Sonnet.--The Lotus.

A poem by Toru Dutt

Love came to Flora asking for a flower
That would of flowers be undisputed queen,
The lily and the rose, long, long had been
Rivals for that high honour. Bards of power
Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower
Like the pale lily with her Juno mien"-"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between
Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower.
"Give me a flower delicious as the rose
And stately as the lily in her pride"-"But of what colour?"--"Rose-red," Love first chose,
Then prayed,--"No, lily-white,--or, both provide;"
And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,
And "lily-white,"--the queenliest flower that

Our Casuarina Tree

LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round
The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars,
Up to its very summit near the stars,
A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound
No other tree could live. But gallantly
The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,
Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;
And oft at nights the garden overflows
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.
When first my casement is wide open thrown
At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
Sometimes, and most in winter,on its crest
A gray baboon sits statue-like alone
Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs
His puny offspring leap about and play;
And far and near kokilas hail the day;
And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,

The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.

But not because of its magnificence
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear.
Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!
What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear
Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?
It is the trees lament, an eerie speech,
That haply to the unknown land may reach.
Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!
Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith
And the waves gently kissed the classic shore
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,
When earth lay trancd in a dreamless swoon:
And every time the music rose,before
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime
I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.
Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay
Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those
Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose,
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they!
Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done
With deathless treeslike those in Borrowdale,
Under whose awful branches lingered pale
Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,
And Time the shadow; and though weak the verse
That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse,
May Love defend thee from Oblivions curse.

Toru Dutt

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Poems by Toru Dutt : 2 / 9

Christmas
Love Came to Flora Asking for

Lakshman
'Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry!
It is, - it is my husband's voice!
Oh hasten, to his succour fly,
No more hast thou, dear friend, a choice.
He calls on thee, perhaps his foes
Environ him on all sides round,
That wail, - it means death's final throes!
Why standest thou, as magic-bound?

'Is this a time for thought, - oh gird

Thy bright sword on, and take thy bow!
He heeds not, hears not any word,
Evil hangs over us, I know!
Swift in decision, prompt in deed,
Brave unto rashness, can this be,
The man to whom all looked at need?
Is it my brother that I see!

'Oh no, and I must run alone,

For further here I cannot stay;
Art thou transformed to blind dumb stone!
Wherefore this impious, strange delay!
That cry, - that cry, - it seems to ring
Still in my ears, - I cannot bear
Suspense; if help we fail to bring
His death at least we both can share'

'Oh calm thyself, Videhan Queen,

No cause is there for any fear,
Hast thou his prowess never seen?
Wipe off for shame that dastard tear!
What being of demonian birth
Could ever brave his mighty arm?
Is there a creature on earth

That dares to work our hero harm?

'The lion and the grisly bear

Cower when they see his royal look,
Sun-staring eagles of the air
His glance of anger cannot brook,
Pythons and cobras at his tread
To their most secret coverts glide,
Bowed to the dust each serpent head
Erect before in hooded pride.

'Rakshasas, Danavs, demons, ghosts,

Acknowledge in their hearts his might,
And slink to their remotest coasts,
In terror at his very sight.
Evil to him! Oh fear it not,
Whatever foes against him rise!
Banish for aye the foolish thought,
And be thyself, - bold, great, and wise.

'He call for help! Canst thou believe

He like a child would shriek for aid
Or pray for respite or reprieve Not of such metal is he made!
Delusive was that piercing cry, Some trick of magic by the foe;
He has a work, - he cannot die,
Beseech me not from hence to go.

For here beside thee, as a guard

'Twas he commanded me to stay,
And dangers with my life to ward
If they should come across thy way.
Send me not hence, for in this wood
Bands scattered of the giants lurk,
Who on their wrongs and vengeance brood,
And wait the hour their will to work.'

'Oh shame! and canst thou make my weal

A plea for lingering! Now I know
What thou art, Lakshman! And I feel
Far better were an open foe.
Art thou a coward? I have seen
Thy bearing in the battle-fray
Where flew the death-fraught arrows keen,
Else had I judged thee so today.

'But then thy leader stood beside!

Dazzles the cloud when shines the sun,
Reft of his radiance, see it glide
A shapeless mass of vapours dun;
So of thy courage, - or if not,
The matter is far darker dyed,
What makes thee loth to leave this spot?
Is there a motive thou wouldst hide?

'He perishes - well, let him die!

His wife henceforth shall be mine own!
Can that thought deep imbedded lie
Within thy heart's most secret zone!
Search well and see! one brother takes
His kingdom, - one would take his wife!
A fair partition! - But it makes
Me shudder, and abhor my life.

