The Cloud Messenger - Part 04
The slender young woman who is there would be the premier creation by the
Creator in the sphere of women, with fine teeth, lips like a ripe bimba fruit, a
slim waist, eyes like a startled gazelle’s, a deep navel, a gait slow on account
of the weight of her hips, and who is somewhat bowed down by her breasts.
You should know that she whose words are few, my second life, is like a
solitary female cakravaka duck when I, her mate, am far away. While these
weary days are passing, I think the girl whose longing is deep has taken on an
altered appearance, like a lotus blighted by frost.
Surely the face of my beloved, her eyes swollen from violent weeping, the
colour of her lower lip changed by the heat of her sighs, resting upon her
hand, partially hidden by the hanging locks of her hair, bears the miserable
appearance of the moon with its brightness obscured when pursued by you.
She will come at once into your sight, either engaged in pouring oblations, or
drawing from memory my portrait, but grown thin on account of separation,
or asking the sweet-voiced sarika bird in its cage, ‘I hope you remember the
master, O elegant one, for you are his favourite’;
Or having placed a lute on a dirty cloth on her lap, friend, wanting to sing a
song whose words are contrived to contain my name, and somehow plucking
the strings wet with tears, again and again she forgets the melody, even
though she composed it herself;
Or engaged in counting the remaining months set from the day of our
separation until the end by placing flowers on the ground at the threshold, or
enjoying acts of union that are preserved in her mind. These generally are the
diversions of women when separated from their husbands.
During the day, when she has distractions, separation will not torment her so
much. I fear that your friend will have greater suffering at night without
distraction. You who carry my message, positioned above the palace roof-top,
see the good woman at midnight, lying on the ground, sleepless, and cheer her
thoroughly.
Grown thin with anxiety, lying on one side on a bed of separation, resembling
the body of the moon on the eastern horizon when only one sixteenth part
remains, shedding hot tears, passing that night, lengthened by separation,
which spent in desired enjoyments in company with me would have passed in
an instant.
Covering with eyelashes heavy with tears on account of her sorrow, her eyes
which were raised to face the rays of the moon, which were cool with nectar
and which entered by way of the lattice, fall again on account of her previous
love, like a bed of land-lotuses on an overcast day, neither open nor closed.
She whose sighs that trouble her bud-like lower lip will surely be scattering
the locks of her hair hanging at her cheek, dishevelled after a simple bath,
thinking how enjoyment with me might arise even if only in a dream, yearning
for sleep, the opportunity for which is prevented by the affliction of tears;
She who is repeatedly pushing from the curve of her cheek with her hand
whose nails are unkempt, the single braid, plaited by me, stripped of its
garland, on the first day of our separation, which will be loosened by me when
I am free from sorrow at the expiry of the curse, and which is rough to the
touch, stiff, and hard.
That frail woman, supporting her tender body which he has laid repeatedly in
great suffering on a couch, will certainly cause even you to shed tears in the
form of fresh rain. Generally all tender-hearted beaing have a compassionate
disposition.
I know that the mind of your friend is filled with accumulated love for me. On
account of that I imagine her condition thus at our first separation. Even the
thought of my good fortune does not make me feel like talking. All that I have
said, brother, will be before your eyes before long.
I think of the eyes of that deer-eyed one, the sideways movements of which
are concealed by her hair, which are devoid of the glistening of collyrium,
which have forgotten the play of their eyebrows on account of abstinence
from sweet liqour, and whose upper eyelids tremble when you are near: these
eyes take on the semblance of the beauty of a blue lotus that is trembling with
the movement of a fish.
And her lovely thigh will tremble, being without the impressions of my
fingernails, caused to abandon it long-accustomed string of pearls by the
course of fate, used to the caresses of my hand at the end of our enjoyment,
and as pale as the stem of a beautiful plantain palm.
At that time, O cloud, if she is enjoying the sleep she has found, remaining
behind her, your thunder restrained, wait during the night-watch. Let not the
knot of her creeper-like arms in close embrace with me her beloved, somehow
found in a dream, fall from my neck at once.
Having woken her with a breeze cooled by your own water droplets, she will
be refreshed like the fresh clusters of buds of the malati. Your lightning held
within, being firm, begin to address her with words of thunder; she, the proud
on whose eyes are fixed on the window occupied by you:
‘O you who are not a widow, know me to be a cloud who is a dear friend of
your husband. With messages stored in my heart I have arrived at your side,
and with slow and friendly rumblings I urge along the road a multitude of
weary travellers who are eager to loosen the braids of their womenfolk.’
When this has been said, like Sita looking up at Hanuman, having beheld you
with her heart swollen with longing and having honoured you, she will listen
attentively to you further, O friend. For women, news of their beloved that
brought by a friend is little short of union.
O long-lived one, following my instructions and to bring credit to yourself,
address her thus: ‘Your partner who resides at the ashram on Ramagiri, who is
still alive though separated from you, inquires after your news, madam. This
is the very thing that is first asked by beings who may easily fall into
misfortune.
He whose path is blocked by an invidious command and is at a distance, by
means of these intentions, unites his body with yours, the emaciated with the
emaciated, the afflicted with the deeply afflicted, that which is wet with tears
with that which is tearful, that whose longing is ceaseless with that which is
longed for, that whose sighs are hot with that whose sighs are even more
numerous.
He who has become eager to say what is to be said in words in your ear, in the
presence of your female friends, with a desire to touch your face, he who is
beyond the range of your ears, unseen by your eyes, addresses these words
composed on account of his desire, through the agency of my mouth:
“I perceive your body in the priyangu vines, your glances in the eyes of the
startled deer, the beauty of your face in the moon, your hair in the peacock’s
feathers and the play of your eyebrows in the delicate ripples on the river, but
alas, your whole likeness is not to be found in a single thing, O passionate
one.
