Surroundings-1
Up The Terrace A Beehive
Cut left dried a vine
Up the terrace the jasmine
A reversed hammock
Canopied bees hive, enjoy
Gale or breeze no mind they swing
poem by Indira Renganathan
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December Moon
Up the terrace down the sky
On my back as I lie
Splashes silvery flecks through the fronds
The coconut tree swaying in dulcet breeze
Up the hill and upon the sea
Yonder bliss all that we see
Stand will they in analogy
On this terrace with what I see
Launch of a round fulgent splotch
Haloed with a brace of hazy torch
This priceless coin of the night
The empyrean sphere treasures so bright
'The Luminous' flashing through the fronds
The fronds softly swaying in the winds
Darkened coconut tree peeping in the terrace
Displaying happily the gleaming luminance
Well, all I understand about her blemishes
Is all that it's Sun's kisses
And all my possible guess
Is all she so the other side hides
While there's a secrecy vincible
As 'Chidhambara rahasyam' possibly sensible
This charming December-queen is evincible
And her Lord of Betelguese is invincible
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Too Up, Two Down
Two up two down terrace town, heading far away
Well I just deserted but Ive seen that road before
Two up two down terrace town, roll on salad days
Well Im a mighty lorne greene to mow
Oh oh! better let me grow
Youre bringing me up, holding me down
The looks, the sighs and the frowns
So this time Im on my own!
Its eyes down look in but dont you ever turn back
(back to front in the back to backs) and its no big deal
From a heartless jack
Who keeps cheating the cards
And splitting the deck
Youre bringing me up, holding me down
The looks, the sighs and the frowns
So this time Im on my own!
Just watch me go
Too up too down terrace town, numbing all the senses
Well I just left home but Ive seen that porch before
Well, Im too up too down terrace town, leaning on defences
But Im a ruddy lorne greene to mow so now
Youd better let me grow
Youre bringing me up, holding me down
Stick in the mud, face in the ground
So this time Im on my own
Oh this time Im on my own
Building you up
Pulling me down
Sick of the glares, the flairs and the browns
So this time Im on my own
Oh this time Im on my own.
Too up too down
Too up two down
song performed by by Haircut 100
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Assertiveness
Assertiveness
It is very hot I have switched off the air-condition and
opened up windows, it is supposed to be hot in July.
I hadn’t wanted to buy air- cooling in the first place,
I’m too placid and get swayed to do the wrong things.
I sit on the terrace on the terrace, in a plastic chair
that is easy to move around I used to have had a chair
of real wood before I liked more, but it was given to
someone poor; I think about it and get upset I ought
to put my foot down and say: No. Summers past I sat
in my heavy timber chair and smoked my cigarettes,
the burn kept mosquitoes away, now it is frown upon
and I dastardly I quit, but I do have a packet of fags in
the drawers; maybe one day, if I get pissed off enough
by the virtuous, I’ll lit up and enjoy my august nights.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sonnet: The Bees Never Give Up
Every time, they crush the bees to death and
Steal away their sweet honey in a trice;
And wax to make candles of immense size;
The Queen bee escapes to another land.
The bees comeback; with vengeance start again
A small bee-hive in the very same place!
They work extra in the sun and in rain,
Buzzing to flowers in a frenzied pace.
And soon their hive has been rebuilt and full,
Of sweet honey and larvae that are fed;
The bees continuing without a lull,
Searching for more nectar in every mead.
How well Nature takes care of its species!
Man must learn from the bee-hive and the bees.
poem by John Celes
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Fairyland
If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Summer Breeze
See the curtains hanging in the window
In the evening on a Friday night
A little light shining through the window
Lets me know that everything's alright
Summer breeze, well it makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through my, makes me feel it right
Making me feel, making me feel fine
Makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Oh sweet days of summer, the jasmine's in bloom
July is dressed up and playing her tune
And when I come home from a hard day's work
And you're waiting there, yes you're waiting there
Without A care in the world
I see the smile awaiting in the kitchen
Food's cooking and a place there for two
I see the arms that reach out to hold me
In the evening when the day is through
Summer breeze, well it makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through my, making me feel right
Making me feel, making me feel fine
Makes me feel right
Blowing through the jasmine in my, blowing blowing(x5)
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost Again In Separate Jungles
You are a beautiful woman in a room of candles,
The aroma of jasmine drifts from the terrace,
I’ll sleep with you beneath the stars
And I’ll unlatch the shoes from your feet,
There is no place upon your small body
I would ever consider too undignified to kiss.