'Art thou in secret league with those

Who from his hope the kingdom rent?
A spy from his ignoble foes
To track him in his banishment?
And wouldst thou at his death rejoice?
I know thou wouldst, or sure ere now
When first thou heardst that well known voice
Thou shouldst have run to aid, I trow.
'Learn this, - whatever comes may come,
But I shall not survive my Love,
Of all my thoughts here is the sum!
Witness it gods in heaven above.
If fire can burn, or water drown,
I follow him: - choose what thou wilt
Truth with its everlasting crown,
Or falsehood, treachery, and guilt.

'Remain here with a vain pretence

Of shielding me from wrong and shame,
Or go and die in his defence
And leave behind a noble name.
Choose what thou wilt, - I urge no more,
My pathway lies before me clear,
I did not know thy mind before,
I know thee now, - and have no fear.'

She said and proudly from him turned, Was this the gentle Sita? No.
Flames from her eyes shot forth and burned,

The tears therein had ceased to flow.

'Hear me, O Queen, ere I depart,
No longer can I bear thy words,
They lacerate my inmost heart
And torture me, like poisoned swords.

'Have I deserved this at thine hand?

Of lifelong loyalty and truth
Is this the meed? I understand
Thy feelings, Sita, and in sooth
I blame thee not, - but thou mightst be
Less rash in judgement, Look! I go,
Little I care what comes to me
Wert thou but safe, - God keep thee so!
'In going hence I disregard
The plainest orders of my chief,
A deed for me, - a soldier, - hard
And deeply painful, but thy grief
And language, wild and wrong, allow
No other course. Mine be the crime,
And mine alone. - but oh, do thou
Think better of me from this time.

'Here with an arrow, lo, I trace

A magic circle ere I leave,
No evil thing within this space
May come to harm thee or to grieve.
Step not, for aught, across the line,
Whatever thou mayst see or hear,
So shalt thou balk the bad design
Of every enemy I fear.

'And now farewell! What thou hast said,

Though it has broken quite my heart,
So that I wish I were dead I would before, O Queen, we part,
Freely forgive, for well I know
That grief and fear have made thee wild,
We part as friends, - is it not so?'
And speaking thus he sadly smiled.

'And oh ye sylvan gods that dwell

Among these dim and sombre shades,
Whose voices in the breezes swell
And blend with noises of cascades,
Watch over Sita, whom alone
I leave, and keep her safe from harm,

Till we return unto our own,

I and my brother, arm in arm.
'For though ill omens round us rise
And frighten her dear heart, I feel
That he is safe. Beneath the skies
His equal is not, - and his heel
Shall tread all adversaries down,
Whoeve'r they may chance to be.
Farewell, O Sita! Blessings crown
And peace for ever rest with thee!'

He said, and straight his weapons took

His bow and arrows pointed keen,
Kind, - nay, indulgent, - was his look,
No trace of anger, there was seen,
Only a sorrow dark, that seemed
To deepen his resolve to dare
All dangers. Hoarse the vulture screamed,
As out he strode with dauntless air.

Toru Dutt

To My Fairy Fancies

NAY, no longer I may hold you,

In my spirit's soft caresses,
Nor like lotus-leaves enfold you
In the tangles of my tresses.
Fairy fancies, fly away
To the white cloud-wildernesses,
Fly away!

Nay, no longer ye may linger

With your laughter-lighted faces,
Now I am a thought-worn singer
In life's high and lonely places.
Fairy fancies, fly away,
To bright wind-inwoven spaces,
Fly away!

THE PARDAH NASHIN

ER life is a revolving dream

Of languid and sequestered ease;
Her girdles and her fillets gleam
Like changing fires on sunset seas;
Her raiment is like morning mist,
Shot opal, gold and amethyst.

From thieving light of eyes impure,

From coveting sun or wind's caress,
Her days are guarded and secure
Behind her carven lattices,

Like jewels in a turbaned crest,

Like secrets in a lover's breast.

But though no hand unsanctioned dares

Unveil the mysteries of her grace,
Time lifts the curtain unawares,
And Sorrow looks into her face . . .
Who shall prevent the subtle years,
Or shield a woman's eyes from tears?

THE QUEEN'S RIVAL

UEEN GULNAAR sat on her ivory bed,

Around her countless treasures were spread;

Her chamber walls were richly inlaid

With agate, porphory, onyx and jade;

The tissues that veiled her delicate breast,

Glowed with the hues of a lapwing's crest;

But still she gazed in her mirror and sighed

"O King, my heart is unsatisfied."

