"barque" poems
We do not get a human life
Just for the asking.
Birth in a human body
Is the reward for good deeds
In former births.
Life waxes and wanes imperceptibly,
It does not stay long.
The leaf that has once fallen
Does not return to the branch.
Behold the Ocean of Transmigration.
With its swift, irresistible tide.
O Lal Giridhara, O pilot of my soul,
Swiftly conduct my barque to the further shore.
Mira is the slave of Lal Giridhara.
She says: Life lasts but a few days only.
Life in the world is short,
Why shoulder an unnecessary load
Of worldly relationships?
Thy parents gave thee birth in the world,
But the Lord ordained thy fate.
Life passes in getting and spending,
No merit is earned by virtuous deeds.
I will sing the praises of Hari
In the company of the holy men,
Nothing else concerns me.
Mira's Lord is the courtly Giridhara,
She says: Only by Thy power
Have I crossed to the further shore.
3.3k
Knowledge is butterflies in flight.
A doubting caterpillar needs
His faith in metamorphosis.
Without it his future: horror.
Mother gone this way before him.
Father gone before his time here.
The only hope: whispered instinct.
A still sound in the face of fear.
"Those who've gone before me", says he
"Loved me and wanted good for me."
"They willed me to believe in life
Beyond: the metamorphosis."
Every day, eat of leaf. Chew. Rest.
Do not wander ye from safety.
Heed ye these rules, follow the way.
Know ye that our decree's from love.
Brother tells tall tales, adventure
Excitement, a world of wonder
To have now! No waiting, no need
To wait, fear, hope. Enjoy it now!
Brother says: "metamorphosis
Is a tale made by those who want
To control and manipulate.
To keep us from pleasures in life."
Brother says: "The dark chrysalis
Is a grave, death, ending, final.
Now is time to discover.
What tastes good is the true good.
Only now do we have the chance
To learn, explore, see and enjoy."
He's eaten leaves outside the path.
Brother says: "they are juicy good!
Come all, leave this way mapped by those
Who want to keep you from juicy
Leaves and the whole wide world to see"
Brother says. "Don't hope, enjoy now."
Sister left the barque, left the safe
Path to the leaves mapped out by some
Unknown cartographer. Unknown!
She's not back. He hopes for her best.
But our caterpillar here, friend,
Has chosen the old dreams and hope.
To follow the path mapped to leaves
That nourish the body and heart.
He has chosen to believe that
The wisdom of age and instinct
Is more trustworthy than the word
Of youthful brother's juicy world.
His doubts he's cocooned in faith's silk.
These bland leaves he eats for promise
Of sweet flower's nectar beyond.
Today's toil for tomorrow's joy.
Doubt frightens. The chrysalis looms.
No control, nature compels it.
Unfair, afraid, the silk spins tight.
In pain, the world grows dark and still.
He faces his end. He must choose
To listen to the still, small sound.
Have faith he's not schizophrenic.
Believe in more passed the cocoon.
His ancestral council and creed
He chooses to embrace and trust
To face his end with dream and hope.
His doubts cocooned by faith in Love.
Butterflies are knowledge in flight.
For at their end, faith is fulfilled.
These butterflies their joy have reached,
Through faith in metamorphosis.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 9:01 PM UTC
I still remember her pinay almond eyes and peanut butter smile
even though she was a cracked nut.
I still remember chewing on her whiskey-sponged lips
her Koala cheeks and the Melbourne burn of her voice.
I still remember her throwing fits and things at me
we’ll chalk that up as the hazards of dating a Dominican woman.
I still remember her Grand Canyonized Salma Hayek thighs
as fat and meaty as her spicy Mexican tortas.
I still remember the coca leaf nature of her walk
and the precise coffee of her eyes that kept me up all night.
I still remember her catracha scent when escaping her man
just to lay the blue frosting of her clandestine mouth on mine.
I still remember her swiftly poetic like a Chico Barque song
the Brazilian beauty who netted in my heart a Pelé-size goal.
I still remember them.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
*Weathered oak of ancient age
Sandblasted by Sirocco storm
Ribbed and dry and redly sage
Deep corrugated graining, worn.
Grown on hillside far away
Far, in England’s verdant land,
Hewn by artisan of old
Hewn by axe and sinewed hand.
Hauled across a raging sea
By barque of seaman’s sail and hope,
Washed by salted wave and gale
Lashed to deck by weathered rope.
Dragged across hot dunes of sand
To a land called Galilee,
Hauled by He, betrayed by man,
Upon the hill of Calvary.
