Poem  –  Chicago 

‘My age, my beast!’ – Osip Mandelstam 
On the lips a taste of tolling we are blind

The light drifts like dust over faces

We wear masks on our genitals

You’ve heard of lighting cigarettes with banknotes we used to light ours with Jews

History is made of bricks you can’t go through it

And bricks are made of bones and blood and

Bones and blood are made of little tiny circles that nothing can go through 

Except a piano with rabies

Blood gushes into, not from, our wounds

Vietnamese Cuban African bloods

Constellations of sperm upon our bodies

Drunk as dogs before our sons

The bearded foetus lines up at the evolution-trough

Swarmy bloods in the rabid piano

The air over Chicago is death’s monogram

This is the Were-Age rushing past

Speed: 10,000 men per minute

This is the species bred of death

The manshriek of flesh

The lifeless sparks of flesh
Covering the deep drums of vision

O new era race-wars jugular-lightning

Dark glance bursting from the over-ripe future

Know we are not the smilelines of dreams

Nor the pores of the Invisible

Piano with rabies we are victorious over

The drum and the wind-chime

We bite back a voice that might have emerged

To tame these dead bodies aid wet ashes 

Sarta – Shyamal 

जबसम्म नारी बलात्कृत भइरहन्छे
र आकास धुजा धुजा पार्ने गरी

महासागर सुक्ने गरी चिच्याइरहनेछ

जबसम्म चरा कैद गरिएको हुन्छ पिँजडामा

उसले आफ्ना स—साना चुच्चाले

फलामको पिंजडा भत्काउन छाड्ने छैन

परन्तु जीवित नै हुनेछ करुणा र कोमलता

प्रेमीहरूले छिनाल्नेछन् आफुलाई बाँध्ने सिक्रीहरू

प्रेम चलिरहनेछ ।
जबसम्म हत्याराको मुठीमा छटपटिएको हुन्छ न्याय

र पैसा हुन्छ डाँकाको ब्रिफकेशमा

जबसम्म आलमारीका किताबमा बन्द हुन्छ इज्जत

र शिक्षा बेरिएको हुन्छ

काँजो बेरिएजस्तै मास्टरको लट्ठीमा

जबसम्म बसिरहनेछ हत्यारा आरामदायी मेचमा

र मानिसहरु हुनेछन् त्यसभन्दा तल भुईंमा

धर्ती कम्पायमान भइरहनेछ ।
त्यतिन्जेलसम्म जन्मिरहनेछन् स्पार्टाकसहरू

जबसम्म चराहरुले गीत गाउन छाड्ने छैनन्

जबसम्म जमीन बाँझो हुन्छ र

कोदालीले विना काम

कुनामा झोक्राइरहनुपर्छ

किसानले जबसम्म हातमा लाठी लिएर

जमीन जोगाइरहनुपर्छ

क्रोध बढिरहनेछ ।
पानी भएसम्म नदी बगिरहनेछ

चेत भएसम्म मानिस छट्पटाइरहनेछ

विश्वास भएसम्म मानिस विश्वास गरिरहनेछ

आशा भएसम्म हौसला भइरहनेछ

बाजा भएसम्म सुनिइरहनेछ ताल, सुर र नाद

यो मन झंकृत भइरहनेछ ।
यी निराशा, क्रोध र हो—हल्लाका बीच

शिशुहरु जन्मिइरहनेछन्

र तिनकी आमाका पवित्र स्तनबाट

जीवन रसाइरहनेछ

मानिस आफ्नै देवताबाट मुक्त नभएसम्म

दासमोचन भएको मानिने छैन

त्यसपछि पनि अनन्तकालसम्म

मानिसहरुको आवाजले हावा कम्पित भइरहनेछ

जीवन चलिरहनेछ ।

Rajdhanima Truck – Shyamal 

इँटा बोक्छ
सिमेन्ट र फलामका छडहरु बोक्छ

ढुङ्गा, बालुवा र काठ बोक्छ

बोक्छ झ्यालका लागि सिसा

र बोक्छ उज्यालोका लागि

मैनबत्तीको बाकस पनि

ओलम्पिकको तेज धावक झैं

राजमार्गमा दुर्गुछ ट्रक

कहाँ जान्छ ?

थाक्छ

लामो—लामो सुस्केर हालेर

विश्राम गर्छ,

सडक छेउ

थकाल्नीको पसलमा घुसेर माग्छ डिजेल

निस्पट्ट अँध्यारोमा

हेडलाइट बालेर दगुर्छ मात्तिदै

पिसाब गर्न रोकिन्छ झाडीनिर

र दुगर्छ फेरि गति बदल्दै

सयौं घुम्तीहरुको राजमार्गमा

आृहोरदोहोर सधंैको

यो ट्रक कहाँ जान्छ ?

ओसारेका

थुप्रै सामानहरु जोडेर

घर बनाउँछ उ

र शीतमा निथ्रुक्क भिजेर

बिताउँछ केही छिन रात

र पुनः बेपत्ता हुन्छ बाक्लो हुस्सूमा

दुइटा आँखा बालेर,

यसरी सधैँको ओहोरदोहोर

ओहोरदोहोर हुन्छ

पेट्रोल पम्प राखेर बसेका

राजमार्ग छेउका मानिसहरु हो ।

यो ट्रक कहाँ जान्छ ?

Dashaniko Lehanga – Shyamal 

तातो हावाको झाँकाले
फरफराउँछ

पराजित मुलुकको झन्डाजस्तो

दसनीको लेहङ्गा ।

धेरै चोट सहिसक्यो

धेरै रगत बगाइसक्यो

धेरै बलात्कार खपिसक्यो

जमिन्दारको बाँझो खेतमा

धेरै कुलो लगाइसक्यो

घामपानीको मारले

जति मधुरो देखिए पनि

अझै रङ्गीन छ

हजारौँ फूल फुल्ने उद्यानजस्तो

दसनीको लेहङ्गा ।

दाउरा लिन गएको

जङ्गलबाट फर्केन

कसैलाई थाहा छ कि

कहाँ फरफराइरहेछ बुट्टेदार

दसनीको लेहङ्गा ।

Naya Taar – Rabindra Nath Thakur 

सितारका पुराना तारहरु सबै एउटा–एउटा गर्दै खोल, त्यसमा नयाँतार जोड ।

दिउँसोको मेला अब शेष भयो, रातको आसन शुरु भयो,

पुरानो स्वरलाई राख्ने कोशिश नगर, त्यसको दिन अब बितिसक्यो !

अब सितारमा नयाँ तार लगाउ !

आकाशको विशाल तिमिर पस्न दिन आङ्खना ढोका खोलिराख !

सात लोकका निस्तब्धता उसँग आङ्खनो घरमा आउन देऊ !

आजसम्म तिमीले जुन गीत गाएका थियौ आज त्यसको अवशेष

भयो,

यमि वाद्य तिम्रा वाद्य हुन्, यो कुरो भुलिदेऊ ।

आङ्खनो सितारमा नयाँ तार लगाऊ !

Dhwani – Rabindra Nath Thakur 

मलाई भेट्नका लागि, कहिलेदेखि (अनादि कालदेखि) तिमी हिड्यौ
होला कसले जान्द छ र !

तिम्रो सूर्य–चन्द्रले तिमीलाई मेरो आँखामा ल्याउन सकेन् !

अगणित अनि सन्ध्याको वेला मैले तिम्रो गोडाको आवाज सुनें ।
तिम्रो दूतले मेरो ह्दयमा चूपचाप निमन्त्रणा दिन्छ ।

हे यात्री ! किन हो कुन्नि आज मेरो देहमा अपार हर्ष भरिएको छ ।

एक अवर्णनीय आनन्दको रेखा मेरो ह्दयमा निहित छ ।

आज के बिदाको समय आइपुग्यो :

आज के मेरा सबै कर्तव्य पूरा भए ।

ईश्वर! तिम्रो स्पर्शले वायुमा जो मृदु–मधु सुवास भरिएको छ,

त्यसले मलाई भनिरहेछ तिमी मेरो अति छेउमा आइपुगेका छौ ।

Jal Bihar – Rabindra Nath Thakur

हामी दुवैले परस्पर गुप्त प्रतिज्ञा गरेका थियौँ, एउटा डुङ्गामा
केवल तिमी र म बसेर स्वच्छन्द जल–विहार गर्नेछौ,

हाम्रो तीर्थयात्रा कुन देश अनि कुन लक्ष्यको निम्ति होला, यसको

विभिन्नता संसारभरका कसैलाई ज्ञात हुँदैन ।

त्यस किनारविहीन सागरमा बग्दै म तिम्रो श्रवणोत्सुक कानमा गीत

सुनाउँछु । त्यो गीत सागरका उन्माद तरंगहरु झैँ छरपुष्ट हुन्छ अनि

शब्दको बन्धनदेखि मुक्त भएर केवल स्वर–लहरी बन्नेछ !

के अझै त्यो समय आइपुगेको छैन ? अब पनि कर्तव्य कर्म के

समाप्तभएका छन् ?

हेर ! सन्ध्या समुद्रको किनारमा झरिसकेको छ अनि धमिलो

उज्यालोमा समुद्र–विहारी पक्षी पखेटा फर्फर् गर्दै आङ्खना

गुँडमा फर्किरहेका छन् ।

कसले जान्दछ र यो निर्मम जंजीरबाट मुक्त हुन्छ अनि अस्ताउन

लागेको सूर्यको अन्तिम रश्मिझैँ हाम्रो डुङ्गाले राती स्वतन्त्र जलविहार

गर्न प्रस्थान गर्ला ?

Geet Sudha – Rabindra Nath Thakur

तिमीले मलाई गीत गाउन जब भन्यौ,
गर्वले मेरो छाती फुट्नखोज्यो !

मेरा आँखामा आँसु आए

अनि म एकोहोरो तिम्रो चेहरामा हेरेको हेरेकै भएँ ।

मेरो जविनमा भएका सबै कटु, विषम अनि अस्तव्यस्त छन्, ती

सबै पग्लेर तिम्रो गीत–सुधारमा बदलिँदै गए ।

मेरा सबै साधन, आराधना,

पक्षी झैँ पखेटा खोलेर आनन्द साथ उड्ने इच्छा गर्न थाले ।

मेरा गीतका रागिनी तिमीलाई

श्रुति–मनोहर लाग्छन्, कर्ण–प्रिय लाग्छन् ।

म जान्दछु, ती गीतका सहायताले गर्दा नै

म तिम्रो सामुन्ने आउने

साहस गर्न सकुँला !

तैपनि तिम्रो अति नगीच जाँदा संकोच हुन्छ,

केवल आङ्खना गीतका पखेटाहरुद्वारा नै

तिम्रो चरण स्पर्श गर्न सकुँला !

ईश्वर ! गाउने मनले म आफैँलाई समेत भुल्दछु,

अनि तिमीलाई

‘साथी’ भनी पुकार्छु!

Muglan ko Tithi – Rabindra Nath Thakur

सोच्दछु, यो कुरो कहिले भयो ?
तिम्रो गीत गाउँदा–गाउँदा म कहिले बाहिर आएँ ? : कहिले आएँ

यो कुरो आजको होइन, आजको होइन !

आज मैले तिमीलाई पाउन आएको थिएँ,

कहिले आएको थिएँ : यो पनि भुलेँ ।

यो कुरो आजको होइन, आजको होइन !
जसरी कोही कोही ढीलो बाहिर आयो,

अनि कोसित भेट्नुछ, यही भूल भुल्यो,

यसरी नै मेरो जीवन–प्रवाह बाहिर निस्केको थियो,
तर, यो कुरो आजको होइन, आजको होइन !

मैले तिमीलाई कति नाउँले आह्वान गरेँ मतिपय चित्रहरुमा तिम्रो

ध्वनि भरेँ, तिम्रो ठेगान पाइनँ ।

तर, यो कुरो आजको होइन, आजको होइन !