Having painted your likeness, with mineral colours on a rock, appearing angry
because of love, as soon as I wish to paint myself fallen at your feet, my
vision is clouded again and again with copious tears. Cruel fate does not
permit our union, even in this picture.
Watching me with my arms stretched up into the air for an ardent embrace
when you have somhow been found by me in a vision or in a dream, the local
deities repeatedly shed teardrops as big as pearls on the buds of the trees.
Those winds from the snowy mountains which having broken open the sepals
of the buds of the devadaru trees become fragrant with their milky sap and
which blow southwards—they are embraced by me, O virtuous one, with the
thought that your body might previously have been touched by them.
How can the night with its long watches by compressed into a moment? How
may a day become cooler in every season? Thus my mind, whose desires are
difficult to satisfy, is rendered without refuge by the deep and burning pangs
of separation from you, O one of trembling eyes.
Indeed, ever brooding, I maintain myself by means of myself alone.
Therefore, O beautiful one, you also should not fear. Whose happiness is
endless or whose suffering is complete? The condition of life rises and falls
like the felly of a wheel.
The the holder of the bow called Sharnga rises from his serpent bed, the
curse will end for me. Having closed your eyes, endure the remaining four
months. After that, we two will indulge our own various desires, increased by
separation, on nights lit by the full autumn moon.”
And he said further, “In the past you embraced my neck as we lay on our bed,
you called out something in your sleep and woke up. When I asked over and
over, you said to me with an inward smile, ‘I saw you in my dream enjoying
another girl, you cheat!’
Having ascertained from the telling of this account that I am well, do not be
suspicious of me on account of any rumour, O dark-eyed one. They say that
love somehow perishes during separation, but because there is no fulfilment,
the love for that which is desired with increasing desire, becomes a even more
ardent.”’
Having comforted her thus, your friens whose sorrow is great in her first
separation, return at once from the mountain whose peaks were cast up by the
bull of three-eyed one. Then you should prop up my life which flags like
kunda flowers in the morning with her words about her welfare, and an
account of her.
I hope, friend, that you are firmly resolved upon this friendly service for me. I
certainly do not regard your silences as indicating refusal. When requested
you also apportion rain to the cataka cuckoos in silence, for the response of
the virtuous to those who make a request is the performance of that which is
desired.
Having undertaken this favour for me who bears this request that is unworthy
of you, with thoughts of compassion for me, either out of friendship or
because you think that I am alone, proceed to your desired destination, O
cloud, your splendour enhanced by rainy season, and may you never be
separated like this even for a moment from your spouse, the lightning.
Related quotes
The Cloud Messenger - Part 01
A certain yaksha who had been negligent in the execution of his own duties,
on account of a curse from his master which was to be endured for a year and
which was onerous as it separated him from his beloved, made his residence
among the hermitages of Ramagiri, whose waters were blessed by the bathing
of the daughter of Janaka1 and whose shade trees grew in profusion.
That lover, separated from his beloved, whose gold armlet had slipped from
his bare forearm, having dwelt on that mountain for some months, on the first
day of the month of Asadha, saw a cloud embracing the summit, which
resembled a mature elephant playfully butting a bank.
Managing with difficulty to stand up in front of that cloud which was the
cause of the renewal of his enthusiasm, that attendant of the king of kings,
pondered while holding back his tears. Even the mind of a happy person is
excited at the sight of a cloud. How much more so, when the one who longs to
cling to his neck is far away?
As the month of Nabhas was close at hand, having as his goal the sustaining
of the life of his beloved and wishing to cause the tidings of his own welfare
to be carried by the cloud, the delighted being spoke kind words of welcome
to the cloud to which offerings of fresh kutaja flowers had been made.
Owing to his impatience, not considering the imcompatibility between a cloud
consisting of vapour, light, water and wind and the contents of his message
best delivered by a person of normal faculties, the yaksha made this request to
the cloud, for among sentient and non-sentient things, those afflicted by desire
are naturally miserable:
Without doubt, your path unimpeded, you will see your brother’s wife, intent
on counting the days, faithful and living on. The bond of hope generally
sustains the quickly sinking hearts of women who are alone, and which wilt
like flowers.
Just as the favourable wind drives you slowly onward, this cataka cuckoo,
your kinsman, calls sweetly on the left. Knowing the season for fertilisation,
cranes, like threaded garlands in the sky, lovely to the eye, will serve you.
Your steady passage observed by charming female siddhas who in trepidation
wonder ‘Has the summit been carried off the mountain by the wind?’, you
who are heading north, fly up into the sky from this place where the nicula
trees flourish, avoiding on the way the blows of the trunks of the elephants of
the four quarters of the sky.
This rainbow, resembling the intermingled sparkling of jewels, appears before
Mt Valmikagra, on account of which your dark body takes on a particular
loveliness, as did the body of Vishnu dressed as a cowherd with the peacock’s
feather of glistening lustre.
While being imbibed by the eyes of the country women who are ignorant of
the play of the eyebrows, who are tender in their affection, and who are
thinking ‘The result of the harvest depends on you’, having ascended to a
region whose fields are fragrant from recent ploughing, you should proceed a
little to the west. Your pace is swift. Go north once more.
Mt Amrakuta will carefully bear you upon its head—you whose showers
extinguished its forest fires and who are overcome by fatigue of the road.
Even a lowly being, remembering an earlier kind deed, does not turn its back
on a friend who has come for refuge; how much less, then, one so lofty?
When you, remembling a glossy braid of hair, have ascended its summit, the
mountain whose slopes are covered with forest mangoes, glowing with ripe
fruit, takes on the appearance of a breast of the earth, dark at the centre, the
rest pale, worthy to be beheld by a divine couple.
