sometimes a tree

By Nandita Bose

sometimes a tree needs the creeper more
needs its soft embrace on hardened bark
and that wild exuberance of purple blossom showers

it may be momentary
sometimes a tree needs its birds more
for song and dreams of feathers and flights
and that incredible lightness of being

sometimes 
a tree needs its traveller more
offers shade and fruit
in exchange for an afternoon's quiet nap
together

as close to a dance a tree 
could ever get

Comments : I was hooked at the first phrase itself - 'sometimes a tree needs the creeper more', and drawn further and further into the world of the tree by each succeeding image. and I loved the ending, 'as close to a dance a tree could ever get', delicious.   - Zen

Adlestrop

By Edward Thomas

Yes, I remember Adlestrop -- 
The name, because one afternoon 
Of heat the express-train drew up there 
Unwontedly. It was late June. 

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. 
No one left and no one came 
On the bare platform. What I saw 
Was Adlestrop -- only the name 

And willows, willow-herb, and grass, 
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, 
No whit less still and lonely fair 
Than the high cloudlets in the sky. 

And for that minute a blackbird sang 
Close by, and round him, mistier, 
Farther and farther, all the birds 
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. 


Comments : A friend introduced me to the poem today (Thanks V) and claimed that Chunabhatti station on a sunday afternoon is like Adlestrop - no one comes and no one leaves, and there're bushes and birds singing. Can't vouch for the truth of that, but I did like the poem.         - Zen

Hope; An Owner's Manual

By Barbara Kingsolver

Look, you might as well know, this thing
is going to take endless repair: rubber bands,
crazy glue, tapioca, the square of the hypotenuse.
Nineteenth century novels. Heartstrings, sunrise:
all of these are useful. Also, feathers.

To keep it humming, sometimes you have to stand
on an incline, where everything looks possible;
on the line you drew yourself. Or in
the grocery line, making faces at a toddler
secretly, over his mother's shoulder.

You might have to pop the clutch and run
past all the evidence. Past everyone who is
laughing or praying for you. Definitely you don't
want to go directly to jail, but still, here you go,
passing time, passing strange. Don't pass this up.

In the worst of times, you will have to pass it off.
Park it and fly by the seat of your pants. With nothing
in the bank, you'll still want to take the express.
Tiptoe past the dogs of the apocalypse that are sleeping
in the shade of your future. Pay at the window.
Pass your hope like a bad check.
You might still have just enough time. To make a deposit.

Comments : A friend who knows me well forwarded this to me this evening and I just loved it (Thanks S). The first paragraph was lovely - a little realism (endless repair), a little practicality (rubber bands and glue), a little science, a little magic, a little whimsy - all mixed up in this lovely concoction that brought a smile to my face. Of course I had to post this on the blog. 

:-)

Zen

Send me an Angel

By the Scorpions

The wise man said just walk this way
To the dawn of the light
The wind will blow into your face
As the years pass you by
Hear this voice from deep inside
It's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find
The passage out of the dark

Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star

The wise man said just find your place
In the eye of the storm
Seek the roses along the way
Just beware of the thorns

Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star

The wise man said just raise your hand
And reach out for the spell
Find the door to the promised land
Just believe in yourself
Hear this voice from deep inside
It's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find
The way out of the dark

Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star
Here I am
Will you send me an angel
Here I am
In the land of the morning star


Comments : 

Brief background - this power ballad is by German heavy metal band Scorpions released in their 1990 album Crazy World. A band I started listening to in 1991 with the famous 'Winds of Change'. There have been suggestions of allusions to the scriptures - Jesus as the morning star … or the land of the morning star as a metaphor for hope. Take your pick and enjoy Klaus Meine's tenor voice in his German accent here..  and perhaps you will have a visit from your guardian angel this evening too :-)

And you can listen to the song here.

By,

S

Ancestors

By Cesare Pavese

Stunned by the world, I reached an age
when I threw punches at air and cried to myself. 
Listening to the speech of women and men,
not knowing how to respond, it's not fun. 
But this too has passed: I'm not alone anymore,
and if I still don't know how to respond, 
I don't need to. Finding myself, I found company.

I learned that before I was born I had lived
in men who were steady and firm, lords of themselves,
and none could respond and all remained calm.
Two brothers-in-law opened a store--our family's 
first break. The outsider was serious, 
scheming, ruthless, and mean--a woman.
The other one, ours, read novels at work,
which made people talk. When customers came,
they'd hear him say, in one or two words,
that no, there's no sugar, Epsom salts no,
we're all out of that. Later it happened
that this one lent a hand to the other, who'd gone broke.

Thinking of these folks makes me feel stronger
than looking in mirrors and sticking my chest out
or shaping my mouth into a humorless smile.
One of my grandfathers, ages ago,
was being cheated by one of his farmhands,
so he worked the vineyards himself, in the summer,
to make sure it was done right. That's how
I've always lived too, always maintaining
a steady demeanor, and paying in cash.

And women don't count in this family.
I mean that our women stay home
and bring us into the world and say nothing
and count for nothing and we don't remember them.
Each of them adds something new to our blood,
but they kill themselves off in the process, while we,
renewed by them, are the ones to endure.
We're full of vices and horrors and whims-- 

Comments - Came across the first paragraph of this poem in this article and had to find the rest. Hope you enjoyed the poem too. - Zen 
For more information on Cesare Pavese, check wikipedia

My Rainbow Race

By Pete Seeger

One blue sky above us, one ocean lapping all our shore

One earth so green and round, who could ask for more ?

And because I love you I’ll give it one more try

To show my rainbow race, it’s too soon to die.

Some folks want to be like an ostrich

Bury their heads in the sand

Some hope that plastic dreams

Can unclench all those greedy hands

Some hope to take the easy way

Poisons, bombs, they think we need ‘em

Don’t you know you can’t kill all the unbelievers ?

