"bai" poems
Oh! mother where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the great king Ashoka and the world master Sankaracharya?
Where is the ujjayani that was immersed in the literary effluence of
The great dramatist Kalidasa?
Where is the light that shone from the piercing eyes of the warrior
Queen Rudrama Devi and the Goddess Durga?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the buzzing sound of the bees that came from the corridors
Of the great king Shajahan? Where are the echoing sounds of the war monger
The sword Thikkana?Where is the gallooping white horse climbed by the unconquerable warrior queen of Jhansi Lakshmi Bai?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the fire that emanated from the broad shoulders of
The inimitable king and connoisseur of art, Sree Krishna devaraya?
What happened to the living breaths of Balachandra, the young warrior
And brahmanaya, The great warrior and social reformer?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the kings, the great poets, the warriors, the chaste queens?
Where have they gone?
Where are the foot prints of the golden wings of time that fanned and fled?
Oh! Mother, Where are the snow falls of yester years? Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
(This poem was discovered etched/burnt into the interior woodwork of a viking ship of around 800AD, discovered in the north of England in the '60s. Quite possibly from the northernmost islands around the area now referred to as Archangel, and originally written in what became known as Runic/Russo Scandinavian, it nevertheless resonates clear Saxon/German tonality. Given that it is one of the first examples of early Runic, and indeed that the actual letter-shapes are unclear, the poem has been reproduced below, using broad phonetic license.
As far as can be determined, the content appears to be a somewhat ribald message from the ships leader to his wife. It was not uncommon for women/wives to accompany their men folk on long voyages. Given cramped conditions aboard, the conditions were likely to be insanitary and it is this condition that informs the subject). WJL
Das andrs zu-almen su-cara
Archezum des hafta confagra
Der ecra zu alpe
En pecra nachte schalpe
Viel ondra der zulpa te bag-ra
Und zortem pur ordour cloabera
Eh-min-te ah solbra schactarar
Sul-phereth zum tinctum
Abroath ah den penk-tum
Bai anthe con anthe ebactah-ra
Zorbuhr genkst canke zer vilk-um
Solginster zep ecra der nep-ehlcome
Calmen-de ser paarte
Eh zin bah die faarte
Confide ah can-de zum schtinc-tulm
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:23 AM UTC
*where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe*..
Amaya-bai finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot
Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system
Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge
Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie
Aadita, from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on
Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues
Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village
Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty
*might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there*
S T - 27 sept 2013 - freitag
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down
karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”
it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****
i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael
the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
Silence.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Samaj nahi sakai
Mera Yeh Dard.
Saat Rehtaa Hai
Mera Yeh Dard.
Bai Zabaan Hai
Mera Yeh Dard.
Dil Mai Qaid
Mera Yeh Dard.
Har Ek Lamha
Mera Yeh Dard.
Dard Hi Dard
Mera Yeh Dard
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
*"On the seventh day of the Seventh-month, in the Palace of Long Life,
We told each other secretly in the quiet midnight world
That we wished to fly in heaven, two birds with the wings of one,
And to grow together on the earth, two branches of one tree.
Earth endures, heaven endures; some time both shall end,
While this unending sorrow goes on and on for ever."*
- Bai Juyi - A Song of Unending Sorrow - 300 Tang Poems
+++++
The first day they met he gave her the poems
he'd carried all the way from China, a young boy
with a dream and 300 poems a thousand years old
...on the seventh day of the seventh month...
How could she not fall in love with him?
And his sculpture... carved with fire,
the strong, bronze back now frozen,
arms raised in wild and sensual supplication.
Were they his arms reaching for her?
He'd kept it hidden for twenty years,
waiting for someone, the right woman to give it to
And he'd told her,"I knew it was meant for you."
How could she not fall in love with him?
Each night before she sleeps
she reads a poem and traces her fingertips down
the cold beauty of that graceful spine
*Wish he were here
wish this was his back
curving around me
curving around me in my bed...
whispering the poems of his ancestors*
She knits her loneliness into scarves,
soft pink wools like clouds of candy cotton,
rough mountain wools that smell of heather and winter solitude.
Years from now, she'll wrap them round her neck to remember
how he once kissed her.
Didn't she write a poem about it?
and this is her dream:
*they meet when they are young,
they fall in love,
they fall in love and marry,
they fall in love and marry and have ten children,
they fall in love and marry and have ten children and grow old together,
they grow old and blind and deaf, and still in love, they fall into the final sleep together
and their children's children's children will remember their love for a thousand years.*
It's just a dream.
