Short Poems

Krishna conveyed by signs to clever Radha. [he could not speak out as her girl friends were with her] to make a pretence of milking the cows, and picking up the milkpail come to meet him in the meadow. Nanda, his foster-father, would also be there to have the cows counted and verified, and he would bring him along too. So they would have a chance to meet. Radha's heart rejoiced at their mutual resolve. But that lovely golden-hued girl, feeling abashed, hid her face in her arms. Krishna amorously lifting it up gazed at her lovingly. They kept their hidden love to themselves.

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Forget the wars.
It is time to sing.
Take out the flute from Phrygia
and recall the songs of our blond Graces.

Clamor of babbling swallows:
it is already spring.

Search for nothing any more, nothing
except truth.
Be very still, and try and get at the truth.

And the first question to ask yourself is:
How great a liar am I?

'Halt', thunders the demon, Death, and stands in front,
His hairy, rough hands find their way into the pants' pockets,
Fish out a few coins, two flowers, a reel of thread.
The heavy hands now search the loins. No, nothing is there.

    The stranger walks into the dark room where the two men sit at the table and talk of travel. The stranger joins in the conversation, saying: 'I have also traveled' and the two men look up and seem surprised at his sudden appearance. In the corners of the ceiling there is a sound as of very swift wings, a muttering of motors, and a chattering of thin voices. The stranger disappears. His voice is heard first in this corner, then in that, until it fades away somewhere near the open window. Where the stranger stood the two men find a railway ticket to an unknown destination.

How still,
How strangely still
The water is today,
It is not good
For water
To be so still that way.

Our Carys a Delicate Poet; for What?
For having writt? No: but for having writ not.

Raise it to Heaven, when thine eye fills with tears,
For only in a watery sky appears
The bow of light; and from th' invisible skies
Hope's glory shines not, save through weeping eyes.

Highland lass awake
your bonnie prince is waiting
secrets and the loch


(Previously published in Poems Md, Apr 2008)