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Being very dear

I won’t step in anybody’s show and compare
I shall have to find the real place to go somewhere
Dreamland will not make me feel at home
Who else will be waiting for me to welcome?

I have my own land to live with and flow
Little thought of her brings on cheeks a fine glow
I don’t know how to take it as gift or blessings?
Certainly I shall think of it as place never missing

You were not far from being very dear
I can still feel the pulse of heart very near
It is pulsating slowly but with sensation I hear
Some unknown thought grip the mind and create fear

I have asked each and every leaf of tree about you
I was passionate and blind in love as it is very much true
Nothing appeals me much than those sweet words
They were none the less than have been spoken by lords

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Home bound

Morning sleep and sweet dreams simply disturbed,
Bed side phone call buzz really perturbed,
Sweet dreams and cool breeze remained illusion,
since wife had left after scuffle with collision,

with all honest intention I had surrendered
Never let anger go up and that is why I wondered?
She was so nice and never questioned
Why did she leave and separation offered?

Had she some ideas or her own reason?
Was she not happy with autumn season?
Did she need care for her only and lovely son?
Why did she attempt to take the poison?

I may not have pardoned her fully
the act on her part was stupid and silly
Why does she not own mistakes wholly?
Why at all to attempt suicide and commit folly?

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Through The Years

Through the years, I have thought of you quite often:
Your absence was ne'er a lacking that time could soften.
I had always hoped that our friendship would last forever-
With a prayer to God, I wished we would always be together.
Nothing could have prepared me for that fateful day-
What it shall mean, only our patient wait will say-
A wait for a time when you and I are both ready-
When our inspired hearts may be made to be steady,
To receive one another-wholly and completely,
When we learn to love one another unabashedly and repletely!

Through the years, I have found naught, with which to draw compare
To the beauty inherent in the depths of your soul-inspiring stare;
You need not be here, nor do I need be, there-
I may not make part with thee, nor would I dare;
Though the years without thee had numbered more than twenty,
Thoughts about thee had been beauteous, varied and plenty.

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poem by Maurice Harris
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The Candle

O Candle! I am also an afflicted person in the world assembly
Constant complaint is my lot in the manner of the rue

Love gave the warmth of internal pathos to you
It made me the florist selling blood-mixed tears

Whether you be the candle of a celebrating assembly or one at the grave
In every condition associated with the tears of sorrow you remain

Your eye views all with equity like the Secret's Lovers
My eye is the pride of the tumult of discrimination

Your illumination is alike in the Ka'bah and the temple
I am entangled in the temple and the Haram's discrimination

Your black smoke contains the sigh's elegance
Is some heart hidden in the place of your manifestation?

You burn with pathos due to distance from Tajalli's Light
Your pathos the callous ones consider your light

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poem by Allama Muhammad Iqbal
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Emulation

Dependence leads to emulation,
but sadly creativity
demands thereafter separation,
with hypersensitivity
the reason often for defection
of emulator, who betrays
his master by his rude rejection.
Disengaged like divorcés,
regretting the dependence that
had once inspired them both, they lose
their symbiosis and combat
each other with conflicting views,
and claim they always had suspected
the other was far less inspired
than they, and ought to be rejected,
the sell-by date now long expired.

Inspired by an article Holland Cotter on an exhibition of the art of Titian, Tintoreeto and Verones at the Boston Museum of Fine Art (Passion of the Moment: A Triptych of Masters, NYT, March 12,2009) :

The show is about three such personalities: Tiziano Vecellio, or Titian; Jacopo Robusti, known as Tintoretto; and Paolo Caliari, called Veronese. All three shot off sparks as they reforged painting as a medium. And all three had feverishly competitive overlapping careers. These masters of 16th-century Venetian painting were no Holy Trinity. They were a discordant ménage-a-trois bound together by envy, talent, circumstances and some strange version of love. This is the story the exhibition tells through 56 grand to celestial paintings — no filler here, not an ounce of fat — sorted into broad categories (religious images, portraits, belle donne) and arranged in compare-and-contrast couplings and triplings to indicate who was looking at whom, and why, and when. And that story is set against a larger historical narrative that goes something like this. Before the 16th century Italian art was dominated by two cities, Florence and Rome, and by two kinds of painting: fresco and egg tempera — water-based, fast-drying, smooth-surfaced — on wood. Venice lay outside this mainstream. Fresco wasn’t viable in the city’s humid atmosphere; tempera had problems too. Then, at the end of the 15th century, oil painting, still little known in the rest of Italy, was introduced, and Venetian art caught fire….Finally into the arena strode a third giant, and a somewhat gentler one, Veronese (1528-88) . Named for his native city and still in his teens when he hit Venice, he was quickly acknowledged to be a prodigy, fully formed. Titian became the artist he was through long growth, Tintoretto by sifting and synthesizing influences. Veronese was Veronese from Day 1. Ingratiating in manner, he was a painter of fine texture, sweet color and courtly reserve. Patrons who found Tintoretto too outlandish gave Veronese their business; the elderly Titian took him under his wing. And from the 1540s to the 1580s Venetian painting became a three-way dance among these three men, a tricky choreography of emulation and rejection, dependence and separation. You can follow the moves in a cluster of steamy paintings of nudes at the center of the show, installed in a gallery with crimson walls and tasseled curtains. The Titians — the “Danae” from the Capodimonte Museum in Naples, “Venus with an Organist and Dog” from the Prado, “Venus With a Mirror” from the National Gallery of Art in Washington — are stop-and-stare fantastic.

