A Maypole / Jonathan Swift

Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round,
And yet I firmly stand my ground:
All over naked I am seen,
And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land
E'er joined such numbers hand in hand.
I joined them fairly with a ring;
Nor can our parson blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke;
Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,
I'm but an idol raised on high;
And once a weaver in our town,
A damned Cromwellian, knocked me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years,
And then the jovial cavaliers
To their old post restored all three -
I mean the church, the king, and me.

क़िताब / इला प्रसाद

कम्प्यूटर के सामने बैठकर
पत्र, पत्रिकाएँ पढ़ते
सीधे- कुबड़े, बैठे- बैठे
जब अकड़ जाती है देह
दुखने लगती है गर्दन
धुँधलाने लगते हैं शब्द
और गड्ड्मड्ड होने लगती हैं तस्वीरें
तो बहुत जरूरी लगता है
किताब का होना ।

किताब,
जिसे औंधे - लेटे
दीवारों से पीठ टिकाए
कभी भी, कहीं भी
गोदी में लेकर
पढ़ा जा सकता था
सीएडी* के तमाम खतरो को
नकारते हुए ।

किताब जो जाने कब
चुपके से
गायब हो गई
मेरी दुनिया से
बहुत याद आई आज !

*Computer Aided Disease

Forget Not The Field / Thomas Moore

Forget not the field where they perish'd,
The truest, the last of the brave,
All gone -- and the bright hope we cherish'd
Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover
Those hearts as they bounded before,
In the face of high heaven to fight over
That combat for freedom once more; --

Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which Tyranny flung round us then,
No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,
To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past -- and, though blazon'd in story
The name of our Victor may be,
Accurst is the march of that glory
Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

For dearer the grave or the prison,
Illumed by one patriot name,
Than the trophies of all who have risen
On Liberty's ruins to fame

आज फिर चाँद उस ने माँगा है / इन्दिरा वर्मा

आज फिर चाँद उस ने माँगा है
चाँद का दाग़ फिर छुपाना है

चाँद का हुस्न तो है ला-सानी
फिर भी कितना फ़लक पे तन्हा है

काश कुछ और माँगता मुझ से
चाँद ख़ुद गर्दिशों का मारा है

दूर है चाँद इस ज़मीं से बहुत
फिर भी हर शब तवाफ़ करता है

बस्तियों से निकल के सहरा में
जुस्तुजू किस की रोज़ करता है

किस ख़ता की सज़ा मिली उस को
किस लिए रोज़ घटता बढ़ता है

चाँद से ये ज़मीं नहीं तन्हा
ऐ फ़लक तू भी जगमगाया है

आज तारों की बज़्म चमकी है
चाँद पर बादलों का साया है

रौशनी फूट निकली मिसरों से
चाँद को जब ग़ज़ल में सोचा है

Preparations for Victory / Edmund Blunden

My soul, dread not the pestilence that hags
The valley; flinch not you, my body young.
At these great shouting smokes and snarling jags
Of fiery iron; as yet may not be flung
The dice that claims you. Manly move among
These ruins, and what you must do, do well;
Look, here are gardens, there mossed boughs are hung
With apples who bright cheeks none might excel,
And there's a house as yet unshattered by a shell.

"I'll do my best," the soul makes sad reply,
"And I will mark the yet unmurdered tree,
The tokens of dear homes that court the eye,
And yet I see them not as I would see.
Hovering between, a ghostly enemy.
Sickens the light, and poisoned, withered, wan,
The least defiled turns desperate to me."
The body, poor unpitied Caliban,
Parches and sweats and grunts to win the name of Man.

Days or eternities like swelling waves
Surge on, and still we drudge in this dark maze;
The bombs and coils and cans by strings of slaves
Are borne to serve the coming day of days;
Pale sleep in slimy cellars scarce allays
With its brief blank the burden. Look, we lose;
The sky is gone, the lightless, drenching haze
Of rainstorms chills the bone; earth, air are foes,
The black fiend leaps brick-red as life's last picture goes.

