Things are with her
As perceived and adorned gracefully
Lots of love and lots of pity
Along she is carrying
Of quintessence motherly
In her exemplified
The feminine persona so lovely
More and more and not less
I see and God confess
She is holier than me
Sent to care your needs
Alleviate your sufferings
Brighten your dreams
Like an Angel in the morning
Seen among lovely flowers
Caressing and them preparing
To see a beautiful day dawning
And the day passed off peacefully
Unto noon and evening
And seen her bidding children
Good-night with words so soothing
Oh mother! what you are
Made of which stuff so rare
For me and for all
You weep your tears
A drop falls on him
Another on her
A dozen on them
A few goes out
To form an ocean
Of love for your children
Unto I would love
Diving deep to die even
For not in vain will go
Your love and affection
My dear my mother
You are, I swear
As good as heaven……
Upon the verge;
Of some new dawn
You blossom to be a woman
And a bride of a man
An angel of love and light
Pure and faithful you become
Bound soul to soul
By life’s holiest laws
Sent out from Heaven’s source
Glow like a star on its course
Abandon playthings of life
To be entrusted noble work
Of woman and of wife
You are so happy now
To be merged with someone’s life
Tender smiles shine
And lofty thoughts creep in
Yet on promised land
Of love and happiness
Flowers blossom and perish
Good and bad days rally
May fall saddest tears daily
But with love and love only
You may sail through storm of life easily…………….
If you place a fern
under a stone
the next day it will be
as if the stone has
If you tuck the name of a loved one
under your tongue too long
without speaking it
it becomes blood
the little sucked-in breath of air
beneath your words.
No one sees
the fuel that feeds you.
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover’s breast;
She sits beneath the white thorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pink threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the white thorn bush where I will lean upon my lover’s breast;
I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
Look, the eucalyptus, the Atlas pine,
the yellowing ash, all the trees
are gone, and I was older than
all of them. I am older than the moon,
than the stars that fill my plate,
than the unseen planets that huddle
together here at the end of a year
no one wanted. A year more than a year,
in which the sparrows learned
to fly backwards into eternity.
Their brothers and sisters saw this
and refuse to build nests. Before
the week is over they will all
have gone, and the chorus of love
that filled my yard and spilled
into my kitchen each evening
will be gone. I will have to learn
to sing in the voices of pure joy
and pure pain. I will have to forget
my name, my childhood, the years
under the cold dominion of the clock
so that this voice, torn and cracked,
can reach the low hills that shielded
the orange trees once. I will stand
on the back porch as the cold
drifts in, and sing, not for joy,
not for love, not even to be heard.
I will sing so that the darkness
can take hold and whatever
is left, the fallen fruit, the last
leaf, the puzzled squirrel, the child
far from home, lost, will believe
this could be any night. That boy,
walking alone, thinking of nothing
or reciting his favorite names
to the moon and stars, let him
find the home he left this morning,
let him hear a prayer out
of the raging mouth of the wind.
Let him repeat that prayer,
the prayer that night follows day,
that life follows death, that in time
we find our lives. Don’t let him see
all that has gone. Let him love
the darkness. Look, he’s running
and singing too. He could be happy.
प्रियतम ! म जान्दछु, यो तिम्रो प्रेम हो जो पात–पातमा स्वर्णाभा
बनेर चम्किरहेछ !
जसले लोसे मेघ आकाशमा जम्मा भइरहेछन्, सुवासित पवनले मेरो
मस्तिष्कमा जलकण छर्छ :
यमि सबै, हे मनमोहन ईश्वर ! तिम्रो प्रेम नै हो ।
आज प्रभातका आकाश–धाराले मेरा नयन भरिए :
यो तिम्रो प्रेम–संकेत हो जो जीवनका कण–कणमा व्याप्त छ ।
तिम्रो चेहरा निहुरियो,
तिम्रो नेत्र मेरा नेत्रसँग मिले :
मेरो ह्दयले तिम्रो चरणमा स्पर्श गरिसक्यो !
प्रियतम ! म जान्दछु, यो तिम्रो प्रेम–संकेत हो ।
प्राणका प्राण ! म मेरो देहलाई चोखो राख्छु, किनकि मेरा अंग–
प्रत्यंगमा तिम्रो स्पर्श भएको छ !
आफ्ना विचारलाई असत्यले धमिलो पार्न दिनेछैन, किनकि तिमीले
सत्यको दीपकद्वारा मेरो विवेक प्रकाशित गरिदियौ !
म मेरो ह्दयमा पापलाई पस्नदिन्न, किनकि त्यहाँ तिम्रो मूर्ति
प्रतिष्ठासहित विद्यमान छ !
मेरा सबै काममा तिम्रो व्यक्तित्व हुनेछ, तिम्रो प्ररणानै रहनेछ !
Come to my pavilion, O my King.
I have spread a bed made of
delicately selected buds and blossoms,
And have arrayed myself in bridal garb
From head to toe.
