Silent Forest
Today amid the thick forest,
I am here again on the high mound,
The central seat to administer
The cattle left loose around.
It is the same peak where we all
In the days of my childhood sat,
The reverend shepherds rested
Gossiped about the olden times
Narrated they life long experience,
And some twisted the fibers of jute
On the rotators to make cots.
Different noises of life gurgled
From all sides around,
The goats bleated, the hounds barked,
The sheep moved lazily after being fed,
The camels ate tassels of the trees
The donkeys brayed at the noon,
The bulls fought entangling horns,
The birds chirped in the shadowy branches.
Here are the patches where the old women
Of the village came to scythe grass green,
I see my mother too, carrying the stuffed sack,
Going back to home in the long queue.
At noon the damsels or the elderly ladies
Of the village brought our lunch
With pickle, or onions or sugar
Home baked bread smeared with butter,
And milk in the earthen pots.
We all excitedly waited for the moment,
Then gentle winds made us all sleepy,
We slept sweet sleep on the bare ground,
While the cattle sat, rested and chewed.
When evening encroached, we measured
The stretched shadows with our feet
To know the time of return,
And we moved exhausted to homes
Behind the trails of surfeited lazy cattle.
Ah! It is the same old forest
That often makes me nostalgic,
Melancholic memories begin to assemble
Forcing the tears to dropp into dust.
Sounds of life come from neither side,
The trees stood dressless like ghosts,
Or like bony skeletons that haunt in dreams,
As if flesh of nature has been eaten away
By the callous scavenger modernity.
Now I being engrossed in the pensive mood
Hear nothing but the dirge of doleful silence
While air passes through stiff dry grass.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Related quotes
Progress
The folk of my village
Have progressed,
They have made the houses,
On the imported designs,
Much more sophisticated
Than the older ones,
Made of mud and stones,
With very low walls,
Over which the neighbourers
Could pass the saucers
To share the meal.
Now motors hum
Through the streets
Where voices of animals
Goats and sheep
Cows, Bulls and buffalos,
Milk being churned were heard.
Men and women have changed
But the seasons come and go,
On the previous modes,
Spring and Monsoon sojourn
On the meadows
Fragrant grass grow,
Wild trees blossom, dew falls
And rains pour down
To give them wash,
And they sway in the sun
When the wind blows,
But no animal is seen
To graze the green objects,
No shepherd moves around,
With a rotator to twist strands,
Of fiber into the double cord
Spun to weave the cots.
Older women are not seen
With the mowers or scythes,
Or going to the homes, at noon
Bending backs with loads
Of stuffed sacks of green grass,
To feed the awaiting stock at home,
In consequence the nation drinks,
Milk of chemical contents.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Long Queues
In the sweltering days of June,
When wells around the village,
Went dry and life became hard,
Men and stock moved desperate,
Animals gasped with hanging tongues,
The sunbeams singed trees and lands,
Our sisters, mothers and reverend ladies
Went with earthen pots on their heads,
To the far off founts in the steepy deeps,
And returned toiling up, out of breath,
On the stony ways, hard and pricking,
Many among them with bare sore feet,
Resting akimbo on each landing.
Still my mind recollects the long queue,
With the shadows of erected poised pitchers,
In gloam chattering with jingling laughters,
Returned to quench the dry throats,
But men and we the wanton youngs,
Consumed the cold substance lavishly,
Pouring upon the sweaty bodies,
Ah! Aloof they stood with content looks,
And solaced smiles on their dry lips.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Fall of Dhaka
When we all were small girls and boys,
And played with dolls, and ball like toys,
Were often asked to drift and lead the cattle;
To the nearby meadows, farms and forest,
To have them grazed from morn to eve,
And freshened them with the water clean.
We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Letting them loose sat on top of the mound,
Among the old reverend shepherds,
Who told us the tales of olden times;
Ups and downs of the world they had seen,
How they fought the World War Second,
How they did see the roaring fighter jets;
How the rumbling sounds of the shells,
Did resound and reverberate in the valleys,
How they did watch meadows, fields and farms,
Littered with the human blood flesh and shreds,
How the two shining glaring cities of Japan,
Were obliterated casting perpetual horror.
