Journey By a Cable Car (Badrinath)
Why the pines are pining
when the Auli Bugyal is smiling
with pollen strewing blossoms
in the diffused rays of the sun?
Before the snowy slabs
get paved over the sloping hills,
the whole grassy stretch gleams
with newly sprung up shoots
and waves in joy in the cool breeze
that steels into the telpher
and brings cheer to us all.
“On whom to swoop down
the vulture is soaring? ”
When we were out of the car,
we sauntered towards the hilltop,
and lay on its lush green lap,
Looking at the sailing clouds
which hit on the sky high peaks,
tumble, trundle and dash at the vapour clouds
rising above the slush.
Scared they are, always running
when the bombs are on the plains around.
The snow-garbed Nandha Devi
signalled to us the agile Chinese
who loot the gold in Olympics,
and the grieving Tibetans are nearer.
The dulcet sounds of some throstles
Filled our ears with lilting music
and we dropped off in a drowse.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Makarora
Rocky peaks of Makarora in the summer wear their snow
And down the lush green grassy valley the clear mountain river flow
Songbirds piping in the beechwoods songthrush, bellbird and
redpoll
This a place of peace and beauty Makarora has a soul.
These great mountains look no different than to when the first man came
They have a wild rugged beauty for want of a better name
To the coming generations these high peaks will look the same
Man will not build houses on them man such wildness could not tame.
Summer's come to Makarora and along with her brought her green
Beauty to compare with any with the finest I have seen
This place would inspire an artist peaks in summer white
with snow
Beechwoods and through lush green valley sparkling mountain river flow.
Those high peaks of makarora will not change as years go by
Out there on those rugged mountains bones of Maori hunter lie
Still these mountains keep their secrets monarchs of the higher ground
Overlooking Makarora and the woodlands all around
Snow clad peaks of Makarora reaching upwards towards the sky
I am just a passing stranger and I'll be bidding you goodbye
But I will take with me the memories of beauty I have seen
today
Woodlands in a lush green valley by those mountains far away
poem by Francis Duggan
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Holy Blunder
Clouds in the skies; clouds in the skies; clouds, clouds
Clouds in the skies; some clustering; some cluttering
Some straying; some strewing; all in one yonder
Like free floating vices and flouted virtues
Amongst myriad murky Stygean stratus
One cumulus, shining bright and smiling white
Like a lucky rich man amongst fated poor
Leering, jeering, raving in sway and sashey
“My one misdirected beam made him gleam”
Bemused waning God Sun, “how this happened
Of one breed are all clouds; running in them same
Vapour-blood; façade is due to my light shed”
“Oh! Idiotic white clouds! This is not good!
Don’t swagger because of my one holy blunder
On the day apocalyptic winds wiggle
Every cloud has to melt down into drizzle”
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Champa Valley in Himachal State.
O my friends! Come and plunge
into the depths of Champa Valley.
The peaks of the Dhaulador do not gleam
and the glen below seems a gulf.
The looming winter lies in wait
for the welcoming flakes of snow to fall
and so we need no sweaters to quell the cold.
The gullies on the slopes are bereft of streams
and the pines in cols do not greet the guests!
The unstirred leaves and the brooding grass
And the absence of the whooping birds
mean the end of the Spring.
But see! The upcoming Dhonis
hit sixes in the Chaugan sward.
Trek to the Chamunda Devi Temple
and shout to hear your echoes from the hills
and the sounds die away
rattling far amid the lofty ranges.
Have sometime to stroll on the salubrious Dalhousie
and have a gaze and be lost in the haze
over the snowy summits or the soaring rivers.
Meek you need to be to roam in the sylvan glades
and seek solace for your restless souls.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Gold In Them Hills
I know it doesn't seem that way
But maybe it's the perfect day
Even though the bills are piling
And maybe Lady Luck ain't smiling
But if we'd only open our eyes
We'd see the blessings in disguise
That all the rain clouds are fountains
Though our troubles seem like mountains
There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose heart
Give the day a chance to start
Every now and then life says
Where do you think you're going so fast
We're apt to think it cruel but sometimes
It's a case of cruel to be kind
And if we'd get up off our knees
Why then we'd see the forest for the trees
And we'd see the new sun rising
Over the hills on the horizon
There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose faith
Give the world a chance to say...
A word or two, my friend
There's no telling how the day might end
And we'll never know until we see
That there's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose heart
Give the day a chance to start
There's gold in them hills...
There's gold in them hills...
song performed by by Coldplay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nothing Natural About It At All
That portrait painted,
Hangs much too low,
The light from it appears to be shaded.
Where did the gleeming smiles,
And the brightness go?
Those sloping lush hills,
Seemed so green just yesterday.
