“Why we love with close hearts
Why we love with souls apart
Let the love flow from hearts to souls,
Let the world glow”
― Megha Khare
Poetry
I am the dust in the sunlight,
I am the ball of the sun…
I am the mist of morning,
the breath of evening…
I am the spark in the stone,
the gleam of gold in the metal…
The rose and the nightingale
drunk with its fragrance.
I am the chain of being,
the circle of the spheres,
The scale of creation,
the rise and the fall.
I am what is and is not…
I am the soul in all.
Rumi
“To hear never-heard sounds,
To see never-seen colors and shapes,
To try to understand the imperceptible
Power pervading the world;
To fly and find pure ethereal substances
That are not of matter
But of that invisible soul pervading reality.
To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul;
To be a lantern in the darkness
Or an umbrella in a stormy day;
To feel much more than know.
To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain;
To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon;
To be a tree and read the memory of the leaves;
To be an insignificant pedestrian on the streets
Of crazy cities watching, watching, and watching.
To be a smile on the face of a woman
And shine in her memory
As a moment saved without planning.”
― Dejan Stojanovic, Task of a Poet
Four Quartets, East Coker No. 2, 1,
T. S. Eliot
“In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.”
September Hartley Coleridge The dark green Summer, with its massive hues, Fades into Autumn's tincture manifold. A gorgeous garniture of fire and gold The high slope of the ferny hill indues. The mists of morn in slumbering layers diffuse O'er glimmering rock, smooth lake, and spiked array Of hedge-row thorns, a unity of grey. All things appear their tangible form to lose In ghostly vastness. But anon the gloom Melts, as the Sun puts off his muddy veil; And now the birds their twittering songs resume, All Summer silent in the leafy dale. In Spring they piped of love on every tree, But now they sing the song of memory.
“What can we expect from an empty shell
Where many hearts of pearl once beat to dwell
Waves fail to break hard layer’s bond of love
Wailing shore sends memoir to the sky above”
― Munia Khan
“The Earth would die
If the sun stopped kissing her.”
Khwāja Šams ud-Dīn Muhammad Hāfez-e Šīrāzī
Hatteras Calling
by Conrad Aiken
Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping in,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,
the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks on more,
the golden arrow into the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.
Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollo in triumph a passage to the main.
Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,
pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.
Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.
Maverick Mist 