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Sara Kellie Jun 2018
The head fuckery of societies rules.
The indoctrination in our schools
has led to the homeless on our streets while politicians count their seats.
The privileged few, too rich to mention
fail to reveal their true intention.

The NHS setup to break by psychopaths all on the take.
Big business stripped of all its gold,
no pension funds left for the old.
Big pharma, they don't miss a trick,
they're making you & I feel sick.
They push the pills that ring the tills
even though they know it kills.

With the best advice and greatest will
our kids are on **** & fentanyl.
While we're divided black & white,
we'd never stand up to their might
So take your neighbour, hold their hand and together we'll reclaim our land.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Utopia is a planet with no borders & free movement of a free people.
Matt Revans Oct 2015
My autism's a part of me,

But it is apart, you see.

...

Who are you?

With your ‘normal’ view.

Are you just one thing, or are you a person

With thoughts & feelings, that are your own unique version.

Preferences, ideas, talents, and dreams?

That are bound by senses that meet at their seams.

Are you fat, short sighted or visually impaired?

Are you ever wondering why I just stood and stared.

Those may be the things that I saw the first time I meet you,

But you’re more than just your ‘normal’ diagnosis…. True?

As an adult, you have control over how you’re defined.

Your normality means your perceptions are refined.

So why would you single out one characteristic of mine that you can make known.

As a child, I am still unfolding, I’m not fully grown.

Neither you nor I yet know of what I am capable.

If you think of me as just one thing, then one thing’s inescapable.

You run the danger of assuming I have no chance of achieving.

And my heightened senses know this, it’s only you you’re deceiving

For I am not endowed with any ordinary sense.

You need to know this before I commence.

You take for granted sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

Never once realising that these things can be as painful as hell

For me.

You see.

My world often feels hostile, and makes me so fearful.

I may appear withdrawn or belligerent, whilst others are cheerful.

Or mean to you, or antagonistic,

Defending myself, then going ballistic.

You tell me we’re going on a trip to the shops

And out of the world my safety net instantly drops.

My hearing, you see, is hyper acute.

But I’m put in the car, though I loudly refute.

At the shops, walls of people jabber and whoop.

The loudspeaker booms and adds to the soup.

Music blares and lashes and whooshes.

Tills beep and cough, a coffee grinder swooshes.

The meat cutter screeches, a baby starts wailing,

I’m starting to malfunction and am rapidly flailing

As trolleys pass creaking, and fluorescent lights hum.

I’m starting to panic, but also turn numb.

My brain can’t filter the input, the voltage is massive

I’m in overload with no chance of staying passive.

My sense of smell is stratospheric.

That fish on the counter is NOT atmospheric.

The man in front hasn’t showered today,

That Stilton cheese – someone take it away!

A baby goes past, it’s ***** needs changing.

Things are going faster and turning deranging

They’re mopping up pickles on aisle two with some bleach and a rag.

My stomach is churning, and I’m starting to gag..

And there’s so much hitting my eyes!

This trip has turned into the world's worst surprise.

The fluorescent light

Is not only too bright,

it’s that flicker.

The space seems to be moving, getting quicker and quicker.

The pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing.

I don’t know what I’m doing, or saying, or being.

There are too many items for me to be able to focus.

The world starts to drain me of my internal locus.

My eyes try to compensate by tunnelling my vision

Fans on the ceiling, twist my senses into nuclear fission.

All this affects how I feel just standing there,

and I can’t even tell where my body is in space, do I care?

You’re yelling at me now, and shaking my shoulder

But the fiery fog is down and is starting to smoulder

It isn’t that I don’t want to hear your instruction.

I just can’t understand, due to mass self-destruction.

You're shouting now, but what does "£$%^&&% NOW! !£$%^&*" mean?

My senses will **** me in a collusion so obscene.

Once we’re back at the kids home, it all feels less absurd.

And now when you speak, I can hear every word.

Simple instructions, that I know off by heart.

And I cling onto these so I won’t fall apart.

You tell me what you want me to do next and I’m able to reply.

Now I’m happy and it’s easy for me to comply.

Now I’m OK and I’m running about

And performing my ritualised songs, which I shout.

Then a visitor grabs me saying, “Hold your horses, cowboy!” – This means danger!

I can’t stop the horses, I’m me, not the Lone Ranger!

And I’m thrown into panic when what you mean is, “Stop running.”

But I don’t know that! Those stampeding horses are coming!!

That’s my life, you see, it’s not “a piece of cake”

When there’s no dessert in sight and you’ve made a mistake.

When you say, “its pouring cats and dogs,” I see pets flooding from the sky.

Tell me, “It’s raining hard,” so I won’t fear the animals will die.

Puns, sarcasm and allusion

Simply generate confusion.

Tell me facts and keep things clear

So I can live, yet not in fear.

It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when my senses are reeling

When I don’t have a way to describe what I’m feeling.

I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened, or perplexed.

But I can’t find the words, and lash out, angry and vexed.

Be alert for my body language, or my gestures and obsessions

Then you’ll handle my feelings like your own treasured possessions.

Watch out for me compensating for not knowing the right word

By mimicking my favourite film star, or something just as absurd.

Rattling off words or whole scripts, which will leave you confounded

That I’ve memorised from Disney, because they make me feel grounded.

They may come from the TV, or speeches, or a book

And though they make people give a funny look

I just know that saying them gets me off the hook.

Show me, show me! I’m visual, you see.

And I’ll understand rather than you just telling me.

And be prepared to show countless times.

I’m listening, despite my ritualised rhymes.

Visual supports help me move through my day.

They relieve me of the stress and I feel OK.

I don’t have to remember what’s happening next

For I operate on a visual text.

This makes for smooth transitions in my life

And we’ll finally progress without anger or strife.

I need to see something to learn it, because spoken words are like steam to me;

They evaporate before my mind's eye, and are gone instantly,

Before I even have a chance to make sense of them,

They've died in the ether, leaving me in mayhem.

I don’t have instant-processing skills.

Instructions and information are my life giving pills

Images can stay in front of me for as long as I need,

and will be just the same in years, for they'll never recede.

Without visual help, I live the constant frustration

of knowing that I’m missing big blocks of information,

Not to mention falling short, by being a misfit

And I'm helpless to do anything about it.

Unlike other people, I'm unable to learn

If it's normal interaction for which you do yearn.

I’m constantly made to feel that I’m not good enough

And people are stern and people are tough.

They think I need taking in hand and need fixing.

Never knowing the world and my brain are tranfixing

I avoid trying any new things, for I'm sure I'll get 'dissed'

And another grown up will be angry and get 'real ******'.

But no matter how “constructive” you think you’re being.

Look for my strengths, though they're hard for the seeing.

There is more than one right way to do most things.

It may look like I don’t want to play with the other kids on the swings

But it may be that I simply do not know how to start

They just think I'm weird, and set me apart.

Teach me how to play with others.

Remove my autistic shrouded covers.

Encourage other children to invite me along.

They might learn something of value from my life's different song.

And rather than spend my day as separate, secluded.

I might show an ethereal delight at being included.

I do best in games that have a clear beginning and end.

Random play is something my fears won't transcend.

And just one other thing, a sort of confession

I cannot interpret a ****** expression

Or body language, or other peoples' emotion

So in group situations I'm resigned to demotion.

I want to learn, I want you to teach me.

Reach into my mind and help me to see.

If I laugh when Tommy falls off the climbing frame,

It’s that I don’t know what to say, nastiness isn't to blame

Talk to me about Tommy’s feelings and teach me to say,

“Are you hurt, Tommy, I'll get teacher, then you'll be okay?”

If you don't I'll meltdown or blow-up, and get in a stew

And this is a thousand times worse for me than for you.

For my mind will go into overload

My sense of equilibrium will start to off-road.