Even when the clouds and rain came near...
None of it on this portrait showed.
The rays of the Sun,
Were then so clear.
Wasn't the Sunrise on the horizon,
Full of vivid promises free of duels?
And who came to smear a tinge of darkness upon it?
That had to have been just after noon.
The peaks of mountains,
Snowcapped and strong?
There is something about it,
That will not be prolonged.
The melting of snow,
Seems to have gone.
What 'is' this?
Something about it,
Has to be stopped.
I can see in its future,
This portrait is going to be forgotten.
Snatched off the wall.
And its presence remembered...
From memories dropped.
That can not be the same portrait!
Seen now to hang so pitifully.
Tilted, in a lopsidedness.
That brings not a hint of joy to me.
Is this someone's idea,
Of a joke to provoke?
My atmosphere...
Is not a place to invite tears?
The sweeping of the strokes...
Has abandoned its meaning.
To another scene in a secret elope.
That portrait painted,
Hangs much too low,
The light from it appears to be shaded.
Where did the smiles,
And the brightness go?
HELLO!
...hello...hello...hello...
Even the echos once heard from the valleys,
Aren't responding with a clarity.
Rich and reflective.
This is not an original.
This one is absolutely faked.
Who is trying to exhibit this image?
To pass it as something great?
Take it away from this place.
Get rid of it.
And tear down that wall.
It makes me sick.
It has become too common.
It blocks out all that's right.
There's nothing natural about it at all.
It conflicts with the ambiance.
And this ambiance...
Does not invite blight!
Get rid of it now!
More light is what I wish.
Take that piece of trash and burn it.
After its been dumped,
To cover the fumes...
In a dirt covered ditch!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Feast of St. Francis
from 'Canticle of the Sun, ' by St. Francis of Assisi: 'Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air, and clouds and storms, and all the weather, through which you give your creatures sustenance.'
Bird-song rises
in clear, liquid waves
as golden leaves arc
twisting
to the ground.
Heavy gold
must fall.
October heat
gives way
to winter rain
yet inevitably life flows
like the breeze
rising from the broad sea
to the high Sierra;
grey clouds rise
and heavy snow falls.
All the living waters
give praise.
poem by Steven Federle
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In Hot Pursuit on Our Trail
When we made a fleeting visit to that highland,
in East Khasi Hills, Cherrapunji where perennial rainfall
keeps it the wettest place by both monsoonal winds.
The sky was blue with fleecy clouds
and in occasional slight drizzles we roamed happily.
We looked around lush green forests in the vales down
but no grassy stretch, the sheep found there to graze.
In parky weather, the pale-faced tribes live in small shelters.
We drove slowly to the border of Bangaladesh
and came back to the plateau in the evening.
Suddenly the Sun hid Himself somewhere above
and a frightening monstrous wave of darker clouds
was chasing behind our car like the tsunami - tidal waves.
The driver was in his highest speed but he stopped the car
when the rainy clouds shrouded the whole place.
We remained there in a darker world and a heavy downpour
was giving us a tumultuous welcome with noisy claps.
Half an hour later, the road was visible.
No floods! No pools! Rain- water took to its heels
washing away the paltry soil to the slopes around.
Rains will be downswing in the end of September
but that day’s wonderful feast to us was from the Heavens!
--------------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The Sense Of The Sleight-Of-Hand Man
One's grand flights, one's Sunday baths,
One's tootings at the weddings of the soul
Occur as they occur. So bluish clouds
Occurred above the empty house and the leaves
Of the rhododendrons rattled their gold,
As if someone lived there. Such floods of white
Came bursting from the clouds. So the wind
Threw its contorted strength around the sky.
Could you have said the bluejay suddenly
Would swoop to earth? It is a wheel, the rays
Around the sun. The wheel survives the myths.
The fire eye in the clouds survives the gods.
To think of a dove with an eye of grenadine
And pines that are cornets, so it occurs,
And a little island full of geese and stars:
It may be the ignorant man, alone,
Has any chance to mate his life with life
That is the sensual, pearly spuse, the life
That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
poem by Wallace Stevens
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My River
Oh! My river
My cute river
Beauteous you are
In the morn, in the gloaming
Sandy is your bosom
Banks are grassy and pebbly
Pellucid little waves Singing and flowing smoothly
You are turned to a young bride now
Garbed in the glittering sequin of gold and argent
And flowing slowly arrayed in all your finery
And verily you are the sybarite!
I am at your bank again, my favorite hangout, where
I spent my childhood more often than not
Vividly return my memories of my nights with you
You were calm in those nights
Still you are, and the glory remains as pristine.
You are bathed in the moon light
How beautiful you are now!
The tiny stars are flashing and dazzling on your bosom
You are cradling thousands of them, as if,
It’s spectacular!