There’s no shortcut to freedom.

One blue sky above us, one ocean lapping all our shore

One earth so green and round, who could ask for more ?

And because I love you I’ll give it one more try

To show my rainbow race, it’s too soon to die.

Go tell, go tell all the little children

Tell all the mothers and fathers too

Now’s our last chance to learn to share

What’s been given to me and you.

One blue sky above us, one ocean lapping all our shore

One earth so green and round, who could ask for more ?

And because I love you I’ll give it one more try

To show my rainbow race, it’s too soon to die.

One blue sky above us, one ocean lapping all our shore

One earth so green and round, who could ask for more ?




Comments : 

Last Friday, this article in the newspaper pointed to where some followers of Gandhian philosophy exist – in far Norway ! They may not even be aware of how much they have in common with the Mahatma’s way of thought, but their actions sure echo his philosophy.

In a fitting reply to gunman Anders Behring Breivik (the one responsible for the massacre at a youth camp last year), who during his trial claimed that the children’s song ‘Children of the Rainbow’ was being used by ‘cultural Marxists’ to brainwash young children, tens of thousands gathered to sing the song in squares across Norway. The song celebrates the type of multicultural society Breivik has said he despised, and is based on the Pete Seeger song 'My Rainbow Race'.

As the newspaper article says, ‘Shocked by Breivik’s lack of remorse for his massacre, Norwegians by and large have decided the best way to confront him is by demonstrating their commitment to everything he loathes.’ Not by calling for his immediate execution, not by wondering why millions are being spent on keeping a proven killer alive for a trial, but by demonstrating their commitment to everything he loathes and ensuring that his way of thinking does not win. Their reaction to Breivik was made even more fitting by having the singer Lillebjoern Nilsen lead the singing in Oslo’s Youngstorget square; Nilsen wrote the song in Norwegian and had been singled out by Breivik as, ‘…..a Marxist who infiltrated the cultural sector, (who) writes music that is used to brainwash children’. A ‘moonh tod jawaab’ as we say in Hindi.

Watch videos of the unusual protest here and here. And here’s the link to the Pete Seeger song  ‘My Rainbow Race’ on which the Norwegian song is based. 

Compiled by,
Zen

CAD

Sort of continuing with the theme of poems about sports, here’s a great one.

CAD
By Colette Bryce


Great North

Although we may have bolted from that sad cliff
of our imminent decline, we are not Paula Radcliffe.

And though we may have startled
at the starting pistol,

with its jolt
of explosive (fired by Sting), Usain Bolt

we are not,
by a long shot.

And even though we purchased the slim new book he
called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, we are not Haruki

Murakami,
most definitely
not. Wired to our iPods,
we are your average, middle-aged bipeds:

half-trained, stiff-hinged, pegging up the course,
as likely overtaken by a pantomime horse

as a Lady Gaga . . . In the name of God!
In the name of a small but worthy charity, we plod

on, to the finish and vitality,
fleeing those intimations of mortality.

Comments : As another ‘average, middle-aged biped’, I just loved this poem and couldn’t help grinning as I read it. ‘stiff-hinged, pegging up the course, as likely overtaken by a pantomime horse as a Lady Gaga’ – what a hilarious image. I think the irregular metre and random rhyming just adds to the wry humour in this poem.
- Zen

Vitai Lampada

By Sir Henry Newbolt
There's a breathless hush in the close to-night
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play, and the last man in.

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat.
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red-
Red with the wreck of the square that broke
The gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed its banks,
And England's far and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind

And bear through life Eke a torch in flame,
falling fling to the host behind-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

Comments : As my friend A who forwarded this to me said, “great poem on cricket and the Empire”. Enough said. - Zen

Note : The title ‘Vitai Lampada’ is taken from a quotation by Lucretius and means 'the torch of life'.
This poem established the poet’s reputation. It symbolised Newbolt’s view that war should be fought in the same spirit as school sports. More information on the poet and the poem here and here.

In Mrs Tilscher's Class

By Carol Ann Duffy

You could travel up the Blue Nile
with your finger, tracing the route
while Mrs Tilscher chanted the scenery.
"Tana. Ethiopia. Khartoum. Aswan.”
That for an hour,
then a skittle of milk
and the chalky Pyramids rubbed into dust.
A window opened with a long pole.
The laugh of a bell swung by a running child.

This was better than home. Enthralling books.
The classroom glowed like a sweetshop.
Sugar paper. Coloured shapes. Brady and Hindley
faded, like the faint, uneasy smudge of a mistake.
Mrs Tilscher loved you. Some mornings, you found
she'd left a gold star by your name.
The scent of a pencil slowly, carefully, shaved.
A xylophone's nonsense heard from another form.

Over the Easter term the inky tadpoles changed
from commas into exclamation marks. Three frogs
hopped in the playground, freed by a dunce
followed by a line of kids, jumping and croaking
away from the lunch queue. A rough boy
told you how you were born. You kicked him, but stared
at your parents, appalled, when you got back home.

That feverish July, the air tasted of electricity.
A tangible alarm made you always untidy, hot,
fractious under the heavy, sexy sky. You asked her
how you were born and Mrs Tilscher smiled
then turned away. Reports were handed out.
You ran through the gates, impatient to be grown
the sky split open into a thunderstorm.

Comments : 21st March was World Poetry Day and a friend asked for poems on facebook, this was what one of her friends shared. I really liked the way the poem evokes images of school and the scatty wavering meter. - Zen
p.s. Links to some other lovely poems by Carol Ann Duffy given below :
Valentine - http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.in/2001/08/valentine-carol-ann-duffy.html
Prayer - http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.in/2002/01/prayer-carol-ann-duffy.html