For I'm well past the limit of my social ability.

As those off road lights glare at my own disability.

If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented

And my behaviours will abate, less frequently lamented.

Keep notes about me and a pattern may emerge.

As your understanding of me will gradually converge.

Remember that everything I do is a form of communication.

It tells you, when my words cannot, how I’m reacting to each situation.

My behavior may have a physical cause.

Think for a moment, just have a pause.

Food allergies and sleep problems can affect my behaviour.

Just look for signs, for you might be my Saviour.

Because I may not be able to tell you about these things.

That blunt my affect and cause my mood swings.

Throw away thoughts like, “If you would just—” and “Why can’t you—?”

You didn’t fulfill every expectation your parents had either, that's true.

And would you like to witness a constant rewind.

Of the traumatic deficits by which you're defined?

I didn’t choose to have autism.

Or to live with this division

Remember that it’s happening to me, not to you.

But without understanding, my chances remain few.

With love and support, my horizons are broader

But I can't live my life by other peoples order.

Patience. Patience. Patience, are the three words we need to live by

For my dreams to be reached, and my confidence fly.

View my autism as a different ability

Rather than as a freak show disability.

Look past what you may see as limitations and feel for my strength

I may not be good at eye contact or conversations of length

But have you noticed that I don’t lie, or cheat at a game

Or pass judgment on people, and make them to blame?

I rely on you, if you can make me your personal vocation

All that I might become won’t happen without you as my foundation.

Be my advocate, be my guide

Be my strength, stand at my side.

Love me for who I am, and not what you know

And we’ll see just how far I can go.

Matt Revans 2014
©Copyright
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
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
he is the guy who plants the rice corn and wheat
so each one of us has something to eat
at break of day he tills the many acres of land
for his harvest of food there is a great demand

he is the guy who milks the cows twice a day
to make the butter and cream for afternoon tea trays
shop sell these goods to people everywhere
his milking shed produces such fine fair

he is the guy who grows peaches and marrows
collecting them on tractors and in wheel barrows
he is dedicated to the pursuit of growing staples
which grace our kitchen and dining room tables

he is the guy that rarely gets much recognition
hard work he does and in all weather conditions
the man on the land provides our mouths with a feed
his vocation serves a community of need
“Nullus enim locus sine genio est.”

  Servius.

“La musique,” says Marmontel, in those “Contes
Moraux” which in all our translations we have insisted upon
calling “Moral Tales,” as if in mockery of their
spirit—”la musique est le seul des talens qui
jouisse de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des
temoins.” He here confounds the pleasure derivable from
sweet sounds with the capacity for creating them. No more
than any other talent, is that for music susceptible
of complete enjoyment where there is no second party to
appreciate its exercise; and it is only in common with other
talents that it produces effects which may be fully
enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the raconteur has
either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in its
expression to his national love of point, is
doubtless the very tenable one that the higher order of
music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are
exclusively alone. The proposition in this form will be
admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake
and for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still
within the reach of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one,
which owes even more than does music to the accessory
sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness experienced in
the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man who
would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in
solitude behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not
of human life only, but of life, in any other form than that
of the green things which grow upon the soil and are
voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at war with the
genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently
smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the
proud watchful mountains that look down upon all,—I
love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members
of one vast animate and sentient whole—a whole whose
form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most
inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets;
whose meek handmaiden is the moon; whose mediate sovereign
is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose thought is that of
a god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are
lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin
with our own cognizance of the animalculae which
infest the brain, a being which we in consequence regard as
purely inanimate and material, much in the same manner as
these animalculae must thus regard us.

Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us
on every hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant
of the priesthood, that space, and therefore that bulk, is
an important consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The
cycles in which the stars move are those best adapted for
the evolution, without collision, of the greatest possible
number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately
such as within a given surface to include the greatest
possible amount of matter; while the surfaces themselves are
so disposed as to accommodate a denser population than could
be accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise arranged. Nor
is it any argument against bulk being an object with God
that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity
of matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the
endowment of matter with vitality is a principle—
indeed, as far as our judgments extend, the leading
principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely logical
to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where
we daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august.
As we find cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving
around one far-distant centre which is the Godhead, may we
not analogically suppose, in the same manner, life within
life, the less within the greater, and all within the Spirit
Divine? In short, we are madly erring through self-esteem in
believing man, in either his temporal or future destinies,
to be of more moment in the universe than that vast “clod of
the valley” which he tills and contemns, and to which he
denies a soul, for no more profound reason than that he does
not behold it in operation.

These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my
meditations among the mountains and the forests, by the
rivers and the ocean, a tinge of what the every-day world
would not fail to term the fantastic. My wanderings amid
such scenes have been many and far-searching, and often
solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through
many a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven
of many a bright lake, has been an interest greatly deepened
by the thought that I have strayed and gazed alone.
What flippant Frenchman was it who said, in allusion to the
well known work of Zimmermann, that “la solitude est une
belle chose; mais il faut quelqu’un pour vous dire que la
solitude est une belle chose”? The epigram cannot be
gainsaid; but the necessity is a thing that does not exist.

It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far
distant region of mountain locked within mountain, and sad
rivers and melancholy tarns writhing or sleeping within all,
that I chanced upon a certain rivulet and island. I came
upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw myself upon
the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that
thus only should I look upon it, such was the character of
phantasm which it wore.

On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about
sinking, arose the verdant walls of the forest. The little
river which turned sharply in its course, and was thus
immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no exit from its
prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of the
trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it
appeared to me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there
poured down noiselessly and continuously into the valley a
rich golden and crimson waterfall from the sunset fountains
of the sky.

About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took
in, one small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed
upon the ***** of the stream.

So blended bank and shadow there, That each seemed pendulous
in air—

so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely
possible to say at what point upon the ***** of the emerald
turf its crystal dominion began. My position enabled me to
include in a single view both the eastern and western
extremities of the islet, and I observed a singularly-marked
difference in their aspects. The latter was all one radiant
harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the
eye of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers.
The grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-
interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful, *****, bright,
slender, and graceful, of eastern figure and foliage, with
bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a deep
sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew
from out the heavens, yet everything had motion through the
gentle sweepings to and fro of innumerable butterflies, that
might have been mistaken for tulips with wings.

The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the
blackest shade. A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom,
here pervaded all things. The trees were dark in color and
mournful in form and attitude— wreathing themselves
into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that conveyed ideas
of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep
tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung
droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many small
unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that
had the aspect of graves, but were not, although over and
all about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The
shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed
to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the
element with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the
sun descended lower and lower, separated itself sullenly
from the trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed
by the stream, while other shadows issued momently from the
trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus entombed.

This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited
it, and I lost myself forthwith in reverie. “If ever island
were enchanted,” said I to myself, “this is it. This is the
haunt of the few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of
the race. Are these green tombs theirs?—or do they
yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In
dying, do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering
unto God little by little their existence, as these trees
render up shadow after shadow, exhausting their substance
unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to the water that
imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which
engulfs it?”

As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank
rapidly to rest, and eddying currents careered round and
round the island, bearing upon their ***** large dazzling
white flakes of the bark of the sycamore, flakes which, in
their multiform positions upon the water, a quick
imagination might have converted into anything it pleased;
while I thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one
of those very Fays about whom I had been pondering, made its
way slowly into the darkness from out the light at the
western end of the island. She stood ***** in a singularly
fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an oar.
While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her
attitude seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as
she passed within the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at
length rounded the islet and re-entered the region of light.
“The revolution which has just been made by the Fay,”
continued I musingly, “is the cycle of the brief year of her
life. She has floated through her winter and through her
summer. She is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail
to see that as she came into the shade, her shadow fell from
her, and was swallowed up in the dark water, making its
blackness more black.”