Desh Eklo Pareko Chha – Gajal

यहाँ देश एक्लो परेको छ आज

इमानी शिरै यो झरेको छ आज
बल्यो अग्नि ज्वाला छ रातो हिमाल

डढेलो कतैको सरेको छ आज
थियौं स्वाभिमानी हिजोसम्म हामी

कसोरी भनूँ क्वै चरेको छ आज?
र, ऐना फुटेझैं फुटेको छ भाग्य

भनूँ खै कसोरी मरेको छ आज
सबै हात हाम्रा उठाएर जागौं

सधैं भोलि भन्दै टरेको छ आज

Thapdai Gai Maile Piyen – Komal Shrestha Malla

थप्दै गई मैले पिएँ,पिउनु पिएँ पिउनु पिएँ
बोतलको हेर कमाल बिग्रिएछ मेरो हाल

मालामाल मालामाल उनी मालामाल
बात लाउँछे छोएँ भने नपिएर बसेँ भने

आई हाल्छे आलङ्घनमा हात्ती गैंडा दिएँ भने

थप्दै गई मैले पिएँ पिउनु पिएँ पिउनु पिएँ

बोतलको हेर कमाल बिग्रिएछ मेरो हाल

मालामाल मालामाल उनी मालामाल
लठ्ठी लठ्ठी मागे भने हासीहासी थपी दिने

गोलमाल गोलमाल जानीबुझी गरी दिने

जानी जानी जिन्दगी यो मासीदिए मासीदिए

बोतलको हेर कमाल बिग्रिएछ मेरो हाल

मालामाल मालामाल उनी मालामाल

Poem – The Secret of Woman Beauty

What has become as the best makeup for woman?
Her youth, health, nature attractiveness
or just how she get looked to mirror, repaired tresses,
how she smiled and turn to glance?
Maybe mystic lied on her way of wearings,
in her fashion and subtle taste

All these things look as extra-precious
But beauty of soul, perfection of deep knowledge and reason
beyond all competitions and comparisons
as a parts of her grace and eternal elegance.

Poem – Let’s Go to Live Forever

Let’s go, dear, to live together
and we should look eventually
what happen with such decision,
certainly we are growing fast older and downgraded
going to end, my sugar candy,
but we have been together,
that s sound finely, doesn’t?

So let’s keep living together.
No one warranted
what happened from such idea:
would we live in peace and harmony
or our life have been hurly-burly,
the whole one endless cacophony,
maybe we are both drown
with tsunami of troubles and problems
or we shall find way for harbor
our safety and harmony,
or our ship will moved to divorcee
and fighting for shearing joint collecting property.
No one know answers for that hellish questions
and predict future possibilities and revelation
in all its damned variations,
maybe love will thousand times cursing
and regretting and lamenting
for this occasion and acceptance
of long waiting meeting, suggestion and dance.

But let’s keep living together
right now and without any postponing
traying never miss each other’s
and we are looking for what’s happened later,
growing older and downgrade
but we have been live with you together
my dear sugar candy,
let’s, please, living forever.

Poem – The Deep Secret of Love

Our world was born from one genuine strong intention,
pressed in simple sentence,
one astonishing spelling out
the magical composed phrase
that deeply stressed frozen black matters
and born and expanded our Universe
with myriads bright stars
and galactics,
as a one wholly composure,
(where invisible and unmeasurable part and game
handred time more really and value
then what we could fixed) ,
have drifted to eternal motion
and come eventually to that unusual existence
with limitless secrets and powers in micro and macro realities
teeming inside and around us
in close and great distances,
with perfectly worked
and tuned physical constants and laws
as only truly vitnesses, ambassadors and heralds
of our transendence.

Try to do the same
on his small level.

Love also has
its hidden formula, cod and mission,
if you have a strong power and great passion
you might able to do it
relive and save for life
the dear one who look now maybe
as the world before its born.
Or try to resurrect our people and country
that too long suffered
from lack of perfect knowledge and love
for creating sustained and stable community,
pressed out by abundant black will, jealous and hatred
on the base of dack ignorance.

Poem – War for our Peace and Soul

Since 2000 these skilled and brave American boys were fighting for our safety and freedom. That is the greatest truth of our days and of the modern history, and it was carefully kept on the shadow by our artful philistine-politicians and pseudo-experts too long.
While we and our governments have experimented and dreamed about various ways to create prosperous community and non-corruptive state, while being in the comfortable place and under the double protection of American and Russian soldiers, those soldiers have been fighting for our sake in the global politics. Americans were killed and injured in the severe mountain deserts of Afghanistan for our survival, sacrificing their souls for us, stopping for rest and recovery in the Manas airbase. And what have we done? And what have the Russian soldiers done, who were deployed in the airbase in Kant close to US air base the same time the US troops came to Kyrgyzstan? The distance between these two airbases is less than 60 kilometers. Have Russian soldiers helped all these years to Americans? Yes, our and Russian officials told they had done. But in fact, from the first days of their deployment, the Russian soldiers ‘protected’ us from Americans soldiers – not from Afghans, Taliban or anyone else.

The government of the Kyrgyz Republic knew that our country borders with the most troublesome region of the world, and that this war was rather ours than theirs. Therefore, Kyrgyzstan tried to perceive the world that we were with the West and were helping them, especially the USA in the decade long war against the Taliban. Our government did not stop repeating again and again that we were helping the West Alliance efforts in their effort to create peace and stability in vast region of Central Asia. Yes, we gave permission to the US and European countries to deploy their airbase in our territory from the early beginning of the war in Afghanistan, but the USA provided us more than a billion dollars within the last ten years. It has never been truly friendly help and support. It was primary the subject of heavy and dishonorable (certainly for us) bargain and these shameful bazaar goes on and seems will not stop in the near future. Instead of expressing gratitude to America and its boys, who struggled, were wounded and died for peace in the world, especially, for our peace, we have been permanently playing on the enemy’s side. Instead of helping our protectors or even better to participate in this war, we made a dirty baseness not only by earning money from them for our peace, but also by humiliating them, our truly friends, and continuously demanding the expulsion the US forces and closure of its airbase in Kyrgyzstan.

Yes, from the very beginning it was quite clear that Russia and China would be against deploying the US airbase in our territory and pressed out them eventually. That by the time we would be left along without supports of West countries under strong pressure dictatorship regimes around us in Central Asia with troubled forever Afghanistan and under global patronage of our authoritarian superpowers-neighbours -Russian and China.
Yes, nothing happened, and war and Global confrontation last forever.
But I want asked from ours and worldwide politics – for what so many soldiers from US and other West countries have died and been wounded? For what have hundred our Kyrgyz soldiers died, who protected our borders in so called Batken wars from attacks of enemy troops from Afganistan before deploying Americans troop in our country? And for what thousands of Soviet soldiers died in the same prehistoric war in Afghanistan, which began in 1980s and finished with the collapse of the USSR?

Poem – My English

It was very hard for me
to speak with West
through translators,
usually Russians
anchored by intelligent services,
KGB or related them
with such or others way.
Sometimes we have met Kyrgyzes mediators,
but they are also spoiled
by soviet or post-soviet propaganda,
hated our own cultures and nashient freedom,
heavily abscessed
by dyed glory and greatness of USSR,
ardently dreamed, poor one,
to return in that golden cage and Edem.

So damn all of them!
I want to learn English
for escape from
various interpretations and interpretators
and traitors and crack down
in the hub of crossroad
of Big Game.

Poem – There is no River

A river once flew.
with all it’s majesty.
Giving life and love,
to a single tree.

And the tree grew,
Tall and strong,
But one day,
The river stopped.

And the tree did not grow.
It needed the river.
And it’s roots shriveled.
And it’s branches drooped

The water left.
And the tree stood dying.
Wishing, hoping.
That the water would come back.

Poem – From The Ashes

Black soil engulfs
the shine of his skin.
His moans for help are weak,
though undeterred.

Stumbling forward, back
the blinding sun watching
guiltily.

It could have been him.
Or them. He didn’t know.
Who did he die for?
Selfishness or Selflessness?

Neither did him well.

His hand brushes the
dirt and soot from his eyes
and cheeks,

And brushes the
tears from his eyes,
and cheeks.

He returns to the grave,
where he rose,
valiant over Death,
victorious over Fate.

Standing over,
he looks down
into the broken coffin

He laid back down.
Closed his eyes.

And called for Death
to come once more.

Poem – The Silent Tree

Gentle and forlorn,
Darkness creeps,
Slowly stalking
The solemn presence.

A misplaced light glistens
As the moon shines softly
Upon the tender branches
Of the Silent Tree.

And the winds lightly
Speak, very quietly.
Unspoken voices
Of the Silent Tree

And the tender river
Flows smoothly,
Life pours into the aged roots
Of the Silent Tree

And unheard by Nature,
The delicately woven song
Beautifully voiced
By the Silent Tree

Poem – Titan

Everyone
must share own part of heaven.
He showed it,
when he lifted universe
on his arms.
He had perfect knowledge
about inward
and outward
structure and deep sence of limitles
and about tight integration
every soul
with the whole.
He knew,
everyone
must share own part of heaven.
from unfolding existence
after Great Big Ban.
But mankind
made from him goddess,
instead share
own part of heaven.

Poem – Pebble

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

–Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

Poem – Help to Obama

Right now
World needs from you
The songs of peace,
The songs which able
To join East and West,
South and North,
Christians and Muslims,
Juda and Budda.

Help to Obama
To drift in right direction
with China, Russian, Iran and Abu-dabi.

O.K.
Don’t worry about words.
You are ought only sing a songs
About peace in the World.
As a great whale
Or submarine of friendship
That floats up from North Ice Ocean,
Break cold war
And what else
Left from them
In frozen poles of our souls.

Help to Obama
To drift in right direction
with China, Russian, Iran and Abu-dabi.

Poem – Mischief

LET those who’re fond of idle tricks,
Of throwing stones, and hurling bricks,

And all that sort of fun,

Now hear a tale of idle Jim, 

That warning they may take by him, 

Nor do as he has done.
In harmless sport or healthful play

He did not pass his time away,

Nor took his pleasure in it;

For mischief was his only joy:

No book, or work, or even toy,

Could please him for a minute. 
A neighbour’s house he’d slyly pass,

And throw a stone to break the glass,

And then enjoy the joke!

Or, if a window open stood,

He’d throw in stones, or bits of wood, 

To frighten all the folk.
If travellers passing chanced to stay,

Of idle Jim to ask the way, 

He never told them right; 

And then, quite harden’d in his sin,

Rejoiced to see them taken in, 

And laugh’d with all his might. 
He’d tie a string across the street, 

Just to entangle people’s feet,

And make them tumble down: 

Indeed, he was disliked so much, 

That no good boy would play with such

A nuisance to the town.
At last the neighbours, in despair,

This mischief would no longer bear: 

And so–to end the tale,

This lad, to cure him of his ways,

Was sent to spend some dismal days

Within the county jail. 

Poem – Spain 

Spain! You are the trustee of the Muslim

blood:

In my eyes you are sanctified like the Harem.

Prints of prostration lie hidden in your dust,

Silent calls to prayers in your morning air.

In your hills and vales were the tents of those,

The tips of whose lances were bright like the

stars.

Is more henna needed by your pretties? 

My lifeblood can give them some colour! 

How can a Muslim be put down by the straw

and grass,

Even if his flame has lost its heat and fire! 

My eyes watched Granada as well,

But the traveller’s content neither in journey

nor in rest:

I saw as well as showed, I spoke as well as

listened,

Neither seeing nor learning brings calm to the

heart! 
*

The veiled secrets are becoming manifest—

Bygone the days of you cannot see Me; 

Whosoever finds his self first,

Is Mahdi himself, the Guide of the Last Age.

Poem – Mirza Ghalib

Through you the secret was revealed to the human intellect
That innumerable enigmas are solved by human intellect
You were the complete soul, literary assembly was your body

You adorned as well as remained veiled from the assembly
Your eye is longing to witness that veiled Beauty

Which is veiled in everything as the pathos of life
The assemblage of existence is rich with your harp

As mountain’s silence by the brook’s melodious harp
The garden of your imagination bestows glory on the universe

From the field of your thought worlds grow like meadows
Life is concealed in the humor of your verse

Picture’s lips move with your command of language
Speech is very proud of the elegance of your miraculous lips

Thurayyah is astonished at your style’s elegance
Beloved of literature itself loves your style

Delhi’s bud is mocking at the rose of Shiraz
Ah! You are resting in the midst of Delhi’s ruins

Your counterpart is resting in the Weimar’s garden
Matching you in literary elegance is not possible

Till maturity of thought and imagination are combined
Ah! What has befallen the land of India! 

Ah! The inspirer of the super-critical eye! 
The lock of Urdu’s hair still craves for combing

This candle still craves for moth’s heart-felt pathos
O Jahanabad! O cradle of learning and art

Your entire super-structure is a silent lament
The sun and the moon are asleep in every speck of your dust

Though innumerable other gems are also hidden in your dust
Does another world-famous person like him also lie buried in you? 

