Sahi Bato – Yuddha Prasad Mishra

संकीर्णताको परखाल नाघी
यथार्थ वैज्ञानिक पन्थ लागी
पीडितमा जागृति बत्ति बाल
भगाइद्यौ भारतका दलाल

प्रगति भो अब व्यापक जाज्वल
परिसके प्रतिगामीहरू तल
उठिसक्यो भई व्यापक जागृति
उदित भै जनमानसको स्थिति

विजयको भई दर्पण शानमा
प्रवल भै मनको बलिदानमा
जनजागृत भै उठदै गयो
परपीडनता टुट्दै गयो

असही शोषण जागृति हो सही
जनयथार्थ कुरो बीचमा नरही
फगत नित्य रुचाइ विलासता
रहन संभव छैन कतै यता

Butterfly – Zachary Zuccaro

The body serves as a caterpillar
to house the soul in its larval state
while maturing;
then the soul blossoms
like a butterfly
with power and beauty
far greater than the body could ever have.
A fluttering glory
transcending time and space,
a brilliant light blinking into existence
and exuding brilliance.

Poem – The King Goes To War

The wild geese fly the bushy oaks around,
With clamor loud. Suh-suh their wings resound,
As for their feet poor resting-place is found.
The King’s affairs admit of no delay.
Our millet still unsown, we haste away.
No food is left our parents to supply;
When we are gone, on whom can they rely?
O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar,
When shall our homes receive us from the war?

The wild geese on the bushy jujube-trees
Attempt to settle and are ill at ease;–
Suh-suh their wings go flapping in the breeze.
The King’s affairs admit of no delay;
Our millet still unsown, we haste away.
How shall our parents their requirements get?
How in our absence shall their wants be met?
O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar,
When shall our homes receive us from the war?

The bushy mulberry-trees the geese in rows
Seek eager and to rest around them close–
With rustling loud, as disappointment grows.
The King’s affairs admit of no delay;
To plant our rice and maize we cannot stay.
How shall our parents find their wonted food?
When we are gone, who will to them be good?
O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar,
When shall our homes receive us from the war?

My Work – Terence Winch

In my work, at any given point,
the great issues of identity politics
and dialectical absolutism assume
a tight coherence, a profoundly
threatening total awareness
by which I seek to mediate
the conflict between meaning
and the extremes of deconstruction.

I never strike a false note
I believe in savvy artistic
incandescence as a constitutive
enhancement of racy sexuality,
all as a way to examine the
necessity of self-love.

It’s always dangerous to underestimate
my work. I insult the intellectual
dignity of the French. They arrive
in my brightly colored landscape
right after quitting time only to discover
an empty stage set in which all the clueless
actors have wandered off to an installation
of obsolete Marxist sloganeering.

Yeats was deeply immersed in mythology
and so am I. T. S. Eliot preferred Dante
to Shakespeare, but I don’t. Charles Bernstein
loves the way my sentences decompose.
John Ashbery will read my work only
while naked. Everything I do is the pure
output of brains, speed, and skill.

A couple of weeks ago, I digested
Aristotle. I found him to be electrifyingly
ahistorical, and he has now been subsumed
into my work. I have open-ended stratagems
when it comes to the Germans, particularly
Goethe and Kant. They live now in my
imagination. I go way beyond alienation
into a new synthesis of desire and content.

My work stands for something invisible,
something inner. I attempt to explain
the risk of appearing. Foucault would know
how well my work succeeds in revealing
the discourse between power and structure.
When you read my work, you may think
“simile” and “metaphor,” but what you really
get is the storm, the dark mansion, the servant
girl standing alone in Columbus Circle.

Triumph and loss permeate my work.
People should try to pick up on that.
My technical virtuosity is unrivaled.
Don’t talk to me about subject matter.
My work takes “narrative” and turns
it into whatever happened. In my work,
“story” becomes language contemplating
its own articulation in a field of gesture.

There is a higher reality at play in my work.
Sacred memories resonate with perceptual
knowledge of the body as primal text. Yet
my work is never subservient to the dominant
ideology. It circulates warmly and freely
through all variable channels. My work
is like the furniture you so much want to
sink into, but must wait as it wends its way
from distant points in a giant moving truck
screeching across the country
to your new home.

Passive Weather – Ramesh Rai

The sun is annoyed with the earth
that so he is not seen throughout
but aroma of his arrival
spreaded throughout the earth
Air is not humming to – day
stopped mesmerizing the flowers
so, flowers are sad too
not sympathetic with bees even
to sip her nectar today
to view the piteous scene of earth
sky also weeps with drizzling tears
an unforeseen silence stirs the nature
making me bore except
to lean and chat with my poetry.

