I guess it would be
a bit of continuity
and a bit of change ,
for the better .....
and wiser ....
Akash
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Neelakurinji
Lovely name .
Lovely flower .
To me
it is beauty ,
it is patience .
It blossoms just once in twelve years , filling hills with a blue carpet.
Bringing the sky all the way down to earth ....
And how ..... ?
Happy New Year to All ,
Akash
Lovely flower .
To me
it is beauty ,
it is patience .
It blossoms just once in twelve years , filling hills with a blue carpet.
Bringing the sky all the way down to earth ....
And how ..... ?
Happy New Year to All ,
Akash
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Expansive
Drifting effortlessly into
being by the side of an ocean
all day long
with clear , azure skies
circling horizon
and my heart and mind steadfast
on the golden , light brown sand
slipping through my fingers
like a name reverberating
through echelons of time .
Akash
being by the side of an ocean
all day long
with clear , azure skies
circling horizon
and my heart and mind steadfast
on the golden , light brown sand
slipping through my fingers
like a name reverberating
through echelons of time .
Akash
A poem by Van K. Brock
Notes
I am trying to understand why the plain unstained
wood squares in the ceiling satisfy me. The rhythm
in the repetitions of the same balanced proportions,
or the resistance of the wild grain of the wood
to the squares and rectangles, the dense bloodknots
of the pines in bright summer when light at last can
open the recesses of the dark pitched ceilings: all
remind me of those northern timber structures
where the weary scribe looks up now again through me
and finds the forest's tangles in the grain of his plain
unstained coffers and understands, or thinks he does.
How vain to try to give my eyes to his medieval eyes,
or open to his vision of the world. There is a vast field
of sunflowers far below the balcony of Albergo Italia.
Swallows circle around me. In a half medieval town,
halfway up the mountain, we are only halfway to heaven,
a medieval monastery of southern stone above us,
sensuous sunflowers below. I like standing on a tiled
piazza in the air between sunflowers and monastic
rock. I do not want to endlessly circle and soar in the
air between, nor bow with the thousands who bow
nor go blind among the sunflowers' fertile eyes.
One must become vapor or dust, for every atom
to disperse in space, then come together again
recombined and reconciled with the dust of those
whose openings exclude you or at least do not include you.
Listen to the paradox of becoming: it is chanted
from the minarets, interrupting our meditation: nothing
tells us that whatever brings us together requires our
passage through ports never before gone through,
and through which we cannot even think of returning.
I could explode into a galaxy of galaxies,
ever expanding outward and curving back into myself.
Van K.Brock
Van K. Brock is a poet to cherish - and read! - for his sense (wisdom) and skill in bringing the secrets of our time to us without spoiling the mystery. These lightered poems give brief strong light to family tragedies, evidence of ancient, too-present crime. And there are folktunes here, much music in the words for dancing, the washing screaming to be hung "in the sun like saved sinners." -- Michael Mott
I am trying to understand why the plain unstained
wood squares in the ceiling satisfy me. The rhythm
in the repetitions of the same balanced proportions,
or the resistance of the wild grain of the wood
to the squares and rectangles, the dense bloodknots
of the pines in bright summer when light at last can
open the recesses of the dark pitched ceilings: all
remind me of those northern timber structures
where the weary scribe looks up now again through me
and finds the forest's tangles in the grain of his plain
unstained coffers and understands, or thinks he does.
How vain to try to give my eyes to his medieval eyes,
or open to his vision of the world. There is a vast field
of sunflowers far below the balcony of Albergo Italia.
Swallows circle around me. In a half medieval town,
halfway up the mountain, we are only halfway to heaven,
a medieval monastery of southern stone above us,
sensuous sunflowers below. I like standing on a tiled
piazza in the air between sunflowers and monastic
rock. I do not want to endlessly circle and soar in the
air between, nor bow with the thousands who bow
nor go blind among the sunflowers' fertile eyes.
One must become vapor or dust, for every atom
to disperse in space, then come together again
recombined and reconciled with the dust of those
whose openings exclude you or at least do not include you.
Listen to the paradox of becoming: it is chanted
from the minarets, interrupting our meditation: nothing
tells us that whatever brings us together requires our
passage through ports never before gone through,
and through which we cannot even think of returning.
I could explode into a galaxy of galaxies,
ever expanding outward and curving back into myself.
