Quotes about cupped, page 8
Autumnal Math
The ground assumes its portent.
The good of the season remains in what is left behind.
It takes what lays down or is laid down upon it.
You'd think it a kind of king of accountants.
You'd sink down an addition of arithmetics,
heartbeats, breaths, footings found and lost,
all the unintended landings of a life.
You'd think it wouldn't stop.
You'd sink down even wide awake in this season.
Such sinking pretends its endings in countless
geometries of folding life down or over
and under sundering fractions apart,
forgetting theorems, all but the final one.
The rest can change or pretend to.
Admit you are no good at numbers.
Admit you can only count to a certain sum,
or down to it. Reverse your life if you want to,
wind it down with a memory. Beef up the end.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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On the banks of a river....! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Some marigold flowers,
Incense sticks, a match box;
And an earthen diya with wick
In a bowl made of dry leaves
Held together by twigs;
I stood at the banks
Of mother Ganges in Haridwar,
After paying change
To the young boy
Who put it together for me
At that morning hour.
I lit the wick and incense stick,
And holding it in both hands
Walked towards the river bank
And put it in the lap
Of the river, watching it
Join other such offerings,
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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CAT Scan Routine
Every four months I sit, patient
On such hard wooden benches
As are thought suitable for bearers
Of many kinds of cancer
Without complaint, in companionship
Waiting for a scan
Thinking of the days when
Pensions, even indigestion
Were issues of concern
When there were no prompts or spurs
To consider the golden nature
Of a moment, an embrace
When I was not yet impelled
To weigh the meaning of the past
To attempt to crack the poet's code
To hold life so lovingly
In carefully cupped hands, as if
Nursing a wounded bird
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poem by Frank Bana
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Touch Me Not
lock me in the dominion of your command, transgress my
spirit that is gone, limit my voice to shout the truth and leave
drops of tears to my Fatherland, let my strength drags my
immortal soul for through eternity i will free the nation from
the bondage of cruelty
the light has not stop in the whisper of the wind, the
minute leave to say for the waiting death has its prey, in the
road to step the heaven is always open for me, of where my
vacuum soul is waiting to be free, swallowed like a lion in the
dungeon that cave my heart through out the day
hold my hand my dear brother, the dawning wave capture
the sand and as the bird fly my blooming eye flies; in the
wings of an eagle, the moment of a day reach my rendition,
and ever shall i go in the end it is my way, tears cupped my
emotion, bucket my blood in the country i love
only i found the tore of my tears, swings the luminous flag
in every sun it comes, always forward and never surrender
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poem by Antonio Liao
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Mother's eyes
Telugu original: Mahe Jabeen
English Translation: Ch J Satyananda Kumar
(Amma Kallu)
jeevita saMbaMdhaM tegipOyaaka
baMdhaalannee baMdhanaalae
kalala Saaluva kappukoni
naannatoe aeDaDugulu naDacinappuDu
ammakaLLu svapna nikshaepaalu
chekkiLLaloe valapu vasaMtaalu paMDiMchi
doesiLLatoe amRtaanni vaDDiMchae
ammakaLLU pikaasoe varNachitraalu
moggalu vicchukunae
rahasyaanni choosina arudaina kshaNaallaa
ammakaLLu adbhutavalayaalu
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poem by Ch J Satyananda Kumar
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Purpose
Tall trees touch the sun,
As the moon follows behind,
Lost inside of a rainbow.
The sun’s rays fail to dispel the darkness,
Although
It may be very early morning.
Leaves on the trees are
Small cupped hands, which
Cling to branches of unreality.
They hold dewdrops,
Tears of naiads
Lost in the storm of their
Abject misery,
Destined as they were
To reach heaven someday
Too far to travel from
Their homes amongst the woodlands.
One could have been myself,
Rising early, at daybreak
Each and every morning,
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poem by Claudia Krizay
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Heart Yearns
Your hands a ladies hands
manicured fingers long and slender.
Each displaying a balance a supple
delicate care free fascinating grace.
Texture fashionable taunting tasty
beautiful blessing bountifully given.
By our loving master father.
Heart yearns to hold such hands carefully
gently lovingly with cupped skill.
As given while holding monarch butterfly.
Appreciably protective though never
as confining cage gilded bars.
Freed to glide playful cooling zephyr
whenever freedom’s fickle need
arises within soft tendered soul.
A form wonder
those soft subtle
hands that fit
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Old Town Types No. 22 - The Baker
Our baker, Mr Brackenby, toiler in the night,
Was a lean, tall, glum man whose face was very white;
A brooding man 'twas said of him, and mannerisms odd;
For a grunt of recognition and a rather surly nod
Were all he granted any who came strolling by his shop
In the cool of summer even, when a man might wish to stop
For a bit of neighbor's gossip. But our baker chose to mope
Like one who nursed grave illness or deep grief beyond all hope.
His chirping little 'missus' had the old town's sympathy;
For she loved to hold a customer and let her tongue run free
On stay bits of tittle-tattle; and we said, 'Poor thing,
With a dumb man for a husband, well, she has to have her fling.'
For silent Mr Brackenby, he never seemed to speak
To wife or child or anyone from week to dreary week.
There he sat upon his doorstop, and he stared and stared ahead
Like a being sore afflicted. But he baked good bread.
Yet once a year, on Show Day, some urge removed his gag,
And gloomy Mr Brackenby went out upon a 'jag.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ginza Samba
A monosyllabic European called Sax
Invents a horn, walla whirledy wah, a kind of twisted
Brazen clarinet, but with its column of vibrating
Air shaped not in a cylinder but in a cone
Widening ever outward and bawaah spouting
Infinitely upward through an upturned
Swollen golden bell rimmed
Like a gloxinia flowering
In Sax's Belgian imagination
And in the unfathomable matrix
Of mothers and fathers as a genius graven
Humming into the cells of the body
Or cupped in the resonating grail
Of memory changed and exchanged
As in the trading of brasses,
Pearls and ivory, calicos and slaves,
Laborers and girls, two
Cousins in a royal family
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poem by Robert Pinsky
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Loving You Is Far Too Dangerous
It came with a hollow crack-
a widening wedge-
the fearful peering
at Hope's Edge;
at the pitifully small;
the fearful offering,
the tiny tiniest etch of a smile;
of the looking away
of the not wanting to see
or relate
to what was happening
when Love's Mote
pushes open
my Hope's creaky door
long closed;
isolated;
remote;
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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