tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78840292123607296172024-03-08T16:55:20.861-08:00999 PoemsAkshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.comBlogger252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-62485345565297705162015-03-14T12:52:00.000-07:002015-03-14T12:52:01.330-07:00748. Sabbath Poem (Untitled), by Wendell Berry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Slowly, slowly, they return<br />
To the small woodland let alone:<br />
Great trees, outspreading and upright,<br />
Apostles of the living light.<br />
<br />
Patient as stars, they build in air<br />
Tier after tier a timbered choir,<br />
Stout beams upholding weightless grace<br />
Of song, a blessing on this place.<br />
<br />
They stand in waiting all around,<br />
Uprisings of their native ground,<br />
Downcomings of the distant light;<br />
They are the advent they await.<br />
<br />
Receiving sun and giving shade,<br />
Their life's a benefaction made,<br />
And is a benediction said<br />
Over the living and the dead.<br />
<br />
In fall their brightened leaves, released,<br />
Fly down the wind and we are pleased<br />
To walk on radiance, amazed.<br />
O light come down to earth, by praised!<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://counterpointpress.com/products/this-day/">This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems</a></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-40556910335691544362015-03-14T12:45:00.002-07:002015-03-14T12:45:58.682-07:00749. Untitled, by Stonehouse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A hundred years slip by unnoticed<br />
eighty-four thousand cares dissolve in stillness<br />
a mountain image shimmers on sunlit water<br />
snowflakes swirl above a glowing stove<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Red Pine</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="https://www.coppercanyonpress.org/pages/browse/book.asp?bg={B515715C-0224-4C37-84AB-AC786FE22FE7}">The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse</a></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-34318776493157856032015-03-01T17:04:00.001-08:002015-03-01T17:04:59.166-08:00750. The Man Watching, by Rainer Maria Rilke<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after<br />
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes,<br />
that a storm is coming,<br />
and I hear the far-off fields say things<br />
I can't bear without a friend,<br />
I can't love without a sister.<br />
<br />
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on<br />
across the woods and across time,<br />
and the world looks as if it had no age:<br />
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,<br />
is seriousness and weight and eternity.<br />
<br />
What we choose to fight is so tiny!<br />
What fights with us is so great!<br />
If only we would let ourselves by dominated<br />
as things do by some immense storm,<br />
we would become strong too, and not need names.<br />
<br />
When we win it's with small things,<br />
and the triumph itself makes us small.<br />
What is extraordinary and eternal<br />
does not <i>want</i> to be bent by us.<br />
I mean the angel, who appeared<br />
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:<br />
when the wrestler's sinews<br />
grew long like metal strings,<br />
he felt them under his fingers<br />
like chords of deep music.<br />
<br />
Whoever was beaten by this Angel,<br />
(who often simply declined the fight),<br />
went away proud and strenghtened<br />
and great from that harsh hand,<br />
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.<br />
Winning does not tempt that man.<br />
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,<br />
by constantly greater beings.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Robert Bly</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0871563681/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0871563681&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20&linkId=S2XUM5YEWO4L6EIF">News of the Universe, edited by Robert Bly</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0871563681" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /> </div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-25986159043883855672015-02-10T17:07:00.003-08:002015-02-10T17:07:33.620-08:00751. The First Rain, by Angelos Sikelianos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We leaned out of the window.<br />
Everything around us<br />
was one with our soul.<br />
Sulphur-pale, the clouds<br />
darkened the fields, the vines;<br />
wind moaned in the trees<br />
with a secret turbulence,<br />
and the quick swallow went<br />
breasting across the grass.<br />
Suddenly the thunder broke,<br />
the wellhead broke,<br />
and dancing came the rain.<br />
Dust leaped into the air.<br />
We, our nostrils quivering,<br />
opened our lips to drink<br />
the earth's heavy smell,<br />
to let it like a spring<br />
water us deep inside<br />
(the rain had already wet<br />
our thirsting faces,<br />
like the olive and the mullen).<br />
And shoulder touching shoulder,<br />
we asked: "What smell is this<br />
that cuts the air like a bee?<br />
From balsam, pine, acanthus,<br />
from osier or thyme?"<br />
So many the scents that, breathing out,<br />
I became a lyre caressed<br />
by the breath's profusion.<br />
Sweetness filled my palate;<br />
and as our eyes met again<br />
all my blood sang out.<br />
I bent down to the vine,<br />
its leaves shaking, to drink<br />
