Children / Letitia Elizabeth Landon

A word will fill the little heart
With pleasure and with pride;
It is a harsh, a cruel thing,
That such can be denied.

And yet how many weary hours
Those joyous creatures know;
How much of sorrow and restraint
They to their elders owe!

How much they suffer from our faults!
How much from our mistakes!
How often, too, mistaken zeal
An infant's misery makes!

We overrule and overteach,
We curb and we confine,
And put the heart to school too soon,
To learn our narrow line.

No: only taught by love to love,
Seems childhood's natural task;
Affection, gentleness, and hope,
Are all its brief years ask.

For The Young Who Want To / Marge Piercy

Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.

The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms

is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.

The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.

खाली सीपी में समुन्दर / अंजना टंडन

जैसे समन्दर लिखता है बादल
जैसे बादल बनते है हरा
जैसे हरा साथी है तितलियों का
जैसे तितली का माथा चूमता है कोई बच्चा
जैसे बचपन की आँख में है उजला सहज प्रेम,

नीली चादर लपेटे
वृत के आखिरी सिरे पर से अब
लौट जाना चाहती हूँ,

लौट आऊँगी बूढें कदमों से
बचपन को रोपने के लिए
हँडिया की भूख की तृप्ति के लिए
फसलों की सूखी आँख में नमी के लिए
समन्दर के किनारे रेत के घरौंदों के लिए,

बस
मृत्यु की परछाई आने के बाद भी शेष रहूँगी
जितना किसी खाली सीपी में
बचा रहता है समन्दर....।

Liberty / Archibald MacLeish

When liberty is headlong girl
And runs her roads and wends her ways
Liberty will shriek and whirl
Her showery torch to see it blaze.


When liberty is wedded wife
And keeps the barn and counts the byre
Liberty amends her life.
She drowns her torch for fear of fire.

शहर के लोग / प्रभात त्रिपाठी

इस शहर के लोगों को
एक ही कष्ट है यारो!
कि यह शहर
सिरे से भ्रष्ट है यारो!

लोग यह बात
इस तरह कहते हैं
जैसे यहाँ नहीं,
कही और रहते हैं।

I am in Need of Music / Elizabeth Bishop

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

First Memory / Louise Gluck

Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was--
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.

Notes from the Underground / Keki Daruwalla

1

The wind is cold and the wind burns.
The wind is cold and the wind is acid.
On the Bar counter ice and amber swirl
in thick gleaming glasses;
in the Bar the ash of small talk,
the smoke of ruminations.
Light purrs on a bare shoulder,
her feet are hidden
in the drooping hem of her sari;
ice and amber swirling
I sit here between betweens,
to the left of voices
to the right of memory.
Thought floats into
the slow silence of air currents;
the hours squat with me
as I snap connections
in autumn leaf detachment.


2

Nowhere to say this
no one to say this to
except to the typewriter
(the computer would store it
in its chip-memory
and that could be embarrassing)
as she pulled out
he turned into a dead crab beach
when the sea pulls out


3

Were the sea to pull out
sea birds would pull out
and the breeze;
shells would turn brittle
under crackling boot;
fish and fishermen
would be sucked into the great ebb
and our traders
would turn the white sea bed
into "The Salt Crystal
Shopping Arcade",
selling grounded oil tankers,
ocean liners dredged out of the mud
and whales flaked in salt.
You could buy goldfish though
as they circle the belly of a water jar.


4

You didn't come with me
to the mountains this time,
but as you know
when you climb mountains
the stars get nearer;
don't ask me why this happens
or how this happens
but it happens -
when constellations smile
death drops your catch.
but often the stars
go about their office routine
in the night sky
like glum bureaucrats -
this astral bureaucracy
is even more baffling in its ways
than our central ministries.
In auto mode Rahu gets into the act;
So does the moon debris that swirls
around Saturn and forms its rings.
Then what has to happen, happens.
That's what happened to you.


5

The almond tree flowers white;
beside it the peach flowers, as only peach can
with its own interpretation of pink;
and further in the lofty rear,
winter has left its brown imprint
on mountain and crag.
Perhaps with the rains
green may return to the slopes,
a little moss here, a little grass there;
you never know though,
the rains may never come
or life may run out before the rains -
the almond blossom, each petal soft as an eyelid,
will also not see the rain.
They are divided by a scimitar:
parched landscapes and rain,
parched lips and love.