I have been Thy slave during many births,
Thou art the be-all of my existence.
Mira’s Lord is Hari, the Indestructible.
Come, grant me Thy sight at once.
I will not be restrained now, O Rana,
Despite all you do to block my path.
I have torn off the veil of worldly shame;
Only the company of Saints is dear to me.
Merta, my parents’ home, I have left for good.
My surat and nirat, awakened,
Now shine bright.
My master has revealed to me
The mirror within my own body;
Now I’ll sing and dance in ecstasy.
Keep to your self your gems and jewelry;
I have discarded them all, O Rana.
My true Lord I have come to behold;
None knows of this wealth within the body.
I fancy not your forts and palaces
Nor want silken robes wrought with gold.
Mira, unadorned and unbedecked,
Roams intoxicated in the Lord’s love.
In my travels I spent time with a great yogi.
Once he said to me.
“Become so still you hear the blood flowing
through your veins.”
One night as I sat in quiet,
I seemed on the verge of entering a world inside so vast
I know it is the source of
Our mistress bids me with all speed to call
Aegisthus to the strangers, that he come
And hear more clearly, as a man from man,
This newly brought report. Before her slaves,
Under set eyes of melancholy cast,
She hid her inner chuckle at the events
That have been brought to pass–too well for her,
But for this house and hearth most miserably,–
As in the tale the strangers clearly told.
He, when he hears and learns the story’s gist,
Will joy, I trow, in heart. Ah, wretched me!
How those old troubles, of all sorts made up,
Most hard to bear, in Atreus’s palace-halls
Have made my heart full heavy in my breast!
But never have I known a woe like this.
For other ills I bore full patiently,
But as for dear Orestes, my sweet charge,
Whom from his mother I received and nursed . . .
And then the shrill cries rousing me o’ nights,
And many and unprofitable toils
For me who bore them. For one needs must rear
The heedless infant like an animal,
(How can it else be?) as his humor serve
For while a child is yet in swaddling clothes,
It speaketh not, if either hunger comes,
Or passing thirst, or lower calls of need;
And children’s stomach works its own content.
And I, though I foresaw this, call to mind,
How I was cheated, washing swaddling clothes,
And nurse and laundress did the selfsame work.
I then with these my double handicrafts,
Brought up Orestes for his father dear;
And now, woe’s me! I learn that he is dead,
And go to fetch the man that mars this house;
And gladly will he hear these words of mine.
Yet though a man gets many wounds in breast,
He diet not, unless the appointed time,
The limit of his life’s span, coincide;
Nor does the man who by the hearth at home
Sits still, escape the doom that Fate decrees.
भक्कानो फोरेर रोएको
वेगले भेट्न दौडेँ,
पृथ्वी मेरो मोटरसाइकलको चक्कामा
पानी जस्तै थ्याच्च बसिन्
म भिजेको सरि
मायाले टाँगिएँ र
एक निचरेर सुकाएको हलुका आकाश भएँ ।
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
small things recoil into silence,
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
gnaws on kind words
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
dependent upon their
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
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
Best of roles are for Allah, the worst roles aim for world.
Allah shall reward us based on aim. Aamiin
Sail your mind like ship,
Fly your heart like wings,
And your heart will be relieved.
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!
I went to the doctor-
He reached down my throat,
He pulled out a shoe
And a little toy boat,
He pulled out a skate
And a bicycle seat,
And said ‘Be more careful
About what you eat.’
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.
Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.
In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist,
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst.
Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days;
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays.
Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils,
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.
Ours shall be the moonrise stealing
Through the birches ivory-white;
Ours shall be the mystic healing
Of the velvet-footed night.
Ours shall be the gypsy winding
Of the path with violets blue,
Ours at last the wizard finding
Of the land where dreams come true.
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.
In spring I go to war
To sing or to die.
What do I care for my own troubles?
Today I shatter them, laughing in pieces.
Oh, Brothers, know that young spring came
In a whirlwind.
Quickly throw off tired grief
And follow her in a host.
I have never felt so strongly
How much I love you, Oh, Germany,
As the magic of spring surrounds you
Amidst the bustle of war.
Spring is life
Spring is hope
So is love and
life is forlorn.
Spring is nostalgia
after the bitter storm.
Put spring in your heart
My heart is a yellow bird
Praying for a mate
In a summary dawn fountain.
Love is fragile kindness
Kissing a lovely woman’s hand.
video younger times, A boy was I
I loved the earth and loved the sky
an innocent of times gone by
an infant to the world
I grew up strong and grew up fast
and soon a youth with little past
but felt that all was in my grasp
the world could do no wrong
Developing my social skill
became a favorite of the girls
I plunged in deeply to the thrills
the world was mine alone
I sought stability at last
and settled down from hectic past
with marriage vows and bankers draft
a new world would be born
The time was spent before I knew
the marriage has gone the children grew
aquaintances now just a few
the world had surely changed
In older times, A man am I
I love the earth and love the sky
an innocent from times gone by
to face the world alone.
