Kaleidoscope

The Sun

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 11:36:00 -0400

One of the best poems I have ever read; Thanks to Mary Oliver. Thanks to www.poetseers.org for the online version.

The Sun

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

My Lost Youth

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 10:24:51 -0400

The below is a beautiful piece of work from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,

How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Once you gave me...

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 14:19:59 -0400

This is a magnificent poem by Rabindranath Tagore.

Once you gave me...

Once you gave me
as a loan to my eyes
unlimited daylight.
Now, my king, you are staking your claim
to take that back.
I am aware I have to let go of what I owe,
you still announce your shadow
through the evening lamp.
I came only as a guest
to this creation you have fashioned
with your light.
If here and there are left unclaimed
a few pieces, incomplete,
in some unnoticed gaps, let them be,
leave them alone uncared for.
Where your chariot
leaves its last mark
in the finality of dust,
there, let me build my world,
amidst a little light, a little shadow,
some illusion.
Chasing after light,
that is vanishing in the path of shadow,
it may pick up something,
the tiniest fragment that is left,
when my debt to you is finally paid.

A Visitor

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 09:07:49 -0400

Mary Oliver's poems are always simple for me to read, understand and cherish. I like 'A visitor' a lot for its simplicity in expressing the need for utilizing the time. My heart felt thanks to Mary for her works. Thanks to www.english.uiuc.edu for the online version of this poem.

A Visitor

My father, for example,
who was young once
and blue-eyed,
returns
on the darkest of nights
to the porch and knocks
wildly at the door,
and if I answer
I must be prepared
for his waxy face,
for his lower lip
swollen with bitterness.
And so, for a long time,
I did not answer,
but slept fitfully
between his hours of rapping.
But finally there came the night
when I rose out of my sheets
and stumbled down the hall.
The door fell open

and I knew I was saved
and could bear him,
pathetic and hollow,
with even the least of his dreams
frozen inside him,
and the meanness gone.
And I greeted him and asked him
into the house,
and lit the lamp,
and looked into his blank eyes
in which at last
I saw what a child must love,
I saw what love might have done
had we loved in time.

A Star Without a Name

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 10:18:34 -0400

I was wondering what Rumi implied by the baby's forgetfulness of the wet nurse. This is a wonderful poem by Rumi that helps to provoke our thinking.

A Star Without a Name

When a baby is taken from the wet nurse,

it easily forgets her

and starts eating solid food.

Seeds feed awhile on ground,

then lift up into the sun.

So you should taste the filtered light

and work your way toward wisdom

with no personal covering.

That's how you came here, like a star

without a name. Move across the night sky

with those anonymous lights.

Thanks to www.armory.com and to Coleman Barks Maypop for the translation.

Time

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 10:19:59 -0400

The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Thanks to Rabindranath Tagore and to www.poetseers.org

When the Rose is gone

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 11:58:54 -0400

This is a beautiful poem by Rumi. Thanks to Rumi and to www.poetseers.org. What came to my mind first was that the idea of the beloved is all, then I realized how the Beloved is all and is a living thing. That is left to your imagination as well! Enjoy reading the poem. Thanks to www.wikipedia.org for the image of Rose.

When the rose is gone and the garden faded
you will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
If love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
How will I be awake and aware
if the light of the Beloved is absent?
Love wills that this Word be brought forth

Yeat's poetry

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 07:38:47 -0400

An Irish Airman forsees his death

This is a simple & eloquent poem by W.B.Yeats. Tribute to Yeats for his work and thanks to www.poetseers.com for the online version.

Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

IF

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 09:29:34 -0400

One of my most favorite poems is "IF" by Rudyard Kipling. But for expressions like "IF", we would not have known what it means to live with higher values. Tribute to Rudyard Kipling for this amazing master piece.Thanks to www.todayinliterature.com for his photograph.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling

The Gardener

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 13:48:31 -0400

Beautiful monologue poem by a gardener! Tribute to Tagore for such an imaginative and wonderful poem. Thanks to www.indolink.com for the online version and to www.calcuttaweb.com for Tagore's image.

If you would have it so,
I will end my singing.

If it sets your heart aflutter,
I will take away my eyes from your face.

If it suddenly startles you in your walk,
I will step aside and take another path.

If it confuses you in your flower-weaving,
I will shun your lonely garden.

If it makes the water wanton and wild,
I will not row my boat by your bank.