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 – 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 – The Wantaritencant 

It watched me in the cradle laid, and from my boyhood’s home

It  glared above my shoulder-blade when I wrote my first “pome”;

It’s sidled by me ever since, with greeny eyes aslant—

It is the thing (O, Priest and Prince!) that wants to write, but can’t.
It yells and slobbers, mows and whines, It follows everywhere;

’Tis gloating on these very lines with red and baleful glare.

It murders friendship, love and truth (It makes the “reader” pant),

It ruins editorial youth, the Wantaritencant.
Its slime is ever on my work, and ever on my name;

No toil nor trouble does It shirk—for It will write, all the same!

It tantalized when great thoughts burned, in trouble and in want;

It makes it hell for all concerned, the Wantaritencant.
And now that I would gladly die, or rest my weary mind,

I cannot rest to think that I must leave the Thing behind.

Its green rot damns the dead, for sure—that greatest curse extant,

’Twill kill Australian literature, the Wantaritencant!
You cannot kill or keep It still, or ease It off a bit;

It talks about Itself until the world believes in It.

It is a Scare, a Fright, a Ghast, a Gibber, and a Rant,

A future Horror and a Past, the Wantaritencant! 

A New Rule – Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi 

It is the rule with drunkards to fall upon each other,

to quarrel, become violent, and make a scene.

The lover is even worse than a drunkard.

I will tell you what love is: to enter a mine of gold.

And what is that gold?

The lover is a king above all kings,

unafraid of death, not at all interested in a golden crown.

The dervish has a pearl concealed under his patched cloak.

Why should he go begging door to door?

Last night that moon came along,

drunk, dropping clothes in the street.

“Get up,” I told my heart, “Give the soul a glass of wine.

The moment has come to join the nightingale in the garden,

to taste sugar with the soul-parrot.”

I have fallen, with my heart shattered –

where else but on your path? And I

broke your bowl, drunk, my idol, so drunk,

don’t let me be harmed, take my hand.

A new rule a new law has been born:

break all the glasses and fall toward the glassblower. 

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 Liner She’s a Lady – Rudyard Kipling

The Liner she’s a lady, an’ she never looks nor ‘eeds –

-The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, an’ ‘e gives ‘er all she needs;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun’,

They’re just the same as you an’ me a-plyin’ up an’ down!
Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, ‘angin’ round the Yard,

All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ‘Ard;

Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old —

Plyin’ up an’ down, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold!
The Liner she’s a lady by the paint upon ‘er face,

An’ if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace:

The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, and ‘e’s always ‘andy by,

But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they’ve got to load or die.
The Liner she’s a lady, and ‘er route is cut an’ dried;

The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, an’ ‘e always keeps beside;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats that ‘aven’t any man,

They’ve got to do their business first, and make the most they can!
The Liner she’s a lady, and if a war should come,

The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, and ‘e’d bid ‘er stay at home;

But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide!

‘E’d ‘ave to up an’ fight for them, for they are England’s pride.
The Liner she’s a lady, but if she wasn’t made,

There still would be the cargo-boats for ‘ome an’ foreign trade.

The Man-o’-War’s ‘er ‘usband, but if we wasn’t ‘ere,

‘E wouldn’t have to fight at all for ‘ome an’ friends so dear.
‘Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, ‘angin’ round the Yard,

All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth ‘Ard;

Anythin’ for business, an’ we’re growin’ old —

‘Ome an’ friends so dear, Jenny, waitin’ in the cold! 

The Lesson – Rudyard Kipling

1899-1902 — Boer War

Let us admit it fairly, as a business people should,

We have had no end of a lesson: it will do us no end of good.
Not on a single issue, or in one direction or twain,

But conclusively, comprehensively, and several times and

again,
Were all our most holy illusions knocked higher than Gilde-

roy’s kite.

We have had a jolly good lesson, and it serves us jolly well

right !
This was not bestowed us under the trees, nor yet in the shade

of a tent,

But swingingly, over eleven degrees of a bare brown conti-

nent.

From Lamberts to Delagoa Bay, and from Pietersburg to

Sutherland,

Fell the phenomenal lesson we learned-with a fullness ac-

corded no other land.
It was our fault, and our very great fault, and not the judg-

ment of Heaven.

We made an Army in our own image, on an island nine by

seven,

Which faithfully mirrored its makers’ ideals, equipment, and

mental attitude–

And so we got our lesson: and we ought to accept it with

gratitude.
We have spent two hundred million pounds to prove the fact

once more,

That horses are quicker than men afoot, since two and two

make four;

And horses have four legs, and men have two legs, and two

into four goes twice,

And nothing over except our lesson–and very cheap at the

price.
For remember (this our children shall know: we are too near

for that knowledge)

Not our mere astonied camps, but Council and Creed and

College–

All the obese, unchallenged old things that stifle and overlie

us–

Have felt the effects of the lesson we got-an advantage no

money could by us!
Then let us develop this marvellous asset which we alone

command,

And which, it may subsequently transpire, will be worth as

much as the Rand.

Let us approach this pivotal fact in a humble yet hopeful

mood–

We have had no end of a lesson, it will do us no end of good!
It was our fault, and our very great fault–and now we must

turn it to use.

We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single

excuse.

So the more we work and the less we talk the better results

we shall get–

We have had an Imperial lesson; it may make us an Empire

yet! 

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 Higher Pantheism – Alfred Lord Tennyson


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Deserted House – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Life and Thought have gone away

Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide.

Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night:

In the windows is no light;

And no murmur at the door,

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

Or through the windows we shall see

The nakedness and vacancy

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

Is here or merry-making sound.

The house was builded of the earth,

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

Here no longer dwell;

But in a city glorious – 

A great and distant city -have bought

A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us! 

The 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. 

Though You are Wise, Be as a Fool – Lalleshwari

Though you are wise, be as a fool; 

Though you can see, be as one blind; 

Though you can hear, be as one deaf; 

Patiently bear with all you meet, 

and politely talk to eveyone. 

This practice surely will lead you 

to the realisation of the Truth. 

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 

Rahm Kar Zaalim – Mirza Ghalib 

रह्‌म कर ज़ालिम कि क्‌या बूद-ए चिराग़-ए कुश्‌तह है

नब्‌ज़-ए बीमार-ए वफ़ा दूद-ए चिराग़-ए कुश्‌तह है

दिल-लगी की आर्‌ज़ू बे-चैन रख्‌ती है हमें

वर्‌नह यां बे-रौनक़ी सूद-ए चिराग़-ए कुश्‌तह है

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.

Comes A Doubter – John Tansey 

Nonbeliever

If one you should know

Is felled by a deep grief

Into a black hole of depression, 

And you, armed with clichés, 

Come to console, relieve, 

Before you open your mouth, 

Know this: 

That, in the absence of the right words, 

Silence will suit the situation well.
Like the wearing of basic black

For all formal affairs and funerals, 

It is proper, 

always in style

and goes with any occasion.
Just ask the petitioners of God

Who, all too well, know: 

It is through the long terrible silence

Of unanswered prayers

Made under the duress of the dark, 
That we, too late, learn to survive this life on our own…