विभिन्न साहित्यीक सर्जकहरु द्वारा लेखिएको सामाग्रीहरुको भण्डार हो साहित्य संगालो २०१३ साथै ख्याती प्राप्त कलाकार द्वारा रचित बिभिन्न विधाका गीतहरु पनि समावेस गरिएको छ साहित्य संगालो २०१३ मा । यस साहित्य संगालो २०१३ मा विभिन्न अनलाईन मिडियाबाट साभार गरिएका सामाग्रीहरु प्रस्तुत गरिएको छ।
When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety.
When great trees fall in forests, small things recoil into silence, their senses eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die, the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see with a hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken.
Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formed and informed by their radiance, fall away. We are not so much maddened as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves.
And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.
Life as stage of roles, everyone performs when it’s time, We take new roles as we grow We take new roles by what we know, Our performances on each role based on our ability Could be through faith, status, wealth, beauty, character, Some take bad roles, A few take good roles, In between the entrance and exist, we coexist we perform our destiny from entrance to exist we choose our choice, what we do affects another at work, all linked together, our present affect, our absent affect, both the young ones and old ones have many roles to play Our roles end when we are dead Certainly, Best of roles are for Allah, the worst roles aim for world. Allah shall reward us based on aim. Aamiin
My dad gave me one dollar bill ‘Cause I’m his smartest son, And I swapped it for two shiny quarters ‘Cause two is more then one! And then I took the quarters And traded them to Lou For three dimes– I guess he didn’t know That three is more than two! Just then, along came old blind Bates And just ’cause he can’t see He gave me four nickels for my three dimes, And four is more than three! And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs Down at the seed-feed store, And the fool gave me five pennies for them, And five is more than four! And I went and showed my dad, And he got red in the cheeks And closed his eyes and shook his head– Too proud of me to speak!
Where did you get such a dirty face, My darling dirty-faced child? I got it from crawling along in the dirt And biting two buttons off Jeremy’s shirt. I got it from chewing the roots of a rose And digging for clams in the yard with my nose. I got it from peeking into a dark cave And painting myself like a Navajo brave. I got it from playing with coal in the bin And signing my name in cement with my chin. I got if from rolling around on the rug And giving the horrible dog a big hug. I got it from finding a lost silver mine And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine. I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears And from having more fun than you’ve had in years.
Labor and labor,
labor is your destiny.
There is love
There is truth
And there is money.
labor is your destiny.
To establish yourself
Labor is but a necessity.
Make each and every day
A labor day and go on
working with an aim
To attain the truth.
Your labor is unbroken bliss,
Your labor is self-bliss.
Merge into your labor, my dear,
And see how you are winning
The fire and the water,
And see how finer you are here.
The rattle of wind in sclerophyll
is the murmur of cosmic dust
and particle shift. With each break
in the clouds the queue shuffles
a patient step forward.
Beyond the observatory’s dim glow
bush is black as dark matter tonight;
the distant river is negative space,
and the city on the other side
a scattered galaxy.
Swathed in overcoats against the cold
we wait and wait to put an eye to the telescope.
Through a fish-eye lens
the universe gazes back
into the great eye of humanity
orbiting a mundane star on the outer margins
of the Milky Way, one stella cluster
among the infinite.
There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.
A man and a woman lie on a white bed.
It is morning. I think
Soon they will waken.
On the bedside table is a vase
of lilies; sunlight
pools in their throats.
I watch him turn to her
as though to speak her name
but silently, deep in her mouth–
At the window ledge,
a bird calls.
And then she stirs; her body
fills with his breath.
I open my eyes; you are watching me.
Almost over this room
the sun is gliding.
Look at your face, you say,
holding your own close to me
to make a mirror.
How calm you are. And the burning wheel
passes gently over us.
Night covers the pond with its wing.
Under the ringed moon I can make out
your face swimming among minnows and the small
echoing stars. In the night air
the surface of the pond is metal.
Within, your eyes are open. They contain
a memory I recognize, as though
we had been children together. Our ponies
grazed on the hill, they were gray
with white markings. Now they graze
with the dead who wait
like children under their granite breastplates,
lucid and helpless:
The hills are far away. They rise up
blacker than childhood.
What do you think of, lying so quietly
by the water? When you look that way I want
to touch you, but do not, seeing
as in another life we were of the same blood.
Last night beneath the mockery of the moon
I heard the suddenly startled whisperings
Of wakened birds settling their restless wings;
The North-east brought his word of gladness, “Soon!”
And all the night with wonder was a-swoon.
A soul had breathed into long-dreaming things;
Some unseen hand hovered above the strings:
Some cosmic chords had set the earth in tune.
And when I rose I saw the Bay arrayed
In her grey robe against the coming heat.
A pulse awoke within the stirring street–
The wattle-gold upon the pavements thrown,
And through the quiet of the colonnade
The smoky perfume of boronia blown.
There are things
I will never understand.
The pain, the hate that
exists within my life.
There is nothing but time,
there is nothing real.
Truth is a concept,
no one ever sees.
No one ever feels it right,
and inside the truth
are only questions
of pain, of reality,
and a forgoing existence,
that has everyone living
outside the truth
and inside tradition,
opinion and thought.
With all being accepted now.
All truth changes in time…
“Do you remember yesterday?
Was last year the same? ”
In truth, death is reality.
Inside me, I feel alone,
The world still in motion.
People walking, but I’m the only one who has stopped.
I see me and I feel discussed.
I’m not what people want,
I’m as if handicapped, helpless.
I cry yet no one seems to care,
I try to fit in the world’s puzzle, but I seem too different to fit.
I look deep inside myself and there is pain,
New and old still there growing,
Yet no one sees that part of my fairy tale life.
I want the life that these so-called humans have,
But they just won’t allow me as me.
I want to just jump out of this ugly body of mine,
And stop my pretend life and live my true soul.
