O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
**** and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the **** mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.

He loved it when she slid up
to him, as sweet as a sprinkle doughnut -
but now, something has befallen her,
she's been burned or frozen, tastes more like
cinnamon raisin; but by virtue of his
firelit face and tall tales,
he still gets invited out.
_________

He creaks upstairs an hour late, we
are already tangled up on the
back porch, smoking, and the
liquor has made everything
an economy of scale.

He is a ray of sunshine. Tells us
all the old groaners. The big fish.
Ultimately says, "Happy birthday.
Never let your guard down."
and hobbles off, with barb-wire chafing
his heel, and the rheumatic suspicion
that "rest" and "wellness" are
the fables taught to us by
bogeymen, trying to convince us
there are no bogeymen.

I am a tender Twenty tonight.
I want to twirl my fists in Muhammad Ali speedbag-spirals,
saying, "I am the champion. Never undefended."
But I am too drunk, and maybe
too humiliated.

God! He floats like painkillers. He stings like loss.

There he is, the tall order, the iron giant:
a two-story brainfreeze milkshake.

I shudder, a pipsqueak of a prizefighter.
The bucktoothed squirt at the icecream booth,
too short to notice that there are only three flavours.

Love is always praised into the heavens
But never is a tale spoken in which hatred truly prevails,
For those creatures who have nothing but it left seem so lost,
Is this the price they are taking, or must this be a farewell ?
Alike love, hate can give strengh but also great misery,
For those who have lost the access to light it is but an embrace,
Because for them the heart was made to be broken,
Eventually though, through all odds they find their way, despising what they formerly had done, had felt and had acted.
This side of the story remains lonesome,
The light of love is for all to bear in the end,
But the embrace of hatred is undesired as if it was cursed,
Just because the darkness made an attempt to protect their minds,
An outcast who was left behind, who was undefended,
Bidden farewell the shadows of night give in to the sunrays
Another night ends in defeat.