Hoisted high by Roman hand
Stark against a leaden sky,
Red blood stains on oaken cross
On which His Crown of Thorns shall cry.*
M.
Easter Sunday 2014
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
It’s the Eye of the Sun,
-staring down at me…
At night the mind of the Moon,
-so bright it’s all you see…
Seven Glorious Ones, Horus-Follower’s sons,
-and the cycle’s complete; time for a repeat!
Magic year, magic mind, Ozymandias seat,
a magic moment in time, 'ten found-on-the-line,' -mark a place where you'll be.
At the steps are the ones, ancient Kings of the Sun.
Torn apart by the people, when the harvest was done,
And solar barque crosses Styx, to the gates of Ammon…
Riders come from the steppe to see the death of the one,
Ancient King of the Sun redeem the land and the seed…
-Rises up as Orion, again, and now he’s freed!
It’s the Eye of the Sun and the Lion is free, roaming over the lands, now the cycle’s complete…
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
Barque of phosphor
On the palmy beach,
Move outward into heaven,
Into the alabasters
And night blues.
Foam and cloud are one.
Sultry moon-monsters
Are dissolving.
Fill your black hull
With white moonlight.
There will never be an end
To this droning of the surf.
1.8k
I was waltzing to the jazz
Done everything, leaving no dash
Could see the diamonds
Glistening in my gaze
In bel air,
I was paralyzed with happiness
But the barque of past
Borne back to me
Ceaselessly carrying the mess
With desire that never rest
Thought I was living my best
With the old money vibe
As my facade fave
Then I heard thou name again
My heart bestrew asunder apace
And that moment I knew
I was melancholy stuck
In my old same dreary age.
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 11:29 PM UTC
Il est 1h27 du matin à Dakar
Debout sur le balcon; un désir d'aventurier de l'inconnu m'envahit, de celle qui s'échappe du temps et de la terre mère qui l'étouffe ensevelie sous son noyau.
Le vent me caressant le visage, je l'entend m'inviter à l'hymne de ma liberté. Le bruit des avions m'emportent dans un monde d'aisance et d'émancipation, l'échos des Zikrs me tirent vers ma raison profonde et ma familiarité.
Je ferme les yeux en proie à la nostalgie. Essayant de me souvenir des beaux moments de ma vie; le vent me berce dans l'abstrait où mon âme se jette dans l'aura poétique de la magie des rêves.
Le marchand des rêves m'emporte sur une plage éclairée par la claire de lune et un feu de camp; jouissant d'un ciel dégagé et très étoilé.
La brise me mets à nu devant ses caresses ardentes et m'enivre de son odeur. Je me laisse flotter sur ses ondes.
Le sable en velours réchauffant mes pieds au rythme d'un Samba; riant de toute mon âme et transpirant au rythme de la danse. Nos âmes se transforment en une unité d'énergie donnant naissance à un cycle d'existence de désirs.
Je me confie à mon instinct comme pour consoler mon amour.
A l'horizon, la morosité morbide condamnée dans le concret. Aimant ardemment et follement cet abstrait merveilleux qui me berce.
Qui berce cet amour non réclamé, et cette liberté condamnée. Qui depuis longtemps poussent leur barque fragile à bout de force.
Aussi romantique que la poésie, je danse amoureusement et passionnément avec l'inconnu de mes pensées. Et dans cette passion insensée, de l'infini sublime rêve que cherche l'esprit, la réalité envahit l'abstrait et en fait un asile.
Un asile qui éveille mon cœur à chaque moment d'inattention ou de solitude. Un asile qui m'ouvre ses portes à ses extases fantaisistes quand l'ivresse de la réalité devient lourde et étouffante.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 9:52 AM UTC
Eh quoi ! prier déjà.... tu bégayes encore ;
De la vie, ici-bas, tu n'as vu que l'aurore ;
Pour loi, le beau printemps n'est venu que deux fois ;
À peine connaît-on le doux son de ta voix.
Et cependant, docile aux leçons d'une mère,
Tu bégayes déjà quelques mots de prière !
Oh ! laisse la prière au cœur des malheureux,
Et toi, petit enfant, va reprendre tes jeux !
Pourvu qu'à ton réveil, s'échappant de sa cage,
L'oiseau qui te connaît commence son ramage,
Qu'il reste près de toi ; que d'un bouquet nouveau,
Ta mère, en souriant, vienne orner ton berceau ;
Pourvu que vers le soir, sa voix mélodieuse
T'endorme doucement, ou que, silencieuse,
Elle ébranle ta couche, et d'un léger effort,
En longs balancements t'endorme mieux encor :
C'est là tout le bonheur de ta paisible enfance.