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,
Remnants of sun ribbon the river–
half and half, black river red.
The third night, ninth month lovely hour;
pearled dew, bent bow moon.
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.
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
भ्रष्ट प्रशासन पर जा पर जा
रक्त क्रान्तिको घन्क्यो बाजा
उठ्यो बबण्डर हुँदै सशक्त
महल अटारी अस्तब्यस्त
सामन्तीले संगीन रोप्यो
जनजागृतिले दुनियाँ छोप्यो
झुपडी भन्दछ शहरै घेर्छु
धरती भन्छिन् काया फेर्छु
थाम्दा थाम्दा थाम्नै नसकी
पीडितहरूका टेवा मर्के
अड्दा अड्दा अड्नै नसकी
अग्ला घरका भित्ता चर्के
जाली दोषी क्रूर कठोर
पीडित जनका पसिना चोर
निम्न जनका रक्त पिपासा
धरतीका गुण गौरव नासा
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.
Spring is life
Spring is hope
So is love and
life is forlorn.
Spring is nostalgia
after the bitter storm.
Put spring in your heart
Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows’ wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,
hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.
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 ।
नवः हिमयुगीन अर्घेलाहरु
सिमिट्रीमा रेटिसेन्ट बालहरु
मेथाडोन खाएका हुडिनीहरु
अपरेशन डेजर्ट स्ट्रोम गर्छन्
गन्धका नाताहरु उस्तै छन्
मात्र नात्रेड्यामस विश्वमा
प्राविधिक गडवडीमा क्षमाप्रार्थनाहरु
आतङ्कका हिमाल चढिरहेछन्
ए हाम्रा सभानाहरु
कति छन् अदृश्य जोखिमहरु ?
टेलिस्कोप भिरेका गिद्धहरु
शोकेसभित्रका कुकुरभुकाई सुन्दैछन्
उ ः ! परभक्षी आतङ्कका हल्लाहरु
आजभोलि मन्दिरैमन्दिरको देशमा
देवताहरु शरणार्थी बनेका छन्
‘कुकुरदेखि सावधान !’ गिदीमा भ्रम टाँसेर मान्छेहरु
मान्छेहरुद्वारा सावधान छन्
‘भैचालो आउँदैछ ! भैचालो आउँदैछ !’
एउटा सम्भावित भैंचालाको सम्मानमा
मान्छेहरु घर छोडेर कटेरो निर्माणमा
‘विद्युतीय धरापमा नपरे फेरि भेटौंला !’
‘सुरक्षा कारवाइमा नपरे फेरि भेटौंला !’
संकटकालमा झ्याप्प निभ्ने संकटकालीन बत्तीहरुमा
एउटा सिङ्गो पुस्ता गीत गाइरहेछ
यौटी केटी भेटेँ मैले
हातमा थ्यो यौटा थाल
किताबको साटो !
मुख थियो निन्याउरो
ओठ पनि कत्ला कत्ला
केकेजस्तो भेष !
सानै थिइन्, शरीरमा
खालि जामा चोला,
मेरोभन्दा उन्को उमेर
अलि पाको होला !
दया लाग्यो, आफ्नो खाजा
मैले उन्लाई दिएँ,
तर उनी उल्टै जङ्गनि्
म त वाल्लै परेँ ।
राम्रो छ है, सबैभन्दा राम्रो छ
मलाई मेरो देश,
प्राणभन्दा नजिक छ त यौटे छ
त्यो हो मेरो देश ।
प्राण प्यारो, किनकि म अहिले
छु है यसैमा,
मरेपछि हुन्न प्राण, तर म
त्यसैले त प्राणभन्दा मेरो म
मलाई मेरो देश ।
यो आकाश अनि यसमा लर्केको
यसको शरीर थरीथरी यहाँका
भाषा अनि भेष,
यही हो है कैले पनि नमर्ने
मेरो आफ्नो देश ।
अघि हिँड़्नेहरूको पाइलाको धुलोले
ड्याम्म छोपेको छ
पुरानो बाटो भत्काएको भ्रमको
विचारको अँध्यारो कोठामा सुताउनेहरू
ब्यूँझिएको रिहर्सलको बतास चल्छ
बतासमा कता-कता टुक्रिन्छ विचार। टुक्रिन्छ।
कता-कता छरिन्छ संवेदना। छरिन्छ।
बतासमा भत्किबस्छ नी!
पारम्पारिक सत्ताको घर।
आलाप, नारा, मानसिक रोगी घोषणाको अनुहार
स्पेसको अर्को फाटक टेक्ने पस्पेसराइडरले।
कति रिस् जस्तो चर्किबस्नु?
जोड़िन नसक्ने जङ्गली संवेदनाले। कति चर्किबस्नु?
कति फिँज जस्तो फुटिबस्नु?
( बाटो हुँदैन
बाटोको घर, परिवार
आफन्त, छिमेकी संसार केही हुँदैन।
बाटाले भत्किनु, बनिनु पर्दैन।
बाटो नै हुँदैन । हुँदैन बाटो।
कहॉं छ बाटो?)