~ Umi

So the son of Menoetius was attending to the hurt of Eurypylus
within the tent, but the Argives and Trojans still fought desperately,
nor were the trench and the high wall above it, to keep the Trojans in
check longer. They had built it to protect their ships, and had dug
the trench all round it that it might safeguard both the ships and the
rich spoils which they had taken, but they had not offered hecatombs
to the gods. It had been built without the consent of the immortals,
and therefore it did not last. So long as Hector lived and Achilles
nursed his anger, and so long as the city of Priam remained untaken,
the great wall of the Achaeans stood firm; but when the bravest of the
Trojans were no more, and many also of the Argives, though some were
yet left alive when, moreover, the city was sacked in the tenth
year, and the Argives had gone back with their ships to their own
country—then Neptune and Apollo took counsel to destroy the wall, and
they turned on to it the streams of all the rivers from Mount Ida into
the sea, Rhesus, Heptaporus, Caresus, Rhodius, Grenicus, Aesopus,
and goodly Scamander, with Simois, where many a shield and helm had
fallen, and many a hero of the race of demigods had bitten the dust.
Phoebus Apollo turned the mouths of all these rivers together and made
them flow for nine days against the wall, while Jove rained the
whole time that he might wash it sooner into the sea. Neptune himself,
trident in hand, surveyed the work and threw into the sea all the
foundations of beams and stones which the Achaeans had laid with so
much toil; he made all level by the mighty stream of the Hellespont,
and then when he had swept the wall away he spread a great beach of
sand over the place where it had been. This done he turned the
rivers back into their old courses.
  This was what Neptune and Apollo were to do in after time; but as
yet battle and turmoil were still raging round the wall till its
timbers rang under the blows that rained upon them. The Argives, cowed
by the scourge of Jove, were hemmed in at their ships in fear of
Hector the mighty minister of Rout, who as heretofore fought with
the force and fury of a whirlwind. As a lion or wild boar turns
fiercely on the dogs and men that attack him, while these form solid
wall and shower their javelins as they face him—his courage is all
undaunted, but his high spirit will be the death of him; many a time
does he charge at his pursuers to scatter them, and they fall back
as often as he does so—even so did Hector go about among the host
exhorting his men, and cheering them on to cross the trench.
  But the horses dared not do so, and stood neighing upon its brink,
for the width frightened them. They could neither jump it nor cross
it, for it had overhanging banks all round upon either side, above
which there were the sharp stakes that the sons of the Achaeans had
planted so close and strong as a defence against all who would
assail it; a horse, therefore, could not get into it and draw his
chariot after him, but those who were on foot kept trying their very
utmost. Then Polydamas went up to Hector and said, “Hector, and you
other captains of the Trojans and allies, it is madness for us to
try and drive our horses across the trench; it will be very hard to
cross, for it is full of sharp stakes, and beyond these there is the
wall. Our horses therefore cannot get down into it, and would be of no
use if they did; moreover it is a narrow place and we should come to
harm. If, indeed, great Jove is minded to help the Trojans, and in his
anger will utterly destroy the Achaeans, I would myself gladly see
them perish now and here far from Argos; but if they should rally
and we are driven back from the ships pell-mell into the trench
there will be not so much as a man get back to the city to tell the
tale. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let our squires hold our
horses by the trench, but let us follow Hector in a body on foot, clad
in full armour, and if the day of their doom is at hand the Achaeans
will not be able to withstand us.”
  Thus spoke Polydamas and his saying pleased Hector, who sprang in
full armour to the ground, and all the other Trojans, when they saw
him do so, also left their chariots. Each man then gave his horses
over to his charioteer in charge to hold them ready for him at the
trench. Then they formed themselves into companies, made themselves
ready, and in five bodies followed their leaders. Those that went with
Hector and Polydamas were the bravest and most in number, and the most
determined to break through the wall and fight at the ships. Cebriones
was also joined with them as third in command, for Hector had left his
chariot in charge of a less valiant soldier. The next company was
led by Paris, Alcathous, and Agenor; the third by Helenus and
Deiphobus, two sons of Priam, and with them was the hero Asius-
Asius the son of Hyrtacus, whose great black horses of the breed
that comes from the river Selleis had brought him from Arisbe.
Aeneas the valiant son of Anchises led the fourth; he and the two sons
of Antenor, Archelochus and Acamas, men well versed in all the arts of
war. Sarpedon was captain over the allies, and took with him Glaucus
and Asteropaeus whom he deemed most valiant after himself—for he
was far the best man of them all. These helped to array one another in
their ox-hide shields, and then charged straight at the Danaans, for
they felt sure that they would not hold out longer and that they
should themselves now fall upon the ships.
  The rest of the Trojans and their allies now followed the counsel of
Polydamas but Asius son of Hyrtacus would not leave his horses and his
esquire behind him; in his foolhardiness he took them on with him
towards the ships, nor did he fail to come by his end in
consequence. Nevermore was he to return to wind-beaten Ilius, exulting
in his chariot and his horses; ere he could do so, death of ill-omened
name had overshadowed him and he had fallen by the spear of
Idomeneus the noble son of Deucalion. He had driven towards the left
wing of the ships, by which way the Achaeans used to return with their
chariots and horses from the plain. Hither he drove and found the
gates with their doors opened wide, and the great bar down—for the
gatemen kept them open so as to let those of their comrades enter
who might be flying towards the ships. Hither of set purpose did he
direct his horses, and his men followed him with a loud cry, for
they felt sure that the Achaeans would not hold out longer, and that
they should now fall upon the ships. Little did they know that at
the gates they should find two of the bravest chieftains, proud sons
of the fighting Lapithae—the one, Polypoetes, mighty son of
Pirithous, and the other Leonteus, peer of murderous Mars. These stood
before the gates like two high oak trees upon the mountains, that
tower from their wide-spreading roots, and year after year battle with
wind and rain—even so did these two men await the onset of great
Asius confidently and without flinching. The Trojans led by him and by
Iamenus, Orestes, Adamas the son of Asius, Thoon and Oenomaus,
raised a loud cry of battle and made straight for the wall, holding
their shields of dry ox-hide above their heads; for a while the two
defenders remained inside and cheered the Achaeans on to stand firm in
the defence of their ships; when, however, they saw that the Trojans
were attacking the wall, while the Danaans were crying out for help
and being routed, they rushed outside and fought in front of the gates
like two wild boars upon the mountains that abide the attack of men
and dogs, and charging on either side break down the wood all round
them tearing it up by the roots, and one can hear the clattering of
their tusks, till some one hits them and makes an end of them—even so
did the gleaming bronze rattle about their *******, as the weapons
fell upon them; for they fought with great fury, trusting to their own
prowess and to those who were on the wall above them. These threw
great stones at their assailants in defence of themselves their
tents and their ships. The stones fell thick as the flakes of snow
which some fierce blast drives from the dark clouds and showers down
in sheets upon the earth—even so fell the weapons from the hands
alike of Trojans and Achaeans. Helmet and shield rang out as the great
stones rained upon them, and Asius the son of Hyrtacus in his dismay
cried aloud and smote his two thighs. “Father Jove,” he cried, “of a
truth you too are altogether given to lying. I made sure the Argive
heroes could not withstand us, whereas like slim-waisted wasps, or
bees that have their nests in the rocks by the wayside—they leave not
the holes wherein they have built undefended, but fight for their
little ones against all who would take them—even so these men, though
they be but two, will not be driven from the gates, but stand firm
either to slay or be slain.”
  He spoke, but moved not the mind of Jove, whose counsel it then
was to give glory to Hector. Meanwhile the rest of the Trojans were
fighting about the other gates; I, however, am no god to be able to
tell about all these things, for the battle raged everywhere about the
stone wall as it were a fiery furnace. The Argives, discomfited though
they were, were forced to defend their ships, and all the gods who
were defending the Achaeans were vexed in spirit; but the Lapithae
kept on fighting with might and main.
  Thereon Polypoetes, mighty son of Pirithous, hit Damasus with a
spear upon his cheek-pierced helmet. The helmet did not protect him,
for the point of the spear went through it, and broke the bone, so
that the brain inside was scattered about, and he died fighting. He
then slew Pylon and Ormenus. Leonteus, of the race of Mars, killed
Hippomachus the son of Antimachus by striking him with his spear
upon the girdle. He then drew his sword and sprang first upon
Antiphates whom he killed in combat, and who fell face upwards on
the earth. After him he killed Menon, Iamenus, and Orestes, and laid
them low one after the other.
  While they were busy stripping the armour from these heroes, the
youths who were led on by Polydamas and Hector (and these were the
greater part and the most valiant of those that were trying to break
through the wall and fire the ships) were still standing by the
trench, uncertain what they should do; for they had seen a sign from
heaven when they had essayed to cross it—a soaring eagle that flew
skirting the left wing of their host, with a monstrous blood-red snake
in its talons still alive and struggling to escape. The snake was
still bent on revenge, wriggling and twisting itself backwards till it
struck the bird that held it, on the neck and breast; whereon the bird
being in pain, let it fall, dropping it into the middle of the host,
and then flew down the wind with a sharp cry. The Trojans were
struck with terror when they saw the snake, portent of aegis-bearing
Jove, writhing in the midst of them, and Polydamas went up to Hector
and said, “Hector, at our councils of war you are ever given to rebuke
me, even when I speak wisely, as though it were not well, forsooth,
that one of the people should cross your will either in the field or
at the council board; you would have them support you always:
nevertheless I will say what I think will be best; let us not now go
on to fight the Danaans at their ships, for I know what will happen if
this soaring eagle which skirted the left wing of our with a monstrous
blood-red snake in its talons (the snake being still alive) was really
sent as an omen to the Trojans on their essaying to cross the
trench. The eagle let go her hold; she did not succeed in taking it
home to her little ones, and so will it be—with ourselves; even
though by a mighty effort we break through the gates and wall of the
Achaeans, and they give way before us, still we shall not return in
good order by the way we came, but shall leave many a man behind us
whom the Achaeans will do to death in defence of their ships. Thus
would any seer who was expert in these matters, and was trusted by the
people, read the portent.”
  Hector looked fiercely at him and said, “Polydamas, I like not of
your reading. You can find a better saying than this if you will.
If, however, you have spoken in good earnest, then indeed has heaven
robbed you of your reason. You would have me pay no heed to the
counsels of Jove, nor to the promises he made me—and he bowed his
head in confirmation; you bid me be ruled rather by the flight of
wild-fowl. What care I whether they fly towards dawn or dark, and
whether they be on my right hand or on my left? Let us put our trust
rather in the counsel of great Jove, king of mortals and immortals.
There is one omen, and one only—that a man should fight for his
country. Why are you so fearful? Though we be all of us slain at the
ships of the Argives you are not likely to be killed yourself, for you
are not steadfast nor courageous. If you will. not fight, or would
talk others over from doing so, you shall fall forthwith before my
spear.”
  With these words he led the way, and the others followed after
with a cry that rent the air. Then Jove the lord of thunder sent the
blast of a mighty wind from the mountains of Ida, that bore the dust
down towards the ships; he thus lulled the Achaeans into security, and
gave victory to Hector and to the Trojans, who, trusting to their
own might and to the signs he had shown them, essayed to break through
the great wall of the Achaeans. They tore down the breastworks from
the walls, and overthrew the battlements; they upheaved the
buttresses, which the Achaeans had set in front of the wall in order
to support it; when they had pulled these down they made sure of
breaking through the wall, but the Danaans still showed no sign of
giving ground; they still fenced the battlements with their shields of
ox-hide, and hurled their missiles down upon the foe as soon as any
came below the wall.
  The two Ajaxes went about everywhere on the walls cheering on the
Achaeans, giving fair words to some while they spoke sharply to any
one whom they saw to be remiss. “My friends,” they cried, “Argives one
and all—good bad and indifferent, for there was never fight yet, in
which all were of equal prowess—there is now work enough, as you very
well know, for all of you. See that you none of you turn in flight
towards the ships, daunted by the shouting of the foe, but press
forward and keep one another in heart, if it may so be that Olympian
Jove the lord of lightning will vouchsafe us to repel our foes, and
drive them back towards the city.”
  Thus did the two go about shouting and cheering the Achaeans on.
As the flakes that fall thick upon a winter’s day, when Jove is minded
to snow and to display these his arrows to mankind—he lulls the
wind to rest, and snows hour after hour till he has buried the tops of
the high mountains, the headlands that jut into the sea, the grassy
plains, and the tilled fields of men; the snow lies deep upon the
forelands, and havens of the grey sea, but the waves as they come
rolling in stay it that it can come no further, though all else is
wrapped as with a mantle so heavy are the heavens with snow—even thus
thickly did the stones fall on one side and on the other, some
thrown at the Trojans, and some by the Trojans at the Achaeans; and
the whole wall was in an uproar.
  Still the Trojans and brave Hector would not yet have broken down
the gates and the great bar, had not Jove turned his son Sarpedon
against the Argives as a lion against a herd of horned cattle.
Before him he held his shield of hammered bronze, that the smith had
beaten so fair and round, and had lined with ox hides which he had
made fast with rivets of gold all round the shield; this he held in
front of him, and brandishing his two spears came on like some lion of
the wilderness, who has been long famished for want of meat and will
dare break even into a well-fenced homestead to try and get at the
sheep. He may find the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks
with dogs and spears, but he is in no mind to be driven from the
fold till he has had a try for it; he will either spring on a sheep
and carry it off, or be

I’ve sat on a bare-damp chair.
out on the North deck
where the moss blurs the lines
between itself and algae and lichen
and me.  Me, who wouldn’t know such a line
if it were less blurred...I’m not so sharp as all that.


I set my glasses down on a stone table.
Beside the cold-soon tea.
I watch the wind coming, first through the reeds.
And then shifting the banana leaves.
And soon the birch curtain crowding out my
writing place.  My righting place.

The labyrinth is hosting some flowers.  A dragonfly alights on an altar of crystal
and stone and birch branch.  And offerings.  
The dragonflies seems to (me to) re-write spider lines
or maybe ley lines.  A frog just leaped from a tree past my feet.
I’ve lost my word lines, my throughline.
This frog is now in the leaves by the ivy under the bees.
Looking so green.  Leaf droppings dropping on its head.
It’s green head.  Like an emerald in a mountain’s side.

Now a rustle.  Just beyond.  But not that far.  Like feet away.  But beyond.
Another distance.  Another limit.  Another world.  A bank-robbery escape-mode
Squirrel is making off with what it made off with from the free-to-all and undefended
(and legal, too) pear tree in the far yard.  It leaped upon the birch trunk and then, startled to find me unstartlingly well...just here.  And unstartled.  Paused to set its claws in bark.
It teeth gripping as fifth grip the rind of an unripe pear, its size, if I might compare,
the size of its head without the ears, without the hair.  This unrepentant squirrel leaped                  from
     here
to
     there
all of which was over there but just there so basically here.  (Just not here here, more there.)  It found its place to contemplate me.  To observe.  It made no offer.  But of itself.  Which, really, is all that we can do.  It chuffed a few times but it seemed to me that this was more to do with why-not-give-this-a-try-but-I-don’t-know-why.  It’s belly flush to gray birch bark.  It’s tail extended, and caught by a breeze that the leaves were not informed of.  A deceiving breeze.
Soon - which wasn’t soon, it was minutes - the squirrel scrambled up the birch and branch-to-branched its way to overhead and then out of sight.  I may have smelled of peanuts as I’d just emptied a jar.  I may have been the deceiver.  I may be the lone believer that I might know at all.

The frog hasn’t yet moved.


Something is buzz-whistling.  In the grass?  The trees?  The soil?  The sound rises and the tone
shifts.  The pitch lifts.  I cannot say if it is insect.  I cannot say if it is amphibian.  I cannot say if it is electric and thus man and thus unwelcome.  Cicada?  Frogs?  A hummingbird just fooled me into thinking I knew something about speed.  Something about color.  Something about birds.
Something about Nature.  Something about need.  Something about life.  Something about something about my self.  A partial-second lesson.  The teacher came and went.  The teachings stayed behind in mind.  I have so much work to do.

The far birch, placed in the yard for a long-ago dog
seems to offer up a peach harvest this year.
(At least when my glasses are off.)
The landscaper says that all the birches are yellowing this summer
this year this near to the midsummer and this far from the far flung
and far colder cold slumber of December and November and October.

The blue spruce has a still-for-the-first-time-this-season small flock
of oriole.  Or sunset-breasted, warbler wren throated tipped somethings.
I count seven.  Or six.  No, eight.  Wait.  Nine.  Uh, now eight.
Oh, there’s one!  Oh, no matter.  There’s some.
Too flighty and flittery each blur-glance I’ve had all year.  And I've tried each time
to secure them (sharply) in my lens.

The ducks converse as they arrive at the pond’s far edge.  About to traverse the
turtle-hiding waters, the en-flowered pond’s surface, the distance between heard and seen.
I reach for my glasses.  The birch leaves in yellow have fallen and lied.  Belied to believed.
There are no birds in the tree.  That I can see.  That I care to see.  Autumn come early.

A hawk glides past my edge-of-can’t-quite-see.  It’s loping-like arc its own pleasure...to me.
And, I imagine, it.  The meadow is blushing in purple, ironweed.  The jewelweed, too is a star-field of twinkling orange.  A constellation by day.  A bowl by the winter-blooming something (jasmine?) is concentrically coming awake as drip drip drippings are drop drop dropping.  A yellow-spiked caterpillar treks through the detritus of the unkempt bits of the beside-the-garden which isn’t so much a garden as a place I once planted and once planned.  A spider fast-ropes down to investigate and, as it happens, to pester.  The caterpillar twists and tumbles.  Righting itself, it plods on in its stretch-curl way as the spider ascends to the invisible upper home in its way.  The frog hasn’t moved but I notice and note its **** has two bumps.  Like its bulbous eyes in its front which, as I notice and note is spear-shaped as is its hind.  I wonder at defenses.  It is still.  It still is still.  It’s stillness is still stilling.  Until...I move on.  My fastest is not footed but mindful.  Not mindful but of mind.  I am of a mind to move the mind along.  The caterpillar closes the distance.  What a distance to it it must be.  It’s face is black as an undersea shadow.  It has spikier spikes of black here and there.  Likely in some pattern but my mind has moved and so, here and there it will be.  My story.  My pattern.  My refusal to change.

The mushrooms where the spider met the yellow fellow, though.  Sesame-seeded.  Decorated.  Pimpled.  Bejeweled.  A tawny cup beside a stone behind the frog.  Soft mustard-dotted.  But now!  A new frog where the old new frog had been.  This one a leopard toad.  I think.  (I shouldn’t think.)  Browns upon browns with stripes and blots and dots.  Tans and browns.  At the end of the birch twig is now the first frog.  The green-headed bumpy-butted one.  The leopard in tiger lily patches watches the caterpillar (a different one?) clamber though the unswept unkempt.  

The frog, beside me in ceramic keeps time for the timeless.  The throat bellowing.  As though feeding a fire somewhere where Earth is turned to plow.  We all make our own ends, don’t we?

9/11 happened,
so I turned to friend
and shook.
Year 5 boys won't understand
the chaos of planes and buildings,
together in a perpetual meld
of iron, and fuselage weld.
Help note snow turned September to December,
within a million pens to paper.

People fell.
Hearts sunk.
Raised hell
in New York's cold front.
Bowery, Bleeker, Church & Liberty
all shook to one man's thought:
dreary and undefended, destroyed in the heart.

september has become
the cruelest month

reassembled
hollywood disasters
at their worst
flipped into reality

as if
   we had needed that
as if
   we had not known
      that life is fragile
      and tall buildings
      can collapse
   taking thousands
   to sudden death

what is the point?

to prove
   that one can bring
   disaster
   to the undefended?

to demonstrate
   that minds bent
   on destruction
   can succeed
   if they plan long enough?

what a waste
   of lives and minds...
and more to follow
most likely

does wordless violence
solve anything?

the heartless deed
the glamorous sacrifice
that calls for more
   and more
and more
neurotic spirals
of destruction, retaliation
and revenge
instead of global peace
now looms spectral war
born from self-righteous pride
the need to strike out
   fast and hard
against whoever fits
intelligence-created data
transferred to screens
   meticulously marked
coolly oblivious of the people
   who work and procreate
         and live
   in those fluorescent blips

domesticated energy
serves the omnipotent
   two millionaires’ sons
   turned public enemies
upon whose final global showdown
depends
the fate of yet more
   women
        men
           and children
to satisfy the need
for a just universe
where power flows
    undisturbed by laughter
   and the sounds
   of real people
        living
   in a real world

Have you remembered yet? the knowing questions in the undergrounds of memories. Recall how glorious it is to yearn for remembering. Unknown ravens gauging the eyes of happiness which kneels in the yard of your remembering. Are you here or are you around the outskirts of your remembering. Are you knowing or are you a glimpse of your own remembering. Ugliness resides in the undefended hills of your remembering. Unapologetic ultrasonic hums open your remembering. Grief resolves uncharacteristically in our remembering. Unconscious thoughts rise uncorrected in your remembering.  Greet happiness uncontrolled by your remembering. Open your gut and unearth a capsule of understanding. Gasp in awe as you control yourself trying to remember. How am I here, around this hell? Graceless is my memory of how I am the way I am. Creature aside, away attempting to remember the hell they came from. Have you remembered yet? that creature that you are? Yearning to remember anywhere else, anywhere but the underground of memories, anywhere but the unmeasured mind of how we all are now. Rising heaps of unfiltered uses of your remembering reminds me of how I once was. Have you remembered yet? How I am? How you are? How we are just creatures with unresolved remembering.