Having rested for a moment at a bower enjoyed by the forest-dwelling
women, then travelling more swiftly when your waters have been discharged,
the next stage thence is crossed. You will see the river Reva spread at the foot
of Mt Vandhya, made rough with rocks and resembling the pattern formed by
the broken wrinkles on the body of an elephant.
Your showers shed, having partaken of her waters that are scented with the
fragrant exudation of forest elephants and whose flow is impeded by thickets
of rose-apples, you should proceed. Filled with water, the wind will be unable
to lift you, O cloud, for all this is empty is light, while fullness results in
heaviness.
Seeing the yellow-brown nipa with their stamens half erect, eating the kankali
flowers whose first buds have appeared on every bank, and smelling the
highly fragrant scent of the forest earth, the deer will indicate the way to the
cloud.
Watching the cataka cuckoos that are skilled in catching raindrops, and
watching the herons flying in skeins as they count them, the siddhas will hold
you in high regard at the moment of your thundering, having received the
trembling, agitated embraced of their beloved female companions!
I perceive in an instant, friend, your delays on mountain after mountain
scented with kakubha flowers—you who should desire to proceed for the sake
of my beloved. Welcomed by peacocks with teary eyes who have turned their
cries into words of welcome, you should somehow resolve to proceed at once.
Reaching their capital by the name of Vidisha, renowned in all quarters, and
having won at once complete satisfaction of your desires, you will drink the
sweet, rippling water from the Vetravati River which roars pleasantly at the
edge of her banks, rippling as if her face bore a frown.
There, for the sake of rest, your should occupy the mountain known as Nicaih
which seems to thrill at your touch with its full-blown kadamba flowers, and
whose grottoes make known the unbridled youthful deeds of the townsmen by
emitting the scent of intercourse with bought women.
After resting, move on while watering with fresh raindrops the clusters of
jasmine buds that grow in gardens on the banks of the forest rivers—you who
have made a momentary acquaintance with the flower-picking girls by lending
shade to their faces, the lotuses at whose ears are withered and broken as they
wipe away the perspiration from their cheeks.
Even though the route would be circuitous for one who, like you, is
northward-bound, do not turn your back on the love on the palace roofs in
Ujjayini. If you do not enjoy the eyes with flickering eyelids of the women
startled by bolts of lightning there, then you have been deceived!
On the way, after you have ascended to the Nirvandhya River, whose girdles
are flocks of birds calling on account of the turbulence of her waves, whose
gliding motion is rendered delightful with stumbling steps, and whose
exposed navel is her eddies, fill yourself with water, for amorous distraction
is a woman’s first expression of love for their beloved.
When you have passed that, you should duly adopt the means by which the
Sindhu River may cast off her emaciation—she whose waters have become
like a single braid of hair, whose complexion is made pale by the old leaves
falling from the trees on her banks, and who shows you goodwill because she
has been separated from you, O fortunate one.
Having reached Avanti where the village elders are well-versed in the legend
of Udayana, make your way to the aforementioned city of Vishala, filled with
splendour, like a beautiful piece of heaven carried there by means of the
remaining merit of gods who had fallen to earth when the fruits of the good
actions had nearly expired;
Where, at daybreak, the breeze from the Shipra River, carrying abroad the
sweet, clear, impassioned cries of the geese, fragrant from contact with the
scent of full-blown lotuses and pleasing to the body, carries off the lassitude
of the women after their love-play, like a lover making entreaties for further
enjoyment.
And having see by the tens of millions the strings of pearls with shining gems
as their central stones, conches, pearl-shells, emeralds as green as fresh grass
with radiating brilliance and pieces of coral displayed in the market there, the
oceans appear to contain nothing but water;
And where the knowledgeable populace regale visiting relatives thus: ‘Here
the king of the Vatsa brought the precious daughter of Pradyota. Here was the
golden grove of tala-trees of that same monarch. Here, they say, roamed
Nalagiri (the elephant), having pulled out his tie-post in fury.’
Your bulk increased by the incense that is used for perfuming the hair that
issues from the lattices, and honoured with gifts of dance by the domestic
peacocks out of their love for their friend, lay aside the weariness of the
travel while admiring the splendour of its palaces which are scented with
flowers and marked by the hennaed feet of the lovely women.
Observed respectfully by divine retinues who are reminded of the colour of
their master’s throat, you should proceed to the holy abode of the lord of the
three worlds, husband of Chandi, whose gardens are caressed by the winds
from the Gandhavati River, scented with the pollen of the blue lotuses and
perfumed by the bath-oils used by young women who delight in water-play.
Even if you arrive at Mahakala at some other time, O cloud, you should wait
until the sun passes from the range of the eye. Playing the honourable role of
drum at the evening offering to Shiva, you will receive the full reward for
your deep thunder.
There, their girdles jingling to their footsteps, and their hands tired from the
pretty waving of fly-whisks whose handles are brilliant with the sparkle of
jewels, having received from you raindrops at the onset of the rainy season
that soothe the scratches made by fingernails, the courtesans cast you
lingering sidelong glances that resemble rows of honey-bees.
Then, settled above the forests whose trees are like uplifted arms, being round
in shape, producing an evening light, red as a fresh China-rose, at the start of
Shiva’s dance, remove his desire for a fresh elephant skin—you whose
devotion is beheld by Parvati, her agitation stilled and her gaze transfixed.
Reveal the ground with a bolt of lightning that shines like a streak of gold
on a touchstone to the young women in that vicinity going by night to the homes of
their lovers along the royal highroad which has been robbed of light by a
darkness that could be pricked with a needle. Withhold your showers of rain
and rumbling thunder: they would be frightened!
