When took a dip in Ganga
that pink sari
imbibed a lot of Advaitha.
…glued to her skin
and lost identity…
became a mound of her mounds
curve of her curves
and dip of her dips.
I knew how euphoric that pinky felt
When dried up and separated from her
…retained her shape.
Fair one, you did on me bestow
Comparisons too sweet to ow;
And but I found them sent from you
I durst not think they could be true.
But ’tis your uncontrolled power
Goddess-like to produce a flower,
And by your breath, without more seed,
Make that a Pink which was a Weed.
Because I would be loth to miss
So sweet a Metamorphosis,
Upon what stalk soere I grow
Disdain not you sometimes to blow
And cherish by your Virgin eye
What in your frown would droop and die:
So shall my thankful leaf repay
Perfumed wishes every day:
And o’re your fortune breathe a spell
Which may his obligation tell,
Who though he nought but air can give
Must ever your (Sweet) creature live.
This peach is pink with such a pink
As suits the peach divinely;
The cunning colour rarely spread
Fades to the yellow finely;
But where to spy the truest pink
Is in my Love’s soft cheek, I think.
The snowdrop, child of windy March,
Doth glory in her whiteness;
Her golden neighbours, crocuses,
Unenvious praise her brightness!
But I do know where, out of sight,
My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.
The waves roll back and forth,
crashing. Always crashing.
It crests and then falls,
tumbling down and uprooting the serenity of placement beneath it.
So too do bits of hardened sand and stone get washed away,
exposing the soft clay beneath.
Pounded and damaged, a hurt looking life.
The marmoset turns and blinks; a slow, painstaking blink.
And so, the rain begins.
I can set out on a world tour
On foot, holding your fingers,
Your beautiful, pink fingers.
I can spend years in meditation
Like a sage, if you let me clench
Your pink fingers in my fist.
I can embark on a parachute jump
From the top of the Mt. Everest,
If I have with me, your pink fingers.
I can write a poem every morning,
Only if every night I go to sleep
Holding one or more of your fingers.
My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,
Disturbs the velvet of the dark night’s mantle,
By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,
Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood —
And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,
And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,
And smile to me, and hear I the voice:
My friend, my sweetest friend… I love… I’m yours… I’m yours!
The moon rises. The red cubs rolling
In the ferns by the rotten oak
Stare over a marsh and a meadow
To the farm’s white wisp of smoke.
A spark burns, high in heaven.
Deer thread the blossoming rows
Of the old orchard, rabbits
Hop by the well-curb. The cock crows
From the tree by the widow’s walk;
Two stars in the trees to the west,
Are snared, and an owl’s soft cry
Runs like a breath through the forest.
Here too, though death is hushed, though joy
Obscures, like night, their wars,
The beings of this world are swept
By the Strife that moves the stars.