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Love is not
a word for a poet, it is not only mere feeling, and it is some
thing which is more than life and not less than death. Life and
death are not mere words for a poet, they are experiences from
which he passes daily. Growing is another form of decaying but
these both situations are expresses in words in thousand
Do words express them self through sound, or colour, smell and
feelings also come to help words to reveal them selves?
When sky wants to say goodbye, he are golden colour which spread
When a tree ask to autumn-how do you? his words change in to
When flowers open there mouth to greet, the words spread
becoming the smell.
words are supreme power, the supreme brain and the supreme mine
Modern realistic mind may not like these images,
Let us talk about other images- the blood on the gun of hunter
I"Bare it all"
A voice echoed in the rocky valley.
Silence of the trees answered.
"Leaf by every green leaf"
"Its time to wear me"
The voice touched
The lips of the dew-drunk leaves in the forest.
Kamal Abdul Nasir
the tree thinks itself happy
but dreams of motors,
it siphons love from the mud
and spurts it at
it is a sun an
a tree drinks
I remember how my mother hit a hare
in Germany and said later
she saw its mate
by the side of the road.
Later, headlights drape
sterile fields across the body of the night.
Kimberly L. Becker
I see the spring dance all over your face in green
you were arrogant before you viewed my willow tree
outside my balcony.
Michael Lee Johnson
but this, if incarnation seeks the ancient inspiration it
swallowed in the tangle of nerves and blood and bones which the
text is made of. Can Life have many incarnations at the same
time, like one in many different ones? What is thus left to do
if poetry comes with many a root out of the rocks and seeds,
breaking the compulsion of innumerable things, under many
languages? Itís neither a matter of some part and its
counterparts. Nor a fact of sheer imitations, reckless
variations, obvious transliteration, sharp nails digging up in
search of some deeper tone. Is it worth trying to sink images on
the rear dull side of a mirror? What delights in that, not yet
descended onto the page?
Here is rather a closest encounter with the many bodies longing
for one more body.
Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.
Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?
THE serpents are asleep among the poppies,
The fireflies light the soundless panther's way
To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying,
And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day.
O soft! the lotus-buds upon the stream
Are stirring like sweet maidens when they dream.
A caste-mark on the azure brows of Heaven,
The golden moon burns sacred, solemn, bright
Cool breeze of the fans
drenched with sandal perfumed water,
Lovely plump breasts of women
Covered with flower garlands,
And notes from the lyre vibrating last,
Ring a thrill In the formless love.' god's heart.
With the blazing sun, the longed for moon,
Tranquil cupid, beauteous close of day,
Emptying the reservoirs by repeated baths,
Sweet love! now summer is come.
Lovely fountains play in Variegated homes,
Chandra Kanta1 jems dangle
loosely in the windows,
Men besmearing sandal on their bodies
Loo slaps with a dash,
The scorching sun burns the earth enlaced,
Insufferable torture to lovelorn hearts
this grievous heat becomes,