Does another gem like him also lie concealed in you? 

Poem – Jawab E Shik 

Whatever comes out of the heart is effective
It has no wings but has the power of flight
It has holy origins, it aims at elegance

It rises from dust, but has access to the celestial world
My love was seditious, rebellious and clever

My fearless wailing rent through the sky
On hearing it the sun said, ‘Somewhere there is somebody! ‘

The planets said, ‘At the ‘Arsh-i-Bar 

I Wish – Nikita Yurievich Lubennikov 

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

I wish love to gift us with children and flowers, 

I wish the fulfillment of all dreams of ours.

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

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

I wish that my humble lines would stimulate

You to pray for all strays, to eradicate hate.

I wish that the good would prevail and that love

Would reign your home in peace from above. 

Poem – Lost Paradise

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

And longing for for lost

Sensation.

I

Once

Thy pride

A sweet loving bride, 

My swollen breast and rosy cheeks

Coral lips and hazel eyes

And a fairy’s charm

Ah! Sank and

Gone.

By a stroke of fate 

Lost my faith, in love, in care, 

And now I host a never ending fear.

Don’t know how and why

Like a fallen angel

Cast off the sky.

Now

Thou art gone 

And I have nothing 

But few solemn tears 

and leading steps to doom

for my love and for my groom. 

Xelam Kan

Poem – Chorus Of Athenians

Strophe I.
Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;

Groves, where immortal Sages taught;

Where heav’nly visions of Plato fir’d,

And Epicurus lay inspir’d!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood

Unspotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,

And steel now glitters in the Muses’ shades.
Antistrophe I. 

Oh heav’n-born sisters! source of art!

Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;

Who lead fair Virtue’s train along,

Moral Truth, and mystic Song!

To what new clime, what distant sky,

Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?

Say, will you bless the bleak Atlantic shore?

Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
Strophe II.

When Athens sinks by fates unjust,

When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;

Perhaps ev’n Britain’s utmost shore,

Shall cease to blush with strager’s gore.

See Arts her savage sons control,

And Athens rising near the pole!

‘Till some new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,

And civil madness tears them from this land.
Antistrophe II.

Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?

Freedom and Arts together fall; 

Fools grant whate’er Ambition craves,

And men, once ignorant, are slaves.

Oh curs’d effects of civil hate,

In ev’ry age, in ev’ry state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,

Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds. 

Poem – An Epigram 

ADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMEN REFLECTED ON IN THE ROSCIAD,A POEM, BY THE AUTHOR
Worried with debts and past all hopes of bail,

His pen he prostitutes t’ avoid a gaol.

ROSCOM.

LET not the ‘hungry’ Bavius’ angry stroke

Awake resentment, or your rage provoke;

But pitying his distress, let virtue shine,

And giving each your bounty, ‘let him dine’;

For thus retain’d, as learned counsel can, 

Each case, however bad, he’ll new japan;

And by a quick transition, plainly show

‘Twas no defect of yours, but ‘pocket low’,

That caused his ‘putrid kennel’ to o’erflow. 

Poem – Castaway 

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

And longing for for lost

Sensation.

I

Once

Thy pride

A sweet loving bride, 

My swollen breast and rosy cheeks

Coral lips and hazel eyes

And a fairy’s charm

Ah! Sank and

Gone.

By a stroke of fate 

Lost my faith, in love, in care, 

And now I host a never ending fear.

Don’t know how and why

Like a fallen angel

Cast off the sky.

Now

Thou art gone 

And I have nothing 

But few solemn tears 

and leading steps to doom

for my love and for my groom. 

Poem – Goddess Grace

I am the Goddess of a thousand names and infinite capacity.
All Her gifts are mine. 

All Her powers reside in me.
I am Athena of Greece.

Like my totem the owl, I am wise for I see and hear everything around and within me.

Like the oak, I am strong, for the olive of peace is sacred to me.
I am Bast, cat goddess of Egypt.

I am graceful, flexible, playful, and affectionate.

I radiate the warmth and light of the glorious sun.
I am Cerridwen of Wales.

My magic cauldron contains food for the soul; an inexhaustible source of wisdom and inspiration.

The more I give, the more I receive.
I am Diana, Roman goddess of the ever-changing moon.

I am a protectress of women and children; a guardian of the wild.

I focus my aim on my heart’s desire and draw it to me.
I am Ereshkigal, Assyro-Babylonian goddess of the underworld, Queen of the Great Below. 

I shed dead skin to grow. 

Deep powers of renewal are mine.
I am Freya, Well-beloved Nordic Lady.

I survey the beauty of my world in joyous flight.

I celebrate and honor the bonds between friends and lovers.
I am Gaia, Greek Earth Mother.

Grounded and centered in the rhythms and patterns of chaos. 

I emerge to create my universe.
I am Hecate of Greece, Triple Goddess of the crossroads of choice.

I balance my powers of thought and my emotion.

I choose the path I walk. 

The torch of my reason is illumined by my brilliant intuition.
I am Isis, Egyptian Queen of the World.

I offer healing and transformation to all in need.

I hold the power to shape my world.
I am Jagad-Yoni, Hindu universal Yoni, womb of the world. 

I am the gatekeeper of the next generation. 

I choose the life that emerges through me.

I use my powers wisely.
I am Kwan-Yin of Buddhist China, goddess of compassion.

I hear and comfort the wounds of the world.

I welcome children and teach the magic of change.
I am Liban, Irish mermaid goddess.

I revel in the healing power of pleasure.

Quench your thirst at my sacred well.
I am Maat of Egypt.

Truth justice and law are the natural order of my universe.

Harmony arises as I attune to my divine will.
I am Nu-Kua, Chinese dragon-tailed creatures. 

I restore the cosmic equilibrium.

I form community among women and men connecting in equality of love and respect.
I am Old Spider goddess of Micronesia.

I created the moon, the sea, the sky, the sun, and the earth from a single clamshell.

All the vast and varied universe is present in the smallest forms of life.

As above, so below. 

As within, so without.
I am Pele, Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes.

My fiery energy erupts from my core to create new worlds. 

I flow easily over obstacles in my path.
I am Qedeshet of Syria. 

I balance lightly on the lion I ride.

Laughter lifts me from the pull of gravity.

The lotus blossoms I hold and the serpents I carry symbolize the life and health I bring.
I am Rhiannon, horsewoman, Divine Queen of Wales.

My steady pace is swift and smooth.

I travel freely through the world, safe, serene and secure.

My winged friends can wake the dead, and lull the living to sleep.
I am Sedena of the Eskimos.

Know and honor me through my animals.

Bears, whales, and seals, all creatures of the land and sea are part of me.

We share the right to be.
I am Tiamat of Babylon, primordial sea-serpent.

I am the great mother womb who brought forth the earth and the heavens. 

I dive deep into the watery unconscious to find the treasures buried there.
I am Uttu, Chaldean-Sumerian goddess of weaving and vegetation. 

I offer shelter and nourishment to all who know me.

We weed and clothe each other through our work.
I am Vasudhara, Hindu goddess of abundance.

My six arms hold everything you need and offer it to you.

Earth Water Fire Air Center Spirit Purpose Love Passion Wisdom Here Now.
I am White Woman of Honduras.

I descend from heaven to build my temple on earth and return as a glorious bird.

I honor and express my true spirit, my beauty is beyond compare.
I am Xochiquetzal, Aztec goddess of flowers, love spinning, weaving, singing and dancing. 

I am an Original Woman.

I delight in sharing my many gifts.
I am Yemaya, Nigerian Fish Mother, Brazilian Voodoo mermaid.

Lakes, rivers, and oceans are my home.

The waters of life belong to me.

We cleanse and substain each other.
I am Zoc, Gnostic Acorn of Life.

Mother of all Living.

I am the embodiment of growth and vitality.

I am unique life energy.
I am the Goddess of a thousand names and infinite capacity.

All Her gifts are mine.

All Her powers reside in me.
We are the Goddess of a thousand names and infinite capacity.

All Her gifts are ours. All Her powers reside in us.
You are the Goddess of a thousand names and infinite capacity.

All Her gifts are yours.

All Her powers reside in you. 

Poem – Regret

Regret flows from the depths of my soul
With the strength of a flood

I have held these gates shut for too long

And though tormenting, they should not be stopped.
The thought of your anguish

Even as I write to you now

Stops my heart cold

As well it should
What I see in front of me

Is a painting of our love

Its most thoughtful brushstrokes

Mottled by hurried abstraction and inattention
A person who had not seen this masterpiece created

Might think it to be refuse and pass it by unknowingly

Letting be obscured the deep beauty of its many scenes

By layers of the tarnish of mistreatment
But as the painter

I see beyond the dark smears

To recall the hours that I attended to the details

And wonder how I could let it become so discolored
The painting that took me my life to create

Has lost its divinity in my careless treatment

And even if I were to refine it

I fear you would always see it as it is today
So today I paint a new masterpiece

One inspired by the muse of respect

A work that you can love through our old age

One that you will look to each day for inspiration
This one will take some time

As I want my brushstrokes to be carefully placed

I need to move steadily to ensure that this time, 

My art represents my dream
This is my opus

Don’t judge me on my past works

As I have never before had so much skill and inspiration

And never before have I wanted to please you as I do today
With you as my muse

I will paint for you a lifetime

A portrait of devotion and friendship

A panorama of passion and admiration
All I ask is that you gaze upon it with an open heart

And you shall unquestionably love me again 

Poem – Became 

Alone and lost amongst the trees, 

the young one stood and wept.

He yearned for home upon his knees, 

in fright as daylight slept.
He knelt in wait, but night remained, 

as roaring clouds rolled in.

The skies became a beast unchained, 

as rain beset his skin.
But in that dark and stormy bind, 

the young one faced his fear.

When he arose in peaceful mind, 

the skies began to clear.
With all the doubt and gloom at bay

the rays of dawn came down.

The sanguine light revealed the way –

A homeward path was found.
A timid boy no longer now, 

he strolled beyond the trees.

Singling loud, he basked in how

he felt the sun and breeze.
His home would welcome him at last –

His goal and greatest need, 

but if he ran the route too fast

he’d miss the sights to see.
So knowing now when things go wrong, 

or if he’s lost his way, 

to face the fears by staying strong – 

Became a man today. 

Poem – 88 Ways to Say Goodbye

These keys beneath my fingertips 

express my soul through Musics’ lips.

Emotion fuels the solemn songs I play.
With mournful chords of black and white

I grieve the loss of love tonight.

My melodies display my disarray.
You loved it when I played ‘our’ song, 

you’d sit with me and sing along

and at the end we’d always share a kiss.
But now the voice that filled this den

has lost the fight no one can win

so here I play alone and reminisce.
With every key I say goodbye; 

they represent the tears I cried

those months I sat and watched you fade away.
So here upon this bench of mine, 

I play ‘our’ song just one last time

then blow a final kiss my babys’ way. 

Poem – Like a God Like You

Like a mountain spring, 

You flow through me. 

With non-perennial waters, 

I’ll never thirst again. 
Like the sun on my back, 

Your light warms my smile. 

With rays made of gold, 

You bring worth to my day. 
Like the back of a Brumby, 

You carry me when weak. 

With trusted strides, 

We march on to victory. 
Like a knight’s armour, 

You strengthen my will. 

With polished silver, 

I will stay true. 
Like a God like You, 

You will stay with me. 

With untainted love, 

You watch over me. 
I will remain strong, 

In your arms I rest 

Poem – My Native Land

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,

As home his footsteps he hath turn’d

From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. 

Poem – Bonaparte 

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.

The spark, that, from a suburb hovel’s hearth 

Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,

Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth. 

And for the soul that bade him waste the earth—

The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure, 

That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth,

And by destruction bids its fame endure, 

Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.
Before that Leader strode a shadowy form,

Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor shew’d; 

With which she beckon’d him through fight and storm,

And all he crush’d that cross’d his desp’rate road, 

Nor thought, nor fear’d, nor look’d on what he trode;

Realms could not glut his pride, blood not slake,

So oft as e’er she shook her torch abroad—

It was Ambition bade his terrors wake; 

Nor deign’d she, as of yore, a milder form to take.
No longer now she spurn’d at mean revenge,

Or stay’d her hand for conquer’d freeman’s moan,

As when, the fates of aged Rome to change,

By Caesar’s side she cross’d the Rubicon;

Nor joy’d she to bestow the spoils she won,

As when the banded Powers of Greece were task’d

To war beneath the Youth of Macedon:

No seemly veil her modern minion ask’d,

He saw her hideous face, and lov’d the fiend unmask’d.
That Prelate mark’d his march—On banners blaz’d

With battles won in many a distant land.