Loneliness has been the dark lens
Coloring your perceptions,
You have left your prayers unspoken
In loveless childhood sanctuaries
Violated by the cruel
Who taught you through violence and abuse
You can only trust yourself.
It is understood, I can’t keep you,
You have no desire for a second husband,
Even the most pleasing lovers can become brutes,
But for now I will romance your mind
And learn to delicately touch your mouth,
And you will remember me later
When we are both lost again in separate jungles.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Two Children
Two children (small), one Four, one Five,
Once saw a bee go in a hive,
They'd never seen a bee before!
So waited there to see some more.
And sure enough along they came
A dozen bees (and all the same!)
Within the hive they buzzed about;
Then, one by one, they all flew out.
Said Four: 'Those bees are silly things,
But how I wish I had their wings!'
poem by Spike Milligan
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Just for joy, take from my palms
Just for joy, take from my palms
A little sun, a little honey,
As Persephone's bees commanded.
An unfastened boat cannot be untied.
A shade shod in fur cannot be heard.
In the dense forest of life fear cannot be overcome.
Only kisses are left for us.
Furry, like small bees
That die when they leave the hive.
They rustle in transparent thickets of night,
Their home is the dense Taiga woods;
Their food -- time, honeysuckle, mint.
So take and enjoy my passionate gift,
A dry, unsightly necklace
Of dead bees, who changed honey into sun.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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My Bees: An Allegory
"O bees, sweet bees!" I said, "that nearest field
Is shining white with fragrant immortelles.
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells."
Then, spicy pines the sunny hive to shield,
I set, and patient for the autumn's yield
Of sweet I waited.
When the village bells
Rang frosty clear, and from their satin cells
The chestnuts leaped, rejoicing, I unsealed
My hive.
Alas! no snowy honey there
Was stored. My wicked bees had borne away
Their queen and left no trace.
That very day,
An idle drone who sauntered through the air
I tracked and followed, and he led me where
My truant bees and stolen honey lay.
Twice faithless bees! They had sought out to eat
Rank, bitter herbs. The honey was not sweet.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Nostalgia
I moved to Delhi in Nineteen Seventy Four
and lived on a ‘barsati ’ floor.
It was safe then to sleep on a summer’s night
on the terrace under the stars and moonlight.
Alas, not anymore!
You have to lock every door,
to keep out the danger that looms
outside your air cooled rooms.
Isn’t it a pity
what life has come to in a city?
No longer can you enjoy
sleeping on a ‘charpoy in the courtyard, balcony or terrace,
because of the rising terrorist menace.
I miss those evenings when after sunset,
we would sprinkle water on the brick floor till it was wet,
getting relief from heat
walking on it bare feet.
and climbing on the bed made of cool white sheets.
Quietly watching the stars and the moon,
and drift into a tranquil sleep soon,
to be woken up by the twitter of the birds in the morn
feeling fresh, renewed, reborn.
Alas, this claustrophobic life is what it has come to be,
in the concrete jungles that are our urban cities.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Lullaby, Go To Sleep
I'll ne'er forget the day,
When I was young and gay,
A rolling 'round the floor in Tennessee;
From th' cotton field so white,
My ma would come at night,
And fondly hold me in her arms and say:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
In winter cold and chill,
At night, when all was still,
I'd wake to find her standing over me,
A smile upon her face,
A creepin 'round the place,
She'd tuck the cover over me, and sing:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
So many years have passed,
Since we assembled last,
That dear old soul has gone away to dwell.
If this whole world was mine,
The wealth I would decline,
If I could only hear my mother sing:
Go to sleep, baby mine,
Little birdie in your nest;
Humming bees have left the vine,
Go to sleep and take your rest.
poem by James Ephraim McGirt
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Our Points Of View
We now differ on how we look
At things. I am silent. I want to be silent.
You wish we are noisy. Or at least
We must talk.
You wish there is a glass of wine
In our hands
I still think we need coffee.
I am secure. I feet that so.
Your hands are shaky,
Reflections of the waves
Inside your mind.
You are picking on some little
Things that grow on the
Pavement. You want to kill them.
I say, I gesture, leave them
Let them be.