I am lying down, alone,
Looking at the zenith,
Gazing up the galaxy, within the clouds, and
Watching the Gleams of light
Coming through clouds’ cleavages
And vanishing into the river in the distance
The milky orb is almost in the horizon now, and
The golden orb started his brush work in the sky
I nestle down at the bank in the zephyr & gentle cold,
Looking at my river with her vivid golden water
Listening to the music of the foam-flaked waves
A sense of euphoria possesses me as I lie at the bank.
Oh! If ever I could dwell at this bank for years and years
A feeble music from afar fondles me,
As an accompaniment to my relishing
And I relax in the ebb and flow of the rhythms
But it aroused me,
My alarm clock chimed and reminded me
It is the time for work,
Oh! I am in the middle of the desert
Poignantly convinced myself, what a contrast!
No my cute river, No grassy bank, No Pebbly bank
No, No, Nothing, Nothing, but the sand dunes…….
The sand storms ……..
Mar 12,2009 - Hawiyah (Part of Empty Quarter – Saudi Arabia)
poem by Nooruddeen Mathilakathveetil
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Peechi Dam in Kerala
The nimbus hovered over the hills
surrounding the unknown Peechi Dam.
A ropeway between the hills
could help all to catch the clouds
and fill with joy the hearts in full.
Water sluiced out of the Dam
with roars and threats.
I looked at its skating rush
and lost my consciousness.
The Sun burst through the clouds
and cheered us all with rays of warmth.
The refreshing breeze from the South
brought the cool of all the wilderness.
The riot of colours in the vale beneath
would renew one’s taste for life.
Reminiscences of my youth
buried in the bottom of my heart
crept up and I smiled a awhile.
----------
.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Mountains In The Mist
Several times, uncontiously
I've stumbled upon the path
And seen a mountain in the mist
As rain falls on my shoulders
Sun rises in the east
A mourning bruise
but I am here at least
I guess im just an obsticle
A thing to overcome
If I could sneek around myself
Again I'll know I've won
The moment seems to hang and float
Before me with no end
'till I'm released, awaken beast
I'm on the road again
But now i'm soaring far to high
A fleck of dust upin the sky
Where tiny clouds go sailing by
Pull me down today
Woven in the fairy-tales
We fabricate each day
Our little golden strands of truth
That glimmer in the light
The colorful material
You hold a certin way
Can keep us from the cold
And help to get us through the night
But now i'm soaring far to high
A fleck of dust upin the sky
Where tiny clouds go sailing by
Pull me down today x4
oooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooo
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Late Aubade & Explanation
Once in a field, in a wide rising stretch of paintbrush
& purple vetch, we stuck down
a tent, like punctuation, and drank through the evening
our bottle of bad wine. When you looked up,
the weather was holding: a few breezes,
a full moon silvering the flowers
to white. In the distance, I heard the ache
& slide of snow, the beginning of crickets. It was twilight—
the landscape was lifting.
•
A mountain. The clouds, further up,
came down. A Book of Hours. A tent in which we twisted,
pressed each against the other, drunk
and when I stepped out into the cool
moonlight, there was drifting through the watery
end of the meadow, a deer
pale beneath pines, beneath those soaring
darknessess. Then there was only darkness, the
idea of a deer.
Remember, I never wanted
to be alive, to have
an outline. Better, I knew, to slip
unheld, an opening into mist.
poem by Kate Northrop
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Line Of Control
They come to see us
In the company of winds and rains
Their whispers are heard
Besides the doors
And empty corridors are filled
With the shimmering garments and scented bodies.
Leaping over the walls, slipping down the roofs and sun shades
Walking with voiceless steps like the shadows of clouds
Eyes see them crossing the silence
Of half paved courtyards
Far from reach
Moving towards measureless distances.
The windows yawn with mouth agape
And ponder on that;
Overthrowing the earth, nestled comfortably on its breast
Looking triumphantly towards the sky
These mountains, beyond them
There must be a lake
And birds and nimbus clouds
And thickets of trees running into each other
Uneven grassy plains
Herds of sheep and lonely shepherds
And pathways running far away
There must be some village, some city
Or some other country
Where some other poet (like myself) lives
Writing verses!
Demarcation is easy on parchments
A few dots and lines delimitate
Mountains, rills, streams, sloping grounds
Fields, settlements, jurisdictions, ownerships and regions
Passes and secret paths
Even forts and battlements with rows of iron - clad heads
Can be drawn.
But while pointing out the shadows overstepping the walls
Extending to doors, windows, courtyards
And the silence spread up to the remote recesses of the hearts,
The sun and rain change their hue
On the ground plan.