And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the
attitude of the latter there was more of care and
uncertainty and less of elastic joy. She floated again from
out the light and into the gloom (which deepened momently),
and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she
made the circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to
his slumbers), and at each issuing into the light there was
more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler and far
fainter and more indistinct, and at each passage into the
gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun
had utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her
former self, went disconsolately with her boat into the
region of the ebony flood, and that she issued thence at all
I cannot say, for darkness fell over all things, and I
beheld her magical figure no more.
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
  The tender blossom flutter down,
  Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
  Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
  And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;

Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
  The brook shall babble down the plain,
  At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
  And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
  Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;

Till from the garden and the wild
  A fresh association blow,
  And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;

As year by year the labourer tills
  His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
  And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Patience
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation 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 bent 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 every one of my birds' nests,
and your melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, patience, heart, silence, night, vigil, morning, voice, golden, streams, heavens, songs, birds, melodies, songs, jubilation, flowers, forest groves, 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.



Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization 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!



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.



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 like him 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
thatdreadedpoet Jul 2013
on july 13th, 2013: George Zimmerman
a florida native with a history of violence
was found not guilty for the ****** of unarmed 17 year old African American boy Trayvon Martin claiming self defense

on may 8th, 2012 African American, Marissa Alexander:
a florida native with no history of violence
was sentenced to 20 years in prison for discharging a warning shot out of self defense from the wrath of her abusive ex- husband

marissa,
i often wonder how you felt on july 13th when you heard the Trayvon Martin verdict
did you feel the heaviness of invisible shackles weighing your hands and feet down like you had stepped into the 1600s?
did you feel a surge of anger burn through your throat like i did for you?

did you ask yourself if you should’ve continued letting your husband play picasso on you?
Letting your body be his work of art as he splattered blotches of black and blue making a tie-dyed canvas out of you?
because the jury treated the bruises you wore as if they were the plague
saying beware of a black woman who protects herself
it takes 20 years of solitary confinement to cure her of this disease

marissa,
are you afraid of the skin of bullseyes your two children were born into
knowing that society will use them for target practice every day like they did for you?

can you not sleep at night out of fear anytime your child pulls a hood over his head
that he is marking himself as sacrifical lambs to our legal system?

did you tell your mother the next day to burn your babies black hoodies
because on July 13th it was made known
being black and wearing a hood means danger
that being black and wearing a hood means you have a hunger for ******
that being black and wearing a hood means you have cosigned to a persecution?
and yet…we all seem to forget the ones in white that fit the same description

marissa,
i hope you’re starting to see America has OCD
wanting to color within the same lines, with the same two colors
segregating black and white
neglecting to realize that blood and blood shed never bleed out in the same two colors
just look at the crime scenes of Trayvon Martin and your ex-husband

marissa,
from now on when you bite your tongue while eating
don’t spit the blood out
leave it, let it settle, then swallow
and let it be a reminder of all the trayvon martins, all the emmett tills, all the james birds, and all the little black boys who died for standing their ground like you tried to

marissa,
i know you feel like god abadoned you
as if he stabbed you into the back and sent you on a suicide mission
but please
know you are my symbol of hope
you are my hero
the woman i wish to emulate and be
you are the one i pray for at sunday night dinners while holding the one hand of my black mother and the other hand of my white father
hoping one day america can sing free at last and actually mean that
hoping one day america can be blended and still be considered alright
hoping america will stop painting pictures in only black and white
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.

Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.

Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.

Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent ***** loudest chants
The master's requiem.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Gitanjali 11
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation 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!

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, vain, worship, entity, God, temple, chanting, singing, counting, beads, petals, incense, meditations, tiller, paver, dust, rags, sweat, toil, 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.



Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization 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!



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.



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.



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!

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, India, Indian, poet, Bengali, sea, seashore, children, mother, dog, love, lover, patience, curtain, death
The store had been closed for a month or more,
The Receivers opened the door,
To auction off all the fittings there,
Whatever stood on the floor,
There were counters, mirrors, plenty of stock,
The tills and the ******* bins,
It was all going under the hammer,
Even a line of mannequins.

When John McRogers happened to pass
He heard the clamour inside,
He peered on in through the window glass
And he watched the human tide,
The bids were coming from everywhere
From phones, and spread through the store,
So he wandered into the human mass
And made his way from the door.

He wandered along the vacant aisles
Saw everything piled in heaps,
There wasn’t much of a bidding war
So everything went quite cheap,
He wondered if he should make a bid
Was there anything there for him?
His eyes then came to rest on a girl,
A fabulous mannequin.

She stood in a line of eight or nine
But caught his eye from the start,
He thought that she had the bluest eyes
Of all, and she stood apart!
She must have been all of six foot six
With a tapering line to the waist,
And ******* of promise and silken legs
A woman of style and taste.

He put in a nervous bid when she
Was auctioned along the line,
But nobody put in a counter bid,
And he thought to himself, ‘She’s mine!’
He had a courier pick her up
And take her straight to his home,
Then stood her up in his office, where
He could savour her there, alone.

She hadn’t a scrap of clothing on
They’d taken it off when she went,
He tried to avert his eyes, she showed
No sign of embarrassment,
Her hands hung limply down at her side
No effort to cover up,
But her eyes had followed him round the room,
Whenever he’d start, or stop.

‘I’m going to call you Jennifer,’
He said to himself, out loud,
Then sensed she shuddered and straightened up
In a movement that seemed quite proud,
His wife had left him the year before
For a keeper, down at the zoo,
So now he said, and in fact he swore,
‘I only have eyes for you!’

‘I only have eyes for you, my dear,
My Jennifer from Le Trée,
I’ll always cherish you near me here
When I work out here, all day,
We’ll spend our evenings here in the warm
With a single desk-top light,
And in the gloom of this little room
You might even come to life!’

He left her naked, stood by his desk,
She had an ****** air,
The wig she wore flowed over her back
Brunette, but the lights were fair,
He worked each night at his desk in gloom
Lit only by one small stand,
And every now and again he’d rouse,
Reach over and touch her hand.

The hand was cold, plastic and hard
And it couldn’t return a thing,
Until one night, he opened a box
And slipped on a wedding ring,
He worked away for an hour or so
Til he’d filled out a batch of forms,
Then reached unconsciously out for her hand
To find it was soft and warm.

He looked up into her shining face
And noticed, to his surprise,
Her cheeks had softened, her lips were red
And a lovelight shone from her eyes,
He stood and reached for her willing form
And she did what he wanted to,
But an urgent message tugged at his brain,
‘I only have eyes for you!’

‘I only have eyes for you,’ she thought
And beamed that into his head,
He never would leave that office again,
His friends soon thought he was dead.
They came in force, broke into his house
And found that he’d really gone,
‘There’s only a couple of mannequins here,
But one of them looks like John!’