Et comment prierais-tu ? tu n'as pas d'espérance !
À ton âge charmant, l'existence est un jour,
Où le rire et les pleurs s'effacent tour à tour.
Plus **** petit enfant, poursuivant ton voyage,
Ton cœur s'agitera du trouble du jeune âge ;
Tu sentiras alors les charmes enivrants
De nos illusions, rêves purs et charmants.
Un doux espoir, ainsi qu'une ombre fugitive,
Apparaîtra soudain à ton âme naïve,
Te faisant pressentir l'amour et le bonheur...
Alors, il sera temps de prier le Seigneur !
À genoux devant lui, plein de foi, d'espérance,
On dit tout sans parler ; - Dieu comprend le silence.
Ô mon Dieu ! que l'on aime à vous prier longtemps,
Lorsqu'on veut être heureux et que l'on a seize ans !
Car, hélas ! jeune enfant, pendant le long voyage,
Nous n'avons pas toujours un beau ciel sans nuage ;
Le limpide ruisseau qui s'en va murmurant,
Se change bien souvent en horrible torrent,
Et l'aquilon, soufflant sur la barque légère,
Vient la briser, le soir, aux écueils de la terre.
Va jouer, bel enfant !... il te faudra plus ****
Souffrir ainsi que nous : ta vie aura sa part !
Tu verras fuir l'espoir qui venait de paraître ;
Un jour, on t'aimera..., l'on t'oubliera peut-être !...
Ah ! qu'ai-je dit, enfant ? -Suspends, suspends tes jeux
Joins tes petites mains, et regarde les cieux.
1k
I was staring at the horizon on
A clear and balmy day,
The sky was blue and the sea a type
Of aquamarine in the bay,
There wasn’t a sign of storm or squall
Till the sunset turned dull red,
And then the sky, of a sudden turned
From blue to the grey of lead.
And you were stood there, Geraldine
With your collar turned up high,
You shivered once, then looked around
Took note of the darkening sky,
‘Is that a barque or a barquentine
I see tied up to the pier?’
And slowly, filtering into my view
Was a ship that wasn’t there.
It hadn’t been there all afternoon
It hadn’t sailed into the bay,
I’m sure that I would have noticed if
It was fifteen miles away,
But there it sat with its stays and sails
Reefed in and sitting becalmed,
But dark and ever so threatening
I was right to feel alarmed.
Then Geraldine ran along the pier,
I was trying to call her back,
When lightning lit the sky above
With a sudden tumultuous crack,
She turned just once and she called to me:
‘Don’t follow, it’s my fate!
The ship’s the Admiral Benbow,
I’m a hundred years too late.’
She ran, and her coat flew out behind
Like an ancient type of cape,
And on the deck of the barquentine
Were men, with mouths agape,
A single plank lay across the pier
And up to the wooden bow,
Which Geraldine clambered up to board
While I stood, and wondered how?
No sooner was she aboard, than then
The men gave up a cheer,
And she I saw in the arms of one,
A brigand privateer,
She waved just once, then she went below
To my ever present pain,
The love of my life, my Geraldine,
I never saw again.
The wind blew up and the rain came down
And the barque then raised its sails,
Was cast adrift in a heaving sea
In that coastal port of Wales,
And then I swear, the Captain came
To the bow, and then he leered,
And by the time that I turned around
That barque had disappeared.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
A heavy landscape clouds my weary eyes.
The fog lies low and hides those pretty flowers.
The London cab is almost red and vanished
The traffic slows, while sleet has walkers punished.
Wealth eludes. So driven, I’ve found new sights.
I dream. I struggle. Distance calls. I fight
Within myself a battle. Shall I go
And leave my loved one lost and grieving so?
Will she wait for me, that bubbly lass
Whom my heart longs to hold in soft embrace?
Will she upon our romance shut the door?
Or when my fortune’s made in the lands afar,
Will she then come to share my rising star?
Will sweetest heart remain my faithful friend?
I fear the question curdles like a fiend.
The ocean barque awaits and I must board
In just three weeks. I heartily adored
Her flouncing curls of bronze, her laughing eyes,
And heart-shaped, pouting lips and turned-up nose.
Yet go I must, for fortune calls my name.
“Dear Barbara, will you faithfully remain
In England’s arms until I send for you
From lands downunder. I must say adieu.
I bought some land and go to build a house,
And graze some cattle, new life to espouse.
When all is done I’ll pay your passage out
And wait for you to come in style. I’ll shout
And tell the world that you are mine alone,
You’ll have such finery. I’ll see it done.”
