Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Less than hunger

Feast of Lamps by Abanindranath Tagore
Old yogi in a young body whispered :
Eat less than
hunger :
For lightness of
this body
that carries
the mind



- Neha <

Poetry of Garbage Disposer in Two Parts

Journey's End by Abanindranath Tagore (1913)

Part I.

The lighter it is, more
the noise it will make:
As with garbage disposer,
so with life.

Part II.

Sometimes it's not
the quality of the disposer itself,
But the garbage it churns -
Harsher it is, more the noise it makes.  

- Neha

Monday, April 18, 2016

II Immortal Justice of Housecleaning II

Sitting Woman by Jamini Roy 
That this dust that
we keep on cleaning: 
Is what we'd become, 
when all is said and done. 

- Neha

All that gold

 Trilogy of Colour by A. Ramachandran 
Golden rules: 
mythology of metals. 

- Neha

I give thee all

I give thee all—I can no more
Though poor the off'ring be;
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee.
A lute whose gentle song reveals
the soul of love full well;
And, better far, a heart that feels
Much more than lute could tell.

Though love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life's clouds away,
At least 'twill make them lighter pass
Or gild them if they stay.
And ev'n if care, at moments, flings
A discord o'er life's happy strain,
Let love but gently touch the strings,
'Twill all be sweet again!

 - Thomas Moore

In Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll, Alice recognizes the tune used in the song called Ways and Means sung by the White Knight.

Tell me how you live

I'll tell thee everything I can:
    There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
    A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
    "And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head,
    Like water through a sieve.
He said "I look for butterflies
    That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
    And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
    "Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread –
    A trifle, if you please."
But I was thinking of a plan
    To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
    That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
    To what the old man said,
I cried "Come, tell me how you live!"
    And thumped him on the head.  

His accents mild took up the tale:
    He said "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
    I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
    Rowlands' Macassar-Oil –
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
    They give me for my toil."
But I was thinking of a way
    To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
    Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
    Until his face was blue:
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
    "And what it is you do!"
He said "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
    Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
    In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
    Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
    And that will purchase nine.
"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
    Or set limed twigs for crabs:
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
    For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
    "By which I get my wealth--
And very gladly will I drink
    Your Honour's noble health."
I heard him then, for I had just
    Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
    By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
    The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
    Might drink my noble health.
And now, if e'er by chance I put
    My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
    Into a left-hand shoe,

Or if I drop upon my toe
    A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know--
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo--
That summer evening long ago,
    A-sitting on a gate.

- Ways and Means sung by the White Knight, Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Caroll

Saturday, April 02, 2016

To live

Dust Storm Before the Rain by A.Ramachandran 
I am dead because I lack desire,
I lack desire because I think I possess.
I think I possess because I do not try to give.
In trying to give, you see that you have nothing;
Seeing that you have nothing, you try to give of yourself;
Trying to give of yourself, you see that you are nothing:
Seeing that you are nothing, you desire to become;
In desiring to become, you begin to live.

- René Daumal