Passing that night above the roof-top of a certain house where pigeons sleep,
you, whose consort the lightning is tired by prolonged sport, should complete
the rest of your journey when the sun reappears. Indeed, those who have
promised to accomplish a task for a friend do not tarry.
At that time, the tears of the wronged wives are to be soothed away by their
husbands. Therefore abandon at once the path of the sun. He too has returned
to remove the tears of dew from the lotus-faces of the lilies. If you obstruct
his rays, he may become greatly incensed.
Separation
How does one define separation?
What does one mean by separation?
Is it when breath is severed from the body?
Is it when the court of law declares 'divorced? '
How many separations come as blows!
How many, pass by silently!
How many separations we live with
And how many more do we contain!
Don't some come as relief too?
Tell me, my friend
Why do we always think of separation as external?
How many of us aren't really separated from our self?
Tell me, can you define separation for me?
20 May 2011
20.09hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Cloud Messenger - Part 03
Where the palaces are worthy of comparison to you in these various aspects:
you possess lightning, they have lovely women; you have a rainbow, they are
furnished with pictures; they have music provided by resounding drums, you
produce deep, gentle rumbling; you have water within, they have floors made
of gemstones; you are lofty, their rooftops touch the sky;
Where there are decorative lotuses in the hands of the young wives; fresh
jasmine woven into their hair; where the beauty of their faces is made whiter
by the pollen of lodhra flowers; in the thick locks on their crowns are fresh
kurubaka flowers; on their ears charming shirisa flowers; and on the parting
of their hair, nipa flowers that bloom on your arrival;
Where the trees, humming with intoxicated bees, are always in flower; the lily
pools, having rows of wild geese as waistbands, always produce lotuses;
where the tails of the tame peacocks, their necks upstretched to cry out, are
always resplendent; and where the evenings are perpetually moonlit and
pleasant, and darkness has been banished;
Where the tears of the lords of wealth are of utmost joy, having no other
cause, there being no suffering other than that caused by the flower-arrowed
god which is to be assuaged by union with the desired one; where there is
separation other than that arising from lovers’ quarrels; and where there is
indeed no age other than youth;
Where yakshas, having assembled on the upper terraces of the palace, made of
crystal, accompanied by their excellent womenfolk, enjoy ratiphalam wine
produced by a wish-fulfilling tree, while drums whose sound resembles your
deep thunder are beaten softly;
Where the girls fanned by breezes cooled by the waters of the Mandakini
river, the heat dispelled by the shade of the mandara trees that grow on its
banks, are urges by the gods to play with jewels hidden by burying them with
clenched fists in the golden sands and which are to be searched for;
Where the handfuls of powder flung by those red-lipped women bewildered
by shame when their lovers passionately pull away their linen garments, the
ties of which have been loosened and undone by restless hands, although they
reach the long-rayed jewel-lamps, they fail to extinguish them;
Where ragged clouds, like yourself, brought to the upper stories of the palaces
by the leader of the wind, having committed the misdeed of shedding
raindrops on a painting, cleverly imitating puffs of smoke, flee immediately
by way of the lattices as if filled with dread;
Where at night the moonstones, hanging from a web of threads and shedding
full drops of water under the influence of moonbeams bright since the removal
of your obstruction, dispel the physical langour after sexual enjoyment on the
part of the women who are freed from the embraces of their lovers’ arms;
Where lovers, with inexhaustible treasure their residences, together with the
kinnaras who sing with sweet voices of the glory of the lord of wealth,
accompanied by celestial courtesans, engage in conversation and enjoy
everyday the outer grove known as Vaibhraja;
Where at sunrise the route taken by women the previous night is indicated by
mandara flowers with torn petals that were shaken from their hair by the
movement of their walking, by the golden lotuses that slipped from behind
their ears, and by necklaces of strings of pearls the threads of which broke
upon their breasts;
Where a single wish-fulfilling tree produces every adornment for women:
coloured garments, wine which is suitable for introducing an amorous
playfulness to the eyes, flowers together with buds which are distinctive
among ornaments, and red lac dye suitable for application to their lotus-like
feet;
Where horses, as dark as leaves, rival the steeds of the sun; where elephants,
as tall as mountains, pour forth showers, like you, from the pores of their
temples; and where the foremost warriors stood in battle against the ten-faced
one, the splendour of their ornmanets surpassed by the scars of the wounds
from Candrahasa;
Where the god of love does not generally carry his bow strung with bees,
knowing that the god who is the friend of the lord of wealth dwells there in
person: his task is accomplished by the amorous play of talented women
whose glances are cast by means of curved eyebrows and which are not in
vain among the objects of their desire.
There, to the north of the residence of the lord of wealth, our home is to be
recognised from afar by an arched portal as lovely as a rainbow, near which a
young mandara tree, caused to bow down by bunches of flowers that may be
touched by the hand, is cherished by my beloved like an adopted son.
And within is a pool the steps of which are studded with emerald stone, filled
with flowering golden lotuses whose stalks are of smooth chrysoberyl. On its
waters the geese that have take up residence there do not think of Lake Manas
close at hand, and are free from sorrow, having seen you.
On its bank there is a pleasure hill whose summit is studded with fine
sapphires, beautiful to behold with a hedge of golden plantain trees. Having
seen you, O friend, with flashing lightning, near at hand, I recall that mountain
with a despondent mind, thinking, ‘It is enjoyed by my spouse’.
Here is a red ashoka with trembling buds and a charming kesara near a hedge
of kurubaka and a bower of madhavi. One desires (as I do) the touch of your
friend’s left foot. The other longs for a mouthful of wine from her, having as
its pretext a craving.
And between these is a golden perch with a crystal base, studded at its foot
with gems that shine like half-grown bamboo, on which rests your friend the
blue-necked one, who, at the day’s end, is caused to dance by my beloved
with claps of her hands, made pleasant by the jingling of her bracelets.