Poem – Luna

O France, although you sleep
We call you, we the forbidden!
The shadows have ears,
And the depths have cries.

Bitter, glory-less despotism
Over a discouraged people
Closes a black thick grate
Of error and prejudice;

It locks up the loyal swarm
Of firm thinkers, of heroes,
But the Idea with the flap of a wing
Will part the heavy bars,

And, as in ninety-one,
Will retake sovereign flight,
For breaking apart a cage of bronze
Is easy for bronze bird.

Darkness covers the world,
But the Idea illuminates and shines;
With its white brightness it floods
The dark blues of the night.

It is the solitary lantern,
The providential ray;
It is the lamp of the earth
That cannot help but light the sky.

It calms the suffering soul,
Guides life, puts the dead to rest;
It shows the mean the gulf,
It shows the just the way.

In seeing in the dark mist
The Idea, love of sad eyes,
Rise calm, serene and pure,
On the mysterious horizon,

Fanaticism and hatred
Roar before each threshhold,
As obscene hounds howl
When appears the moon in mourning.

Oh! Think of the mighty Idea,
Nations! its superhuman brow
Has upon it, from now on, the light
That will show the way to tomorrow!

poem – psalm 112

The blessings of the liberal man.

That man is blest who stands in awe
Of God, and loves his sacred law:
His seed on earth shall be renowned;
His house the seat of wealth shall be,
An inexhausted treasury,
And with successive honors crowned.

His lib’ral favors he extends,
To some he gives, to others lends;
A gen’rous pity fills his mind:
Yet what his charity impairs,
He saves by prudence in affairs
And thus he’s just to all mankind.

His hands, while they his alms bestowed,
His glory’s future harvest sowed;
The sweet remembrance of the just,
Like a green root, revives and bears
A train of blessings for his heirs,
When dying nature sleeps in dust.

Beset with threat’ning dangers round,
Unmoved shall he maintain his ground;
His conscience holds his courage up:
The soul that’s filled with virtue’s light,
Shines brightest in affliction’s night,
And sees in darkness beams of hope.

PAUSE.

[Ill tidings never can surprise
His heart that fixed on God relies,
Though waves and tempests roar around:
Safe on the rock he sits, and sees
The shipwreck of his enemies,
And all their hope and glory drowned.

The wicked shall his triumph see,
And gnash their teeth in agony,
To find their expectations crossed;
They and their envy, pride, and spite,
Sink down to everlasting night,
And all their names in darkness lost.]

कविता – घाटमा

ए सखी !
दिन बितिसक्यो :
सन्ध्या धरतीमा आइसकी,
अब आङ्खनो गाग्री भर्न घाटमा हिँड !
जलधाराका कल–कल स्वरले सन्ध्याकालको आकाशमा विरक्त
परिदियो ।
त्यो स्वरले मलाई लगातार भनिरहेछ :
आङ्खनो गाग्री भर्न घाटमा हिँड !

यो एकान्त बाटोमा कोही पनि आज छैन,
हावा चंचल भएको छ,
प्रेमको नदीमा गरंग नाचिरहेछन्,
‘म फर्केर आउँछु कि आउँदिनँ, केही पत्तो छैन
कोसँग मेरो भेटघाट होला, कसले जान्दछ र ?
घाटमा भएको सानो डुंगामा बसेर अपरिचित बाँसुरी बजाइरहेछ :
अब आङ्खनो गाग्री भर्न घाटमा हिँड !

Poem – My Father

The memory of my father is wrapped up in
white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work.

Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits
out of his hat, he drew love from his small body,

and the rivers of his hands
overflowed with good deeds.

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.” 

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.” 

Poem – I am With You

It’s completely me –

height 180 centimetres,

measurements 108 by 83 by 107,

weight 73 kilos,

five military qualifications

and even more civilian,

brown hair, green eyes,

born on the occasion

of the Hungarian Uprising,

bashful and christened,

married with three children.

I don’t beat out a rhythm in English,

but I’m of the world.

Send me fan mail,

postcards and gifts,

books and pictures,

busts and bacon,

booze and flowers.

Support your poet

who, instead of you, behaves

like an idiot.

Write to my European address –

Slovakia.

Call me, 

all of you, who love me,

who can’t live without me,

or least die.

Call the number 314 212,

my automatic telephone

will pick up 24 hours a day.

Don’t be ashamed of your feelings.

God is watching you –

at last do something stupid.

Send some dosh to my account

SSS 3478228.

Remit to my pristine account

your dirty money,

I’ll launder it day and night.

You can rely on me 

to spend it all on myself

as opposed to other

charitable institutions,

christmas clubs and other swindles.