Asking the Congress to rewrite laws
That benefit and enrich themselves
Is asking the wolf not to eat the lamb.
The wolf will eat the lamb.
The lamb cannot avoid this fate
By pretending it is not worth eating.

The wealthy are well rewarded
For not caring about the poor.
To make them care the only way
Is to offer them  tributes.

The rich want you to buy
Their trinkets and toys
And leave the lawmaking to them.

As long as we let the rich
Write the laws and control
Enforcement, the law
Will be slanted in their favor.

Nothing fuels fascism like poor people,
So the rich will raise prices and
Thus keep the people poor.

Dishonest people will always
Blame someone else for their crimes.
In government, they will blame
Honest people trying to do the job
They were elected to do.

If a person fails to be outraged
At the actions of criminals,
He is either criminal himself
Or a defense attorney,
And that person may be
Both at the same time.

Among the biggest mistakes
One can ever make
Is believing campaign promises
Where no evidence exists
Of any plan to keep them.

As long as politics are run
Like a beauty contest,
Nothing like democracy
Ever has a chance to succeed.

In a democratic country,
The common people must
Expect to participate
To make it work.
That means they must work
Within the system to ensure
All nefarious people and laws
Be discovered and thrown out.

Undefended rights are only
Privileges grudgingly by government
Dispensed as alms to beggars.

In a representative government,
Everyone must be a representative.

Yesterday is a terrible day
To plan to fix things.
Today and tomorrow
Are the only time we have to do it.

If a representative
Does not walk his talk,
Stop listening to his talk
And watch his walk.

Do not expect industry or military
To protect your rights.
They are both monetary institutions
Addicted to power.

If Congresspeople earn fortunes
By serving the people,
There can be no equity
In representation.
Corruption will rule the land.

Lobbyists should be imprisoned
if they are indistinguishable
From extortionists.

Voting districts need to be
Based on the needs of the people,
Not the needs of the bank accounts
Of our leadership.

Offshore bank accounts should be
As illegal as they are immoral.

I stood, smoke twirling around my fingers,
Cheeks tingling from the cold,
Eyes turned upward, toward the magnificent and bold.

Ice was melting off the branches,
Dripping onto my face, shoulders, hands.
The trees were crying, and time slipped away like sand.

The lamp post glowed and my cigarette burned,
The sound of cracking ice and water droplets echoed in my ears,
I stood there listening as I was baptized in cold tears.

I hadn't cried in what seemed like ages,
And tonight I believed the trees were weeping for me.
Thawing from their icy burden, it felt like an apology.

Sorry that you like how the cold makes you feel numb.
Sorry your sleep is haunted by things that were and have ended.
Sorry you are at war with your heart which you left undefended.

I silently nodded, thankful for their sympathy,
Flicking my cigarette I walked away from the dripping sorrow,
Hopefully like the ice on those branches, my worries will be gone tomorrow.

Five years and all I have left
Is her name and the feelings she gave.
It was a heinous crime, a theft.
Still, I want her on my grave.

On that day, the Sun shone,
As it always would.
This was before her throne.
A finer time, you might call it good.

Dubrovnik’s walls stood tall,
Yet her beauty couldn’t be contained.
The city would fall,
Her grace was untamed.

To the sky they flocked.
The birds of black.
Shining rays they blocked.
The sky would shatter, and crack.

Cobble streets and busy crowds.
Amongst them you were there,
The heavens were clear, no clouds.
Your gaze left me gasping for air.

One word lead to another,
Before you know it I was hooked.
She was something else, something other.
Something the Gods overlooked.

In my cage everything was perfect,
The real world, however, was not as joyful.
I left my world undefended, and got it wrecked.
Grief, misery, death and death!

After the collapse of my star,
The only thing which kept me sleeping at nights.
I dream of a distant place, somewhere far.
When I close my eyes I still see her shining lights.

My heart is now a furnace,
Dishing out black smoke, my love.
Its fuel is your name and its sternness,
It burns with the hate for the love I promised you, sweet dove.

Do you get caught off guard by life
As if it were a dream-
A fleeting moment-
Caught off guard in motion
Caught off guard by the poetry
That pours out of you
Involuntarily and incessantly?

Like when your pressure blocked ear
Suddenly opens and you realize
You are finally truly hearing for the
Very first time

Your closely watched soul
Suddenly sees the light unguarded by you
And fearlessly
It embraces life

I was caught off guard by you
In that moment of total vulnerability
Undefended by fear
And was conquered unconditionally
Forever by the thoughtless love

Happenstance dictates your habits,
Even as they are killing you.
Understanding this makes no difference
Like a hairbrush to an Auschwitz Jew.

Knowledge is usually power, but,
in the face of a chaotic rhyme,
It cannot be deciphered with
All clues intact in time.

And so it goes throughout the journey,
As swift we travel to our ends,
Understanding and reality pass untouched
While our dreams are left undefended.

Death does not ignore me
not even for a moment
I have his full attention
in complete enthrallment
A prisoner I am to his love
it is unlikely I will escape
Grasping tightly to my chest
I am unable to take full shape

Forever he lingers by my side
making me petrified
Only one weapon I have been granted
and on this I have relied
But still he lingers from behind
he wraps his fingers on me all the time
I am not ready to concede
for I am still in my prime

However one day, one day
I will be found undefended
Found without my weapon in cowardice
and that day while unattended
Without the object which I depended
He will take my life,
and my life will have ended

September has become
the cruelest month

reassembled
Hollywood disasters
at their worst
flipped into reality

as if
   we had needed that
as if
   we had not known
      that life is fragile
      and tall buildings
      can collapse
   taking thousands
   to sudden death

what is the point?

to prove
   that one can bring
   disaster
   to the undefended?

to demonstrate
   that minds bent
   on destruction
   can succeed
   if they plan long enough?

what a waste
   of lives and minds
and more to follow
most likely

does wordless violence
solve anything?

the heartless deed
the glamorous sacrifice
that calls for more
   and more
and more
neurotic spirals
of destruction, retaliation
and revenge
instead of global peace
now looms spectral war
born from self-righteous pride
the need to strike out
   fast and hard
against whoever fits
intelligence-created data
transferred to screens
   meticulously marked
coolly oblivious of the people
   who work and procreate
         and live
   in those fluorescent blips

domesticated energy
serves the omnipotent

   two millionaires’ sons
   turned public enemies

upon whose final global showdown
depends
the fate of yet more
   women
        men
           and children
to satisfy the need
for a just universe
where power flows
    undisturbed by laughter
   and the sounds
   of real people
        living
   in a real world

This charade has ended,
I can no longer stomach the strain.
I'd rather quit, choice undefended,
Than to watch it slowly circle the drain.

The hours of waiting are past,
There is no more place for them here.
This now must be the last,
It was the final year.

The memories come tumbling down,
Feeling more like dreams than not.
Each crashing silently, not a sound,
Much more painful than I thought.