उम्र / पंखुरी सिन्हा

जैसे सुबह उठकर कोई शीशे में देखे,
कि कुछ बाल कनपटी पर सफ़ेद हो गए हैं,
कि एक रेखा खिंचती है गालों में, अब हँसने पर,
वैसे सुबह उठकर लड़की ने शीशे में देखा,
कि अब वह बिल्कुल प्यार नहीं करती,
उस आदमी से, जिसके साथ,
उसका तथाकथित प्यार का रिश्ता है,
और ज़िन्दगी उसके लिए आसान हो गई।

आते-जाते वक़्त एक तय मुस्कुराहट,
रात का एक सुदीर्घ चुम्बन,
और हस्ताक्षर, ढेर सारे हस्ताक्षर,
ढेर सारे काग़ज़ों पर वही तय हस्ताक्षर,
बैंक के, दफ़्तर के, हास्पिटल के, टैक्स के,
बच्चों के स्कूल के,
काग़ज़ों पर हस्ताक्षर
करते हुए,
एक दिन लड़की ने जाना,
ज़िन्दगी प्यार नहीं,
ज़िन्दगी व्यवस्था है।

Just Walking Around / John Ashbery

What name do I have for you?
Certainly there is not name for you
In the sense that the stars have names
That somehow fit them. Just walking around,

An object of curiosity to some,
But you are too preoccupied
By the secret smudge in the back of your soul
To say much and wander around,

Smiling to yourself and others.
It gets to be kind of lonely
But at the same time off-putting.
Counterproductive, as you realize once again

That the longest way is the most efficient way,
The one that looped among islands, and
You always seemed to be traveling in a circle.
And now that the end is near

The segments of the trip swing open like an orange.
There is light in there and mystery and food.
Come see it.
Come not for me but it.
But if I am still there, grant that we may see each other.

Ballad of Human Life / Thomas Lovell Beddoes

When we were girl and boy together,
We toss’d about the flowers
And wreath’d the blushing hours
Into a posy green and sweet.
I sought the youngest, best,
And never was at rest
Till I had laid them at thy fairy feet.
But the days of childhood they were fleet,
And the blooming sweet-briar-breath’d weather,
When we were boy and girl together.

Then we were lad and lass together,
And sought the kiss of night
Before we felt aright,
Sitting and singing soft and sweet.
The dearest thought of heart
With thee ’t was joy to part,
And the greater half was thine, as meet.
Still my eyelid’s dewy, my veins they beat
At the starry summer-evening weather,
When we were lad and lass together.

And we are man and wife together,
Although thy breast, once bold
With song, be clos’d and cold
Beneath flowers’ roots and birds’ light feet.
Yet sit I by thy tomb,
And dissipate the gloom
With songs of loving faith and sorrow sweet.
And fate and darkling grave kind dreams do cheat,
That, while fair life, young hope, despair and death are,
We ’re boy and girl, and lass and lad, and man and wife together.

23 मार्च / पाश

उसकी शहादत के बाद बाक़ी लोग
किसी दृश्य की तरह बचे
ताज़ा मुंदी पलकें देश में सिमटती जा रही झाँकी की
देश सारा बच रहा बाक़ी

उसके चले जाने के बाद
उसकी शहादत के बाद
अपने भीतर खुलती खिडकी में
लोगों की आवाज़ें जम गयीं

उसकी शहादत के बाद
देश की सबसे बड़ी पार्टी के लोगों ने
अपने चेहरे से आँसू नहीं, नाक पोंछी
गला साफ़ कर बोलने की
बोलते ही जाने की मशक की

उससे सम्बन्धित अपनी उस शहादत के बाद
लोगों के घरों में, उनके तकियों में छिपे हुए
कपड़े की महक की तरह बिखर गया

शहीद होने की घड़ी में वह अकेला था ईश्वर की तरह
लेकिन ईश्वर की तरह वह निस्तेज न था

At The Door / David Wagoner

All actors look for them-the defining moments
When what a character does is what he is.
The script may say, He goes to the door
And exits or She goes out the door stage left.