He will have children
but not hers.
She'll die alone,
she wrote that poem, too,
thirty years ago.
karma, karma, karma
stealing heaven
she writes:
what does this world mean to me without you?
utter loneliness
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 1:49 AM UTC
Walang forever sa taong bitter
Pero pano ka naman di ma bbitter
Kung yung ex mo kasi cheater
Sa una lang magaling
Susundin lahat ng hiling
Kala mo naman gwapo. FEELING!
Chos. Gwapo nga siya
Kaya nga lapitin ng disgrasya
Ubos ang pera sa’king alkansya
Ginagasta pang dota niya
Pati sa ibang babae. Walanghiya!
Susumbong ko siya kay kuya.
Minahal ko yun nang todo
Matalino ako pero naging bobo
Ang dali niya pala akong naloko
Siya pa nakipaghiwalay
Sa chat pa. Jusq dai!
Walang itlog ka bai.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
Immersed in God ecstasy
and orange robes
the true bhakta’s thoughts
are always on God, for God
and of God
armed with pure love
the slings and arrows
of maya, good, bad and outrageous fortune
are averted
God and His beloved
whirl across the bhakti path
dancing with Rumi, Kabir, St. Francis Meera Bai
and all the beautiful bhaktas
for eternity
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
Last sunday, we go videoke.
Kaming unom, grabe'g panganta.
Naay nice ug tingog, naay okay ra,
naay wala gyud sa tono, naay nag sabay-sabay ra,
ug naay feeler gyud kaayo nga singer siya.
Niabot ang time, naka feel na mig uhaw.
Ni offer ang isa, isa ka bucket ambot ug unsa.
TOK TOK TOK ayay naa na ang gihulat,
tambal sa uhaw gipatong sa lamesa.
PAK! SMIRNOFF ANG GIDALA!
Kami nagpadayon ug kanta,
kachada sa pamati, sa ilimnong ma'lami.
Niabot ang last nga kanta,
Obladi, Oblada, tala na mamauli na ta.
Nihapit's balutan, mao na po'y gitirada.
Nanglingkod kadjot sa seawall,
nagpahangin gamay usa musakay.
Nipara mig cab kay hapit na alas dose,
sa rural basin mabiyaan mi.
Wa na gibyaan gyud, maygani naay super 5, pero tag 50 gyud.
Kami naabot sa tagsa-tagsang panimalay,
wow kalami sa akuang katulog bai.
Pagmata nako, nganong init kaayo ko?
Wa ko kasabot sa akuang gibati, gitugnaw ko pag ayo.
Yati, ngano man ni? Nag inom man unta kog vitamin C.
Pagka uran2 naa koy gi share sa fb,
nag react akuang miga kay sgalain pud daw iya ginhawa.
Taod-taod nag my day ang isa, gi dextrose kay gihilantan sab siya.
Nag text kos isa pa, kung ga daot pud siya.
"OO" mao na iyang reply,
*** why kami gyud upat dai?
Ang isa silingan ra namo, wala may gibati.
So, isa nalang kulang, akua gitawagan.
Wala mitubag, akuang manghod iyang gi chatan.
"Yes dai gihilantan pud siya", mao nay reply.
Wala nay lain, ang SMIRNOFF mao jud akuang pasanginlan!
Kaming lima baling yarok, sa smirnoff nga mabugnaw.
Ang isa wala nag mind kay nagsaad di gyud siya mo inom.
Mao toy amuang gidangatan, gipang ubo, sip'on ug gihilantan.
Grabe, unsay naa adtong smirnoff nila?
Ngano kaming lima ang naapektohan?