David Lewis Paget
Don Bouchard Sep 2014
She swept the house;
Sorted through a chicken
To make a *** of soup;
Chopped vegetables,
Boiled another *** of
Vegetable soup;
Broke eggs
And made a quiche;
Drove to work
And balanced all the tills;
Returned home,
Washed the sheets
And pillow cases...
And then she bathed
And went to bed,
Certain that
Her house was clean,
And that
Her family would be fed.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
some people might cite you that slavery had disappeared,
not to my knowledge,
         it was a wednesday at my local supermarket,
and there was only one male in the place, a manager,
and only women stacking shelves and sitting at the tills...
it really looked like all the men were laid off...
         well... what with the export of manual labour
to china... what sort of man would want to stack shelves
for a lifetime? it's not exactly coal-mining,
it's not something his body is used to doing...
                   he stacks supermarket shelves,
       and then watches modern day "gladiators"
break the sweat and have a lean body...
                                              women can stack supermarket
shelves...
                  men? they need physical ambition...
     women can have that, when being pregnant...
then this old strytoczała "******" of a woman tries
to encompass small-talk with my purchase...
    - would you like me to pack your bags?
- no no, i'm fine...      
               all i have is a rucksack, a bottle of ***,
a bottle of ms. pepsi. and a bottle of ale...
                 i can't do small-talk, i never know why people
would even bother with it... it's easily disposable...
       but it's a wednesday in my local supermarket,
and there's only the male manager, and the rest of the employees
are female...
                    imagine seeing men moaning like women
in the easy-sector of physical exertion...
       there's absolutely no reward for them!
                             what the **** are they doing?
     something akin to housework, knitting, or gardening,
arranging "flowers" / packaging in the most satisfying formation...
    have they all left for australia to work in the outback?
i wish they had...
              i buy my *****, a fat employee is buying
sugar snacks and ready-made meals...
                and i'm thinner than he is... even though i know
that alcohol bloats you up a bit...
                 but what sort of men are you breeding?
in india they'd be called the untouchables...
                 in england? they're called the disposables.
oh slavery hasn't died... it just evolved, morphed...
    it's called a 0 hour contract...
         and you know what that is? right?
        you're aiming at: poodle!
                             you earn an hour's worth of employment
whenever they want you to come in for work,
and if they don't want your labour? you're back
at zee-ρ: yep... 0. like kant said: 0 = negation...
     western societies lied about a need for labour...
    forget the hegelian master & slave relation...
      it's more        parasite & host these days...
        am i a social justice... thingy?
                                isn't it a form of slavery?
the worst kind... it's not like you have to be constantly present,
like house-service, and have a constant form of "employment"...
the new whip is the clock that has no synchronisity
with, any form of responsibility...
          if this isn't slavery, guided by spontaneity,
then i'd rather be an african-american in the south prior
to the civil war... at least i'd be fed, day by day with some
sort of rigour, some sort of structure...
         where are all the men gone to?
     so you think a strong chimp mating with a weak woman
will provide a strong chimp?
     just another ****** working a 0-hours contract...
come here poodle... pooh pooh... come back on friday
    and work 5 hours... we might call you back in 4 days to
work 7 hours...
                      **** me... and i thought my jokes were bad...
but this 0-hour contract "innovation"...
    you're basically opening a can of worms, or at least
summoning the spirit of pandora...
       you're really summoning a bunch of crazy *******...
  and that's not even islam...
               islam is going to be a softcore version of violence
these ******* will be programmed into...
    you're going to be talking ***** films, ******* gang rapes...
i know i would, be reduced to that sort of level
if i was on a 0-hour contract... fair enough if you're a woman...
but take metallurgy from men, or other types of production
that makes their physical strength utilised to an exertion
that competes with athletes... and you take that away...
  they either get fat... or they go mad...
    and that's mad in the casual sense of exercising violence...
but of course you sold us out to the chinese...
       and if you try to retract that "chess" move now?
well... we number a few millions... they have a billion willing
conscripts to overwhelm these lands....
       the german third *****? that's candy-floss compared
with what might come.
    but yeah... thank you very much... i'm with the dodo project;
and my my, ain't this spiced ***, just fine?
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2023
~for my dear, dear friend, T.R.
who tills the soil of Jordan’s Garden,
from which life springs eternal

<>

see your words, sent direct to my ears and all our mutuality of senses,
fingertips tasting the soil, the moisture, the granularity,
the chemical composition and the color, always the colors…

our gardens are our children, each similar but always,
unique, altogether different, altogether similar

how I love the how-work of it;  how the soil, you, suckle each other
with nutrients of tears, Georgia heat, outcomes of
the summer produce(s),
a refresher course of memories, of frustrated endlessness

we see heaven only by looking down, you, me, on our hand and knee,
touching each plant by hand as if soft stroking a cheek of our children

in some spots, the ground unyielding, keeping its riches
stored for another day, only then, when it wills, offer up
its specialty - a surprise, a wind-blown in, seed sprouting

it so many different ways, the work gets harder, and yet,
more tender, more desirable and we do not wonder on it

for this the way, of planting, and planning human desires,
tempered by elements over which we relinquish a
sense of control, yet forever knowing, happily, renewal~marked by

the forever and ever on seasonality
of a rebirthing garden
that sustains
us






6/25/23
Tithonus

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms.
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
    Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man--
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed
To his great heart none other than a God!
I asked thee, "Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,
And beat me down and marred and wasted me,
And though they could not end me, left me maimed
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
And all I was ashes.  Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears,
To hear me?  Let me go; take back thy gift.
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
    A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And ***** beating with a heart renewed.
Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosened manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
    Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
    Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth be true?
"The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
    Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch--if I be he that watched--
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
    Yet hold me not forever in thine East;
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rose shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground.
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave;
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn,
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.

Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.

Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.

Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent ***** loudest chants
The master's requiem.
Martyn Thompson Aug 2011
A warm glow radiates through the bones
that are usually filled with aches and groans
as I pass my place of birth.
The street screams my name by day
and whispers it softly when light has gone away
smell the air, smell the warmth rising from the earth.

The street entertainers of Portobello road
the cool saxophone, the sweet notes blown
the sound of a thousand footsteps.
The jugglers, magicians and the market stands
balancing, conjuring and selling their brands
the warm breeze scatter their scent.

Watch out for vagabonds and confidence tricks
souvenir shops serving countless tourists
the sound of a thousand tills ringing.
Eat in any language, speak in any tongue
dream of hustle and bustle and days long gone
still you can hear the street singing.

From Pembridge Road to Westbourne Grove
these streets tell me that I am home
they call me, repel me, thrill and destroy me.
This land that did bear me keeps willing me back
to walk it's streets and follow it's tracks
this land is the place I must be...

If I die, think only this of me,
through every pane of glass, behind every windowsill
there will always be a place called Notting Hill. 
On the 12th day of Christmas
My troubles gave to me........

12 unpaid bills
11 ringing cash tills
10 packets of batteries
09 invites to parties
08 year olds a screaming
07 unwanted toys redeeming
06 packets of dog biscuits
05 unwanted parking tickets
04 overdrawn credit cards
03 strange looking leotards
02 forgotten to buy turkeys
And a garage for those car keys
Special season wishes ; )
Belly up to the
cannibal *** and feed, pig.
Be just like the rest.

Marrow in your teeth,
the flesh of your suckling brat.
You voted for this.

Your nose in the mud
tills up those pricey truffles,
while you eat your young.

Securitizing
your future derivatives.
Your fat on their plate.
4 haiku for election year. Color me underwhelmed by our choice between corporate tools.
hushhush Feb 2015
Suddenly my body.
I stand on the floor
It's my home
For now it's my home
That's what we call it,
When words are used to speak
All those meanings we barely know
Where this floor is i stand,
My home.
But there's a body between us
In this world, my home, there's body between us,
Road fence and time between us
And a little grey but not in colour

I was built to live only this day
Not tomorrow or yesterday
And when i look look look
It seems like life lives his life in a tree
Because that's where i've found it all
Though who am i
The world fits into both these eyes only when it ever stops changing
But it
It will never

And maybe if then the world would recreate itself each day
And how could we ever know
In each day some theory could be truth
They all have in  common that it brought us here today.
No.
Nonono.
Only use the words that you can open into tunnels
(but only if you want to)

But where am i
Here
With the need to ecsape
Yes
First my body
I wished it
I wished
Only if the cage were made harder on the ouside rather than the inside
Then i might not be moulded
Pressed into corners and outer edges

First my body
Escape escape escape

Then find me someplace
Oh wow never have i written words like this way now
they are just like
They are like like my feet walking and they take me
Do i have to think to step
No i do not,
Only sometimes,
Now, see?
Words like foot steps on this day.
My feet keep shaking now.