But you see your fingers touching the doorknob,
Closing around it, turning it
As if by themselves. The latch slides
Out of the strike-plate, the door swings on its hinges,
And you're about to take that step
Over the threshold into a different light.

For the audience, you may simply be
Disappearing from the scene, yet in those few seconds
You can reach for the knob as the last object on earth
You wanted to touch. Or you can take it
Warmly like the hand your father offered
Once in forgiveness and afterward
Kept to himself.

Or you can stand there briefly, as bewildered
As by the door of a walk-in time-lock safe,
Stand there and stare
At the whole concept of shutness, like a rat
Whose maze has been rebaffled overnight,
Stand still and quiver, unable to turn
Around or go left or right.

Or you can grasp it with a sly, soundless discretion,
Open it inch by inch, testing each fraction
Of torque on the spindles, on tiptoe
Slip yourself through the upright slot
And press the lock-stile silently
Back into its frame.

Or you can use your shoulder
Or the hard heel of your shoe
And a leg-thrust to break it open.

Or you can approach the door as if accustomed
To having all barriers open by themselves.
You can wrench aside
This unauthorized interruption of your progress
And then leave it ajar
For others to do with as they may see fit.

Or you can stand at ease
And give the impression you can see through
This door or any door and have no need
To take your physical self to the other side.

Or you can turn the knob as if at last
Nothing could please you more, your body language
Filled with expectations of joy at where you're going,
Holding yourself momentarily in the posture
Of an awestruck pilgrim at the gate-though you know
You'll only be stepping out against the scrim
Or a wobbly flat daubed with a landscape,
A scribble of leaves, a hint of flowers,
The bare suggestion of a garden.

केशर की कलि की पिचकारी / सूर्यकांत त्रिपाठी "निराला"

केशर की, कलि की पिचकारीः
पात-पात की गात सँवारी ।

राग-पराग-कपोल किए हैं,
लाल-गुलाल अमोल लिए हैं
तरू-तरू के तन खोल दिए हैं,
आरती जोत-उदोत उतारी-
गन्ध-पवन की धूप धवारी ।

गाए खग-कुल-कण्ठ गीत शत,
संग मृदंग तरंग-तीर-हत
भजन-मनोरंजन-रत अविरत,
राग-राग को फलित किया री-
विकल-अंग कल गगन विहारी ।

Crumbs to the Birds / Charles Lamb

A bird appears a thoughtless thing,
He's ever living on the wing,
And keeps up such a carolling,
That little else to do but sing
A man would guess had he.


No doubt he has his little cares,
And very hard he often fares,
The which so patiently he bears,
That, listening to those cheerful airs,
Who knows but he may be


In want of his next meal of seeds?
I think for that his sweet song pleads.
If so, his pretty art succeeds.
I'll scatter there among the weeds
All the small crumbs I see.

प्रेम में मैं असहज हूँ / प्रज्ञा पाण्डेय

प्रेम में मैं असहज हूँ
अव्यवस्थित
बेवजह !

कभी चाहती हूँ रौंदकर
ख़ुद को
उसी की राह बन जाऊँ
कभी चाहती हूँ
रौंद देना सब कुछ !

कभी तन्हाई का
जंगल थाम
बैठ जाती हूँ
कभी चलती हूँ हर क़दम ही
शोर बन कर !

यूँ तो
कायनात में
वो
इक अकेला है
और सिर्फ मेरा सिर्फ
मेरा
सिर्फ मेरा है

है चश्मे का पानी कभी
वो
मीठा मीठा सा!
तल्ख़ होता है
मगर
जब
घूँट भर नहीं मिलता!

भाती है उसकी
बच्चों सी
हँसी
कब चाहती हूँ मैं की वो रोये
मगर
सिसकियाँ उसकी
भली !

पराग मेरे अंग पर
यूँ तो मला है
प्रेम ने
और मैं भी उड़ी
ख़ूब
तितलियों के संग

फिर भी
निर्मम !
पंख उनके
मसलती हूँ देह पर

प्रेम में
मैं असहज हूँ
अव्यवस्थित
बेवज़ह !!

A Rose Grows In The Night / Kevin Patrick

A rose grows in the night
Lit beneath the diamond lights
Petals smooth in silken magic
Blossom crimson shaded fabric
I touch the stem and thorns
Disappear from their tragic court
Scent regales the pollens nectar
That sings in childhood's laughter
Where smiles are like roses
That grow inside the night

Consolation / Wislawa Szymborska

Darwin.
They say he read novels to relax,
But only certain kinds:
nothing that ended unhappily.
If anything like that turned up,
enraged, he flung the book into the fire.

True or not,
I’m ready to believe it.

Scanning in his mind so many times and places,
he’d had enough of dying species,
the triumphs of the strong over the weak,
the endless struggles to survive,
all doomed sooner or later.
He’d earned the right to happy endings,
at least in fiction
with its diminutions.

Hence the indispensable
silver lining,
the lovers reunited, the families reconciled,
the doubts dispelled, fidelity rewarded,
fortunes regained, treasures uncovered,
stiff-necked neighbors mending their ways,
good names restored, greed daunted,
old maids married off to worthy parsons,
troublemakers banished to other hemispheres,
forgers of documents tossed down the stairs,
seducers scurrying to the altar,
orphans sheltered, widows comforted,
pride humbled, wounds healed over,
prodigal sons summoned home,
cups of sorrow thrown into the ocean,
hankies drenched with tears of reconciliation,
general merriment and celebration,
and the dog Fido,
gone astray in the first chapter,
turns up barking gladly
in the last.

(Translated from Polish by Clare Cavanagh)

To My Native Land / Henry Louis Vivian Derozio

My country! In thy days of glory past
A beauteous halo circled round thy brow
and worshipped as a deity thou wast—
Where is thy glory, where the reverence now?
Thy eagle pinion is chained down at last,
And grovelling in the lowly dust art thou,
Thy minstrel hath no wreath to weave for thee
Save the sad story of thy misery!
Well—let me dive into the depths of time
And bring from out the ages, that have rolled
A few small fragments of these wrecks sublime
Which human eye may never more behold
And let the guerdon of my labour be,
My fallen country! One kind wish for thee!

प्रयाणगीत / जयशंकर प्रसाद

हिमाद्रि तुंग शृंग से प्रबुद्ध शुद्ध भारती
स्वयंप्रभा समुज्ज्वला स्वतंत्रता पुकारती
अमर्त्य वीर पुत्र हो, दृढ़-प्रतिज्ञ सोच लो,
प्रशस्त पुण्य पंथ हैं - बढ़े चलो बढ़े चलो।

असंख्य कीर्ति-रश्मियाँ विकीर्ण दिव्य दाह-सी।
सपूत मातृभूमि के रुको न शूर साहसी।
अराति सैन्य सिंधु में - सुबाड़वाग्नि से जलो,
प्रवीर हो जयी बनो - बढ़े चलो बढ़े चलो।

कुछ इश्क़ किया, कुछ काम किया / फ़ैज़ अहमद फ़ैज़

वो लोग बहुत ख़ुशक़िस्मत थे
जो इश्क़ को काम समझते थे
या काम से आशिक़ी करते थे
हम जीते जी मसरूफ़ रहे
कुछ इश्क़ किया कुछ काम किया

काम इश्क़ के आड़े आता रहा
और इश्क़ से काम उलझता रहा
फिर आख़िर तंग आकर हम ने
दोनों को अधूरा छोड़ दिया

Butterflies and Imaginary Friends / Tamara Turner

I am a butterfly
A glimmer of something that you can't quite catch with with the naked eye
The small springs that flows above the under current
That small voice that nudges you to move forward
I'm that aching sorrow that never seems to go away
I'm that person that still wants you in my life
That's begging you to stay
You may not see it but it is there
In order to see it you just first believe in it
Because like a imaginary friend I'm always there.
Until you get old grow up and no longer need me
But I still will always care

चराग़ / इरशाद कामिल

न दोस्ती न दुश्मनी
मेरा काम तो है रौशनी
मैं रास्ते का चराग़ हूँ
कहो सर-फिरी हवाओं से
न चलें ठुमक-अदाओं से
कभी फिर करूँगा मोहब्बतें
अभी सामने हैं ज़ुल्मतें
ये अँधेरा पहले नोच लूँ
कोई चाल अगली सोच लूँ
मैं गुम हूँ अपने ख़याल में
ये जान लो कि इस लम्हे
मैं दिल नहीं दिमाग़ हूँ
मैं रास्ते का चराग़ हूँ
मेरा काम तो है रौशनी
न दोस्ती न दुश्मनी

Daylight is Dying / Banjo Paterson

The daylight is dying
Away in the west,
The wild birds are flying
in silence to rest;
In leafage and frondage
Where shadows are deep,
They pass to its bondage--
The kingdom of sleep
And watched in their sleeping
By stars in the height,
They rest in your keeping,
O wonderful night.
When night doth her glories
Of starshine unfold,
'Tis then that the stories
Of bush-land are told.

Unnumbered I told them
In memories bright,
But who could unfold them,
Or read them aright?
Beyond all denials
The stars in their glories,
The breeze in the myalls,
Are part of these stories.

The waving of grasses,
The song of the river
That sings as it passes
For ever and ever,
The hobble-chains' rattle,
The calling of birds,
The lowing of cattle
Must blend with the words.

Without these, indeed you
Would find it ere long,
As though I should read you
The words of a song
That lamely would linger
When lacking the rune,
The voice of a singer,
The lilt of the tune.

But as one halk-bearing
An old-time refrain,
With memory clearing,
Recalls it again,
These tales roughly wrought of
The Bush and its ways,
May call back a thought of
The wandering days;
And, blending with each
In the memories that throng
There haply shall reach
You some echo of song.

रोशनी के आख्यान / मालिनी गौतम

चिड़िया सतर्कता से रोज़ की तरह
इधर-उधर देखते हुए
बगीचे की किसी डाल पर
नहीं फुदकी,
उसने साइकस के काँटेदार झाड़ में
अपने पंख भी नहीं उलझाए,
नहीं किया इन्तज़ार
सूरज के अस्त होने पर
शाम ढले
अपने घोंसले में लौटने का।

वह तो दिन रहते ही
हो गई समाधिस्थ
बेला की सबसे मजबूत और लचीली डाल पर
जहाँ नहीं खिले थे
बेला के फूल,
फिर ढाँप कर अपने डैनों से लता को
मिटा दिया उसने दिन और रात का भेद।

चिड़िया अब फूल, पत्ते, ख़ुशबू,
साइकस, काँटे और सूरज के प्रेम में नहीं है
वह निर्मित कर रही है
प्रेम की नई भाषा
अँधेरों पर अपनी चोंच से
रोशनी के नए आख्यान लिखकर।

How Do I Love Thee / Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

एक लड़की ऐसी है जो बचपन में बड़ी हो गई / आयुष्मान खुराना

एक लड़की ऐसी है जो बचपन में बड़ी हो गई,
शोर से इस रोज़मर्रा में अनसुनी सी ध्वनि हो गई।
हल्के फुल्के कंधों पे उत्तरदायित्व से सनी हो गई,
भागते से जीवन में रुकी सी खड़ी हो गई।
सिलवटों से छुटपन में क्षण में घड़ी हो गई,
कभी हंसी में बहती एक अश्रु की बूंद, मल्हार सी लड़ी हो गई।
पुरुष के छोटे पौरुष की बड़ी सी तड़ी हो गई,
नर-अहंकार के मरूस्थल में घास की पत्ती सी हरी हो गई।
सैंकड़ो मर्द दानवों में नन्ही सी परी हो गई,
अल्पआयु की वायु में भी गोद कुछ भरी हो गई।
आज न फिर पढ़ पाई वो इस बात की कड़ी हो गई,
एक लड़की ऐसी है जो बचपन में बड़ी हो गई।

