| Username |
Post |
| Biswo |
Posted
on 30-Aug-01 09:46 AM
Comrade Diwakar aka Krishna Bdr Mahara is a nice gentleman who also won in the
2048 election from somewhere in the midwest. The dapper bespectacled man is
now in Kathmandu, to conduct the dialogue with the government. That Maoists
haven't been serious in dialogue is well-known, but this doesn't reduce the
importance of having the dialogue.
Comrade Diwakar is the man behind all the massacre of policemen in midwest
including those in Holleri, Mahat etc. Those who don't like Maoists can term him
Achyut Krishna Kharel of Maoists. But, although everybody knows that he is the
mastermind behind all those attacks, he hasn't been indicted in any of those cases.
That is why he is so free to be publicly feted in Kirtipur, and , like a warrior of
medieval era, term all his opponents in Singh Darbar and Raaj Darbar as coward.
--------------
What's wrong with Kirtipur?
I have been there once, but never felt that the quaint town with nice people
is so revolutionary from the heart. I think there are probably very few MPs other
than Krishna Gopal who soiled the glory of being MP to that extent. I don't
remember exactly when , but I have seen the person leading a group of hoodlum
Akhils, some of whom were carrying knife, in the street of Kathmandu(I guess
near Baagbazaar).A terrible scene for a country boy at the time.
Kirtipur is an interesting place, thanks to our policy. Although a place where
nation's sole university was located for a few decades, it couldn't benefit at all
from the knowledge-center of the nation. Unlike other university towns in the
world, Kirtipur is still undeveloped, and rather than becoming a trend-setter, it
is swayed by the vogue of time.Now, it can be safely concluded that Kirtipur
is definitely a radical place, where a lot of people, not necessarily the majority
though, are highly disenchanted with the present system.
May be because we don't give importance to our professors in policy making, and
research funding, our professors couldn't do much for Kirtipur even though they
work in Kirtipur.It seems , unlike in USA, professors are not consulted while making
legislations in Nepal. So, among the fawning crowd that sorrounds Girija Koirala
type people are professors and intellectuals also.
-----------------
Here is a good news from Kathmandu: Some of the top-notch hotels in Shangri-la
are already booked for upto 95% of their capacity in November, and the average
booking is almost 70%.
In Prachanda-Path, our comrades talk about quality tourism. If only they
understand that the occupancy rate is index of surge in quality tourism, may be
they will prolong this charade of dialogue and peace for this winter, and provide
some relief in cash-strapped tourism industry of Nepal now.
--------------------------
Dr Dilli Raman Regmi is dead now.
He was a good friend of Nepali people, and also a good friend of King Tribhuvan
in Rana and post democracy era. Kings doesn't make friendship with commoners
in Nepal, but his proverbial friendship with Tribhuvan is one of the unique
examples. Tribhuvan was definitely a good king, and he was very popular in
Kathmandu also. Dr Regmi's commitment to welfare of Nepali people is
indubitable. His works in our history are the probably the most remarkable ones,
though.He has also bequeathed a big library to people of Nepal.
Let's hope his soul will rest in peace.
--------------------
And finally, to all of us who are saddened by the death of our former consul
general and our former PM: This poem will be relevant .
Raajaa Ranka Sabai Samaan Oosaka Baishamya Gardaina Tyo.
Ayo Tappa Tipyo Lagyo Miti Pugyo Taarera Tardaina Tyo.
** ***
Bhaaka Bhul Dayaa Kshema Ra Mamataa Santosha Jaandaina Tyo.
Indrai Binti Garun Parera Padamaa Tyo Binti Mandaina Tyo.
("Kaala Mahima" By Kabi Shiromani Lekha Nath Paudel)
|
| sparsha |
Posted
on 30-Aug-01 03:56 PM
>Comrade Diwakar aka Krishna Bdr Mahara is a
>nice gentleman who also won in the
>2048 election from somewhere in the midwest.
....
>Comrade Diwakar is the man behind all the
>massacre of policemen in midwest
>including those in Holleri, Mahat etc.
and how exactly is he a gentleman if he is the man behind all the massacre of policemen in midwest including those in Holleri, Mahat etc. ?