Having seen the figures of Shanka and Padma painted near the door, by
these signs preserved in yout heart, O noble one, you may distinguish the
residence, now reduced in beauty because of my absence. Indeed, at the
setting of the sun, even the lotus does not display its own splendour.
Having shrunk at once to the size of a small elephant for the sake of a swift
descent, resting on the pleasure mountain with lovely peaks that I have
mentioned, please cast your gaze in the form of a flickering bolt of faint
lightning upon the interior of the house, like the glow of a swarm of fire-flies.
Two bright eyes
Bare eyes shine in night,
look so powerful and bright
Keep staring but not made known,
Seem they are made for my own
Say not words but also not hide,
just smile broad with eyes wide,
convey deep feelings with no regret,
bright and shining eyes speak not yet,
why close eyes alone?
and face not covered,
So eyes when shut,
face may reveal,
You close the eyes,
life come to an end,
glitter and shine,
smile peters out,
find me so close even not near,
distance more but mind fear,
eyes shut but separation bear,
Near to come is idea to cheer,
You may say you are around, ,
even go round but not found
with steps so gentle on ground,
little it heard with no sound,
Oh, two eyes,
just face unveil,
lower it down to neck,
Find me there just to check,
Eyes may shine,
face may reveal,
wounds may heal,
love may look real,
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Two poems about separation, different themes
The separation
I put the money in a bucket,
lowered it down to him
taking care that the notes
didn't fly off.
He made a grab for the pail,
clutched it greedily
as he'd once held me
and walked away, grinning.
A bucket load of money
was all he'd ever wanted,
and now, at last,
he was sated.
Separation came as a friend
and though I'm left poorer
I feel as rich as a King
and better for it.
The Separation
I can't put into words,
can't express,
the anxiety,
sadness,
worry
it caused me.
I can't tell you how I cried,
how my stomach hurt,
how I stressed
and fretted
and then ___
I saw you.
You'd lost weight,
you were a shadow,
of your former self,
your eyes were sunken in
you were grief stricken and
you reached for my hand.
We walked, together,
through the emptiness
and somehow
the separation,
the loneliness
had been a transition
mending the rift between us.
poem by Ruth Walters
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A Never Ending Kind Of Intimate Thing
Your white body lies like a continent
with breasts as hillocks, slender thighs
and the valleys somewhere in between
while tiny shadows fall in the afternoon.
I bury myself with great pleasure in you,
feel the warmth of your blazing volcano,
reach up to the centre core of my existence
and each and every glance in your bright eyes
draws me deeper, draws us still closer together
and the lost of self, where nature flees from me
there is a tender kind of peace at twilight
while we love each other past all feelings.
There is peace in the separation that comes later,
the separation of skin, of thighs of genitalia
but still your gaze were burning into my very soul
and I love you; love every part of your body,
with the smell of love like fresh rain around us
rising from the rose of your tender hot pubis,
with nipples still somewhat hardened aroused
on your soft firm breast that are fragile to touch.
Boundless desire flames again and again,
while your beauty bringing sheer joy,
bringing a kind of very deep tranquillity,
as if the thirst, the yearning for each other
is a never ending kind of intimate thing,
that always exists, with a kind of grace,
that has an infinite kind of ache for fulfilment
a kind of indescribable joy that comes with bliss.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Laughter and Tears IX
As the Sun withdrew his rays from the garden, and the moon threw cushioned beams upon the flowers, I sat under the trees pondering upon the phenomena of the atmosphere, looking through the branches at the strewn stars which glittered like chips of silver upon a blue carpet; and I could hear from a distance the agitated murmur of the rivulet singing its way briskly into the valley.
When the birds took shelter among the boughs, and the flowers folded their petals, and tremendous silence descended, I heard a rustle of feet though the grass. I took heed and saw a young couple approaching my arbor. The say under a tree where I could see them without being seen.
After he looked about in every direction, I heard the young man saying, "Sit by me, my beloved, and listen to my heart; smile, for your happiness is a symbol of our future; be merry, for the sparkling days rejoice with us.
"My soul is warning me of the doubt in your heart, for doubt in love is a sin. "Soon you will be the owner of this vast land, lighted by this beautiful moon; soon you will be the mistress of my palace, and all the servants and maids will obey your commands.
"Smile, my beloved, like the gold smiles from my father's coffers.
"My heart refuses to deny you its secret. Twelve months of comfort and travel await us; for a year we will spend my father's gold at the blue lakes of Switzerland, and viewing the edifices of Italy and Egypt, and resting under the Holy Cedars of Lebanon; you will meet the princesses who will envy you for your jewels and clothes.
"All these things I will do for you; will you be satisfied?"
In a little while I saw them walking and stepping on flowers as the rich step upon the hearts of the poor. As they disappeared from my sight, I commenced to make comparison between love and money, and to analyze their position in the heart.
Money! The source of insincere love; the spring of false light and fortune; the well of poisoned water; the desperation of old age!
I was still wandering in the vast desert of contemplation when a forlorn and specter-like couple passed by me and sat on the grass; a young man and a young woman who had left their farming shacks in the nearby fields for this cool and solitary place.
After a few moments of complete silence, I heard the following words uttered with sighs from weather-bitten lips, "Shed not tears, my beloved; love that opens our eyes and enslaves our hearts can give us the blessing of patience. Be consoled in our delay our delay, for we have taken an oath and entered Love's shrine; for our love will ever grow in adversity; for it is in Love's name that we are suffering the obstacles of poverty and the sharpness of misery and the emptiness of separation. I shall attack these hardships until I triumph and place in your hands a strength that will help over all things to complete the journey of life.