Till I start moving in motion with the world,
I will curl up as I am now,
Don’t think of the past;
It only awakens painful regrets.
Don’t think of the future;
It paralyzes with uncertain longings.
Better by day to sit like a sack in your chair;
Better by night to lie like a stone in your bed.
When food comes-open your mouth.
When sleeping comes-shut your eyes.
The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky–
So many white clouds–and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches, he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears…
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
कालो चट्याङ्गः पीडाका खरपसहरु दुखेर
जीवनका मृत सागरमा
म रोलर कोस्टरका सपनाहरु देख्दैछु
साइवरयुगीन ‘किस्.कम्’ नाट्यरचना गर्दैछन्
संघात तरङ्गः दन्दनाउँदा रथहरु
भुत्याहा जाहाजहरुमा सवार छन्
कालमसानतिर कल्की अवतारहरु
ए खोई विस्तृत नेपालका सपनाहरु ? के हामी
ब्यूझिसक्यौ र ?
एकीकरणका खुँडाहरु फलामे रक्षाकवच लाएर
व्हेलका दाँतभाँच्न हिडेका छन्
खोई हनुमानध्वजका परिघटनाहरु ?
आउ, फेरि एकपल्ट पत्थरकला बोकेर
जिउँदै शवपरीक्षा हुने वस्ती तिर जाऔं
उः ! वुद्धका कुरा गर्ने वात्सायनहरु
कुरुप सुन्दरीका कुरा गर्दैछन्
ग्राहक पर्खेका मसाज पार्लरहरु
वेवसाइटमा इन्टरनेट फ्रेन्ड फाइन्डरतिर
के हेर्दैछन् ?
‘कामरेड मिटिङमा होइसिन्छ ।’ धनधान्य
कामरेडहरु आश्वस्त छन्
आह ! हामी कसिङ्गर फाल्ने कन्टेनरका खोजीमा कहाँ छौ, कन्टेनर फाल्ने कसिङ्गरका खोजीमा
पो छौं !
काम पाइएन ? त्यसो भए जाऔं टाउकाले टेकेर
जिन्दगी सिङ भाच्चिएका अर्नाहरुको दौड हो
हारे यत्रैसित !
को ठूलो ? सत्रुका हातबाट मारिएका शहीद
कि आफन्तका हातवाट मारिएका शहीद ?
शहीद हुनेहरु सबै निख्रिसकेका छैनन्
यसर्थ विवाद जारी छ
म्यूजियममा हाम्रो इतिहास छ,
विदेशमा हाम्रो वर्तमान छ,
भविष्य हाम्रो कहाँ छ ?
के थाहा ?
हामी राष्ट्रिय निकुञ्जका नेपाली हौं
देश परिवेशः पुरातनपन्थी थकाइमा
मस्त निदाइरहेको बेला
कालापहाड तर्फ लागेका छन्
मुटू कलेजो हराएर
बूढा सुब्बाका जोखनाहरु मूच्छित छन्
सर्वत्र विद्रोही र छापामारका कुरा
भूकम्पीय क्षतिका भविष्यवाणीसहित
आह ! पालतिर हामीले थुप्रै
ट्रमा सेन्टर खोलेका छौं
भगवानहरु सेल्टरमा छन् – छैनन्
तर हामी गरिवहरु
भगवानका मामलामा साह्रै धनी छौं
एम – १६
स्काई ट्रक …
नाइजेरियाली मिसदङ्गाहरु वीच
हामीले पनि वोधिका केही
नयाँ शब्दावली पाएका छौं
हिरासतमा गाँजाखेती गर्छन्
अनि क्यूपर वेल्टतिर कतै
वरफका ढुङ्गाहरु पल्टाउँदै
पिङ्गपङ्ग भाइरस खेल्छन्
आफन्तहरुबाट कति वेचिए
पराइका चेलीवेटीहरु ?
क्यूरियोका सम्बन्धहरु रुन्छन्
खोई कहाँ हराए जामुना गुभाजुहरु ?
आजभोलि कार्टुनीकृत विषादका सिमसारहरुमा
जादुका धुम पो मच्चिएका छन् ।
जसै कुमबाट प्रथमपल्ट हातहरू पलाए
मनुष्यहरू दङ्ग परे
त्यस उप्रान्त यही हतियारले
सभ्यतालाई यो चुचुरासम्म पु-याए ।
हातहरूलेले थरि-थरिका हतियार चलाएपछि
हरप्पा, महेन्जोदाडो र सिन्धुघाटीको सभ्यता टुसाए
हो, यिनै हातले औजारहरू अर्जापेपछि
ताजमहल उभियो, मोनालिसा मुस्कुरायो
हातका औँलाहरू बिथोवन र मोजार्टका छातीमा नाचेपछि
मुलुकका गुन्द्रुक सुकाउँदाझैँ
बाङ्गाटिङ्गा सिमाना र इतिहासका घुम्तीतिर
हातहरूले तीर-भाला र खुँडा-खुकुरीका धारले
हावामा केही काटे
अन्तमा प्रहारगरे बैरीका गर्धनहरूमा छपाछप्
र त मुलुक आफ्नै चारकिल्लाभित्र कायम छ
र त हामी आफ्नै मुलुकका नागरिक कायम छौँ
हातहरू, जसले प्रेमपत्र लेखे…सिउँदोमा सिँदुर हाले
हातहरू, जसले कोक्रो हल्लाउँदै लोरी गाए…
आशिर्वादको टिका लगाइदिए
हातहरू, जसले सपनाको छेउछाउ फूल उमारे…बस्ति बसाए…
हातहरू, जसले पहाड-मधेशमा जात-जातका मानिस
र तिनका इन्द्रेणी-सपनाहरू जोडेर एउटा सिङ्गो देश बनाए
हो तिनै हातहरू अचेल
केटाकेटीका सपनाको सुरक्षामा व्यस्त छन् ।
She sat beside me yesterday
With lip and eye, so blandly smiling,
So full of soul, of life, of light,
So sweetly my lorn heart beguiling
That she had almost made me gay
Had almost charmed the thought away
(Which, like the poisoned desert wind,
Came sick and heavy o’er my mind)
That memory soon mine all would be,
And she would smile no more for me.
