By Atul Shukla
I can hear you making small holes in the silence.
If I were deaf the pores of my skin would open to you and shut,
And I should know you by the lick of you.
If I were blind the something special smell you make when the sun cakes the ground,
The steady drum roll sound you make when the wind drops,
But if I should not hear, smell or feel or see you,
You would still define me, disperse me,
Wash over me,
Please visit my poetry blog at http://ppq365.wordpress.com/
I breathe to you
love in the south of the many
months of spring
hibiscus in dark hair water
at the source
shadows glistening to hips
thighs slender sunset shining shores
fingers rolled fragrant leaves
presence of deep woods
earth veiled in green drift
that hides running
of small airs
untraceable fine sounds
passing as on a face
feet first drops of rain on a mountain
hands greeting flowers
holden stolen flowers
closed eyes of every creature
sepia and amber days
of tall tree
voice of rain forests
birds in tree heights
throat of palm
wrist of palm
palm of palm
melon navel waist of high waterfall
surf laughter face hearing music
body of flight
away from you on a corner of the earth
I want to think for six hours of your hair
which is the invention of singing
daughter of islands
born in the flood of the fish harvest
I see long mornings
lying on your hair
I remember looking for you
— W. S. Merwin
* * *
Even so the Spring goes forward.
The rind of the trees weepy with sap. No spigot to carry it off.
From here to the other side, ice is motley. The river’s current
expression: a stutter of ice cakes on the shore. Fret of spume.
Some days, though, we waken to snow,
fugacious erasure of mud and broken branches.
We feel the setback. Want the spectacular squalor
of Spring: its colourless smear. There’s no word for that.
For snow falling, fugue slow, through fog. Earth and air
unable to settle what it’s to be. Now is after. Or, ahead?
Interrugnum: Its beauty is brutal. A raw wind through bereft.
— Anne Compton
Even the weathercock turns with the sun on such a day.
It must be spring. Outside the cellar wall the cat
has found himself shelter. He’s asleep, no doubt,
but his fur is well puffed up and his paws
well tucked under. A fly has been tempted out
from a crack in the warm plank wall — starts
buzzing. Soon stiffens. It’s too cold.
— Olav H. Hauge
translated from the Norwegian by Robin Fulton
Blue haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth.
Crawling in prone stupor of sun
On the hive-lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,
Magnetized to the other,
Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.
A raven, under the hill,
Coughing among bare oaks.
Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.
Leisure to stand. The knee-deep mud at the trough
Stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.
The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled
Out into the sun,
After the frightful operation.
She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,
To be healed,
Sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,
Leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling
Into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.
While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know
She is not going to die.
— Ted Hughes
There is something hopeful about March,
something benevolent about the light,
and yet wherever I look snow
has fallen or is about to fall, and the cold
is so unexpected, so harsh,
that even the spider lily blooming
on the windowsill seems no more
than another promise, soon to be broken.
It is like a lover who speaks
the passionate language of fidelity, but
when you look for him, there he is
in the arms of winter.
— Linda Pastan
A good seed sent from heaven,
Will find nourishment on earth,
It will be filled with goodness,
Welcomed at its birth.
This seed will then flourish,
For it has settled within the soil,
It will be protected by nature,
To make sure it does not spoil.
The rain will keep it moist,
The sun will keep it warm,
Then the seed will slowly grow,
The leaves will slowly form.
It will struggle through life,
Through thunder storm and shower,
But in the end no wind will bend,
As it blooms a perfect flower.
Not all the seeds are perfect,
As they fall on stony ground,
They grow so very weak,
As no nourishment can be found.
If left alone,
With roots so dry,
The sun will scorch them,
And they will die.
We should learn a lesson,
From the strength of that perfect flower,
To lead our lives and do no harm,
And accept Gods love and power.
So spare a thought for the weak,
Do not cast them away to die,
Nourish them with all your love,
Comfort them when they cry.
That stony ground will become fertile,
The weak will become strong,
Your life will be a little wiser,
Because you have helped someone along.
So remember as you go through life,
Help the weak as they pass by,
Then say to yourself,
There but for the grace of God go I…