#appearances
Herself:
Hollow
Eyes dim, no smile
Reflection unchanged, though spirit taken away
Little to no words
But thoughts, thoughts race, tears flow, this isn't a place to stay, time to go.
To others:
Full
Eyes bright, wide smile
Reflection unchanged, happy spirit
Words a plenty
But thoughts, thoughts race, but with them, tears don't flow. This still isn't a place to stay, time to go.
Final move:
Empty
Eyes dim, but this time a smile
Reflection unchanged, but an excited spirit
Words written, the "I love yous" flow
Thoughts? None. A sense of calm. This isn't a place to stay, now it really is time to go.
And she was gone. Free. Dead or alive? You decide.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 12:03 PM UTC
I was young, I went
to experience grand beauty
on hands of success, and now
I walk on clouds
of electric light
glitter and admiration
celebrating my retirement
in the heaven of parties
star among the stars
the smiling beautiful people
their pearls, botultox and gel
in semi-gray hair, tireless
in time to the brass
Nobody needs to go to the toilet
we are hovering over the beds
in which despair tosses and turns
because of the days and the years
of dreamed lives, and we dance
the conga since we are going
nowhere
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 4:04 AM UTC
The gilded Buddha
has a gargantuan chest --
and a heart of stone.
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 4:14 AM UTC
A palette of paint to paint his face,
Clothes full of colours bright,
A round red nose that bobs like a ball,
He is ready with a smile.
Comic antics that delight folks,
He rides, slides, cartwheels and falls,
Slips on banana peels, juggles fruit,
Tickled faces all.
When night comes, off comes the paint,
The nose, the wig, the clothes bright,
In dwindling darkness he rests himself,
Now his face he hides.
A jester, he jested, he cheered —
A camouflage in art,
But to himself, alone and quiet,
He rests his aching heart.
An act extraordinaire —
Oh how he does beguile,
But to himself, now alone,
Who’ll make the jester smile?
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 10:18 AM UTC
In the hotel safe
are the counterfeit diamonds --
of the fake countess.
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 4:22 AM UTC
Appearances are an art, a few strokes
form out of paint, an intimate experience
of velvet, skin and sadness
There is no better job
than feeling proximity and depth
shamelessly direct, like in bed
Appearances are deceptive, my insolvency
is just a façade, like a name
given to you in ignorance
I no longer have debts
nor money, I earn nothing
and can work without worries
So let the pious people talk
I take care of Hendrickie
and Titus, everything is theirs
Jul 6, 2023
Jul 6, 2023 at 3:30 AM UTC
Don't people have to
be good, is it enough if --
they seem to be good?
Oct 26, 2022
Oct 26, 2022 at 3:36 AM UTC
I’m a dalmatian in the park this morning
leaping with a grace I can feel
a toddler by midday, splashing
unashamedly into gleeful puddles
red wellies into small pools of sky
a bird by the afternoon
giving the impression I may take flight
as I perch wise on the wall and
stretch my feathers
watching you
a fish by the time the evening is here
paper-light and shining
pretending I am not gasping for air
but I’m gasping
because I know night is coming
And the pretence
Should really be over in time for bed.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 5:09 AM UTC
Common Ipocrites
are very active people –
helping who helps them.
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 3:57 AM UTC
No one likes to be
stupid, or worse: be a fool –
let alone clumsy.
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 4:15 AM UTC
I saw a predator in the bathroom mirror
or perhaps it was just confident prey
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Dead glassy cow eyes
Mock me from within their bloated facade
They see right through me, and I, them.
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 7:32 AM UTC
There are stories
Written short to the naked eye
But to the eye of the poet;
There are potential volumes
Of verses and lyrics
Occasional verses and ballads
Hidden all around
Some at first so beautiful
Petals of a bright red rose
The color, fragrance, and corolla appeal
Then seen are the thorns
Sharp as small daggers
Some never to ***** flesh
Others bound to draw blood
Healthy presentation
Good taste and style
Sweet little smile
Glimmering eyes
Melodic voice
Thoughtful and observant
So why the hesitation?
Were those eyes truly glimmering,
Or were they swarming flies,
Hovering over a rotting heart?
