Short Poems

santame janulanu jayamu nondinchunu
santamunane guruni jaadateluyu
santabhavamahima jarchimpalemaya
viswadhabhirama vinura vema

The blackbird sits
On a bronchial limb
Ready to
Squeal his guts
Where?

Black riders came from the sea.
There was clang and clang of spear and shield,
And clash and clash of hoof and heel,
Wild shouts and the wave of hair
In the rush upon the wind:
Thus the ride of sin.

The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain)
The Door-mat you see on his head
Is not, as some learned professors maintain,
The opulent growth of a genius’ brain;
But is sewn on with needle and thread.

When Old Folks they wuz young like us
An' little as you an' me

Them wuz the best times ever wuz
Er ever goin' to be!

At the rise of summer a hundred beasts and trees
Join in gladness that the season bids them thrive.
Stags and does frolic in the deep woods;
Snakes and insects are pleased by the rank grass.

I can recognize only as such, the one that enables
Each to think what is right,--but that he thinks so, cares not.

'How can I know the best state?'
In the way that thou know'st the best woman;
Namely, my friend, that the world ever is silent of both.

When head and heart are busy, say,

What better can be found?
Who neither loves nor goes astray,

Were better under ground.

The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you but not for me:
And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-ling
For you but not for me.
O death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
O Grave, thy victor-ee?
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me.