It's a pathetic sight, really. There is a lady singing dalit protest songs on the street below my window and I seem to be her only audience. People on the street are completely ignoring her and going about their business with insouciance. We miss you, Babasaheb.

The eggs have finally hatched and I now share my room with two little Rock Doves along with their brave, brave mother. I am grateful to her for choosing my window to build her nest and not be deterred by the constant noise and guests through these tense weeks. It's a beautiful thing, really. Life.

Things To Say Besides I Love You By Carrie Laski

from http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/things-to-say-besides-i-love-you/

Sometimes those three words aren’t right. You think you feel what most people feel when they say those words, but those words aren’t the right ones. There’s got to be an alternative somewhere in the English language, but you haven’t found it yet. In the meantime, sit across from someone at a Puerto Rican restaurant and listen as he talks about politics or his childhood or something completely unrelated. Listen more to the tones of his voice than the words he says and be aware of your own words bubbling up in your throat like the beer in your glass. When you just can’t stop yourself anymore, tuck your hair behind your ears, take a deep breath and say:

“These plantains are really well-cooked.”

He will agree that they are.

But perhaps you’re not at a restaurant. What then? Perhaps you’re on the sidewalk, and it’s cold, and he doesn’t have gloves so he puts his hand in your pocket. You’re walking quickly because the wind is whipping through the nighttime streets, and all you can think of is his bare hand tightening around your gloved one. If only you weren’t wearing gloves, then it would better because touching is better than most things. Being with this person is better than most things. You come to a stop because the light has changed, and he looks at you all goofy from above the collar of his coat that he has buttoned as far as it can go and squeezes your hand. Look him straight in the eyes and say:

“You should really get yourself some gloves, you know.”

And he will agree that he should.

Maybe by now you’ve found your way to a sort-of-friend’s house party. How do you go about this now? You’ve said hello to all the people you know, you’ve had three-to-five glasses of wine, and you’ve been listening to some kid wearing an ugly sweater play his lousy guitar for half an hour. COOL he covers Lana Del Rey THAT’S AWESOME. How much is the appropriate amount of time to stay? You’re sure you’ve exceeded it by now. You must have. The boy you’re with has just come back from the kitchen and sits next to you on the window sill. He’s not touching you, just sitting there holding a can of Hamm’s and looking like he doesn’t want to be there either. He turns to you but doesn’t say anything, so you say:

“I can’t stand these people.”

And he will agree they’re the worst.

The dark helps, it always does, but if it’s morning, and the sun has got your freaked, you’ve still got options. You might be sitting with him at the kitchen table drinking coffee from mismatched mugs and saying nothing because sometimes saying nothing is the best thing to say. He’s miles away, and you’re thinking you should take a shower or fix your hair or at least brush your teeth because you feel dirty and self-conscious. You wish the sun weren’t so bright on your face and you wish there was something other than corn flakes for breakfast so your stomach won’t start making hideous noises. You’re about to open your mouth and say something to break the silence, but he speaks first. He tilts his head slightly and says:

“You make me really happy.”

And you will agree he does, too.

Here We Are

"Here we are, afraid of losing what we have all the time, holding on to it so tight that not a soul can touch it. We think by hiding it from the world, it’s hidden and it’s ours. Nothing is. Nothing ever will be. For, nothing ever was.

If you think there is anything that you have, that’s yours, be it money, a house, a job, or a girlfriend… it’s nothing but an illusion. It’ll all disappear… in one blow. One blow, my man.
Here we are, so insecure that we are afraid of re-starting our lives, so we just carry on trying to sort out the current mess. The thought that we should give it all up and just start all over – with nothing – might cross our minds some time, sure, but we get scared and we push away anything that scares us.
There is nothing I can ever achieve or gain that I cannot lose, in a matter of seconds. You have never gained enough to not be able to lose it all, in just a few minutes. What you think is yours, was never yours and will never be yours. Whatever you make here, you leave here. You came naked and you’re going to go back naked.

So what are you afraid of?

Let all be lost. Let them take away everything. As long as you have your heart beating strong, as long as you have your nostrils working fine, as long as the blood flows in your veins, you will live, you will breathe and you can get it all back… again and again. For, if you can do it once, you can damn well do it again. It’s just a game we play – Life."

"I do not collect," I said uncomfortably, the wind beating at my garments. "Neither the living nor the dead. I gave it up a long time ago. Death is the only successful collector."

 - Loren Eiseley (1907–1977), The Star Thrower

Brothels

These lanes, these marts of rich delights,
Precious lives, undone, defiled;
Where are the defenders of virtuous pride?
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

These sinuous streets, these doors ajar,
The clinking coins, the moving masks,
Deals of honour, hagglings fast,
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

These dimly-lighted, stinking streets,
These yellowing buds, crushed and ceased,
These hollow charms, for sale and lease;
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

The jingling trinkets at casement bright,
Tambourines a-throb 'mid gasping life;
Cheerless rooms with cough alive;
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

Boisterous laughs on public paths,
Crowds at windows, thick and fast,
Vulgar words, obscene remarks;
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

The betel spittal, the floral wreaths,
Audacious looks and filthy speech,
Flaccid figures, looks diseased;
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

Lecherous eyes in beauty's quest,
Extended hands chasing breasts,
Springing feet on stairs pressed;
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

This is the haven of young and old.
Aging sires and youngsters bold,
Wife, mother and sister — she plays a triple role.
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

Help, O Help, this daughter of Eve!
Radha's child, Yashoda's breed;
The prophet's race, Zuleikha's seed;
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

Call, O call the leaders wise
Let them see these streets, these sights,
Where are the champs of eastern pride?
Where are they who praise, the pious eastern ways?

Sahir Ludhianvi

हल्ला हुआ है जी हल्ला हुआ है – Iqbal Abhimanyu

कहीं किसी रानी के
कहीं किसी पोते को
बेटा हुआ है,
बेटा हुआ है जी बेटा हुआ है,
सोने की चम्मच
फैशनेबल पालकी
फोटोजेनिक चेहरा
लेटा हुआ है
लेटा हुआ है जी लेटा हुआ है
खबर है खबर है
जबर है जबर है
पेपर में टीवी में
हल्ला हुआ है
हल्ला हुआ है जी हल्ला हुआ है
वो हमारा बाप है
पर हैं सुर्खाब के
गुलामों के खून से
सींचा घर आँगन है
जहां कदम रख दे
बिछने लगें सब
सैकड़ों सालों से
यही तो आलम है
अपने शहजादे
कीचड में लोटे
सर्दी में ठिठुरें
किस्मत के खोटे
ढाबों पे बर्तन वो मांजें
फटे चीथड़ों में वो साजे
घर में बाप से मार खाए
स्कूल में मास्टर न आए
वो सिग्नल पे अड़ के खड़े हैं
स्टेशन पे नंगे फिरे हैं
कचरा बीनते चल रहे हैं
खबर है खबर है
जबर है जबर है
जहर खा के बच्चे मरे हैं
सियासत के कच्चे मरे हैं
कुपोषण से बच्चे मरे हैं
बाढ़ों में बच्चे बहे हैं
न खबर है न हल्ला है
कि जो मरा नहीं
वो बच्चा
कब तक जिएगा
कहाँ जियेगा, कैसे जियेगा
कब तक मरेगा, कहाँ मरेगा
कैसे मरेगा
कि उसके लिए शाही बैंड बजेगा या नहीं
कि ब्रिटिश तख़्त के उत्तराधिकार में उसका कौन सा नंबर होगा
पर हाँ,
वो खुशकिस्मत होगा
मरकर भी जो
छप सकेगा
और
साम्राज्य कायम रहेगा
राजकुमार छपते रहेंगे
गुमनाम बच्चे मरते रहेंगे
आखिर सुर्ख़ियों के लिए
राजा का पैदा होना
और गुलामों का झुंडों में
सनसनीखेज तरीके से मरना
ज़रूरी है
(By- Iqbal Abhimanyu)

Beucephalus, an epic poem in Hindi by Vimal Chandra Pandey

बुसिफालस^^^                                                                                            
1.