बाटो बनाएँ भन्नु
लुते घोषणा हुन्छ।
ओभरराइटिङ गर्दै बस्नुको
घमण्डको बेलुन सधैँ फुल्लिबस्छ। फुल्लिबस्छ।
जब त्यो फुट्छ, त्यो फुट्छ
नयॉं-को अवतरण मानेर आरती गाउने
किलामा गोरूहरू झैं घुमिबस्छ। घुमिबस्छ।
त्यो जोड़ले रिसाउने पाठकसित।
त्यसले त्यसको पाठलाई
त्यसको निजी पतलुङ जस्तो पैह्रेको छ।
पछि हिँड़्नेहरूको पाइलाको धुलोले
फेरि ड्याम्म छोपेको छ
पसीनाहरू दिनभर काम गर्न आउँछन्
माटोसित खेलेर फर्कन्छन्।
पसीना माटोजस्तो गन्हाउँछ
माटो पसीनाजस्तो गन्हाउँछ
त्यो गन्धमा बॉंच्छ
भोकहरू गीत गाउँछन्
हो हो माले हो हो -हरूको
स्मारकपत्र हातमा बोकेर।
हरेक शताब्दीले माटो दिएर पालेका भोकहरूले लेखेर पठाएको
सहुलियतहरूका अपीलपत्रको आँगनमा बसेर
आउने भोटकै समीक्षा गर्दैबस्छन्
नीति निर्माता मन्त्रीहरू।
खेत र ग्रामपञ्चायत
न्यायपालिकाको मृत्युको खबर ढुक्कैले सुनाउँछन् मण्डल बाजे।
पसीनाहरूलाई पनि भोक लाग्छ
भोक लागेको देखाउँदैनन् तिनीहरू।
ठण्डा महीनाको छुट्टी बिताउन आएका
शहरे पढ़न्ते छोराहरूलाई
अनौं थमाएर सामुहिक स्वरमा भन्छन् पसीनाहरू-
“…जोत्नू अब तिमीहरू आफै तिमेरका अक्षरहरू…”
खेतको धानबाली अनि उनीहरूको होमवर्क
टाउकोभरि उठाएका छन्
ऋण र दायित्वको एक थाक नयॉं संस्करण।
सरकार भत्किँदै बनिएको कति भयो
खेत जोत्ने हलो फेरिएन
न फेरियो खेत भिजेको हेर्ने सपना झुण्ड्याएर
आँखामा नै चर्किएको बूढ़ाबाको मोटो चश्मा।
यसपालिको भोट पनि खड़ेरीले नै जित्यो।
साइला बाहुनले बाजेलाई पछ्याएनन्
उसले भने- म म भएर बॉंच्छु
म आफै बनाउँछु बाटो।
कुन्नि किन साइला मिल्नै सकेनन्
भने- बरू कोइलाखानी जान्छु
यसरी नै एकदिन अग्लिन्छु।
उसको कोठा छुट्टियो
त्यही कोठामा सर्किनी कान्छी पसिन्
त्यसपछि त पानी छुट्टियो
साइला बाहुनलाई गाउँबाटै निकालियो
आहिले साइलाको आफ्नै गाउँ छ
आफ्नै नाउँ छ।
उ अहिले भन्छ-
मेरो नाउँ कसैले मेट्न सकेन
मेरो गाउँ कसैले मेट्न सकेन
जसले मेट्न खोजे
मेरो आफ्नो नाउँ बनाए
मेरो आफ्नो गाउँ बनाए
यसो गर्न मैले नै उनीहरूलाई सघाएँ।
रगतको आफ्नै मगज हुँदैन
दिमागका हरेक रेसामा रगत नपुगे
गिदी मर्ला र समाज बदल्ने
संघर्षको मार्गचित्र कसले सोच्ने?
रगतको आफ्नो आँखा हुँदैन
आँखाको नानीले रगत खान नपाए
र, स्वतन्त्र मानिसका अनुहार केले हेर्ने?
रगतको छुट्टै कान हुँदैन
कानका सबै अबयबमा रगत नपुगे
र, मानिसको विजयी गीत केले सुन्ने?
आफ्नो ओठ पनि हुँदैन रगतको
आधरका हरेक सिरामा रगत नपसे
केले ममतामयी, ज्युँदो र न्यानो बनाउँने?
रगतको आफ्नो गला हुँदैन
पुग्दो रगत कण्ठमा सिंचित नभए
गर्विलो गीत कसरी गाउला?
रगतको आफ्नो हात पनि हुँदैन
देशबासीका सहस्र हातहरूमा रगत नपुगे
हातहरू पनि मर्लान्
र ठूठाजस्ता हातले हतियार समाउँदैनन्
अनि सिमानाका प्रत्येक गौँडामा
देशको रखवारी कसरी गर्ने?