its honey and its flower;<br />
and—my thoughts like heavy grapes,<br />
bramble-thick my breath—<br />
I could not, as I breathed,<br />
choose among the scents,<br />
but culled them all, and drank them<br />
as one drinks joy or sorrow<br />
suddenly sent by fate;<br />
I drank them all,<br />
and when I touched your waist,<br />
my blood became a nightingale,<br />
became like the running waters.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/9607120124/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=9607120124&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20&linkId=IJYMRNUZR5ZNIXMA">Angelos Sikelianos: Selected Poems</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=9607120124" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-43366335133326129242014-05-12T19:14:00.000-07:002014-05-12T19:14:11.929-07:00752. The Visitor, by Naomi Replansky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This day a simple day<br />
that comes for a visit<br />
that comes to sit quiet.<br />
<br />
Yet I in such small grace<br />
receive my visitor.<br />
I watch it narrowly<br />
and wonder, Friend or foe?<br />
I ransack it for weapons<br />
then question it with passion:<br />
What message? What message?<br />
<br />
But this is a mute and unassuming day.<br />
<br />
And is a good guest<br />
and brings small gifts.<br />
I must learn again to give it welcome.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1574232150/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1574232150&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20&linkId=EM5UXJQKWZ64DJDV">Collected Poems</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1574232150" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-74938361441131290252014-04-05T12:36:00.000-07:002014-04-05T12:36:25.410-07:00753. You Reading This, Be Ready, by William Stafford<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Starting here, what do you want to remember?<br />
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?<br />
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened<br />
sound from outside fills the air?<br />
<br />
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world<br />
than the breathing respect that you carry<br />
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting<br />
for time to show you some better thoughts?<br />
<br />
When you turn around, starting here, lift this<br />
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening<br />
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent<br />
reading or hearing this, keep it for life—<br />
<br />
What can anyone give you greater than now,<br />
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1555972845/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1555972845&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1555972845" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-75106282768114796022014-04-05T12:29:00.001-07:002014-04-05T12:29:28.026-07:00754. Prairie Spring, by Willa Cather<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Evening and the flat land,<br />
Rich and somber and always silent;<br />
The miles of fresh-plowed soil,<br />
Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness;<br />
The growing wheat, the growing weeds,<br />
The toiling horses, the tired men;<br />
The long, empty roads,<br />
Sullen fires of sunset, fading,<br />
The eternal, unresponsive sky.<br />
Against all this, Youth,<br />
Flaming like the wild roses,<br />
Singing like the larks over the plowed fields,<br />
Flashing like a star out of the twilight;<br />
Youth with its insupportable sweetness,<br />
Its fierce necessity,<br />
Its sharp desire;<br />
Singing and singing,<br />
Out of the lips of silence,<br />
Out of the earthy dusk.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0940450712/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0940450712&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Stories, Poems, and Other Writings</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0940450712" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />
</div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-19218292077119585542014-03-09T18:49:00.001-07:002014-03-09T18:49:28.745-07:00755. In the Harbor-Town, by Constantine Cavafy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Emis—young, twenty-eight—<br />
reached this Syrian harbor in a Tenian ship,<br />
his plan to learn the incense trade.<br />
But ill during the voyage,<br />
he died as soon as he was put ashore.<br />
His burial, the poorest possible, took place here.<br />
A few hours before dying he whispered something<br />
about “home,” about “very old parents.”<br />
But nobody knew who they were,<br />
or what country he called home<br />
in the great panhellenic world.<br />
Better that way; because as it is,<br />
though he lies buried in this harbor-town,<br />
his parents will always have the hope he’s still alive.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0691015376/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0691015376&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Collected Poems</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0691015376" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-34252064121486410992013-10-27T18:27:00.001-07:002013-10-27T18:27:56.258-07:00756. Drinking Song, by Ts'ao Ts'ao<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Drinking, I sing of peace and of equality:<br />
<br />