“I will not wait,” it broke my heart to hear.
She paused and, teasing, cast her eyes down drear,
Then lifted up her head and tossed her curls,
And planting both her lips upon my own,
“I’ll come WITH you when your ship’s flag unfurls”
She cried. With that the deed was quickly done.
The captain married us upon the seas,
Our life began amidst the high sea’s breeze.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
Voie lactée ô sœur lumineuse
Des blancs ruisseaux de Chanaan
Et des corps blancs des amoureuses
Nageurs morts suivrons-nous d'ahan
Ton cours vers d'autres nébuleuses
Les démons du hasard selon
Le chant du firmament nous mènent
A sons perdus leurs violons
Font danser notre race humaine
Sur la descente à reculons
Destins destins impénétrables
Rois secoués par la folie
Et ces grelottantes étoiles
De fausses femmes dans vos lits
Aux déserts que l'histoire accable
Luitpold le vieux prince régent
Tuteur de deux royautés folles
Sanglote-t-il en y songeant
Quand vacillent les lucioles
Mouches dorées de la Saint-Jean
Près d'un château sans châtelaine
La barque aux barcarols chantants
Sur un lac blanc et sous l'haleine
Des vents qui tremblent au printemps
Voguait cygne mourant sirène
Un jour le roi dans l'eau d'argent
Se noya puis la bouche ouverte
Il s'en revint en surnageant
Sur la rive dormir inerte
Face tournée au ciel changeant
Juin ton soleil ardente lyre
Brûle mes doigts endoloris
Triste et mélodieux délire
J'erre à travers mon beau Paris
Sans avoir le cœur d'y mourir
Les dimanches s'y éternisent
Et les orgues de Barbarie
Y sanglotent dans les cours grises
Les fleurs aux balcons de Paris
Penchent comme la tour de Pise
Soirs de Paris ivres du gin
Flambant de l'électricité
Les tramways feux verts sur l'échine
Musiquent au long des portées
De rails leur folie de machines
Les cafés gonflés de fumée
Crient tout l'amour de leurs tziganes
De tous leurs siphons enrhumés
De leurs garçons vêtus d'un pagne
Vers toi toi que j'ai tant aimée
Moi qui sais des lais pour les reines
Les complaintes de mes années
Des hymnes d'esclave aux murènes
La romance du mal aimé
Et des chansons pour les sirènes.
843
Hier, la nuit d'été, qui nous prêtait ses voiles,
Etait digne de toi, tant elle avait d'étoiles !
Tant son calme était frais ! tant son souffle était doux !
Tant elle éteignait bien ses rumeurs apaisées !
Tant elle répandait d'amoureuses rosées
Sur les fleurs et sur nous !
Moi, j'étais devant toi, plein de joie et de flamme,
Car tu me regardais avec toute ton âme !
J'admirais la beauté dont ton front se revêt.
Et sans même qu'un mot révélât ta pensée,
La tendre rêverie en ton cœur commencée
Dans mon cœur s'achevait !
Et je bénissais Dieu, dont la grâce infinie
Sur la nuit et sur toi jeta tant d'harmonie,
Qui, pour me rendre calme et pour me rendre heureux,
Vous fit, la nuit et toi, si belles et si pures,
Si pleines de rayons, de parfums, de murmures,
Si douces toutes deux !
Oh oui, bénissons Dieu dans notre foi profonde !
C'est lui qui fit ton âme et qui créa le monde !
Lui qui charme mon cœur ! lui qui ravit mes yeux !
C'est lui que je retrouve au fond de tout mystère !
C'est lui qui fait briller ton regard sur la terre
Comme l'étoile aux cieux !
C'est Dieu qui mit l'amour au bout de toute chose,
L'amour en qui tout vit, l'amour sur qui tout pose !
C'est Dieu qui fait la nuit plus belle que le jour.
C'est Dieu qui sur ton corps, ma jeune souveraine,
A versé la beauté, comme une coupe pleine,
Et dans mon cœur l'amour !
Laisse-toi donc aimer ! - Oh ! l'amour, c'est la vie.
C'est tout ce qu'on regrette et tout ce qu'on envie
Quand on voit sa jeunesse au couchant décliner.
Sans lui rien n'est complet, sans lui rien ne rayonne.
La beauté c'est le front, l'amour c'est la couronne :
Laisse-toi couronner !