Faint from the bell the ghastly echoes fall,
That grates within the grey cathedral tower;
Let me not enter through the portal tall,
Lest the strange spirit of the moonless hour
Should give life to those pale people, who
Lie in their fretted niches, two and two,
Each with his head on pillowy stone reposed,
And his hands lifted, and his eyelids closed.
From many a moldering oriel, as to flout,
Its pale, grave brow of ivy-tressed stone,
Comes the incongruous laugh, and revel shout-
Above, some solitary casement, thrown
Wide-open to the wavering night wind,
Admits its chill, so deathful, yet so kind,
Unto the fevered brow and fiery eye
Of one, whose night hour passeth sleeplessly.
Ye melancholy chambers! I could shun
The darkness of your silence, with such fear,
As places where slow murder has been done,
How many noble spirits have died here
Withering away in yearnings to aspire
Gnawed by mocked hope-devoured by their own fire!
Methinks the grave must feel a colder bed
To spirits such as these, then unto common dead.
Eager anticipation of the upcoming adventure
a journey into foreign lands
filled with undiscovered species
and unseen wonders.
A dragon and a phoenix
perch on a mountain
above the king.
Seven living creatures
with seven eyes and seven wings
sit in a circle
upon seven beryl thrones.
Forty trumpets are sounded
twenty sacrifices offered.
Thirteen priests in scarlet robes
approach the altar
stained with the blood
of a newborn child,
a supplication to the gods
to bring rain to the land.
Much emphasis is placed on knowledge and memory,
intelligence is worshipped and information is mankind’s god.
Yet these too are trivial and shall turn to dust.
People cling to memories yet these too are mortal
and shall fade with age and die with death.
No, what is immortal, and is important
does not age, does not die, and is rarely sought.
Wisdom and love are the fruit of the soul
and these do not age but grow with time.
Yet these treasures are ignored and mocked.
Many people believe they possess wisdom,
yet they do not seek it.
Many covet love, and wish it for themselves,
yet are reluctant to give it,
sharing it only with close friends and family.
Wisdom and love are the food of the soul
yet people stuff their souls with hatred and ignorance,
and while their bodies live healthy and well,
souls suffer and starve.
Wisdom often comes with age but
wisdom does not come from age.
Indeed, there are children who are wise
and elders who are fools.
No, knowledge and wisdom are enemies.
Knowledge is of the world and for the world,
wisdom is of the soul and for the soul.
Knowledge is nothing more than trivial facts
that help make us feel good about ourselves,
but wisdom is true understanding of life and what is life.
Only when one has wisdom, rather than knowledge,
can one truly understand the purpose of dying,
and more importantly, the purpose for living.
Fountainhead and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the desired banks and violets,
And in the whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields!
Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn
Circling above the hamlets as they nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
सारा ढोका र झ्यालहरु लातले खोलेर
डाँकाझै आउँछ हावा कोठाभित्र
र एक छिनमै दराजहरु उघारेर,
कागतपत्रहरु पल्टाई हेरेर
केही नपाउँदा रिसले रन्थनिएर
अरु झ्यालहरुबाट हाम्फालेर भाग्दछ ।
आकाशको आँखा दुखेको छ
ऊसित आँखा जुधाउँदा आफ्नै आँखा पीरो हुन्छ,
ज्वरपीडित सूर्य सकी नसकी हिडिरहेछ आकाशमा
तुवाँलो भुवाको खास्टो ओडेर
झ्यालमा उभिएर एक्लै,
म बाहिर हेरिरहेछु
हेरिरहेछु र सोचिरहेछु–यो कस्तो बसन्त
यो चैतको दिनको कस्तो उराठलाग्दो पहर हो !
यो कस्तो मुर्दा शहर हो !
सडकका दुई किनारमा वसन्तको स्वागतार्थ
हरियो सारी हतार–हतार बेरेर उभिएका झ्याङहरु
अबीरका थाल बोकेका आरुका रुखहरु,
लावाका थाल बोकेका आलुबखडाका रुखहरु
अनि स्कूलका केटाकेटीहरुझैं
सङ्गीन झण्डाहरु हल्लाइरहेका पूmलका सानासाना बोटहरु
वसन्त यहाँ किन आउँछ विदेशी पाहुनाझैं
यो कस्तो औपचारिकता
किन आउँदैन ऊ त्यसरी
जसरी युवावस्थामा जुँघारेखी आउँछ ?
या हर्षमा मुस्कान
आफंै, अनायास र अनजान,
उफ् यो कस्तो वसन्त हो !
जता हे¥यो उतै देखिन्छ
भित्र ठोस हुन छाडेर
बाहिर बाहिरै मात्र बढेर अग्ला भएका
बाँसका ठानाहरुलाई नुहेर
पश्चात्ताप गरिरहेका आफ्m्नो खोक्रोपनमाथि
आफ्नो हातको बलभन्दा
ग¥हुङ्गो रातो पूmल समाएका
दुई हात तल झारेर उभिरहेका
यी लत्रेका हातहरुले रातो पूmल समात्ने के दर्कार
टाढा–टाढासम्म उभिएका छन्
न्यास्रो अनुहार लाएका असङ्ख्य मौन घरहरु
प्रत्येक घरको मुखमा झुुि न्डएको छ विदेशी ताल्चा
भोटे ताल्चा अथवा हिन्दुस्तानी ताल्चा
कुनै घरको मौलिक ओठ छैन
यो कस्तो वसन्त !
खोई मानिसहरुले चोला फेरेको ?
खोई घरहरुले बोक्रा फेरेको
म चिच्याउन चाहन्छु —खोई
तर खोई मेरो आवाज किन निस्कन्न ?