कुनै किसिमको मुटु पनि हुँदैन रगतको
मुटुका अणुअणुमा रक्तकण नपुगे
मुटु पनि मर्ला
र आर्यघाट पुगेको मुटुले
सारा नेपालीको ढुकढुकी कसरी बोलिदेला?
फोक्सो पनि हुँदैन रगतको आफ्नो
फोक्सोका दुबै फप्लेटामा हर्दम् रगत नपुगे
फोक्सो मर्ला र मृत फोक्सोले
जातजातका मानिसले कसरी सास फेर्ने?
पाठेघर पनि हुँदैन रगतको
हरेक जवान युवतीका गर्भाशयमा
नित्य स्वच्छ रगत नपुगे
सृष्ठीको मुहान मर्ला
र क्रन्तीवीर जन्माउँने
मातृसपना कसरी पुरा होला?
रगतको हिँड्ने खुट्टा पनि हुँदैन
खुट्टाका हड्डी, नसा र मांसपेसीहरूमा
मनग्गे रगत नपुगे
परिवर्तनको नयाँ क्षितिज टेक्न
इन्क्लाबी जुलुसमा कुन पाइला हिँड्लान् ?
उता चिडियाखाना छ
र्सपहरु छन, गोहीहरु छन्
स्याल र भालूहरु छन्
यता मन्त्रालयहरु छन, संसद र क्याविनेट छ
अध्यक्ष र सांसदहरु छन्
यी दुबै शहरहरुलाई
चुपचाप जोडिदिएको छ
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.
Stick the needle into your arm,
sniff the fine, white powder,
smoke the fancy pipe.
Watch your eyes dilate
as your brain
drips from your ears
into a puddle of pink goo
lying at your feet.
A hydrangea grows by the pond
and sprinkles its petals over the ground.
The sparrow sings on a maple tree
and offers her feathers to the whims of the wind.
Bluegill jumps from the water
and returns its body to the world from whence it came.
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!
The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray
Mounts up the eastern sky,
Not doomed to these short nights for aye,
But shining steadily.
She does not wane, but my fortune,
Which her rays do not bless,
My wayward path declineth soon,
But she shines not the less.
And if she faintly glimmers here,
And paled is her light,
Yet alway in her proper sphere
She’s mistress of the night.
I think awhile of Love, and while I think,
Love is to be a world,
Sole meat and sweetest drink,
And close connecting link
Tween heaven and earth.
I only know it is, not how or why,
My greatest happiness;
However hard I try,
Not if I were to die,
Can I explain?
I fain would ask my friend how it can be,
But when the time arrives,
Then Love is more lovely
Than anything to me,
And so I’m dumb.
For if the truth were known, Love cannot speak,
But only thinks and does;
Though surely out ’twill leak
Without the help of Greek,
Or any tongue.
A man may love the truth and practice it,
The beauty he may admire,
And goodness not omit,
As much as may befit
But only when these three together meet,
As they always incline,
And make one soul the seat,
And favorite retreat,
When under kindred shape, like loves and hates
And a kindred nature,
Proclaim us to be mates,
Exposed to equal fates
And each may other help, and service do,
Drawing Love’s bands tighter,
Service he ne’er shall rue
While one and one make two,
And two are one;
In such case only doth man fully prove
Fully as a man can do,
What power there is in Love
His inmost soul to move
Two sturdy oaks I mean, which side by side,
Withstand the winter’s storm,
And spite of wind and tide,
Grow up the meadow’s pride,
For both are strong
Above they barely touch but undermined
Down to their deepest source,
Admiring you shall find
Their roots are intertwined
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 ।
रातले रोइरहिथिन् लाखन
मैले कनिका जस्ता मानी टिपी निलेँ ती
पुछेँ गगनको छाती—
बालेँ दीप प्रभाती !
तारानलको अन्तर ज्वलनले
म भएँ रातो—
अग्नि शिखा झैँ— एक कुर्लनले
लिएँ तिमिर सातो—
पूर्व क्षितिजतिर फर्की लाएँ
अन्धकारको गो टाटो—
बाक्लो कुइरो फाटयो !
छिर्का परेका ललित र लाल
हे ! कमाल !
ती हुन् मेरा विचारहरुका करवाल,
सकल पराजित छाल
विजयसिउर यो शानि मेरो,
प्रभात पटलको फेरो—
बास माटीको ढिकुरो—
केवल कुखुरो !
थिए सिकन्दरका जुँघा
क्या बाघका !
करमा कस्तो करवाल !
मुठी कस्ता !
लाख, लाखका !
लहडी एक !
भाग्यो केही ?
सब मोटाए चाटी, चाटी !
विश्वविजेताको छ उदेक !
“के चाहिन्छ ?”
“हा ! हा ! हा ! हा ! घाम नछेक”
हेर ! बुद्धिको कत्रो टेक !
दीवालाका दान गजब छन् !