--------------
>Bhaaka Bhul Dayaa Kshema Ra Mamataa Santosha
>Jaandaina Tyo.
>Indrai Binti Garun Parera Padamaa Tyo Binti
>Mandaina Tyo.
Is it " Indrai Binti Garun Parera Padamaa Tyo Binti Mandaina Tyo" OR
" Indrai Binti Garun Jhukera Padamaa Tyo Binti Mandaina Tyo "?
I thought it was "Jhukera" but you may be right. I don't have that "Kaal Mahima" with me, right now. I guess the vereses are written in Shardulabikridit Chhanda (with Ma Sa Ja Sa Ta Ta Ganas and Guru at the end).
sparsha
|
| Gokul |
Posted
on 30-Aug-01 04:19 PM
Sparsha is right.
It is "Jhukera" and the chhanda is definitely "shardulavikridita".
Do you know that the following is in Shalini chhanda?
" Death is certain nobody can avoid."
|
| Biswo |
Posted
on 31-Aug-01 01:30 PM
Dear Sparshaji/Gokulji:
Thanks for pointing out the mistake. It should be "jhukera", and I apologize for
the mistake. I do have Lalitya with me here, and I often read the poems included
in the book. I checked the poem after you pointed out, and yes, it is "jhukera".
As for Mahara's being a nice gentleman, my idea was to portray him in two
different ways: one was to see him as a person, and another was to see him
as a political butcher.I hope it is clear now.
----------
Regarding Shalini Chhanda, I have no idea about Chhandas. I know only a few
Shardul Bikridit, and Shikharini, and may be because most of the poems we read
in scriptures (Bhanubhakta ko ramayan, Gauri Shankar Bashistha ko Mahabharat
and also in Lekhnath's poems..)
Just for enjoying, I would also like to quote a few of them:
Ek Din Narad Satya Lok Pugi Gayaa, Lok Ko Garu Hit Bhani...(Ramayana)
Another one in Shikharini:
Gayo Khaanyaa Belaa Makana Ta Milyo Raajya Banako..(Ramayana)
Shikari Ko Jhadkaa Tana Bicha Parethyo Jaba Ani..(Tarun Tapasi)
Kabi Shiromani once observed that because we Nepali live in Shikhara, we like
Shikharini Chhanda. It is upto you to say if that is true.
-------
again thank you very much for pointing out the mistake.
|
| Gandhi |
Posted
on 31-Aug-01 02:06 PM
Hi all:
Nothing to do with earlier comments and responses. I just remebered few short poems by Bhanubhakta which might be of interest. I am sure you all have read it before:
1. Bhanu went to his friend Tarapati's House (Tarapati was very close friend of Bhanu). When Bhanu reached there, Tarapati was out for that night. See what happened that night:
Ek Thok Bhanchhu Namaannu Dukha Manamaa He Mitra Tarapati
Timraa Yi Gharakaa Jahaan Harutaa Judhnyaa Rahyaaachhan Ati
Sunyaan Danta Bajaan Aaj Gharamaa Kar-Kar Garyaako Usai
Bhara Rat Jaagramanai Bhayo Makana Taa Laagena Nindra Kasai
Note: It was short note from Bhanu handed to Tarapati by his wife when he returned home the next day.
2. Bhanu was made a civil worker. Later he was charged of some thing wrong and put to Kumarichowk (the place where any suspects were put in Rana Regimes)
Jaagir Chhaina Dhani Ma Chhaina Gharako Kebal Kodalo Khani
Khanthyaan Dukha Garera Chaakari Garyaan Man Paaunla Ki Bhani
Ek Man Chitta Lagaai Chaakari Garyaan Khusi Bhayaachhan Hari
Man Mathi Pani Bhuktaman Thapi Diyaa Kahilei Nakhosnyaa Gari
Bhuktaman = Unnecessary Dukha, Kasta
Please share if you have any such sarcastic poems by Bhanu.