के भयो मेरो आवाजलाई
यो के हो डल्लो गुच्चाजस्तो मेरो घाँटीमा
जो मैले घाँटी खोल्दा मुखमा गई अड्कन्छ
र मुख खोल्दा घाँटी थुन्न पुग्दछ
अनि यस्तो लाग्छ मानांै
अब ममा कुनै उम्लाई छैन
कुनै उत्तेजना छैन
कुनै आवाज छैन
कुनै विस्फोट छैन
मभित्रको मानिस मरिसक्यो
अब त फगत् मेरो रुपमा उभिएको छ
पड्किसकेको सोडाको एक बोतल—
एउटा खाली बोतल !
नयाँ वर्ष नयाँ सरुवा भई आएको हुलाकेझैं
झोलामा सुर्जेको एउटा पुलिन्दा बोकेर
छानामाथि वैशाख हिँडिरहेछ
भारी अल्छी पाइला सारेर
भित्ता-घडीको लङगूर हल्लिरहेछ उसको
निस्तेज भई आकाश पल्टेको छ
न्यास्रो अनुहार पारेर
बेला-कुबेलाको वादलको गडयाङ-गुडुङ
आकाशलाई पखाला लागेको छ
विष्णुमतीको फोहर हैजे पानी पिएर
सहनाइको बेसुरा ध्वनिबाट निस्किरहेका छन्
हैजाका असङ्ख्य अदृश्य कीटाणुहरु
सारा रुखहरुले आफ्नो आङ कन्याइरहेका छन्
नयाँ वर्षआएको छ
भित्ताको नयाँ क्यालेण्डरमा
आफ्नो जीवनको भिसा झुण्डयाउनु छ
सँगी साथीहरुको सूचि बनाउनु छ
भयानक बमहरु बोकेर, उडिरहेका हवाइजहाज
र रकेटमुनि बसेर
लेख्नु छ प्रियजनहरुको नाममा
सफलता, शान्ति र दीर्घायुको शुभकामना-पत्र ।
‘भोक लाग्यो’ ठिटोप्रति
न गाँसको प्रबन्ध
न बासको प्रबन्ध
यो मगन्ते ठिटो
नयाँ सडकको पेटीमा
पेटीजस्तै सधै असङ्ख्य पाउमुनि कुल्चिएर
कसैको वासनाको द्रुतगामी रकेटमा राखेर
यो ठिटो उडाइयो
अनजान र अनिश्चित भविष्यको अन्तरीक्षमा
बिना कुनै स्पेस सूट !
र सुरक्षित सञ्चालनको
बेवारिसपनाको भारहीन अवस्थाबाट
नयाँ सडकको पेटीमा
झुत्रो प्यारासुट ओढेर
कुमारी आमाको गर्भबाट
र बसेको छ अहिले ऊ
नयाँ सडकको पेटीमा
ल्याम्प–पोष्टको ‘क्रस’ बोकेर ।
रांै ठाडो हुने रात
उदास, उजाड, पूmटपाथ
एक कुनामा सिउरेर
सुतेको छ ऊ झुत्रो बोरा र पुरानो अखबार ओढेर
अखबार ः जसको छातीमा छापिएका छन्
ठूला–ठूला अक्षरमा ‘बालदिवस’ का समाचार
मिठाई र पुरस्कार वितरण
तथा बाल–बालिकाहरुको प्रगतिको विज्ञापन
सुत बाबा सुत
सुत ज्ञानी सुत
सुत राजा सुत
यसरी नै निश्चित भै सुत
एक दिन यस्तो पनि आउनेछ
जब तिम्रा यी अखबार र झुत्रे बोराका
र त्यस बेला लेख्नेछ इतिहासकारले
‘उहिले–उहिले’ को नेपालमा
दुई थरिका मानिस थिए
जो अखबारमाथि पल्टन्थे
हेडलाइनको सिरानी हालेर
महत्वपूर्ण खबर बनेर,
जो त्यो खबरको न्यानो ओढेर
पुस–माघको जाडो काट्थे बेखबर भएर
एउटा बासी अखबारजस्तो थियो ।
O friend! hope for Him whilst you live, know whilst you live, understand whilst you live: for in life deliverance abides. If your bonds be not broken whilst living, what hope of deliverance in death? It is but an empty dream, that the soul shall have union with Him because it has passed from the body: If He is found now, He is found then, If not, we do but go to dwell in the City of Death. If you have union now, you shall have it hereafter. Bathe in the truth, know the true Guru, have faith in the true Name! Kabîr says: ‘It is the Spirit of the quest which helps; I am the slave of this Spirit of the quest.
Dear Mom, send my dad across; the rainy season has come. Oh, dear daughter, how can I? Your dad’s too old; the rainy season has come. Dear Mom, send my brother across; the rainy season has come. Oh, dear daughter, how can I? Your brother’s too young; the rainy season has come. Dear Mom, send my uncle across; the rainy season has come. Oh, dear daughter, how can I? Your uncle’s too dandy; the rainy season has come.
My youth is budding, is full of passion; How can I spend this time without my beloved? Would someone please coax Nizamuddin Aulia, The more I appease him, the more annoyed he gets; My youth is budding…… Want to break these bangles against the cot, And throw up my blouse into fire, The empty bed scares me, The fire of separation keeps burning me. Oh, beloved. My youth is budding.
To-day, this insect, and the world I breathe,
Now that my symbols have outelbowed space,
Time at the city spectacles, and half
The dear, daft time I take to nudge the sentence,
In trust and tale I have divided sense,
Slapped down the guillotine, the blood-red double
Of head and tail made witnesses to this
Murder of Eden and green genesis.
The insect certain is the plague of fables.
This story’s monster has a serpent caul,
Blind in the coil scrams round the blazing outline,
Measures his own length on the garden wall
And breaks his shell in the last shocked beginning;
A crocodile before the chrysalis,
Before the fall from love the flying heartbone,
Winged like a sabbath ass this children’s piece
Uncredited blows Jericho on Eden.