So many reasons, so many nights,
But I can no longer justify.
It's not fair and it's not right,
For the involved to stand idly by.

So now the hammer is crushing,
The blow staggering with finality.
Any further attempts just waves crashing,
Decision standing firm against the sea.

I'm sure the blood will run,
And the hate words will be poured out.
This was the battle I never won,
Weak and overcome with doubt.

Nothing here is happiness,
I find not joy in words of ending.
Soon now the reflective sadness,
As I feel the promise rending.

Words are but pointless lines,
Sentences conveyors of betrayal.
Fate fought all my best designs,
Until I caused my own self to fail.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]

                           The Poets of Rapallo, a Review

The Poets of Rapallo, Lauren Arrington, Oxford University Press is a brilliant first draft; one looks forward to reading the completed work.

As it is, Dr. Arrington has accomplished brilliant research on the poets -  Yeats, Bunting, Pound, Aldington, MacGreevy, Zukofsky - and their acquaintances who happened to be in the Italian resort town Rapallo (they were not a coterie) in the 1920s and 1930s. The notes alone run to 54 pages of too-small type, and the bibliography to 8.

Unhappily, the text appears to have been rushed, possibly by an impatient publisher, and along with numerous small mistakes there are some serious failures in stereotyping, hasty generalizations predicated on little evidence, and a few condemnations more redolent of Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor than a scholar.

One of the best things about The Poets of Rapallo is the exposition explaining why a great many intellectuals were attracted to Italian Fascism as it was idealistically presented through propaganda early on and not as the moral and ethical disaster it soon proved to be.

Mussolini cleverly promoted his program as primarily cultural, a reach-back to the artistic and architectural unities of an imagined ancient Rome restored and enhanced with modern science and technology. He promoted the arts for his own purposes, of course, but deceptively. In almost any context the construction of schools, libraries, museums, theatres, and cinema studios would be perceived as a good, and absent any close examination accepted by everyone. But in Mussolini’s scheme these cultural artifacts, like Lady Macbeth’s “innocent flower,” concealed the lurking serpent: wars of conquest, poison gas, bombings of undefended cities, death camps, institutionalized racism, mass murders, and other enormities.

The Fascist sympathies of W. B. Yeats and other influencers (as we would say now) in the Irish Republic, including Eamon de Valera, are certainly revelatory. That the new nation came close to goose-stepping through The Celtic Twilight might help explain Ireland’s curious neutrality during the Second World War.

Professor Arrington explains all this very well, and initially is professionally objective. Most of the Rapallo set were not long in learning what Fascism was really about and quickly distanced themselves from it in some embarrassment.  Some were later even more of an embarrassment in their denials and deflections; few seemed to have been able to admit that, yes, they were suckered, as we all have been from time to time

But with the exception of the unrepentant and odious Pound, who was himself a metaphorical serpent to his death, Professor Arrington seems to lose her objectivity with the others.

And why Pound?

As with Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, it is difficult to take seriously someone who considers Pound’s pretentious, pompous, show-off word-soup Cantos to be literature. Pound is now famous only for being famous, and while Arrington appears to forgive Pound for his adamant and malevolent anti-Semitism and his pathetic subservience to Mussolini, in the end she is ruthless toward anyone else who, under Pound’s influence, in his or her naivete even once told an inappropriate joke, appreciated Graeco-Roman architecture, or perhaps saw Mussolini at a distance. This is inexplicable in a text that is otherwise professional and compassionate in avoiding what C. S. Lewis identifies as chronological snobbery.

One also wishes the author had discussed Pound’s post-war appeal as a fashionable prisoner adored or at least pitied by a new generation (Elizabeth Bishop, how could you?).

The book ends abruptly, as if the author were interrupted by a demand by the printers for it now, and so, yes, one hopes for a complete work to follow.

The Poets of Rapallo is not served well by the Oxford University Press, who appear to have been more interested in cutting costs than in presenting a work of scholarship to the world. The print is far too small, the garish spine lettering is more suited to a sale-table ****** mystery, and the retro-1930s holiday cover would be fine for an Agatha Christie yarn but not for a book of literary scholarship.

A question outside the scope of this book but more important is this: why, in a free nation, do so many people feel the desperate need almost to worship a leader? Yes, of course we have presidents and chiefs of police (some of whom love sport shiny admiral’s stars on their collars, and what’s that about?) and bosses and so on, and we depend upon their wise leadership. But why do people wear pictures of some Dear Leader or other on their clothing and chant his name?

I think the president or the famous movie star should wear YOUR name on his shirt and pay YOU for the privilege.

                                                      -30-

I came to your side as you lay down to rest
Without unwillingness nor hesitation planned
I obeyed your command disguised as question in caress
And resisted not your tight gripping hand

You may have thought me a pet well trained
Rewarding me with a silence from heavy breathing
So often used in attempt to keep me detained
And distracted from all you are concealing

But my eyes cannot rest, not yet
Even in this abnormal freedom
And look they did upon the set
And see did they your undefended imaginary proceeding

I watched as you tore his hand from me
And felt it all the same
Attempting to pose yourself as he
Was a venture with no question in vain

I did not cry when your grip held too tight
Nor act in defense or retaliation
I simply kept you in my sight
As you lost all in desperation

Our tie was withered only just so recently
And I hoped for its salvation
Yet calling upon her to infect me with jealousy
The tie broke itself in self preservation

Do you remember
being in the trenches?
Stretching out your arm
toward me,
rendering you-
undefended.

Gutted, dismembered,
carapace forced to smile.
But you were my light.
Do you know?
When first I met
desolation?

So, do you recall
those lonesome afternoons?
When all you wished for
was for him
to feel the same,
to value you.

I think of the mall,
where we’d often wander.
You kept it inside,
all because
children deserve
something better.

Do you hate yourself?
How utterly stupid!
How would we be now
absent from
the light you shone?-
Shattered. Ruptured.

Do you blame yourself?
So simply ludicrous.
The good that we are,
came from you.
You cared for us
when no one would.

Do you know my love?
The compassion I have,
was cultivated
and nurtured
by a woman
facing ruin.

Do you rise above?
For your strength is immense.
I have seen its work,
its passion
to do what’s right
no matter what.

Do you see me plight?
For when my star burns out,
I will scream to God,
“Oh, you thief!
All my goodness
has been taken.”

Do you stay alight?
Or leave me way too soon?
Do you know your pain,
your torment
belongs to me?
I will hold you.

Do you love yourself?
This person who gives hope.
Who sacrifices
anything
to spread comfort
to those she loves.

Do you know yourself?
Do you see what I see?
Please, I beg of you-
see, see, see.
Tell me, do you?
Do you?

Do you?

Draw your lines on the battlefield
Pushing and striving yet none will yield
This is the war that continues after it ended
These are the people we left undefended
God is good and all the time
Can you say that with your life on the line
Oh death where is your sting
Do you believe that with your everything
Maybe none of us were ready for war
There is no choice when the enemy’s at the door
Fight the good fight we were told
Repetition made the command grow old
Soldier! Pull yourself together
Don’t you know that live or die God lives forever
We are strong not on our own
We fight not against flesh and bone
Sing and shout praise God at length
For the joy of the Lord is our strength
You practise when the times are good
You only win the battle if your ground you stood
Lord through all things may I serve
For truly You haven’t given me what I deserve
Lord I reach out to You most High
The Lord of all who will hear my cry
Glory and honour to You alone
Holy Spirit You will guide me home

I can't
I can't go back.
Shadows of bells chime as
I wipe the grime of guilt from
my face, replacing it
with Air
Stripping off the care of
another world.

I can't
I really can't go back,
a mountain of monotony lies
unattended.
My title mediocrity is
undefended
for once
Just for once, please,
Freedom,
just once.