अब नींद के लिये किसे पुकारूं
सिर के बीचोंबीच एक दर्द

चारों तरफ टीवी, गाड़ियों और मशीनों के साथ
शोर अधिकारों का, कि कर्तव्यों  का
इतना घना कि कान को आवाज़ नहीं सूझती
जैसे न सूझे अंधेरे में हाथ को गला
गोलियों को लक्ष्य, तलवारों को पेट
पिता की नरकट की कलम मेरे लिये एक लम्बे फल वाले चाकू की तरह है
जिसे देखना उनकी अनुपस्थिति को देखना

चीज़ें कैसे इतने काल तक ज़िंदा रहती हैं पार्थ ?
चीज़ें यानि बेजान ?
हमारे भीतर जान है तो क्या उखाड़ ले रहे हैं हम ?

अनंत तक जीना कोई शौक नहीं है पर कुछ आभामंडलों के बुझने से पहले
मैं खुद को बुझा देने की इच्छा रखता हूं
मैं अभी इस युग में पैदा ही नहीं होना चाहता था
जहां आप कुछ महसूस ही नहीं करते और चेहरे या तो बहुत भावहीन हैं या बहुत क्रूर

मुझे ठीक उनसठ साल पहले पैदा होना था ताकि मैं अपने पिता का दोस्त होता
और उन्हें मना कर देता खुद को पैदा करने से
कोई युग अपने में संपूर्ण नहीं होता
सतयुग द्वापर और त्रेता कलियुग के ही अलग-अलग नाम हैं
कलियुग को बदनाम न किया जाये हमारी हरामजदगियों के कारण
ये इल्तिज़ा की उसने कल रात मेरे सपने में आकर !

2.

दुष्यंत और शकुंतला को लेकर मेरे मन में बहुत सारे सवाल हैं
किससे पूछूं ?

असली जवाब उस मछली से मिलेगा जिस पर लगाया गया अंगूठी निगल जाने का आरोप
या फिर कालिदास का पुनर्जन्म लिये उस बालक से मिलने उसके गांव चला जा सकता है
जिसे दिखा-दिखा कर इंडिया टीवी जैसे चैनलों की दुकान चल रही है

दुकान बोलने पर किसी ने बताया कि कल पंद्रह अगस्त है और यह दिन देश के लिये बहुत महत्वपूर्ण है
जिस चीज़ में हमें यकीन न हो उसे इतना चीख-चीख कर क्यों बताते हैं हम
किस उल्लू के पट्ठे ने कहा था कि चिल्ला कर बोलने से झूठ भी सच हो जाता है
यह उसके लिये मेरा गुस्सा मिश्रित सम्मान है
कितने दूरदर्शी होते हैं कुछ लोग !!!

मेरे भीतर साल के दो दिनों में देश के लिये बहुत कुछ करने का जोश उमड़ता है
और एक दिन अहिंसा करने का
हालांकि अहिंसा करना हिंसा करने की तरह नहीं है
कि तलवारें लेकर नहीं गये, दरवाजे़ के सामने जाकर गालियां नहीं दीं
नहीं तोड़े सारे किवाड़ और नहीं उड़ायी सबकी गर्दनें
लीजिये साहब ! कर दी अहिंसा

बंदूके बोने वाले भगत सिंह का खेत स्कीम में आ गया है
देखिये कितनी खूबसूरत सड़कें गुज़रेंगी उससे होकर
बंदूकों की फसल नष्ट करने का इससे अच्छा तरीका क्या होगा
अब दूसरी फसल ढूंढो दोस्त और कोई दूसरा खेत
पट्टे का विकल्प भी खुला है और मेरे खेतों के लिये भी ढूंढ देना कोई मजूर

जो बाबा की मौत के बाद से ही परती पड़े हैं
बंदूकें कितनी बोएंगे यार, गोलियों के बीज हमसे छीनते जा रहे हैं वे
बीटी कपास और बीटी बैंगन की तरह जब बीटी गोलियां होंगी
तो जाकर लाइन लगाकर खरीद लाइयेगा कुछ कारतूस ताकि
बंदूकों की फसल का कुछ उपयोग हो सके

3.

अकेला कमरे में बैठा मच्छरों से जूझ रहा हूं
ये मच्छर मेरी आत्मा में काटते हैं
निशान ऐसा ही कि अगले जन्म तक रहेगा
इस हिसाब से आप आसानी से पता कर सकते हैं कि पिछले जन्म में क्या था मैं

सपने सच हो जाने के बाद जल्दी ही अनाकर्षक लगने लगते थे
उसे पाने के बाद जिस अगली चीज़ का सपना हम देखते थे
उसके बारे में यह मानने को तैयार नहीं होते थे कि वह भी अंततः ऐसा ही होगा

हम जानते थे सब राज़ दुनिया के
लेकिन जीने के बहाने खोजना इतना ज़रूरी कि उलझाये रखते थे खुद को उसी में
कोई ठोस कारण न होने के बावजूद हम सुंदरता देखते ही जाते थे
दैत्याकार पेड़ों में, बेढब पहाड़ों में और सुबह खिल कर शाम मुरझा जाने वाले फूलों में
वे मुझे निराशावादी कहते थे तो मैं समझ जाता था कि उन्होंने सुंदरता देखने की आदत डाली ली है
जीने के लिये एकमात्र यही आदत भी पड़ जाये तो काट सकते हैं लम्बी ज़िंदगी
वरना असुंदरता को है कदम-कदम

मरने के बहाने झउआ भर अभी गिना दूं कहिये तो
छोड़िये साहब ! मुझे निराशावादी कहिये और घर जाकर एक कप गरम ताने पीकर
कुछ झूठी खबरें देखिये
चाहें तो फिल्मी गाने सुनिये
कई नये-नये चैनल शुरू हुये हैं इधर गानों के
किसी पर तो आपकी पसंद का गाना आयेगा
लेकिन सावधान !
अगर कहीं नहीं मिला तो फिर आखिरकार टीवी बंद करते हुये मेरी ही बात गूंजेगी आपके मन में

नमक का दारोगा नाम की कहानी सबसे नापसंद है मुझे
जिसमें खलनायक की दया से जीतने का अभिनय करता है नायक
मेरे आदर्श लोग जब मेरा दिल दुखाते हैं तो ज़्यादा टूटती हैं उम्मीदें
लगता है गोया अब किसके पास जाया जाये
किससे कहा जाये कि आदरणीय !
सिर्फ़ आपसे ही बची है अब उम्मीद !!

4.

तो क्या समझा जाये इस युग में आदर्श की अवधारणा सिर्फ़ प्राइमरी पाठशाला के लिये सुरक्षित है ?
वायुमंडल में कितना कुछ मौजूद है बिना कीमत और आक्सीजन की तो बात ही क्या
सारी परिभाषाएं यथास्थान रखी हुयी हैं
सिर्फ़ आदर्श की कोई आदर्श परिभाषा नहीं है
जिस तरह नहीं है गुलाबजामुन में गुलाब
पुलों में सीमेंट, पे्रम में सहिष्णुता और मृत्यु में मुक्ति
आप चुप रहेंगे तो भी आपकी सोच की लहरें मुझ तक आती रहती हैं श्रीमान !

आप एक समय मेरे आदर्श रहे हैं
अब आपके परदे उघड़ने के बावजूद मैं आपको देख कर सलाम में हाथ उठाता हूं
तो यह मेरा बड़प्पन नहीं लालच है
मां के सैकड़ों बार कहने के बावजूद खंडित मूर्तियों को जल्दी नहीं करता विसर्जित गंगा में
आपका खंडित होना दरअसल हमारी बराबरी में आना है

अब बताइये क्या हाल चाल ?
बाल बच्चे ? कहानी कविताएं आलोचनाएं सब चकाचक ?
बालों का गिरना कम हुआ ?
पेट अब भी खराब ही रहता है या गरम पानी वाले नुस्खे ने कुछ फायदा पहुंचाया है ?
तीन मुंहों के साथ एक पेट मैनेज करने में परेशानी नहीं होती आपको श्री ब्रह्मालोचक जी  ?