On eagle standards and on arms he gaz’d;

‘And hop’st thou, then,’ he said, ‘thy power shall stand?

O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,

And thou hast temper’d it with slaughter’s flood;

And know, fell scourge in the Almighty’s hand,

Gore-moisten’d trees shall perish in the bud,

And, by a bloody death, shall die the Man of Blood.’
The ruthless Leader beckon’d from his train

A wan, paternal shade, and bade him kneel,

And pale his temples with the Crown of Spain,

While trumpets rang, and Heralds cried, ‘Castile!’

Not that he lov’d him—No!—in no man’s weal,

Scarce in his own, e’er joy’d that sullen heart;

Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,

That the poor puppet might perform his part,

And be a scepter’d slave, at his stern beck to start. 

Poem – You Said 

You said you’ll never make me cry

Then  why do I have tears in my eyes

You said you’ll never hurt me

Then why am I in pain

You said that you’ll never let me go

Then why do I feel like I’m falling

You said that you’ll always be there 

Then why aren’t you here

You said you didn’t need anything else

Then why do you keep wishing for more

You said you’ll love me forever

Then why is your heart not with me 

Poem – My Love

It’s hard being so far from you

But my love for you will always stay true

My heart will be with you till the end

And I’ll be your truest friend

I wish we’ll be together forever

Will I stop loving you? I’ll never

You say you’ll always love me

Then I wonder if we were meant to be

I wonder if this is a sign

That you’ll forever be mine

I hope you won’t ever hurt me in the inside

Because if u do, I’ll feel like all you did was lie

I wish we weren’t so far apart

But you’ll always be here in my heart

Sometimes I feel I’m so crazy to love someone on the other side of the world

But I’m hanging on to your every word

I’ll do anything for you

Because…I LOVE YOU! 

Poem – I Love You So Much 

I love you so much……

to travel around the whole world non-stop. I’ll walk forever all over the planet if that is what I had to do to find you…
I love you so much…

…to lie in the darkest corner of the world. I’ll sit blinded in the dark, cold and shivering on the bare earth if that’s where you wanted me to wait for you…
I love you so much…

…to fight an entire army by myself. I’ll stand before thousands of fierce warriors and battle each one with a single sword if that’s what I needed to fight for you…
I love you so much…

….to give up my life for you. I’ll leave my body lifeless on this earth to free my soul if the world had to choose between us who had to go… 

Poem – Look at Me

I want him to notice me

To realize the things I can be

Sometimes I feel like he’s always wanting to look the other way

I just don’t know what to say

We’re together, yet I feel as if we are apart

I wish we were good friends from the start

Maybe if he had to choose between me and a game

I’ll just be the one left in pain

I wish he’ll look at me

look in my eyes and see the hurt I’m going through

See that I need him

Open his eyes and realize that all I want to do is be with him

We’re not together every second of every minute of every hour

I only want him to make the best of the moments we have together 

Poem – Daedalus And Icarus

Daedalus says:
Go on sonny but remember that you are walking and not flying

the wings are just an ornament and you are stepping on a meadow

that warm gust is just the humid earth of summer

and that cold one is a brook

the sky is full of leaves and small animals
Icarus says:
The eyes like two stones return straight to earth

and see a farmer who knocks asunder oily till

a grub which wiggles in a furrow

bad grub which cuts the bond of a plant with the earth
Daedalus says:
Sonny this is not true The Cosmos is merely light

and earth is a bowl of shadows Look as here colors play

dust rises from above the sea smoke rises to the sky

of noblest atoms a rainbow sets itself now
Icarus says:
Arms hurt father from this beating at vacuum

legs are getting numb and miss thorns and sharp stones

I cannot keep looking at the sun as you do father

I sunken whole in the dark rays of the earth
Description of the catastrophe:
Now Icarus falls down head first

the last frame of him is a glimpse of a heal childlike small

being swallowed by the devouring sea

Up above the father cries out the name

which no longer belongs to a neck or a head

but only to a remembrance
Commentary:
He was so young did not understand that wings are just a metaphor

a bit of wax and feathers and a contempt for the laws of gravitation

I cannot hold a body at an elevation of a great many feet

The essence of the matter is in having our hearts

which are coursed by heavy blood

fill with air

and this very thing Icarus did not want to accept
let us pray 

Poem – Water 

Flowing through the river,

 Moving peacefully, 

Throughout the Earth

Wherever the currents runs, 
Water stirs freely, 

Living as it wishes.

Gentle enough to float a light feather, 

Though fierce enough to drown a large steamship
Water guides and protects, 

It gives peace and tranquility

And nourishes life with soothing care, 
Harmony 

Poem – When the Music Began 

The first strike hits the key, 

And the silence is gone, 

As the music begins.
And the notes seem to fly, 

Off the page, 

Swirling, dancing in the air
The emotions swirl.
The warmth and power

That rises from the sounds

Fills the room.
Leaves me in a trance, 

As the music comes

And the sensation rises.
And the music takes me, 

And I follow, 

With no second thought
The music I hear, I play, 

Takes it’s form

As I guide it
I lay in a vast meadow, 

The sun setting in front of me, 

And as night falls, I rest, 
I awake and find myself, 

Soaring through the sky, 

As if weight was a but a myth
And then I fall, 

Deep into the fiery depths, 

As I struggle to stay alive, 
Just as it is about to give in, 

And darkness surrounds me, 

A light.
And the light slowly brightens, 

As the music grows louder

And the emotions grow unbearable
And the light engulfs me, 

And just as the song ends.

I find myself back, where I began
And as the faint echoes

Of the dying music fade away, 

They leave a mark.
And that mark, 

I still feel to this day.

As the music touches me.
As it affects me in a way, 

Unexplainable.

Unimaginable.
And the emotions, 

And memories of the day.

The day the music began. 

Zander William Pearson

Poem – Solitude

Is someone there, oh weeping heart? No, no one there. 

Perhaps a traveler, but he will be on his way.

The night is spent, the dust of stars begins to scatter.

In the assembly halls dream-filled lamps begin to waver.

Small streets sleep waiting by the thoroughfare.

Strange earth beclouds footprints of yesterday.

Snuff out the candles, put away wine-cup and flask.

Then lock your eyelids in this morning dusk.

For now there’s no one, no one who will come here. 

Poem – The Voice from Over Yonder

“Did she care as much as I did

When our paths of Fate divided?

Was the love, then, all onesided—

Did she understand or care?”

Slowly fall the moments leaden,

And the silence seems to deaden—

And a voice from over yonder answers sadly: “I’ve been there.”

“Have you tramped the streets of cities

Poor? And do you know what it is—

While no mortal cares or pities—

To have drifted past ambition;

To have sunk below despair?

Doomed to slave and stint and borrow;

Ever haunted in your sorrow

By the spectre of To-morrow?”

And the voice from over yonder answers sadly: “I’ve been there.”
“Surely in the wide Hereafter

There’s a land of love and laughter?

Say: Is this life all we live for—

Say it! think it, if you dare!

Have you ever thought or wondered

Why the Man and God were sundered?

Do you think the Maker blundered?”

And the voice, in mocking accents, answered only: “I’ve been there.” 

Poem – Stars

(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.) 
Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air,

Are you errant strands of Lady Mary’s hair?

As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through,

Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too? 
Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes,

Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies.

Now and then a winged child turns his merry face

Down toward the spinning world — what a funny place! 
Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!)

In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole.

Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry,

Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky. 
Christ’s Troop, Mary’s Guard, God’s own men,

Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again.

Every steel-born spark that flies where God’s battles are,

Flashes past the face of God, and is a star. 

Poem – School of Love

Your love taught me how to grieve,

And for centuries I needed a woman to make me grieve,

I needed a woman

To make me cry on her shoulders like a bird,

I needed a woman to collect my pieces like broken glass.

Oh my lady, your love taught me the worst of my habits,

It taught me how to drink coffee a thousand times every night,

It taught me how to visit doctors and ask soothsayers,

It taught me to go out to scan the streets,

To seek your face in the rain and in the lights,

To chase your shadow in the faces of strangers,

To hunt your aura even in the newspapers!

Your love showed me the sadness city,

Which I have never entered ere you,

I have never known that the tear is humane,
And the human without tears is just a memory!

Your love taught me

How to draw your face on the walls with chalk like kids,

It taught me how love can change the map of times,

It taught me that when I love,

The earth stands still!

Your love showed me what hallucination is,

It taught me how to love you in every little thing,

In the bare, autumn trees,

In the falling, yellow leafs,

In the rain,

In every cafeteria in which we drank our black coffee,

My lady, your love taught me to sleep in nameless hotels,

And to sit by nameless shores,

It taught me to weep without tears,

Your love taught me how to grieve,

And for centuries I needed a woman to make me grieve,

I needed a woman

To make me cry on her shoulders like a bird,

I needed a woman to collect my pieces like broken glass, 

Poem – Essence of Essence is the Birth of the Weaker Sex

Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex,

For her strength alone can please the mighty hero!

What’s the use of this manliness, friend,

When it is of no use to the lord at all?

Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex!
A man might attain the ultimate release,

If he sticks to the path of virtue,

But to indulge in the scrumptious joys of pretended anger 

And the lord pleading to make up and other such games,

You simply have to be a woman!

Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex!

For her strength can please the mighty hero!
Even the gods like Indra and the great sages

Revere the very dust of gopis’ feet,

Considering themselves lesser than the gopis

As they find their manhood insipid!

Essence of essence the birth of the weaker sex,

For her strength can please the mighty hero!
Woman, the treasure trove of fortune

Experiences and enjoys all day and night

The very nectar, the Vedas and the Scriptures

Struggle to express!

Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex!
Let my dreams come true

My dark one, my lifter of the mountain, life of my life!

For just like the master dragging the meek beast

The leash of love draws Narsinh!

Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex,

For her strength can please the mighty hero! 

Poem – Jerusalem

I wept until my tears were dry

I prayed until the candles flickered

I knelt until the floor creaked

I asked about Mohammed and Christ

Oh Jerusalem, the fragrance of prophets

The shortest path between earth and sky

Oh Jerusalem, the citadel of laws

A beautiful child with fingers charred

and downcast eyes

You are the shady oasis passed by the Prophet

Your streets are melancholy

Your minarets are mourning

You, the young maiden dressed in black

Who rings the bells in the Nativity

On Saturday morning?

Who brings toys for the children

On Christmas eve?

Oh Jerusalem, the city of sorrow

A big tear wandering in the eye

Who will halt the aggression

On you, the pearl of religions?

Who will wash your bloody walls?

Who will safeguard the Bible?

Who will rescue the Quran?

Who will save Christ?

Who will save man?

Oh Jerusalem my town

Oh Jerusalem my love

Tomorrow the lemon trees will blossom

And the olive trees will rejoice

Your eyes will dance

The migrant pigeons will return

To your sacred roofs

And your children will play again

And fathers and sons will meet

On your rosy hills

My town

The town of peace and olives. 

Poem – Ah Silly Pug Wert Thou So Sore Afraid

Ah, silly Pug, wert thou so sore afraid? 

Mourn not, my Wat, nor be thou so dismayed. 

It passeth fickle Fortune’s power and skill 

To force my heart to think thee any ill. 

No Fortune base, thou sayest, shall alter thee? 

And may so blind a witch so conquer me? 

No, no, my Pug, though Fortune were not blind, 

Assure thyself she could not rule my mind. 

Fortune, I know, sometimes doth conquer kings, 

And rules and reigns on earth and earthly things, 

But never think Fortune can bear the sway 

If virtue watch, and will her not obey. 

Ne chose I thee by fickle Fortune’s rede, 

Ne she shall force me alter with such speed 

But if to try this mistress’ jest with thee. 

Pull up thy heart, suppress thy brackish tears, 

Torment thee not, but put away thy fears. 

Dead to all joys and living unto woe, 

Slain quite by her that ne’er gave wise men blow, 

Revive again and live without all dread, 

The less afraid, the better thou shalt speed. 

Poem – Garadh 

FOR the poor body that I own

I could weep many a tear:

The days have stolen flesh and bone,

And left a changeling here.
Four feeble bones are left to me,

And the basket of my breast,

And I am mean and ugly now

As the scald flung from the nest.
The briars drag me at the knee,

The brambles go within,

And often do I feel him turn,

The old man in my skin.
The strength is carded from my bones,

The swiftness drained from me,

And all the living thoughts I had

Are like far ships at sea! 