"Love - which is God - will consider our sighs and tears as incense burned at His altar and He will reward us with fortitude. Good-bye, my beloved; I must leave before the heartening moon vanishes."
A pure voice, combined of the consuming flame of love, and the hopeless bitterness of longing and the resolved sweetness of patience, said, "Good-bye, my beloved."
They separated, and the elegy to their union was smothered by the wails of my crying heart.
I looked upon slumbering Nature, and with deep reflection discovered the reality of a vast and infinite thing -- something no power could demand, influence acquire, nor riches purchase. Nor could it be effaced by the tears of time or deadened by sorrow; a thing which cannot be discovered by the blue lakes of Switzerland or the beautiful edifices of Italy.
It is something that gathers strength with patience, grows despite obstacles, warms in winter, flourishes in spring, casts a breeze in summer, and bears fruit in autumn -- I found Love.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Think twice
Love grows thicker
Whether or not together
Are she and he,
As long as
Each longs for the other.
Separation is not the end
If inspiration lasts till the end.
A neem coated capsule.
Once the longing is gone
And he is out thrown
Separation is the end.
Desperation stays till the end.
A sweet coated venom.
For her, if he is
A hair cut off,
An unwanted one,
The hair leaves
Its life and its pain too.
She is no more
To him, nor any more.
Separation is a thrill
If the love persists.
21.09.99
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Dreaming Of Li Bai (1)
Separation by death must finally be choked down,
but separation in life is a long anguish,
Chiang-nan is a pestilential land;
no word from you there in exile.
You have been in my dreams, old friend,
as if knowing how much I miss you.
Caught in a net,
how is it you still have wings?
I fear you are no longer mortal;
the distance to here is enormous.
When your spirit came, the maples were green;
when it went, the passes were black.
The setting moon spills light on the rafters;
for a moment I think it's your face.
The waters are deep, the waves wide;
don't let the river gods take you.
Dreaming of Li Po
After the separation of death one can eventually swallow back one's grief, but
the separation of the living is an endless, unappeasable anxiety. From
pestilent Chiang-nan no news arrives of the poor exile. That my old friend
should come into my dream shows how constantly he is in my thoughts. I fear
that this is not the soul of a living man: the journey is so immeasurably far.
When your soul left, the maple woods were green: on its return the passes were
black with night. Lying now enmeshed in the net of the law, how did you find
wings with which to fly here? The light of the sinking moon illumines every
beam and rafter of my chamber, and I half expect it to light up your face. The
water is deep, the waves are wide: don't let the water-dragons get you.
All day long the floating clouds drift by, and still the wanderer has not
arrived! For three nights running I have repeatedly dreamed of you. Such
affectionate concern on your part shows your feelings for me! Each time you
said goodbye you seemed so uneasy. `It isn't easy to come', you would say
bitterly; `The waters are so rough. I am afriad the boat will capsize!' Going
out of my door you scratched your white head as if your whole life's ambition
had been frustrated.
The Capital is full of new officials, yet a man like this is so wretched!
Who is going to tell me that the `net is wide' when this ageing man
remains in difficulties? Imperishable renown is cold comfort when you can only
enjoy it in the tomb!
Ch 05 On Love And Youth Story 18
A man in patched garments’ accompanied us in a caravan to the Hejaz and one of the Arab amirs presented him with a hundred dinars to spend upon his family but robbers of the Kufatcha tribe suddenly fell upon the caravan and robbed it clean of everything. The merchants began to wail and to cry, uttering vain shouts and amentations.
Whether thou implorest or complainest
The robber will not return the gold again.
The dervish alone had not lost his equanimity and showed no change. I asked: ‘Perhaps they have not taken thy money?’ He replied: ‘Yes, they have but I was not so much accustomed to that money that separation therefrom could grieve my heart’:
The heart must not be tied to any thing or person
Because to take off the heart is a difficult affair.
I replied: ‘What thou hast said resembles my case because, when I was young, my intimacy with a young man and my friendship for him were such that his beauty was the Qiblah of my eye and the chief joy of my life union with him’:
Perhaps an angel in heaven but no mortal
Can be on earth equal in beauty of form to him.
I swear by the amity, after which companionship is illicit,
No human sperm will ever become a man like him.
All of a sudden the foot of his life sank into the mire of non-existence. The smoke of separation arose from his family. I kept him company on his grave for many days and one of my compositions on his loss is as follows:
Would that on the day when the thorn of fate entered thy foot
The hand of heaven had struck a sword on my head;
So that this day my eye could not see the world without thee.
Here I am on thy grave, would that it were over my head.
He who could take neither rest nor sleep
Before he had first scattered roses and narcissi.
The turns of heaven have strewn the roses of his face.
Thorns and brambles are growing on his tomb.
After separation from him I resolved and firmly determined to fold up the carpet of pleasure during the rest of my life and to retire from mixing in society:
Last night I strutted about like a peacock in the garden of union
But today, through separation from my friend, I twist my head like a snake.
The profit of the sea would be good if there were no fear of waves.
The company of the rose would be sweet if there were no pain from thorns.
My Eyes
Don’t look into my eyes, my love
For they would reveal to you…
How much they’ve waited for you
Waking every night
And crying every day
For years together
And decades of
Thirsting for you
In their every expression
Of silent words they say…
Don’t look into my eyes, my love
For they would tell you,
How they felt tired and lost
In their diurnal crusade
Of looking at the empty streets
Ahead
And hoping to see a glimpse,
A speck of that fleeting image
Of you and you and only you.