5.

हमारे भीतर बहुत कुछ था जिसे समझना बचा था अभी
देखा देखी पाप और देखा देखी पुण्य वाले कहावत को समझना इतना आसान भी नहीं था
बंद रेलवे के फाटकों के नीचे से साइकिल घसीट कर पार करते हम जान पर खेलते थे
तो इसका मतलब यह नहीं था कि कोई अंग्रेज इंतजार कर रहा था हमारा

अपनी जिंदगियों से उबे हुये हम लोग चाहते थे कोई रोमांच
कविताएं धीरे-धीरे नेताओं की तरह होती जाती थीं या देश की तरह
उनसे कोई उम्मीद नहीं की जाती थी लेकिन उन्हें वोट दिया जाता था
वे झूठे वादे करती थीं और कुछ देशभक्त भगवा पहन कर हाथों में अस्त्र ले उतर आये थे

कविता अपने कविताभक्तों के एहसानों तले दबती जा रही थी
जैसे देश दब रहा था देशभक्तों के एहसानों तले
मुझपर सवार होकर विश्वविजय की आकांक्षा रखने वाले
बहादुर और पराक्रमी लोगों को मालूम नहीं था मेरे अस्तित्व का मूल्य !

मैं एक छोटा सा पुर्जा हो सकता हूं आपकी बड़ी मशीन का
लेकिन मेरे न होने पर टूट जायेगा आपका विश्वविजय का सपना !

मेरी गति से है आपकी गति
मेरे शौर्य को कहा जाता है आपका शौर्य
मेरी मेहनत आपका सौभाग्य....वाह हिनहिनहिन हिनहिन
ये व्यंग्य की हिनहिनाहट है जिसे समझने के लिये जरूरी है
कि आप एक बार मेरी जगह आकर खड़े हों और मैं आप पर सवारी करूं
सिकंदर महान !

6.

अस्पतालों या श्मशानों में होने वाली विरक्ति हमें बीच-बीच में घेरती रही
लेकिन हम बुद्ध नहीं थे बल्कि वह दिन था बुध

अगर आप समझ नहीं सकते इस असंगत पंक्ति का अर्थ तो ये समझिये
दुख व्यक्त करने या खुशी मनाने की फुरसत मिल सकती है सिर्फ़ इतवार को
ऐसा सोमवार से शनिवार तक तो लगता ही है
अस्पताल के अपने मेडिकल स्टोर से दवाइयां खरीदने पर 15 प्रतिशत की छूट थी
ये 50 प्रतिशत भी होती तो हम क्यों लेते यार
दवाइयां क्या जमा करने वाली चीज़ थीं ?

यही भाव जाग जाये आपके भीतर सोने, ज़मीन या शेयर को लेकर
तो गांधीजी की एकदम नान प्रेक्टिक्ल बात भी सही हो जाये आज के कलियुग में

कलियुग से आप तो परिचित ही होंगे
ये आज के समय को कहते हैं जिसने लम्बे समय से दाढ़ी नहीं बनायी
इस कलियुग में सबके कांसेप्ट गड़बड़ हो गये हैं
क्या आपको नहीं लगता माई लार्ड
कि अगर हम दवाइयों की तरह इकट्ठा करने लगें ज़मीनें, गहने और पैसे
तो कलियुग नाम सुनने में माधुरी दीक्षित जितना मीठा लगने लगेगा
सोने और संतरे में एक समानता है और एक ही फर्क़
दोनों से दांत या जीवन खट्टा हो सकता है और दूसरे का जूस निकाल कर जब चाहें पी सकते हैं

7.

तटस्थता!
हमारे युग को एक शब्द में व्यक्त करने के लिये यह सबसे कारगर है
बहसें, विरोध, धरने, जुलूस सब कुछ बहुतायत में यहां मिलेगा आपको
सिवाय कुछ ऐसी फालतू चीज़ों के
जो प्रयोग न किये जाने के कारण एपेंडिक्स की तरह खत्म हो गयी हैं

चेहरे का नमक और आंख का पानी ऐसी ही चीज़ें हैं
चेहरे का नमक अब पैकेट में आता है और उसमें आयोडीन भी है
आपकी पीढ़ियों को नहीं होगा अब घेंघा, बधाई हो !

अगर नमक की कमी से निम्न रक्तचाप हो जाये तो इस बात की खुशी मनाइये
कि नहीं हुआ गले में शंख निकलने वाला वह खतरनाक रोग
आंख का पानी अब बोतल में है
दिक्कत यह नहीं है यार
समस्या इतनी ही कि जब प्रिंट रेट है बारह तो मैं तुम्हें पंद्रह क्यों दूं
अरे साहब, तीन रुपये ठंडा करने का चार्ज है
पानी को ठंडा करने का भी पैसा लगता है यार यहां तो
और देखो लोगों का खून फ्री फंड में ठंडा हुआ जा रहा है
अधिक दिनों तक ज़िंदा रहने की दवा का नाम बताया मैंने आपको सबसे उपर
उसे लेकर आप रात को चैन की नींद सो सकते हैं

अगर आप किसी कला से जुड़े हैं तो तटस्थता आपके लिये आपके कला अभ्यास की तरह है
जम के करिये अभ्यास और गोली मारिये दुनिया को
हरमुनिया बजाकर

8.

आपके वंश को चलाये रखने की जद्दोजहद में जब मारी गयी आपकी दो बेटियां गर्भ में
उसी वक़्त कल्पना चावला की मौत हुयी थी
एक अंजान श्राप था कि अंतरिक्ष में जाने वाली एक और लड़की को
जिस दिन गर्भ में ही मार दिया जायेगा
उसी दिन मौत होगी वहां पहुंचने वाली पहली लड़की की

9.

यार चेतक !
लड़ाइयां तो घोड़े ही लड़ते हैं और नाम किसी और का होता है
तुम तो फिर भी प्रसिद्ध हो
रण बीच चौकड़ी भर-भर कर तुम निराले बन गये थे
इस बाबत कम से कम एक कविता है और कुछ किंवदंतियां भी

लेकिन मेरे उपर कुछ नहीं लिखा गया
जबकि मेरे मरते ही टूट गया था उस महान योद्धा के विश्वविजय का सपना
तो मेरी कुछ तो कीमत होगी बास !

अब इस कवि को देखो
मेरे उपर तभी कविता लिखने की सुध आयी इसे
जब इसके उपर सवार होकर किसी ने जीतने की कोशिश की दुनिया को
कविताओं की भी हालत घोड़ों जैसी हो गयी है दोस्त
थोड़े सूखे चने खिलाकर इतनी विराट उम्मीदें पाल रहे हैं वे
कि खड़े-खड़े सोने में भी डर लगता है अब तो

10.

इस युग में जो तत्व सबसे तेज़ खत्म हो रहा है
वह न पानी है न तेल
इनके तो कुंए हैं
सबसे तेज़ी से खत्म हो रहा है धैर्य
सबसे तेज़ी से चुक रही है सहनशक्ति
सबसे तेज़ी से गल रही है सहिष्णुता
देश के सबसे बड़े विवाद कार्टूनों के मोहताज़ हो गये हैं

किसी से दोस्ती टूट जाने पर नहीं छपती हैं रचनाएं
प्यार का इज़हार न माने जाने पर फेंके जाते हैं तेज़ाब
पृथ्वी किस वजह से बची हुयी है अब तक यह एक अज्ञात तथ्य था
अब क्यों पृथ्वी के खत्म होने की भविष्यवाणियां बार-बार हो रही हैं
यह भी काफी लोगों के समझ के बाहर की बात है
हे शैतान ! अब भी ?

कुछ लोगों को प्रश्नों के उस पार भेजा जा चुका है
कुछ औरों को भेजा जाना है वहां जल्दी ही
वहां जाने के बाद उन पर कोई बात नहीं की जा सकती
उनकी सिर्फ़ पूजा की जा सकती है और दिखाया जा सकता है धूप
भरी दुपहरी में !

11.

