Bee

Sunday, March 25, 2007

The Vision

climbed and climbed
Where is the peak, my Lord?
I ploughed and ploughed,
Where is the knowledge treasure, my Lord?
I sailed and sailed,
Where is the island of peace, my Lord?
Almighty, bless my nation
With vision and sweat resulting into happiness


A.P.J.Abdul Kalam

Gathering of Lovers

This is a gathering of Lovers.
In this gathering
there is no high, no low,
no smart, no ignorant,
no special assembly,
no grand discourse,
no proper schooling required.
There is no master,
no disciple.
This gathering is more like a drunken party,
full of tricksters, fools,
mad men and mad women.
This is a gathering of Lovers

Rumi

Love Said to Me

I worship the moon.
Tell me of the soft glow of a
candle light
and the sweetness of my moon.

Don't talk about sorrow,
tell me of that treasure,
hidden if it is to you,
then just remain silent.

Last night
I lost my grip on reality
and welcomed insanity.
Love
saw me and said,
I showed up.
Wipe you tears
and be silent.

I said, O Love
I am frightened,
but it's not you.
Love said to me,
there is nothing that is not me.
be silent.

I will whisper secrets in your ear
just nod yes
and be silent.

A soul moon
appeared in the path of my heart.
How precious is this journey.



I said, O Love
what kind of moon is this?
Love said to me,
this is not for you to question.
be silent.

I said, O Love
what kind of face is this,
angelic, or human?
Love said to me,
this is beyond anything that you know.
Be silent.

I said, please reveal this to me
I am dying in anticipation.
Love said to me,
that is where I want you:
Always on the edge,
be silent.
You dwell in this hall of
images and illusions,
leave this house now
and be silent.

I said, O Love,
tell me this:
Does the Lord know you are
treating me this way?
Love said to me,
yes He does,
just be totally…
totally… silent

Rumi

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Lincoln's letter to his son's headmaster

A letter was written by Abraham Lincoln to the Headmaster of a school in which his son was studying.

"He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just and are not true. But teach him if you can, the wonder of books.. but also give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun and flowers on a green hillside. In school, teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat.....
Teach to have faith in his own ideas, even if everyone tells him he is wrong.
Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with the tough.
Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon...
Teach him to listen to all men; but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth, and take
only the good that comes through.
Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he is sad...
Teach him there is no shame in tears.
Teach him to scoff at cynics and to be beware of too much sweetness.. Teach him to sell his brawn and brain to highest bidders, but never to put a price on his heart and soul. Teach him to close his ears to a howling mob.. and stand and fight if thinks he is right.
Treat him gently, but do not cuddle him, because only the test of fire makes fine steel. Let him have the courage to be impatient.. Let him have the patience to be brave. Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself, because then he will have faith in humankind.
This is a big order, but see what you can do. He is such a fine little fellow my son".

Monday, March 19, 2007

The death of the deer

The drought has stifled every feather of wind,
The sun melted down on the earth, left behind
An empty, exhausted, blistering sky,
The buckets come up from the fountains all dry.
More and more over woods fires, fires,
Dance above savage, demoniac pyres.

I follow my father through the bushes uphill,
The fir-trees scrape me, withered up and evil,
Together, we start the deer hunting quest,
The hunting of hunger in the Carpathian forest.
Thirst ruins me. The thin string of water
Drip, drop, from the spout is sizzling on stone.
My temple is throbbing. I walk on another
Enormous and heavy, strange planet alone.

We wait in a place where, from strings of calm waves,
The streams still resound.
When the sun will be set, when the moon will rise, round,
One by one, in a line, up here,
they will come to drink, the deer.

I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he hushes me at once,
Bemusing water, how clearly you glow!
I`m tied by thirst to the soul meant to die
At an hour forbidden by custom and by law.

The valley rustles with a withered hiss,
Crosswise the sky, a dire twilight lit
the clouds, and far, above the cliff,
blood drips. My chest is red, as if
I wiped my hands of blood on it.

With bluish flames through ferns, as in a dream,
Astounded stars begin to gleam
Sacrifice of my woods, oh, beautiful prey,
How I wish you did not come, how I pray!

She bounces lightly then she stops
And looks with caution through the grass
Her slender nostrils stirred the water
In circles shimmering like brass.

A hazy fear glared deep inside her eyes
I knew that she would suffer;
I knew that she would die,
As she stood there, still, she was the sheer
Myth of the maid embodied in a deer.

White cherry flowers, high above her
The moon was sifting on her fur.
Oh, how I wish, oh, how I pray,
My father`s gun to miss its prey!

The valleys roared. Knelt, in the stream,
She raised her head, as in a dream
She watched the sky, the moon, the stars
Then fell and water gleamed with scars.
A blue bird rushed, in a tree, unknown
The deer`s life has softly flown,
Crying like birds when they depart
And their fall migrations start.

I went to close her eyes, below
So sadly laid her antlers shadow
I startled livid when, suddenly, offbeat,
My father screeched with joy: “Meat, we have meat!
With bluish flames through ferns, as in a dream,
Astounded stars begin to gleam
Sacrifice of my woods, oh, beautiful prey,
How I wish you did not come, how I pray!

She bounces lightly then she stops
And looks with caution through the grass
Her slender nostrils stirred the water
In circles shimmering like brass.