Because there i am
Listen,
Leaving the world
I see this blue arch
That each day the sun kisses.
And at least one thousand faces only
I feel them smiling
And of course there are birds
Soundless ones
If my pupils might draw lines into the sky as they followed
They might leave trails there like a plane
Carry all those lives i will never  know
(just as the world does)

So i kept breathing
The world
And the world was hard to breathe
Like it was made for someone else.

To the mirror and the window
I almost searched
I don't know where i find this person,
Me.
Where did i see them more.

Find a safe space
Hibernate.
When my body runs, barely moving
And the voice runs along there beside it
(somehow i fall behind the world)
Tells me "i need a place, i need a place, to hide, my very own place"
Then it needs a place
Place to hide
You can see there
In the pace
Pacing
On ground when it's too real on my feet and so
Breathing and stepping.
When my eyes are hard lakes and the tears grow around.
Talking talking to myself

Oh wow oh wow oh wow
A den a den a den
A space
My place
Place of my own and escape
Oh wow.
Hibernate.
The smallest place to find some space.

There,
i find a need that's mine
Growing in me
Give me space, but none to move

My guitar my blanket the headboard of my bed,
They tell it to me nicely,
(a gentle falling)
But they won't hold me until.
And they won't find
The softer beating to put into this heart space
Smoother air to feel in this mouth

But cushions and cushions
Cushions
Every single one in this whole room
Scarf pillow and duvet
Piled in books and books
Only these lights could glow somehow like a fire
Little place i find myself

Keep me safe from my own self
But more so
More so i'm sorry
keep me safe from their every kindness.

Little hidden place
Walls of comfort
Holds me even like this body
Till this body shook and shook
Tills the hands that grip it together
slipped apart
and they slip
Till i slip through the fingers
Of the words and sounds that are me
But now here's a body.

I think my back
the bone
Backbone won't hold me up alone.

But there it is i'm not
I'm not like a flag on a flag pole

Some ribbon maybe
Like a ribbon piece
I see a willow fence
Green and life
A ribbon moves there
And tied on a willow fence
Am i a ribbon or like a handwritten wish
I dont know

I can't feel the wind.
But the wind
This thing with the wind
It's told me things about myself
But reallly
what i look for
I don't look, i don't look
And if i lose my eyes
i will see sunlight still
And where it moves
on my arms and on my legs.

Shivering and shivering
I do shiver
I do dedicate my life to living
But little
Little place,

Curled and curled
and curled into myself until hardly a thing,
Can i lose my eyes here
But could i sleep and sleep and sleep in this body
And in every space around it
until i find i am awake.
CRAYON
(basically this is one of my ones where my head was in a mad state)
neth jones Oct 2022
piloted
plough tills the plot
overturns one season
for one of greater potential profit
08/07/22
Kìùra Kabiri May 2017
"Remembering the Soviet’s silent sufferings!"

Chechnya, Georgia, Crimea…… Kiev!
There they marauded cruelly combing all  
And souls they severely sought to take like hogs
Souls they fatally fought-these Dmitri dogs
In death jails-a hell more than purgatory’s punishment
They put souls to pleasurably slaughter them all
And a soul at its time they picked and hacked in elated excitement
Severely they severed them these trigger happy Zarkozsky fools

Hunger and starvation their invasion caused!
It is a saying: To suppress small states-hunger and violence cause!
And out of these societies’ desperations, demeaned humans
Will subjugate freely as miserable subjects-slaves to any rule
The soviet sacrificed us to their animosity and brutality
Our children, our parents, our experts-we all fatally fell
Of their gallous guns or cruel squads or unnatural hungers
Humans, hardworking humans became bones-NOTHING!

We did the donkeys’ hard works-indefatigably  
And they ungrateful, kingly collected our all
All our tills tires they unjustly carried away
And all was left in sustainable villages were huge hungers-
Everywhere were war casualties: tension, desperation, mass starvations-
And when angered we couldn’t bottle anymore we staged rebellions
And they cursed us with all sorts of chemicals contaminations

They combated and convicted us with any known brutal cruelties
Innocent infants they injured with their injustices-fatalities  
Little angels they hewed with brutality-others they made all sorts of slaves
They collected us, us resilient and begun murdering our mettle vitalities
Men, all able men they collected, killed and covered in mass graves
Them they carried in transport trains, some they threw away in trenches, in rivers…
Their remains they concealed to deny us a claim of their atrocities and animosities

Babies remained, crying for their dying mummies and daddies
Long after finally they have given up fighting-living
Poor innocent babies, unaware it is death……
It is not death the devil but Dmitri dogs the devils
That has fat fed on their last of defenses-able parents
Times ahead of them were tough if not toughest

The Petrovs’, the Pavlovichs’, the Mirovics,
The Lenin’s, the Stalin’s, the Sarkozsky’s.....
They are animals raised from hells horrible
There not to pamper and foster but to decimate  
Ruthless and cruel they killed without a soul-a heart  
Death is their rite, blood is their eucharist
Mass mortuaries of mutilated bodies are their sophists
Killing is their glorious celebrations-theirs sacred sacrifices

In jail, doors opened and rude were ruthless soldiers’ orders
Chains crinkled on ground as sacrifices lead to little altars
Prisoners were time to time collected and lead in cruel commanders’ commands
And from distances came echoes of targeted bingo bull’s-eye shots
A LOW ROW of shots followed by the silences of squeal of sailed souls and their guilt
If a day or a night-if any able to tell from chained scary dark chambers  
Passed and found you fit-alive, you counted yourself very, very lucky!

It was dark when we escaped from the jaws of our starving starring deaths
Out, the moon shone silvery sweet and bright on these sad ******-white snows
Its silver speckle lights letting lurid luminous sparkling glows
The snow rained with such sadness and bitterness
On our ears it whizzed with fury and ferocity
On our bare skins it bit with brutality and cruelty
On our near naked feet it froze and frosted
We endured, we had to!

Had we managed to rob death of its celebration and elation
A taste of our starved wounded bones-surviving skeletons
We had to struggle to live and hope give, we strived, we had no choice
If we were to be counted heroes of our hopeless humans
Saviours of our suppressed peoples
We had to reach a safe distance and our rural homes
To stage the war from the roots, the stems, the base!

A death in nature by nature is better than one in Dmitri dogs hands
Their deaths were inhumane, their deaths were merciless
They were mocking and shocking-laughing and loathing while killing
A mocking moustache peeking from their elongated mouths smiles
A cigar smoking from their mouth and emitting from their nostrils
A red star labeled soviet beret on their ***** irking hairy heads
They killed you slowly loving and laughing of any strength you gave to live
Until at last you are lost-in the abyss arenas of death, your are done
Such a point you give up, you can’t fight, resist anymore

They chased after us–they pursued us
They were too determined to not let any of us live
But miraculously we lived-we somehow survived
Here in this snowy arena it is a fair ground for everyone-
There is no grandmaster, it is improvisation
Survival only for the willed-fittest
Not how well you were equipped or trained
Though too skills and determination also counted

We trapped them in their own constructed coliseum
A lot of them free-froze and fell in these forgotten fields
Their bones never to reach their of-kin commemorating cemeteries
Nature is JUST! As us, theirs too had to bitterly mourn their nature lost
The never to see graves, reminders of their never returned fighting loved ones
With God’s grace on us, we cheated their beginning to tire authorities
We reached home; we reached the earth’s of our ancestors

And here we gathered to charge back-to seek backups
To restore the lost glory of our nastily punished perishing people
Some we sneaked to safety in case we all perish we have remnants
Backups to tell of us-our sorrowful story-our liberty struggles
To Kiev and its heroes; to Kiev and its strong heroines
To Kiev and its resistant living; To Kiev and its resilient
We gathered to kick back, to tell the world of the evils of the Soviet Satans
To mourn with grace our gone and done in this dehumanizing disgrace!  
O Kiev, her heartless Holodomor; O Crimea, O Georgia…..
The Satanic Soviet infiltration brought you eternal sufferings!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Ding **** merrily oh my,
I hear the cash tills ringing
wondering what I'm going to buy
and what is Santa Bringing.
Gloooooooooooooooria
in Chelsea,
they're all singing.