हे मेरे समय के महान कवियों !
कविता का प्रयोग कर मत बचाइये सभ्यताओं को
उन्हें वैसे भी नष्ट होना है
कुछ कर सकें अपनी रचनात्मकता से तो इतनी ही शक्ति दें
कि वे कह सकें आम को आम
घात को घात
हरामखोरी को हरामखोरी
भाषा में सौंदर्य नष्ट होने की कीमत पर भी।

12.

मेरे मित्र
ये दोतरफा रास्ता अब नहीं चलेगा
कि इसी दुनिया में रहते हुये भी तुम अभिनय करो ऐसा
कि तुम्हें पता ही नही कि मेरी आत्मा पर कैसे क्षुद्रताओ  के कोड़े बरसाये जा रहे हैं हर पल

ये वही आत्मा है दोस्त
जिसके बारे में तुम्हारा कहना था कि ये दूध से भी उजली है
तुम्हें आगे आना होगा या फिर अपने खांचे तय करने होंगे
तुम या तो मेरे दोस्त रह सकते हो
या फिर टिकट खिड़की पर बैठे उस आदमी की तरह
जो मुस्करा कर मुझे देखता है
हम अदृश्य गंदगियों से भरे समय में सांस ले रहे हैं

दोस्ती में डिप्लोमेसी नहीं चलेगी
अब तक मेरे मित्र
या तो मेरे बराबर में खड़े रहो
या फिर अपनी कुर्सी सफ़र में भी चिपकाए चलो अपने पिछवाड़े से
यहां एक घोषणा कर दूं सबकी जानकारी के लिये
मेरे घर में न कुर्सियां मेज़ हैं न पलंग
मैंने पूरे घर में सिर्फ़ भदोही से मंगाया एक कालीन बिछा रखा है

Resignation Pt 1

The days how few, how short the years
Of man's too rapid race!
Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy,
Have told us with a sigh,
That to be born seems little more
Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth
With fears alarm'd; and yet,
In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
This weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin?
Age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes,
And am I writing still?

Conscious of nature in decline,
And languor in my thoughts;
To soften censure, and abate
Its rigour on my faults

Permit me, madam! ere to you
The promis'd verse I pay,
To touch on felt infirmity,
Sad sister of decay.

One world deceas'd, another born,
Like Noah they behold,
O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows,
Too many suns have roll'd:

Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd
His second world to see:
My second world, though gay the scene,
Can boast no charms for me.

To me this brilliant age appears
With desolation spread;
Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd,
Whilst life was life, are dead;

And with them died my joys; the grave
Has broken nature's laws;
And clos'd, against this feeble frame,
Its partial cruel jaws;

Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life!
A cloud impairs my sight;
My weak hand disobeys my will,
And trembles as I write.

What shall I write? Thalia, tell;
Say, long abandon'd muse!
What field of fancy shall I range?
What subject shall I choose?

A choice of moment high inspire,
And rescue me from shame,
For doting on thy charms so late,
By grandeur in my theme.

Beyond the themes, which most admire,
Which dazzle, or amaze,
Beyond renown'd exploits of war,
Bright charms, or empire's blaze,

Are themes, which, in a world of woe
Can best appease our pain;
And, in an age of gaudy guilt,
Gay folly's flood restrain;

Amidst the storms of life support
A calm, unshaken mind;
And with unfading laurels crown
The brow of the resign'd.

O resignation! yet unsung,
Untouch'd by former strains;
Though claiming every muse's smile,
And every poet's pains,

Beneath life's evening, solemn shade,
I dedicate my page
To thee, thou safest guard of youth!
Thou sole support of age!

All other duties crescents are
Of virtue faintly bright,
The glorious consummation, thou!
Which fills her orb with light:

How rarely fill'd! the love divine
In evils to discern,
This the first lesson which we want,
The latest, which we learn;

A melancholy truth! for know,
Could our proud hearts resign,
The distance greatly would decrease
'Twixt human and divine.

But though full noble is my theme,
Full urgent is my call
To soften sorrow, and forbid
The bursting tear to fall:

The task I dread; dare I to leave
Of humble prose the shore,
And put to sea? a dangerous sea?
What throngs have sunk before!

How proud the poet's billow swells!
The God! the God! his boast:
A boast how vain! What wrecks abound!
Dead bards stench every coast.

What then am I? Shall I presume,
On such a moulten wing,
Above the general wreck to rise,
And in my winter, sing;

When nightingales, when sweetest bards
Confine their charming song
To summer's animating heats,
Content to warble young?

Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues;
How shameful her request!
My brain in labour for dull rhyme!
Hers teeming with the best!

But you a stranger will excuse,
Nor scorn his feeble strain;
To you a stranger, but, through fate,
No stranger to your pain.

The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends,
His old wound bleeds anew;
His sorrows are recall'd to life
By those he sees in you;

Too well he knows the twisting strings
Of ardent hearts combin'd
When rent asunder, how they bleed,
How hard to be resign'd:

Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed;
The pang you feel, he felt;
Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids
His heart at yours to melt.

But what can heart, or head, suggest?
What sad experience say?
Through truths austere, to peace we work
Our rugged, gloomy way:

What are we? whence? for what? and whither?
Who know not, needs must mourn;
But thought, bright daughter of the skies!
Can tears to triumph turn.

Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's
Impenetrable shield,
When, sent by fate, we meet our foes,
In sore affliction's field;

It plucks the frightful mask from ills,
Forbids pale fear to hide,
Beneath that dark disguise, a friend,
Which turns affection's tide.

Affection frail! train'd up by sense,
From reason's channel strays:
And whilst it blindly points at peace,
Our peace to pain betrays.

Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream
From daily dying flowers,
To nourish rich immortal blooms,
In amaranthine bowers;

Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down
On what once shock'd their sight;
And thank the terrors of the past
For ages of delight.

All withers here; who most possess
Are losers by their gain,
Stung by full proof, that, bad at best,
Life's idle all is vain:

Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream;
Did not its course offend,
But murmur cease; life, then, would seem
Still vainer, from its end.

How wretched! who, through cruel fate,
Have nothing to lament!
With the poor alms this world affords
Deplorably content!

Had not the Greek his world mistook,
His wish had been most wise;
To be content with but one world,
Like him, we should despise.

Of earth's revenue would you state
A full account and fair?
We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast
The total up---
_Despair._

Since vain all here, all future, vast,
Embrace the lot assign'd;
Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends;
Its stroke severe, most kind.

But in laps'd nature rooted deep,
Blind error domineers;
And on fools' errands, in the dark,
Sends out our hopes and fears;

Bids us for ever pains deplore,
Our pleasures overprize;
These oft persuade us to be weak;
Those urge us to be wise.

From virtue's rugged path to right
By pleasure are we brought,
To flowery fields of wrong, and there
Pain chides us for our fault:

Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace
If folly is withstood;
And says, time pays an easy price,
For our eternal good.

In earth's dark cot, and in an hour,
And in delusion great,
What an economist is man
To spend his whole estate,

And beggar an eternity!
For which as he was born,
More worlds than one against it weigh'd,
As feathers he should scorn.

Say not, your loss in triumph leads
Religion's feeble strife;
Joys future amply reimburse
Joys bankrupts of this life.

But not deferr'd your joy so long,
It bears an early date;
Affliction's ready pay in hand,
Befriends our present state;

What are the tears, which trickle down
Her melancholy face,
Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price,
They purchase lasting peace.

Grief softens hearts, and curbs the will,
Impetuous passion tames,
And keeps insatiate, keen desire
From launching in extremes.

Through time's dark womb, our judgment right,
If our dim eye was thrown,
Clear should we see, the will divine
Has but forestall'd our own;

At variance with our future wish,
Self-sever'd we complain;
If so, the wounded, not the wound,
Must answer for the pain:

The day shall come, and swift of wing,
Though you may think it slow,
When, in the list of fortune's smiles,
You'll enter frowns of woe.

