A loose shard of thought
Flips and twists about in
My brain,
Poking sensitive tissue,
And sending firestorms
Riffling through my circuitry.
I can't really say I feel each
Prickle or pierce, but they
Do make me wince, sometimes.
How do I roll like a
feather in flow?
The one that can't be
pulled from the pool.
It slips around the
lifted hand,
Retreating back into
the water that it never
really left.
It's like sleight of hand
one plays upon oneself:
at once magician & mark.
The faster one snatches at it,
the greater the miss.
The slower one moves,
the more frustratingly
one sees one's failure.
How to roll like a feather in flow?
They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps,
Cold, white lamps,
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another.
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.
Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-colored night.
She cannot light the city;
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.
I stand in the window and watch the moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon,
And this is an alien city.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heave of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
NOTE: This poem is often entitled “Let My Country Awake,” particularly when it is anthologized independently of the larger Gitanjali poem.
I don’t mind one crow,
on a rail or curb,
by its lonesome.
Nor am I troubled by
a large number of the birds.
(The group designation “murder,”
notwithstanding.)
But where two or three
are gathered, facing
each other…
That’s when I get the
heebie-jeebies.
A culture is a vehicle
we use to move
through
this world.
And like all vehicles -
be it truck or bus -
it
has blindspots.
Everyone in a given
vehicle has the same
blindspots...
That's why we travel.
I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall, die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
A slender leaf
floats downstream.
Its tip touches
a stouter leaf,
sending the
slender leaf
spinning.
The leaf continues to
twist as it drifts,
Making it seem spastic,
but it neither rushes
nor dawdles.
It matches the flow,
letting gravity &
currents do all the work.
It races only when it
plunges through
a narrow channel,
But it downshifts just as
effortlessly as the
stream widens.
The leaf's action is
unforced, yielding to
energy imparted upon it.
I found bliss.
And cooked it on the
simmer setting
of my soul --
That vacant hole that
I let swell with color
and light.
My only worry was that
it would flash fry all
that I am.
But one worry is enough
to kill the joy,
to kill everything vibrant
& reckless within.
The bliss was quenched,
and it steamed & sizzled,
and all I could hear was its
deafening sound.
Where is the line whose crossing
sends a jolt through your system,
making you jelly-kneed & breathless?
Where is the line?
Do you know you're stepping over
before the shock zips through you?
Is anticipation of the shock
worse than the shock?
Who built this fence?
Who picked the notch to which
the severity of the shock
would be dialed?
Was it you?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 