When the music calls to the soul’s hunger
the matzub begins to turn like a shy maiden;
then faster, faster; centrifugal force
will throw him out of kilter, off the dance floor,
Today's Marathon Day here in London.
An unpleasant image strikes me:
suppose the journey to the Pearly Gates
looks just like the TV coverage of the marathon?
Inside the body
is a little place.
you could say that
So much has travelled from the East to West
that it’s surprising that those three great forces
which the Indians knew so well, are not
in Western consciousness; they tell so much;
It’s a lovely old-fashioned tea-room
in one of those rare up-town hotels
that’s still a family concern; well-run,
staff been there for years; prices
Has music gone from poetry?
Words and music, still agree?
Dance and rhythm, song and laughter,
Do they echo, now, hereafter..?
The cry of the stork echoes
from the cold cliff where the mist
is clearing for an hour or two
this winter morning
The old pine tree
leans out from the rocks
over the still lake
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Better new kindling