स्वतन्त्र दिलको पुजारी
हाँस्दछ, हाँस्दछ मेरा दिलमा
पाजी, पूँजी, लूटहरुमा,
इन्कार तथा धिक्कार
नामका खुट्टा बजारी !
म रङ्गीचङ्गी छु वसन्त छोरी ।
म जन्मिएँ कोकिलले कर्राई ।।
झुसिल्किराको सपना सिँगारी ।
दिए पखेटा प्रभुले मलाई ।।१।।
म हूँ पहीली बुझ पङ्खदार ।
वसन्तको फूल लिँदी सिँगार ।।
कता कताको सुकुमार सार ।
फुलेर उठ्दो क्षणको विचार ।।२।।
आकाश जस्तो सुनसान चित्त ।
हुँदा फुरी भाव नयाँ विचित्र ।।
इन्द्रनी जस्तो रंगरुप पाई ।
उचालिए झै म उडें रमाई ।।३।।
म बीउ झै ली सपना सुतेथें ।
झरी र छाया अनि घामभित्र ।।
क्यै कुत्कुतीले बुझ पङ्खदार ।
बनी उडें क्या कलिली विचित्र ।।४।।
सिँगारिएका कति रङ्ग जाति ।
धुलो सुनौला दुइ पङ्खमाथि ।।
हालै बनाएर परी मलाई ।
वसन्तको बाग दिए बनाई ।।५।।
ठिटी म सानी अनि रूपखानी ।
हूँ र्स्वर्गकी एक परी बयानी ।।
बुन्छन् पखेटा प्रभुले मलाई ।
तरङ्गको तान लिई रँगाई ।।६।।
बनी हलूका सुख झैं सलक्क ।
म नाच्छु फुर्फुर्र घुमी फरक्क ।।
जहाँ म जाने मन गर्छु फिर्छु
फुका हँसीली रसिली विचर्छु।७।।
चुसेर मीठा रस फूलमाथि ।
गमक्क भै मस्त बसेर जाति ।।
म बन्छु ध्यानी सुखको वसन्ती ।
न छोप्न खोजे तर यत्ति बिन्ति ।।८।।
सुरुक्क पारी रस फूलबाट ।
चुसेर मीठो अति मस्तसाथ ।।
छोपी अँगालोसित पङ्खद्धारा ।
म देख्छु सातौं सब र्स्वर्ग प्यारा ।।९।।
पिलिक्क पारिकन चट्ट आँखा ।
काला उज्याला कतिका चनाखा ।।
म हेर्छु छन् फूल कहाँ उज्याला ।
भनेर आफ्ना रसदार प्याला ।।१०।।
बसेर प्यूँदो रस थोर बेर ।
मजा अनौठोसँग मस्त हेर ।।
मर् इशको जो रस बासवाला ।
चाखिरहेको छु चुमेर प्याला ।।११।।
अरू उडेको सुखमा हलुका ।
अरू रमेको रसभित्र नीका ।।
देखेर आफै पुतली बनेर ।
नाचें दिलैमा सुख मिल्छ हेर ।।१२।।
सौर्न्दर्यको रूप भजेर रङ्गी ।
त्यहाँ हुने जो रस चुस्नु सङ्गी ।।
त्यही सबै र्स्वर्ग भनेर जान ।
मिल्ला त्यहा इश्वर गन्ध पान ।।१३।।
झुसिल्किराको सपना सिँगारी ।
दिए पखेटा प्रभुले फिजारी ।।
म डुल्छु सारा वन खेत बारी ।
बनेर आँखाकन रूप भारी ।।१४।।
छ शक्ति क्या हेर विचित्र नानी ।
चोली रँगीलो लिनकी म ध्यानी ।।
झुसिल्किरा तुच्छ खराबबाट ।
जन्में म कस्तो रँग-रूपसाथ ।।१५।।
बसेर यौटै मनभित्र ध्यान ।
गरेर सारा मनलाइ तान ।।
बदलिन्छ चोला रँग मिल्छ राम्रो ।
देखिन्छ त्योर् इश्वर हेर हाम्रो ।।१६।।
पाइन्छ मीठा रस चट्ट प्यूँन ।
पुगिन्छ क्या र्स्वर्ग वसन्त ज्यूँन ।।
जहाँ छ राम्रो उसतर्फउड्न ।
लिई पखेटा फुर्रुर्रुर हिँड्न ।।१७।।
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
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.’
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape’s joy.
Once in this time wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
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!
Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
Hide the limp and tearful willow.
Turn aside your eyes and ears,
Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
You shall walk with me tomorrow.
I am sister to the rain;
Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
Quickly lost, remembered slowly.
I have lived with shades, a shade;
I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
In the silver of the showers.
Every fragile thing shall rust;
When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
Sifting through the brittle grasses.
All sweet sins shall be forgot;
Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
Wistful still, and still aspiring.
Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
To be living with the living?
Sail, tonight, the Styx’s breast;
Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
Spirits of my shared transgressions,
Roam with young Persephone.
Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
One more wraith among your number.
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.