Gandhi
|
| Gokul |
Posted
on 31-Aug-01 02:34 PM
Now that we seem interested in Chhanda, I think it is appropriate to discuss about it.
Although I do not know the origin of chhanda, it is quite safe to say that it is at least as old as the Vedic age because in the Vedas, we see Chhandas being used. Chhanda was named according to the movement it was supposed to represent.
For example:
Bhujangaprayat :- Movement of Snake
e.g. Satata Jhardacha Nirjhara Jharjhara
Shardulavikridita :- Movement of Tiger (Not very sure)
Mandakranta :- Slightly stressed
e.g. Vidya nai ho bahuta rasilo jindagi ko kamai
Prithvi:
Saharsha sari nachane hridaya maa euta ghar
Aghora Nishi ma paren, Kiran chhada he sundara (Devkota)
Panchachamar (Movement of Chamar)
Malai chindachhau timi, ma sirjana sitar hun.
Ananat samma tankindo, Anadi ko ma taar hun.
Ma bajjchhu jhan jahnaudei, Samasta saura mandala
Jahan timi lukirahu, ma khichna sakchhu tyo dila. (Bhirav Aryal)
Ravana's Tandava Stotra in praise of Lord Shiva is the most famous poem in Sanskrit in this chhanda.
"Akharva sarva mangala bhraman nilimpa nirjhari
Vilola vichi vallari virajamana murdhani....
If recited appropriately, it is capable of creating the doomsday milieu.
Chhanda is used primarily in classical poetry and modern writers have decried it saying its artificiality restrains the free movement of thoughts and feelings, while trying to employ correct chhanda. Although this is true to some extent, there are exceptions. Mahakavi Devkota is the foremost example. It is no exaggeration to say that he did not use chhanda, rather chhanda used him to express itself. I mean to say that the chhanda came and manifested itself in his poetries. No conscious effort. No artificiality. Nothing. Just like the roars of cataracts.
English language has something like chhanda called meter but it is far less rigorous than chhanda. Dectalyc Pentameter is the popular one.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow, to join the brimming river
For man may come and man may go, but I go on for ever. (Tennyson - The Brook)
John Masefield's poem 'The sea' also uses the meter.
No other language has so rigorous and precise a scheme as chhanda. Extensive research is being conducted about generating chhandas algorithmically.
Chhanda uses binary systems.
Laghu - short - zero
Guru - long - one
Now you see what it may mean to computer programmers?
And at last, this poem by Bhairav Ayral
Patha saata phute, busa nau gaja ko
Seata bisa bhaye, bhida sau takako
chha ta anta katai subidha yasari?
Amaravati kantipuri nagari
|
| sparsha |
Posted
on 31-Aug-01 03:25 PM
Taken from spinybabbler.org statrs with Amarawati Kantipuri Nagari (this garden-city that the gods have built). I found the translation interesting.
sparsha
Profile:
Bhanubhakta Acharya
http://www.spinybabbler.org/personalities/images/bhanubhakta.gif
Lively young women with flowers in their hair
walk here and there with their friends.
They walk in dreams that are all their own
in this garden-city that the gods have built.
The rich in this place are uncountable
each person's mind is filled with joy.
Kathmandu city is an ocean of happiness
it is the golden city that the demons once built.
Some places like Lhasa, London, or China
some dark alleys like those of Delhi.
Some places that rival the mighty cities of India
are in this city that light has filled.
Swords, hatchets, knives and khukuris,
decorated by pistols and even rifles.
Brave and strong men fill all its streets.
Could another place like Kathmandu exist?
There is no anger, deceit or falsity
there is no limit to dharma and nobility.
The Lord of Animals protects this city,
this is the land of God Shiva, the land of immortality.
After so many days I have seen the Balaju water-gardens again
and I write that underneath earthly skies this is a Heaven.
All around me are birds that sit or swing upon vines
maybe their soft voices intend to steal my mind.
If I can stay here and make many verses
what better thing or pleasure could I ever wish.
If there were a beautiful maiden to dance before me
Lord Indra's paradise I would never miss.
Few poems were written in the Khas language until the mid-nineteenth century. Sanskrit dominated most of the written texts of South Asia and its influence was particularly strong in Nepal. Khas, which evolved into present-day Nepali, was limited to speech and even then it was considered a bastardized dialect.
Brahmins were the teachers, scholars, and priests of the society by virtue of their caste. Their education was Sanskrit oriented since all religious texts of the Hindu religion were in that language.
Bhanubhakta Acharya, born to a Brahmin family in 1814, received an excellent education with a strong leaning towards religion. He led an unremarkable life until he met a grass-cutter who wanted to give something to the society so that he would be remembered after death. Bhanubhakta was young, and the grass-cutter's words inspired him to write these words:
He gave his life to the grass and earned some money.
He plans to make a watering place so he will be remembered after death.
This high thinking grass-cutter has a house of poverty
I have achieved nothing though I have much wealth.
I have made neither a resthouse nor a watering place.
Inside my house are all my wealth and riches.
This grass-cutter has opened my eyes today.
My life is worthless if the memory of my existence fades away.
The grass-cutter's wish to be remembered has been fulfilled: he is more romanticized than Adikabi Bhanubhakta, the first poet of Nepal.
The people of the first poet's time strongly believed that building and renovating temples, shrines, resthouses, and watering places were acts of dharma. Kings honored their gods with pagoda structures decorated with the best wood, stone, and metal artwork. Every artisan created his piece so it would send a message of goodwill to the palace of Indra, the King of Heaven. The poor and the rich all tried to give what they could afford to ensure a good afterlife.
Bhanubhakta's contribution was unique. Children began their studies with light epics like the Ramayan and graduated to the complex Vedas. Ram's heroic exploits were highly impressive to Bhanubhakta, so he decided to make the deity more accessible to the people who spoke Khas. (Since the social order did not encourage literacy, most country people did not understand anything when epics were read out to them in Sanskrit.)
When completed, his translation was so lyrical that it was more like a song than a poem. Though priests found a rapt audience when they explained what they had been reading, they could not compete with the pleasant flow of Bhanubhakta's translation. Soon he and his book became household words.
Bhanubhakta did not study Western literature-the West must have been a land of fables for him. The closest city in India was several weeks' walk away, and there was a huge distinction between those who had been to Kathmandu and those who had not. When Bhanubhakta first visited Kathmandu, he called it the City of Immortality and compared it to the legendary cities of the gods and demons. All his ideas and experiences were derived from his native land. This lent such a Nepali flavor to his writing that few poets have been able to equal him. Those who read the first lines of the Bhanubhakta Ramayan can clearly feel Nepal in them.
Narad sage went to the Land of Truth one day,
wanting to bring back something good for creation.
Brahma the Creator was there and the sage
sat at his feet and pleased him with his devotion.
The themes about which Bhanubhakta wrote were simple. Once he went to visit a friend and not only discovered that his friend was on a journey, but that his wife was extremely rude to wayfarers. Guests and wayfarers were never treated casually by the people of his time. Houses were few and far between, and if anyone refused to shelter a traveler, he might have to walk several miles before finding another resting place. On top of this, there were many stories of gods who came in the guise of men seeking shelter and judged the homeowners by their conduct. Bhanubhakta was shocked by her attitude and wrote:
The wife of Gajagharsoti is a source of fortunes that are ill
she has taken leave from us all and is on the way to Hell.
The credit of discovering Bhanubhakta goes to Motiram Bhatta. Bhatta was a reader, a poet, and a traveler. He had been to India and was acquainted with the publishing business. He took interest in the Khas language and worked to put it on paper. He took pains to ensure that the Ramayan was published, make a collection of whatever Bhanubhakta poems were available, and prepared a biographical sketch of the poet.
The search for Bhanubhakta's works must have been frustrating. He did not write many poems, or few survived if he did. His works appear in fragments that are neither organized nor titled. He concentrated his efforts on the Ramayan, and most of his short poems deal with events which he felt profoundly about or they sing the praises of his gods.
Bhanubhakta wrote two masterpieces in his life. One is the epic of Ram, and the other is a letter to the Prime Minister while in prison.
Some funds had been embezzled while Bhanubhakta worked for the local government. He misunderstood the situation, signed some papers, was made a scapegoat, and was put into prison. His health became bad, he was given false hopes of being set free, and for a long time his case was not even heard. So he wrote a petition to the all-powerful Prime Minister requesting his freedom.
The Nepalese language is always respectful; even today most letters begin with, "I humbly request to beg..." Bhanubhakta's petition made fun of his own situation and convinced the ruler of his innocence.
Everyday I see kind authorities and get rid of my worries
I am at peace and all night I watch dances for free.
I do whatever my friends-mosquitoes, ticks and bedbugs – say
the mosquitoes sing and the ticks dance. I sit and watch their play.
I was jobless, wealthless, my hard earned food came from the spade
I served those people so everyone would notice me and give me respect.
Without wavering I served and they were pleased and they gave
overflowing attention that is never, ever taken away.
I am forty, I have a son who is eight years old.
The time for celebrating his manhood-ceremony is close.
I am rotting alone inside four walls, so what can I do my Lord?
How can I complete the ceremony in this darkness filled world.
The secret of success should be given by the father.
The lessons of life should be given by the mother.
My child has yet to study the Vedas and serve his teacher.
Therefore to you my Owner, I repeat my prayer.
Even while a great ruler like you owns this earth,
a Brahmin's rituals of manhood are being delayed.
Whose feet do I have to place my sorrow at except yours.
Please take pity on me and decide my case for better or worse.
My body is weak, it is made of grain and water.
How shall I say what has befallen me here.
I have suffered much sorrow, my body grows heavy
and I have been ill for many days.
I was imprisoned for no reason at Kumarichowk.
Illness came upon me there and after much trouble
I went home and when I became well they brought me here.
You are my Owner, you are my hope.
Whatever I explained to the authorities in writing is true.
But other's answers and written proofs, I am told,
have proved wrong all that I have said.
I told them I would pay their fines a thousandfold;
but they say they have more signatures on papers and letters.
They say their witnesses have many more tales.
I said I would not plead, I would rather be false
I would say anything that gets me outside these walls.
I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in this quarrel
I have no wish to become a millionaire and fill my house with treasures.
Days pass by uselessly and I cannot comfort myself
if you would decide my case it would be a great help.
I have talked with the wardens and they do not speak.
Even if they do, their "tomorrow, tomorrow," sounds like a joke.
What are these tomorrows? It would be better to know I won't be freed.
Many tomorrows passed. Please fill this bag with which I have begged.
Bhanubhakta not only won his freedom with this poem, but was given a bag filled with money as well. So passed the most dangerous and exciting time of his life. He lived to an old age and died in 1868.
Today Bhanubhakta is the Adikabi, the first poet of Nepal. Perhaps, it is only he and Laxmi Prasad Devkota that have become literary legends in this country. The only difference between the two is that Devkota's works continue to enjoy as much celebrity as the great poet himself while Bhanubhakta's fame tends to overshadow his writings.
Balkrishna Sama, a writer and a poet, has written a drama about the poet in Nepali. Laxmi Prasad's poem about the grass-cutter who inspired him to write the first Nepali verses follows.
The Grass-cutter
by Laxmi Prasad Devkota
A tired young man,
his head on a pillow of rock,
sleeps underneath a tree.
A grass-cutter sharpens his blade
near him leisurely.
A sweet song of the forest
steals into a gentle dream.
A heart flies towards the heavens
in the clear world of the living.
Wakening, the bright youth asks,
"What do you do, O grass-cutter?"
He replies smiling, "I collect things."
"What kind of things?"
"Well, we all will go our way.
Every person alone.
There is no one in my heart
for whom to tire my fingers.
So I sell this grass and collect money
to build a resthouse and a watering place.
If we do not sow, how will anything grow
and for how long will we play with toys?"
The sickle dances,
and the grass-cutter continues haltingly –
collecting the moments like bright jewels
and saving them.