King Feroz bent from his ebony seat:

"Is thy least desire unfulfilled, O Sweet?

"Let thy mouth speak and my life be spent

To clear the sky of thy discontent."

"I tire of my beauty, I tire of this

Empty splendour and shadowless bliss;

"With none to envy and none gainsay,

No savour or salt hath my dream or day."

Queen Gulnaar sighed like a murmuring rose:

"Give me a rival, O King Feroz."

II

King Feroz spoke to his Chief Vizier:

"Lo! ere to-morrow's dawn be here,

"Send forth my messengers over the sea,

To seek seven beautiful brides for me;

"Radiant of feature and regal of mien,

Seven handmaids meet for the Persian Queen." . . . . .

Seven new moon tides at the Vesper call,

King Feroz led to Queen Gulnaar's hall

A young queen eyed like the morning star:

"I bring thee a rival, O Queen Gulnaar."

But still she gazed in her mirror and sighed:

"O King, my heart is unsatisfied."

Seven queens shone round her ivory bed,

Like seven soft gems on a silken thread,

Like seven fair lamps in a royal tower,

Like seven bright petals of Beauty's flower

Queen Gulnaar sighed like a murmuring rose

"Where is my rival, O King Feroz?"

III

When spring winds wakened the mountain floods,

And kindled the flame of the tulip buds,

When bees grew loud and the days grew long,

And the peach groves thrilled to the oriole's song,

Queen Gulnaar sat on her ivory bed,

Decking with jewels her exquisite head;

And still she gazed in her mirror and sighed:

"O King, my heart is unsatisfied."

Queen Gulnsar's daughter two spring times old,

In blue robes bordered with tassels of gold,

Ran to her knee like a wildwood fay,

And plucked from her hand the mirror away.

Quickly she set on her own light curls

Her mother's fillet with fringes of pearls;

Quickly she turned with a child's caprice

And pressed on the mirror a swift, glad kiss.

Queen Gulnaar laughed like a tremulous rose:

"Here is my rival, O King Feroz.

Village Song

HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?

Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?

Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going,

Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing;
To the kil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies glisten,
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!

Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure,

Of bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal-scented leisure.
Your bridal robes are in the loom, silver and saffron glowing,
Your bridal cakes are on the hearth: O whither are you going?

The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow,

The laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of death to-morrow.
Far sweeter sound the forest-notes where forest-streams are falling;
O mother mine, I cannot stay, the fairy-folk are calling.

Transformation: Sonnet

poet Sri Aurobindo

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Poems by Sri Aurobindo : 34 / 35

Trance

Who

Sri Aurobindo

Transformation: Sonnet

My breath runs in a subtle rhythmic stream;

It fills my members with a might divine:
I have drunk the Infinite like a giants wine.
Time is my drama or my pageant dream.
Now are my illumined cells joys flaming scheme
And changed my thrilled and branching nerves to fine
Channels of rapture opal and hyaline
For the influx of the Unknown and the Supreme.

I am no more a vassal of flesh,

A slave to Nature and her leaden rule;
I am caught no more in the senses narrow mesh.
My soul unhorizoned widens to measureless sight,
My body is Gods happy living tool,
My spirit a vast sun of deathless light

Revelation

Someone leaping from the rocks

Past me ran with wind-blown locks

Like a startled bright surmise

Visible to mortal eyes,

Just a cheek of frightened rose

That with sudden beauty glows,

Just a footstep like the wind

And a hurried glance behind,

Rose of God

Rose of God, vermilion stain on the sapphires of heaven,

Rose of Bliss, fire-sweet, seven-tinged with the ecstasies seven!

Leap up in our heart of humanhood, O miracle, O flame,

Passion-flower of the Nameless, bud of the mystical Name.

Rose of God, great wisdom-bloom on the summits of being,

Rose of Light, immaculate core of the ultimate seeing!

Live in the mind of our earthhood; O golden Mystery, flower,

Sun on the head of the Timeless, guest of the marvellous Hour.

Rose of God, damask force of Infinity, red icon of might,

Rose of Power with thy diamond halo piercing the night!

Ablaze in the will of the mortal, design the wonder of thy plan,

Image of Immortality, outbreak of the Godhead in man.

Rose of God, smitten purple with the incarnate divine Desire,

Rose of Life, crowded with petals, colours lyre!