Poem – Crows

THEN, suddenly, I was aware indeed

Of  what he said, and was revolving it:

How, in the night, crows often take to wing,

Rising from off the tree-tops in Drumbarr,

And flying on: I pictured what he told.
The crows that shake the night-damp off their wings

Upon the stones out yonder in the fields,

The first live things that we see in the mornings;

The crows that march across the fields, that sit

Upon the ash-trees’ branches, that fly home

And crowd the elm-tops over in Drumbarr;

The crows we look on at all hours of light,

Growing, and full, and going these black beings have

Another lifetime!
Crows flying in the dark

Blackness in darkness flying; beings unseen

Except by eyes that are like to their own

Trespassers’ eyes!
And you, old man, with eyes so quick and sharp,

Who’ve told me of the crows, my fosterer;

And you, old woman, upon whose lap I’ve lain

When I was taken from my mother’s lap;

And you, young girl, with looks that have come down

From forefathers, my kin ye have another life

I’ve glimpsed it, I becoming trespasser-

Blackness in darkness flying like the crows! 

Poem – A Woman is Going 

A woman is going, 

See her, she is like a river.

A woman is singing

Hear her, that is like nectar.
A woman is fighting

And killing a mad king

For the welfare of all.

A woman is doing each

And every impossible thing

If you are facing any trouble

anywhere, she is there, give a call.
A woman, is a woman, feel her

She is your own maker, my dear men, 

She is giving everything now and then. 

Poem – The 13 Psalm of David

Fools that true faith yet never had

Saith in their hearts, there is no God.

Filthy they are in their practice, 

Of them not one is godly wise.

From heaven the Lord on man did look

To know what ways he undertook.

All they were vain and went astray, 

Not one he found in the right way.

In heart and tongue have they deceit, 

Their lips throw forth a poisoned bait.

Their minds are mad, their mouths are wode, 

And swift they be in shedding blood.

So blind they are, no truth they know, 

No fear of God in them will grow.

How can that cruel sort be good, 

Of God’s dear flock which suck the blood? 

On him rightly shall they not call, 

Despair will so their hearts appall.

At all times God is with the just, 

Because they put in him their trust.

Who shall therefore from Sion give

That health which hangeth in our belief? 

When God shall take from his the smart, 

Then will Jacob rejoice in heart.

Praise to God. 

Poem – Forgive 

Why must love be always tragic? 

Why must joy destroy the magic? 

Is there no place for happy love? 

or is that meant for turtle doves? 
Must bitter tears and heartache be, 

a sign of true love’s legacy? 

Can’t laughter be love’s serenade? 

Why must the laughing always fade? 
Seems to me, love loves the pain, 

and the tears that fall like rain; 

And the ache that lingers on, 

that gnaws the heart from dusk to dawn.
Yet, that ache, that tears the soul, 

is what makes us live, makes us whole.

For every pain, there is a cure; 

and true love one day, will endure.
And on that day, that magic day, 

smiles will wipe those tears away; 

From wracking pain, completely free, 

the heartache, just a memory…
Healing comes and lets us live, 

if only we forget, forgive. 

Poem – Follow Your Feet

Have you ever let your feet 

take you where they please? 

Have you ever walked for miles

to find trivial troubles ease? 
Once, I freed my little feet, 

I followed aimelessly.

I found myself on paths, 

that once were lost to me.
My feet lead me to a sandy beach, 

My feet kicked off my shoes, 

I nestled in the silky sand, 

I needed no excuse.
Once, while walking to the shops, 

They chose the other way, 

‘Not today! ‘, I thought, perturbed, 

‘I need to shop today…’
My feet took me to a park, 

My feet kicked off my shoes, 

I sank into the dewy grass, 

How could I refuse? 
Once, while rushing off to work, 

my feet paused on the road, 

We stopped to face the old white Cross, 

all in auto-mode.
My feet took me into Church, 

My feet kicked off my shoes, 

I felt white marble, cool & sweet, 

I knelt within the pews.
As I bowed my head to pray, 

and felt the sweet shalom, 

I heard the silence in my soul, 

I knew that I was home. 

Poem – For Annie 

Thank Heaven! the crisis-

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last-

And the fever called “Living”

Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength,

And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length-

But no matter!-I feel

I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead-

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:- ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing!
The sickness- the nausea-

The pitiless pain-

Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain-

With the fever called “Living”

That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst

Has abated- the terrible

Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:-

I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst:-
Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground-

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.
And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed-

And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never

Regretting its roses-

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies-

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies-

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie-

Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast-

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm-

To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead-

And I rest so contentedly,

Now, in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)

That you fancy me dead-

That you shudder to look at me,

Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many

Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie-

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie-

With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie. 

Poem – Evening Star 

‘Twas noontide of summer,

And mid-time of night;

And stars, in their orbits,

Shone pale, thro’ the light

Of the brighter, cold moon,

‘Mid planets her slaves,

Herself in the Heavens,

Her beam on the waves.

I gazed awhile

On her cold smile;

Too cold- too cold for me-

There pass’d, as a shroud,

A fleecy cloud,

And I turned away to thee,

Proud Evening Star,

In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

For joy to my heart

Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

And more I admire

Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light. 

Poem – An Acrostic 

Elizabeth it is in vain you say 

‘Love not’ — thou sayest it in so sweet a way: 

In vain those words from thee or L. E. L. 

Zantippe’s talents had enforced so well: 

Ah! if that language from thy heart arise, 

Breathe it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes. 

Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried 

To cure his love — was cured of all beside — 

His folly — pride — and passion — for he died. 

Poem – A Valentine 

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines! – they hold a treasure

Divine- a talisman- an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-

The words- the syllables! Do not forget

The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,

If one could merely comprehend the plot.

Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet’s, too,

Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-

Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying! 

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do. 

Poem – The Old Player

THE curtain rose; in thunders long and loud

The galleries rung; the veteran actor bowed.

In flaming line the telltales of the stage

Showed on his brow the autograph of age;

Pale, hueless waves amid his clustered hair,

And umbered shadows, prints of toil and care;

Round the wide circle glanced his vacant eye,–

He strove to speak,–his voice was but a sigh.
Year after year had seen its short-lived race

Flit past the scenes and others take their place;

Yet the old prompter watched his accents still,

His name still flaunted on the evening’s bill.

Heroes, the monarchs of the scenic floor,

Had died in earnest and were heard no more;

Beauties, whose cheeks such roseate bloom o’er-spread

They faced the footlights in unborrowed red,

Had faded slowly through successive shades

To gray duennas, foils of younger maids;

Sweet voices lost the melting tones that start

With Southern throbs the sturdy Saxon heart,

While fresh sopranos shook the painted sky

With their long, breathless, quivering locust-cry.

Yet there he stood,–the man of other days,

In the clear present’s full, unsparing blaze,

As on the oak a faded leaf that clings

While a new April spreads its burnished wings.
How bright yon rows that soared in triple tier,

Their central sun the flashing chandelier!

How dim the eye that sought with doubtful aim

Some friendly smile it still might dare to claim

How fresh these hearts! his own how worn and cold!

Such the sad thoughts that long-drawn sigh had told.

No word yet faltered on his trembling tongue;

Again, again, the crashing galleries rung.

As the old guardsman at the bugle’s blast

Hears in its strain the echoes of the past,

So, as the plaudits rolled and thundered round,

A life of memories startled at the sound.

He lived again,–the page of earliest days,–

Days of small fee and parsimonious praise;

Then lithe young Romeo–hark that silvered tone,

From those smooth lips–alas! they were his own.

Then the bronzed Moor, with all his love and woe,

Told his strange tale of midnight melting snow;

And dark–plumed Hamlet, with his cloak and blade,

Looked on the royal ghost, himself a shade.

All in one flash, his youthful memories came,

Traced in bright hues of evanescent flame,

As the spent swimmer’s in the lifelong dream,

While the last bubble rises through the stream.
Call him not old, whose visionary brain

Holds o’er the past its undivided reign.

For him in vain the envious seasons roll

Who bears eternal summer in his soul.

If yet the minstrel’s song, the poet’s lay,

Spring with her birds, or children at their play,

Or maiden’s smile, or heavenly dream of art,

Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,

Turn to the record where his years are told,–

Count his gray hairs,–they cannot make him old!

What magic power has changed the faded mime?

One breath of memory on the dust of time.

As the last window in the buttressed wall

Of some gray minster tottering to its fall,

Though to the passing crowd its hues are spread,

A dull mosaic, yellow, green, and red,

Viewed from within, a radiant glory shows

When through its pictured screen the sunlight flows,

And kneeling pilgrims on its storied pane

See angels glow in every shapeless stain;

So streamed the vision through his sunken eye,

Clad in the splendors of his morning sky.

All the wild hopes his eager boyhood knew,

All the young fancies riper years proved true,

The sweet, low-whispered words, the winning glance

From queens of song, from Houris of the dance,

Wealth’s lavish gift, and Flattery’s soothing phrase,

And Beauty’s silence when her blush was praise,

And melting Pride, her lashes wet with tears,

Triumphs and banquets, wreaths and crowns and cheers,

Pangs of wild joy that perish on the tongue,

And all that poets dream, but leave unsung!
In every heart some viewless founts are fed

From far-off hillsides where the dews were shed;

On the worn features of the weariest face

Some youthful memory leaves its hidden trace,

As in old gardens left by exiled kings

The marble basins tell of hidden springs,

But, gray with dust, and overgrown with weeds,

Their choking jets the passer little heeds,

Till time’s revenges break their seals away,

And, clad in rainbow light, the waters play.
Good night, fond dreamer! let the curtain fall

The world’s a stage, and we are players all.

A strange rehearsal! Kings without their crowns,

And threadbare lords, and jewel-wearing clowns,

Speak the vain words that mock their throbbing hearts,

As Want, stern prompter! spells them out their parts.

The tinselled hero whom we praise and pay

Is twice an actor in a twofold play.

We smile at children when a painted screen

Seems to their simple eyes a real scene;

Ask the poor hireling, who has left his throne

To seek the cheerless home he calls his own,

Which of his double lives most real seems,

The world of solid fact or scenic dreams?

Canvas, or clouds,–the footlights, or the spheres,–

The play of two short hours, or seventy years?

Dream on! Though Heaven may woo our open eyes,

Through their closed lids we look on fairer skies;

Truth is for other worlds, and hope for this;

The cheating future lends the present’s bliss;

Life is a running shade, with fettered hands,

That chases phantoms over shifting sands;

Death a still spectre on a marble seat,

With ever clutching palms and shackled feet;

The airy shapes that mock life’s slender chain,

The flying joys he strives to clasp in vain,

Death only grasps; to live is to pursue,–

Dream on! there ‘s nothing but illusion true! 

Poem – The People Upstairs

The people upstairs all practise ballet

Their living room is a bowling alley

Their bedroom is full of conducted tours.

Their radio is louder than yours,

They celebrate week-ends all the week.

When they take a shower, your ceilings leak.

They try to get their parties to mix

By supplying their guests with Pogo sticks,

And when their fun at last abates,

They go to the bathroom on roller skates.

I would love the people upstairs wondrous

If instead of above us, they just lived under us. 

Poem – Bridal Ballad 

The ring is on my hand,

And the wreath is on my brow;

Satin and jewels grand

Are all at my command,

And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,

I felt my bosom swell-

For the words rang as a knell,

And the voice seemed his who fell

In the battle down the dell,

And who is happy now.
But he spoke to re-assure me,

And he kissed my pallid brow,

While a reverie came o’er me,

And to the church-yard bore me,

And I sighed to him before me,

Thinking him dead D’Elormie,

“Oh, I am happy now!”
And thus the words were spoken,

And this the plighted vow,

And, though my faith be broken,

And, though my heart be broken,

Here is a ring, as token

That I am happy now!
Would God I could awaken!

For I dream I know not how!

And my soul is sorely shaken

Lest an evil step be taken,-

Lest the dead who is forsaken

May not be happy now. 

Poem – Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of ANNABEL LEE; 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea; 

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee; 

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me-

Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea) 

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Poem – The Old Man Dreams

OH for one hour of youthful joy!

Give back my twentieth spring!

I’d rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,

Than reign, a gray-beard king.
Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!

Away with Learning’s crown!

Tear out life’s Wisdom-written page,

And dash its trophies down!
One moment let my life-blood stream

From boyhood’s fount of flame!

