Poems that I love

From Psalm 104:19 He made the moon for the seasons; The sun knows the place of its setting. Monsoon might have ended.  Its descent into the cold Autumn breeze Has certainly begun. Last night the rain only started  After darkness had completely Enveloped our highest peak. It’s colder. The sun sets well before dinner Change shows its face. When the moon couldn’t show its face. The only sound was the loud  Thunder shaking the grass. The dogs didn’t bark It was sudden.  It woke me from a fitful sleep. Dussehra was just a few days ago. Hoping that good wins the day They burnt Ravana  Just a flimsy scarecrow. Evil is far more terrifying Ask the thunder. Basho says, “Here’s a foolish notion—       the spirit world is like       an autumn evening.” Foolish flimsy Zen. Harsh drives me in a battered taxi. He’s played both Bhishma and Parjánya. He woke up this morning  Like a snow-covered mountain. I woke up ...

Psalm 66:10-16 For thou, O God, hast proved us: thou hast tried us, as silver is tried. Thou broughtest us into the net; thou laidst affliction upon our loins. Thou hast caused men to ride over our heads; we went through fire and through water: but thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place. I will go into thy house with burnt offerings: I will pay thee my vows, Which my lips have uttered, and my mouth hath spoken, when I was in trouble. I will offer unto thee burnt sacrifices of fatlings, with the incense of rams; I will offer bullocks with goats. Selah. Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will declare what he hath done for my soul. The priest was tall, almost elegant, slim, Standing tall the full length of his spine,  With a distinguished touch of gray in his beard. Gestures and smile to match. He looked almost a bishop with a bright red robe,  Quite unlike most of the other Nepali men I’d met. Rama told us to remain inside For the puja. She sounded rather mysterious...

  Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W H Auden

Song 7, Psalm 58 Reshma Didi told me that she discovered a snake in her kitchen this morning Before the sun rose. It was more than a meter long. Scared and startled in equal parts, she knew it carried no venom. Still waking to a snake eating carrots in the food locker is unsettling. She coaxed it into a bag and released it in the forest  Far from the house. The story of the a blessed garden invaded by a snake Metaphysical question, predictable answer equals eternal condemnation. Lying and subterfuge Condemn us to listen this devil story forever We believe. There is a small snake temple by Bhagsunag. The captive serpent is fat and lazy Plus Baba has defanged him so that There is no real danger to his devotees. I have not witnessed the charming, but I think that  It is not deaf to priestly incantations.  This Song of David and the damn snake may not make the world an evil place But there is little room for making them into Family pets. That’s universal. Go release your snak...

It fills you with the soft essence of vanished flowers, it becomes a trickle soft as a hair that you follow from the honey pot over the table and out the door and over the ground, and all the while it thickens, grows deeper and wilder, edged with pine boughs and wet boulders, pawprints of bobcat and bear, until deep in the forest you shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark, you float into and swallow the dripping combs, bits of the tree, crushed bees — a taste composed of everything lost, in which everything lost is found. - Mary Oliver

ball round like earth a dance in air swish through the hoop snow softened black morning birds singing spring gentle green golden lemons soaked dangling in silvery rain dark evening shivers

Song 6, Psalm 119:29-39 No one had come to work By noon. Even at the snail’s pace  Of mountain life This was unusual. Shivam hiked down the slope  to Sushil’s shop.  Legs sturdy enough for the adventure He texted, complete with click   A massive boulder slid  Onto our narrow slip of road. Paths both up and down  Blocked.  A car tumbled down the steep ravine, Trapping a Tibetan family in mud. The rain had not stopped after it had done its damage. It was cold and wet. This was the situation. I turned and tried to pray-- The situation seemed to demand some response. The psalmist sees a blocked road As all about lying, law, judgment And fear. Throw in some revelation. The expected response. Certainly I am not startled by any surprise Or innovation. He loves his roadmap to  The High and Dry. My path allows me to Simply put one foot After the other Perhaps forced to stop While resourceful Indian men Dig a Tibetan family out of the mud. Not the firs...