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
he slammed his cup on the counter
not to get anyone’s attention
though his cup was empty
I couldn’t stop staring at his eyes
of course they were bloodshot
and of course he stank of nicotine
and of truth that he said could not be found
in the bottom of that coffee cup or bottle of gin
though he ****** up both like…
hell, I can’t compare it to anything
and he would think a simile was a waste of words
he told me of a lover he once had, Elisa
with hair so long she sat on it
and a thirst as ravenous as his
which led her to an alley in South Chicago
where the ***** or the H put her to sleep
for good, and how he buried her in Peoria
in a hard freeze, beside her brother
who got killed in Phu Bai, by “friendly fire”
but Bukowski laughed through his tears
when he heard that **** “friendly fire”
and he filled his glass again,
with Bourbon I guess--I wasn’t at Elisa’s
numb mother’s house that day
and when he lost another ****** lover
to a drunk driver, he didn’t say anything about irony
just said, **** it hurts to be close
and he didn’t trust this happiness ****
because it didn’t last, but pain, hell,
you can count on that ******* and if he leaves,
you can make some up on your own…
the waitress filled our cups to the top
so there was no space for the cream
I sipped slowly to make room
he took a swig that had to scald his tongue
but I could not tell, for he was already on the death
of lover number three, sitting there with me
waiting for him to stop the foul flow of truth
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Long taim mi sa mekim rong, gutpla tingting em i kamap. Em ikam na em i toktok wantem mi, na em i tok olsem, "Noken bisi long bihainim gris blong snek olsem ya, bihainim tok blong mi na bai yu inap".
Long nait, nek blo yu isave hamamasim mi. Na long moning, hanmak blong yu i woklo stiaim mi long ol gutpla gutpla rot igo long gutpla gutpla wara. Olgeta hevi i woklo lus.
Long taim mi pasim tingting stret long yu, orait mitupla ikam kamap pinis long maunten igo antap. Na antap blong em i antap moa winim ol klaut. Hau bai mi sakim tok blo yu o? Mi nonap, long wanem, tok blong yu i switpla tumas olsem hani i kapsait niupla tru long sait blong diwai. Bai mi hamamas moa yet na nomoa bihainim snek nem blong em, rong.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 6:08 AM UTC
plodding down the slow hillside
chestnut roots have made the path perilous
I've walked along the high trail
over the bridgeless creeks of Middlesex
from the manmade ravine, and the spring
where my mother drove us
to fill up our water jugs
till the car trunk hung heavy
this hill has only one side
and the grass is always green
...
from around the low end
where the hill and lake diverge
sun in his face, I see Du Fu
climbing this track again
says he's looking for warm weather
bamboo forests all year round
I mention Chengdu, and he grins
if I should find Li Bai
might I say "Du Fu asked for you"
and sample his elixir
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
Tonight I drink the ruby wine
of God’s sublime name
my rosewood mala dangling
alluringly over my fingers
each bead calling Him
each sip of His precious
name a holy grail
a divine elixir
brewed in Heaven’s
vineyard
Drunk on a love
that the world can never
understand
I sing His name
and dance through the
moonlit streets
with Ramakrishna, Mira Bai
and all the crazy
God intoxicated Saints
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Handed down through the ages,
Humanity in hearts and reverance for the sages.
This place is more like a heaven on Earth,
Myriad of religions are taken here birth.
Our emperors were too kind to invade any country,
Million of channels telecast it's documentary.
Jai Hind and Satyamev Jayte resides in our heart,
Our sand handles both a motor and a cart.
The holy Ganga flows from the bottom of Himalayas,
So is worshipped for being called a gift like Matthias.
The Himalayan is fit like a crown on our mother's head,
Climatic variations and monsoon rainfall are so evenly spread.
World's economy has an immense eminence of zero,
Invented by Aryabhatta; Ramanujan- the Maths hero.
Bhagat Singh, Laxmi Bai had been an epitome of strength,
Education is vastly spread and immeasurable in length.
Variety of raiment is seen in every state,
Twenty two languages and each with a feel of sedate.
Vendors working daily amidst tumults on roads,
Poetry scribbled by poet as their respectful odes.
Colours of rainbow is reflected here well,
Luscious cuisines grabs heed by the smell.
Geeta, Qur'an, Adi Granth and Bible,
At different hours, they worship their idols.
Vaisakhi, Christmas, Holi and Eid
we stand together as a pillar in every need.
Writings are not only read in books,
But scripted on walls, painting on hooks.
Folk arts, tribal arts, feet beating on rhythm,
Dance forms are many, depicting their vision.
Here, women are treated equal to men,
Delhi and Mumbai got their place in the list of wen.
We treat our guests as the heavenly God,
One can visit here either by plane or brod.
Weddings are held by following every ritual,
Our ways may differ but our hearts are mutual.