Give me one giddy, reeling dream

Of life all love and fame!
. . . . . 
My listening angel heard the prayer,

And, calmly smiling, said,

“If I but touch thy silvered hair

Thy hasty wish hath sped.
“But is there nothing in thy track,

To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished-for day?”
“Ah, truest soul of womankind!

Without thee what were life ?

One bliss I cannot leave behind:

I’ll take– my– precious– wife!”
The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,

The man would be a boy again,

And be a husband too!
“And is there nothing yet unsaid,

Before the change appears?

Remember, all their gifts have fled

With those dissolving years.”
“Why, yes;” for memory would recall

My fond paternal joys;

“I could not bear to leave them all–

I’ll take– my– girl– and– boys.”
The smiling angel dropped his pen,–

“Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!”
. . . . . 
And so I laughed,– my laughter woke

The household with its noise,–

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys. 

Poem – The Old Cruiser 

HERE ‘s the old cruiser, ‘Twenty-nine,

Forty times she ‘s crossed the line;

Same old masts and sails and crew,

Tight and tough and as good as new.
Into the harbor she bravely steers

Just as she ‘s done for these forty years,

Over her anchor goes, splash and clang!

Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!
Comes a vessel out of the dock

Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock,

Feathered with sails and spurred with steam,

Heading out of the classic stream.
Crew of a hundred all aboard,

Every man as fine as a lord.

Gay they look and proud they feel,

Bowling along on even keel.
On they float with wind and tide,–

Gain at last the old ship’s side;

Every man looks down in turn,–

Reads the name that’s on her stern.
‘Twenty-nine!–Diable you say!

That was in Skipper Kirkland’s day!

What was the Flying Dutchman’s name?

This old rover must be the same.
‘Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck,

How does it happen you’re not a wreck?

One and another have come to grief,

How have you dodged by rock and reef?’
Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid,

Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid

‘Hey? What is it? Who ‘s come to grief

Louder, young swab, I ‘m a little deaf.’
‘I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat

With all you jolly old boys afloat,

When scores of vessels as good as she

Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?
‘Many a crew from many a craft

Goes drifting by on a broken raft

Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine

Taller and prouder than ‘Twenty-nine.
‘Some capsized in an angry breeze,

Some were lost in the narrow seas,

Some on snags and some on sands

Struck and perished and lost their hands.
‘Tell us young ones, you gray old man,

What is your secret, if you can.

We have a ship as good as you,

Show us how to keep our crew.’
So in his ear the youngster cries;

Then the gray Boatswain straight replies:–

‘All your crew be sure you know,–

Never let one of your shipmates go.
‘If he leaves you, change your tack,

Follow him close and fetch him back;

When you’ve hauled him in at last,

Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.
‘If you’ve wronged him, speak him fair,

Say you’re sorry and make it square;

If he’s wronged you, wink so tight

None of you see what ‘s plain in sight.
‘When the world goes hard and wrong,

Lend a hand to help him along;

When his stockings have holes to darn,

Don’t you grudge him your ball of yarn.
‘Once in a twelvemonth, come what may,

Anchor your ship in a quiet bay,

Call all hands and read the log,

And give ’em a taste of grub and grog.
‘Stick to each other through thick and thin;

All the closer as age leaks in;

Squalls will blow and clouds will frown,

But stay by your ship till you all go down!’ 

Poem – The Morning Visit 

A sick man’s chamber, though it often boast

The  grateful presence of a literal toast,

Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,

The right unchallenged to propose a health;

Yet though its tenant is denied the feast,

Friendship must launch his sentiment at least,

As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers’ lips,

Toss them a kiss from off their fingers’ tips.
The morning visit,–not till sickness falls

In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;

Till fever’s throb and pain’s relentless rack

Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;

Not till you play the patient in your turn,

The morning visit’s mystery shall you learn.
‘T is a small matter in your neighbor’s case,

To charge your fee for showing him your face;

You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspect, and touch,

Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such.
But when at length, by fate’s transferred decree,

The visitor becomes the visitee,

Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string;

Your ox is gored, and that’s a different thing!

Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a Turk,

You write your recipe and let it work;

Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown,

And sometimes worse, with which your draught goes down.

Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs,

Rhei, jalapae ana grana sex,

Or traces on some tender missive’s back,

Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac;

And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes,

Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes.

But change the time, the person, and the place,

And be yourself ‘the interesting case,’

You’ll gain some knowledge which it’s well to learn;

In future practice it may serve your turn.

Leeches, for instance,–pleasing creatures quite;

Try them,–and bless you,–don’t you find they bite?

You raise a blister for the smallest cause,

But be yourself the sitter whom it draws,

And trust my statement, you will not deny

The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish fly!

It’s mighty easy ordering when you please,

Infusi sennae capiat uncias tres;

It’s mighty different when you quackle down

Your own three ounces of the liquid brown.

Pilula, pulvis,–pleasant words enough,

When other throats receive the shocking stuff;

But oh, what flattery can disguise the groan

That meets the gulp which sends it through your own!

Be gentle, then, though Art’s unsparing rules

Give you the handling of her sharpest tools;

Use them not rashly,–sickness is enough;

Be always ‘ready,’ but be never ‘rough.’
Of all the ills that suffering man endures,

The largest fraction liberal Nature cures;

Of those remaining, ‘t is the smallest part

Yields to the efforts of judicious Art;

But simple Kindness, kneeling by the bed

To shift the pillow for the sick man’s head,

Give the fresh draught to cool the lips that burn,

Fan the hot brow, the weary frame to turn,–

Kindness, untutored by our grave M. D.’s,

But Nature’s graduate, when she schools to please,

Wins back more sufferers with her voice and smile

Than all the trumpery in the druggist’s pile.
Once more, be quiet: coming up the stair,

Don’t be a plantigrade, a human bear,

But, stealing softly on the silent toe,

Reach the sick chamber ere you’re heard below.

Whatever changes there may greet your eyes,

Let not your looks proclaim the least surprise;

It’s not your business by your face to show

All that your patient does not want to know;

Nay, use your optics with considerate care,

And don’t abuse your privilege to stare.

But if your eyes may probe him overmuch,

Beware still further how you rudely touch;

Don’t clutch his carpus in your icy fist,

But warm your fingers ere you take the wrist.

If the poor victim needs must be percussed,

Don’t make an anvil of his aching bust;

(Doctors exist within a hundred miles

Who thump a thorax as they’d hammer piles

If you must listen to his doubtful chest,

Catch the essentials, and ignore the rest.

Spare him; the sufferer wants of you and art

A track to steer by, not a finished chart.

So of your questions: don’t in mercy try

To pump your patient absolutely dry;

He’s not a mollusk squirming in a dish,

You’re not Agassiz; and he’s not a fish.
And last, not least, in each perplexing case,

Learn the sweet magic of a cheerful face;

Not always smiling, but at least serene,

When grief and anguish cloud the anxious scene.

Each look, each movement, every word and tone,

Should tell your patient you are all his own;

Not the mere artist, purchased to attend,

But the warm, ready, self-forgetting friend,

Whose genial visit in itself combines

The best of cordials, tonics, anodynes.
Such is the visit that from day to day

Sheds o’er my chamber its benignant ray.

I give his health, who never cared to claim

Her babbling homage from the tongue of Fame;

Unmoved by praise, he stands by all confest,

The truest, noblest, wisest, kindest, best. 

Poem – No You be a Lone Eagle

I find it very hard to be fair-minded

About people who go around being air-minded.

I just can’t see any fun

In soaring up up up into the sun

When the chances are still a fresh cool orchid to a paper geranium

That you’ll unsoar down down down onto your (to you) invaluable

cranium.

I know the constant refrain

About how safer up in God’s trafficless heaven than in an automobile

or a train

But …

My God, have you ever taken a good look at a strut?

Then that one about how you’re in Boston before you can say antidis-

establishmentarianism

So that preferring to take five hours by rail is a pernicious example of

antiquarianism.

At least when I get on the Boston train I have a good chance of landing

in the South Station

And not in that part of the daily press which is reserved for victims of

aviation.

Then, despite the assurance that aeroplanes are terribly comfortable I

notice that when you are railroading or automobiling

You don’t have to take a paper bag along just in case of a funny feeling.

It seems to me that no kind of depravity

Brings such speedy retribution as ignoring the law of gravity.

Therefore nobody could possibly indict me for perjury

When I swear that I wish the Wright brothers had gone in for silver

fox farming or tree surgery. 

Poem – Prayer 

Lord Rama! My honour is in Your hands.
You are the protector of the poor; I surrender myself at Your Feet.
I have heard of the sinners whom You have reclaimed.
I am an old sinner, pray extend Your loving hand and take me to Yourself.
To destroy the sins of the sinner, and to remove the ailments of the afflicted is Your occupation.
Grant me devotion to You, O Lord, and confer Your grace on me! 

The Hound of Heaven – Francis Thompson

I fled Him down the nights and down the days

I fled Him down the arches of the years

I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears

I hid from him, and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes I sped and shot precipitated

Adown titanic glooms of chasme d hears

From those strong feet that followed, followed after

But with unhurrying chase and unperturbe d pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

They beat, and a Voice beat,

More instant than the feet:

All things betray thee who betrayest me.
I pleaded, outlaw–wise by many a hearted casement,

curtained red, trellised with inter-twining charities,

For though I knew His love who followe d,

Yet was I sore adread, lest having Him,

I should have nought beside.

But if one little casement parted wide,

The gust of his approach would clash it to.

Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

Across the margent of the world I fled,

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,

Smiting for shelter on their clange d bars,

Fretted to dulcet jars and silvern chatter

The pale ports of the moon.
I said to Dawn — be sudden, to Eve — be soon,

With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

From this tremendous Lover.

Float thy vague veil about me lest He see.

I tempted all His servitors but to find

My own betrayal in their constancy,

In faith to Him, their fickleness to me,

Their traitorous trueness and their loyal deceit.

To all swift things for swiftness did I sue,

Clung to the whistling mane of every wind,

But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,

The long savannahs of the blue,

Or whether, thunder-driven,

They clanged His chariot thwart a heaven,

Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn of their feet,

Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

Still with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

Came on the following feet, and a Voice above their beat:

Nought shelters thee who wilt not shelter Me.
I sought no more that after which I strayed

In face of Man or Maid.

But still within the little childrens’ eyes

Seems something, something that replies,

They at least are for me, surely for me.

But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair,

With dawning answers there,

Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.

Come then, ye other children, Nature’s

Share with me, said I, your delicate fellowship.

Let me greet you lip to lip,

Let me twine with you caresses,

Wantoning with our Lady Mother’s vagrant tresses,

Banqueting with her in her wind walled palace,

Underneath her azured dai:s,

Quaffing, as your taintless way is,

From a chalice, lucent weeping out of the dayspring.
So it was done.

I in their delicate fellowship was one.

Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies,

I knew all the swift importings on the wilful face of skies,

I knew how the clouds arise,

Spume d of the wild sea-snortings.

All that’s born or dies,

Rose and drooped with,

Made them shapers of mine own moods, or wailful, or Divine.

With them joyed and was bereaven.

I was heavy with the Even,

when she lit her glimmering tapers round the day’s dead sanctities.

I laughed in the morning’s eyes.

I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,

Heaven and I wept together,

and its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine.

Against the red throb of its sunset heart,

I laid my own to beat

And share commingling heat.
But not by that, by that was eased my human smart.

In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.

For ah! we know what each other says,

these things and I; In sound I speak,

Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.

Nature, poor step-dame, cannot slake my drouth.

Let her, if she would owe me

Drop yon blue-bosomed veil of sky

And show me the breasts o’ her tenderness.

Never did any milk of hers once bless my thirsting mouth.

Nigh and nigh draws the chase, with unperturbe d pace

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

And past those noise d feet, a Voice comes yet more fleet:

Lo, nought contentst thee who content’st nought Me.
Naked, I wait thy Love’s uplifted stroke. My harness, piece by piece,

thou’st hewn from me

And smitten me to my knee,

I am defenceless, utterly.

I slept methinks, and awoke.

And slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.

In the rash lustihead of my young powers,

I shook the pillaring hours,

and pulled my life upon me.

Grimed with smears,

I stand amidst the dust o’ the mounded years–

My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.

My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,

Have puffed and burst like sunstarts on a stream.

Yeah, faileth now even dream the dreamer

and the lute, the lutanist.

Even the linked fantasies in whose blossomy twist,

I swung the Earth, a trinket at my wrist,

Have yielded, cords of all too weak account,

For Earth, with heavy grief so overplussed.