One day as we sat in the sunshine of December,
Among us someone broke the depressing news,
That our one hundred thousand sons of the land,
Spotting, smudging, smearing the whole history,
Surrendered themselves throwing the weapons.
We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Sat sad and silence prevailed wrapping us all,
As in the days of frost often fog envelops,
The visible objects and blurs the beauties,
The waves of rage and wrath formed and broke,
Emerged and submerged in the ocean of heart,
Then someone of us set a bush on fire,
We all then ran, made the torches of the sticks,
And soon the whole forest was on fire,
We all wished the entire world be burnt,
For we had lost our dear Dhaka.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I miss my childhood
I miss my childhood everyday
This missing increases day by day
I miss those days of happiness
which were full of joy and naughtiness
I miss my grandpa's magnificent love
I miss my grandma's food serve
I miss my village and my darling home
Now I am sad and alone
I was used to go garden daily evening
where I see the day changing
I play their with my friends
who were perfect in that and were legends
I miss stealing of mango from trees
I miss those mountainy friendly trees
I miss play of hide and seek
we hide on guava's great peak
I miss my fields and ponds
I miss that sweet smell of my lands
I miss the scolds of elders
I miss my village builders
I miss my grandpa's old shoulders
I miss my village's brave soldiers
I miss my cow's sweet milk
I miss my cranky and playful tricks
No one can return my childhood
And that hunt for fruits in woods
I have left my childhood very far
But I need life like that with no bar
I am hungry for that love of village
my hunger becomes more with age
In this world of stress and worries
I want back my childhood glories
Life is such a name
That plays with everyone, a different game
But in every game there is some hopeful ray
I miss my childhood everyday.
(27 march 2010, Lucknow)
poem by Shashank Dwivedi
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Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill
This is the place where they all were bred;
Some of the rafters are standing still;
Now they are scattered and lost and dead,
Every one from the old nest fled,
Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Better it is that they ne'er came back --
Changes and chances are quickly rung;
Now the old homestead is gone to rack,
Green is the grass on the well-worn track
Down by the gate where the roses clung.
Gone is the garden they kept with care;
Left to decay at its own sweet will,
Fruit trees and flower-beds eaten bare,
Cattle and sheep where the roses were,
Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Where are the children that strove and grew
In the old homestead in days gone by?
One is away on the far Barcoo
Watching his cattle the long year through,
Watching them starve in the droughts and die.
One, in the town where all cares are rife,
Weary with troubles that cramp and kill,
Fain would be done with the restless strife,
Fain would go back to the old bush life,
Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
One is away on the roving quest,
Seeking his share of the golden spoil;
Out in the wastes of the trackless west,
Wandering ever he gives the best
Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.
What of the parents? That unkempt mound
Shows where they slumber united still;
Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound
Out on the range as in holy ground,
Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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To The Shadow Of My Own
I remember you my attendant,
You have been with me since I was born;
I recall the moment when I saw you for the first time,
I was appalled thinking you some small agent
From a fairy-land, all time spying me,
Then I ran and ran to leave you behind
But you ran too as fast as I could,
And I exhausted, out of breath fell into the lap
Of my mother where you were no more.
You all the times in my childhood remained with me,
In front, behind or beside. In the morn and eve
You were stretched in lengthwise
And at noon you shrank like a coiled snake.
In the days when I led cattle to the pasture,
In the evening I measured you with my bare feet,
Sometimes you lengthened more than fifty yards.
In my whole life you have been
Imitating me in my modes and manners,
I walked, you walked too; I stopped, you stopped too;
When I sat, you squatted too;
I assumed no one but you were an inseparable figure,
And so I passed my life in the same belief.
Alas! It was my false faith in you,
Now I am being drawn to the dark cave, utterly murky,
You will vanish like a fair-weather friend,
Leaving me behind all alone,
My deeds either good or bad will replace you.
Adieu! My attendant,
See you again hereafter in the celestial world.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Heart May Be A Lonely Hunter
thick grass
a forest of trees
a man lives there
and his heart is the lonely hunter
maybe
and may be for a time
when the grass is thick and the forest of trees lush
there is a time
for opening
for going and going back home
where mother and father keep the waiting
and your one and only
smiling
waiting for the warm embrace
the sad one
thinking always for your coming
back home
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Village Far Far Away
Far, far away is my village!
Where fireflies of my childhood
Still glow in thick folliage
Of Pipal trees.
My lisping words
As they fell from my lips
Are still alive
On old, bent, dying stairs
Of the long-deserted house!
Like rapiers thrust into silence.
Far, far away is my village!
Where darkness
Spreads its wing before it is evening
Tick-tocking sound of the flour mill
Long flights of birds
Going far, far away
Tinkling bells
All become a single tune
To drown into the dark lake
Of night.
Far, far away is my village!
Where I saw
Dreams of happy days to come
While learning my lessons
In the dim light
Of hurricane lamp.
Far, far away is my village!
Where reflections of my first love
Still linger
Where paths are shrouded
In sadness
And loneliness laced with secret longings
Peoples fields, ponds, the school
And trees herded together.
Far, far away is my village!
Where wind still finds
Its way in moonlit nights
Through silent streets
And sleepy courtyards
Calls for me in silence
And turns back, not finding me.
Wind has the same old habit
The same old routine
But life has trampled me
Under direction-less feet
Of crowds in cities.
(Translated by Dr. Satyapal Anand)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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The Further Bank
I long to go over there to the further bank of the river.
Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;
Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with
ploughs on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;
Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the
riverside pasture;
Whence they all come back home in the evening, leaving the
jackals to howl in the island overgrown with weeds.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferry when I am grown up.
They say there are strange pools hidden behind that high bank.
Where flocks of wild ducks come when the rains are over, and
thick reeds grow round the margins where water-birds lay their
eggs;
Where snipes with their dancing tails stamp their tiny
footprints upon the clean soft mud;
Where in the evening the tall grasses crested with while
flowers invite the moonbeam to float upon their waves.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
I shall cross and cross back from bank to bank, and all the
boys and girls of the village will wonder at me while they are
bathing.
When the sun climbs the mid sky and morning wears on to noon,
I shall come running to you, saying, "Mother, I am hungry."
When the day is done and the shadows cower under the trees,
I shall come back in the dust.
I shall never go away from you into the town to work like
father.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman
of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Tale Never Told
A Tale Never Told
The old man, who carried what, appeared to be and empty sack
over his shoulder when he walked through the village, is no more;
and I never got around asking him what was in his jute sack.
I think he carried around stories untold, dreams and translucent
memories of childhood. He was the brother of another old man
the one with a white donkey who came to our village selling
juicy, big lemons; alas he too has gone. He said of his brother,
the dreamer, walked amongst the stars and had forgotten how
to talk except to trees rose bushes and animals in the forest.
I once saw him in the glade playing mouth harmonica to a flock
of sheep that for once forgot to eat. When seeing me he stopped,
got up, smiled shyly and walked his way followed by snow white
rabbits; I fancied they were angels. I look up to the October sky
and sense his shadow and smile casting peace upon me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Gardener XIV: I Was Walking by the Road
I was walking by the road, I do not
know why, when the noonday was past
and bamboo branches rustled in the
wind.
The prone shadows with their out-
stretched arms clung to the feet of
the hurrying light.
The koels were weary of their
songs.
I was walking by the road, I do not
know why.
The hut by the side of the water is
shaded by an overhanging tree.
Some on was busy with her work,
and her bangles made music in the
corner.
I stood before this hut, I know not
why.
The narrow winding road crosses
many a mustard field, and many a
mango forest.
It passes by the temple of the
village and the market at the river
landing-place.
I stopped by this hut, I do not know
why.
Years ago it was a day of breezy
March when the murmur of the spring
was languorous, and mango blossoms
were dropping on the dust.
The rippling water leapt and licked
the brass vessel that stood on the
landing-step.
I think of that day of breezy March,
I do not know why.
Shadows are deepening and cattle
returning to their folds.
The light is grey upon the lonely
meadows, and the villagers are waiting
for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps, I
do not know why.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Our revered Cattle
In our country oxen are used to plough,
And man declares, "the animals, we love"!
After harvest man gathers the grains to eat,
And offers the hay to the animal as a treat.
Man collects the cotton from the tree,
And the seeds he presents to the cattle for free.
Before cooking the grains he washes it with water,
And that is the cattle's drinking water.
Their milk meant for the calves are for man,
And he produces milk products as much as he can;
From it he makes yoghurt and sells it in a can,
He stirs the milk and retrieves butter on a pan.
When butter is melt, the aromatic ghee is got,
With ghee, delicious sweets are made and brought;
In villages cow-dung cakes are largely used,
With which glowing fire is instantly infused.
Cow-dung aids in the cleaning the floor off bacteria—
So are the many merits of cattle—is man's idea!
Man, the human is of no use to the cattle,
But they willingly serve us—let us revere the cattle!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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It’s the second day that I visit
It’s the second day that I visit
on the farm near Reivelo,
just past Vryburg.
They farm with cattle, goats,
a few sheep, muscovy ducks, turkeys
and chicken.
The scrambler bumps up and down
right through the field
and go past rocks and bushes,
while we drive along the rough field
and the hot wind
cut across my face
and there are places
where it cannot go.
It’s time to transform
young bulls to oxen,
to brand cattle
and to cut their horns
and I get a black stallion
to ride into the field.
My cousin rides in front
with a brown Arabian mare
and there are bushes
and flat slabs of rock
and small hillocks that we past
to try and round up young cattle
to the corral.
It’s nice to be a cattle herder
for a time
and to use legs and heels
and reigns,
to round up cattle in the field.
Every thing goes well until
I chase a young black bull
just to the entrance of the fold,
where it stops stubbornly
and doesn’t want to move
a feet further.
I jump out of the saddle,
fasten the reigns
to a small branch
and rush to the obstinate bull.
It stands and snorting
and stamp its feet
and when it sees me,
it rushes confused
at the horse.
That faithful horse stands firm
while the bulls horns swishes
onto the reigns
and the horse
stops that bull in its tracts,
that a piece of the bridle
breaks right off.
Then I am at the bull
and pull the reigns
out of its horns
and it walks meek
into the corral,
while in astonishment
I stand and look at that animal.
With a knee-strap
and pliers in the nose
we draw the bull to the ground
and when we shear it,
it moans like a heifer
and there’s a burning smell
that goes up from the branding iron
and I see the horns
dropp at my feet
and it’s another beast
when it stand on its feet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Rustling Leave
In the cold wintry evening,
When it was gloam and twilight,
Covering myself with thick blanket of wool,
I used to go to a small garden,
Where my father planted the apple trees.
Often I roved around the victims,
Of callous spoiling Autumn.
The leafless branches tormented me,
Presenting undressed bare reality.
They looked like skeletons of ghosts,
Without flesh, with naked bones,
Who often disturb us in our sleep.
The swishy wind blew moaning,
Lamenting over the bodies,
Of the dried fallen leaves,
Blowing them to this or that end,
Resting nowhere to be disposed,
Some swept onto the stagnant water,
On the green surface to float.
The blown rustling leaves reminded,
Once they were fresh and green,
Fluttered resisting blows of the wind,
Sucked the honeyed sap of life,
When attached to the source.
Amid the blooming winter crops,
The grove presented a doleful contrast,
Making depressed both heart and mind,
The vanished tongue whispering a secret,
Consoled the weeping heart over the plague,
That death is the overleaf of life,
The front side overshadows the other.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Lost People of a Peaceful Place
I sit quietly under the trees, staring at my barrier of leaves.
They whisper against each other, telling me the stories
of a long-forgotten past. Of a world many generations ago,
that housed a very different people.
A people close to Nature.
A people that was kicked out of their beautiful home
to be moved along the Trail of Tears like cattle.
To be put through the suffereing no man should dream of inflicting.
They left without a trace.
Staring at these trees, one would never guess that this place
used to be the home of quiet, peaceful people.
One would never guess how happy these people could be
without mandatory luxories that they never imagined.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Evarra And His Gods
~Read here:
This is the story of Evarra -- man --
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.~
Because the city gave him of her gold,
Because the caravans brought turquoises,
Because his life was sheltered by the King,
So that no man should maim him, none should steal,
Or break his rest with babble in the streets
When he was weary after toil, he made
An image of his God in gold and pearl,
With turquoise diadem and human eyes,
A wonder in the sunshine, known afar,
And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,
Because the city bowed to him for God,
He wrote above the shrine: "~Thus Gods are made,
And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.~"
And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died.