Don’t look into my eyes, my love
For they would overflow with tears,
The moment they see their Beloved
In you
And they would narrate to you
In all Silence
How very much they missed
Seeing you…
When they opened
Their eyes every morning
After every night’s trial and error
Of falling asleep…
And then waking up
In the middle of the night
As if petrified of terror
Those broken dreams would cause
When they have to lose you
From their tranquil sleep to
The harsh, desolate reality
Of you not being there
For them.
Don’t look into my eyes, my love
For they have nothing good to tell you,
Besides the pain and the agony
Of a lifetime separation
They have undergone,
Missing you,
Needing you,
And loving you like Crazy.
As if you and me
Were lost parts of a Body
And fragmented pieces
Of a shattered Soul
Trying to solve the Jigsaw
Of where to fit in the parts
Of existence, love and
Togetherness…
So that once if they meet,
They don’t fall into pieces again
And scatter away
Like the withered leaves
Of the autumn trees
Missing each other
Unto eternity
And searching each other
Unto oblivion.
Don’t look into my eyes, my love
For if you ever look into them,
Make them yours forever...
So that wherever they go,
Whatever they seek
Whoever they see…
The roads don’t look empty
Any more
Even amidst the crowd
Of teeming strangers
For no matter who is there
On the streets
At home
In the market
Or the library
My eyes would rest awhile
Seek respite,
In the Assurance
Of the Sight
That You being there for them
To kiss a good night’s
“sweet dreams”
At the end of their
Daily sojourn
Of meeting people
Reading books
And writing poetry…
Like the way
I am writing to you now
With those very same eyes
That await you everyday, my love
In their dreams, desires
And those very Silent -
Endless flow of
Ceaseless tears…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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The Virgin Man
My Love,
Today when you told me
That “something”
Happened to you
As I sat close to you
Whenever you were there
With me
And I with You.
Trust Me –
I don’t even remember
On how many such occasions
That “something” happened to you
When and where…
What day, and what place.
Yet I do remember
That very lovely smile
On your handsome face
Those twinkling eyes of yours
And the way you used to
Scribble your head
With those seductive
Fingers of yours…
Setting your hair straight
Combing your fingers through
And my Love,
Today when you confessed
About those “very difficult” times
When you felt it so hard
To stop yourself
From falling all over me…
I felt wonderful!
Being desired by you
For I’ve always desired you
Psychologically, emotionally
And physically -
Like a woman would desire
The man of her life
To whom she wants to be a
Life-long wife.
Once and for all,
If we could turn the clock back
And those moments of desire
Would come to us again
I wish you were not so
Hesitant
And neither was I
So very coy.
I wish you could come
Falling for me…
Seeking me
With love and passion.
And I would have had
Demurely, Blushingly
Yet so very truly
Given in to you
With my true emotions
That are still
Very much there...
For you, and you and you
After all these years
Of living in separation.
Call it the Game of Time
Or Destiny
May be a lot to do
With God’s Decree.
That when I felt for you
And You felt for me
I kept quite and
So did you.
If that one last time
Whenever it was -
Out of all the times
You had desired me
When I sat next to you
Talking all and sundry.
That one very moment
You could have let it out
And I could have had
The Guts
To say it all out -
How very much
I truly loved you
Deeply desired you
And even do
Till this very day.
That one moment in time
Ripe in passion and in love
Would have changed
Our destinies forever…
And I would have asked you
To marry me, to make me yours
I would have faced the world for you
If only you would have been mine.
Yes – That moment in time
Lost to posterity
Still has its fleeting glimpses
In us
In the memories we share
For we know
However much we care
For each other.
Now – You are no longer
That Virgin Man
And I am no more that
Virgin Woman
To offer our
Virgin love and passion
To each other.
You and me
Busy with our families
Being married elsewhere
Now seek comfort
And respite
In the memories of days gone by…
And some consolation
That there is a relationship
We hope to cherish
Till death makes us part
That is our long-distance
Time-tied, life-long
Friendship.
And what more can we do
As we always do…
Than me write a poem
And you read it through
Of a once Virgin Man
Who had feelings for
A once Virgin Woman.
Yet so blissfully unaware
That he was the Man
The Love of her Life
Whom she would have loved
To beget sons and daughters
As his very beloved wife.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Exile
By the sad waters of separation
Where we have wandered by divers ways,
I have but the shadow and imitation
Of the old memorial days.
In music I have no consolation,
No roses are pale enough for me;
The sound of the waters of separation
Surpasseth roses and melody.
By the sad waters of separation
Dimly I hear from an hidden place
The sigh of mine ancient adoration:
Hardly can I remember your face.
If you be dead, no proclamation
Sprang to me over the waste, gray sea:
Living, the waters of separation
Sever for ever your soul from me.
No man knoweth our desolation;
Memory pales of the old delight;
While the sad waters of separation
Bear us on to the ultimate night.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Lonely Tear
I close my eyes and you are there
As you stand in front of me
I reach out my hand to hold you
As you have set my soul and mind free
You then give me a smile and then a kiss
And now my heart and soul is on fire
I tremble and shake with thoughts only of you
My heart is full of want and your desire.
You then close your eyes and walk towards me
We then kiss with both passion and need
You gave me what I want I gave you what you have
To each other our passions we will feed.
You then step away to show me who you are
I ravish you with my hands and eyes
I then caress your breasts and touch your lips
Once again I am a man deep inside.
You turn around just one more time
To prove to me that your the woman for me
I take a deep breath it explodes in my soul
My soul and mind of all other women is free.
You take me by the hand and lead me to our bed
We lay down together with you at my side
Your head is on my chest and my hands in your hair
My passion for you for this night I will not hide.
You then make me a man I can barely stand
I look at you as you are covered with silk and lace
We then kiss again you’re my lover and friend
As I can see the pleasure upon your face.