Salvation army bands march past
trumpets at the ready
I was in the hostel once
the Sergeant Major fed me.
Gloooooooooooooooria
IN Chelsea,
they're all singing.

The elves are sat down in the bar
the reindeer are lunching,
accountants sat at home in fear
Christmas number crunching.
Gloooooooooooooooria
in Chelsea,
they're all singing.
Connor Jan 2016
I

Flowers already,
sputtering bicycles and the mad drums of foreshadowed
Springtime,
Massage therapist of the universe!
The extracted final note in a bird's outcry and my ears are full of sound
and sleep.
A cities undeterred heartbeat welcomes me to the continuous span of events only separated by the lambent verve,
windowless eyes watching each other
a signal-light blue ocean winding around a wicked mattress
seductively spinning a cowl into the night for her lover
(who's thoughts have been paused!  he's 100% clocked in and spun out, a hanging aluminum)
DAZZLING!
toothpaste spit outside into January's soft grass from a second story dorm room that's curtains reminds me of The Glenshiel..
(or maybe I'm suddenly feeling sublime death slowly knotting itself into my lungs, always been there but kinda like noticing your nose resting on your face for the first time)
On the bus home I thought of new years eve, 2015.
After the countdown, emerged from the underground
James Joyce pool hall,
rushing out to the streets
an asphalt madhouse
lunacy, absolute, and stabbings nearby tortured parkades.
Here's the new year made real,
a tangible calendar
an authoritative sentiment
while I listened to Donovan's "To Sing for You"
My new friends laughed, arms together,
I felt like I was standing on the edge of an undiscovered sun,
replaced by Vietnamese clouds
(Which I'll sail by come September)

II**

A crow waits on a balcony, wet and lonely from the rain.
Radios buzzing an electric tuba.
Smoke is the father and
dew is the mother
I am the son cold and clothed, while others soak beneath
canopies, cement gaps, they pray, I pray for them although I
wouldn't consider myself religious,
"Agnostic spiritualism"
yeah, the has a nice flow to it
but that's just my opinion..
Waking up before the sun has breathed
the first western factory.
Yellow hats
****** fists
a faint star is singing
I'm listening
ears are ringing
a static drone collapses
consciousness reaches a peak before subsiding to sunlight
(sequel to the last day, prequel to the days to come)
I'll fall in love again, I know it
I have it marked on my calendar you'll see!
Water a few hours still/room temperature/is shaking because my foot
beats against the carpet/
this music isn't exactly conventional or pure as the morning
more a glass shatter
or a psychotic scream in distant queer Victoria nightclubs.
Passing Christmas,
Oak Bay,
Spanish holiday (potentially)
and ** Chi Minh City market walks
(future events ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
A university lecture from Vandana Shiva,
watching my dad's cat for four months
(Where my room was destroyed in a forty-five minute
terrified chase thru the house to lock him in a carrier for an urgent vet appointment due to kidney stones, or what we thought was urinary crystals at the time. He howled the entire car ride there)
I think back to childhood, 1996 Apartment light and the December blizzard which buried parking lots, blocked entrances/exits n forced people to be patient for once, sit and talk, make love without setting an alarm for the morning after
(before I was even 5, or 10, long before I wrote poems, and lost those I would come to care about..)
Hopefully all those elementary school friends turned out okay.
Since moving, I've frequently passed great corner store curtains,
green and grey dusty
by the rusting tills
an empty town
where the soccer fields became overgrown and ice cubes melt slow on
people's fingers (As they wait for time to roll by like it always has)
a forgivable loss of community.
Even so, there's that consistent disappointment in lost years,
a waiting room, and I'm choking on oriental carpet threads lodged one by one into my throat and here I thought I'd eventually taste the Chinese
but it appears that they have instead swallowed me, downed me with tequila (label torn from passing months and birthdays not celebrated)
The holy temperate wind expands down and through bare branches,
argumentative hours
desperate hands
a loudspeaker CALLING!
and the WILD MACHINE cuckoo cuckoo past the insulation.
Silvery sweet, undreamed kisses, misunderstandings,
the cool reflection of a kettle while two wait for midnight and for the butterfly to creep up on their shoulders.
(cradled by cosmic lobotomy, hours where not one person can sleep,
and Sadhus give spiritual advice for those that need it, India, while I need their voices here on Vancouver Island, far from the Ghats)
When can I go for that intercontinental voyage??
to escape the warehouse cathedrals,
capital Christs,
nettled lipstick,
weariness in the age of wireless consciousness
and a spectrum of commonplace goddesses who wake with no lucidity.
My breathing getting heavier every day, with the weight of wanderlust,
an asthma designed for those who's material position is dictated by a secluded room
(slowly catching fire)
I'm only months away from the prophesied airplane..
all been leading to this
here, now
soon.

The only known alleviation
on this unrest for experience
resides in poetry.
How weird
I am here
and you don’t know it.
Sleeping they say,
in a better place.

George on my right
has been gone for years,
even the flowers all brown
gave up God knows when.

I wonder if you knew
your neighbours
before the batteries stopped.
Did Edith know Agatha?
Did Frank chat over the fence?

Chris was seventy-two,
moved here mid-nineties
when I couldn’t yet hold a pen.
Now just a name
on a slab of stone.

There’s a spot near a tree,
no stone no dirt.
I think ‘that’ll be fine,
a place by myself.’
I shake my head.
They’ll stick me
somewhere else.

These aisles go on and on,
one giant Tesco,
nobody at the tills.

If you could speak,
the stories I’d hear,
the chapters spilling out
like salt from a shaker.
But you can’t talk
and I can only walk past
and wonder how you went.
Written: November 2013 and January 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for a class at university - as such, it is likely to change slightly in the upcoming weeks. Fairly similar to an older piece, 'Best Before.' The title is taken from The Jam song of the same name.
Olga Valerevna Oct 2013
A seasoned spirit came to me and whispered through the vines
Said, come to me and you will see with otherworldly eyes
The grain was gathered up and stored in what you've built and kept
Although I've watched you walk away so many times, and wept
These walls are indestructible, the walls that house your heart
Surrounded by the higher things each time you fall apart
The ground will always move for you, the earth can only spin
But when the soil tills itself you'll turn to me again
I offer up a single cup of water for your needs
A colder finer sustenance, eternity exceeds
Continue on, September's sun has shined to keep you warm
The heat has changed October skies, compassion be adorned
And when the night is come anew remember what I said
A quiet hum, a gentle breeze, awaken *sleepyhead
Malakai
thomas gabriel Feb 2012
A lone plough tills a
moonless sky.

Votive seeds sewn once more
with ash-white dust
on February’s caustic,
elongated breaths.

Crows carry a portentous look.

Late August: we tied
six roses to the wall
with an expectant love

but faded blood
heralds nothing new.