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
Being but men, we walked into the trees
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft
For fear of waking the rooks,
For fear of coming
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.
If we were children we might climb,
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
And, after the soft ascent,
Thrust out our heads above the branches
To wonder at the unfailing stars.
Out of confusion, as the way is,
And the wonder, that man knows,
Out of the chaos would come bliss.
That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end.
Being but men, we walked into the trees.
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.’
I went to the doctor-
He reached down my throat,
He pulled out a shoe
And a little toy boat,
He pulled out a skate
And a bicycle seat,
And said ‘Be more careful
About what you eat.’
Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
White doves come building there:
And round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There wind and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
The sights are no so fair,
And song and silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone, –
Dreaming and drowsing
Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
Him perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth’s stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here first the violets
Perhaps with bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
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.
हट्यो सारा हिलो मैलो
हरायो पानीको वर्षा
भवानीको भयो पूजा
चल्यो आनन्दको वर्षा
जता जाउ उतै भन्छन्
दशैं आयो दशैं आयो
यही आनन्द चर्चाले
सबै संकष्ट बिर्सायो
ठूला साना सबैलाई
दशैं अत्यन्त राम्रो छ
चलेका चाडमा ज्यादै
यही उत्कृष्ट हाम्रो छ
सबै अत्यन्त आनन्दी
सबै छन् पिङमा दंग
सबैको देखिंदै आयो
उज्यालो चेहरा रंग !
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.
Fighting wars just like before
Hate to think how many more
Hour by hour, dying for power
Digging graves and laying flowers
killing men again and again
That’s the way its always been
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
I never turned anyone into a pig.
Some people are pigs; I make them
Look like pigs.
I’m sick of your world
That lets the outside disguise the inside. Your men weren’t bad men;
Did that to them. As pigs,
Under the care of
Me and my ladies, they
Sweetened right up.
Then I reversed the spell, showing you my goodness
As well as my power. I saw
We could be happy here,
As men and women are
When their needs are simple. In the same breath,
I foresaw your departure,
Your men with my help braving
The crying and pounding sea. You think
A few tears upset me? My friend,
Every sorceress is
A pragmatist at heart; nobody sees essence who can’t
Face limitation. If I wanted only to hold you
I could hold you prisoner.
Above the tower — a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.
Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden . . . All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light!
A slight rain comes, bathed in dawn light.
I hear it among treetop leaves before mist
Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and,
Windblown, follows clouds away. Deepened
Colors grace thatch homes for a moment.
Flocks and herds of things wild glisten
Faintly. Then the scent of musk opens across
Half a mountain — and lingers on past noon.
As bamboo chill drifts into the bedroom,
Moonlight fills every corner of our
Garden. Heavy dew beads and trickles.
Stars suddenly there, sparse, next aren’t.
Fireflies in dark flight flash. Waking
Waterbirds begin calling, one to another.
All things caught between shield and sword,
All grief empty, the clear night passes.
White sheep, white sheep,
On a blue hill,
When the wind stops,
You all stand still.
When the wind blows,
You walk away slow.
White sheep, white sheep,
Where do you go?
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.
modern day in the shade
feels like hazy, blue, pouring rain
sitting under chipmunk filled trees
watching clouds and thinking about fleas
fleas are small but not as tiny
I am fine, but please, don’t mind me
growing tadpoles in the pond
just a patient, won’t take long
alcohol is in my blood
inject an overdose
when water floods
the find is dry
she lied again
I don’t know why?
I do know when.
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.
In the night of weariness
let me give myself up to sleep without struggle,
resting my trust upon thee.
Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship.
It is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day
to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening.
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.
Too high, too high to pluck
My heart shall swing.
A fruit no bee shall suck,
No wasp shall sting.
If on some night of cold
It falls to the ground
In apple-leaves of gold
I’ll wrap it around.
And I shall seal it up
With spice and salt,
In a carven silver cup,
In a deep vault.
Before my eyes are blind
And my lips mute,
I must eat core and rind
Of that same fruit.
Before my heart is dust
By the end of all,
Eat it I must, I must
Were it bitter gall.
But I shall keep it sweet
By some strange art;
Wild honey, I shall eat
When I eat my heart.
O honey cool and chaste
As clover’s breath!
Sweet Heaven I shall taste
Before my death.
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.
FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ;
Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o’er all.
Savor no more than thee behoven shall,
Rede well thy self that other folk can’st rede,
And Truth thee shalt deliver ’tis no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness :
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall;
Look up on high, and thank the God of all!
Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,
And Truth thee shalt deliver ’tis no drede.
Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I ne’er think to be in his prison ta’en;
Since I am free, I count him not a bean.
He may answer, and saye this and that;
I do no force, I speak right as I mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.
Love hath my name struck out of his slat,
And he is struck out of my bookes clean,
For ever more; there is none other mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.
What shul these clothes thus manyfold,
Lo this hote somers day?
After grete hete cometh cold;
No man caste his pilche away.