For mark the path of Providence;
This course it has pursued-
'Pain is the parent, woe the womb,
Of sound, important good:'

Our hearts are fasten'd to this world
By strong and endless ties:
And every sorrow cuts a string,
And urges us to rise:

'Twill sound severe-Yet rest assur'd
I'm studious of your peace;
Though I should dare to give you joy-
Yes, joy of his decease:

An hour shall come, (you question this,)
An hour, when you shall bless,
Beyond the brightest beams of life,
Dark days of your distress.

Hear then without surprise a truth,
A daughter truth to this,
Swift turns of fortune often tie
A bleeding heart to bliss:

Esteem you this a paradox?
My sacred motto read;
A glorious truth! divinely sung
By one, whose heart had bled;

To resignation swift he flew,
In her a friend he found,
A friend, which bless'd him with a smile
When gasping with his wound.

On earth nought precious is obtain'd
But what is painful too;
By travel, and to travel born,
Our sabbaths are but few:

To real joy we work our way,
Encountering many a shock,
Ere found what truly charms; as found
A Venus in the block.

In some disaster, some severe
Appointment for our sins,
That mother blessing, (not so call'd,)
True happiness, begins.

No martyr e'er defied the flames,
By stings of life unvext;
First rose some quarrel with this world,
Then passion for the next.

You see, then, pangs are parent pangs,
The pangs of happy birth;
Pangs, by which only can be born
True happiness on earth.

The peopled earth look all around,
Or through time's records run!
And say, what is a man unstruck?
It is a man undone.

This moment, am I deeply stung-
My bold pretence is tried;
When vain man boasts, heaven puts to proof
The vauntings of his pride;

Now need I, madam! your support.-
How exquisite the smart;
How critically tim'd the news(50)
Which strikes me to the heart!

The pangs of which I spoke, I feel:
If worth like thine is born,
O long-belov'd! I bless the blow,
And triumph, whilst I mourn.

Nor mourn I long; by grief subdued,
By reason's empire shown;
Deep anguish comes by heaven's decree,
Continues by our own;

And when continued past its point,
Indulg'd in length of time,
Grief is disgrac'd, and, what was fate,
Corrupts into a crime:

And shall I, criminally mean,
Myself and subject wrong?
No; my example shall support
The subject of my song.

Madam! I grant your loss is great;
Nor little is your gain?
Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright,
It richly pays your pain:

When heaven would kindly set us free,
And earth's enchantment end;
It takes the most effectual means,
And robs us of a friend.

But such a friend! and sigh no more?
'Tis prudent; but severe:
Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop
All sorrow-with this tear.

Perhaps your settled grief to soothe,
I should not vainly strive,
But with soft balm your pain assuage,
Had he been still alive;

Whose frequent aid brought kind relief,
In my distress of thought,
Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page,
And beautified a fault:

To touch our passions' secret springs
Was his peculiar care;
And deep his happy genius div'd
In bosoms of the fair;

Nature, which favours to the few,
All art beyond, imparts,
To him presented, at his birth,
The key of human hearts.

But not to me by him bequeath'd
His gentle, smooth address;
His tender hand to touch the wound
In throbbing of distress;

Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless'd
With Esculapian art:
Know, love sometimes, mistaken love!
Plays disaffection's part:

Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars,
Can soul from soul divide;
They correspond from distant worlds,
Though transports are denied:

Are you not, then, unkindly kind?
Is not your love severe?
O! stop that crystal source of woe;
Nor wound him with a tear.

As those above from human bliss
Receive increase of joy;
May not a stroke from human woe,
In part, their peace destroy?

He lives in those he left;-to what?
Your, now, paternal care,
Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye,
It will discern him there;

In features, not of form alone,
But those, I trust, of mind;
Auspicious to the public weal,
And to their fate resign'd.

Think on the tempests he sustain'd;
Revolve his battles won;
And let those prophesy your joy
From such a father's son:

Is consolation what you seek?
Fan, then, his martial fire:
And animate to flame the sparks
Bequeath'd him by his sire:

As nothing great is born in haste,
Wise nature's time allow;
His father's laurels may descend,
And flourish on his brow.

Nor, madam! be surpris'd to hear
That laurels may be due
Not more to heroes of the field,
(Proud boasters!) than to you:

Tender as is the female frame,
Like that brave man you mourn,
You are a soldier, and to fight
Superior battles born;

Beneath a banner nobler far
Than ever was unfurl'd
In fields of blood; a banner bright!
High wav'd o'er all the world.

It, like a streaming meteor, casts
A universal light;
Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day
On nations whelm'd in night.

Beneath that banner, what exploit
Can mount our glory higher,
Than to sustain the dreadful blow,
When those we love expire?

Go forth a moral Amazon;
Arm'd with undaunted thought;
The battle won, though costing dear,
You'll think it cheaply bought:

The passive hero, who sits down
Unactive, and can smile
Beneath affliction's galling load,
Out-acts a Caesar's toil:

The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes
Inferior praise afford;
Reason's a bloodless conqueror,
More glorious than the sword.

Nor can the thunders of huzzas,
From shouting nations, cause
Such sweet delight, as from your heart
Soft whispers of applause:

The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms,
With what delight he'll view
His triumphs on the main outdone,
Thus conquer'd, twice, by you.

Share his delight; take heed to shun
Of bosoms most diseas'd
That odd distemper, an absurd
Reluctance to be pleas'd:

Some seem in love with sorrow's charms,
And that foul fiend embrace:
This temper let me justly brand,
And stamp it with disgrace:

Sorrow! of horrid parentage!
Thou second-born of hell!
Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd
How dar'st thou to rebel?

From black and noxious vapours bred,
And nurs'd by want of thought,
And to the door of phrensy's self
By perseverance brought,

Thy most inglorious, coward tears
From brutal eyes have ran:
Smiles, incommunicable smiles!
Are radiant marks of man;

They cast a sudden glory round
Th' illumin'd human face;
And light in sons of honest joy
Some beams of Moses' face:

Is resignation's lesson hard?
Examine, we shall find
That duty gives up little more
Than anguish of the mind;

Resign; and all the load of life
That moment you remove,
Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares
Devolve on one above;

Who bids us lay our burthen down
On his almighty hand,
Softens our duty to relief,
To blessing a command.

For joy what cause! how every sense
Is courted from above
The year around, with presents rich,
The growth of endless love!

But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd,
Forget the wonders done,
And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense,
Their prospect at the sun;

From that, their final point of view,
From that their radiant goal,
On travel infinite of thought,
Sets out the nobler soul,

Broke loose from time's tenacious ties,
And earth's involving gloom,
To range at last its vast domain,
And talk with worlds to come:

They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd,
Life's idle moments run;
And doing nothing for themselves,
Imagine nothing done;

Fatal mistake! their fate goes on,
Their dread account proceeds,
And their not doing is set down
Amongst their darkest deeds;

Though man sits still, and takes his ease;
God is at work on man;
No means, no moment unemployed,
To bless him, if he can.

But man consents not, boldly bent
To fashion his own fate;
Man, a mere bungler in the trade,
Repents his crime too late;

Hence loud laments: let me thy cause,
Indulgent father! plead;
Of all the wretches we deplore,
Not one by thee was made.

What is thy whole creation fair?
Of love divine the child;
Love brought it forth; and, from its birth,
Has o'er it fondly smil'd:

Now, and through periods distant far,
Long ere the world began,
Heaven is, and has in travail been,
Its birth the good of man;

Man holds in constant service bound
The blustering winds and seas;
Nor suns disdain to travel hard
Their master, man, to please:

To final good the worst events
Through secret channels run;
Finish for man their destin'd course,
As 'twas for man begun.

One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few)
Has often smote, and smites
My mind, as demonstration strong;
That heaven in man delights:

What's known to man of things unseen,
Of future worlds, or fates?
So much, nor more, than what to man's
Sublime affairs relates;

What's revelation then? a list,
An inventory just
Of that poor insect's goods, so late
Call'd out of night and dust.

What various motives to rejoice!
To render joy sincere,
Has this no weight? our joy is felt
Beyond this narrow sphere:

Would we in heaven new heaven create,
And double its delight?
A smiling world, when heaven looks down,
How pleasing in its sight!

