"nursling" poems
Today,
This tree was the very picture
Of a pair of birds
Who had a fight after mating.
You will never understand
The eagerness of this tree
In making every morning a new one
Or daily showing me a new movie,
However I try to describe it
One day
Leaves, that cry
“don’t go” “don’t leave”
To the wind
That passes by
Another day
Of shooing cats feasting in the shade,
On fish bone, from someone’s leftover meal,
After dribbling pigeon-droppings from a branch,
Another day
The tear-filled eyes
Of its own branch
That cries
And supplicates the sun
To heal its wound
Another day
Of its own sister branches
Or, in human parlance, wooden chairs
That have become prostitutes;
On which strange people sit casually.
One day
The Bihari
Who is scared stiff of his lord,
And who runs every time a wind blows
To sweep away the dried leaves
Which the wind has killed,
Having made violent love to them.
On yet another day,
The fruits that laugh their heads off
Along with the little blossoms that laughed once |
At the silver-blue sky
On still another day
The tap root
That suddenly burst into tears
Gazing at the dusk
That draped golden strands on boughs and twigs
On yet another day,
The aged middle-portion of the tree
That unveiled the hitherto unexposed
Moss-green nursling
And prayed that it be named
Another day before this,
Had made me sad
By asking
“Are you wont to see
the other tree-friends
Throughout the countryside ?”
Had made me heartsore
By asking me
“Would you forget me?”
Once, have asked
Whether I would point out
The mother-bird
Who sowed the seed after she ate the fruit
I have made myself broken-hearted |
wondering
Where or how mother was.
At the moment
When the mind gets shaken up
And becomes even more fragile,
In the memory of
Some trees
That have helped some lives thrive,
Have given shade,
Given oxygen,
Crucified,
O tree,
I am hugging you,
Giving you
A frozen, but still very passionate kiss
With the Alloyed numbness of death and life :
A tree-kiss
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears
Her nursling’s speech first grow articulate;
But breathless with averted eyes elate
She sits, with open lips and open ears,
That it may call her twice. ’Mid doubts and fears
Thus oft my soul has hearkened; till the song,
A central moan for days, at length found tongue,
And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears.
But now, whatever while the soul is fain
To list that wonted murmur, as it were
The speech-bound sea-shell’s low importunate strain,—
No breath of song, thy voice alone is there,
O bitterly beloved! and all her gain
Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer.
1.5k
This time of year soon comes to pass,
Where once again, we gift and praise,
The one who gave us life itself,
Shaped our thoughts and weaved our ways.
She who bore the fetal flesh,
To feed the hungry nursling so.
Love so deep, that knew no bounds,
Planted seeds that came to grow.
The child, too soon now tall and aged,
Yet in the heart still sweet and new,
Her ***** now a memory passed,
But bones are strong and ties long grew.
Disgruntled teen, a storm of ways!
And yet, foundations last the waves,
Survive the hurt of natures' wrath,
Oh, how the twist of time behaves!
Mature and wise, her work is done,
So on this day we sing our truth,
To hold her high and thank her so,
For precious time and sparkling youth!
But this was not the case for you,
The title held but duty missed,
There was no home of joy and love,
A heart unheld and face unkissed.
Shame fed the soil in place of trust,
The heart was sealed from infants grasp,
Insults hurled and cries unheard,
Where hands should link, a missing clasp.
The whirling growth of ones' own mind,
Insulted deep and made you loathe.
The seed you sewn and path you paved,
Forced then to feed and clean and clothe.
But know this Mother,
I hold no grudge.
For I am now a Mother too.
So have this day,
I thank you still,
And know I am much more than you.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC
I cradle in my palm the power of no.
It is small now, in the moist crook of my hand,
But with it, I have the power to throw out the rules
The ones that don't apply to me, that fill me with the false sense of obligation.
I hide my nursling close to the body because my no can't stand on its own yet
Expectations, like hungry wolves, surround my cupped fingers
Nosing, sniffing, clawing curiously at the gaps my no shines through
In its negativity, No is beautiful.
No leaves room for my sanity to creep, unknowning of how missed it is, like a thief into my life
Sanity, lead by the fledgling No, swells my life like a balloon,
Making room, allowing me to grow.
That's all in the future.
Now, I find the strength in myself to push away the cold muzzle of Other's Needs,
Press NO into the fertile soil of me
And watch it grow.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC