Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks,
Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi.
He is recuperating from something on the lung.
The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing :
It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy
Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks.
There is a dignity to this; there is a formality-
The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending.
They bow and stand : they suffer such attacks!
And the octogenarian loves the little flocks.
He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing.
The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.
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घरेलू स्त्री / ममता व्यास
जिन्दगी को ही कविता माना उसने जब जैसी, जिस रूप में मिली खूब जतन से पढ़ा, सुना और गुना... वो नहीं जानती तुम्हारी कविताओं के नियम लेकिन उ...
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चाँदनी की पाँच परतें, हर परत अज्ञात है। एक जल में एक थल में, एक नीलाकाश में। एक आँखों में तुम्हारे झिलमिलाती, एक मेरे बन रहे विश्वास...
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All about the country, From earliest teens, Dark unmarried mothers, Fair game for lechers — Bosses and station hands, And in town and city...
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