The tax collector knocks at no gate;<br />
all rulers are virtuous and bright,<br />
and their arms and legs, the ministers, are kind.<br />
<br />
The people are well mannered, yielding without<br />
quarreling,<br />
foregoing litigation.<br />
<br />
Three years' tilling makes nine years' provisions—<br />
granaries overflow.<br />
Our elders' backs are freed from loads.<br />
Each fecund rain<br />
contributes to the harvest.<br />
<br />
Our fastest horses are withdrawn from war<br />
to carry fertilizer.<br />
<br />
Those who hold land or titles<br />
show genuine affection for people,<br />
promoting or demoting by merit,<br />
attending like fathers or brothers.<br />
<br />
Lawbreakers<br />
receive a fitting punishment.<br />
No one keeps what's found beside the road.<br />
The prisons are all empty.<br />
Midwinter courts have no criminals to try.<br />
<br />
People of eight or ninety<br />
live out their lives quite naturally.<br />
<br />
Great virtue impermeates it all—<br />
even trees and plants and tiny things that crawl.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Sam Hamill</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1880238985/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1880238985&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Crossing the Yellow River: Three Hundred Poems from the Chinese</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1880238985" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-77161549320207118062013-10-27T17:19:00.001-07:002013-10-27T17:19:56.276-07:00757. The Song of Wandering Aengus, by W. B. Yeats<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I went out to the hazel wood,<br />
Because a fire was in my head,<br />
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,<br />
And hooked a berry to a thread;<br />
And when white moths were on the wing,<br />
And moth-like stars were flickering out,<br />
I dropped the berry in a stream<br />
And caught a little silver trout.<br />
<br />
When I had laid it on the floor<br />
I went to blow the fire aflame,<br />
But something rustled on the floor,<br />
And some one called me by my name:<br />
It had become a glimmering girl<br />
With apple blossom in her hair<br />
Who called me by my name and ran<br />
And faded through the brightening air.<br />
<br />
Though I am old with wandering<br />
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,<br />
I will find out where she has gone,<br />
And kiss her lips and take her hands;<br />
And walk among long dappled grass,<br />
And pluck till time and times are done<br />
The silver apples of the moon,<br />
The golden apples of the sun.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0684807319/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0684807319&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0684807319" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-50609046045882730672013-10-27T17:13:00.000-07:002013-10-27T17:14:29.184-07:00758. VI from the Divan of Hafiz<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A flower-tinted cheek, the flowery close<br />
Of the fair earth, these are enough for me—<br />
Enough that in the meadow wanes and grows<br />
The shadow of a graceful cypress-tree.<br />
I am no lover of hypocrisy;<br />
Of all the treasures that the earth can boast,<br />
A brimming cup of wine I prize the most—<br />
This is enough for me!<br />
<br />
To them that here renowned for virtue live,<br />
A heavenly palace is the meet reward;<br />
To me, the drunkard and the beggar, give<br />
The temple of the grape with red wine stored!<br />
Beside a river seat thee on the sward;<br />
It floweth past—so flows thy life away,<br />
So sweetly, swiftly, fleets our little day—<br />
Swift, but enough for me!<br />
<br />
Look upon all the gold in the world's mart,<br />
On all the tears the world hath shed in vain;<br />
Shall they not satisfy thy craving heart?<br />
I have enough of loss, enough of gain;<br />
I have my Love, what more can I obtain?<br />
Mine in the joy of her companionship<br />
Whose healing lip is laid upon my lip—<br />
This is enough for me!<br />
<br />
I pray thee send not forth my naked soul<br />
From its poor house to seek for Paradise;<br />
Though heaven and earth before me God unroll,<br />
Back to thy village still my spirit flies.<br />
And, Hafiz, at the door of Kismet lies<br />
No just complaint—a mind like water clear,<br />
A song that swells and dies upon the ear,<br />
These are enough for thee!<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Gertrude Bell</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0486431614/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0486431614&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Poems of Hafiz</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0486431614" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-76540425612129949192013-09-02T09:44:00.000-07:002013-09-02T09:44:01.530-07:00759. Untitled, by Vidya<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Fate is a cruel<br />
and proficient potter,<br />
my friend. Forcibly<br />
spinning the wheel<br />
of anxiety, he lifts misfortune<br />
like a cutting tool. Now<br />
having kneaded my heart<br />
like a lump of clay,<br />
he lays it on his<br />
wheel and gives a spin.<br />
What he intends to produce<br />