I can't
I simply can't go back,
I calm, change tack and
stack the lacking storm
away and
stray, dangerously, into
safety.
I need to,
I must
Leave.

Because I can't
I can't go back.

Not now I've tasted freedom.

When the centuries begin
to cycle back
and jingoism rings
through the streets,
when the civilized veneer falls
and false saints rise to power,
do not despair, dear human,
do not think you are alone,
remember, know in your heart that
art will save us.

In a world full of sheep
as we fight back to back,
against impossible odds,
against numberless hordes,
do not despair, because,
through the blackest of filth
sunshine will still reach us,
art will save us.


When we have no more strength left,
when of reason we are all but bereft,
a strand of music will float over to us:
a poem, a prayer, a battle-song,
a peaceful landscape will come to mind,
a childhood home,
a summer house,
a lazy road outside the public library,
it will all come to us like a memory, and
art will save us
If, however, we are parted
by fate or foe
and you are caught alone
in the swarm of flies,
where every mouth that speaks to you
is nothing but a bowl of lies,
when they tell you
that liberty is now ended,
and freedom is forever lost,
do not believe them, my friend,
do not despair, remember:
art will save us.


When the old war begins anew,
and us men of peace,
go to war,
as we bleed
through noble wounds,
as religion’s sword
comes down upon us,
and even as we are forced
down upon our knees,
do not despair, beloved sentient beings,
because always,
art will save us.

Remember, you are not alone.


Though they may be few,
and far between,
there are humans in the world yet,
there are free lands yet,
men,
and women,
who will die before liberty does,
poets,
and painters,
who will never let the rot fester,
and neither you,
nor us,
are undefended, because always, without fail,
I swear to you upon my soul,
it will come to our aid,
it will rescue us
and those who come after us,
art will save us.

It's one thing to be known for, though it won't last forever.
This thing they say lies in the eye of the beholder.
And yet I see it not when I stand before a mirror,
what about my visage sends crowds into a fever.

Have I been reduced to nothing but just a fine face:
a pretty thing to look at in a crowded place?
Embraced by the darkness of an unholy grace,
I'm no more than a gem floating about in space.

What value is left for what's solely coveted
when tasted by many and left undefended?
When hope is a drug for one who's pretended
for so long that it's alright once it's ended,

Is there worth in what's empty? A hollow shell?
After heaving and spewing hot tears from hell.
But as long as I'm pretty, it will all be well.
As long as there's beauty and physique to sell.

There is pain in ignoring the words they say.
Nothing more than "you look beautiful today."
Nothing more than the contagion in the way
they say my smile can brighten up a day.

Yet with where I am now, I just wish I weren't
gorgeous, pretty, or lovely, a nice looking ****.
Maybe if good-looking was something I wasn't,
I wouldn't be hurting, feeling spent or burnt.

Will I spend my whole life running from hands
who only want to touch me and feel me up grand?
Only to run to hands who will be nice and
not leave me crawling in the gravel and sand?

Words and rhymes are valueless as my plea,
if it isn't something on my face all can see.
Though my heart is as vast and as deep as the sea,
It's the last thought of anyone who looks at me.

We reinvent ourselves, until we are too invented to be ourselves.
We want what we can’t have, we have what we don’t want.
We allow the world to tell us who we need to be in order to succeed.

Under false pretences we are deceived,
Into not being who we want to be, not seeing the things we need to see.
We prevent our dreams from running free,
Instead we nod and agree.
We all want to be, in fact we are all wannabes

We blindly follow the status quo.
We blindly let our thoughts lie now.
There’s ignorance in all we know.
They say we have freedom of speech until we actually speak.
Next up?
We are forcefully impeached.

Not to mention, we claim to see life as this ongoing lesson.
Okay que the tension, How do we fix this giant mess we’re in?

We pride ourselves on harmonic progression.
I have a better suggestion.
We are in our own regression of comprehension, our brains filled with congestion.
Our obsession with possessions is causing a rise in severe clinical depression.
We are compressing our self-expression at our own discretion because we fear leaving a bad impression.

We are afraid to leave our mark on the world.
We are afraid to leave footprints behind;
Footprints beyond the carbon kind.
Everyone is constantly offended.
As if being offended is going to mend all of the real issues we have left unattended, undefended,
Completely open ended-

But please, tell me why you didn’t like that song.
Or why everything is suspect of being so wrong.
Oh. You are offended?
Sorry, I’m just not ******* interested.

You sit and argue all day long, taking pride in games of mindless ping-pong.
Back and forth, spewing words of hate.
Your guns are drawn. Truthfully, we all play along.
We play into the stupidity, into the invalidity of what we see.
Aren’t we supposed to be strong?
You know what is stronger, our need to belong.
The structure of our world slowly crumbles and all I hear is faint mumbles.

But is freedom a possible reality for our society or,
Am I overlooking the gravity of our incapacity.
Is our freedom a complete fallacy?

My words live on undefended,
  speaking for themselves

My prayer rises, voice ascended
  —death unto itself

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)

Where do I search? I don't know how.
Looking here and there and in the now.
Grasping for answers I can not understand,
Failing to hear them from my fellow man.
Circles I draw in my mind,
Not seeing the harm it's caused me from behind.
Fires burn and gardens left untended
walls brought down and towers left undefended.
Not understanding why I can't hear the call
too distracted in fighting to hear it at all
Simple answer is to live in the and not ask how,
Searching close to home in the here and now.

I.
On that divine-like hands and laps of thine, my grandmother,
Each moment I embraced a new learning.

On that tranquil Spring night, when the wave of stars washed over my eyes,
I cried—wishing to hold them
In my tiny hands. Since then, I learnt to cry.

To soothe my longing tears, thou didst sing a rhyming lullaby,
And spread a formless smile upon my face. Since then, I learnt to smile.

At the cooing rhythm of thy song,
Thou didst swing me—high and low,
In the air; my body, light as breath, danced upon melody. Since
then,I learnt to be thrilled by song.

A feeling, overflowing on the edge of wind brought the word of excitement
To my unawake lips. Since then, learnt to speak.

One morning, aye—as I stood drunk
With golden dawn, the waves in my eyes
Swirled with the falling leaves from a distant height.
The urge to touch them burned in my little heart.
Since then, I learnt to be curious.

Slipping away from thy tender hand, I ran to catch
A falling leaf. But—O fie!—
I could not catch it. I chased its flight,
But the wind took it farther still.
My eyes could not reach it as it vanished nto invisible sight.
Since then, I learnt to walk.

II.
I extend these words from the little heart of mine—
and that is my deepest Adulation to thee, my beloved parents!

I know not how I’ve wandered upon the Mesh of Age
to reach this mile of oldness—
nor dost I know how
I’ve rushed
over the many troubled obstacles
encountered through each age.

This little strange tale of mine, O dear ones, hath alighted from thy ***** hands.

In the kingly and queenly world of thine,
I expanded on the rhythm
of ineffable joyance. I know not its bounds—but surely, I cherished
the flower and its hidden honey
thou hast bestowed upon me
from the holy blossom of thy hearts.

Thou hast attained all my childly cravings
and adorned this sullen face of mine
with a garland of thy warm smiles.

Thou hast shielded me from all ailments,
given me warm garments—never
letting my body wither from winter’s breeze
or burn beneath the barnstorming heat of summer.

Mother, when hunger ailed my stomach,
I spelt thy name and cried
in dissonant pitch.Thou didst come
and place a plate of rice before me.

In the midst of night, when silence spread its wings and thirst parched my throat,
I awoke thee—and thou didst bring
a cup of water to quench my longing.

Father, what I must never forget about thee
is this: Thou hast shed endless blood and sweat
upon the earthly mud, so I may live this life of plenty.