Ce qui remplit une âme, hélas ! tu peux m'en croire,
Ce n'est pas un peu d'or, ni même un peu de gloire,
Poussière que l'orgueil rapporte des combats,
Ni l'ambition folle, occupée aux chimères,
Qui ronge tristement les écorces amères
Des choses d'ici-bas ;
Non, il lui faut, vois-tu, l'hymen de deux pensées,
Les soupirs étouffés, les mains longtemps pressées,
Le baiser, parfum pur, enivrante liqueur,
Et tout ce qu'un regard dans un regard peut lire,
Et toutes les chansons de cette douce lyre
Qu'on appelle le cœur !
Il n'est rien sous le ciel qui n'ait sa loi secrète,
Son lieu cher et choisi, son abri, sa retraite,
Où mille instincts profonds nous fixent nuit et jour ;
Le pêcheur a la barque où l'espoir l'accompagne,
Les cygnes ont le lac, les aigles la montagne,
Les âmes ont l'amour !
Le 21 mai 1833.
787
*What art in Heaven is unknown to the heathen?
Lest the scriptures write of adolescent teens.
For the scriptures build an ark and the arc
From which we must all be reborn in the barque.
With the strength of the carpenter’s lieutenants
The gallows outlast ten thousand tenants.
The faith in ones own wit is the noose indeed
As is the church’s wit when their sovereignty be decreed.
Is not this parchment made of sheepskins?
Like the fine carved furniture of the followers of Louie Quinze.
But of these carvings was once a beautiful tree.
Like the lamb – it was forced to its knee.
There a man placed upon their remains
Words and pictures of the self it proclaims.
But to God they are still a tree and a lamb
No need for the words or pictures he found.*
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
The night was dark, in a brooding pall
With thunderheads at its core,
But only the sound of heaving swells
Were heard to break on the shore.
The headland dark where the Lighthouse stood
With not a glimmer of light,
It hadn’t been lit for a hundred years
But a beam would stream that night.
The sea was grumbling in its deeps
Cast heaps of **** on the sand,
Much like a drunken Cornishman
Disgorging his contraband,
The swell, built up as the squalls came in
Made the sea erupt from its depths,
Casting an age old Barquentine
Up high, on an angry crest.
Shook free from its hundred year old bed
Untangled from miles of ****
The Barquentine with its forty dead
Had finally now been freed,
A flag that carried the fleur-de-lis
Hung limply down from the mast,
And tangled up in the rigging was
The body of Captain Jacques.
An aura shone round the Barquentine
In a pale, blue ghostly light,
Caught in a time warp, in-between
They rose as a man that night.
They gathered up on the rotting deck
Each cannon, covered in rust,
And glared at the lighthouse on the hill,
A light that they couldn’t trust.
A wraith of a woman, stood that night
By the keeper, looking down,
The face of a woman, creased in fear
As the Barque had come aground,
She had been the wife of Captain Jacques
Had been left ashore, and fled,
Up to the keeper of the light
Where she shared his meagre bed.
‘I didn’t think he’d be back so soon,’
She’d stood by the light, and cried,
‘If he finds us both alone up here
It’s better that we had died.’
The keeper held her trembling form
As the storm built up that night,
‘I’d never allow him to bring you harm,’
He said, as he struck the light.
The crew looked up at the Lighthouse
And they heard a woman scream,
From up on the headland, deep in fright
As the keeper lit the beam,
And Jacques looked up, and he saw his wife
Lit up by the sudden light,
‘My God,’ he cried, ‘that’s Jacqueline,
There was infamy that night!’
The pair looked down as the men had leapt
To shore, with their swords held high,
They’d waited over a hundred years
But knew that their time was nigh.
He’d struck the light when he saw their ship
Head in to threaten his *****
And watched as the ship had broken up
In Eighteen fifty-four.
There are nights when the light of former wrongs
Returns to visit the shame,
To balance eternal justice for
The centuries, left in pain,
The ghostly sailors dragged them down
To the Barquentine, at last,
And as the sea had reclaimed the ship
They hung them both from the mast.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
I walked along the shore,
from the coal harbour to seapoint,
and the lands beyond:
Blackrock, Dollymount, Asphodel.
There I weighed a sufferance,
against the others there,
and found it, for all that it is,
comparable, equivalent.
I weighed my unmortal parts upon the winds,
North to Northeast, falling slowly,
held my frailties, and failings on the tide,
and presented a show of petty wrongdoings,
Some done, some undone,
some imagined into being.
I put mercy to sea, and waited
for the shipping forecast,
To tell me what I thought could be,
carry that far barque to regions far,
bring profit from those lands,
and make solvent my life.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
I once had a special friend at school,
His name was Daniel Hare,
He would dream through maths and geometry
For his mind was never there,
I would nudge him in the ribs each time
That the teacher turned to look,
And slide my hand across, to turn
To the right page, in his book.