Transform the body of the mortal like a sweet and magical rhyme;

Bridge our earthhood and heavenhood, make deathless the children of Time.

Rose of God, like a blush of rapture on Eternitys face,

Rose of Love, ruby depth of all being, fire-passion of Grace!

Arise from the heart of the yearning that sobs in Natures abyss:

Make earth the home of the Wonderful and life beatitudes kiss.

And then nothing, as a thought

Escapes the mind ere it is caught.

Someone of the heavenly rout

From behind the veil ran out.

Trance of Waiting1

Lone on my summits of calm I have brooded with voices around me,

Murmurs of silence that steep mind in a luminous sleep,

Whispers from things beyond thought in the Secrecy flame-white for ever,

Unscanned heights that reply seek from the inconscient deep.

Distant below me the ocean of life with its passionate surges

Pales like a pool that is stirred by the wings of a shadowy bird.

Thought has flown back from its wheelings and stoopings, the nerve-beat of living

Stills; my spirit at peace bathes in a mighty release.

Wisdom supernal looks down on me, Knowledge mind cannot measure;

Light that no vision can render garments the silence with splendour.

Filled with a rapturous Presence the crowded spaces of being

Tremble with the Fire that knows, thrill with the might of repose.

Earth is now girdled with trance and Heaven is put round her for vesture.

Wings that are brilliant with fate sleep at Eternitys gate.

Time waits, vacant, the lightning that kindles, the Word that transfigures:

Space is a stillness of God building his earthly abode.

All waits hushed for the fiat to come and the tread of the Eternal;

Passion of a bliss yet to be sweeps from Infinitys sea.

Thought the Paraclete

As some bright archangel in vision flies

Plunged in dream-caught spirit immensities,
Past the long green crests of the seas of life,
Past the orange skies of the mystic mind
Flew my thought self-lost in the vasts of God.

Sleepless wide great glimmering wings of wind

Bore the gold-red seeking of feet that trod
Space and Time's mute vanishing ends. The face
Lustred, pale-blue-lined of the hippogriff,
Eremite, sole, daring the bourneless ways,
Over world-bare summits of timeless being
Gleamed; the deep twilights of the world-abyss
Failed below. Sun-realms of supernal seeing,
Crimson-white mooned oceans of pauseless bliss
Drew its vague heart-yearning with voice sweet.
Hungering, large-souled to surprise the unconned
Secrets white-fire-veiled of the last Beyond,
Crossing power-swept silences rapture-stunned,
Climbing high far ethers eternal-sunned,
Thought the great-winged wanderer Paraclete
Disappeared slow-singing a flame-word rune.
Self was left, lone, limitless, nude, immune.

ENTERPRISE BY NISSIM EZEKIEL

It started as a pilgrimage
Exalting minds and making all
The burdens light, The second stage
Explored but did not test the call.
The sun beat down to match our rage. 5
We stood it very well, I thought ,
Observed and put down copious notes
On things the peasants sold and bought
The way of surpants and of goats.
Three cities where a sage had taught 10
But when the differences arose
On how to cross a desert patch,
We lost a friend whose stylish prose
Was quite the best of all our batch.
A shadow falls on us and grows . 15
Another phase was reached when we
Were twice attacked , and lost our way.
A section claimed its liberty
To leave the group. I tried to prey .
Our leader said he smelt the sea 20
We noticed nothing as we went ,
A straggling crowd of little hope,
Ignoring what the thunder ment ,

Deprived of common needs like soap.

Some were broken , some merely bent. 25
When, finally , we reached the place ,
We hardly know why we were there.
The trip had darkened every face,
Our deeds were neither great nor rare.
Home is where we have to gather grace.

Philosophy

There is a place to which I often go,

Not by planning to, but by a flow
Away from all existence, to a cold
Lucidity, whose will is uncontrolled.
Here, the mills of God are never slow.

The landscape in its geological prime

Dissolves to show its quintessential slime.
A million stars are blotted out. I think
Of each historic passion as a blink
That happened to the sad eye of Time.

But residues of meaning still remain,

As darkest myths meander through the pain
Towards a final formula of light.
I, too, reject this clarity of sight.
What cannot be explained, do not explain.

The mundane language of the senses sings

Its own interpretations. Common things
Become, by virtue of their commonness,
An argument against their nakedness
That dies of cold to find the truth it brings.

Night of the Scorpion

I remember the night my mother

was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.

Parting with his poison - flash

of diabolic tail in the dark room he risked the rain again.

The peasants came like swarms of flies

and buzzed the name of God a hundred times
to paralyse the Evil One.