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poem by Gershon Hepner
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Love Divine And Divined Love.

Love has seeped out of the vessels of my heart and lathered my soul with pleasure. I cannot stop thinking of you and I cannot stop contemplating the beauty you possess and the life you animate. I pledge my devotion to your life and love for your soul. Each tear lost is a new love born. I keep crying and my love remains afresh and new. I love you so much lady. There is no prospect of my love for you dying; this is to my relief and this is my soul's resolution. In solitude, I have been thinking, why have I been so insolent, cold and misanthropic with those around me? It's because inside I have felt and still feel all my love concentrating on you. Nobody deserves what virtue I may possess but you my sweet love. No one will ever feel a tinge of what I gave, give and will give to you and solely you. Right now time and space is the mortal enemy of our love. I can feel the vexations assail both our souls as we worry astray. My love, let's not lose ourselves in this never ending maze but find each other in ourselves. Let us rest on the cloud of confidence which lies in our souls and remember that first and foremost we love each other. If love creates our vexations and jealousies love can extinguish them as well. We must concentrate our beliefs, our thoughts, our souls on the virtue of love, or its vices and uncertainties shall savage our hearts, our minds and ruin us both. The deepest meanings of life are not found in mysteries, but found in the virtue of the human soul. What we know can set us free from what we don't know. I know you love me unconditionally, and I love you; this will set us free from the pangs of separation. Love is the fortune that will bring us back together and love is the fortune which gives us wealth and beauty.

The ether air of love intoxicates our heart
No death, no time, no space
Can separate our heart apart
Through the mouth of virtue doth love flow
To the heart apart
So the heart shall know

Our love is loftier than the reality of our separation. How could it not be? What is a brief life on this earth compared to the paramount life of eternity in heaven? What is heaven but living in an inexpressible essence of love with you. Our love and what we know has told us this a thousand times and will continue to tell us a thousand times more the truth. I can see the truth and hear it. I can see us sauntering above time and space, elevated above the human consciousness, married in unity, in heart soul and body, in the imperial air of heaven, majestic with wonder, and in perfect love.

Ascending from depths of earth
Our hearts unite in the ethereal realm
Wert love give birth to immortal mirth
In her life we shall whelm

Love has made ignorance more ignorant of itself and knowledge known to knowledge's self. Our love imbues the highest ideals of man and woman with marvel and real merit and made the impossible the only possibility in life and death.

The yearning of love surpasses fate
To the soul of truth, to the soul of great

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poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Why Did This Have To Happen To Me Lord?

If you were walking upon the warm sands
of a beautiful spring beach as the sun held
steady midday course in clear blue sky as
kind wind swept as a soft free breeze across...
reflective beauty of beautiful sand dunes
laced with clumps tufts of wild tussock grass
herbfield habitats stop sand blow harbour
insects foods for insects birds small animals...

long grass roots aid dune slope stabilization
erosion control soil porosity sweet water life
hydraulic conductivity of pore spaces ratio
of permeability of material pores compaction...
degree of saturation water movement through
saturated media infiltration process by which
water on the ground surface enters soil through
pores by forces of gravity and capillary action...

behold superlative intricate complexity laws
fixed in descending levels detail even in pore

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Even if my life without you comes to a halt

(for M)

I

Even if my life without you comes to a halt,
even if I see your face in those of other women
I continue with the steps of each day,
while I have got to give you up.
Daisies are flowering; roses open in the garden,
the sun hangs yellow-gold in the cobalt sky;
and when each morning I go to town
I return again back home
and although this separation
makes me feel very much alone
and comes between us with distance
there is still the wind whose fingers play over me
and I am not connected to your humanity anymore
while I try to find my way into the wide world.
Sometimes I drive long distances
when my motorbikes comes to life under me.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Every Word Turns Away

Every word turns away
shame-faced and a liar
when you try to say things so true
they could only be contaminated
by a mouth.
And the tree in your voice
may be its own guitar
and every flower of your breath
be rooted in stars like the wind,
and you can spend a whole lifetime
trying to say everything
as if words could exact living destinies
from the names on the scrolls of the dead
to save everyone, to save
everything that exists
from nothing,
but when you're done,
when the tree falls silent
and the bird has flown away,
everything, just as it is,

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poem by Patrick White
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Near Perigord

I
You'd have men's hearts up from the dust
And tell their secrets, Messire Cino,
Rigkt enough? Then read between the lines of Uc St. Circ,
Solve me the riddle, for you know the tale.

Bertrans, En Bertrans, left a fine canzone:
6Maent, I love you, you have turned me out.
The voice at Montfort, Lady Agnes' hair,
Bel Miral's stature, the viscountess' throat,
Set all together, are not worthy of you. . . .'
And all the while you sing out that canzone,
Think you that Maent lived at Montaignac,
One at Chalais, another at Malemort
Hard over Brive for every lady a castle,
Each place strong.

Oh, is it easy enough?
Tairiran held hall in Montaignac,
His brother-in-law was all there was of power

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poem by Ezra Pound
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