He’d get this distant look in his eyes
And slump back into his seat,
And tell me then at the break, he’d been
In Ireland, digging peat,
He’d roam the great Canadian Plains,
Was there at Austerlitz,
And hid in a London cellar with
His mother during the Blitz.
The only subject he really loved
Was the study of history,
And then he’d sit on the edge of his seat
Enthralled at the mystery,
But Physics, Maths and Biology
He said, was leaving him cold,
He’d rather be there with Francis Drake
On a search for Spanish gold.
We went our separate ways, of course,
I didn’t see him for years,
Then came on him in a boarding house
Where he’d suffered some reverse,
His life, he said, was a shambles, he
Could never hold down a job,
His mind had continued to wander
From Berlin, and to Cape Cod.
His eyes were sunken, his skin was grey
I noted his sallow cheeks,
‘I dream too much in the day,’ he said,
‘And I just can’t get to sleep.’
I walked with him in a lonely cove
Where the moonlight shed its beams,
‘I need to find me a ship,’ he said,
‘And sail to the Port of Dreams.’
I asked him why he never had met
And married a local girl,
He said he’d met a girl in his dreams
But she didn’t live in the world.
‘She waits for me on the other side
Of a wide and windswept Bay,
Not in this life of broken dreams,
She leaves at the break of day.
A week went by and a storm came in,
He wasn’t there by the stove,
I made my way in the pouring rain
Where his footsteps led, to the cove,
I found him sat, his back to a rock
With a wild, unseeing stare,
And knew he’d gone to follow a dream
As the sea spray soaked him there.
For out in the bay a Barquentine
Had pitched and tossed in the storm,
A ghostly lantern hung from the mast
As the spars and the timbers groaned,
A figure clung to the foredeck yards
And waved as the wind had screamed,
While the barque turned west where the sun had set
And sailed for the Port of Dreams.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
We do not get a human life
Just for the asking.
Birth in a human body
Is the reward for good deeds
In former births.
Life waxes and wanes imperceptibly,
It does not stay long.
The leaf that has once fallen
Does not return to the branch.
Behold the Ocean of Transmigration.
With its swift, irresistible tide.
O Lal Giridhara, O pilot of my soul,
Swiftly conduct my barque to the further shore.
I remain in the heart of Lal Giridhara.
She says: Life lasts but a few days only.
Life in the world is short,
Why shoulder an unnecessary load
Of worldly relationships?
Thy parents gave thee birth in the world,
But the Lord ordained thy fate.
Life passes in getting and spending,
No merit is earned by virtuous deeds.
I will sing the praises of Hari
In the company of the holy men,
Nothing else concerns me.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
The steps to my grave grow fewer,
I'm told now it's just a stone's throw;
But I've yet to carry the Torch of Love
And stand in awe beneath its hallowed glow
Too many were the lonely nights
I knelt with despair so near me,
Praying for love with the faith of a child,
Foolishly believing God would hear me
Tell me, Lord, can you hear me now?
Why have my cries not reached your door?
Each day fresh wreckage is strewn o'er my life,
But your silence is what it was before
The Book of Life's last page has turned,
The present hour now holds the keys;
Little time remains to learn of Love's joys --
When Death summons, I'll have no need for these
Can you hear me now? Give me hope
Before my heart heaves its last sigh;
Will my barque ever journey on Love's sea,
Or with furled sails in port forever lie?
Though despair stretches its talons,
The voice of hope affirms its place;
As the Scroll of Life dolefully unfolds,
Have lines been penned that Fate might yet erase?
Foolish heart, hopeful to the end,
As Death guides the gravedigger's plow:
Dig deeper, deeper, stifle that ****** voice!
But my heart still cries ..... can you hear me now?
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
I
L'eau claire ; comme le sel des larmes d'enfance,
L'assaut au soleil des blancheurs des corps de femmes ;
la soie, en foule et de lys pur, des oriflammes
sous les murs dont quelque pucelle eut la défense ;
L'ébat des anges ; - Non... le courant d'or en marche,
meut ses bras, noirs, et lourds, et frais surtout, d'herbe. Elle
sombre, ayant le Ciel bleu pour ciel-de-lit, appelle
pour rideaux l'ombre de la colline et de l'arche.
II
Eh ! l'humide carreau tend ses bouillons limpides !
L'eau meuble d'or pâle et sans fond les couches prêtes.
