which has no words for ‘Spring’ or ‘happy’.
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I dreamt I flew as ibis fly
when all at once, there caught my eyea host of grinning crocodile
(British readers only)
that’s what it’s all aboutsunset
Rumi wrote much about silence.
Poets live with silence:the silence before the poem;the silence whence the poem comes; .the silence in between the words, as youdrink the words, watch them glide through your mind,feel them slide down your throattowards your heart;the silence which you share with the poetwhen the poem ends, sitting side by side,feeling one another being one heart;the…
Where do bogies go
Do they, Dr. Einstein, clingto the nostril wall untildessication overbalances the forceof adhesion against gravity, andthey fall on someone’s floor?How can one equatethe working-outof natural law witha clean, scoured, functional nostril orthe pleasure of finger food?
O Sun,
shining with a wintry discontentgrey-yellow on this dustthat dodged your viewuntil todayor perhaps, you are yourselfthe brightest fiery metaphor of all
The milk bottles were resting amidst geraniums
to be picked up with half-open eyesbut then, put down in the alien landof steel sink’s draining board,two ants caught in their morning explorationswho had inadvertently hitched a ride, jumped off;and now, bade fair to steal my heart;two chaps who lived to work,they presented the soul of agitation –backwards and forwards on the steel sink…