Ah! is thy Love indeed a weed,

albeit an Amaranthine weed,

Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?

Ah! must, Designer Infinite,

Ah! must thou char the wood ‘ere thou canst limn with it ?

My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust.

And now my heart is as a broken fount,

Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever

From the dank thoughts that shiver upon the sighful branches of my

mind.
Such is. What is to be ?

The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ?

I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds,

Yet ever and anon, a trumpet sounds

From the hid battlements of Eternity.

Those shaken mists a space unsettle,

Then round the half-glimpse d turrets, slowly wash again.

But not ‘ere Him who summoneth

I first have seen, enwound

With glooming robes purpureal; Cypress crowned.

His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.

Whether Man’s Heart or Life it be that yield thee harvest,

Must thy harvest fields be dunged with rotten death ?
Now of that long pursuit,

Comes at hand the bruit.

That Voice is round me like a bursting Sea:

And is thy Earth so marred,

Shattered in shard on shard?

Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me.

Strange, piteous, futile thing;

Wherefore should any set thee love apart?

Seeing none but I makes much of Naught (He said).

And human love needs human meriting —

How hast thou merited,

Of all Man’s clotted clay, the dingiest clot.

Alack! Thou knowest not

How little worthy of any love thou art.

Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,

Save me, save only me?

All which I took from thee, I did’st but take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might’st seek it in my arms.

All which thy childs mistake fancies as lost,

I have stored for thee at Home.

Rise, clasp my hand, and come.

Halts by me that Footfall.

Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?

Ah, Fondest, Blindest, Weakest,

I am He whom thou seekest.

Thou dravest Love from thee who dravest Me. 

What is – Emily Dickinson 

215
What is—”Paradise”—

Who live there—

Are they “Farmers”—

Do they “hoe”—

Do they know that this is “Amherst”—

And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear “new shoes”—in “Eden”—

Is it always pleasant—there—

Won’t they scold us—when we’re homesick—

Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there’s such a person

As “a Father”—in the sky—

So if I get lost—there—ever—

Or do what the Nurse calls “die”—

I shan’t walk the “Jasper”—barefoot—

Ransomed folks—won’t laugh at me—

Maybe—”Eden” a’n’t so lonesome

As New England used to be! 

Trumpet Player – Langston Hughes

The NegroWith the trumpet at his lips

Has dark moons of weariness

Beneath his eyes

where the smoldering memory

of slave ships

Blazed to the crack of whips

about thighs
The negro

with the trumpet at his lips

has a head of vibrant hair

tamed down,

patent-leathered now

until it gleams

like jet-

were jet a crown
the music

from the trumpet at his lips

is honey

mixed with liquid fire

the rhythm

from the trumpet at his lips

is ecstasy

distilled from old desire-
Desire

that is longing for the moon

where the moonlight’s but a spotlight

in his eyes,

desire

that is longing for the sea

where the sea’s a bar-glass

sucker size
The Negro

with the trumpet at his lips

whose jacket

Has a fine one-button roll,

does not know

upon what riff the music slips
It’s hypodermic needle

to his soul

but softly

as the tune comes from his throat

trouble

mellows to a golden note 

Will V – Day Be Me – Day Too – Langston Hughes

Over There,World War II.
Dear Fellow Americans,

I write this letter

Hoping times will be better

When this war

Is through.

I’m a Tan-skinned Yank

Driving a tank.

I ask, WILL V-DAY

BE ME-DAY, TOO?
I wear a U. S. uniform.

I’ve done the enemy much harm,

I’ve driven back

The Germans and the Japs,

From Burma to the Rhine.

On every battle line,

I’ve dropped defeat

Into the Fascists’ laps.
I am a Negro American

Out to defend my land

Army, Navy, Air Corps–

I am there.

I take munitions through,

I fight–or stevedore, too.

I face death the same as you do 

Everywhere.
I’ve seen my buddy lying

Where he fell.

I’ve watched him dying

I promised him that I would try

To make our land a land

Where his son could be a man–

And there’d be no Jim Crow birds

Left in our sky.
So this is what I want to know:

When we see Victory’s glow,

Will you still let old Jim Crow

Hold me back?

When all those foreign folks who’ve waited–

Italians, Chinese, Danes–are liberated.

Will I still be ill-fated

Because I’m black?
Here in my own, my native land,

Will the Jim Crow laws still stand?

Will Dixie lynch me still

When I return?

Or will you comrades in arms

From the factories and the farms,

Have learned what this war

Was fought for us to learn?
When I take off my uniform,

Will I be safe from harm–

Or will you do me

As the Germans did the Jews?

When I’ve helped this world to save,

Shall I still be color’s slave?

Or will Victory change

Your antiquated views?
You can’t say I didn’t fight

To smash the Fascists’ might.

You can’t say I wasn’t with you

in each battle.

As a soldier, and a friend.

When this war comes to an end,

Will you herd me in a Jim Crow car

Like cattle?
Or will you stand up like a man

At home and take your stand

For Democracy?

That’s all I ask of you.

When we lay the guns away

To celebrate

Our Victory Day

WILL V-DAY BE ME-DAY, TOO?

That’s what I want to know.
Sincerely,

GI Joe. 

Naye Kabi Ka Dukh – Kedarnath Singh

दुख हूँ मैं एक नये हिन्दी कवि काबाँधो

मुझे बाँधो

पर कहाँ बाँधोगे

किस लय, किस छन्द में?
ये छोटे छोटे घर

ये बौने दरवाजे

ताले ये इतने पुराने

और साँकल इतनी जर्जर

आसमान इतना जरा सा

और हवा इतनी कम कम

नफरतयह इतनी गुमसुम सी

और प्यार यह इतना अकेला

और गोल -मोल

बाँधो

मुझे बाँधो

पर कहाँ बाँधोगे

किस लय , किस छन्द में?
क्या जीवन इसी तरह बीतेगा

शब्दों से शब्दों तक

जीने 

और जीने और जीने ‌‌और जीने के

लगातार द्वन्द में? 

Meri Bhasa Ke Log – Kedarnath Singh 

मेरी भाषा के लोग

मेरी सड़क के लोग हैं
सड़क के लोग सारी दुनिया के लोग
पिछली रात मैंने एक सपना देखा

कि दुनिया के सारे लोग

एक बस में बैठे हैं

और हिंदी बोल रहे हैं

फिर वह पीली-सी बस

हवा में गायब हो गई

और मेरे पास बच गई सिर्फ़ मेरी हिंदी

जो अंतिम सिक्के की तरह

हमेशा बच जाती है मेरे पास

हर मुश्किल में
कहती वह कुछ नहीं

पर बिना कहे भी जानती है मेरी जीभ

कि उसकी खाल पर चोटों के

कितने निशान हैं

कि आती नहीं नींद उसकी कई संज्ञाओं को

दुखते हैं अक्सर कई विशेषण
पर इन सबके बीच

असंख्य होठों पर

एक छोटी-सी खुशी से थरथराती रहती है यह !
तुम झांक आओ सारे सरकारी कार्यालय

पूछ लो मेज से

दीवारों से पूछ लो

छान डालो फ़ाइलों के ऊंचे-ऊंचे

मनहूस पहाड़

कहीं मिलेगा ही नहीं

इसका एक भी अक्षर

और यह नहीं जानती इसके लिए

अगर ईश्वर को नहीं

तो फिर किसे धन्यवाद दे !
मेरा अनुरोध है —

भरे चौराहे पर करबद्ध अनुरोध —

कि राज नहीं — भाषा

भाषा — भाषा — सिर्फ़ भाषा रहने दो

मेरी भाषा को ।

इसमें भरा है

पास-पड़ोस और दूर-दराज़ की

इतनी आवाजों का बूंद-बूंद अर्क

कि मैं जब भी इसे बोलता हूं

तो कहीं गहरे

अरबी तुर्की बांग्ला तेलुगु

यहां तक कि एक पत्ती के

हिलने की आवाज भी

सब बोलता हूं जरा-जरा

जब बोलता हूं हिंदी
पर जब भी बोलता हूं

यह लगता है —

पूरे व्याकरण में

एक कारक की बेचैनी हूं

एक तद्भव का दुख

तत्सम के पड़ोस में । 

On the Line Man – Wowan & Black – Pavol Janik

You escape from melike gas.

With astonishment I watch

how with a single scrawl of your legs

you ignite your silk dress.
With such blinding nakedness you pre-empt sky-blue flame.
Blazingly ablaze and perhaps wholly otherwise

I address a fire

which you will no longer damp down.
That time I wanted to declare at least what was essential

to all chance passers-by,

to all chance passing aircraft.
So under such circumstances who wouldn’t have spoilt it?
(1981) 

The Two MP’S – Richard Harris Barham

MAGAZINE PUBLISHER AND MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT) 
BEING A TRUE AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF THE GRAND MILLING MATCH THAT DIDN’T TAKE PLACE 
SAYS Tom D– to F–r 

T’other morning, ‘I say, Sir, 

You’ve call’d me a Roué, a Dicer, and Racer, 

Now I’d have you to know, Sir, 

Such names are “No Go,” Sir; 

By Jove, Sir, I never knew anything grosser. 
‘And then Madame — 

Extremely distrest is 

At your calling her Lais — she’s more like Thalestris, 

As you’ll find, my fine joker, 

If once you provoke her, 

She’s a d–l if once she gets hold of a poker. 
‘For myself, to be candid, 

And not underhanded, 

I write thus to say I’ll be hang’d if I stand it. 

So give up the name 

Of the man or the dame 

Who has made this infernal attack on my fame, 

And recall what you’ve said of 

A man you’re afraid of, 

Or turn out, my Trump, and let’s see what you’re made of. 
‘I have “barkers” by Nock, Sir, 

With percussion locks, Sir, 

Will give you your gruel — hang me if I box, Sir, 

And I’ve sent my old Pal in, 

My “noble friend Allen,” 

To give you this here, and to stop your caballing!’ 
Then says F–r, says he, 

‘What a spoon you must be, 

Tommy D–, to send this here message to me: 

Why if I was to fight about 

What my friends write about, 

My life I should be in continual fright about! 
‘As to telling you, who 

Wrote that thing about you, 

One word’s worth a thousand — Blow me if I do! 

If you will be so gay, Sir, 

The people will say, Sir, 

That you are a Roué, and I’m 

The Long Trail – Rudyard Kipling 

There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

And the ricks stand grey to the sun,

Singing: “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the dover,

“And your English summer’s done.”

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song — how long? how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We’ve seen the seasons through,

And it’s time to turn the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new!
It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun

Or South to the blind Hom’s hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate —

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilbao tramp,

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail

From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea

In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her brows, dear lass.

And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and ‘scends on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,

It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”

And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re backing down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

And the sirens hoot their dread,

When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless, viewless deep

To the sob of the questing lead!

It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

With the Grinfleet Sands in view,

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light

That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors

Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass

And her ropes are taut with the dew,

For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re sagging south on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,

And the shouting seas drive by,

And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

That blaze in the velvet blue.

They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start

We’re steaming all too slow,

And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind

And the voice of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song-how long? how long?

Pull out on the trail again!
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

And The Deuce knows we may do

But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re down, hull-down, on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new! 

The Old Issue – Rudyard Kipling

October 9, 1899 — Outbreak of Boer War

Here is nothing new nor aught unproven,” say the Trumpets,

“Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed.

“It is the King–the King we schooled aforetime! ”

(Trumpets in the marshes-in the eyot at Runnymede!)

“Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger,” peal the Trumpets,

“Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall.

“It is the King!”–inexorable Trumpets–

(Trumpets round the scaffold af the dawning by Whitehall!)
. . . . . . .

“He hath veiled the Crown And hid the Scepter,” warn (he Trum pets,

“He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will.

“Hard die the Kings–ah hard–dooms hard!” declare the Trumpets,

Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill!
Ancient and Unteachable, abide–abide the Trumpets!

Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings 

Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets–

Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings! 
All we have of freedom, all we use or know–

This our fathers bought for us long and long ago.
Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw–

Leave to live by no man’s leave, underneath the Law.
Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing

Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the king.
Till our fathers ‘stablished,, after bloody years, 

How our King is one with us, first among his peers. 
So they bought us freedom-not at little cost– 

Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost.
Over all things certain, this is sure indeed,

Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed.
Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure.

Whining “He is weak and far”; crying “Time will cure.”
(Time himself is witness, till the battle joins,

Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people’s loins.)
Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace.