I’m waiting for your letters,

spiritual outpourings

and filthy lucre.

I know

that all

the better sort of people are shocked

that the worse have not improved.

They can go

and get stuffed.
(1991) 

The Kraken – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Below the thunders of the upper deep,

Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides: above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; 

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumbered and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages and will lie

Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; 

Then once by men and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. 

The Higher Pantheism – Alfred Lord Tennyson


The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains,-

Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns?

Is not the Vision He, tho’ He be not that which He seems?

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb,

Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him?

Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why,

For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel “I am I”?

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom,

Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendour and gloom.
Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet-

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
God is law, say the wise; O soul, and let us rejoice,

For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice.
Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool,

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool;
And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see;

But if we could see and hear, this Vision-were it not He? 

The Flower – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Once in a golden hour

 I cast to earth a seed.

Up there came a flower,

The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went

Thro’ my garden bower,

And muttering discontent

Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall

It wore a crown of light,

But thieves from o’er the wall

Stole the seed by night.
Sow’d it far and wide

By every town and tower,

Till all the people cried,

‘Splendid is the flower! ‘
Read my little fable:

He that runs may read.

Most can raise the flowers now,

For all have got the seed.
And some are pretty enough,

And some are poor indeed; 

And now again the people

Call it but a weed. 

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Deserted House – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Life and Thought have gone away

Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide.

Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night:

In the windows is no light;

And no murmur at the door,

So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door; the shutters close;

Or through the windows we shall see

The nakedness and vacancy

Of the dark deserted house.
Come away: no more of mirth

Is here or merry-making sound.

The house was builded of the earth,

And shall fall again to ground.
Come away: for Life and Thought

Here no longer dwell;

But in a city glorious – 

A great and distant city -have bought

A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us! 

The Defence of Lucknow – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

I

BANNER of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou

Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry!

Never with mightier glory than when we had rear’d thee on high

Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow—

Shot thro’ the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew,

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
II.

Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives—

Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives!

Hold it we might—and for fifteen days or for twenty at most.

‘Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post!’

Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave:

Cold were his brows when we kiss’d him—we laid him that night in his grave.

‘Every man die at his post!’ and there hail’d on our houses and halls

Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls,

Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade,

Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade,

Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell,

Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro’ it, their shot and their shell,

Death—for their spies were among us, their marksmen were told of our best,

So that the brute bullet broke thro’ the brain that could think for the rest;

Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet—

Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round—

Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street,

Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death in the ground!

Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and creep thro’ the hole!

Keep the revolver in hand! you can hear him—the murderous mole!

Quiet, ah! quiet—wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro’!

Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before—

Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more;

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew!
III.

Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day

Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo ‘d away,

Dark thro’ the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends in their hell—

Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell—

Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell.

What have they done? where is it? Out yonder. Guard the Redan!

Storm at the Water-gate! storm at the Bailey-gate! storm, and it ran

Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side

Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily devour’d by the tide—

So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape?

Kill or be kill’d, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men

Ready! take aim at their leaders—their masses are gapp’d with our grape—

Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again,

Flying and foil’d at the last by the handful they could not subdue;

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
IV.

Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb,

Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure,

Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him;

Still—could we watch at all points? we were every day fewer and fewer.

There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past

‘Children and wives—if the tigers leap into the fold unawares—

Every man die at his post—and the foe may outlive us at last—

Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs!’

Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung

Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades.

Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true!

Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusillades—

Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung,

Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand-grenades;

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
V.

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore

Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more.

Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun—

One has leapt up on the breach, crying out: ‘Follow me, follow me!’—

Mark him—he falls! then another, and him too, and down goes he.

Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors had won?

Boardings and rafters and doors—an embrasure I make way for the gun!

Now double-charge it with grape! It is charged and we fire, and they run.

Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due!

Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few,

Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew,

That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew.
VI.

Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can fight!

But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro’ the night—

Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms,

Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings to arms,

Ever the labour of fifty that had to be done by five,

Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive,

Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around,

Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground,

Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies,

Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies.

Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field,

Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal’d,

Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife,—

Torture and trouble in vain,—for it never could save us a life.

Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed,

Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead,

Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief,

Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief,

Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher’d for all that we knew—

Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shatter’d walls

Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls—

But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
VII.

Hark cannonade, fusillade! is it true what was told by the scout,

Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers?

Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears!

All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout,

Havelock’s glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers,

Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come out,

Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock’s good fusileers,

Kissing the war-harden’d hand of the Highlander wet with their tears!

Dance to the pibroch!—saved! we are saved!—is it you? is it you?

Saved by the valour of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven!

‘Hold it for fifteen days!’ we have held it for eighty-seven!

And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew. 

The Death of the Old Year – 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 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. 

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. 

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.