"This forest belongs to the gods,
and this grass is a ripe field to be cut.
I reap my fruits
and have to pay my rent to the earth.
This life is two days of sun and shade,
my Brahmin child, so I give to these gods
the resthouse and the watering place."
Magnetized, the youth stared at him.
It was as if lightning flashed.
Leaves rustled and the forest birds
flew into the darkness of the trees.
His feelings flowed down strange streams
and their movement swept his mind.
"O" from somewhere came a thin sound,
"the state of this grass-cutter's life."
The person who slept in the forest
is shaken awake. He is shaken awake.
His eyes moisten.
His breasts rise and fall.
Two teardrops roll down
upon the peaceful rock.
Together their lines
form the word "god".
"Who is it, who is it?"
the cuckoo speaks
and the sun comes upon the earth.
The teardrops from a caring heart –
making the forest's colors strange
and writing on the stone like pure waves
sing beautifully like the birds
of the forest, the home, and of the cage.
The surroundings drink
the elixir of immortality
and the hills hum among themselves.
Cool floods, and shades of happiness
heat and thirsts are gone today.
May be songs are sung from afar
at the feet of divine Sita and Ram.
Maybe the grass-cutter caresses
those feet like a gentle lotus blossom.
O, wonderful star of Saturn
O, these sounds of Nepal.
May such grass-cutters fill the grounds
beneath the skies of my Nepal.
This language, strange and endearing
welcome like the broken voice of a child.
Shy syllables, these first tender sounds
simple, transparent and filled with light.
Speak the words, and find more sweetness
inside your speech than outside.
O birthday of my people's language
come down! come down to this earth again!
It has been many days since you left
and this whole country has become thirsty again.
What a wonderful past
why would these smells not be gentle,
why would the world not be bright?
by Pallav Ranjan
|
| Biswo |
Posted
on 31-Aug-01 04:40 PM
Sparshaji:
It is a wonderful work by Mr Ranjan. Also , Gokulji should be thanked for
his enlightening writing about our Chhandas.
After reading Gandhiji's posting, and the incident about Tarapati, I am somehow
forced to think that Aadikabi Bhanubhakta was outspoken individual, and also
a very touchy person(this doesn't reduce his greatness though).
We can read about his anger in Mr Ranjan's translated poem about Gajadhar
Soti's wife also.When he went looking for lodging in the house of Gajadhar Soti,
first somebody allows them to live in the house, but later the wife of Mr Soti force
them to leave. He writes the poem about her, which I am tempted to write in
Nepali here:
"Gajaadhar Soti ki ghara budhi alachhchhin ki rahichhin.
Narak jaanaa laai sabasita bidaa baadi bhaichhin.
Pugyaun Saajhmaa Unko ghara tira gai baas gariyo.
Nikaalin Saajhaima Alika para gai bishraama gariyo."
(There may some mistakes in this also..)
Somebody had published a letter from Bhanubhakta to his son in Madhupark
about a decade ago. Man, he seemed like a volcano. In very straight words, he
tells his son to study hard otherwise he would be harshly beaten etc. etc.
-------------------
People used to say there are three things that unite Nepalis : Nepali language,
monarchy and something else(I don't remember). Things have changed surely.
But Bhanubhakta surely deserves kudos for writing Ramayana in plain Nepali for
common people.
Devkota was another revolutionary in a true sense. Though a master of both
English and Sanskrit , he wrote Munaa Madan in a pure Nepali language, in a
Jhyaure Shaili, which I understand was not used in any "noble language" i.e.
Sanskrit or Urdu until then.His peers accepted the book in its form(Sama, Ridaya
Chandra, Sidhdhi, Lekh Nath all wrote in Sanskrit laden Nepali, but they heartily
accepted Muna-Madan as our precious asset.) And in 1992 BS, when Nepal was
amidst the curse of Jaatibhed, Devkota wrote:
"Maanisa Thulo Dilale Hunchha, Jaatale Hudaina"
|
| PDK |
Posted
on 31-Aug-01 05:24 PM
>"Maanisa Thulo Dilale Hunchha, Jaatale
>Hudaina"
It feels good to hear the above line after so long.