Angels stoop forward from their thrones
To hear its joyful lays;
As incense sweet enjoy, and join,
Its aromatic praise:

Have we no cause to fear the stroke
Of heaven's avenging rod,
When we presume to counteract
A sympathetic God?

If we resign, our patience makes
His rod an armless wand;
If not, it darts a serpent's sting,
Like that in Moses' hand;

Like that, it swallows up whate'er
Earth's vain magicians bring,
Whose baffled arts would boast below
Of joys a rival spring.

Consummate love! the list how large
Of blessings from thy hand!
To banish sorrow, and be blest,
Is thy supreme command.

Are such commands but ill obey'd?
Of bliss, shall we complain?
The man, who dares to be a wretch,
Deserves still greater pain.

Joy is our duty, glory, health;
The sunshine of the soul;
Our best encomium on the power
Who sweetly plans the whole:

Joy is our Eden still possess'd:
Begone, ignoble grief!
'Tis joy makes gods, and men exalts,
Their nature, our relief;

Relief, for man to that must stoop,
And his due distance know;
Transport's the language of the sides,
Content the style below.

Content is joy, and joy in pain
Is joy and virtue too;
Thus, whilst good present we possess,
More precious we pursue:

Of joy the more we have in hand,
The more have we to come;
Joy, like our money, interest bears,
Which daily swells the sum.

'But how to smile; to stem the tide
Of nature in our veins;
Is it not hard to weep in joy?
What then to smile in pains?'

Victorious joy! which breaks the clouds,
And struggles through a storm;
Proclaims the mind as great, as good
And bids it doubly charm:

If doubly charming in our sex,
A sex, by nature, bold;
What then in yours? 'tis diamond there
Triumphant o'er our gold.

And should not this complaint repress,
And check the rising sigh?
Yet farther opiate to your pain
I labour to supply.

Since spirits greatly damp'd distort
Ideas of delight,
Look through the medium of a friend,
To set your notions right:

As tears the sight, grief dims the soul;
Its object dark appears;
True friendship, like a rising sun,
The soul's horizon clears.

A friend's an optic to the mind
With sorrow clouded o'er;
And gives it strength of sight to see
Redress unseen before.

Reason is somewhat rough in man;
Extremely smooth and fair,
When she, to grace her manly strength,
Assumes a female air:

A friend(51) you have, and I the same,
Whose prudent, soft address
Will bring to life those healing thoughts
Which died in your distress;

That friend, the spirit of my theme
Extracting for your ease,
Will leave to me the dreg, in thoughts
Too common; such as these:

Let those lament to whom full bowls
Of sparkling joys are given;
That triple bane inebriates life,
Imbitters death, and hazards heaven:

Woe to the soul at perfect ease!
'Tis brewing perfect pains;
Lull'd reason sleeps, the pulse is king;
Despotic body reigns;

Have you(52) ne'er pitied joy's gay scenes,
And deem'd their glory dark?
Alas! poor envy! she's stone-blind,
And quite mistakes her mark:

Her mark lies hid in sorrow's shades,
But sorrow well subdu'd;
And in proud fortune's frown defied
By meek, unborrow'd good.

By resignation; all in that
A double friend may find,
A wing to heaven, and, while on earth,
The pillow of mankind:

On pillows void of down, for rest
Our restless hopes we place;
When hopes of heaven lie warm at heart,
Our hearts repose in peace:

The peace, which resignation yields,
Who feel alone can guess;
'Tis disbeliev'd by murmuring minds,
They must conclude it less:

The loss, or gain, of that alone
Have we to hope or fear;
That fate controls, and can invert
The seasons of the year:

O! the dark days, the year around,
Of an impatient mind!
Thro' clouds, and storms, a summer breaks,
To shine on the resign'd:

While man by that of every grace,
And virtue, is possess'd;
Foul vice her pandaemonium builds
In the rebellious breast;

By resignation we defeat
The worst that can annoy;
And suffer, with far more repose,
Than worldlings can enjoy.

From small experience this I speak;
O! grant to those I love
Experience fuller far, ye powers,
Who form our fates above!

My love were due, if not to those
Who, leaving grandeur, came
To shine on age in mean recess,
And light me to my theme!

A theme themselves! A theme, how rare!
The charms, which they display,
To triumph over captive heads,
Are set in bright array:

With his own arms proud man's o'ercome,
His boasted laurels die:
Learning and genius, wiser grown,
To female bosoms fly.

This revolution, fix'd by fate,
In fable was foretold;
The dark prediction puzzled wits,
Nor could the learn'd unfold:

But as those ladies'(53) works I read,
They darted such a ray,
The latent sense burst out at once,
And shone in open day:

So burst, full ripe, distended fruits,
When strongly strikes the sun;
And from the purple grape unpress'd
Spontaneous nectars run.

Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull,
Forsook his drowsy brain;
And sprightly leap'd into the throne
Of wisdom's brighter reign;

Her helmet took; that is, shot rays
Of formidable wit;
And lance,-or, genius most acute,
Which lines immortal writ;

And gorgon shield,-or, power to fright
Man's folly, dreadful shone,
And many a blockhead (easy change!)
Turn'd, instantly, to stone.

Our authors male, as, then, did Jove,
Now scratch a damag'd head,
And call for what once quarter'd there,
But find the goddess fled.

The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit!
That once forbidden tree,
Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now
To Britain's daughters free:

In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair
The noble thirst began;
And they, like her, have caus'd a fall,
A fall of fame in man:

And since of genius in our sex,
O Addison! with thee
The sun is set; how I rejoice
This sister lamp to see!

It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams
On man's nocturnal state;
His lessen'd light, and languid powers,
I show, whilst I relate.

Edward Young

"Don't Ask Me Why"

I choose to stay far away
From the ones that think
Money is money to share
Don't ask me why
And I'll tell you no lies

Sonny don't come here no more
He don't drink from this well
O he's done with the world
And done with the girl
And I don't ask him why
And he tells me no lies

Those of us who are lost and low
I know how you feel
I know it's not right but it's real
But it's real.

I don't ask for love
And I don't beg for money
I'm just asking for grace and forgiveness
Now honey don't ask me why
And I'll tell you no lies.

Been looking for answers
In unsavoury places
On the highest of mountains
And on the lowest of bases
And I still don't know why
I still don't know why.

Those of us who are lost and low
We know how you feel
We know it's not right but it's real
But it's real.

I took the wind from the sea
I took the blood from an arrow
I took the wisdom of spring
And I was thrown and blown and tossed and turned until
Time found its hand and called an end
Me and time we go way back when
I was a child
And I always knew why.

I knew my name
I knew my road
And I stayed away from heavy loads
I'm still, I'm low
O lord am I low

Those of us who are lost and low
We know how you feel
We know it's not right but it's real
But it's real.

LAURA MARLING

"We aren't here to make things perfect. Snowflakes are perfect. Stars are perfect. Not us, not us. We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts. To love the wrong people, and die."

Ode by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

We are the music makers,
  And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
  And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,     5
  On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
  Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,     10
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
  Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure     15
  Can trample a kingdom down.
We, in the ages lying
  In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
  And Babel itself in our mirth;     20
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
  To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
  Or one that is coming to birth.
A breath of our inspiration     25
Is the life of each generation;
A wondrous thing of our dreaming
Unearthly, impossible seeming—
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
  Are working together in one,     30
Till our dream shall become their present,
  And their work in the world be done.
They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising;
They had no divine foreshowing     35
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man's soul it hath broken,
  A light that doth not depart;
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
  Wrought flame in another man's heart.     40
And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling;
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,     45
  Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
  The dream that was scorned yesterday.
But we, with our dreaming and singing,
  Ceaseless and sorrowless we!     50
The glory about us clinging
  Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
  O men! it must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,     55
  A little apart from ye.
For we are afar with the dawning
  And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
  Intrepid you hear us cry—     60
How, spite of your human scorning,
  Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
  That ye of the past must die.
Great hail! we cry to the comers     65
  From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
  And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
  And things that we dreamed not before:     70
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
  And a singer who sings no more.

A million Heers, crying.

