Informational Decay I heard an echo in a hollow place. No sound of blowing wind or drifting sand, some ancient voice was this, a captive trace of gone-by speech, of argument, demand, of plea or question, comfort or command. Long years this message had remained unheard in empty halls, in untenanted lands, a letter lost,…
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After Great Pain After great pain a formal feeling comes- The Nerves sit ceremonious like Tombs; The stiff heart questions- was it He that bore And Yesterday- or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought, Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone. This is the…
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Eternity The sun habitually cajoles men with red lollipops. Day is mother’s lap–in her colourfully printed sari one hides the face and rests. The whole day we keep hiding behind things but the night. A Jewish poet of Manhattan had said in my presence once “I love you, but I don’t like you.” When I…
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I Want to Write I want to write I want to write the songs of my people. I want to hear them singing melodies in the dark. I want to catch the last floating strains from their sob-torn throats. I want to frame their dreams into words; their souls into notes. I want to catch…
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The Meaning of Simplicity I hide myself behind simple objects so you may find me, If you do not find me, you will find the objects, you will touch those objects my hand has touched the traces of our hands will mingle The August moon gleams like a tin kitchen kettle (what I am…
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Canticle VI You have a fear: End. You do not see that you end up all day. That you die in love. In sadness. In doubt. In the desire. That renews all day. In love. In sadness. In doubt. In the desire. That you are always another. That you are always the same. That you…
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RUMI AND THE REED Listen to the song of the reed flute: It sings of separation. Torn from the leaf-layered, wind-voiced Banks of the pond, It is joined to sorrow and joy By a slender sound. Who, asked Rumi, can understand The reed’s longing to return? Let its raw lips rest then; Let all words…
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પ્રયોજન ક્ષણનું આ અસ્તિત્વ છે એથી તો હું ગીત ગાઉં છું ને આ મારી પૂર્ણ જિંદગી નહીં સુખી: નહીં દુખી. નિરામય હવા રમે છે શ્વાસ. હું કવિ મારો હોય કાવ્યમાં વાસ. પળપળ સરતા સકલની સહ મારે લોહીની સગાઈ; નહીં આનંદ: નહીં વ્યથા: નહીં કથા: નહીં તથા: નહીં કાંઈ. રાતદિવસ હું મુક્ત હવામાં મ્હાલું. નાશ પામું…
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WITH A LANTERN OF HOPE Drifted in by tidal waves with hugs of attachment on the shore of the North Sea a poem from Burma washed up. No sun, no moon, can be seen on the Norwegian beach. Wearing the robe of mist going up the Scandinavian mountain with a shaken, broken voice singing a…
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She opened the shutters, She hung the sheets over the sill. She saw the day. A bird looked at her straight in the eyes. ‘I am alone,’ she whispered. ‘I am alive.’ She entered the room. The mirror too is a window. If I jump from it I will fall in my arms. – Yannis…
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The Just A man who, as Voltaire wished, cultivates his garden. He who is grateful that music exists on earth. He who discovers an etymology with pleasure. A pair in a Southern café, enjoying a silent game of chess. The potter meditating on colour and form. The typographer who set this, though perhaps not pleased.…
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The First Jasmines Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines! I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with these jasmines, these white jasmines. I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth; I have heard the liquid murmur of the river through the darkness of midnight; Autumn sunsets have…
Read Moreआह को चाहिए इक उम्र असर होते तक कौन जीता है तिरी ज़ुल्फ़ के सर होते तक (A prayer needs a lifetime, an answer to obtain who can live until the time that you decide to deign) दाम-ए-हर-मौज में है हल्क़ा-ए-सद-काम-ए-नहंग देखें क्या गुज़रे है क़तरे पे गुहर होते तक (snares are spread in every…
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Alleyway (Mi chiama talvolta la tua voce) Sometimes your voice calls to me, and I do not know what skies or waters you wake me to: a net of sunlight that glazes your walls that at evening were a swaying of late lanterns in the workshops filled with the breeze and sadness. At other times:…
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The Art Of Poetry To gaze at a river made of time and water And remember Time is another river. To know we stray like a river and our faces vanish like water. To feel that waking is another dream that dreams of not dreaming and that the death we fear in our bones is…
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Testament So often it has been displayed to us, the hourglass with its grains of sand drifting down, not as an object in our world but as a sign, a symbol, our lives drifting down grain by grain, sifting away — I’m sure everyone must see this emblem somewhere in the mind. Yet not only…
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Dreams Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow. … … … … Helen Keller She, In the dark, Found light Brighter than many ever see. She, Within herself, Found loveliness,…
Read MoreNegro Speaks Of Rivers I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.…
Read MoreThe Birth Of Song (Sorgiva: luce riemersa) Arise: re-emergent light: bright burning leaves. I lie down in brimming rivers where there are islands mirrors of shadows and stars. And your celestial heights overwhelm me, that always nurture my other life with joy. I long to reclaim you, though disillusioned, adolescence with infirm limbs. Salvatore Quasimodo…
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Suddenly It’s Evening (Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra) Everyone is alone at the heart of the earth, pierced by a ray of sunshine; and suddenly it’s evening. Salvatore Quasimodo (1901-1968) source: Salvatore Quasimodo selected poems poetsofmodernity.xyz translated by A S Kline * * * * * * * * * અને અચાનક સૂર્યકિરણ-…
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