Does anybody know if Bhanubhakta's lineage is still existing in Nepal?
|
| sparsha |
Posted
on 01-Sep-01 08:38 PM
While talking about Chhandas, I came across the concept of "Ras" . Ras is defined by many sources in many ways (from Rig Veda to modern litterateus). Here is an example (from kabya tatwa) of Bipralambha abayab of Shringar Ras.
Runchhan Jhyaunkiri Rulai Banama Aashadhka E Dina
Chhaya Aaja Dagurchha Yo Kun Disha Osari Merai Mana
Kala Badal Jholiyera Girima Barsirahechhan Yahan
Roi Roi Bagai Gajal Uni Holin Baseki Kahan
sparsha
|
| namita |
Posted
on 04-Sep-01 03:44 PM
Hi, I was going through and came across this thread. Thank you all who participated in it. I don't know much about anything and less so about Nepali poetry but to read Bhanubhakta (even in English) - it was a joy. I had read this a long time ago (I think), but had forgotten. Anyway thanks again. I am posting Stanley Kunitz (Nobel Laurette although he is stepping down this year). I enjoy reading his poems.
The Testing-Tree
Stanley Kunitz
1
On my way home from school
up tribal Providence Hill
past the Academy ballpark
where I could never hope to play
I scuffed in the drainage ditch
among the sodden seethe of leaves
hunting for perfect stones
rolled out of glacial time
into my pitcher’s hand;
then sprinted lickety-
split on my magic Keds
from a crouching start,
scarcely touching the ground
with my flying skin
as I poured it on
for the prize of the mastery
over that stretch of road,
with no one no where to deny
when I flung myself down
that on the given course
I was the world’s fastest human.
2
Around the bend
that tried to loop me home
dawdling came natural
across a nettled field
riddled with rabbit-life
where the bees sank sugar-wells
in the trunks of the maples
and a stringy old lilac
more than two stories tall
blazing with mildew
remembered a door in the
long teeth of the woods.
All of it happened slow:
brushing the stickseed off,
wading through jewelweed
strangled by angel’s hair,
spotting the print of the deer
and the red fox’s scats.
Once I owned the key
to an umbrageous trail
thickened with mosses
where flickering presences
gave me right of passage
as I followed in the steps
of straight-backed Massassoit
soundlessly heel-and-toe
practicing my Indian walk.
3
Past the abandoned quarry
where the pale sun bobbed
in the sump of the granite,
past copperhead ledge,
where the ferns gave foothold,
I walked, deliberate,
on to the clearing,
with the stones in my pocket
changing to oracles
and my coiled ear tuned
to the slightest leaf-stir.
I had kept my appointment.
There I stood int he shadow,
at fifty measured paces,
of the inexhaustible oak,
tyrant and target,
Jehovah of acorns,
watchtower of the thunders,
that locked King Philip’s War
in its annulated core
under the cut of my name.
Father wherever you are I have only three throws bless my good
right arm.
In the haze of afternoon,
while the air flowed saffron,
I played my game for keeps--
for love, for poetry,
and for eternal life--
after the trials of summer.
4
In the recurring dream
my mother stands
in her bridal gown
under the burning lilac,
with Bernard Shaw and Bertie
Russell kissing her hands;
the house behind her is in ruins;
she is wearing an owl’s face
and makes barking noises.
Her minatory finger points.
I pass through the cardboard doorway
askew in the field
and peer down a well
where an albino walrus huffs.
He has the gentlest eyes.
If the dirt keeps sifting in,
staining the water yellow,
why should I be blamed?
Never try to explain.
That single Model A
sputtering up the grade
unfurled a highway behind
where the tanks maneuver,
revolving their turrets.
In a murderous time
the heart breaks and breaks
and lives by breaking.
It is necessary to go
through dark and deeper dark
and not to turn.
I am looking for the trail.
Where is my testing-tree?
Give me back my stones!
Copyright © 1997-2000 by The Academy of American Poets
About | Contact
|