The insect fable is the certain promise.
Death: death of Hamlet and the nightmare madmen,
An air-drawn windmill on a wooden horse,
John’s beast, Job’s patience, and the fibs of vision,
Greek in the Irish sea the ageless voice:
‘Adam I love, my madmen’s love is endless,
No tell-tale lover has an end more certain,
All legends’ sweethearts on a tree of stories,
My cross of tales behind the fabulous curtain.’
Lady, lady, should you meet
One whose ways are all discreet,
One who murmurs that his wife
Is the lodestar of his life,
One who keeps assuring you
That he never was untrue,
Never loved another one . . .
Lady, lady, better run!
Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,
And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.
When you rehearse your list of loves to me,
Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.
And you laugh back, nor can you ever see
The thousand little deaths my heart has died.
And you believe, so well I know my part,
That I am gay as morning, light as snow,
And all the straining things within my heart
You’ll never know.
Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,
And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, —
Of ladies delicately indiscreet,
Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.
And you are pleased with me, and strive anew
To sing me sagas of your late delights.
Thus do you want me — marveling, gay, and true,
Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.
And when, in search of novelty, you stray,
Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go ….
And what goes on, my love, while you’re away,
You’ll never know.
With you, my heart is quiet here,
And all my thoughts are cool as rain.
I sit and let the shifting year
Go by before the windowpane,
And reach my hand to yours, my dear . . .
I wonder what it’s like in Spain.
SPEAK low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet
From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so
Who art not missed by any that entreat.
Speak to mo as to Mary at thy feet !
And if no precious gums my hands bestow,
Let my tears drop like amber while I go
In reach of thy divinest voice complete
In humanest affection — thus, in sooth,
To lose the sense of losing. As a child,
Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore
Is sung to in its stead by mother’s mouth
Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,
He sleeps the faster that he wept before.
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them —
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!
The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —
Their presence may be o’er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh’d our mind,
Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.
Hear not the wind — view not the woods;
Look out o’er vale and hill-
In spring, the sky encircled them —
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —
Come change — and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne’er be desolate.
WHAT are we set on earth for ? Say, to toil;
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines
For all the heat o’ the day, till it declines,
And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with his odorous oil,
To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns
All thy tears over, like pure crystallines,
For younger fellow-workers of the soil
To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand
From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer,
And God’s grace fructify through thee to
The least flower with a brimming cup may stand,
And share its dew-drop with another near.
Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne’er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare flowers did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died–
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,–
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.
Eat a tomato and you’ll turn red
(I don’t think that’s really so);
Eat a carrot and you’ll turn orange
(Still and all, you never know);
Eat some spinach and you’ll turn green
(I’m not saying that it’s true
But that’s what I heard, and so
I thought I’d pass it on to you).
1 little monkey
was goin’ 2 the store
when he saw a banana 3
he’d never climbed be4.
By 5 o’clock that evenin’
he was 6 with a stomach ache
’cause 7 green bananas
was what that monkey 8.
By 9 o’clock that evening’ that monkey was quite ill, so 10 we called the doctor who was 11 on the hill. The doctor said, ‘You’re almost dead. Don’t eat green bananas no more.’ The sick little monkey groaned and said, ‘But that’s what I 1-2 the 3-4.’
Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Outstretch’d in the sun’s warmth upon the shore,
Thou say’st: ‘Man’s measured path is all gone o’er:
Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh,
Man clomb until he touch’d the truth; and I,
Even I, am he whom it was destined for.’
How should this be? Art thou then so much more
Than they who sow’d, that thou shouldst reap thereby?
Nay, come up hither. From this wave-wash’d mound
Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me;
Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown’d.
Miles and miles distant though the last line be,
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond,—
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea.
O COOL unto the sense of pain
That last night’s sleep could not destroy;
O warm unto the sense of joy,
That dreams its life within the brain.
What though I lean o’er thee to scan
The written music cramped and stiff;—
‘Tis dark to me, as hieroglyph
On those weird bulks Egyptian.
But as from those, dumb now and strange,
A glory wanders on the earth,
Even so thy tones can call a birth
From these, to shake my soul with change.
O swift, as in melodious haste
Float o’er the keys thy fingers small;
O soft, as is the rise and fall
Which stirs that shade within thy breast.
There is a power in taking But more power in giving There is a power in revenge But more power in forgiving There is a power in destroying But more power in letting something live There is a power in denying our true age But more power in showing that we’ve lived.
We will build a tower With unbridled spring-water attitudes Flowing with fires of charity For all the suffering multitudes Dispossessed and swallowing poverty We will give them power
We will build a tower With lots of windows and no ears With promises for those who have ceased their quest For the young and old in years For those who no longer turn west We will give them power
We will give them power Give them tomorrows and rainbows in tomorrow’s flowers Help them fill pitchers with milk, honey, and cream Reap the green of crops they have never seen Shelter them from the cold, black screams They will scale the tower
We will build a tower They will scale like goats and soar like eagles Who climbs higher than these birds? They will peer through rose-colored gothic windows And see the many rainbows of blooming flowers spilling colors They will have the power
We will build a tower For those near and far Those who lost their dreams Those who ceased the quest Those no longer traveling west
Our actions will speak louder than words They will sing the music of the birds Learn to disregard the terms Of all their unanswered yearns
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
Lips’ language to lips’ ears. Two drinking each other’s heart, it seems. Two roving loves who have left home, pilgrims to the confluence of lips. Two waves rise by the law of love to break and die on two sets of lips. Two wild desires craving each other meet at last at the body’s limits. Love’s writing a song in dainty letters, layers of kiss-calligraphy on lips. Plucking flowers from two sets of lips perhaps to thread them into a chain later. This sweet union of lips is the red marriage-bed of a pair of smiles.