Suffer not the old King here or overseas.
They that beg us barter–wait his yielding mood–

Pledge the years we hold in trust-pawn our brother’s blood–
Howso’ great their clamour, whatsoe’er their claim,

Suffer not the old King under any name!
Here is naught unproven–here is naught to learn.

It is written what shall fall if the King return.
He shall mark our goings, question whence we came,

Set his guards about us, as in Freedom’s name.
He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware;

He shall change our gold for arms–arms we may not bear.
He shall break his Judges if they cross his word;

He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord.
He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring

Watchers ‘neath our window, lest we mock the King —
Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies;

Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies.
Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay,

These shall deal our Justice: sell-deny-delay.
We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse

For the Land we look to–for the Tongue we use.
We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet,

While his hired captains jeer us in the street.
Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun,

Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run.
Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled,

Laying on a new land evil of the old–
Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain–

All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again.
Here is nought at venture, random nor untrue

Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.
Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid:

Step for step and word for word–so the old Kings did!
Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read.

Suffer not the old Kings: for we know the breed–
All the right they promise–all the wrong they bring.

Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King! 

The Nursing Sister – Rudyard Kipling

Maternity Hospital

Our sister sayeth such and such,

And we must bow to her behests.

Our sister toileth overmuch,

Our little maid that hath no breasts.

A field untilled, a web unwove,

A flower withheld from sun or bee,

An alien in the Courts of Love,

And–teacher unto such as we!

We love her, but we laugh the while,

We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;

Our sister hath no time to smile,

She knows not what must follow after.

Wind of the South, arise and blow,

From beds of spice thy locks shake free;

Breathe on her heart that she may know,

Breathe on her eyes that she may see!

Alas! we vex her with our mirth,

And maze her with most tender scorn,

Who stands beside the Gates of Birth,

Herself a child–a child unborn!

Our sister sayeth such and such,

And we must bow to her behests.

Our sister toileth overmuch,

Our little maid that hath no breasts. 

The Kraken – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Below the thunders of the upper deep,

Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides: above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; 

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumbered and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages and will lie

Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; 

Then once by men and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. 

The Flower – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Once in a golden hour

 I cast to earth a seed.

Up there came a flower,

The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went

Thro’ my garden bower,

And muttering discontent

Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall

It wore a crown of light,

But thieves from o’er the wall

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

By every town and tower,

Till all the people cried,

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

He that runs may read.

Most can raise the flowers now,

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

And some are poor indeed; 

And now again the people

Call it but a weed. 

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Defence of Lucknow – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades.

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

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

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

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

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

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed,

Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead,

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

Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief,

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

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

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

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

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

Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers?

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

All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout,

Havelock’s glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Death of the Old Year – Alfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

‘Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns!’ he said: 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’ 

Was there a man dismay’d ? 

Not tho’ the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder’d: 

Their’s not to make reply, 

Their’s not to reason why, 

Their’s but to do and die: 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 

Boldly they rode and well, 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 
Flash’d all their sabres bare, 

Flash’d as they turn’d in air 

Sabring the gunners there, 

Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder’d: 

Plunged in the battery-smoke 

Right thro’ the line they broke; 

Cossack and Russian 

Reel’d from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter’d and sunder’d. 

Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 
Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 

While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well 

Came thro’ the jaws of Death, 

Back from the mouth of Hell, 

All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 
When can their glory fade ? 

O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder’d. 

Honour the charge they made! 

Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 

The Charge Of the Light Brigade – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

‘Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns!’ he said: 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’ 

Was there a man dismay’d ? 

Not tho’ the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder’d: 

Their’s not to make reply, 

Their’s not to reason why, 

Their’s but to do and die: 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 

Boldly they rode and well, 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 
Flash’d all their sabres bare, 

Flash’d as they turn’d in air 

Sabring the gunners there, 

Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder’d: 

Plunged in the battery-smoke 

Right thro’ the line they broke; 

Cossack and Russian 

Reel’d from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter’d and sunder’d. 

Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 
Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 

Storm’d at with shot and shell, 

While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well 

Came thro’ the jaws of Death, 

Back from the mouth of Hell, 

All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 
When can their glory fade ? 

O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder’d. 

Honour the charge they made! 

Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 

The Blackbird – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

O blackbird! sing me something well:

While all the neighbours shoot thee round,

I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,

Where thou may’st warble, eat and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all

Are thine; the range of lawn and park:

The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark,

All thine, against the garden wall.
Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring,

Thy sole delight is, sitting still,

With that gold dagger of thy bill

To fret the summer jenneting.
A golden bill! the silver tongue,

Cold February loved, is dry:

Plenty corrupts the melody

That made thee famous once, when young:
And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse

As when a hawker hawks his wares.
Take warning! he that will not sing

While yon sun prospers in the blue,

Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new,

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 

The Soul, Like the Moon – Lalleshwari 

The soul, like the moon,

is now, and always new again.

And I have seen the ocean

continuously creating.

Since I scoured my mind

and my body, I too, Lalla,

am new, each moment new.
My teacher told me one thing,

live in the soul.
When that was so,

I began to go naked,

and dance.

In The Midst of The Ocean – Lalleshwari 

In the midst of the ocean

 With unspun thread. 

I am towing the boat: 

Would that God grant 

My prayer and. 

Ferry me too, across: 

Water in my unbaked earthen plates 

Seeps in and none collects ‘ 

yearn and yearn 

To return Home 

The Brook – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 

And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 
By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorpes, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 
Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 
I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 
With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 
I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 
I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling, 
And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 

With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 
And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 
I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 

Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 

Against my sandy shallows. 
I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 
And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

Crossing The Bar – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar. 

A Wooden Bow & Rush Grass for an Arrow – Lalleshwari 

A wooden bow and rush grass for an arrow: 

A carpenter unskilled and a palace to build: 

A shop unlocked in a busy bazaar: 

A body uncleansed by waters holy- 

Oh dear! who knows what hath befallen me? 

All Things Will Die – Alfred Lord Tennyson

All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;

Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.

One after another the white clouds are fleeting;

Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;

Yet all things must die.

The stream will cease to flow;

The wind will cease to blow;

The clouds will cease to fleet;

The heart will cease to beat;

For all things must die.

All things must die.

Spring will come never more.

O, vanity!

Death waits at the door.

See! our friends are all forsaking

The wine and the merrymaking.

We are call’d–we must go.

Laid low, very low,

In the dark we must lie.

The merry glees are still;

The voice of the bird

Shall no more be heard,

Nor the wind on the hill.

O, misery!

Hark! death is calling

While I speak to ye,

The jaw is falling,

The red cheek paling,

The strong limbs failing;

Ice with the warm blood mixing;

The eyeballs fixing.

Nine times goes the passing bell:

Ye merry souls, farewell.

The old earth

Had a birth,

As all men know,

Long ago.

And the old earth must die.

So let the warm winds range,

And the blue wave beat the shore;

For even and morn

Ye will never see

Thro’ eternity.

All things were born.

Ye will come never more,

For all things must die. 

The Dropp Dies In The River – Mirza Ghalib

The dropp dies in the riverof its joy

Pain goes so far it cures itself

In the spring after the heavy rain the cloud disappears

That was nothing but tears

In the spring the mirror turns green

holding a miracle

Change the shining wind

The rose led us to our eyes

Let whatever is be open.

The Fairie’s Fair – Zora Bernice May Cross

Who’s that dancing on the moonlight air, 

Heel tapping, Toe-heel rapping? 

Oberon opening the fairies’ fair 

To jig away sorrow on the grave of Care.

Come along, old folk, cold fork, bold folk, 

Drop your shears at the midnight stroke. 

Elves are crying: “Who’ll come buying 

Jugs of Joy from a fairy’s cloak?” 

Mab is sitting on a silver shoe, 

Bright eyes laughing, Light lips quaffing 

Airy bubbles from a cup of dew, 

Her bracelets tinkle with delights for you. 

Come along tall folk, small folk, all folk, 

Race the stream where the fat frogs croak, 

Buy a bobbin! There goes Robin 

Tying Time to a daisy’s yoke! 

Empty Nest – John Tansey

With the boy’s room, draped in white sheets

This whole year, like a cocoon, preserved, in amber, 

She closes another album: The fossil record of their marriage, 

Steeped, in the earthen layers of clay.

Then, turning to face him, two huge land masses: 

He, the old world, she is of the new, 

And with thirty years of continental drift

Having poured an ocean between them, 

They live, now, in different time zones, 

Sleep, eat and speak in different tongues… 

Depression- John Tansey 

Once we lay, limblocked in love, 

woke to reckless sex 

and sweet dreams, brash young 

hearts that joked age would lose this 

race we double-dared it to.
Now you slink from bed.

All future gone from your eyes, 

as you flash this sad

smile, that turns with your thoughts

to too much of our hopes gone past. 

The Retreat From Moscow – Victor Marie Hugo

It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red!

For once the eagle was hanging its head.

Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back

On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.

The water burst, avalanche-like, to reign

Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain.

Nor chief nor banner in order could keep,

The wolves of warfare were ‘wildered like sheep.

The wings from centre could hardly be known

Through snow o’er horses and carts o’erthrown,

Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn

Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn:

Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode

Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad

The shells and bullets came down with the snow

As though the heavens hated these poor troops below.

Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold,

Who ne’er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold

Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoar-frost clung

‘Neath banners that in leaden masses hung. 
It snowed,—went snowing still. And chill the breeze

Whistled upon the glassy, endless seas,

Where naked feet on, on forever went,

With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.

They were not living troops as seen in war,

But merely phantoms of a dream, afar

In darkness wandering, amid the vapour dim,—

A mystery; of shadows a procession grim,

Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim.

Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold

Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold,

A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense,

A shroud of magnitued for host immense;

Till every one felt as if left alone

In a wide wilderness where no light shone,

To die, with pity none, and none to see

That from this mournful realm none should get free.

Their foes the frozen North and Czar,—that, worst.

Cannon were broken up in haste accurst

To burn the frames and make the pale fire high,

Where those lay down who never woke, or woke to die.

Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled

Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread. 
‘Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised.

O’er regiments; and History, amazed,

Could not record the ruin of this retreat,—

Unlike a downfall known before, or the defeat

Of Hannibal, reversed and wrapped in gloom,

Of Atilla, when nations met their doom!

Perished an army,—fled French glory then,

Though there the Emperor! He stood and gazed

At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed

In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw:

He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.

Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love

Kept those that rose all dastard fear above,

As on his tent they saw his shadow pass,

Backwards and forwards; for they credited, alas!

His fortune’s star! It could not, could not be

That he had not his work to do—a destiny?

To hurl him headlong from his high estate,

Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate.

But all the while he felt himself alone,

Stunned with disasters few have ever known.

Sudden, a fear came o’er his troubled soul,—

What more was written on the Future’s scroll?

Was this an expiation? It must be, yea!

He turned to God for one enlightening ray.

‘Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?’ he sighed;

But the first murmur on his parched lips died.

‘Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?’

A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet

Sprang in the darkness; a Voice answered: ‘No!

Not yet.’

Outside still fell the smothering snow.

Was it a voice indeed, or but a dream?

It was the vulture’s, but how like the sea-bird’s scream. 

Sonnet of Motherhood XI  – Zora Bernice May Cross

A miracle of miracles is here.

Take off your shoes. This place is holy ground.

No man-child ours like that the shepherd found

By dreaming Mary when the Star burned clear.

Our God has given us a woman, dear,

With satin skin her dimpling shoulders round.

No pinkest shell with sea-blown bubbles crowned

Could match the marvel of her tiny ear.
How like to me, and yet ’tis you—all you.

I dare not touch her. Take your soul, My Own.

Set in my body with your mind, your sight,

Your dreams and thoughts with every promise true—

A queen to sit upon a regal throne

With a man’s soul won out of woman’s right. 

Zora Bernice May Cross

Sonnet of Motherhood XXXI – Zora Bernice May Cross

Beloved, I who shall be mother soon 

Need mothering myself this tired hour,

As heavily the sweet and precious power

Weighs on my heart till I am near to swoon.

Console me, soothe me, Dearest, with the boon

Of your firm strength, and little comforts shower

Soft on the drifting doubtings that devour

Patience and courage when the death-winds croon.
You are your mother, Dear, as I am mine.

And, as we slumber to our souls’ caress,

Those two who panged for us and weeping smiled,

Draw near and bind us in a peace divine.

O mother me; all else is comfortless

As painted lips above a dying child. 

One Art – Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; 

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.