6

Watching the wind-ruffled
down on bird-breast
I think for no particular reason
of wind through quivering paddy
in the Nepal terai.


7

I think I am at peace now,
he said, for my dreams
move like the thinnest
veil of mist over water.
Awareness of absences,
of what is right with me
or wrong with me is also like
the perception of a veil of mist
over a perception of water.

My troubles start
when I think of hope,
that thin smoke of mist
over the iron-grey waters of dawn,
icy waters, he said.

But you are with me
always
like a spring of
underground water
like the murmur of a spring
of underground water.

I didn't for the life of me know
whether he was addressing poetry
(he had lost his touch lately)
or his beloved.

Forty years with you
and I am a better man,
he said, awash
in forty years of cleansing waters
and forty years of light.
The trouble was
She couldn't hear him.

तुम हो जो कुछ कहाँ छुपाओगे / उम्मीद फ़ाज़ली

तुम हो जो कुछ कहाँ छुपाओगे
लिखने वालो नज़र तो आओगे

जब किसी को क़रीब पाओगे
ज़ाइक़ा अपना भूल जाओगे

आइना हैरतों का ख़्वाब नहीं
ख़ुद से आगे भी ख़ुद को पाओगे

ये हरारत लहू में कै दिन की
ख़ुद-ब-ख़ुद उस को भूल जाओगे

आँधियाँ रोज़ मुझ से पूछती हैं
घर में किस दिन दिया जलाओगे

साया रोके हुए है राह सफ़र
तुम ये दीवार कब गिराओगे

अब जो आए भी तुम तो क्या होगा
ख़ुद दिखोगे मुझे दिखाओगे

यही होगा कि तुम दर-ए-जाँ पर
दस्तकें दे के लौट जाओगे

वो जो इक शख़्स मुझ में ज़िंदा था
उस को ज़िंदा कहाँ से लाओगे

ऐसे मौसम गुज़र गए हैं कि अब
मुझ को भी मुझ सा तुम न पाओगे

जो लहू में दिए जलाती थीं
ऐसी शामें कहाँ से लाओगे

ख़्वाहिशों के हिसार में घिर कर
रास्ता घर का भूल जाओगे

Eve, Oh Eve / Taslima Nasrin

Why wouldn't Eve have eaten of the fruit?
Didn't she have a hand to reach out with,
Fingers with which to make a fist?
Didn't Eve have a stomach for feeling hunger,
A tongue for feeling thirst,
A heart with which to love?

Well, then, why wouldn't Eve have eaten of the fruit?
Why would she merely have suppressed her wishes,
Regulated her steps,
Subdued her thirst?
Why would she have been so compelled
To keep Adam moving around in the Garden of Eden all their lives?

Because Eve did eat of the fruit,
There is sky and earth.
Because she has eaten,

There are moon, sun, rivers, seas,

Because she has eaten, trees, plans and vines.

because Eve has eaten of the fruit

there is joy, because she has eaten there is joy.

joy, joy-

Eating of the fruit, Eve made a heaven of the earth.

Eve, if you get hold of the fruit

don't ever refrain from eating.

Death Be Not Proud / John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि... / सूर्यकांत त्रिपाठी "निराला"

बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि
तो क्या भजते होते तुमको
ऐरे-ग़ैरे नत्थू खैरे - ?
सर के बल खड़े हुए होते
हिंदी के इतने लेखक-कवि?

बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि
तो लोकमान्य से क्या तुमने
लोहा भी कभी लिया होता?
दक्खिन में हिंदी चलवाकर
लखते हिंदुस्तानी की छवि,
बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि?

बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि
तो क्या अवतार हुए होते
कुल के कुल कायथ बनियों के?
दुनिया के सबसे बड़े पुरुष
आदम, भेड़ों के होते भी!
बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि?

बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि
तो क्या पटेल, राजन, टंडन,
गोपालाचारी भी भजते- ?

भजता होता तुमको मैं औ´
मेरी प्यारी अल्लारक्खी !

बापू, तुम मुर्गी खाते यदि !