Now summer is in flower and natures hum
Is never silent round her sultry bloom
Insects as small as dust are never done
Wi’ glittering dance and reeling in the sun
And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee
Are never weary of their melody
Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine
Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine
That lift athirst their slender throated flowers
Agape for dew falls and for honey showers
These round each bush in sweet disorder run
And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.’
With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke That urges switching tail nor mends his pace, On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse, The farmer goes jog trotting to the fair. Both keep their pace that nothing can provoke Followed by brindled dog that snuffs the ground With urging bark and hurries at his heels. His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned close Bellied like hooped keg, and chuffy face Red as the morning sun, he takes his round And talks of stock: and when his jobs are done And Dobbin’s hay is eaten from the rack, He drinks success to corn in language hoarse, And claps old Dobbin’s hide, and potters back.
Tears of pain
Tears of gain
Tears of loss
Tears of toss
Tears of smiles
All for a while
Comes to bring
In life’s ring
Some joys some pains
So enjoy it all
Before it falls
And ends a phase
Of life’s days
For life is a gift
And it is sent for uplift
Of our souls and hearts
That’ll one day impart
And then we’ll all die
Ending our stories high.
It is winter in California, and outside Is like the interior of a florist shop: A chilled and moisture-laden crop Of pink camellias lines the path; and what Rare roses for a banquet or a bride, So multitudinous that they seem a glut!
A line of snails crosses the golf-green lawn From the rosebushes to the ivy bed; An arsenic compound is distributed For them. The gardener will rake up the shells And leave in a corner of the patio The little mound of empty shells, like skulls.
By noon the fog is burnt off by the sun And the world’s immensest sky opens a page For the exercise of a future age; Now jet planes draw straight lines, parabolas, And x’s, which the wind, before they’re done, Erases leisurely or pulls to fuzz.
It is winter in the valley of the vine. The vineyards crucified on stakes suggest War cemeteries, but the fruit is pressed, The redwood vats are brimming in the shed, And on the sidings stand tank cars of wine, For which bright juice a billion grapes have bled.
And skiers from the snow line driving home Descend through almond orchards, olive farms. Fig tree and palm tree – everything that warms The imagination of the wintertime. If the walls were older one would think of Rome: If the land were stonier one would think of Spain.
But this land grows the oldest living things, Trees that were young when Pharoahs ruled the world, Trees whose new leaves are only just unfurled. Beautiful they are not; they oppress the heart With gigantism and with immortal wings; And yet one feels the sumptuousness of this dirt.
It is raining in California, a straight rain Cleaning the heavy oranges on the bough, Filling the gardens till the gardens flow, Shining the olives, tiling the gleaming tile, Waxing the dark camellia leaves more green, Flooding the daylong valleys like the Nile.
Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou hast intombed, And last of all thy greedy self consumed, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss, And Joy shall overtake us like a flood; When everything that is sincerely good And perfectly divine, With truth and peace, and love, shall ever shine About the supreme throne Of Him, t’ whose happy-making sight alone When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall climb, Then, all this earthly grossness quit, Attired with stars, we shall forever sit, Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.
Cyriack, this three years’ day these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of a spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgotten; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still, bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty’s defense, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world’s vain mask Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
YE elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back, you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe, not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ‘twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring water; to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made a shake, and by the spurs, pluck’d up The pine and cedar; graves at my command Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ’em forth By my so potent art.
Lovers all are soldiers, and Cupid has his campaigns: I tell you, Atticus, lovers all are soldiers. Youth is fit for war and also fit for Venus. Imagine an aged soldier, an elderly lover! A general looks for the spirit in his brave soldiery; a pretty girl wants spirit in her companions. Both stay up all night long, and each sleeps on the ground; one guards his mistress’s doorway, one his general’s. The soldier’s lot requires far journeys; send his girl, the zealous lover will follow her anywhere. He’ll cross the glowering mountains, the rivers are swollen with a storm; he’ll tread a pathway through the heaped-up snows; and never whine of raging Eurus when he sets sail or wait for stars propitious for his voyage. Who but lovers and soldiers endure the chill of night, and blizzards interspersed with driving rain? The soldier reconnoiters among the dangerous foe; the lover spies to learn his rival’s plans. Soldiers besiege strong cities; lovers, a harsh girl’s home; one storms town gates, the other storms house doors. It’s a clever strategy to raid a sleeping foe and slay an unarmed host by force of arms. (That’s how the troops of Thracian Rhesus met their doom, and you, O captive steeds, forsook your master.) Well, lovers take advantage of husbands when they sleep, launching surprise attacks while the enemy snores. To slip through bands of guards and watchful sentinels is always the soldier’s mission – and the lover’s. Mars wavers; Venus flutters the conquered rise again, and those you’d think could never fall, lie low. So those who like to say that love is indolent should stop: Love is the soul of the enterprise. Sad Achilles burns for Briseis, his lost darling: Trojans, smash the Greeks’ power while you may! From Andromache’s embrace Hector went to war; his own wife set the helmet on his head; and High King Agamemnon, looking on Priam’s child, was stunned (they say) by the Maenad’s flowing hair. And Mars himself was trapped in The Artificer’s bonds: no tale was more notorious in heaven. I too was once an idler, born for careless ease; my shady couch had made my spirit soft. But care for a lovely girl aroused me from my sloth and bid me enlist in her campaign. So now you see me forceful, in combat all night long. If you want a life of action, fall in love.
They had a cook with them who stood alone For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone, Sharp flavouring powder and spice for savour. He could distinguish London ale by flavour, And he could roast and boil and seethe and fry, Make good thick soup and bake a tasty pie… As for blancmange, he made it with the best.