(Listen to the poet reciting it here)

ख़ामोशियों में भी कुछ शोर रहता है / अनामिका तिवारी

ख़ामोशियों में भी कुछ शोर रहता है
और परछाइयों के पीछे
कोई आहट दिल-ओ-दिमाग़ में
दूर-दूर तक फैली है तन्हाई

फिर भी, गुज़रे वक़्त का इन्तज़ार रहता है,
कोशिशें नाकाम हज़ार बार कीं
ख़ुद को समझाने की
कोई रहनुमा नहीं जो सम्भाले हालात को।

फिर किस इन्तज़ार में
ये चन्द साँसें चल रही हैं

जज़्बातों की रोज़ ही जलती होली
फटी-नुची लाशों की रोज़ की नुमाइश
दो रोटियों में सिमटा वजूद

फिर किसमें ढूँढूँ ख़ुद की पहचान।

Be Not Sad / James Joyce

Be not sad because all men
Prefer a lying clamour before you:
Sweetheart, be at peace again -- -
Can they dishonour you?

They are sadder than all tears;
Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.
Proudly answer to their tears:
As they deny, deny.

कुछ न कुछ तो ज़रूर होना है / वाजिदा तबस्सुम

कुछ न कुछ तो ज़रूर होना है,
सामना आज उनसे होना है

तोड़ो, फेंकों, रखो, करो कुछ भी,
दिल हमारा है, क्या खिलौना है

ज़िंदगी और मौत का मतलब,
तुमको पाना है, तुमको खोना है

उठ के महफ़िल से मत चले जाना,
तुमसे रोशन ये कोना-कोना है

इतना डरना भी क्या है दुनिया से,
जो भी होना है सो तो होना है

Advertisement / Ingeborg Bachmann

But where are we going
carefree be carefree
when it grows dark and when it grows cold
be carefree
but
with music
what should we do
cheerful and with music
and think
cheerful
in facing the end
with music
and to where do we carry
best of all
our questions and dread of all the years
to the dream laundry carefree be carefree
but what happens
best of all
when dead silence
sets in

चला जाता हूँ, किसी की धुन में / मजरूह सुल्तानपुरी

चला जाता हूँ, किसी की धुन में
धड़कते दिल के, तराने लिये
मिलन की मस्ती, भरी आँखों में
हज़ारों सपने, सुहाने लिये।

ये मस्ती के, नज़ारें हैं, तो ऐसे में
सम्भलना कैसा मेरी क़सम
तू लहराती, डगरिया हो, तो फिर क्यूँ ना
चलूँ मैं बहका बहका रे
मेरे जीवन में, ये शाम आई है
मुहब्बत वाले, ज़माने लिये।

वो आलम भी, अजब होगा, वो जब मेरे
करीब आएगी मेरी क़सम
कभी बइयाँ छुड़ा लेगी, कभी हँसके
गले से लग जाएगी हाय
मेरी बाहों में, मचल जाएगी
वो सच्चे झूठे बहाने लिये।

बहारों में, नज़ारों में, नज़र डालूँ
तो ऐसा लागे मेरी क़सम
वो नैनों में, भरे काजल, घूँघट खोले
खडी हैं मेरे आगे रे
शरम से बोझल झुकी पलकों में
जवाँ रातों के फ़साने लिये

Ode To The West Wind / Percy Bysshe Shelley

I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!

III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!

IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Is/Not / Margaret Atwood

Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise

sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities

you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,

nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow traveller

Give up this medical concern,
buttoned, attentive,

permit yourself anger
and permit me mine

which needs neither
your approval nor your surprise

which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease

but against you,
which does not need to be understood

or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead

to be said and said.
Permit me the present tense.