I open my eyes and now you are gone
And sadly it was a dream you are no longer here
I now forget the passion and the words I had spoke
Now I walk away alone, with one lonely tear.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The World is a Playground
I perceive the world as a playground
Where dawn and dusk appear in eternal rounds
In His Universal form is a plaything the throne of Solomon
The miracles of the Messiah seem so ordinary in my eyes
Without name I cannot comprehend any form
Illusionary but is the identity of all objects
My anguish envelopes the entire desert
Silently flows the river in front of my floods
Ask not what separation has done to me
Just see your poise when I come in front of you
Truly you say that I am egotistical and proud
It is the reflection, O friend, in your limited mirror
To appreciate the style and charm of conversation
Just bring in the goblet and wine
Hatred manifests due to my envious mind
Thus I say, don't take his name in front of me
Faith stops me while temptations attract
Inspite of Kaaba behind and church ahead
I am the Lover, yet notorious is my charm
Thus Laila calls names to Majnu in front of me
'Dies' not one though the union is a delight
In premonition of the separation night
Alas, this be it, the bloody separation wave
I know not what else is in store ahead of me
Though the hands don't move, the eyes are alive
Wine and goblet, let them stay in front of me
Says 'Ghalib'
Conscience is companion and trusted friend
Don't pass any judgments in front of me.
poem by Mirza Ghalib
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How much love is lost tonight?
From morning to till night,
How many love is lost?
How many guns are shot?
How much tears is wasted?
How many men are amputated?
How many sleep without love and care?
How many wait with wet eyes for dear and near?
None dares to count the amount
No body keeps the true account.
How many spend life without shed above?
Here is a hand spread with care and love.
Don't lose faith and sigh in sorrow,
Believe me the sun will rise again tomorrow.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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I want to go to you
I want to go to you
while thunderclouds hang grey and black
against the heaven
and catch you
as the sparkle in my life.
I want to direct
my simple words to you
while the light hides
beyond that which brings separation
and I want to get you
as the one
that frees me from all despair.
On no account
I had the desire before
to come with every thing that I am
and to purify it
with the love that you give
and really to know
that we are one
as human, as soul, as spirit.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Me And The Night Moon
since i was achild i was looking for the sky and see the moon in the night and asking my self what is this?
and when i was in my youth and my heart started to be mature i was asking why lovers always speak about the moon?
but suddenly i met her
suddenly i loved her
and suddenly i forgot sleeping
and suddenly i got why the lovers look to the sky and look to the moon
but the new something in my story that iam speaking to the sky moon
like now iam waitting him ooooooh its here
me: -goodevening my friend
the moon: -good evening mr lover
me: -i miss you too much
the moon: -me two my friend
me: -why you came too late tonight?
the moon: - i was there caring about your woman
me: -oooooooooh really you saw her?
the moon: -sure i know that you are waitting me to bring news
me: - very good my moon then tell me haw is she?
the moom: - she is sad beacuse you are far away
me: - oooooooh my babe then what else?
the moon: - her eyes is wandering looking for you
me: - god ill cry my little bird is sad now
the moon: -i can tell her any message if you want it
me: - really my friend i need you help
the moon: - its ok what do you want to tell her?
me: - tell her that he cant sleep he is scared to sleep and you are there
alone tell her that i wish to touch her hair now and talk to her till the morning and ill love her till ill die
the moon: - ooooooooh you love her?
me: -as much as u can immagine more than any thing and more than my life
the moon: - ok ok my friend i told her and she said! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
me: - what what what what? what she said pleaze pleaze tell me
the moon: - she said i was waitting you mr moon to bring me this message to know that my sweet heart is thinking about me now i can sleep with more comfort please kiss him for me
me: - wow she is kissing me?
the moon: - she is giving you melions and melions of kisses but oooooooooh
me: - what is the matter my friend?
the moon; - another couples now waiiting me to transfere their messages
me: - so you are planning to leave me?
the moon: - i have to ill see ypu tomorrow as i help you iam helping also another lovers
me: - ok mr moon ill waite for you tomorrow with anew messages
the moon: - ok my friend see you soooooooon
me: - see you sooon my good friend and take care about my sweet heart be like an angel around her
poem by Ayman Ghamry
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Being very dear
I won’t step in anybody’s show and compare
I shall have to find the real place to go somewhere
Dreamland will not make me feel at home
Who else will be waiting for me to welcome?
I have my own land to live with and flow
Little thought of her brings on cheeks a fine glow
I don’t know how to take it as gift or blessings?
Certainly I shall think of it as place never missing
You were not far from being very dear
I can still feel the pulse of heart very near
It is pulsating slowly but with sensation I hear
Some unknown thought grip the mind and create fear
I have asked each and every leaf of tree about you
I was passionate and blind in love as it is very much true
Nothing appeals me much than those sweet words
They were none the less than have been spoken by lords
I have longed for the close company even this before
I had no courage to come forward and ask for
It would have been considered absurd and illogical
How could then it be proved as honest and logical?
You had hardly any spell of fragrance near by
Still I could smell it from distance without any try
The wind too took direction from you to steer the course
It was gentle blow and coming in with bit by bit force
What is so special in those moments to strike now?
I have no idea to dream of those and cope up to how?
I advance the hand and find you guiding me on clear way
It is drawing me closer but pushing slowly and gradually away
I knew about the separation but had not experienced
I had seen the birds making desperate noise and keenly glanced
It had never occurred in mind that such may be the unbearable separation
Even though it was thumping win for love with such fine elevation
I need ask moon to glow less and hide behind clouds
I too have no intention in asking clouds to make big sound
I want it to go as natural way and fall on ground like rain
At least earth may get little wind of it and feel no drain
I have nothing else to feel and miss
I can find you in fresh flowers and bliss
How does it matter if I watch them from the distance?
I will not look back to hear any steps at once
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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