I situate myself on a hammock
Riding with the wind
This afternoon the breeze is cold
From the seashore.
Finally you do not resist
Getting near me and you complain
“I hate this place, it is too lonely
For me”
I do not mind. Deep inside my mind
I like this place. It is too peaceful.
I swing with the wind
With the hammock. You hold it.
You want it to stop.
I look at you and you cry.
Tears flood the creeks of your cheeks.
I cannot wipe them now.
I know, you want to leave.
I am silent. I am secure now.
I ride with the wind on the wings
Of my dreams.
I am listening to the
Footsteps of the ants
I am counting how many
Time the grasshopper jumps.
I like it here. It is peaceful
Now go, find your place.
Your dreams. Take your trip
To your sighs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Homecoming
Homecoming
I had traveled long and far before getting home,
and it was a beautiful spring day when I arrived.
The air in the flat smelt of neglect, the dust of
memories covered family pictures. “those where
the days my love.” A phrase from a recent song
murmured on my lips. I half turned by the door
wanted to run away again only this time I had
nowhere to go my journey over.
Agonizing silence a never ending Om, I got to do
something, opened the blinds to the door out to
the terrace and up from a flowerpot of dry soil…
and two small eggs flew a pigeon. Wonder and
new hope. If a meek bird could find a home here
so could I; of course for now the terrace was out
of bound. Slowly, ghosts of past misery vanished
as ancient dust danced in a halo of sunlight.
,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Evening Breeze
Often, I lie solus,
On white sand-banks
Of the large pond
In my ancestral land,
When the evening breeze
Gently touches the divinity,
Hidden somewhere in mortal body:
I feel I cannot normally feel.
Oh! I wish the evening breeze,
Too heavenly and wondrous,
Brought out my grandmother
Sleeping just under,
With whom I used to enjoy the breeze,
On these sands white,
In green days, later became defoliate!
Indeed, it can if it willed.
The evening breeze brings
Smell of soap suds,
Which forms on mind-board
The damsel in the nude;
Soon, the breeze brings
Holiest odour
Of frankincense and incense smoulder:
So in the breeze I sin and purge.
Often, I lay tired on sands;
All sweat drops dried in the evening breeze;
All my spirit revived;
And fresh morrow waited.
Evening chants of diverse creeds:
All in breeze united.
Seraphic breeze pats on every head,
Still nobody sees it.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Romance
Of old, on her terrace at evening
...not here...in some long-gone kingdom
O, folded close to her breast!...
--our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness
(was it trees? or a shadowy passion
the pain of an old-world longing
that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?)
--the gloom of the forest
blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies
that shut in our lonely world.
...not here...in some long-gone world...
close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp
no word did we utter, we stirr'd not:
the silence of Death, or of Love...
only, round and over us
that tearless infinite yearning
and the Night with her spread wings rustling
folding us with the stars.
...not here...in some long-gone kingdom
of old, on her terrace at evening
O, folded close to her heart!...
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Of old, on her terrace at evening
Of old, on her terrace at evening
— not here — in some long-gone kingdom
oh, folded close to her breast!
Our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness
(was it trees? or a shadowy passion
the pain of an old-world longing
that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?)
— the gloom of the forest
blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies
that shut in our lonely world.
Not here — in some long-gone world...
Close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp
no word did we utter, we stirr'd not:
the silence of Death, or of Love.
Only, round and over us,
that tearless infinite yearning,
and the Night with her spread wings rustling,
folding us with the stars.
Not here - in some long-gone kingdom
of old, on her terrace at evening,
oh, folded close to her heart!
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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One of the privileges of the great is to witness catastrophes from a terrace.
quote by Jean Giraudoux
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I see a slippery slope, my instinct is to build a terrace.
quote by John McCarthy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Images of their silence
Awake again with the new dawn on his morning
He rose with memories as mist from ice lakes
She would be solo, by their jasmine terrace
Hugging herself, their tender dreams guarded
He couldn't move, solo too in quondam roles
Of colors from choices and reasons forced faded
Lost now in this new dance, his destination lit
Limbo spaces for him, his rainbow bridges
Tears she laughs away from letters revealed
She waits for his footfalls sure as their sunrises
She is a true poem in his sculptor-hands, each time
And tears blind him too, as his chisel rings blue…
poem by Bindu Vijayan
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