With candles and with lanterns

throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the mud-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.
With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.

May he sit still, they said

May the sins of your previous birth
be burned away tonight, they said.
May your suffering decrease
the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.
May the sum of all evil
balanced in this unreal world

against the sum of good

become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh

of desire, and your spirit of ambition,

they said, and they sat around

on the floor with my mother in the centre,

the peace of understanding on each face.
More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,
more insects, and the endless rain.
My mother twisted through and through,
groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist,
trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.
He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother.
I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation.
After twenty hours
it lost its sting.

My mother only said

Thank God the scorpion picked on me
And spared my children

BACKGROUND, CASUALLY BY NISSIM EZEKIEL

A poet-rascal-clown was born,

The frightened child who would not eat

Or sleep, a boy of meager bone.

He never learned to fly a kite,
His borrowed top refused to spin.
I went to Roman Catholic school,
A mugging Jew among the wolves.
They told me I had killed the Christ,
That year I won the scripture prize.
A Muslim sportsman boxed my ears.
I grew in terror of the strong
But undernourished Hindu lads,
Their prepositions always wrong,
Repelled me by passivity.
One noisy day I used a knife.
At home on Friday nights the prayers
Were said. My morals had declined.
I heard of Yoga and of Zen.
Could 1, perhaps, be rabbi saint?
The more I searched, the less I found.
Twenty two: time to go abroad.
First, the decision, then a friend
To pay the fare. Philosophy,
Poverty and Poetry, three

POET, LOVER, BIRDWATCHER BY NISSIM EZEKIEL

To force the pace and never to be still

Is not the way of those who study birds
Or women. The best poets wait for words.
The hunt is not an exercise of will
But patient love relaxing on a hill
To note the movement of a timid wing;
Until the one who knows that she is loved
No longer waits but risks surrendering In this the poet finds his moral proved
Who never spoke before his spirit moved.

The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.

To watch the rarer birds, you have to go
Along deserted lanes and where the rivers flow
In silence near the source, or by a shore
Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.
And there the women slowly turn around,
Not only flesh and bone but myths of light
With darkness at the core, and sense is found
But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,
The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.
Companions shared my basement room.

The London seasons passed me by.

I lay in bed two years alone,
And then a Woman came to tell
My willing ears I was the Son
Of Man. I knew that I had failed
In everything, a bitter thought.
So, in an English cargo ship
Taking French guns and mortar shells
To Indo China, scrubbed the decks,
And learned to laugh again at home.
How to feel it home, was the point.
Some reading had been done, but what
Had I observed, except my own
Exasperation? All Hindus are
Like that, my father used to say,
When someone talked too loudly, or
Knocked at the door like the Devil.
They hawked and spat. They sprawled around.
I prepared for the worst. Married,
Changed jobs, and saw myself a fool.
The song of my experience sung,
I knew that all was yet to sing.
My ancestors, among the castes,
Were aliens crushing seed for bread
(The hooded bullock made his rounds).

One among them fought and taught,

A Major bearing British arms.
He told my father sad stories
Of the Boer War. I dreamed that
Fierce men had bound my feet and hands.
The later dreams were all of words.
I did not know that words betray
But let the poems come, and lost
That grip on things the worldly prize.
I would not suffer that again.
I look about me now, and try
To formulate a plainer view:
The wise survive and serveto play
The fool, to cash in on
The inner and the outer storms.
The Indian landscape sears my eyes.
I have become a part of it
To be observed by foreigners.
They say that I am singular,
Their letters overstate the case.
I have made my commitments now.
This is one: to stay where I am,
As others choose to give themselves
In some remote and backward place.
My backward place is where I am.

Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa T.S. :

Friends,

our dear sister

is departing for foreign

in two three days,

and

we are meeting today

to wish her bon voyage.

You are all knowing, friends,

What sweetness is in Miss Pushpa.

I don't mean only external sweetness

but internal sweetness.

Miss Pushpa is smiling and smiling

even for no reason but simply because

she is feeling.

Miss Pushpa is coming

from very high family.

Her father was renowned advocate

in Bulsar or Surat,

I am not remembering now which place.

Surat? Ah, yes,

once only I stayed in Surat

with family members

of my uncle's very old friend-

his wife was cooking nicely

that was long time ago.

Coming back to Miss Pushpa

she is most popular lady

with men also and ladies also.

Whenever I asked her to do anything,

she was saying, 'Just now only

I will do it.' That is showing

good spirit. I am always

appreciating the good spirit.