That melody
Could it have been giving a choice?
Be wary and don't take the bait
Or be lured by a siren?
Was that thoughtfulness of pure intent
Or will it be a future lament?
Were they so observant
Because they were captivated by you
Or to use blackmail and make you a servant?
- Jay M
April 29th, 2020
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 1:33 PM UTC
Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Bengali, come, forget appearances, hair, bodice, feet, anklet, bracelet, beads, necklace, sky, clouds, cranes, cattle, toilet, lamp, wind, mascara, eyeshadow, mrburdu
These are modern English translations of poems by the great Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), who has been called the "Bard of Bengal" and "the Bengali Shelley." In 1913 Tagore became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Tagore was also a notable artist, musician and polymath.
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.
Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.
This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.
This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.
Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.
Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.
When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...
How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?
With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.
Patience
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
If you refuse to speak, I will fill my heart with your silence and endure it.
I will remain still and wait like the night through its starry vigil
with its head bowed low in patience.
The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish,
and your voice will pour down in golden streams breaking through the heavens.
Then your words will take wing in songs from each of my birds' nests,
and your melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.
Gitanjali 35
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been divided by narrow domestic walls;
Where words emerge from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not been lost amid the dreary desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Gitanjali 11
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Leave this vain chanting and singing and counting of beads:
what Entity do you seek in this lonely dark temple with all the doors shut?
Open your eyes and see: God is not here!
He is out there where the tiller tills the hard ground and the paver breaks stones.
He is with them in sun and shower; his garments are filthy with dust.
Shed your immaculate mantle and likewise embrace the dust!
Deliverance? Where is this "deliverance" to be found
when our Master himself has joyfully embraced the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all forever!
Cease your meditations, abandon your petals and incense!
What is the harm if your clothes become stained rags?
Meet him in the toil and the sweat of his brow!
Last Curtain
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
I know the day comes when my eyes close,
when my sight fails,
when life takes its leave in silence
and the last curtain veils my vision.
Yet the stars will still watch by night;
the sun will still rise like before;
the hours will still heave like sea waves
casting up pleasures and pains.
When I consider this end of my earth-life,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the illumination of death
this world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare its meanest of lives.
Things I longed for in vain and those I received, let them pass.
Let me but truly possess the things I rejected and overlooked.
Death
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
You who are the final fulfillment of life,
Death, my Death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day I have kept watch for you;
for you I have borne the joys and the pangs of life.
All that I am, all that I have and hope, and all my love
have always flowed toward you in the depths of secrecy.
One final glance from your eyes and my life will be yours forever, your own.
The flowers have been woven and the garland prepared for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride must leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.
I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.
I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.
Keywords/Tags: Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, India, Indian, poet, Bengali, sea, seashore, children, mother, dog, love, lover, patience, curtain, death
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:09 PM UTC
I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is
warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.
We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?
My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.
If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch
herself.
We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
everything.
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 1:29 PM UTC
I wake early in the day
to avoid judgement
in the eyes of people
who seldom look my way.
I go to bed at night
when they say I should.
“You’ll feel better.”—I don’t.
It stops the pestering.
I have to plan a busy day.
“You’re active that way
and won’t have time to mope.”
At least, that seems the plan.
I have no goals to reach in life.
At least, not of my own.
Any plans I think I hold
are simply held on loan.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
She might be beautiful
On the outside
Hair, makeup, false smiles
Perfectly applied
She reflects warmth
Taking credit for stolen heat
She claims to protect
But she welcomes their defeat
A symbol of humanity
Though she possesses none
Propping up evil incarnate
Isn't a job for just anyone
NCL August 2019
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC
She gives me
the appearance
of sanity
A lie
I wanted to
continue
-em vidar
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 2:31 AM UTC
Hold your smile, don’t let it slip
You’re perfect aren’t you?
How could you be sad.
Keep the appearance
You always go to class
You always do your homework
You never fail
Careful now, your mask is slipping
You’re perfect aren’t you?
Bad days aren’t for you
Don’t fall behind now
You’re always kind to people
You’re always there to help
You never feel alone
Why are you crying,
You’re perfect
Aren’t you?
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC