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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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Banyan Tree

Banyan tree, banyan tree
that century old banyan tree
standing grandeurly for us to see
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Cool breeze passing through
seeking blessings of banyan tree
branches shaking in approval
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Glassy green with majestic trunk
touching the earth, not breaking free
shelter home for different birds
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Yellowish streaks, some with reddish tinge
welcome every season with a glee
symbol of eternal life
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Shedding leaves, like tears falling
a grandfather lamenting on its knees
new plants cuddling around
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Lord Buddha became its buddy
meditation was the only key
peace you get underneath
that is why it is banyan tree.

Banyan tree, banyan tree
wish fullfilling, it is banyan tree
just pray here and let you see
Banyan tree, banyan tree.

A life giver and just for free
Banyan is my national pride
preserve these at any cost
don't commit a homicide?

God blessed us with banyan tree
heat absorbing banyan tree
has healing powers this banyan tree
banyan tree, banyan tree.
---- X -----
copyright/Children of Lost God/Tribhawan Kaul
All rights reserved

poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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They called me to the Window, for

628

They called me to the Window, for
" 'Twas Sunset"—Some one said—
I only saw a Sapphire Farm—
And just a Single Herd—

Of Opal Cattle—feeding far
Upon so vain a Hill—
As even while I looked—dissolved—
Nor Cattle were—nor Soil—

But in their stead—a Sea—displayed—
And Ships—of such a size
As Crew of Mountains—could afford—
And Decks—to seat the skies—

This—too—the Showman rubbed away—
And when I looked again—
Nor Farm—nor Opal Herd—was there—
Nor Mediterranean—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Collective fear stimulates herd instinct, and tends to produce ferocity toward those who are not regarded as members of the herd.

quote by Bertrand Russell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House On Centerville Road

We stopped beside the highway
And gazed at the old house
I told my wife, “That’s where I lived”
When I was just a little sprout
It looked smaller than it once did
Back so many years ago
Even then it was old and creaky
But, as a kid, I didn’t know
Weathered boards were loose and falling
Saplings grew up through the porch
The old tin roof was rusted orange
And the yard looked like a forest
Here dwells my oldest memories
From so many years ago
When our young family lived here
In the house on Centerville road

Those walls once rang with laughter
And the energy of two young lads
Riding stick horses all around the place
Trying to “herd” our collie, Pat
But, Pat knew more than we did
When she’d hear Mama shout
She’d turn us back from the road
And herd two boys toward the house
Dad got a job and we moved to town
Well before I started school
So, my memories are short and sketchy
But, I’ve found there are quite a few
My wife retrieved her camera
And as I turned the key to go
Snapped a picture from her window
Of the house on Centerville road

10/07/07

poem by C.R. Clark
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You look at a herd of cattle and well, they all look the same... but they know. They all have an individual personality, and those personalities change from day to day. They can have their grumpy days and their happy days and their serene days. But it's unpredictable. You can't be off in outer space when you're dealing with animals.

quote by Chris Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It is a fine thing to command, though it be only a herd of cattle.

Dominican Republic proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Free men cannot start a war, but once it is started, they can fight on in defeat. Herd men, followers of a leader, cannot do that, and so it is always the herd men who win battles and the free men who win wars.

John Steinbeck in The Moon is Down
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Society of Grazing Sheep

The herd meanders, searching for the green
Pastures that hide past distant mountaintops.
They're a society of grazing sheep.

The herd looks down, ignoring what they've seen.
They're too busy chewing grass to stop.
They're a society of grazing sheep.

The herd wanders only to convene
In the pursuit of inhaling more crops.
They're a society of grazing sheep.

They don't yet realize that hungry eyes
Guide them—that wolves are hiding in disguise.
They're a society of grazing sheep.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Dealing With Bullies

The lion picks out his gazelle for the kill,
As the herd stands around and watches.
'Well, he picked the weakest one I guess.'
The pack of hyenas pick out the Zebra to dissect,
As the rest of the herd stands around and watches.
'Well, she didn't really fit in to our group.'
The tiger picks out a weak, young water buffalo.
As the rest of he herd of buffalo approach the tiger.
' Well, we've had enough, they attack him.'
With tail in hand, he flees for his life!

poem by Barry A. Lanier
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Cain and Abel

Western Version

Cain and Abel were brothers born.
(Koop-la! Come along, cows!)
One raised cattle and one raised corn.
(Koop-la! Come along! Co-hoe!)

And Cain he farmed by the river-side,
So he did not care how much it dried.

For he banked, and he sluiced, and he ditched and he led
(And the Corn don't care for the Horn)--
A-half Euphrates out of her bed
To water his dam' Corn!

But Abel herded out on the plains
Where you have to go by the dams and rains.

It happened, after a three-year drought,
The wells, and the springs, and the dams gave out.

The Herd-bulls came to Cain's new house
(They wanted water so!--)
With the hot red Sun between their brows,
Sayin' "Give us water for our pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em--"No!"

The Cows they came to Cain's big house
With the cold white Moon between their brows,
Sayin' "Give some water to us pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em--"No?"

The li'l Calves came to Cain's fine house
With the Evenin' Star between their brows,
Sayin' "'Give us water an' we'll be cows."
But Cain he told 'em--"No!"

The Herd-bulls led 'em back again,
An' Abel went an' said to Cain: --
"Oh sell me water, my brother dear,
Or there will be no beef this year."
And Cain he answered--"No! "

"Then draw your hatches, my brother true,
An' let a little water through."
But Cain he answered: -"No!

"My dams are tight an' my ditches are sound,
An' not a drop goes through or round
Till she's done her duty by the Corn.

"I will not sell, an' I will not draw,
An' if you breach, I'll have the Law,
As sure as you are borne! "

Then Abel took his best bull-goad,
An' holed a dyke on the Eden road.

He opened her up with foot an' hand,
An' let Euphrates loose on the land.

He spilled Euphrates out on the plain,
So's all his cattle could drink again.

Then Cain he saw what Abel done--
But, in those days, there was no Gun!

So he made him a club of a hickory-limb,
An' halted Abel an' said to him: --

"I did not sell an' I did not draw,
An' now you've breached I'll have the Law.

"You ride abroad in your hat and spurs,
Hell-hoofin' over my cucumbers!

"You pray to the Lord to send you luck
An' you loose your steers in my garden-truck:

"An' now you're bust, as you ought to be,
You can keep on prayin' but not to me!"

Then Abel saw it meant the life;
But, in those days, there was no Knife:

So he up with his big bull-goad instead,
But--Cain hit first and dropped him dead!

The Herd-bulls ran when they smelt the blood,
An' horned an' pawed in that Red Mud.
The Calves they bawled, and the Steers they milled,
Because it was the First Man Killed;
An' the whole Herd broke for the Land of Nod,
An' Cain was left to be judged by God!

But, seein' all he had had to bear,
I never could call the Judgment fair!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Unsaddle From That Herd

Why does your life appear to be lived,
So rough...
And,
So severe.
You are casting broken shadows too.
And rattled from your battles.

Your shoulders droop and your mind loopy.
You are casting broken shadows and rattled,
From your battles.

Unsaddle from that herd,
That has you gathered like it matters.
And bedazzled by branding cattle addicts.
Those fanatics who have long been at it.

Don't weaken to submerge,
Into a deep sleep unneeded.
One with ease would be reachable.
But one you should not seek.

Why does your life appear to be lived,
So rough...
And,
So severe.
You are casting broken shadows too.
And rattled from your battles.

Unsaddle from that herd,
That has you gathered like it matters.
And bedazzled by branding cattle addicts.
Those fanatics who have long been at it.

Don't weaken to submerge,
Into a deep sleep unneeded.
One with ease would be reachable.
But one you should not seek.

Today you must remain awake.
Force your mind to operate,
At its optimum peak.

And unsaddle from that herd,
That has you gathered like it matters.
And bedazzled by branding cattle addicts.
Those fanatics who have long been at it.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Old Chisholm Trail

