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I guess nobody really reads poetry that much

Sometimes I ask
This question if the people out there really read poems?
A laundrywoman for instance
Does she even read? Have I told her that there is poem
For laundry soap and how her laundry can be magical?
Or the carpenter, does he ever know that poetry exists
As he hammers the nail on the stairs or puts the walls
Of the house that he is making? Is there a certain beat
In the strokes of his sawing the wood from a newly cut
Tree? Is there something sentimental about his pencil that
Cuts the exact plank of wood to make the railings of
The veranda?
And what about the garbage collector? Is there poetic
Sense in the smell of garbage that he collects early
Morning of the day?
Or about a friend who spent so much to move to
Some places in the U.S. or Canada or New Zealand
Looking for a dream for a greener pasture in foreign lands?

Well to tell frankly I write a lot about them, this laundrywoman

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Aurobindo 162 Savitri Book 10

'But what is Truth and who can find her form'
'where is Truth and when was her footfall heard'
'is Truth aught but a high starry name'
'All things hang here between God's yes and no,
Two Powers real but to each other untrue,
Two consort stars in the mooned night of mind
That towards two opposite horizons gaze,
The white head and black tail of the mystic drake, '

'Too dangerously thy high proud truth must live
Entangled in Matter's mortal littleness.
'Objects are seemings and none knows their truth,
Ideas are guesses of an ignorant god.
Truth has no home in earth's irrational breast:
Yet without reason life is a tangle of dreams,
But reason is poised above a dim abyss
And stands at last upon a plank of doubt.'

All truth bound in Thy splendid explication Guru! !
'Eternal truth lives not with mortal men.

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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In The Years Of Sarsfield

I wish I were over the Curlew Mountains,
Marching to Sligo by valley and fen;
I wish I were back in the years of Sarsfield,
Tramping the rough roads with him and his men.
I wish that I stood upon Yellow Island,
Watching the camp that the Williamites made;
I wish that my good gun was pressed to my shoulder
And that my caubeen held the white cockade.
I wish I were out with 'galloping Hogan,'
Happy a guide for my hero to be,
Encamped for the night on the Keeper Mountain,
Ready to guard with the brave rapparee.
I wish I had been in the woods of Cullen
In the dark night when the battle began;

I wish I had heard at the wan moon's rising
'Sarsfield the word, and Sarsfield the man.'
I wish I were young at the siege of Limerick,
Holding the breach there and glad in the fight;
Ah, could I but see him, King William of Orange,

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poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Dolores

IS he well blessed who has no eyes to scan
The woeful things that shadow all our life:
The latent brute behind the eyes of man,
The place and power gained and stained by strife,
The weakly victims driven to the wall,
The subtle cruelties that meet us all
Like eyes from darksome places? Blessed is he
Who such sad things is never doomed to see!

The crust of common life is worn by time,
And shines deception, as a thin veneer
The raw plank hides, or as the frozen mere
Holds drowned men embedded in its slime;
The ninety eat their bread of death and crime,
And sin and sorrow that the ten may thrive.

O, moaning sea of life! the few who dive
Beneath thy waters, faint and short of breath,
Not Dante-like, who cannot swim in death
And view its secrets, but must swiftly rise,—

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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Sankraanti

Those three days of
Sankraanti every year
from the times i've known
it was as if the house was
flodded with people from
all walks of life and we were
designers, architects and land-scapers

into the late hours returned dad
from his endless hours of work
and then the night would come alive

trunks of dolls carefully wrapped
in our swaddling clothes were carefully
spread on beds n blanktes-porcelean
english lady that grandma brought from
her maternal home, birth of jesus with
mary and joseph on either side of the baby-bed,
two variants of rama, sita, laxman and hanuman
dasavataaras, brahmins at a meal, toddy tapper,

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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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‘Oscar’ The Man of Metal

I built a magnificent man of metal
out of old used tin cans.
I removed the tops and bottoms
and with them I made his hands.

I unrolled the assorted cans of metal
and hammered them into shape.
Then welded and riveted them together,
which made his exterior look great.

I gave him joints for movement
and eyes of coloured glass.
Electronic circuits became his brain,
which added that touch of class.

He had nerves of steel and fibre-optics,
and anti-freeze was his life blood.
Movements of time charged his power cells
making his battery life exceptionally good.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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Melancholy [Melancolie]

It was as if a gate was opened in the clouds
Through which the dead night's queen emerged in thin, white shrouds.
Oh, sleep in peace among the torches shining bright,
Rest in your bluish tomb and bathe in silver light,
The starry sky above, your monument will be,
Majestic queen of night that anyone can see!
The world beneath is large, but rime is all around,
Resembling a thin veil that covers all the ground;
The air is full of sparks, the buildings gnawed by time
Gleam like a bunch of ruins that have been smeared with lime.
The isolated graveyard is covered with thick moss,
A greyish owl is resting on a lopsided cross,
The wooden plank is sounding, the bell tower is creaking,
The cunning evil demon somewhere around is sneaking,
But when his wing is touching the shining copper bell
From it a sound emerges, like a pathetic spell.

The church now feels the cold
Deserted are its ruins, and very sad and old
And through the broken windows and through the open door

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poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Lucy Gray

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
--The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

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poem by William Wordsworth
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John Marr And Other Sailors

Since as in night's deck-watch ye show,
Why, lads, so silent here to me,
Your watchmate of times long ago?
Once, for all the darkling sea,
You your voices raised how clearly,
Striking in when tempest sung;
Hoisting up the storm-sail cheerly,
_Life is storm--let storm!_ you rung.
Taking things as fated merely,
Childlike though the world ye spanned;
Nor holding unto life too dearly,
Ye who held your lives in hand--
Skimmers, who on oceans four
Petrels were, and larks ashore.

O, not from memory lightly flung,
Forgot, like strains no more availing,
The heart to music haughtier strung;
Nay, frequent near me, never staleing,
Whose good feeling kept ye young.

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poem by Herman Melville
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Visits to St Elizabeths

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

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poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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