Poem of the day-27: "The Birth of Song"

The birth of song is fraught with joy and sorrow,
Like building life anew - one endless quest;
Today I know not what I'll write tomorrow
Though ere its birth my song gnaws at my breast.

That song is mute though from the throat it gushes,
Which from the heart and soul doth fail to spring,
To which no streamlet sings, no blossom blushes,
It is no song, whoever it may sing.

So tell me song - what is it gives you birth?
From ripples on the lake? rafts river-borne?
The fire of my beloved's sparkling eyes?
The fragrance of the new-mown hay at dawn?

The birth of song is fraught with tribulation,
Like fighting doubt that eats your heart away,
Like choosing stars from out of a constellation,
Or looking for a needle in the hay.

The dream that from the heart of hearts emerges,
No power in heaven or earth can ever slay;
For song is fragrant incense ever burning,
It is the "Yea" of Youth 'gainst Age's "Nay".

- Simon Chikovani

Wikipedia article on "SIMON CHIKOVANI":
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Poem of the day-25: "Autumn" by Boris Pasternak

I have allowed my family to scatter,
All my dear ones are dispersed.
A life-long loneliness
Fills nature and my heart.

And here I am with you, in a small house.
Outside, the forest is unpeopled like a desert.
As in the song, the drives and footpaths
Are almost overgrown.

The log walls are sad,
Having only us two to gaze at.
But we never undertook to leap the barriers.
We will perish honestly.

At one o'clock we shall sit down to table,
At three we shall rise,
I with my boom, you with your embroidery.
At dawn we shan't remember
What time we stopped kissing.

Leaves, rustle and spill yourselves
Ever more splendidly, ever more recklessly,
Fill yesterday's cup of bitterness
Still more full with the pain of today.

Let devotion, desire, delight,
Be scattered in the uproar of September:
And you, go and hide in the crackling autumn,
Either be quiet or be crazy.

You fling your dress from you
As the coppice flings away its leaves.
In a dressing-gown with a silk tassel
You fall into my arms.

You are the good gift of the road to destruction
When life is more sickening than disease
And boldness the root of beauty
This is what draws us together.

From "Dr.Zhivago" by Boris Pasternak.

Poem of the day-24: “I was the Wind last night" by Ruskin Bond

I was the wind last night.
I vaulted the river and swam seven mountains
And turned aside the tall trees guarding the valley
For I would see you smile and dream ....

I caught glimpses of you through the window as
I wandered around the little house.
They wouldn't let me in; too cold a wind!
I hung about listlessly, afraid to call too loud.
Then like a weary man limped homewards over the
sleeping mountains.
When will I learn the value of stillness?

Courtesy: 'Imprint', May 1975.

Wikipedia article on "RUSKIN BOND":
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Poem of the day-23: “The Passing of Arthur" by Tennyson

And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou se st--if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)--
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'

From the poem, “The Passing of Arthur" by Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Wikipedia article on "TENNYSON":
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