Poems that I love

  Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W H Auden

Song 7, Psalm 58 Reshma Didi told me that she discovered a snake in her kitchen this morning Before the sun rose. It was more than a meter long. Scared and startled in equal parts, she knew it carried no venom. Still waking to a snake eating carrots in the food locker is unsettling. She coaxed it into a bag and released it in the forest  Far from the house. The story of the a blessed garden invaded by a snake Metaphysical question, predictable answer equals eternal condemnation. Lying and subterfuge Condemn us to listen this devil story forever We believe. There is a small snake temple by Bhagsunag. The captive serpent is fat and lazy Plus Baba has defanged him so that There is no real danger to his devotees. I have not witnessed the charming, but I think that  It is not deaf to priestly incantations.  This Song of David and the damn snake may not make the world an evil place But there is little room for making them into Family pets. That’s universal. Go release your snak...

It fills you with the soft essence of vanished flowers, it becomes a trickle soft as a hair that you follow from the honey pot over the table and out the door and over the ground, and all the while it thickens, grows deeper and wilder, edged with pine boughs and wet boulders, pawprints of bobcat and bear, until deep in the forest you shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark, you float into and swallow the dripping combs, bits of the tree, crushed bees — a taste composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found. - Mary Oliver

ball round like earth a dance in air swish through the hoop snow softened black morning birds singing spring gentle green golden lemons soaked dangling in silvery rain dark evening shivers

Song 6, Psalm 119:29-39 No one had come to work By noon. Even at the snail’s pace  Of mountain life This was unusual. Shivam hiked down the slope  to Sushil’s shop.  Legs sturdy enough for the adventure He texted, complete with click   A massive boulder slid  Onto our narrow slip of road. Paths both up and down  Blocked.  A car tumbled down the steep ravine, Trapping a Tibetan family in mud. The rain had not stopped after it had done its damage. It was cold and wet. This was the situation. I turned and tried to pray-- The situation seemed to demand some response. The psalmist sees a blocked road As all about lying, law, judgment And fear. Throw in some revelation. The expected response. Certainly I am not startled by any surprise Or innovation. He loves his roadmap to  The High and Dry. My path allows me to Simply put one foot After the other Perhaps forced to stop While resourceful Indian men Dig a Tibetan family out of the mud. Not the firs...

Song 5, Psalm, 90 The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. The Psalms have nothing Good to say About Old Age and Death Few religions do. It’s their last chance to convert The Libertine.  Fear mongering fanatics were numbered Among the psalmists. Legend says this writer was David,  Who died at four score minus 10. Being generous And at the outside of his limits I might have another 2 good years Before I fly away. I grow old But damn it At 78 I’m 18 I don’t move as fast Or go as far But my shorter step And slower pace Suit me well. At 22 Elliot was full of himself Moaning about old age. Couldn’t he get hard? Fantasyland. I won't Roll up my trousers And go chasing mermaids. I promise. From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" “I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? ...

Song Four, Psalm 137 By the Rivers of Babylon Wipe away your tears You survived Rejoice You can still taste salt  In your tea You’re not captive Yet you cry  Poor fools Today the rivers swell  And wipe away whole villages You remember Lhasa And weep again Death has that effect You saved your mother But other mothers left behind Died A few now trickle across Mount Meru Camps built for thousands Receive one or two No more god-throne Hoping that freedom  Might birth democracy  Instead a new president  Gets drunk And rips up the work of  Generations  Still we chant Tibet In hushed tones It has come to symbolize Enlightenment of a Buddha We use his name To call ourselves home We no longer rejoice When little ones are dashed  Against the stones of Babylon If only for that It is enough King James version By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For ...