A hazy fear glared deep inside her eyes
I knew that she would suffer;
I knew that she would die,
As she stood there, still, she was the sheer
Myth of the maid embodied in a deer.


I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he nods that I may drink.
Bemusing water, how sullenly you glow!
I feel tied by thirst to the soul that died
At an hour forbidden by custom and by law…
But our laws are useless and dead
When our life hangs up on a thread
And custom, law and pity are quickly gone
When sis` is sick and hungry at home.

The smokes comes out of my father`s gun
The leafage in flocks starts to run!
My father kindles a terrible fire
The wood seems now darker and higher!
I pick up from the grass, as in a dream,
A tiny bell with silver gleam,
My father, from the spit rends with his nails
The deer`s heart and her entrails.

You, heart? I`m hungry! I want to live, I wish, although…
Forgive me deer, forgive me virgin-doe!
I`m tired. How tall is now the fire! The woods, how deep!
I cry. What does my father think? I eat and cry. I eat!

Nicolae Labis

December

Look up at the snowing December,
My love, through the windows, watch higher –
And tell them to bring us some embers,
To hear the cracking of fire.

Push closer your chair and listen
Wind`s rattle in chimney, the roar,
The storm or my days -all the same –
I wish I could learn their score.

And tell them to bring us some tea
Come closer, my darling, and sit
Now read me some tales from the poles,
Let it snow, let the snow be our crypt

And all in the house is so sacred,
And here with you is so warm –
Look up at the snowing December,
Don’t laugh…don`t cry…and read on.

And tell them to bring us a lamp,
It’s daylight, so dark and so cold –
The fence has been buried by snow,
And white frost has coated the bolt.

A flood of snow everywhere
Today I am not going home,
Look up at the snowing December,
Don’t cry…don`t laugh…and read on.

George Bacovia

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.It's had tacks in it,And splinters,And boards torn up,And places with no carpet on the floor—Bare.But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on,And reachin' landin's,And turnin' corners,And sometimes goin' in the darkWhere there ain't been no light.So, boy, don't you turn back.Don't you set down on the steps.'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.Don't you fall now—For I'se still goin', honey,I'se still climbin',And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

by Langston Hughes

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert frost

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Die Lorelei

I know not the significance
Or the meaning of my sadness...
There's a fairy-tail from times past
A lingering portion of my madness.
The air is cool as light recedes
And calmly flows the Rhine;
The peak of a nearby mountain glows
In the gloaming sun's shine.
Above a chaste woman sits
Radiant and quite unaware;
With golden jewelry flashing
She combs her golden hair.
She strokes it with a glittering comb,
As she toils a song's befalling.
A mysterious song, an enchanting air
With a melody enthralling.
Her lay is heard by the boatmen near
Who are seized with woe and pain
And tho' there are dangerous rocks nearby
To her visage and song they strain.
So, the boat is lost and the boatmen, too
Engulfed, I do imply
By the beautiful face and enticing strain,
The song of the Lorelei.



Heinrich Heine

I Taste a Liquor

I taste a liquor never brewed
From Tankards scooped in Pearl.
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air - am I
And Debauchee of Dew.
Reeling - thro endless summer days
From inns of molten blue.
When "Landlords" turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door -
When butterflies - renounce their "drams"
I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats
And saints - to windows run
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the - sun


Emily Dickinson

Mind Without Fear

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action---
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Rabindranath Tagore

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Symphony

…Questions abound,
Answers linger…
Desires procreate;
Sensations habituate;
Ideas percolate;
Thoughts proliferate;
Perceptions complicate..

Suggestions elevate;
Targets suffocate;
Designs facilitate;
Machinations arbitrate;
Achievements satiate.
Answers abound,
Questions linger…

Impulses circulate;
Emotions dilate;
Divinity translates;
Eternity sublimates;
Infinity annihilates..
…Sans questions,
Sans answers.


Mayank Bisht( www.windsandchimes.com)

The fish

I don't suppose
my heart was everwarm and redlike this before.
I sense that
in the worst moments of this black,
death-feeding repast
a thousand thousand well-springs of sunlight,
stemming from certitude,well up in my heart.
I sense, further, that
in every nook and cranny of this salt barrenness of despair
a thousand thousand joy forests,
stemming from the soil,
are suddenly springing.
Oh, lost certitude, oh, sea-creature
fleeing in the concentric,
shivering,
mirroring pools,
I am the clear pool:
mesmerized by love,
search out a path for meamong the mirror pools.
I don't thinkmy hand was everstrong and alivelike this, before.
I sense that
at the flow of blood-red tears in my eyesa duskless sun pours forth a song.
I sense that
in my every vein,in time with my every heart beat,the warning bell of a departing caravan tolls.
She, bare, came
one evening
through the doorlike the soul of water.
At her breast
two fishIn her hand a mirror
Her wet hair,
moss fragrance, intertwined moss.
On the threshold of despair,
I bellowed: Ah, oh retrieved certitude.
I won't put you again aside.

Ahmad shamlou(persian poet)

Sentimental story

Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word
,as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.
From the book "Bas-Relief with Heroes"
english translation by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru.
Nichita Stãnescu - Romanian Poet