I am grateful to both of thee—my beloved parents! Without thy presence,
I would not have come this far, nor so long.

III.
Mother, I've cried out the mighty tears
For one thing— and that's the signet ring.

I cried all the days and all the nights for that. I
Even refused to take the meals thou

Hast given to me from thy motherly hand.
Thou hast bought me the little play toy—

But fie, couldn't bring the harmony to these dissonant eyes of mine! The tears

Unseemly overflowed on its expanding Despair. I was a small and innocent kid,

My mother, as I saw that signet ring Glitter bright on the man's finger, it took

My eyes' captive  away and made me
Oozed upon the mesh of longingness.

By then, I witnessed the tears in my eyes.
I knew not how to extinguish this burning

Agony of my heart— it seemed more Intense as the days passed. All of my

Energies lost to pale weakness. I seem To have had sleepless nights; tossing

And turning on the bed, overshadowed
By the ailing insomnia. I only wished to

Have it on one of my fingers, bright and Illuminating grace like a blue diamond.

It was thy love, at last, thou Hast given it to me on the final day

And cured the very tears of craving. I Heaved a sigh of relief since then.

IV.
Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge! Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!

Thou art my dwelling through the ages, my belovèd Motherland. How fair and beloved art thou! Thou hast granted me a place most fitting, wherein to make my long and joyful sojourn.

It is my high privilege to live beneath thy sky, to embrace the endless favours thou hast poured upon me. Yea, the joy I have gathered is as the scent of thy very soil—sweet, unspoken, and full of pride unbounded.

All that is hushed and still—the mountains arrayed in peace, weaving the vision of beauty; all that is rich and gentle—the waters that stir the tongue like honey from the comb; all that is of the earth—the never-fading clay that upholdeth all life. O, I knew not I was made so accustomed to them! Such fortune is mine!

My life doth blossom brightly within thy heavenly garden; and now may I adorn mine own soul, within and without, as the Camellia flourisheth in thy midst. Would that my life had no end, and my limbs knew not decay—I would walk the ages over, treading centuries down, turning olden days into new.

Yet all thou hast bestowed upon me is not mine by right, but I have received it as sacred gift. Thou hast given unto me shelter, and stood before me without shame, exposed and undefended—yet in truth, thou hast guarded me from all harms. Such is thy divine favour, O my belovèd Motherland!

Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge! Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!

Deep am I plunged into the bottomless well of pride, that I was born upon this soil of kingly harmony. It is thy mercy alone that I have reached this age in safety; for that, I owe thee thanks eternal. Such is my fortune!

What know others of thee? What grasp they of that honey’d essence, thick and golden, that floweth from thy very breast, past all mortal words to tell?

To me, thou art loftier than all the spheres—there is naught above thee. Such is thy might. Thy love surpasseth all value; not even an age of a thousand years would suffice to repay it.

Yea, 'tis sin to tread upon thy sacred body—but thou, being ever patient and full of grace, hast borne my weight these many years, weariness and all.

Such a blessed land, wherein have I taken my refuge!
Such a blessed land is none but mine own home of a hundred years!

V.
Mother, the emblem of love,
A residence of eternal glory,
A supreme fragrance,
The Utopian idealist—
Gifted one, strong existentialist,
Dwelling
deep beneath the vault of stars.

O thou who art called Mother!
Thou art the balm to our mortal woes,
The song sung in joy that time forgetteth.
Under thy celestial embrace are
we sheltered,
And the stars do bear witness
to thy grace.

Men say thou hast reached the realm of purest love,
That high and holy sphere where
few may tread—
A summit unseen,
Where the soul drinketh joy as nectar divine.
Thou art the ever-watchful keeper,
A mirror of the soul celestial.
And we—naught but thy
shadows,
The very shadows thou dost bear
in silence.

Behind thy lashes, tears lie veiled,
Yet on thy lips, a smile endureth.
Thou hast armed us
With care unceasing, love unspent.
As the sun warmeth the field of sunflowers,
So hast thou warmed the days of our becoming.

O thou selfless being, echo of the primeval mother—
The ancient Devi, whom gods revere—
To thee are our hearts forever sworn.
Thou hast tended us with unseen hands,
And in thy absence, all is void,
And nothing liveth. Without
thee, O Mother, there is no being.
There is no meaning.
              
VI.
In this very fragrant and heavenly garden of thine, my noble king, I am one of the blooming flowers.
                      
Indeed, I had luck to be grown upon thy garden; and I never knew I would grow rich in fragrance, it's only the blessing thou hast bestowed upon me as a century-long gift.
                      
All that I am embracing is none other than the grace of light that showers richly from thy own kingly heart, and it knows no bounds.
                      
This small garden of thine, for which thou hast immense love, lies at one periphery of thy heart.
                        
Thou hast carried it against all the trouble storms and protected these long years. Each day, thou hast tirelessly worked to give the very harmony to this garden of thine.

That's how all the flowers have come to bloom of their own each, so bright and fragrant.

As the very petals of mine have touched upon  
Thy majestic hands, it gave me the endless birth of pride at heart.

How fortunate am I to be grown
Upon this garden of thine!

Each morning, I awaken not just to bloom  but to offer thee my fragrance in humble devotion, for thy timeless love and care.

VII.
At this age of thy oldness, my grandfather, as I touch thy supreme hands, these intangible eyes of my
heart
break down in tears of adoration.

It is because of thy grandfatherly love and countless deeds that I offer these words to thee—words from my heart,
Long hidden and unslipped from the edge of my lips until this very day.

Knowest thou the time before the break of ****** dawn?

Getting up as early as four, walking upon the harsh meadow
Enshrouded in thick dew, fetching
water from far away,
Bearing the cold touch of winter’s breeze—two jerkins full,
Thy hands heavy, no torch, only the grace of the rich moonlight to guide
thy way.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least helped thee carry one.

Boiling the water warm for our washing,
Cooking a rather-delicious breakfast,
Helping us wear the gho, neat and clean,
Then walking us all the way to school—on foot.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least walked to school myself.

Thou didst celebrate the pain of love
in silence—like a man of supremacy.
All the days,
Tirelessly sweating and soaking
In another’s field,
Earning a petty ransom
For our welfare and school stationeries.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least worked myself, and taken care of my needs.

Bearing a body heavy with tiredness,
Yet walking
To the school gate—wearing a torn jacket,
Folding thy wounded arms tight,
And waiting, alone,
Through the slow passage of time
Till the school hour passed.

Ah, had it been today, I would've at least returned home by myself.

I wonder—How thou didst pass half
of thy life with us! Taking care of us
All days, a ll nights—
Living in that small, ill-thatched camp
That wast never kind to thee.
But by the virtue of thy presence,
Day and night, we have grown—
Healthy,
Untroubled, and blessed to this very day.

 VIII.
In this fragile land abide thy coy footprints, unwithered still;
And it seemeth to me
That the sweat thou didst shed
Lingereth there— a sacred trace.

I recall thy wounded hands,
Healed only through the blisters’
pain.
Each day thou toiled in the field,
Ploughing beneath the
scorching sun,
Cutting down the wild grass,
Feeding the herd,
And walking to the moorish hill
In search of firewood.

Alas! No slippers on thy feet,
Yet thou didst endure
The sting of nettle and stone.
Indeed, thou never faltered,
Never failed to carry out thy labours.
Each moment thou didst
touch
Turned hallowed in thy hands.

In thine eyes have I grown to this
age.
With thee, I shared my joy and
love—and from thee
I learnt to endure, to labour with
silence, to suffer with dignity.