You wrote such a love poem that I was dumb-founded & left to scratch the sand Alone in the surf I couldn’t join the bait-diggers I’d left my fork and bucket at home & I am not rough by nature
You were sitting on top of a boulder deep in the forest It was taller than a man & surrounded by pine trees I think there are pine trees on Fire Island but I’ve never been to Fire Island, though I can imagine & we all know what could happen
there, but. . . . . . . & the world that started in a parked car was really a fearful one — It would only lead from one confusion to another & I couldn’t do this to you on the giant highway
She was a reason in herself, & women need the menace of ambiguity in their actions so one action might well signify the opposite — an act of sacrifice really the act of killing & revenge — & this much was true
The exercise book was green & the distance saved much embarrassment though you were in many ways ignorant of this I still can’t find my bucket & bait-fork but this is only an excuse
The white cloud passed over the land there is sea always round the land the sky is blue always above the cloud the cloud in the blue continues to move – nothing is limited by the canvas or frame – the white cloud can be pictured like any other clouds or like a fist of wool or a white fur rose The white cloud passes a shadow across the landscape and so there is a passing greyness The grey and the white both envelop the watcher until he too is drawn into the picture It is all a journey from a room through a door down stairs and out into the street The cloud could possess the house The watchers have a mutual confidence with the approaching string of white clouds It is beyond spoken words what they are silently mouthing to the sky There was no mystery in this – only the firm outline of people in overcoats on a hillside and the line of clouds above them The sky is blue The cloud white with touches of grey – the rest – the landscape below – can be left to the imagination The whole painting quietly dissolved itself into its surrounding clouds
Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about? Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop, he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again.
Come up here, O dusty feet! Here is fairy ready to eat. Here in my retiring room, Children, you may dine On the golden smell of broom And the shade of pine; And when you have eaten well, Fairy stories hear and tell.
Hope is the sweet, sweet scent of flowers in the morning Hope is the cool gentle breeze on a warm summer’s day Hope is the knowledge of stability from a son in mourning Hope is the bright shining light keeping the darkness at bay
Hope is the calming warmth during a cold winter Hope is the determination of an athlete on the track Hope is the potential of a newborn baby Hope is the love between you and me
Twas the night before Christmas. With a blanket of white. That covered the earth all through the night. The trees sparkled like diamonds. With a glitter so bright. That each little twinkle made its own Christmas light. A hope and a prayer a white Christmas would be. Awaiting the dawn so all could see. The beauty and joy a white Christmas does bring. To the holiday season as carolers sing. For twas the night before Christmas. God answered your prayer. With a blanket of white. Placed with God’s loving care.”
Hail the coming holiday, With a hearty joyous feast, And drive away sorrow, friends, For a day or two at least; Lay all business cares aside, And make the world resound, With music and festivals Throughout our merry town.
May every person in our land A voice to heaven raise, And welcome in Christ’s birthday, With everlasting praise; Praise Him who died upon the cross, Our sinning souls to save, The great Redeemer, Christ our Lord, That dwells beyond the grave.
We should meet in reverence, And God’s commands obey, And make each other happy Throughout the holiday; And not forget the orphans, The aged or the blind, The rich, the poor and needy, To each one pray be kind.
May every parent in the land, Hail Christmas day with joy, And not forget a present for Their little girls and boys; They are looking forth anxiously, For Santa Claus to come And fill their little stockings, With toys and sugar-plumbs.
God grant a merry Christmas eve And happy Christmas day, To every person in the land, At home or far away. That festive day will soon be here, Alas, will soon be o’er; Welcome, welcome the coming of Christmas day once more.
Sharp is the night but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. It is a night to make the heavens our home More than the nest whereto apace we strive. Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, In swarms outrushing from the golden comb. They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam: The living throb in me, the dead revive. Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath, Life glistens on the river of the death. It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt, Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs Of radiance, the radiance enrings: And this is the soul’s haven to have felt.
Anger is the devil inside our locked up souls, Anger is the spirit in which I withhold, Anger such demons who never is told, Anger is which never ever grows old. Anger is a lie when someone’s in trouble, Anger is always there on the double, That’s what anger is!
High up above the open, welcoming door It hangs, a piece of wood with colors dim. Once, long ago, it was a waving tree And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood. The winter snows had bent its branches down, The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers, Summer had run like fire through its veins, While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs, And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups. Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among Its branches, breaking here and there a limb; But every now and then broad sunlit days Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves. Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us It does not speak of mossy forest ways, Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch; But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea! An artist once, with the patient, careful knife, Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea. Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back By the gay, solar wind, which whips the blue And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light. Among the flashing waves are two white birds Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy At the wild sport. Now diving quickly in, Questing some glistening fish. Now flying up, Their dripping feathers shining in the sun, While the wet drops like little glints of light, Fall pattering backward to the parent sea. Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows, Or skimming some white crest about to break, The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop And play with the ocean in a summer mood. Hanging above the high, wide open door, It brings to us in quiet, firelit room, The freedom of the earth’s vast solitudes, Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll, And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.
When you, my Dear, are away, away, How wearily goes the creeping day. A year drags after morning, and night Starts another year of candlelight. O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon! Grant me, I beg of you, this boon.
Whirl around the earth as never sun Has his diurnal journey run. And, Moon, slip past the ladders of air In a single flash, while your streaming hair Catches the stars and pulls them down To shine on some slumbering Chinese town. O Kindly Sun! Understanding Moon! Bring evening to crowd the footsteps of noon.
But when that long awaited day Hangs ripe in the heavens, your voyaging stay. Be morning, O Sun! with the lark in song, Be afternoon for ages long. And, Moon, let you and your lesser lights Watch over a century of nights.
I ask but one thing of you, only one, That always you will be my dream of you; That never shall I wake to find untrue All this I have believed and rested on, Forever vanished, like a vision gone Out into the night. Alas, how few There are who strike in us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound. The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground, Yet still, our human longing vainly clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs. O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!