Van K.Brock
Van K. Brock is a poet to cherish - and read! - for his sense (wisdom) and skill in bringing the secrets of our time to us without spoiling the mystery. These lightered poems give brief strong light to family tragedies, evidence of ancient, too-present crime. And there are folktunes here, much music in the words for dancing, the washing screaming to be hung "in the sun like saved sinners." -- Michael Mott
Heartening
Heartening to see idealism still alive .
That someone can leave all the comforts of a highly paid job for working for people ,
and is so humble and silent about it is truly humbling and inspiring .
That someone can leave all the comforts of a highly paid job for working for people ,
and is so humble and silent about it is truly humbling and inspiring .
Did you hear ?
Don't ask me if it is dream or reality
for what separates the two is
this one thread thin laced curtain
swaying beautifully on the edge ,
a bit of dream like reality
and a bit of reality in dream ,
and I try my best to sing the unsung song
in a voice that carries my heart
waving through all that mystery
delicately hidden in the morning fog ,
the dew scented fog .
Did you hear ?
for what separates the two is
this one thread thin laced curtain
swaying beautifully on the edge ,
a bit of dream like reality
and a bit of reality in dream ,
and I try my best to sing the unsung song
in a voice that carries my heart
waving through all that mystery
delicately hidden in the morning fog ,
the dew scented fog .
Did you hear ?
A poem by Bino A. Realuyo
Procession
In memoriam, Father Narciso Pico, human rights activist
Air descends in spirals. On a street,
a flock waits, not in their usual Sunday white
but black, a long line, spiraling as well.
Their sweat you can't see.
Their faces would make you wonder what really
matters to them-the wait or the destination,
something you often asked: the now or what comes next.
In this village, whoever dares ask that question
does it in murmurs, in twists of fingers,
like their ears and eyes, attentive to every house
they pass: who still lives there, who doesn't,
what's gone, what remains, their names, mentioned
every time they think of yours.
They recognize the thoughts behind fallen lips,
sunken skin: where does a dead priest go,
the one gunned down for leaves and soil-
tell them, if not, they would simply guess, if there is an
opening in the sun, then there, into its eye, to watch
shovels rise above the ground, your own, the sprinkle
of soil over your casket, of dust, prayers, and names,
once again, the names of those who will fall next to you.
"Bino A. Realuyo has that rare gift of transforming modern horror into art. In The Gods We Worship Live Next Door he writes of his beleaguered country, the Philippines, in ways that reveal universal truths. The land is vibrant and alive, real with mythical shadows-rituals, dances, work-and, at the same time, racked by persecution and death. The book is passionate without a trace of sentimentality, a compelling account of destruction under a silent god."
- Grace Schulman
BINO A. REALUYO was born and raised in Manila. He is the author of the acclaimed novel The Umbrella Country. His poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Manoa, The Literary Review, New Letters, and The Nation. He is the recipient of the Lucille Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America. He lives in Manhattan.
In memoriam, Father Narciso Pico, human rights activist
Air descends in spirals. On a street,
a flock waits, not in their usual Sunday white
but black, a long line, spiraling as well.
Their sweat you can't see.
Their faces would make you wonder what really
matters to them-the wait or the destination,
something you often asked: the now or what comes next.
In this village, whoever dares ask that question
does it in murmurs, in twists of fingers,
like their ears and eyes, attentive to every house
they pass: who still lives there, who doesn't,
what's gone, what remains, their names, mentioned
every time they think of yours.
They recognize the thoughts behind fallen lips,
sunken skin: where does a dead priest go,
the one gunned down for leaves and soil-
tell them, if not, they would simply guess, if there is an
opening in the sun, then there, into its eye, to watch
shovels rise above the ground, your own, the sprinkle
of soil over your casket, of dust, prayers, and names,
once again, the names of those who will fall next to you.
"Bino A. Realuyo has that rare gift of transforming modern horror into art. In The Gods We Worship Live Next Door he writes of his beleaguered country, the Philippines, in ways that reveal universal truths. The land is vibrant and alive, real with mythical shadows-rituals, dances, work-and, at the same time, racked by persecution and death. The book is passionate without a trace of sentimentality, a compelling account of destruction under a silent god."
- Grace Schulman
BINO A. REALUYO was born and raised in Manila. He is the author of the acclaimed novel The Umbrella Country. His poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Manoa, The Literary Review, New Letters, and The Nation. He is the recipient of the Lucille Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America. He lives in Manhattan.
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