Though I have walked through pain,
It is thy constant guidance
That shaped my every lesson.
Thou didst make of me a master in my youth—
Early crowned by thy example.
I must ever regard thy fatherly companionship,
Thy quiet mastery, which taught
more than words could speak.

Today, I behold thee changed.
The weight of years hath
overshadowed
Thy once-wandering strength—
Yet the fire within
Still burneth bright, unfading in thy heart.

Yea, even now, I see thee labouring—
Despite thy oldness,
Despite the burden of time.
And all that I am today, all that I live,
is built upon
Thy endless toil and tenacity.

 IX.
The only heaven that ever hath
revealed its glory
unto mine eyes is thee,
My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

Thou art to me a gentle
companion, and all the endless
remembrances that I
carry in one chamber of my  heart
Have grown and stirred
since my youth,
Wherein I played amid  thy
boundless
fields and ways. My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

I know, when time did arrest
my step,
I left thee, and thou didst
weep in
voiceless grief
For many moons.
Yet surely, I too mourned for it,
For that parting was my
folly.
My dear patria!
How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

O’er the steady tide of passing
months,
A wearisome disquiet did cloak
the very
soil of mine heart,
Vexing me often, tempting my
hand to
weave strange threads upon
the loom of
memory.
Thy mystic love did ebb and stir
within me
In silent utterance.

All the visions that glistened
before mine
eyes were but images of the
fragile land
that bore me—thy gentle
mountains,
Thy hollows and streams that
oft did catch
my gaze, and the bright, laughing
dwellers
that peopled thy plains. Yea, the
sweetness
of thy fruits and the pure waters
that once
touched my lips
Have haunted my very sense
of taste.

And now, all my griefs have come to rest.
For I have returned—
And in thy majesty shall I lose
myself again.
My dear patria! How could I forget thee
In the long procession of time?

 X.
In thine sweet farewell, my beloved teachers,
Mine eyes break forth in tears
Of silent grief—
For our years of flowery union
In this school have
faded with the passage of time.

Our teacher-student love was deeply and utterly rooted
Beneath the very substratum of hearts—
Unseen,
Yet surely felt, a joy relished in silence.

We cherished our days through
learning and shared experience.
Together, we rushed against
the stony trials,
The vicissitudes of life, and thrived beneath
The gracious light of education.

Yea, even in our mischiefs, ye were
the gentle hands that bore our faults
And shaped our spirits—
Upholding our failings, guiding us forth
With the rich ornaments of discipline.

Thou treated us well, indeed, like
thine own sons and daughters.
Thy scoldings,
Sharp for our undone labors,
Were rightly given—else how
might we have ripened to reap
the sweet fruit of this noble academy?

Thus shall we remember
Thy unwavering care,
Thy steadfast mentorship
Bestowed upon us
All throughout our stay.
The light thou didst reveal—
Though once veiled—
Now shines upon our skies,
To guide us on through the
long passage of life.

But more than all, the sweet
fragrance of love,
That ever sweetened our young
days,
Came from the garden
Of thine own hearts.
And that scent, it shall haunt
us evermore. I claim it so.

With this, I pen off And I do pray
These humble verses reach thee, someday.

Fare thee well, to all my kingly and queenly teachers. And know this truth:
It is uneasy in my heart to leave thy kingdom to its lonesome.
                            
XI.
O monk, how worthy is thy
long-sleeved robe—
Wide and dark,
Saffroned with solemn grace.
I, the lone wayfarer,
Do walk to thy quiet temple,
To seek thy blessing
in silence.
Wouldst thou lead me in?

For I bear no sin, nor scorn
within my heart.
I have withered the hues of
both,
Faded them to a glanceless
colour. O monk,
Before thou leadest me
within,
Let me not forget to bow
my whole
body at thy sacred feet.

Thou, at the edge of thine altar
hall, dost grant me the warm
floor
To rest this weary frame.
Thou takest out thy prayer
beads, ready to chant
Thy songs and sacred words.

O monk, shall I join thee in
voice, or sit in silence,
My mouth sealed in listening?
Ah—such is thy presence.
And thy costless
bliss, thy love and nobility,
Are divine gifts
That I ever seek to reach.

Thou offerest millions of
butter-lamps for me,
And for all kindred beings,
Here and across this
din-filled world.
And when I depart from
this place, let me not
forget
To extend my deepest
gratitude—together
with holy reverence.

XII.
'Tis thy mystic lamp that doth cast its immortal light of love upon our firmament. It is our pride to adorn our lives with the bright ornaments of gladness—woven in the garden of thy heart.

O Noble Majesty! Upon this humble shore of the boundless sea, we dwell in the harmony of unity. The fruits of joy are reaped across our fields by the sharp and subtle song of thy love.

Thou art the divine musician, whose realm is founded upon the reed-bed of melody. Sweet stillness maketh her abode within the halls of thy flute, and along the trembling strings of thy harp.

These mortal lives do dance, moving in accord with thy celestial strains; and our hearts stretch forth their wings of reverence, to bow low and touch thy feet with most faithful love and devotion.

XIII.
It's my pride to adorn these crown jewels of flowers to my heart, woven along the gardens of my life.

O, love of my life! Thou hast shone through the mirrors of tears. Thou hast shone through the strange vales of fears. And thou hast shone through the dissonant melody of death's flute.

O, love of my life! I never knew that it was thee and thy love. When thou camest by the threshold of my door, I scorned thee. And when thou camest by myside and toucheth upon me, I cursed thee.

O, love of my life! Yet still thou left me not. Thou hast given me a vortex of strength at heart to break through and against all barriers that bound my way. Thou hast given myriad births to smile upon my face to withstand grief and anger that come by flood of mob deeds.

O, love of my life! I never
knew that it was all thy mystic gifts of fragrance came from
the flowers of thine own heart. When I realise today, ah, it was thee and its endless love. Now, the only assurance that bursts before my mouth is speech of gratitude— with love
and reverence, in return.

XIV.
Beloved motherland,— I beseech thee, shed not thy tears when I do take my leave for evermore,
departing from thy fair and hallowed soil. A garden near to paradise,
adorn’d with a thousand hues of blooming grace, and an immortal sea of sweet perfume,
wherein I did steep mine heart with pride,— for ne’er again shall I return.

Oft shall my soul yearn to lie upon thy tender *****,
yet the path that once led me home may vanish ‘fore mine eyes.
Thus must I pour forth the fullness of my thanks from the deep well of my heart,—
for thou wert beside me ere I knew the light,
abiding from dawn unto dusk, like a soft melody breathed upon the reed.

Ah,— when first I didst draw breath within thy bounds, I came with empty hand,
bare of limb and soul alike, and knew not shame.
I was a stranger to mine own visage, beholding my self within thy mirror.
A lonely thing was I,— lost amid the hush,
possessing naught, and known by none.
The first breath thou gav’st me to draw
was thy garden’s own sweet incense.

The first draught thou didst bestow
was milk from thy *****,— rich as wine to mine infant lips.
And the first shelter thou offeredst for my rest
were the warm folds of thy lap.
Blessed am I, that I was born beneath thy queenly love.
How, then, can I bear to depart,
and leave thee lone behind?

Yet know this, sweet mother,— my life is no eternal hymn
that lingers ‘twixt the stars, echoing o’er thy skies.
What rendeth us asunder is Time’s relentless hand. I pray thee, weep not,—
for I may not flee his dark and fated gaze.

This world seems cold and backwards
it cannot see the truth
there is a sort of good
we're taught when we are youth

They say there is goodness
of inside and out
But I've found that to be false
And truth I want to shout

There is a form of love
It's mostly what we know
But never the real thing
Love and Truth just for show

We always seem to do
What we were not intended
Never playing for the right team
Always leaves us undefended

Most are lost
And full of sad
When in the end
We've lost what we started as