The white mares of the moon rush along the sky Beating their golden hoofs upon the glass Heavens The white mares are all standing on their hind legs Pawing at the green porcelain doors of the remote Heavens Fly, mares! Strain your utmost Scatter the milky dust of stars Or the tigers will leap upon you and destroy you With one lick of his vermillion tongue
Swarms of ants Spotted dead Starving for food Stocked grains Stored in ant hills Stolen overnight Starving humans Stealing grains Survival a question So pathetic to read Shell-shocked I shout aloud Oh God! I beg Stop these sufferings Save these innocents!
It’s the 21st century, The world has advanced in many ways, yet poverty still cries. Looking at the little boy with tears in eyes, Desperately searching for love, companion, and good clothes We all know what it clearly indicates and shows, Poverty. It haunts me, and part of me wants to make a change and, the other me wants to forget but I can surely bet It’s something one with a good heart wouldn’t do! If it takes some sacrifice, I’m ready But is the rest of the world? I see poverty in a rich man trying to find love, I see poverty in a well-educated man who lacks modesty. I see poverty in a literate man who lacks respect for the poor. I see poverty in a selfish man who wants more The world is still imperfect despite all the advancements, Because there is, Poverty.
Life’ it’s not easy, it comes with its bumps and it grinds. Picking us up at times in our lives then kicking us straight from behind. But one thing I’ve noticed as time goes by the humor that you behold God has bestowed a magnificent gift that never makes people grow old.
As late I journey’d o’er the extensive plain Where native Otter sports his scanty stream, Musing in torpid woe a Sister’s pain, The glorious prospect woke me from the dream.
At every step, it widens to my sight – Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep, Following in quick succession of delight, – Till all – at once – did my eye ravish’d sweep!
May this (I cried) my course through Life portray! New scenes of Wisdom may each step display, And Knowledge open as my days advance! Till what time Death shall pour the undarken’d to ray, My eye shall dart thro’ infinite expanse, And thought suspended lie in Rapture’s blissful trance.
I don’t hunt since surviving the war because I don’t eat bears, tigers or lions, and I definitely don’t eat rats or seagulls; if one day the animals all owned guns, well then I guess I would possibly shoot to kill them all. But to hunt a man…. in times of war to track him down like an animal and then shoot him between the eyes I’ve got no problem with doing it…. Except on the internet where you can never claim a true victory by just holding up the severed head of your mortal enemies….
Fears of rejection,
Tears of dejection,
She is an ordinary girl,
A dark complexion!
A few women are coming,
To see her,
They want a match,
For a promising youth,
She is excited,
Her heart is beating,
She is twenty-nine!
She is attractive.
She is lean and smart,
She is educated,
A working woman,
A bank officer,
She is famous for her cooking,
She is famous for her sewing,
She is famous for her knitting,
Has a kind heart,
Ready to serve,
She had made up,
Her eyes like stars,
She has dressed her hairs,
Shining and silky,
She has selected,
The best dress she has.
At the scheduled time,
The promising youth,
With her mother,
And two younger sisters,
All having dark complexion,
And a bulky body,
And the belly of the youth,
A really fun!
Came to see her,
They saw her,
They talked to her,
They asked questions,
About her job and her salary,
And while leaving,
The old woman said,
Although her complexion is dark,
Although we don’t expect,
A handsome dowry,
Still, We select her.
After their departure,
The girl went into her room,
And started crying,
She could not say her mother,
They haven’t selected me,
They selected my income!
Depression is when you hate everyone around
Depression is when you don’t want to make a sound
Depression is when all you want to do is cry
Depression is when you feel like your dying inside
Depression is when your thoughts wonder all the time
Depression is when you can’t sleep even though you’re tired
Depression is when you don’t want to go on
Depression is when you can’t stop shaking outside
Depression is when you hide who you are
Depression is when you put on a mask to hide what you feel
Depression is when you feel weak all the time
Depression is when you give in to everything around
Depression is when you don’t care what happens anymore
Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were, I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear, And every thought did show so lively in mine eyes, That now I sigh’d, and then I smil’d, as cause of thought did rise. I saw the little boy, in thought how oft that he Did wish of God to scape the rod, a tall young man to be; The young man eke, that feels his bones with pains oppress’d, How he would be a rich old man, to live and lie at rest; The rich old man, that sees his end draw on so sore, How he would be a boy again, to live so much the more. Whereat full oft I smil’d, to see how all these three, From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree. And musing thus, I think the case is very strange That man from wealth, to live in woe, doth ever seek to change. Thus thoughtful as I lay, I saw my wither’d skin, How it doth show my dinted jaws, the flesh was worn so thin; And eke my toothless chaps, the gates of my right way, That opes and shuts as I do speak, do thus unto me say: “Thy white and hoarish hairs, the messengers of age, That show like lines of true belief that this life doth assuage, Bids thee lay hand and feel them hanging on thy chin, The which do write two ages past, the third now coming in. Hang up, therefore, the bit of thy young wanton time, And thou that therein beaten art, the happiest life define.” Whereat I sigh’d and said: “Farewell, my wonted joy, Truss up thy pack and trudge from me to every little boy, And tell them thus from me: their time most happy is, If to their time they reason had to know the truth of this.”
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.
Witness all the beings who trivialize life
reduce their gift to perceptual concern
over insignificant frivalities.
Worried about their bodies and possessions
while neglecting their immortal soul.
Seeking power over mere molehills
while burying their true potential power;
attempting to gain unimportant knowledge
while ignoring buried treasures of wisdom.
Bodies controlling their lives
as they completely forget their true selves.
The soul is separate from the body,
no only are they separate – they are enemies.
What the soul needs the body protests,
what the body desire the soul detests.
Why should this opposition occur,
why should their desires not concur?
Well the soul and body have different needs
and to serve the one means to neglect the other.
Pain and hunger, thirst and knowledge
these are of the body
but joy and sorrow, anger and guilt,
love and wisdom are of the soul.
To search for food, to strive for wealth,
to benefit our bodies
means to feel envy and greed and to corrupt our souls,
but to give to the poor, and to fast and pray
feeds our souls but corrupts our bodies.