मैं अपनी होना चाहती हूं / जया जादवानी

नहीं, मैं तुम्हारे प्याले से नहीं पीऊंगी
चाहे प्यास घोंट दे मेरा गला
और मैं बिखर जाऊँ जर्रा-जर्रा
मैं नहीं उगूंगी तुम्हारी जमीन पर
मुझे नहीं चाहिए
तुमसे छन कर आती
हवा और धूप
मैंने सुना है उनकी नींदों का रोना
जिन्होंने अपने सपने
गिरवी रख दिये हैं
और अब
उनकी सांसों से
मरे हुए सपनों की गंध आती है
मुझे चाहिए अपनी नींद
भूख और प्यास
मुझे चाहिए अपने आटे की
गुंथी हुई रोटी
मैं अपने जिस्म पर
अपनी इच्छाओं की रोटी
सेंकना चाहती हूँ
अपनी मर्जी से
अपने लिये उगना
अपने लिये झरना चाहती हूँ
मुझे नहीं करनी वफादारी
तुम्हारी रोटियों की
रखवाली तुम्हारे घरों की
तुम्हारी मिट्टी की, तुम्हारी जड़ों की
जिनसे आती है मेरे
पसीने और लहू की बू
मैं नकारती हूँ वह वृक्ष
जिसके फूलों पर कोई इख्तियार नहीं मेरा
मैं छोड़ती हूँ तुम्हें
तुम्हारे फैलाए समस्त जाल के साथ
मैं होना चाहती हूँ
अपनी गंध से परिपूर्ण अपने लिये
मैं अपना आकाश
अपनी धरती चाहती हूँ
मैं अपनी होना चाहती हूँ!

सुबह नहीं होती अब / छवि निगम

नींद के खुलते ही
सुबह सुबह रोजाना ही...
और कैसे फौरन
खिलखिलाता
आंखमिचौली सा खेलता
गोलमटोल
मासूम सा सूरज
मेरी खिड़की की गोदी में लपक आता था।
अब...
तप जाता है
थक जाता है
हाँफते हाँफते बेचारा
चढ़ते चढ़ते
दस मंजिलें एक के बाद एक
सामने उग आई
उस नई इमारत की।
मेरी भी निराश खिड़की
बन्द हो चुकती है
तब तक।

The Wound / Gwen Harwood

The tenth day, and they give
my mirror back. Who knows
how to drink pain, and live?
I look, and the glass shows
the truth, fine as a hair,
of the scalpel's wounding care.

A round reproach to all
that's warped, uncertain, clouded,
the sun climbs. On the wall,
by the racked body shrouded
in pain, is a shadow thrown;
simple, unchanged, my own.

Body, on whom the claims
of spirit fall to inspire
and terrify, there flames
at your least breath a fire
of anguish, not for this pain,
but that scars will remain.

You will be loved no less.
Spirit can build, make shift
with what there is, and press
pain to its mould; will lift
from your crucible of night
a form dripping with light.

Felix culpa. The sun
lights in my flesh the great
wound of the world. What's done
is done. In man's estate
let my flawed wholeness prove
the art and scope of love.

ग्रहण / महेन्द्र भटनागर

आज मेरे सरल चांद को किस
ग्रहण ने ग्रसा है ?
आज कैसी विपद में विहंगम
गगन का फँसा है ?

मौन वातावरण में बिखरतीं
उदासीन किरणें,
रंग बदला कि मानों उठी हो
घटा घोर घिरने !

दूर का यह अँधेरा सघन अब
निकट आ रहा है,
गीत दुख का, बड़ी वेदना का
पवन गा रहा है !

अश्रु से भर खड़े मूक बनकर
सभी तो सितारे,
हो व्यथित यह सतत सोचते हैं
कि किसको पुकारें ?

साथ हूँ मैं सुधाधर तुम्हारे
मुझे दुख बताओ,
हूँ तुम्हारा, रहूँगा तुम्हारा
न कुछ भी छिपाओ !

A Sunrise Song / Sidney Lanier

Young palmer sun, that to these shining sands
Pourest thy pilgrim's tale, discoursing still
Thy silver passages of sacred lands,
With news of Sepulchre and Dolorous Hill,

Canst thou be he that, yester-sunset warm,
Purple with Paynim rage and wrack desire,
Dashed ravening out of a dusty lair of Storm,
Harried the west, and set the world on fire?

Hast thou perchance repented, Saracen Sun?
Wilt warm the world with peace and dove-desire?
Or wilt thou, ere this very day be done,
Blaze Saladin still, with unforgiving fire?