Today, I call Waris Shah,
“Speak from inside your grave”
And turn, today,
the book of love’s next affectionate page
Once, when one daughter of Punjab had cried;
you had written a wailing saga
Today, a million daughters,
cry to you, Waris Shah

Rise! O’ narrator of the grieving;
rise! look at your Punjab
Today, fields are lined with corpses,
and blood fills the Chenab

This fertile land is sprouting,
venom from every pore
The sky is turning red
from endless cries of gore

Our wedding beds are boats,
their logs have cast away
Our hanging swing,
the Pipal tree has broken in disarray
Lost is the flute, which once,
blew sounds of the heart
Ranjha’s brothers, today,
no longer know this art
Blood rained on our land;
drenching graves to the core
Damsels of love, today,
sit crying at their door

Today everyone is ‘Qaido’
thieves of beauty and ardor
Where can we find, today,
another Warish Shah, once more

Today, I call Waris Shah,
“Speak from inside your grave”
And turn, today,
the book of love’s next affectionate page

The Atheist's prayer

May we find the wisdom to carry out our duties, the humanity to listen to all, the courage to do what is right and the generosity to treat each other with respect.

"It'll All Work Out"

She wore faded jeans and soft black leather
She had eyes so blue they looked like weather
When she needed me I wasn't around
That's the way it goes, it'll all work out

There were times apart, there were times together
I was pledged to her for worse or better
When it mattered most I let her down
That's the way it goes, it'll all work out

It'll all work out eventually
Better off with him than here with me

It'll all work out eventually
Maybe better off with him than here with me

Now the wind is high and the rain is heavy
And the water's rising in the levee
Still I think of her when the sun goes down
It never goes away, but it all works out


---Tom Petty

Sleep

That sinking feeling
As I see you in white
Holding his hand
With love in your eyes
Now, truly, everything is lost.

How did we get here?
Universes separating us
I just want to hold you and sleep.
Go back to a time before time.
Oh, Granter of wishes
Grant this wish of mine
I just want to hold you and sleep.
Sleep, sleep the demons away.

A thousand poems, a purple keychain
I clutch them to my chest
I weep, weep for innocence lost
How do I get over this?
How do I grieve this loss?

A million knives cut through me
Blades sharpened on hearts of stone
They slice through flesh, cut through bone
Wine, the color of blood,
Bursts through my veins and splatters

The world is ending, religion is theft
The fish are dead, there's no ice left
They cannot save it, they are lying
Let's forget what's already dying
I just want to hold you and sleep.

And never wake up, I don't want to live
There is nothing left for me to give
I just want to hide, be warm and cosy
Life is too hard, and people too nosy
I just want to hold you and sleep.

The last gasp of a love dying
Taking so much with it
Leaving so little behind
I let you go. Be happy, my True
I shall pretend I'm happy for you
I just want to hold you and sleep.

My California by Beth Hart

Calling California, is there anybody home?
Hello California, won't you please pick up the phone?
I wanna say “I love you“ but I'm a million miles away
and I am thinking of you, I miss you and L.A.

For you and you alone, I'll lay my monsters down.
We'll watch the sun come up over California.
For you and you alone, I'll find my way back home.
I'll love you like the sun loves California,
my California.

I have made you suffer, left you waiting in the rain.
I was chasing demons in the desert of my pain.
You know me better than the poison in my veins.
So, my love, remember when God forgets my name.

For you and you alone, I will lay my monsters down.
I'll watch the sun come up over California.
For you and you alone, I'll find my way back home.
I'll love you like the sun loves California,
my California.

I wanna feel the ocean breathe,
let the waves wash over me.
I'll leave my windsors in the sand.
Hey California, California....

For you and you alone, I'll lay my monsters down.
We'll watch the sun come up over California.
For you and you alone, I will find my way back home.
And I'll love you like the sun loves California.

California....my California....my California.

My California.

Dom's Best

Son

While I stood by the bloody bed,
She cried out lonely as a wolf.
I put my hand behind her head.
She was lonely and herself.
A midwife with a witchlike face
Hissed in her ear, 'Push, ducky, push,'
Till from his warm and wanted place
My son came through the burning bush.

Sticky with blood and yellow slime,
He was held  up, his back was slapped
Like a drunk's at closing time.
When insecurely he had slipped,
Trailed by a steamy sponge of filth
Into the floodlit theatre, I
Took him inside my arms and felt
How soon our children make us die.

He yelped for air. I took her hand,
But her face was smiled away.
A pride I couldn't understand
Swelled her breasts out like milk. The grey-
faced witchlike woman in her white
Was smiling also, so I knew
This was an old rite I was at
And was necessary to.

I had stood by the bloody bed.
She had cried lonely as a wolf.
I had put my hand behind her head.
She had been lonely and herself.
Now I was lonely and myself,
And standing by the lonely bed,
When he cried lonely as a wolf,
I put my hand behind his head.

-----Dom Moraes

Absences

Smear out the last star.
No lights from the islands
Or hills. In the great square
The prolonged vowel of silence
Makes itself plainly heard
Round the ghost of a headland
Clouds, leaves, shreds of bird
Eddy, hindering the wind.

No vigils left to keep.
No enemies left to slaughter.
The rough roofs of the slopes,
Loosely thatched with splayed water,
Only shelter microliths and fossils.
Unwatched, the rainbows build
On the architraves of hills.
No wounds left to be healed.

Nobody left to be beautiful.
No polyp admiral to sip
Blood and whiskey from a skull
While fingering his warships.
Terrible relics, by tiderace
Untouched, the stromalites breathe.
Bubbles plop on the surface,
Disturbing the balance of death.

No sound would be heard if
So much silence was not heard.
Clouds scuff like sheep on the cliff.
The echoes of stones are restored.
No longer any foreshore
Or any abyss, this
World only held together
By its variety of absences.

 

------Dom Moraes

The Patriot

I am standing for peace and non-violence.
Why world is fighting fighting
Why all people of world
Are not following Mahatma Gandhi,
I am simply not understanding.
Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct,
I should say even 200% correct,
But modern generation is neglecting -
Too much going for fashion and foreign thing.
Other day I'm reading newspaper
(Every day I'm reading Times of India
To improve my English Language)
How one goonda fellow
Threw stone at Indirabehn.
Must be student unrest fellow, I am thinking.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I am saying (to myself)
Lend me the ears.
Everything is coming -
Regeneration, Remuneration, Contraception.
Be patiently, brothers and sisters.
You want one glass lassi?
Very good for digestion.
With little salt, lovely drink,
Better than wine;
Not that I am ever tasting the wine.
I'm the total teetotaller, completely total,
But I say
Wine is for the drunkards only.
What you think of prospects of world peace?
Pakistan behaving like this,
China behaving like that,
It is making me really sad, I am telling you.
Really, most harassing me.
All men are brothers, no?
In India also
Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Hindiwallahs
All brothers -
Though some are having funny habits.
Still, you tolerate me,
I tolerate you,
One day Ram Rajya is surely coming.
You are going?
But you will visit again
Any time, any day,
I am not believing in ceremony
Always I am enjoying your company.

----Nissim Ezekiel

Poet, Lover, Birdwatcher

To force the pace and never to be still
Is not the way of those who study birds
Or women. The best poets wait for words.
The hunt is not an exercise of will
But patient love relaxing on a hill
To note the movement of a timid wing;
Until the one who knows that she is loved
No longer waits but risks surrendering -
In this the poet finds his moral proved
Who never spoke before his spirit moved.

The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.
To watch the rarer birds, you have to go
Along deserted lanes and where the rivers flow
In silence near the source, or by a shore
Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.
And there the women slowly turn around,
Not only flesh and bone but myths of light
With darkness at the core, and sense is found
But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,
The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.

 

-----Nissim Ezekiel

Minority Poem

In my room, I talk
to my invisible guests:
they do not argue, but wait

Till I am exhausted,
then they slip away
with inscrutable faces.

I lack the means to change
their amiable ways,
although I love their gods.

It's the language really
separates, whatever else
is shared. On the other hand,

Everyone understands
Mother Theresa; her guests
die visibly in her arms.