Pushpa Miss is never saying no.

Whatever I or anybody is asking

she is always saying yes,

and today she is going

to improve her prospect

and we are wishing her bon voyage.

Now I ask other speakers to speak

and afterwards Miss Pushpa

will do summing up.

By Nissim Ezekiel

The Freaks

He talks, turning a sun-stained

Cheek to me, his mouth, a dark
Cavern, where stalactites of
Uneven teeth gleam, his right
Hand on my knee, while our minds
Are willed to race towards love;
But, they only wander, tripping
Idly over puddles of
Desire. .... .Can this man with
Nimble finger-tips unleash
Nothing more alive than the
Skin's lazy hungers? Who can
Help us who have lived so long
And have failed in love? The heart,
An empty cistern, waiting
Through long hours, fills itself
With coiling snakes of silence. .....

I am a freak. It's only

To save my face, I flaunt, at
Times, a grand, flamboyant lust.
Kamala Das :

poet Kamala Das

#119 on top 500 poets

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My Grandmother's House

There is a house now far away where once

I received love. That woman died,

The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved
Among books, I was then too young
To read, and my blood turned cold like the moon
How often I think of going
There, to peer through blind eyes of windows or
Just listen to the frozen air,
Or in wild despair, pick an armful of
Darkness to bring it here to lie
Behind my bedroom door like a brooding
Dogyou cannot believe, darling,
Can you, that I lived in such a house and
Was proud, and loved. I who have lost
My way and beg now at strangers' doors to
Receive love, at least in small change?
Kamala Das

A Hot Noon In Malabar By Kamaladas

This is a noon for beggars with whining

Voices, a noon for men who come from hills
With parrots in a cage and fortune-cards,

All stained with time, for brown Kurava girls

With old eyes, who read palm in light singsong
Voices, for bangle-sellers who spread
On the cool black floor those red and green and blue
Bangles, all covered with the dust of roads,
Miles, grow cracks on the heels, so that when they
Clambered up our porch, the noise was grating,
Strange This is a noon for strangers who part
The window-drapes and peer in, their hot eyes
Brimming with the sun, not seeing a thing in
Shadowy rooms and turn away and look
So yearningly at the brick-ledged well. This
Is a noon for strangers with mistrust in
Their eyes, dark, silent ones who rarely speak
At all, so that when they speak, their voices
Run wild, like jungle-voices. Yes, this is
A noon for wild men, wild thoughts, wild love. To
Be here, far away, is torture. Wild feet
Stirring up the dust, this hot noon, at my
Home in Malabar, and I so far away ..

The Sunshine Cat

They did this to her, the men who know her, the man
She loved, who loved her not enough, being selfish
And a coward, the husband who neither loved nor
Used her, but was a ruthless watcher, and the band
Of cynics she turned to, clinging to their chests where
New hair sprouted like great-winged moths, burrowing her
Face into their smells and their young lusts to forget
To forget, oh, to forget, and, they said, each of
Them, I do not love, I cannot love, it is not
In my nature to love, but I can be kind to you.
They let her slide from pegs of sanity into
A bed made soft with tears, and she lay there weeping,
For sleep had lost its use. I shall build walls with tears,
She said, walls to shut me in. Her husband shut her
In, every morning, locked her in a room of books
With a streak of sunshine lying near the door like
A yellow cat to keep her company, but soon
Winter came, and one day while locking her in, he
Noticed that the cat of sunshine was only a
Line, a half-thin line, and in the evening when
He returned to take her out, she was a cold and
Half dead woman, now of no use at all to men.
Kamala Das :
http://www.poemhunter.com/

The Looking Glass

Getting a man to love you is easy

Only be honest about your wants as
Woman. Stand nude before the glass with him
So that he sees himself the stronger one
And believes it so, and you so much more
Softer, younger, lovelier. Admit your
Admiration. Notice the perfection
Of his limbs, his eyes reddening under
The shower, the shy walk across the bathroom floor,
Dropping towels, and the jerky way he
Urinates. All the fond details that make
Him male and your only man. Gift him all,
Gift him what makes you woman, the scent of
Long hair, the musk of sweat between the breasts,
The warm shock of menstrual blood, and all your
Endless female hungers. Oh yes, getting
A man to love is easy, but living
Without him afterwards may have to be
Faced. A living without life when you move
Around, meeting strangers, with your eyes that
Gave up their search, with ears that hear only

His last voice calling out your name and your

Body which once under his touch had gleamed
Like burnished brass, now drab and destitute.
Kamala Das :