सच हम नहीं सच तुम नहीं / जगदीश गुप्त

सच हम नहीं, सच तुम नहीं। 
सच है सतत संघर्ष ही।
संघर्ष से हटकर जिए तो क्या जिए हम या कि तुम।
जो नत हुआ वह मृत हुआ ज्यों वृन्त से झरकर कुसुम।
जो पन्थ भूल रुका नहीं,
जो हार देख झुका नहीं,
जिसने मरण को भी लिया हो जीत है जीवन वही।
सच हम नहीं, सच तुम नहीं ।

ऐसा करो जिससे न प्राणों में कहीं जड़ता रहे।
जो है जहाँ चुपचाप अपने आप से लड़ता रहे।
जो भी परिस्थितियाँ मिलें,
काँटे चुभें कलियाँ खिलें,
टूटे नहीं इनसान, बस सन्देश यौवन का यही।
सच हम नहीं, सच तुम नहीं।

हमने रचा आओ हमीं अब तोड़ दें इस प्यार को।
यह क्या मिलन, मिलना वही जो मोड़ दे मँझधार को।
जो साथ फूलों के चले,
जो ढाल पाते ही ढले,
यह ज़िन्दगी क्या ज़िन्दगी जो सिर्फ़ पानी सी बही।
सच हम नहीं, सच तुम नहीं।

अपने हृदय का सत्य अपने आप हमको खोजना।
अपने नयन का नीर अपने आप हमको पोंछना।
आकाश सुख देगा नहीं
धरती पसीजी है कहीं !
हए एक राही को भटककर ही दिशा मिलती रही।
सच हम नहीं, सच तुम नहीं।

बेकार है मुस्कान से ढकना हृदय की खिन्नता।
आदर्श हो सकती नहीं तन और मन की भिन्नता।
जब तक बँधी है चेतना
जब तक प्रणय दुख से घना
तब तक न मानूँगा कभी इस राह को ही मैं सही।
सच हम नहीं, सच तुम नहीं।

A Good Man / James Whitcomb Riley

I

A good man never dies--
In worthy deed and prayer
And helpful hands, and honest eyes,
If smiles or tears be there:
Who lives for you and me--
Lives for the world he tries
To help--he lives eternally.
A good man never dies.


II

Who lives to bravely take
His share of toil and stress,
And, for his weaker fellows' sake,
Makes every burden less,--
He may, at last, seem worn--
Lie fallen--hands and eyes
Folded--yet, though we mourn and mourn,
A good man never dies.

After Rain / Edward Thomas

The rain of a night and a day and a night
Stops at the light
Of this pale choked day. The peering sun
Sees what has been done.
The road under the trees has a border new
of purple hue
Inside the border of bright thin grass:
For all that has
Been left by November of leaves is torn
From hazel and thorn
And the greater trees. Throughout the copse
No dead leaf drops
On grey grass, green moss, burnt-orange fern,
At the wind's return:
The leaflets out of the ash-tree shed
Are thinly spread
In the road, like little black fish, inlaid,
As if they played.
What hangs from the myriad branches down there
So hard and bare
Is twelve yellow apples lovely to see
On one crab-tree.
And on each twig of every tree in the dell
Uncountable
Crystals both dark and bright of the the rain
That begins again.

Primer for Blacks / Gwendolyn Brooks

Blackness
is a title,
is a preoccupation,
is a commitment Blacks
are to comprehend—
and in which you are
to perceive your Glory.

The conscious shout
of all that is white is
“It’s Great to be white.”
The conscious shout
of the slack in Black is
'It's Great to be white.'
Thus all that is white
has white strength and yours.

The word Black
has geographic power,
pulls everybody in:
Blacks here—
Blacks there—
Blacks wherever they may be.
And remember, you Blacks, what they told you—
remember your Education:
“one Drop—one Drop
maketh a brand new Black.”
Oh mighty Drop.
______And because they have given us kindly
so many more of our people

Blackness
stretches over the land.
Blackness—
the Black of it,
the rust-red of it,
the milk and cream of it,
the tan and yellow-tan of it,
the deep-brown middle-brown high-brown of it,
the “olive” and ochre of it—
Blackness
marches on.

The huge, the pungent object of our prime out-ride
is to Comprehend,
to salute and to Love the fact that we are Black,
which is our “ultimate Reality,”
which is the lone ground
from which our meaningful metamorphosis,
from which our prosperous staccato,
group or individual, can rise.

Self-shriveled Blacks.
Begin with gaunt and marvelous concession:
YOU are our costume and our fundamental bone.