With so much of glory do not mistake it as Neverland,
As this Golden bird does not fly but stays on land.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 10:51 AM UTC
Swami
Will you come tonight?
the gold moon hangs
full and low
a lantern beaming between
dark pine branches
I wait with a gardenia blossom
in my hand and the fragrance
of night blooming jasmine
in my hair
O Lotus eyed Lord
bhajans fall like petals
from my lips
Console us with the
sound of Your dancing ankle bells
Frogs are croaking in the garden
fairy solar lamps light a fragrant path
for you to walk upon
Frightful sounds of the world fade
away with holy hymns as the
mist sweetly parts
I wait like Radha waited for her
Krishna and Mira Bai too
only the blush of Your Love
sustains us
Perfume the world with your
Sacred Presence
Sai Krishna
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
Un khatalaana aankhon ka meri ruh ko parosna.
Un nazuuk paikar pai woh zulfon ka bosa dena.
Un zulfon sai hamai aur na tadpau ||
Un khobsurat bai ahang natnaai ko aur na phulaau ||.
Dil kai dhadkanein aur na badhao ||
Un lal hauta sai woh alfaaz kya nikla ||
Hum nai phir sai ishq karna seek liyaa ||
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
I should see a foot doctor.
My knees ache,
and it ain't like I've been
standing up for myself too much
or sitting down too long.
But they sing their song of pain
again, and again, and again.
I don't pen anything anymore,
maybe a jot there or a line here,
so am I a writer?
How long does it take a "while"
to become a "used to"?
I'm no Du Fu.
I'm no Li Bai.
I should say goodbye,
smile and wave as writing
passes me by.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 2:38 AM UTC
hamisha asar, hamisha asar
vena vermos vamos cantar
labalabaya mosas perta
con quince platos de fruta
labalabaya mosas perta
con quince patos de fruta
ben dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel
be dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel.
Hamisha asar, hamisha asar
vena vermos vamos balyar
labalabaya mos a pera
la bak la bai cave
labalabaya mos as pera
la bak la bai cave.
ben dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel
ben dichosu nombre sinor del mundo
frutas de Israel.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
In Taiwan, I seem to fit in
I can speak the language, the green mountains feel like home
The city lights of Taipei are warm, the white sand in bai sha wan glistens under the sea foam
Cold Mango shaved ice refreshes me in the humid summer heat,
While pork rice and egg cake from street vendors are my comfort foods
It feels like a place where I belong, a place I can call home
But the kids in summer camps always ask me where I’m from
Why I have an accent, why I can’t read the store signs
While I may look like all the kids in the summer camp
I still do not belong
In America, I go through ordinary days
I can read street signs, and I don’t have an accent
I can actually write words and sentences on my assignments
I know each street I drive by on my way to school
I do the cupid shuffle in high school parties, my eyes shine with the fireworks on July 4th
This also feels like a place I belong, a place I can call home
But while my footsteps walk this land everyday, I do not belong
Because no one can pronounce my real name, and my food “looks strange”
No matter how American I feel,
I still do not belong
Stuck in two worlds, between two boxes
I’m the purple between the blue and red,where do I belong?
I can’t pick a side, I am not one or the other,
But being purple tells me that I belong…
That I do not have to choose, my heart belongs to these two homes:
The sweet potato-shaped island, with green mountains and city lights
And the land where my friends aren’t far away, where I spend my everydays
Apr 27, 2022
Apr 27, 2022 at 11:28 AM UTC
He's silently floating in the river of unknown
Wondering which shore will be his home
He's not lost, rather he is himself the light
Like the first song of the dawn
that scares away the demons of the night.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
It goes on in the head,
and too often, manifests itself.
But sometimes, isn't apparent at all.
What spurs the insanity? And how?
Nobody knows.
'Coz the brain is bizarre. And will remain so.
Madness can't be demystified.
Its mystery will grow thicker as
a Ramkrishna or a Mira Bai
attain transcendence in crazy love.
Or a ****** or an Alexander
pursue their weird expansionist dreams.
Who will ever unravel why a Gogh cut off his ear?
Why a Plath found peacefulness in suicide
Or what triggered for a Hemingway to shoot himself?
The 'black dog' of a Churchill chases me down too;
I can hear a Darwin howling like a child within me,
My eyes are blinded by a Newton's illusions
I hold the hand of an insomniac Dickens on an empty street.
And walk the tightrope of hope.
Am I losing it really?
But I feel to be regaining my sense of self
as I try to defy a status quo
and find a reason to be 'abnormal' again for them.
Now, should I run on the road like a possessed Archimedes?
Or yell like that unknown, 'maniac' girl who challenges civilization for its irrationality?
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 7:12 AM UTC