~Read here the story of Evarra -- man --
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.~
Because the city had no wealth to give,
Because the caravans were spoiled afar,
Because his life was threatened by the King,
So that all men despised him in the streets,
He hewed the living rock, with sweat and tears,
And reared a God against the morning-gold,
A terror in the sunshine, seen afar,
And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,
Because the city fawned to bring him back,
He carved upon the plinth: "~Thus Gods are made,
And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.~"
And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.
~Read here the story of Evarra -- man --
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.~
Because he lived among a simple folk,
Because his village was between the hills,
Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes,
He cut an idol from a fallen pine,
Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell
Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair
Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.
And all the village praised him for this craft,
And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds.
Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad,
He scratched upon that log: "~Thus Gods are made,
And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.~"
And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.
~Read here the story of Evarra -- man --
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.~
Because his God decreed one clot of blood
Should swerve one hair's-breadth from the pulse's path,
And chafe his brain, Evarra mowed alone,
Rag-wrapped, among the cattle in the fields,
Counting his fingers, jesting with the trees,
And mocking at the mist, until his God
Drove him to labour. Out of dung and horns
Dropped in the mire he made a monstrous God,
Abhorrent, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts,
And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time,
He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds,
And howled among the beasts: "~Thus Gods are made,
And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.~"
Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . . Then he died.
Yet at the last he came to Paradise,
And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote;
And marvelled, being very near to God,
What oaf on earth had made his toil God's law,
Till God said mocking: "Mock not. These be thine."
Then cried Evarra: "I have sinned!" -- "Not so.
If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods
Had rested in the mountain and the mine,
And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods,
And thy more wondrous law, Evarra. Thine,
Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine."
Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes,
Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise.
~This is the story of Evarra -- man --
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.~
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Lover's Gifts XXII: I Shall Gladly Suffer
I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house,
if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda
forest.
The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan
tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to
splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream.
He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all
the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of
dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the
courtyard to milk the king.
As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk
gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the
turbulent water, tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails
outspread, dance in the forest, he watchers the summer clouds.
When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he
disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the
swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind
throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks
of the blue river.
No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of
new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for
the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady asoka
groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the
maidens!
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Beautiful nature in the forest
Our beatiful nature
as it is full of leisure
it keeps us suuplied with food
and gives us too shelter which is good
our beautiful nature
in the forest the trees swing
while the birds sing
the grass dance at the birds tune
as their moisture will run away so soon
our beautiful nature
as you step inside the forest
i set my foot on the ground to rest
as the forest skin holds my feet
the dew rans way and the grass take a sit
our beautiful nature
i pick out a fruit from a tree
since they are provided for free
i dont even need to bend on to one knee
i relax inside with calm
since the forest has also a natural charm
which will protect me
from any living predators
lastly i came out happily
as i was fed so quickly
which makes me to be taking care of nature
so lets all take care of nature
poem by Tanaka Chirombo
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I Shall Return
I shall return again; I shall return
To laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyes
At golden noon the forest fires burn,
Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies.
I shall return to loiter by the streams
That bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses,
And realize once more my thousand dreams
Of waters rushing down the mountain passes.
I shall return to hear the fiddle and fife
Of village dances, dear delicious tunes
That stir the hidden depths of native life,
Stray melodies of dim remembered runes.
I shall return, I shall return again,
To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.
poem by Claude McKay
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The Green Roads
The green roads that end in the forest
Are strewn with white goose feathers this June,
Life marks left behind by someone gone to the forest
To show his track. But he has never come back.
Down each green road a cottage looks at the forest.
Round one the nettle towers; two are bathed in flowers.
An old man along the green road to the forest
Strays from one, from another a child alone.
In the thicket bordering the forest,
All day long a thrush twiddles his song.
It is old, but the trees are young in the forest,
All but one like a castle keep, in the middle deep.
That oak saw the ages pass in the forest:
They were a host, but their memories are lost,
For the tree is dead: all things forget the forest
Excepting perhaps me, when now I see
The old man, the child, the goose feathers at the edge of the forest,
And hear all day long the thrush repeat his song.
poem by Edward Thomas
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