All of you—
you COLORED ones,
you NEGRO ones,
those of you who proudly cry
“I’m half INDian”—
those of you who proudly screech
“I’VE got the blood of George WASHington in MY veins”
ALL of you—
you proper Blacks,
you half-Blacks,
you wish-I-weren’t Blacks,
Niggeroes and Niggerenes.


You

माँ, मुझे चांद ला दो / तारा सिंह

अनायास आज भी यह मन- पंछी
उड़कर वहाँ पहुँच जाता है
जहाँ कभी इच्छा और समाधान
दोनो का अद्भुत आलाप हुआ था
माँ के आँचल को पकड़कर
आँगन बीच खड़ी कर
आसमां की ओर उँगली दिखाकर
चाँद को पाने की जिद्द किया था
तब माँ ने बहुत समझाया था
गोद में उठाकर, सीने से लगाकर
बहलाने का अथक प्रयास किया था
पर शिशुतावश, मैं माननेवाला कहाँ था
तब माँ पानी से भरे थाली में
आँगन बीच मेरे लिए
आसमां से चाँद उतार लाई थी
और मुझे अपने आलिंगन में भरकर
माया की प्रतिमा-सी, असीमता का परिचय दी थी
चाँद को पाकर मैं बहुत खुश हुआ था
सोचता था, मेरी माँ कितनी बलशाली है
इतनी बलशाली तो दिन- रात, बक- बक
करने वाली, दादी माँ भी नहीं है
वरना चाँद को पकड़कर, दादी माँ नहीं दी होती
पानी और थाली, घर में पहले भी थी
जब की चाँद को पाने की जिद्द
मैंने उनसे भी कई बार किया था

A Parting / Edith Nesbit

So good-bye!
This is where we end it, you and I.
Life's to live, you know, and death's to die;
So good-bye!

I was yours
For the love in life that loves while life endures,
For the earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures
I was yours.

You were mine
For the moment that a garland takes to twine,
For the human hour that sorcery shews divine
You were mine.

All is over.
You and I no more are love and lover;
Nought's to seek now, gain, attain, discover.
All is over.

The Sky of My Mind / Devesh Kumar Pandey

It opened with a bright light,
Literally out of blue.
Blinded by joy, I was.
Or euphoria, was it?

As my vision adjusted,
I fluttered in the golden yellow,
Romancing the rains of Cassia.
How lucky it felt to capture that moment!

While I was drowning deep in sublime,
Feeling all so lucky and strong.
The realization of dimming yellow came too late,
Signalling the end of the prime.

Just trying to gather whatever I could,
The yellow draining out so fast.
Pale withered leaves loosely holding on to the past.
The sadness of the autumn.

Then came the red.
Of setting Sun.
The anger took over the sadness of loss.
Finding faults and levying blames, all across.

The grey followed,
Dark thoughts clouding any fair judgement.
‘Twas difficult to tell apart,
The right from the wrong.

After a short grey of planning revenge,
Came a total absence of any feeling.
They call it the colour black,
A subtle nod to Kubler and Ross’s whack.

I don’t think I am a fan of black or nothingness.
But darkness gives me perfect cover,
To try out things that I’d have probably not
If I knew someone was watching over.

Don’t know what happened while I tried things out,
For a long time nothing did.
But then there was a faint light at distance,
Perhaps something had clicked, some spell.

I don’t exactly know the colour,
But there was an emotion bubbling.
I could listen to the morning calls of birds,
While I witnessed the darkness dissolving.

And then it happened,
A vast blanket of comfort stretched.
A wizard’s moment of achievement.
Blue, the warmest colour of all.

काहे को विधाता अइसन सुन्दर सरूप दीन्हों / महेन्द्र मिश्र

काहे को विधाता अइसन सुन्दर सरूप दीन्हों
सरस चतुराई निपुनाई छवि छाई है।
नाहक विलास भोग जगत में बनाया दीन्हों
नाहक सोलह सिंगार अंबर बनाई है।
नाहक विश्राम सुखधाम भी बनाए हाय
दुनिया के विभव राज नाहक बनाई है।
द्विज महेन्द्र रामचन्द्र लखन सिया के संग
भाल अंक लिखत ब्रह्मा खूब ही भुलाई है।

Boo to Buddha / Aleister Crowley

So it is eighteen years,
Helena, since we met!
A season so endears,
Nor you nor I forget
The fresh young faces that once clove
In that most fiery dawn of love.