Of al this world the large compas
Yt wil not in myn armes tweyne;
Who so mochel wol embrace,
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.
(for Peter Ruppell)
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
Who can say
Why her eyes,
Those playmates of the hamlet where Beauty dwells,
Why her eyes smile that way ?
When notes arising from her soul,
That Temple-Palace of Music,
And traipsing through the land of glad tidings,
Mirthfully smothering the tinkling of their anklets,
Tip toe up, haltingly, secretively,
To the gates of her lips,
Why her gaze sparkles and smiles ?
Leaping over islands of silence
And wastelands of sealed lip pining,
When the silhouettes of desire
Come waltzing in
To nestle in an intimate moment’s nest,
Why her gaze sparkles and smiles ?
Her soul, that Sprite-Princess,
Neither lifts her veil
Nor voices her song
And when her heart’s ballad
Passes through distant, unexplored worlds
As the faint, lingering sounds of a flute …
Why her gaze sparkles and smiles !
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.
What are you able to build with your blocks?
Castles and palaces, temples and docks.
Rain may keep raining, and others go roam,
But I can be happy and building at home.
Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea,
There I’ll establish a city for me:
A kirk and a mill and a palace beside,
And a harbor as well where my vessels may ride.
Great is the palace with pillar and wall,
A sort of a tower on top of it all,
And steps coming down in an orderly way
To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay.
This one is sailing and that one is moored:
Hark to the song of the sailors on board!
And see on the steps of my palace, the kings
Coming and going with presents and things!
MY love was warm; for that, I crossed
The mountains and the sea,
Nor counted that endeavor lost
That gave my love to me.
If that indeed were love at all,
As still, my love, I trow,
By what dear name am I to call
The bond that holds me now
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
Hope springs eternal
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head, as she rode by.
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.
“Blow, blow, thou winter wind.”
Away from here,
And I shall greet thy passing breath
Without a tear.
I do not love thy snow and sleet
Or icy flows;
When I must jump or stamp to warm
My freezing toes.
For why should I be happy or
E’en be merry,
In weather only fitted for
Cook or Peary.
My eyes are red, my lips are blue
My ears frostbitten;
Thy numbing kiss doth even extend
Thro’ my mitten.
I am cold, no matter how I warm
Or clothe me;
O Winter, greater bards have sung
I loathe thee!
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.
I am Winter, that do keep
Longing safe amidst of sleep:
Who shall say if I were dead
What should be remembered?
(The moons of December, January
and February were once known by our
forebears respectively as Long Night or
Cold Moon, Wolf or Storm Moon, and Snow Moon)
Cold moons of winter
The wolf and the storm
Ice crystals splinter
The long night is born
Grey shadows lope
Over the snow
Yet still there is hope
Though fires burn low.
Slit my throat,
Slit my arms,
Stab that knife in both of my palms,
Get me out I want to go,
The pain in my eyes never seems to show,
Mom and Dad just don’t see, what she really meant to me,
My love for her will always be,
As the blood pours away from my lifeless heart,
I think of her name and carve it deep, a work of art,
I lie there and numb the pain,
My love for her is driving me insane…
Yesterday I tried to commit suicide…
The good news is..I didn’t succeed…
You don’t know how much I tried…
And cut just to watch my arms bleeding…
That night I really wanted to die…
I even went looking for pills…
As much as I tried me just couldn’t cry…
Just something I couldn’t feel.
It’s never as hard as it looks.
You have to trust and believe me.
Cutting can get you hooked.
And left with the feeling of uncertainty.
Or at least that’s what happens to me.
I try so hard to die and don’t succeed.
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
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!
Anger is a virus
That needs not even air
To propagate contagion
Whenever it is shared.
Anger can’t be placed in quarantine
To contain its vicious spread
For anger feeds upon itself
And burns a flaming red.
Anger is all consuming
Anger does not desist
From destroying sensibilities
In that haze of its red mist.
Searing reason and rationale,
With the seething rage of rash,
Like the red blaze in the wild jungle,
Anger, in its impulsive brash,
Melts all hope’s and dreams to ash;
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!
Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-colored water,
And the croaking of frogs-
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.
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
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
Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in
the street, flaws of grey,
Swarms of ants
Starving for food
Stored in ant hills
Survival a question
So pathetic to read
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,
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,
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….
Voyage through mind
Trekking along steadfast
All queer passed. Strong will wins at last
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!
Oh, horrid ways of emotions.
All actions tried are of no use.
All actions acted are useless.
No matter the action it is all in vain.
I can’t go anywhere
Running is useless and of no point.
I can’t go nowhere.
Even if the option were open.
Oh depression horrible depression
Hold me back ever more
Pin me down with the force of your grace.
Depression my one true friend.
A sad dark and lonely place.
Sit on the walls.
It is so sad and vacant.
Vacant like my happy days.
Depression takes me
More and more each day.
Feeding on my sadness.
This is an everlasting scar
A scar not to heal
A scar not to mend.
It will bring me to my end