It's not the mythology
or the marriage customs
that you need to know,

It's the will to pass
through the eye of a needle
to self-forgetfulness.

The guests depart, dissatisfied;
they will never give up
their mantras, old or new.

And you, uneasy
orphan of their racial
memories, merely

Polish up your alien
techniques of observation,
while the city burns. 

----Nissim Ezekiel

Great Post on the "Why" Question.

http://www.kidinthefrontrow.com/2009_07_01_archive.html


Writing? Huh? Wha? Why?

She said, "But why? Why do you want to be a writer?"

Because I get to have a voice. Because I get to have something to say and I get to say it. I get to create the world I want through putting words on a page. And maybe, just maybe, some people might like those words, they might relate to those words. And maybe those words will change them a little. Maybe a story about dreaming will make a little girl dream a little bit more, maybe a script about war will make someone care a little bit more, maybe a film about imagination will make a bunch of people feel inspired at least just a little bit more.

I write because if I just take things in and experience them, they'll get polluted with my judgements and belief systems, whereas if I turn what I think and feel into some kind of words, then it takes on meaning. And if I work hard enough on myself I can rid myself of those judgements and tear through the belief systems and then what will come out on the page is pure truth. Truth like Jimmy Stewart's voice, truth like Tom Hanks' eyes, truth like Marylin Monroe's body, truth like Billy Wilder's dialogue.

I could not write. I could try that. I could keep clicking on people's Facebook profiles and I could argue with someone in the street and work in a job I hate, but I'd rather do this. I'd rather live by inspiration-- I'd rather something just hit me out of nowhere and feel it say "Hey! I am an idea! Take a look at me! See if we get along! Dance with me baby! Come on, throw me down on that page. Give me some letters, give me some words."

When people say "Why do you write?"

I'm gonna say "Why do you have that ugly look on your face? You'd be a lot more beautiful if you said "You write, that's amazing!"

I write because a tree is just a tree. But once you get an idea of a tree, you can turn the tree into anything. You can imagine a beautiful woman sitting on that tree, you can write about the beautiful sunset behind the tree, you can do whatever you want with that damn tree. You see that tree outside your window right now? It's been sitting there for years and apart from when you jumped off it as a kid it hasn't had much reason to be there. But if you have that picture in your head when you write a script, that tree could take on a life of it's own. It could be the kind of tree that Forrest and Jenny would sit on, or a tree that the boys from Stand By Me would like . Before you know it the tree outside your window that inspired you is part of something sitting on some desk in Hollywood that's making some balding Executive think, "this is a movie!".

What people forget when they pull an ugly and say "A writer? What? Why?" is that anything any of us have ever been excited by or inspired by has usually come from a writer. A book you loved, a song you sung, a movie that scared you, a love letter that made you cry, a poem that changed you. This is all at the hands of some writer.

I don't care if you're a successful screenwriter, a hilarious twitter-updater, a novellist or a speech writer. Whatever you are, be proud that you do what you do. Take those letters, take those words; do something with them. Write a movie, write a love letter, write a text message, write yourself a note.

It's the write thing to do.

I am a Military Brat

My hometown is nowhere, my friends are everywhere. I grew up with the knowledge that home is where the heart is and the family….
Mobility is my way of life. Some would wonder about roots, yet they are as deep and strong as the mighty oak. I sink them quickly, absorbing all an area offers and hopefully, giving enrichment in return. Travel has taught me to be open. Shaking hands with the universe, I find brotherhood in all men. Farewells are never easy. Yet, even in sorrow comes strength and ability to face tomorrow with anticipation….
If when we leave one place, I feel that half my world is left behind. I also know that the other half is waiting to be met. Friendships are formed in hours and kept for decades. I will never grow up with someone, but I will mature with many. Be it inevitable that paths part, there is constant hope that they will meet again. Love of country, respect and pride fill my being when Old Glory passes in review. When I stand to honor that flag, so also do I stand in honor of all soldiers, and most especially, to the parents whose life created mine Because of this, I have shared in the rich heritage of Military life.

This is a repost but I am proud to be a military brat. It's how we are, It's WHO we are. :)

I am an atheist because I care. I care for reason. I care for humility. I care for compassion. I care for honesty. I care for responsibility. I care for truth.

Ariadne Unspun

She would have silk embroidered moonlight
And wafts of finest gauze as her wings,
A labyrinth intricate as a dream that Breaks delicate as gossamer in spring;
A myriad of tendrils to reflect the light,
In each a world crafted as from a subtle web,
And flights of fancy that shimmer in the night
Dissolve the aged nightmares made barren in her bed.

But then the moment passes, by reality unspun;
The dust cloth of the housewife is a rag.
The spider’s slight of fancy is undone,
The spinsters girdle is the apron of a hag.
Each dream a thread entangled on the loom,
Soft thoughts cured of whimsy by hard work;
She will scour away distraction, grubby-clean
And spoil Ariadne’s labour, sullied in the dirt.

--Brian Condra

Ode To The Sea

Here is a chain poem we attempted on Facebook. Turned out quite well I think....

I worshiped you, tasted your salt
My eyes burned with longing as I
Swam into your arms

Legs dangled in the clear water
I felt your weight, power
Sand reflecting sunlight

As the great orb slowly set
On the edge of the world
Points of starlight, burst
Like tiny fireworks inside my head

The tide coiled serpentine, waves
Lapping tongue tied and moon struck,
To kiss the sea is to court death

You are the first words
In a book of passion ~
A treasured celebration
Of all the cherries I have ever tasted..

Now cast aside and stained
Salt cured heart embittered in the brine.
Stars tremble on the wave,
The gilly screeches torment

Forged in swirling white fires each polished thrust
The sacred milky river flows uphill,
A gentle stroke
Each soaring note unlocks
The ecstasy of wanting eyes

Tears that dream of ancient oceans
Salt but not as salty as today
Water lusts to make herself thicker
Wants to give herself as spray.

---- by Gagan Sky Judge, Martin Coule, Brian Condra, Chrissy Newbury.

A really short story by Brian Condra

"Speculation is such an odd word.

Prospector Bob, speculated that there was gold in “That there river”, and he was right.

Sly Hicks speculated that old Bob would not give up his gold without a fight, and he was right.

Sheriff Farrell speculated that Sly killed Bob for sheer badness and the gold lust, and he was right.

Judge Jones said, “Hang” and condemned Sly solely on the evidence, and that put an end to all the speculating."

Haiku by Tyle Knott Gregson http://favstar.fm/users/TylerKnott

i was a puzzle.
hiding in a
dusty box
missing your pieces.

I wish here was there
or that there could become here
so I could hold you.

Oh to be the wind,
to always have permission
to play with your hair.

The Reason, Complete

i

sewing old, tattered dreams
with thorns from the sink

as my flowing eyes, it seems,
are stemmed by the ink,

i write the lines
the solace they bring

will be brief and fleeting
but solace nonetheless, i think

the writing equivalent
of crying myself to sleep...



ii

"dig deep" as they would say
examine the flow of emotions

how did you get here?
we need proper investigations

so i become Sherlock,
pipe, hat and coat, all preparations

elementary, my dear Watson!
i say to my pen, after many negotiations

the pen being the only surgeon
to operate on my lunacy.



iii

cutting through the surface, it finds
all the things I had left behind

lost loves and loved ones
joys, sorrows, other states of mind

from epic novels to silly rhymes
so much in so little confined

the pen, at once surgeon and scalpel
wades through tissue,
and feelings of the hidden kind

it finds the tumor, deep and black
a deformed fetus waiting to be free



iv

the agony of the untold story
the cancerous fetus in the writer's mind

I take it out and lay it on white
it is shaped, slashed, spat on and signed

sewing it up, I rest a while.
the wounds will heal with time.

writing is exhausting.
it starts with tears and ends
with surgery of the mind

this exhausted solace is fleeting
then, like with Prometheus,
the pain starts again.

In the depths of winter I finally learned there was within me an invincible summer.
-Albert Camus

Unsaid

So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
-- Dana Gioia