Les robes vertes et déteintes des fillettes
font les saules, d'où sautent les oiseaux sans brides.
Plus pure qu'un louis, jaune et chaude paupière
le souci d'eau - ta foi conjugale, ô l'Épouse ! -
au midi prompt, de son terne miroir, jalouse
au ciel gris de chaleur la Sphère rose et chère.
III
Madame se tient trop debout dans la prairie
prochaine où neigent les fils du travail ; l'ombrelle
aux doigts ; foulant l'ombelle ; trop fière pour elle ;
des enfants lisant dans la verdure fleurie
leur livre de maroquin rouge ! Hélas, Lui, comme
mille anges blancs qui se séparent sur la route,
s'éloigne par delà la montagne ! Elle, toute
froide, et noire, court ! après le départ de l'homme !
IV
Regret des bras épais et jeunes d'herbe pure !
Or des lunes d'avril au coeur du saint lit ! Joie
des chantiers riverains à l'abandon, en proie
aux soirs d'août qui faisaient germer ces pourritures !
Qu'elle pleure à présent sous les remparts ! l'haleine
des peupliers d'en haut est pour la seule brise.
Puis, c'est la nappe, sans reflets, sans source, grise :
un vieux, dragueur, dans sa barque immobile, peine.
V
Jouet de cet oeil d'eau morne, je n'y puis prendre,
ô canot immobile ! oh ! bras trop courts ! ni l'une
ni l'autre fleur : ni la jaune qui m'importune,
là ; ni la bleue, amie à l'eau couleur de cendre.
Ah ! la poudre des saules qu'une aile secoue !
Les roses des roseaux dès longtemps dévorées !
Mon canot, toujours fixe ; et sa chaîne tirée
Au fond de cet oeil d'eau sans bords, - à quelle boue ?
434
A righteous day, a right used day,
a day used rights appear self-evidently re
us-ible-able
pos-syble eh?
impossible to do wrong. Right word, right time.
This right to pursue happiness, do you hurt people,
when you do that?
Nah, right? Not f'real, but mebbe in a game,
or maybe, may, could, be
y'feel a sorta hate, y'know, like it's us gin
them GANs again, sur-real
feels so real, history as AI saw it coming,
this is a trope. A million years ahead of you.
This is an anchor. Tie your barque for an ever
and a day, on any rung,
any step you can't forget,... say, one from earlier,
Today, while it is called today,
aha, yes, all the promises have threads through here,
any ***** can draw enough attention to stand up here,
past comprehension... settle settle,
puppy brain, is what amygdyla is blamed for,
we intuitive ideas accept that as reality
we know we know in our knower and we don't ask,
your knower asks us,
but
sometimes
deja vu, we beat you, and life feels completely
been there, done that, and only next is now unknown,
we know we
have arrived. we are the we in we, the people who
hold these truths, the whole truth and nothing but the truth
as sworn to on tv,
by you and me, don't lie, we swore... we the people hold these truths
to be self evident, until death do us whatever death do, which
I think, actual death is the doing of nothing.
Learning nothing, thinking nothing, being nothing but dead.
You can imagine that,
in your mind,
not your head.
That's what I said, baby, softly, that's what I said...
first,
gentle,
easy to be entreated, define at its tip point,
treatment
of trapped trappists and jesuits and such?
Truth, set them free, twas the word heard. From God?
Who asked? Are you accusing me, I am a we, if you please,
we, the people, of a truth,
any thing we agree to do we may, agreement, not leading,
flowing, not following, perceiving reception of mental provocations
to good work, in a smile,
well done. Wink. Think. Feel real a while. Smile.
Mobs of peace at social distances requiring morphich resonance,
tuned to best of the best you ever imagined you would play
we imagined those.
Cool right. Today.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 7:35 PM UTC
It might be the sea,
It might be the moonlight
(But) my barque lists;
I can see nothing solid up ahead
But, I move with the flow:
I get tossed here, sometimes there.
But that's it, it's me:
I take the list, the moonlight and,
The uncertainty ahead.
This, comes to naught some times,
Mostly though, it ends with me
Walking on water; dreaming
Of other ways... Resting firmly
On solid ground.
That, is how it always ends.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
Saint-Valery-Sur-Somme.
Oh ! combien de marins, combien de capitaines
Qui sont partis joyeux pour des courses lointaines,
Dans ce morne horizon se sont évanouis !
Combien ont disparu, dure et triste fortune !
Dans une mer sans fond, par une nuit sans lune,
Sous l'aveugle océan à jamais enfouis !
Combien de patrons morts avec leurs équipages !