Well, come along boys and listen to my tale
I'll tell you all my troubles on the ol' Chisholm Trail
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
I started up the trail October twenty-third
Started up the trail with the U-2 herd
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
On a ten dollar horse and a forty dollar saddle
Started out punchin' them long horn cattle
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
With my seat in the saddle and my hand on the horn
I'm the best dang cowboy that was ever born
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
It's cloudy in the west and lookin' like rain
And my danged old slicker's in the wagon again
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
The wind began to blow and the rain began to fall
And it looked like we were gonna lose 'em all
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
No chaps, no slickers and it's pouring rain
I swear I'll never night herd again
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
I cripple on my horse and I don't know how
Roping these long horn U-2 cows
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
Well, I went to the boss to draw my roll
And the boss had me fugured nine dollars in the hole
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
Well, me and the boss we had a little spat
So I hit him in the face with my ten gallon hat
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
The boss said to me, ''Well, I'll fire you
Not only you but the whole darn crew.''
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
I'll sell my horse, I'll sell my saddle
And you can drive all your long horn cattle
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea.
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea, youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy, youpy yea...

song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sleepless

How many sheep have jumped the fence
as I lie in bed wide-awake?
More than the wooly herd like things
be allowed for goodness sake.

I'm waiting for that black sheep to jump
and give my eyes a break.
But I guess he's lost within the herd
for I find I'm still wake.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Born with Pride

Born with pride
When she was born,
She never cried
Born with dreams
Pretty eyes open wide

Born without tears
No lies to seek or hide
Born without fears,
On her beautiful little mind

Born to live
to love to give
To suffer to loose
Everything

Born with pride
Died in vain
Agony and pain
Hurt and shame

The lady had died
Her baby was born
With no pride
And with nothing
On his side

poem by Mitwaly Osman
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The Cowboy

The Cowboy

In Texas they love football and cowboys, not your ordinary
cowboys mind, the ones who herd the cattle to slaughter,
but those who walk tall in local towns and own an oil well
or two. Real cowboys are usually black or Mexicans, low
paid and smell of cattle and dust; and when the cows are
delivered to the abattoir drink lone star beer, chew tobacco
and get arrested. Real cowboys dress in fancy costumes look
a bit effeminate, when drunk on whisky ride an artificial bull
and fall off to great applause from adoring female fans who
think those ridiculous pseudo heroes are for real.
In Texas they call it Americana, have a governor who gladly
condemn people to death, western tradition- hang them high-.
When Illusion overtakes overtake truths mainly because veracity
is boring, after all a cowboy is a cattle herder and reality lacks
the romance of a pearly studded dud.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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We herd sheep, we drive cattle, we lead people. Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way.

quote by George S. Patton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hawk Pride

My Hawk Pride
Will Never Die
For as long as I Live
It will forever Fly
For I am not an Eagle
I am not a bird
I am a Hwak
That lead's a Herd
I am the Hawk
That walk's The Sky
This Pride Will Never Die

poem by Damien Smith
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Szymborska 's Yearns

'Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.'

i do not have
the wish anymore
to be understood
by you or anybody

i belong to the
common things
you cannot see
me in the herd
i am in my
daily endeavors

unknown to you
i still write without
any wish that you
recognize my
voice or feel the
longings of my
hands or see the
scars in my heart

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The ideals which have always shone before me and filled me with the joy of living are goodness, beauty, and truth. To make a goal of comfort or happiness has never appealed to me; a system of ethics built on this basis would be sufficient only for a herd of cattle.

quote by Albert Einstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death of the Stag

The stag, too, singled from the herd, where long
He ranged, the branching monarch of the shade,
Before the tempest drives. At first, in speed
He, sprightly, puts his faith, and, roused by fear,
Gives all his swift aerial soul to flight;
Against the breeze he darts, that way the more
To leave the lessening murderous cry behind:
He bursts the thickets, glances through the glades,
And plunges deep into the wildest wood:
If slow, yet sure, adhesive to the track,
Hot-steaming, up behind him come again
The inhuman rout, and from the shady depth
Expel him, circling through his every shift.
He sweeps the forest oft, and sobbing sees
The glades, mild opening to the golden day;
Where, in kind contest, with his butting friends
He wont to struggle, or his loves enjoy.
Oft in the full-descending flood he tries
To lose the scent, and lave his burning sides:
Oft seeks the herd; the watchful herd, alarm'd,
With selfish care avoids a brother's woe.
What shall he do? His once so vivid nerves,
So full of buoyant spirits, now no more
Inspire the course; but fainting breathless toil,
Sick, seizes on his heart: he stands at bay;
And puts his last weak refuge in despair.
The big round tears run down his dappled face;
He groans in anguish; while the growling pack,
Blood-happy, hang at his fair jutting chest,
And mark his beauteous chequer'd sides with gore.

poem by James Thomson
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