I cannot tell.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Andrew Schelling</i>) <br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1893996921/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1893996921&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Dropping the Bow: Poems of Ancient India</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1893996921" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-32598141082211569682013-08-04T14:12:00.003-07:002013-08-04T14:13:45.447-07:00760. In the Reign of the Pharaoh Totmes, by Harry Martinson<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Our overseer of the rowers is going to die soon.<br />
Although the voyage has been long he uses the leather scourge<br />
on our gashes and chafed sores.<br />
He takes a beaker of fermented slave-woman's milk at the overseer's <br />
table.<br />
<br />
He is going to die in Dendera. We rowers have decided.<br />
Since we will have killed him, we will all be beheaded on the sand.<br />
<br />
Everything is happening now as it must.<br />
All our oars are thrashing towards Dendera.<br />
The ship is forging ahead on the water as if on a thousand feet.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Robin Fulton</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1852248874/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1852248874&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Chickweed Wintergreen: Selected Poems</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1852248874" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-33448050323571796302013-07-14T10:11:00.003-07:002013-07-14T10:11:50.684-07:00761. Epitaph on the Earl of Leicester, by Sir Walter Ralegh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here lies the noble Warrior that never blunted a sword;<br />
Here lies the noble Courtier that never kept his word;<br />
Here lies his Excellency that governed all the state;<br />
Here lies the Lord of Leicester that all the world did hate.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0571225837/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0571225837&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Rattle Bag: An Anthology of Poetry</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0571225837" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-71299018909293467452013-07-14T10:07:00.002-07:002013-07-14T10:08:14.249-07:00762. Written in Dejection near Rome, by Robert Bly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What if these long races go on repeating themselves<br />
century after century, living in houses painted light colors<br />
on the beach,<br />
black spiders,<br />
having turned pale and fat,<br />
men walking thoughtfully with their families,<br />
vibrations<br />
of exhausted violin-bodies,<br />
horrible eternities of sea pines!<br />
Some men cannot help but feel it,<br />
they will abandon their homes<br />
to live on rafts tied together on the ocean;<br />
those on shore will go inside tree trunks,<br />
surrounded by bankers whose fingers have grown long and slender,<br />
piercing through rotten bark for their food.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/006090786X/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=006090786X&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Light Around the Body, by Robert Bly</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=006090786X" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-86623507551764711012013-04-30T16:08:00.001-07:002013-04-30T16:08:19.741-07:00763. Outside the City, by Tu Fu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is bitter cold, and late, and falling<br />
Dew muffles my gaze into bottomless skies.<br />
Smoke trails out over distant salt mines<br />
Where snow-covered peaks cast shadows east.<br />
<br />
Armies haunt my homeland still. And war<br />
Drums throb in this distant place. A guest<br />
Overnight in a river city, together with<br />
Shrieking crows, my old friends, I return.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans David Hinton</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0811211002/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0811211002&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Selected Poems of Tu Fu</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0811211002" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-12892854141293483652013-04-30T16:01:00.001-07:002013-04-30T16:01:20.897-07:00764. Davey Brown Camp, by Edgar Bowers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Camping, around the fire at night, we sing<br />
Songs our mothers taught us or songs we sang<br />
At summer camp, in church, or in the army;<br />
Then, from our sleeping bags, we name the stars.<br />
All afternoon, quietly among the pines<br />
That open their cones only in fire, we followed<br />
The soar of condors down the loop of time.<br />
Breakfast over, we climb the wilderness,<br />
Hoping to see a lion on the fire road,<br />
And it see us before it slips away.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0679766073/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0679766073&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Collected Poems</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0679766073" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-2377795589883027442013-04-21T18:41:00.000-07:002013-04-21T18:41:23.071-07:00765. Gravestones, by Vernon Watkins<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Look down. The dead have life.<br />
Their dreadful night accompanies our Springs.<br />
Touch the next leaf:<br />
Such darkness lives there, where a last grief sings.<br />
