We present this work in honor of the poet’s 160th birthday.
The night is black and the forest has no end; a million people thread it in a million ways. We have trysts to keep in the darkness, but where or with whom – of that we are unaware. But we have this faith – that a lifetime’s bliss will appear any minute, with a smile upon its lips. Scents, touches, sounds, snatches of songs brush us, pass us, give us delightful shocks. Then peradventure there’s a flash of lightning: whomever I see that instant I fall in love with. I call that person and cry: `This life is blest! for your sake such miles have I traversed!’ All those others who came close and moved off in the darkness – I don’t know if they exist or not.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
You spoke to me Of winged horse-shoes Sparking all round, Flashing, igniting The golden crescents Of city minarets; You spoke to me Of a bunch of swords hard, Stuck in a rock so stark, To be drawn only on a spell: Namely, the names, the charmed names of your bunch, How great, how formidable, How good, how nice, how sweet – unconquerable! ‘O minstrel’, you ordered, ‘Sing us a song ‘(But keep your eyes down ‘In our presence) ‘Sing us a lay ‘To tickle our pride ‘In the victory of the side, ‘And when the appointed hour comes ‘(An hour unveiled ‘By a cloud dispelled) ‘We’ll drink up the dregs ‘When the devil’s helmet begs ‘To be a goblet bright ‘For the wine of superior knight’.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 60th birthday.
Weep for this wounded desperate soul that never seems to heal, alone, vocalising to any passer by. Uncomfortable for some, they turn away, but that won’t stop her swaying, or mend her destructive pain
Pray for this tired old and embittered lady who fought courageously against the colonisers classified as ‘tribal’ whose love across the racial lines meant government sanctioned interference: the Bullyman, welfare, local school teacher – informant, would not relent till Ruby was removed
Three long years of hiding from the tentacles of institutionalised racism, till a moments lapse and then she’s gone Ruby’s gone, like she never existed, nor was ever loved. Rocking to and fro, she still dreams of little Ruby and of that fateful day and wonders what their life could’ve been like without this government sanctioned cruelty
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 270th birthday.
When will these rude tumultuous clamours cease, When shall we hear the genial voice of peace; My tir’d soul is sick of these alarms, This vain parade, this constant din of arms. I wish, devoutly wish, for some retreat, Where but the shepherd’s pipe my ear may greet, Where I may calmly hail the rising day, On life’s eventful threshold while I stray. I would in its variety enjoy, The mental feast I would my hours employ, To cull the flowers of wisdom as they grow, To reap the fruits which love and truth bestow.
But ah! Alas! On a rough Ocean tost, To all the bliss of social pleasures lost; My little back by winds of passion driv’n, Blown to, and fro, by each opinion giv’n; Sees in perspective no auspicious shore
Which can its safety, or its hopes restore; Terrifick visions in succession rise, A host of fears the trembling soul surprise.
And can it be, will dark vindictive rage, ‘Gainst helpless towns revengeful battle wage, When far removed from the hostile scene When cities rise, when Oceans roll between
Must Glous’ter though obscure be doom’d to feel, The British thunder, and the British steel, Forbid it British valour, British grace, And spare so little, so remote a place.