A Moments Indulgence
I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,
and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and
the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing
Miss ', I Really Miss (101) /500 ###
I was stepping in to become young
I thought it is nice journey but too long
I am afraid and take care not to go wrong
I was expecting everything for song
I am so much influenced by lady smile
She has entered in life just before while'
Life seems to be so interesting and fine
I want to dance on floor with glass of wine
All Dreams Not Come True ###309(In 500)
All dreams may not come true
All credits due may not accrue
But with true reflection in mind
Ideas newer and newer may emerge and find
though may not be the nature too so kind
Dreaming in day time is not at all good
Good thoughts and efforts work as food
Earnest efforts to come out of wood
Failure may stun and you loose the hope
Requiem
Not under foreign skies
Nor under foreign wings protected -
I shared all this with my own people
There, where misfortune had abandoned us.
[1961]
INSTEAD OF A PREFACE
During the frightening years of the Yezhov terror, I
spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in
Gitanjali
1.
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
For The Union Dead
<i>Relinquunt Ommia Servare Rem Publicam.</i>
The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.
*** Make Me Or Break Me *** -In Top 500
Yes, miles away
your voice distinct,
far away
a cry is heard.
The night is freezing
is inviting
You beside me
Still craving.
Traversed have I
Dedication
Inscribed to a Dear Child:
In Memory of Golden Summer Hours
And Whispers of a Summer Sea
Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
The tale he loves to tell.
Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Dedication
I have great faith in all things not yet spoken.
I want my deepest pious feelings freed.
What no one yet has dared to risk and warrant
will be for me a challenge I must meet.
If this presumptious seems, God, may I be forgiven.
For what I want to say to you is this:
my efforts shall be like a driving force,
quite without anger, without timidness
as little children show their love for you.
Achiever
I acknowledge the outcome of efforts
May be it is possible with little support
In case of no moral support what it could be?
Will it be considered as downfall of big tree?
Person who is seized with problems may excel
In adverse situation he or she may stand and prevail
Loss or bad luck can be changed into favour and gain
Less sweat even when efforts fail and go into drain
Dedication For A Plot Of Ground
This plot of ground
facing the waters of this inlet
is dedicated to the living presence of
Emily Dickinson Wellcome
who was born in England; married;
lost her husband and with
her five year old son
sailed for New York in a two-master;
was driven to the Azores;
ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,
Pieces Of Fragile Lace
A spider spins a micro fine thread, her gentle web to weave,
It is with awe, that we behold this art, one can't believe
This work, viewed on a frosty morn, portrays pieces of fragile lace,
How can a tiny creature create these patterns, with silent grace.
She works with great dedication, using skills beyond belief,
Securing her thread to one, and then another sturdy leaf,
Or twig, or gate, or fence, or flower, whatever is to hand,
A magical spun gossamer, her love sealed in every strand.
Inspire Me
Drop a dream into the water,
In a moment it is gone.
But there are many ripples,
Circling on and on....
When facing life's many worries,
All storms you will pass through.
You will garnish many strengths,
And new found courage too.
Dedication To M.
Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what
invisible branch. Who, who gave you the push,
that you swung with me into the leaves?
How near I was to the exquisite fruits. But not-staying
is the essence of this motion. Only the nearness, only
toward the forever-too-high, all at once the possible
nearness. Vicinities, then
from an irresistibly swung-up-to place
-already, once again, lost-the new sight, the outlook.
And now: the commanded return
Love
Love is a Beautiful Sweet Feeling
Love is Caring and Sharing
Love is Forever, True Happiness
Love is Sunshine, Rain; Rainbow
Love is Affection, Admiration, Adoration
Love is Bonding and Binding
Love is the Strongest Emotion
Love is Devotion and Dedication
A Dedication
Expect na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace-
Perhaps related to the race:
Then, when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.
Nothing Before Time.........
Nothing before time you get
Try very hard or opportunities let
Neither can you curse your luck
Nor you can think or have fresh look
It has something to do with dedication
Constant fall back may be just one indication
Even you try earnestly for right thing
Things may turn out into something
Epistle To Dr. Arbuthnot
Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
Everything Compromised
Not for any single system we feel proud
can’t claim high and speak so loud
what will we gain by making them unstable?
Would we able to bye peace and remain stable?
Untested weapons and weaponry freely used
Can’t be termed as genocide but in fact misused
Still we raise the banner of championship and advocate
Add fuel to fire, inflame and make atmosphere to suffocate
Dedication
Dedication
These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself--I dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears--
These Idylls.
And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,
`Who reverenced his conscience as his king;