<br />
Light blinds the whirling graves.<br />
Lost under rainwet earth the letters run.<br />
A finger grieves,<br />
Touching worn names, bearing daughter and son.<br />
<br />
Here the quick life was borne,<br />
A fountain quenched, fountains with sufferings crowned.<br />
Creeds of the bone<br />
Summoned from darkness what no Sibyl found.<br />
<br />
Truly the meek are blest<br />
Past proud men's trumpets, for they stilled their fame<br />
Till this late blast<br />
Gave them their muted, and their truest name.<br />
<br />
Sunk are the stones, green-dewed,<br />
Blunted with age, touched by cool, listening grass.<br />
Vainly these died,<br />
Did not miraculous silence come to pass.<br />
<br />
Yet they have lovers' ends,<br />
Lose to hold fast, as violets root in frost.<br />
With stronger hands<br />
I see them rise through all that they have lost.<br />
<br />
I take a sunflower down,<br />
With light's first faith persuaded and entwined.<br />
Break, buried dawn,<br />
For the dead live, and I am of their kind.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0903880733/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0903880733&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Collected Poems of Vernon Watkins</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0903880733" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-73204548579071281052013-03-07T17:40:00.002-08:002013-03-07T17:40:52.240-08:00766. "A Little While," by Sara Teasdale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A little while when I am gone<br />
My life will live in music after me,<br />
As spun foam lifted and borne on<br />
After the wave is lost in the full sea.<br />
<br />
A while these nights and days will burn<br />
In song with the bright frailty of foam,<br />
Living in light before they turn<br />
Back to the nothingness that is their home.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0000CNDAF/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0000CNDAF&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B0000CNDAF" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-39715268381598349272013-03-03T18:16:00.002-08:002013-03-03T18:16:45.870-08:00767. The Serpent, by Theodore Roethke<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There was a Serpent who had to sing.<br />
There was. There was.<br />
He simply gave up Serpenting.<br />
Because. Because.<br />
<br />
He didn't like his Kind of Life;<br />
He couldn't find a proper Wife;<br />
He was a Serpent with a soul;<br />
He got no Pleasure down his Hole.<br />
And so, of course, he had to Sing,<br />
And Sing he did, like Anything!<br />
The Birds, they were, they were Astounded;<br />
And various Measures Propounded<br />
To stop the Serpent's Awful Racket:<br />
They bought a Drum. He wouldn't Whack it.<br />
They sent,—you always send,—to Cuba<br />
And got a Most Commodious Tuba;<br />
They got a Horn, they got a Flute,<br />
But Nothing would suit.<br />
He said, "Look, Birds, all this is futile:<br />
I do <em>not</em> like to Bang or Tootle."<br />
And then he cut loose with a Horrible Note<br />
That practically split the Top of his Throat.<br />
"You see," he said, with a Serpent's Leer,<br />
"I'm serious about my Singing Career!"<br />
And the Woods Resounded with many a Shriek<br />
As the Birds flew off to the End of Next Week.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0385086016/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0385086016&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0385086016" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-69217434022734323952013-03-03T18:11:00.001-08:002013-03-03T18:21:59.279-08:00768. Marriage in Two Moods, by Francis Thompson<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I.<br />
<br />
Love that's loved from day to day<br />
Loves itself into decay:<br />
He that eats one daily fruit<br />
Shrivels hunger at the root.<br />
Daily pleasure grows a task;<br />
Daily smiles become a mask.<br />
Daily growth of unpruned strength<br />
Expands to feebleness at length.<br />
Daily increase thronging fast<br />
Must devour itself at last.<br />
Daily shining, even content,<br />
Would with itself grow discontent;<br />
And the sun's life witnesseth<br />
Daily dying is not death.<br />
So Love loved from day to day<br />
Loves itself into decay.<br />
<br />
II.<br />
<br />
Love to daily uses wed<br />
Shall be sweetly perfected.<br />
Life by repetition grows<br />
Unto its appointed close:<br />
Day to day fulfils one year—<br />
Shall not Love by Love wax dear?<br />
All piles by repetition rise—<br />
Shall not then Love's edifice?<br />
Shall not Love, too, learn his writ,<br />
Like Wisdom, by repeating it?<br />
By the oft-repeated use<br />
All perfections gain their thews;<br />
And so, with daily uses wed,<br />
Love, too, shall be perfected.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0012OOBTO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0012OOBTO&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Complete Poems of Francis Thompson</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B0012OOBTO" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
</div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-10255811552632508742013-02-14T18:52:00.000-08:002013-02-14T18:52:14.348-08:00769. Air Mail, by Tomas Transtromer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I carried the letter through the city<br />
in search of a mail box.<br />
