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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

If you must keep the curl of the unbroken wave

I shall take the whole  ocean with their swells

with staccato rhythm of ships tossed back and forth-

In their desperate flailing

I see spirit of man still daring to steer clear

And that is much more than oceans can bear.

I am a man and nothing less than whole continent

Is my haven.

If you must give this hour and show its hustle

And bustle of senses touching heights

I shall rather settle for this moment’s grace

Where my spirit is put to its rest

By both heaven and the earth.

I am a man nothing less than this indivisible

wholeness shall keep hour and the continent

Past time’s injury.

benny

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Abortions will not let you forget.


You remember the children you got that you did not get,


The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,


The singers and workers that never handled the air.


You will never neglect or beat


Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.


You will never wind up the sucking-thumb


Or scuttle off ghosts that come.


You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,


Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
 children.


I have contracted. I have eased


My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.


I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized


Your luck


And your lives from your unfinished reach,


If I stole your births and your names,


Your straight baby tears and your games,


Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,


If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,


Believe that even in my deliberateness

I was not deliberate.


Though why should I whine,

Whine that the crime was other than mine?–


Since anyhow you are dead.

Or rather, or instead,


You were never made.


But that too, I am afraid,


Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?


You were born, you had body, you died.


It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.


Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
 All.

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IMG_1286

This colour plate does not find place in the book.)

For those who are interested in Omar Khayyam my version shall certainly resonate as true to the original. Imagine the pleasure of reading him for the first time? Eight hundred years later you can relive the pleasure his quatrains first produced among his readers.

“In the ten sections of his book, Benny Thomas has composed his own Khayyāmasque quatrains covering most of the central and salient features of Khayyāmian themes. Whether it is in the chapter titled “Cup of Wine” or “Love Feast,” the essence of Omar Khayyām’s Rubā‘iyyāt is echoed in the poems of Benny Thomas. For those interested in a mystical reading of Khayyām’s quatrains, this collection of poems provides an invaluable insight…” (Selected from the Foreword by Prof. Mehdi Aminrazavi the author of The Wine of Wisdom.)

http://www.lulu.com/shop/benny-thomas/the-illustrated-omar-khayyam/ebook/product-21799421.html

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Check out the link :IMG_1433

http://www.lulu.com/shop/benny-thomas/the-illustrated-omar-khayyam/ebook/product-21799421.html

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We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,–


This debt we pay to human guile;


With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,


In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.


We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile;


But let the world dream otherwise,


We wear the mask!

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I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be


Lost as a candle lit at noon,


Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still

A spirit beautiful and bright,

Yet I am I, who long to be

Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love — put out


My senses, leave me deaf and blind,


Swept by the tempest of your love,

A taper in a rushing wind.

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She

I’m waiting for the man I hope to wed.

I’ve never seen him – that’s the funny part.


I promised I would wear a rose of red,


Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,


So that he’d know me – a precaution wise,


Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,

And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .


So when we meet what will he think of me?

It’s funny, but it has its sorry side;


I put an advert. in the evening Press:


“A lonely maiden fain would be a bride.”

Oh it was shameless of me, I confess.


But I am thirty-nine and in despair,

Wanting a home and children ere too late,


And I forget I’m no more young and fair -

I’ll hide my rose and run…No, no, I’ll wait.

An hour has passed and I am waiting still.


I ought to feel relieved, but I’m so sad.

I would have liked to see him, just to thrill,


And sigh and say: “There goes my lovely lad!

My one romance!” Ah, Life’s malign mishap!


Garcon, a cafè creme.” I’ll stay till nine. . .

The cafè’s empty, just an oldish chap


Who’s sitting at the table next to mine. . .

He

I’m waiting for the girl I mean to wed.

She was to come at eight and now it’s nine.


She’d pin upon her coat a rose of red,

And I would wear a marguerite in mine.


No sign of her I see…It’s true my eyes

Need stronger glasses than the ones I wear,


But Oh I feel my heart would recognize

Her face without the rose – she is so fair.

Ah! what deceivers are we aging men!


What vanity keeps youthful hope aglow!


Poor girl! I sent a photo taken when 
I was a student, twenty years ago.


(Hers is so Springlike, Oh so blossom sweet!)


How she will shudder when she sees me now!


I think I’d better hide that marguerite -


How can I age and ugliness avow?

She does not come. It’s after nine o’clock.

What fools we fogeys are! I’ll try to laugh;


(Garcon, you might bring me another bock)


Falling in love, just from a photograph.

Well, that’s the end. I’ll go home and forget,


Then realizing I am over ripe


I’ll throw away this silly cigarette

And philosophically light my pipe.

* * * * *

The waiter brought the coffee and the beer,

And there they sat, so woe-begone a pair,


And seemed to think: “Why do we linger here?”

When suddenly they turned, to start and stare.


She spied a marguerite, he glimpsed a rose;

Their eyes were joined and in a flash they knew. . .


The sleepy waiter saw, when time to close,


The sweet romance of those deceiving two,


Whose lips were joined, their hearts, their future too.

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