©*Thomas Gabriel
My baby is a 45
she feels cool in my hand
their gonna listen to me
and obey my commands

She will get them to open the tills
my swag bags hurriedly they fill
then a couple from her voice will ring out
into the ceiling as I shout, stay down

Got my gun, don't want to loose it
I love the kick when I use it
I care for life like I care for me
I am a low life **** with no dignity

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
David Ayres Apr 2013
False mood enhancing pills and miscounted tills
Cracking windowsills and burning windmills
Long forgotten skills and justified kills
Overflowing landfills and spreading chemical spills
Freezing chills and oil-stained gills
Empty grills and shredded hundred dollar bills
Cheap family wills and expensive thrills
Broken Jacks and shattered Jills
All of these **** still.
Ron Conway Dec 2018
The dinghy's bobbing helpless in the stream
The broken oars are futile 'gainst the force
The current pulling to the sea. The wind is blowing fro
Desperation searching for a course

And from the shore a shout, “Come on I'll save you
But you will have to pay a little fee
I don't want your money or possessions
All I want is you to think like me”

And from the other shore a darker voice
“I think you'll see this side is much more fun
All I want is never-ending gratitude
I can easily show you how it's done”

The wind was swirling, pressing on the dinghy
Pushing it from shore to rocky shore
Temptation to accept one or the other
Grew strong for fear of losing evermore

But wait, this dinghy's hull is sleek and smooth
Straight keel and mast above the haze
When sails are set it plays within the wind
Determined course to seas or sheltered bays

It's knowledge shapes the keel to slice the water
And courage 'gainst the storm to set the sails
And love that tills the rudder stays the course
With freedom jibe and tack among the perils

                                    RC
Carly Salzberg Sep 2010
come choked up bled up fed up folks
and drink my robust brew my sweet Catawba
no, my sauterene or rock and rye
brush that musty blue off your cog stained collar
and stay a while
pay a while
two beers later when your tongue seethes dry
try my salt savored fish, my baked bean surprise
tilt your nostrils and inhale my dried herring
my free lunched ties really please the eyes
I’ll saturate your wet drawn gobs
like sand slips through sieves  
teasing you by my strategic arrayed feast
until dollars are quenched out
by watering tongues that then dry the eyes
so come stand social where men may be men
enter through my wood swinging shut
-tered realm
and slug down your ticking inhibitions
gobble up this wonderful enterprise
and leave with that coat savored
by the mixed smell of sawdust, alcohol and cigars
hell, there’s no manners here
and class only exists in tolerance
for it feeds a fine exchange for a parcel of wage
to forget that day you bonded your body to your lady’s gaze
to forget the rascals of tots that teeth at you feet
to forgot the boss that tills your knees
so lets play mirror medley choose your poison
and chose it quick
this may be the Poor Man’s Retreat
but pocket less men make me tick
This historical poem was meant to capture the "Salon Keepers" before the prohibition, where mostly blue collared workers sought a public sanctuary from their demanding lives. It was a known fact that the Salon Keeper would present these men with salty food, free of charge in order to get them to stay longer and drink longer.
O'Reily Jan 2015
That fountain of goodwill,
The Lan's last hooray,
Its whisper from its lips,
Where a steely bench sits.

A square of space to its centre,
Stone faced well of good fortune and remember Of heritage, hope of crowds to be as people walk by,
You watch and smile,
some notable but more of who them, than am I?

The bell of the clock from its steeple tower of grace and almighty plays us out churches,  
One hour daily ding **** to what has been till now somewhat silently gone as quick,
you have to catch it or its to quit.

A job it was once here,
A job of selling television, radio, stereo and a couple of light blue sensors!
A shop of not for me than to act out a part brain dead with a badge upon your shirt neck gone to your head!
The importance of customer service but sacked for no badge of a degree in wearing a staff beret!
Where buckle pickle proprietor with no discrepancy,
When that penny must be aired and wherever found.
It was handy knowing that especially on the brink of collapse as now it professes to be a shop of footwear convenience.

To remember back the old man carrying his wooden baton banner high reading the end of the world is nigh!
Years have blossomed upon this earth that be your witness the laugh of seeing something so strange from a boy to a man but in thinking that again.

This entrance sit to the vibrant noise of the market indoor just behind thee,
warm cosy and very principle.
Fruit and veg first on the shelf,
To a double glazier seller handed out his job leaf selling gilt,
Left or right a wall splits apart to mark a labyrinth of stalls and what's next in store.

Walk on by on that day,
Coffee on the terraces and all that hear say,
Mushy peas and ******* was the order of the day then we meet up on a middle square with a fountain of people jolly resting or been vaguely aware,

Outside it feels so cold wind sheets flapping the wind of noise of the sacred sight of the outdoor market,
Paintings of art or prints and figurines on table boards all going for a song or a shaky tambourine,
The selling shouts of two for a pound,
The second shout louder than the first
all in one big bustle of a flooded feature shopping dynamite experience.
Clothes to clone socks, bags and jewellery in front of all mason shops!
It rolls out the rugs and the magic carpets at the end on a bend of I must have that as you get what you pay for at the final gate spend.

All towel dried some pick 'n' mix,
Aisles too many and very wide,
Large Poster girl and Poster boy,
Especially for you then Troy,
That pop song ringing up the tills of records you can pick, sleeve and buy,
Those were the good old days running through the park to watch cricket and play pitch right up until dark!
Where statue of legends who once lived here
In Grace of its land and song for its country to which I pay homage and home.

Ghost Town shops boarded up and disarray,
Its wonky streets chimes of life abandoned on a precinct flattened now and gone away,
No calm of seagulls screech speech lifts its sodden place sky,
Is there no welcome here?
Kind of arms mystifying its chair,
For no more market shouts as the bubble has burst its very domain,
Its gone only with a silent pointy prayer.

O'Reily@19112014
Chris Slade Dec 2020
Arrested development,
life on hold.
Investment deterioration...
High Street trade goes cold.
Can we have our ball back mister?

Progress halted;
ambitions run dry.
Ineptitude personified
So up goes the cry…
Can we turn the clock back?
Lorry parks overrun,
trucking overspills,
paperwork’s not valid mate,
shortage at the tills.
Unemployment running rife... go on...
Can’t we just have another run at life?

Too many negatives
converging all at once.
Should’ve delayed departure
Covid, Brexit… Extend the talks!
Ineptitude • Handbrake turn before the exit?
No! This is like a yellow box so no!
Do not enter unless your exit’s clear!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?

Too late goes up the cry… you’re disaffected.
Should’ve been better informed
by the people at the sharp end;
the people at the top…
Ever felt dejected... 1- 2 - 3 - 4...
take it from the top! No!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?

Sorry say the throng…
we didn’t really mean them
to get it THIS bleeding wrong!
Politics again!
Kìùra Kabiri Feb 2017
Come, dance with me my love
To a tango of endless love
A trance of our eternity

Come, come dance with me
Our hearts in forever entangles
Our souls in eternal entwines

O my love, come my dove
Come, prance with me to perpetuity
To a nuance of our everyday

Soul to soul-heart to heart-thought to thought
Body to body-breath to breath-cheek to chest
Neck to nape-all blend together as one!

Our spirits in one
Our feelings in unity
We are in a forever of felicity

Tango my love, I entangle my dove
Together we unbuckle, together we unshackle  
Together we embark on a trajectory to our moon
The journey-a circle of our endless love  

You swing as I sing
You jump as I cramp
You hover as I cover
I am your ever lover
You are my ever forever

In love we are lovers
In life we are leavers
Dancing our ways to our eternity
A path with pleasures and perpetuity  
A road with romances without end-infinity

O Come love, hear the thaw of my heart
Hear how he thumps with an art of love
O Come love, hear how my soul ploughs
Hear how she tills, she tills for love
O come love; let’s dance our ways to love

Let these bones break and become boneless
Let this shape form and dissolve formless
Let these tissues shift till they take shapeless
Let these feet’s ligaments lift to loft and us fly
Let’s dance to the songs of our final dance