In the great forest of stone and concrete<br />
fluttered that lost butterly.<br />
<br />
The stamp's flying carpet<br />
the address's staggering letters<br />
plus my sealed-in truth<br />
at this moment floating above the ocean.<br />
<br />
The Atlantic's crawling silver.<br />
The banks of clouds. The fishing boat<br />
like a spit-out olive pit.<br />
And the pale scar of its wake.<br />
<br />
Down here work goes slowly.<br />
Often I steal a glance at the clock.<br />
The shadows of the trees are black ciphers<br />
in the greedy silence.<br />
<br />
Truth is there on the ground<br />
but no one dares to take it.<br />
Truth lies on the street.<br />
No one makes it his own.<br />
<br />
(<i>trans Samuel Charters</i>)<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008KUEG5C/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B008KUEG5C&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">For the Living and the Dead</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B008KUEG5C" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-10980518436660974392013-02-13T18:10:00.000-08:002013-02-13T18:11:30.275-08:00770. Only They Can Whisper Songs of Hope, by Jane Goodall<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The world has need of them, those who stand upon the Bridge,<br />
Who know the pain in the singing of a bird<br />
And the beauty beyond a flower dying:<br />
Who have heard the crystal harmony<br />
Within the silence of a snow-peaked mountain—<br />
For who but they can bring life's meaning<br />
To the living dead?<br />
<br />
Oh, the world needs those standing on the Bridge,<br />
For they know how Eternity reaches to earth<br />
In the wind that brings music to the leaves<br />
Of the forest: in the drops of rain that caress<br />
The sleeping life of the desert: in the sunbeams<br />
Of the first spring day in an alpine meadow.<br />
Only they can blow the dust from the seeing eyes<br />
Of those who are blind.<br />
<br />
Yet pity them! those who stand on the Bridge.<br />
For they, having known utter Peace,<br />
Are moved by an ancient compasssion<br />
To reach back to those who cry out<br />
From a world which has lost its meaning:<br />
A world where the atom—the clay of the Sculptor—<br />
Is torn apart, in the name of science,<br />
For the destruction of Love.<br />
<br />
And so they stand there on the Bridge<br />
Torn by the anguish of free will:<br />
Yearning with unshed tears<br />
To go back—to return<br />
To the starlight of their beginnings<br />
To the utter peace<br />
Of the unfleshed spirit.<br />
Yet only they can whisper songs of hope<br />
To those who struggle, helpless, towards light.<br />
<br />
Oh, let them not desert us, those on the Bridge,<br />
Those who have known Love in the freedom<br />
Of the night sky and know the meaning<br />
Of the moon's existence beyond<br />
Man's fumbling footsteps into space.<br />
For they know the Eternal Power<br />
That encompasses life's beginnings<br />
And gathers up its endings,<br />
And lays them, like Joseph's coat,<br />
On the never changing, always moving canvas<br />
That stretches beyond the Universe<br />
And is contained in the eye<br />
Of a little frog.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000LP66V6/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B000LP66V6&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">Reason for Hope</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B000LP66V6" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-66314104906271427142013-02-10T06:00:00.001-08:002013-02-10T06:02:57.060-08:00771. Why, Then, Complain, by Vernon Watkins<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Why, then, complain of evil days<br />
If days you knew before were good?<br />
That is a shallow kind of praise<br />
Which cannot thrive on bitter food.<br />
<br />
I know too great a recompense<br />
For any tempest to destroy.<br />
When joy has lost its last defence,<br />
Then is the time to learn of joy.<br />
<br />
Let discord beat about my ears,<br />
I know too well what time may bring,<br />
Nor can it touch the truest tears,<br />
Such is the secret of their spring.<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0903880733/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0903880733&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Collected Poems of Vernon Watkins</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0903880733" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7884029212360729617.post-63421851479201200572013-02-10T05:52:00.002-08:002013-02-10T05:52:36.670-08:00772. "the patience of the universe," by Lucille Clifton<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
the patience<br />
of the universe<br />
is not without<br />
an end<br />
<br />
so might it<br />
slowly<br />
turn its back<br />
<br />
so might it<br />
slowly<br />
walk away<br />
<br />
leaving you alone<br />
in the world you leave<br />
your children<br />
<br />
Source: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1934414905/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1934414905&linkCode=as2&tag=theoccasion04-20">The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton 1965-2010</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theoccasion04-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1934414905" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br /></div>
Akshay Ahujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07728111336477554136noreply@blogger.com0