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Caurapâñcâśikâ

Swan Song of the Thief       an adaptation of Bilhana’s Caurapâñcâśikâ     by  Dawn Corrigan   1. Still I remember her, the white magnolia of her body, the line of hair down her belly a stamen trembling beneath my hand. I’ve lost that body like a forgotten science.   2. Still I see her light increased by love— below the stars and moon, with face aglow, her body burned as though it might catch fire until I cooled her limbs and she could sleep.   3. And still if she would come to me again with love-smeared eyes and breasts that bent thin shoulders with their weight, I’d drink her mouth— the bee, that connoisseur of nature, at a bud.   4. Still I bring her back, wearied so with love she couldn’t lift her body from the bed, black hair against her cheeks, her guilty arms wound round my neck and left their scent on me.   5. Still I remember glittering eyes that danced in a sleepless face, for she’d stay up all night, to swim lik
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The Alchemist in the City

The Alchemist in the City My window shews the travelling clouds, Leaves spent, new seasons, alter'd sky, The making and the melting crowds: The whole world passes; I stand by. They do not waste their meted hours, But men and masters plan and build: I see the crowning of their towers, And happy promises fulfill'd. And I - perhaps if my intent Could count on prediluvian age, The labours I should then have spent Might so attain their heritage, But now before the pot can glow With not to be discover'd gold, At length the bellows shall not blow, The furnace shall at last be cold. Yet it is now too late to heal The incapable and cumbrous shame Which makes me when with men I deal More powerless than the blind or lame. No, I should love the city less Even than this my thankless lore; But I desire the wilderness Or weeded landslips of the shore. I walk my breezy belvedere To watch the low or levant sun, I see the city pigeons veer, I mark the tower swallows run Between the to
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The Waterwheel, by Jalaluddin Rumi

The Waterwheel Stay together, friends. Don’t scatter and sleep. Our friendship is made of being awake. The waterwheel accepts water and turns and gives it away, weeping. That way it stays in the garden, whereas another roundness rolls through a dry riverbed looking for what it thinks it wants. Stay here, quivering with each moment like a drop of mercury. by Jalaluddin Rumi, from The Essential Rumi: New Expanded Edition, translated from the Persian by Coleman Barks, 2004
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A Prouder Man Than You

A Prouder Man Than You If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine, If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by a sign, If you're proud because of fortune or the clever things you do -- Then I'll play no second fiddle: I'm a prouder man than you! If you think that your profession has the more gentility, And that you are condescending to be seen along with me; If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and new -- You have only got to hint it: I'm a prouder man than you! If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street, And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet, So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your view -- Then be blind to me for ever: I'm a prouder man than you! If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean, While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been, Do not risk contamination, save your name whate'er you do -- `Birds
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Dream Deferred  by Langston Hughes What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?
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Some Beautiful Poems

A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness ... ―John Keats Bread and Music by  by  Wallace Stevens She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay." We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old despondency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings. Song for the Last Act by  Louise Bogan Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame, Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd
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