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Paul M Chafer Mar 2014
At least some will say: jolly good fun,
When civilisation crumbles, comes undone,
Enraged fish, a horrible toxic dish,
Who would have imagined, laughable,
That we could poison an ocean; truly!
But we will do just that; so very soon,
This ***** bites, consumers shall say,
Leaving the tills, oh, have a nice day,
This ***** bites back, nature cackles,
Unwary fools, shredding on her hackles,
And all will pay, every single one of us,
Protest all you like, march: kick up a fuss.
But you who ruined the sea, polluted the air,
Oh not me, you cry, voice filled with despair,
Yes you, ****** the land for all she’s worth,
Stinking parasites despoiling green Earth.
And when at last, we are all but done,
Through hazy smog, viewing a setting sun,
At least some will say: jolly good fun.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Written on a depressing bad day, drugged with cold medicine, congested, aching and tired. Not how I really feel, before anybody has a bash, I adore the beauty of humanity, especially creative folk like us, but I abhor the thoughtless fools who rule with such carelessness. This is one of two poems, the second is much harsher not for public consumption, posted only on request.
Tom McCone May 2014
this: when your stomach
                                     hurts,
and you can't remember why you were ever happy and
           nothing is really even important,
                           especially yourself;
and you just sleep because you can't cope
                                                 and the sky is so beautiful,
but you can't feel sun dripping on your skin,
         and your bones are numb with electricity,
                             but it's just rubber,
               and you can't do anything,
ANYTHING.
           anything, because you're you and nobody else can be you,
       and the world is there to look at, so full of pretty things,
but, why look?

and it doesn't matter if there's somebody or nobody
                                                                or everybody, by your side,
because it's just this permanent moment
                           when the sharpness in your body is a droplet:
           it hits the ground and wrenches itself into shapes,
         patterns that coalesce,
      you are enraptured, the sight is burning
    into your retinas the emptiness that is
being.
   the glacier that is your soul tills white light and branches out,
      this creature that is cold and full,
               folly with soft ears and sharp teeth.

                             *****
                 patches of grass
         the birds are landing in your branches now
       congregational hazards
     social anxiety
       disillusioned, giving in
  but you don't mind the rest, there's only:
-you're on earth, and
-she's a star, and

stellar beings never come closer.

not for a moment.
they enjoy all views, from afar;
             witness your retching in a
          sad spectrum slideshow
       the bile spills out, tumbling
       across the sidewalk made
     out of her tied veins
   she is no god
we are free
   be empty
listlessly dragging stones
be empty
an inverted description. original [http://hellopoetry.com/poem/698958/what-is-this-happy/] by the perfectly lovely careful creature.
David Jin May 2014
He looks at me hard, with disproval or disbelief, I cannot tell
He blinks twice, fast
Licks his lips in anticipation
Because what he is about to say can be taken so many ways
A lot of them badly

“Dude, you date her?”
“Yeah, I do”
“You love her?”
“Yeah, I do”
“You kiss her?”
“Yeah, I do”
“But she’s---” (shuts up)
“Yeah, she is”

Black
Before he spouts out another protest
before he blinks twice, licks his lips all over again
And points out that Asians shouldn’t date black girls
false
I ask him to take a look at what we’re both wearing
Black
Because quite simply, black looks good

So does she

He asks me why,
and I proceed to give him more reasons on why I date a black girl
than Republicans can against Obamacare
1: Black looks good
2: She’s a track star; runs like a horse
3: that’s really hot
4: Her eyes turn me into the walls of Jericho; I crumble down without resistance
5: She has the most beautiful smile that I have ever seen
6: I don’t need a 6

A thought for the public
If Beyonce dumped Jay-Z due to a sudden hunger for Asian men
Posted online for all the “single calculus geniuses” to meet her at a certain point
on a coordinate plane
I guarantee you that she’ll find a crowd bigger than both of their reputations combined
They’ll come in droves, driving like fanatics
You got your Tokyo Drift, your Jeremy Lin, your Mario Kart
and your blinker left on for the last 5 miles

Another idea to chew on
When my sister was asked who was the most attractive man in Hollywood
her response time was faster than Usain Bolt’s
She picked Anthony Mackie; I see some of ya’ll nodding
She even nicknamed him “Black Beauty”

Well my Black Beauty is in this room
She’s my own Queen B
Got me so drunk in love
My friends be scanning the sky for Cupid
Sending arrows from above

So why do people question the logic on whom I date
If I love her, that should overcome all misgivings
Not like they should’ve existed in the first place

I implore him to revisit this nation 170 years ago
when ***** wasn’t yet a racial term
rather it was the sound of the clanking of metal to railroad
as the slaves built train tracks for this country to be connected

To this day we still have more Emmitt Tills than we ever should
Trayvon Martin
Sean Bell
Oscar Grant
Rhamarley Graham
Jonathan Ferrell
The list goes on and on
Just like the subtle discriminations the black race still endures

At this point he might say that I am off topic, overboard
that I don’t have a clue of what I’m talking about
He’s only partially right because I am Asian
Not black, but yellow
But I can relate just a bit

And even to this day, white boys in school halls try to talk black because they think its ****
Rich women still clutch their purses tighter upon seeing you in public
Nervous people in elevators still eye you and your tats and make bogus assumptions
Authorities still follow you just because you’re wearing an oversized hoodie,
sagging your pants, and showing off your under armour

You know why these people point and stare and whisper
when laying eyes on you
making you feel like you’re courtside at a Clippers game
Some do it out of elitism and habit
Others out of fear
And some do it because quite simply, black looks good

And even though I intended to stop at 5,
He now has millions of reasons on why it’s ok I date a black girl
And rest assured, he is not the only one who needed to hear them

He blinks twice, licks his lips one final time
“But she’s black dude”
“Yeah, she is”
But she is so much more
This was a slam I wrote after hearing my friend's comment on my girlfriend: "Wow, I never thought Asians would date blacks."
Needless to say, he and I aren't that close lol
Gorba Apr 2020
Hon brukar ha på sig en mössa
Som gömmer en del av långa håret
En gyllene kaskad som inte blöter
Men är ***, lugnande, och skiner
Mössan skämmer aldrig bort ansiktet
Huset till hennes fina ögon, gul, grå, och blå
En blandning som måste bedömas som perfekt
Så tydlig som en plus en är lika med två

Det känns alltid bra att resa söderut
Att flygga utifrån språngbrädan
Och att ta **** tack vare vinden
Som blåser periodiskt när hon andas ut

Jag landar då på hennes mun
Som hyser den hemliga bron
Som väntar på att jag närmar mig för att hälsa på,
Inte varje gång, men det blir alltid en härlig överraskning då

Jag brukar stanna kvar där en stund
Vaggad av vågorna bildas av hennes läppars kurvor
Och inser att man kan väl resa utan att flytta på sig
Jag står här orörlig och kysser henne
Det räcker för att skapa nya banor
Som leder till ett ställe som kallas extas
Ett ställe som kan enbart finnas
När vi är tillsammans,
När det finns inget avstånd mellan oss
När vi är i mitten av en sensuell dans
Det är klart att jag vill ta ingen paus
Men hellre fortsätta tills natten gradvis raderas av solen
Tills det är dags att börja om resan igen.
FRITZ Feb 2020
creeping madness slicks black and manic

spider high up on the wall

eyeballing me nervously,                                       "who are you?

why are you stalling? whats come crawling back?

you know how this ends don't you?"





swift answers and an amniotic happiness installation.

                              speaking of stone, wired the lilies grow and the intrepid sank there was quite a stillness in the air.

sunken sand around my feet water cold and green.

     out to meet the entity

     her languorous form so ravenously tempting

     so utterly repulsive and unspeakable.

looking for lights offshore

          heretics of the unimaginable disciples of the moon

          chemical ooze gels burns in the stomach

lit on up and walked out over the water.





after his peak, went heat seeking to the east and he ceased his babble easily, stuffing his mouth with pennies and bits of charcoal. we called him land-lubber and left him for said.

there is no part to this.

there is no heart in this.

                                                    blistering and out of control the fever spins.

wandering tills the level.

                                 filtering cold and pushes me out into the yarns.
a crawling idiot madness

— The End —