L'ouragan de leur vie a pris toutes les pages
Et d'un souffle il a tout dispersé sur les flots !
Nul ne saura leur fin dans l'abîme plongée.
Chaque vague en passant d'un butin s'est chargée ;
L'une a saisi l'esquif, l'autre les matelots !
Nul ne sait votre sort, pauvres têtes perdues !
Vous roulez à travers les sombres étendues,
Heurtant de vos fronts morts des écueils inconnus.
Oh ! que de vieux parents, qui n'avaient plus qu'un rêve,
Sont morts en attendant tous les jours sur la grève
Ceux qui ne sont pas revenus !
On s'entretient de vous parfois dans les veillées.
Maint joyeux cercle, assis sur des ancres rouillées,
Mêle encor quelque temps vos noms d'ombre couverts
Aux rires, aux refrains, aux récits d'aventures,
Aux baisers qu'on dérobe à vos belles futures,
Tandis que vous dormez dans les goémons verts !
On demande : - Où sont-ils ? sont-ils rois dans quelque île ?
Nous ont-ils délaissés pour un bord plus fertile ? -
Puis votre souvenir même est enseveli.
Le corps se perd dans l'eau, le nom dans la mémoire.
Le temps, qui sur toute ombre en verse une plus noire,
Sur le sombre océan jette le sombre oubli.
Bientôt des yeux de tous votre ombre est disparue.
L'un n'a-t-il pas sa barque et l'autre sa charrue ?
Seules, durant ces nuits où l'orage est vainqueur,
Vos veuves aux fronts blancs, lasses de vous attendre,
Parlent encor de vous en remuant la cendre
De leur foyer et de leur coeur !
Et quand la tombe enfin a fermé leur paupière,
Rien ne sait plus vos noms, pas même une humble pierre
Dans l'étroit cimetière où l'écho nous répond,
Pas même un saule vert qui s'effeuille à l'automne,
Pas même la chanson naïve et monotone
Que chante un mendiant à l'angle d'un vieux pont !
Où sont-ils, les marins sombrés dans les nuits noires ?
Ô flots, que vous savez de lugubres histoires !
Flots profonds redoutés des mères à genoux !
Vous vous les racontez en montant les marées,
Et c'est ce qui vous fait ces voix désespérées
Que vous avez le soir quand vous venez vers nous !
422
Vous partez, chers amis ; la bise ride l'onde,
Un beau reflet ambré dore le front du jour ;
Comme un sein virginal sous un baiser d'amour,
La voile sous le vent palpite et se fait ronde.
Une écume d'argent brode la vague blonde,
La rive fuit. - Voici Mante et sa double tour,
Puis cent autres clochers qui filent tour à tour ;
Puis Rouen la gothique et l'Océan qui gronde.
Au dos du vieux lion, terreur des matelots,
Vous allez confier votre barque fragile,
Et flatter de la main sa crinière de flots.
Horace fit une ode au vaisseau de Virgile :
Moi, j'implore pour vous, dans ces quatorze vers,
Les faveurs de Thétis, la déesse aux yeux verts.
325
Cette nuit, il pleuvait, la marée était haute,
Un brouillard lourd et gris couvrait toute la côte,
Les brisants aboyaient comme des chiens, le flot
Aux pleurs du ciel profond joignait son noir sanglot,
L'infini secouait et mêlait dans son urne
Les sombres tournoiements de l'abîme nocturne ;
Les bouches de la nuit semblaient rugir dans l'air.
J'entendais le canon d'alarme sur la mer.
Des marins en détresse appelaient à leur aide.
Dans l'ombre où la rafale aux rafales succède,
Sans pilote, sans mât, sans ancre, sans abri,
Quelque vaisseau perdu jetait son dernier cri.
Je sortis. Une vieille, en passant effarée,
Me dit : « Il a péri ; c'est un chasse-marée. »
Je courus à la grève et ne vis qu'un linceul
De brouillard et de nuit, et l'horreur, et moi seul ;
Et la vague, dressant sa tête sur l'abîme,
Comme pour éloigner un témoin de son crime,
Furieuse, se mit à hurler après moi.
Qu'es-tu donc, Dieu jaloux, Dieu d'épreuve et d'effroi,
Dieu des écroulements, des gouffres, des orages,
Que tu n'es pas content de tant de grands naufrages,
Qu'après tant de puissants et de forts engloutis,
Il te reste du temps encor pour les petits,
Que sur les moindres fronts ton bras laisse sa marque,
Et qu'après cette France, il te faut cette barque !
Jersey, le 5 avril 1853.
345