,

especially if they are

aged.
but age is the total of

our doing.

they have aged

badly

because they have

lived

out of focus,

they have refused to

see.
not their fault?
whose fault?

mine?
I am asked to hide

my viewpoint

from them

for fear of their

fear.
age is no crime
but the shame

of a deliberately

wasted

life
among so many

deliberately

wasted

lives
is. 

A Smile to Remember – Charles Bukowski

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes

covering the picture window and

my mother, always smiling, wanting us all

to be happy, told me, ‘be happy Henry!’

and she was right: it’s better to be happy if you

can

but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while

raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn’t

understand what was attacking him from within. 
my mother, poor fish,

wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a

week, telling me to be happy: ‘Henry, smile!

why don’t you ever smile?’ 
and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the

saddest smile I ever saw 
one day the goldfish died, all five of them,

they floated on the water, on their sides, their

eyes still open,

and when my father got home he threw them to the cat

there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother

smiled 

Alone with Everybody – Charles Bukowski

the flesh covers the bone 
and they put a mind 

in there and 

sometimes a soul, 

and the women break 

vases against the walls 

and the men drink too 

much 

and nobody finds the 

one 

but keep 

looking 

crawling in and out 

of beds. 

flesh covers 

the bone and the 

flesh searches 

for more than 

flesh. 
there’s no chance 

at all: 

we are all trapped 

by a singular 

fate. 
nobody ever finds 

the one. 
the city dumps fill 

the junkyards fill 

the madhouses fill 

the hospitals fill 

the graveyards fill 
nothing else 

fills. 

An Almost Made Up Poem – Charles Bukowski

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny

they are small, and the fountain is in France

where you wrote me that last letter and

I answered and never heard from you again.

you used to write insane poems about

ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you

knew famous artists and most of them

were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,

go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous

because we’ never met. we got close once in

New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never

touched. so you went with the famous and wrote

about the famous, and, of course, what you found out

is that the famous are worried about

their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed

with them, who gives them that, and then awakens

in the morning to write upper case poems about

ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told

us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe

it was the upper case. you were one of the

best female poets and I told the publishers, 

editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’

magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you

like a man loves a woman he never touches, only

writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have

loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a

cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,

but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.

your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all

lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said

you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and

the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying

bench every night and wept for the lovers who had

hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never

heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide

3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you

I would probably have been unfair to you or you

to me. it was best like this.