We wandered to and fro,
Who knew not how to woo,
Those eighteen years ago,
Sweetheart, when I and you
Exchanged high vows in heaven's sight
That scarce survived a summer's night.

What scourge smote from the stars
What madness from the moon?
That night we broke the bars
Was quintessential June,
When you and I beneath the trees
Bartered our bold virginities.

Eighteen -years, months, or hours?
Time is a tyrant's toy!
Eternal are the flowers!
We are but girl and boy
Yet -since love leapt as swift to-night
As it had never left the light!

For fiercer from the South
Still flames your cruel hair,
And Trojan Helen's mouth
Still not so ripe and rare
As Helena's -nor love nor youth
So leaps with lust or thrills with truth.

Helena, still we hold
Flesh firmer, still we mix
Black hair with hair as gold.
Life has but served to fix
Our hearts; love lingers on the tongue,
And who loves once is always young.

The stars are still the same;
The changeful moon endures;
Come without fear or shame,
And draw my mouth to yours!
Youth fails, however flesh be fain;
Manhood and womanhood attain.

Life is a string of pearls,
And you the first I strung.
You left -first flower of girls! -
Life lyric on my tongue,
An indefatigable dance,
An inexhaustible romance!

Blush of love's dawn, bright bud
That bloomed for my delight,
First blossom of my blood,
Burn in that blood to-night!
Helena, Helena, fiercely fresh,
Your flesh flies fervent to my flesh.

What sage can dare impugn
Man's immortality?
Our godhead swims, immune
From death and destiny.
Ignored the bubble in the flow
Of love eighteen short years ago!

Time -I embrace all time
As my arm rings your waist.
Space -you surpass, sublime,
As, taking me, we taste
Omnipotence, sense slaying sense,
Soul slaying soul, omniscience.

Humanity / Gregory Corso

What simple profundities
What profound simplicities
To sit down among the trees
and breathe with them
in murmur brool and breeze —

And how can I trust them
who pollute the sky
with heavens
the below with hells

Well, humankind,
I’m part of you
and so my son

but neither of us
will believe
your big sad lie

चर्ख़ से कुछ उम्मीद थी ही नहीं / अकबर इलाहाबादी

चर्ख़ से कुछ उम्मीद थी ही नहीं
आरज़ू मैं ने कोई की ही नहीं

मज़हबी बहस मैं ने की ही नहीं
फ़ालतू अक़्ल मुझ में थी ही नहीं

चाहता था बहुत सी बातों को
मगर अफ़सोस अब वो जी ही नहीं

जुरअत-ए-अर्ज़-ए-हाल क्या होती
नज़र-ए-लुत्फ़ उस ने की ही नहीं

इस मुसीबत में दिल से क्या कहता
कोई ऐसी मिसाल थी ही नहीं

आप क्या जानें क़द्र-ए-'या-अल्लाह'
जब मुसीबत कोई पड़ी ही नहीं

शिर्क छोड़ा तो सब ने छोड़ दिया
मेरी कोई सोसाइटी ही नहीं

पूछा ‘अकबर’ है आदमी कैसा
हँस के बोले वो आदमी ही नहीं

जन्म-दिन का गीत / शेरजंग गर्ग

जन्मदिन आपको मुबारक हो,
आपका नाम आसमाँ तक हो।

हर ख़ुशी आपके चरण चूमे
और आँगन में रोशनी झूमे,
काम भी यादगार लायक़ हो
जन्मदिन आपको मुबारक हो।
आपका नाम आसमाँ तक हो !

दर्द शरबत समझ के पी जाएँ
चाँद-तारों की उम्र जी जाएँ,
कोई बाधा कहीं न बाधक हो
जन्मदिन आपको मुबारक हो।
आपका नाम आसमाँ तक हो !

सबकी आँखों के आप हों तारे
आप हों प्यार से अधिक प्यारे,
हर जगह आप ही की रौनक़ हो
जन्मदिन आपको मुबारक हो।
आपका नाम आसमाँ तक हो !

(मेरी एक मित्र, जिनका आज जन्मदिन है, को समर्पित।)

Men / Maya Angelou

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

A Losing Battle / Kamala Das

How can my love hold him when the other
Flaunts a gaudy lust and is lioness
To his beast? Men are worthless, to trap them
Use the cheapest bait of all, but never
Love, which in a woman must mean tears
And a silence in the blood.