1
A poet among us,
Moved by the sunset,
Sees in his fancy
A molten sun that smears the sky.
Who are we, prose folk,
To rob him of illusions?
2
What is this night
Of sleep and dreaming time?
Whence all these stars
And the reminding moon?
The wise are silent.
Was there a time of neither day nor night.
Who knows?
Was there a time before the Dawn of Time,
Who knows?
Was there a time when there was only 'Is',
Who knows?
3
I rose at dawn,
The morning around my shoulders,
A new garment, cool and scented;
And when I touch the river
I throb with the pulse of water,
I learn with the weight of water,
And I take the might of water
In the spoon of my body,
Which I dedicate
To this day.
4
An old man, drooling in half-sleep,
Hoods his eyes from the young sunlight.
This is a beckoning land.
The women, swaying like serpents,
Come homeward from the swelling river.
This is a beckoning land.
The children run to the banyan tree
And make it a magic palace.
This is a beckoning land.
5
This cloth, this wooden plough,
This tumbler wrought in burnished brass,
These are things I know by touch,
As I seek to know by warmer touch
The woman at my side.
Petals of lotus, petals of fire.
What is the divining touch
To probe the Night?
6
Albert Einstein may have speculated
That God does not play dice with the cosmos.
As a boy, I heard thunder, 'Hark, do you? '
I did wonder if gods were rolling dice.
'Chance and Necessity': a book to read again.
- - - -
in the every daY mundane moments you were greatful, and thankful for the solace and the beauty to be found within it. and that is just prescious
This is great! Love doing this also, just momentary thoughts coming to say hello, I write them down in my poetry journal! Nice to know someone else does this also.10+++++++++++ Thank you for sharing. RoseAnn
Dear Poet Rose-Ann Shawiak, Once again, I rejoice that you have conveyed your generous commendation helps me to dispel doubts and to keep writing some impressions in my way, with hope to reach a reader like you. We do not have to 'wrestle with words' but only to be receptive to the faculty of words to convey shades of meaning in our changing moods and context. The attempt is the reward, and we wish it will suffice. Pl. let me know of any new poem of yours you would like me to read. Best wishes. Madhavan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A poet among us, Moved by the sunset, Sees in his fancy A molten sun that smears the sky. Who are we, prose folk, To rob him of illusions? ---A wonderful poem of great depth.