(Translated from Urdu into English by Prof. Ghulam Jilani Asghar)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Rising genius always shoots out its rays from among the clouds, but these will gradually roll away and disappear as it ascends to its steady luster.
quote by Washington Irving
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song - Seasons of Galloway
The fields of wheat glow gold and sway
Old mem’ries flock from everywhere
On summer winds they drift in waves
Back to her towns and villages
As guillemots crowd ragged cliffs
And herring shoal off Clanyard Bay
Her sons and daughters all come home
In dreams of their young Galloway
‘Til gales come howlin’ from the west
The Cree runs high beneath the bridge
And Falling leaves ski down the wind
And starlings swirl upon the wing
For summer’s gone and sadness swells
In waves that break in Sand Eel bay
But shades of autumn weave their spell
Amongst the lanes of Galloway
Above Glen Trool the Merrick heights
All sleep beneath a chill of snow
And flights of geese come sweeping in
Across the White loch, flying low
While icy waters plunge down through
The Glen of Luce towards the sea
The cliffs are silent as the grave
And winter winds blast Galloway
‘til bluebell blossoms scent the woods
And timid deer and foxes roam
Amongst the cover on the hill
Above the village of Drummore
As swallows swoop through ancient ruins
Reminders of old yesterdays
But green shoots promise life again
Across the hills of Galloway.
03 09 08
The Heavenly Hills of Holland
The heavenly hills of Holland,--
How wondrously they rise
Above the smooth green pastures
Into the azure skies!
With blue and purple hollows,
With peaks of dazzling snow,
Along the far horizon
The clouds are marching slow.
No mortal foot has trodden
The summits of that range,
Nor walked those mystic valleys
Whose colors ever change;
Yet we possess their beauty,
And visit them in dreams,
While the ruddy gold of sunset
From cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weather
They melt into the light;
When fog and mist surround us
They're hidden from our sight;
But when returns a season
Clear shining after rain,
While the northwest wind is blowing,
We see the hills again.
The old Dutch painters loved them,
Their pictures show them clear,
Old Hobbema and Ruysdael,
Van Goyen and Vermeer.
Above the level landscape,
Rich polders, long-armed mills,
Canals and ancient cities,--
Float Holland's heavenly hills.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Hear The Music Of The Pines
Hear the music of the pines—
Murmuring through the climbing vines,
Sighing through the tree tops high,
Floating upward to the sky,
Then descending where I lie—
Hear the music of the pines!
What sweet thoughts the music brings,
What new gladness from it springs—
As reclining, in a dream,
Watch I, listless, a sunbeam
Dancing on the silvery stream—
What sweet thoughts the music brings!
Hear the music of the pines!
How it 'round my fancy twines—
While fragrances of flowers fill
All the pulses of my will
As I, lingering, linger still—
Hear the music of the pines!
poem by Timothy Thomas Fortune
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At 25k Feet Above
on a bed of clouds
feet dangling into the sea
you and me
above the clouds
the horizon beckoned us
we glided in the air
bits and pieces
clouds dispersed below the sky
new horizon teased
in a wink
the clouds spread as one grey spread
we melted as rain
vapour they turned
the heat within melted
we rocked
wings cut
through layers and layers of
moving vapours
slowly descended
we from the clouds above
earth-reality!
ah, you lifted me
above earth; closer to sky
dropped me on land again!
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The God Blessed Wedding
The driver of our hired Tata Sumo
was enjoying sad songs in Hindi
by letting us to sip the music.
He stopped and got out at Soneprayag
and spoke to a grandma.
A blooming girl with tousled hair
had a stroll out of her house,
casting a glance of gloom on him.
When the car began its course again
towards the Gourikund,
we saw the girl staid on a rock
as a statue drowned in tears.
The driver turned round his face towards her
and slowly curved it back.
I lost my patience and asked him
who she was to tell her tale in tears.
The young driver after a thought
struck up his story:
“I am from the plains
and she is the seraph of these hills.
When I climbed to Kedarnath
on a pony five years back
she was that animal driver
trekking up and down on foot
and trekked into my heart as well.
I vowed to marry her
and take her to the plains.
I have worked hard ever since
to buy the things needed
to set sail in life.
Those in hills are poor
and so I give my wife my dowry
in the wedding fixed next week”.
All the hills rallied round
to wish them the best with us.
The peeping Sun between the peaks,
the rivulets scouring channels
down the high mountains
and Nature green breathing
with its cool sweet breeze
blessed them for a blissful life.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Lush Green Dew - Duncan Wyllie & Ernestine Northover
The lush green dew that rises.
The mist that covers the lawn.
Droplets of water declare.
Dancers that rise in the morn
swirling. The patterns escape
dreamily into the air.
Oceans of clouds hanging, drape,
having not one single care.
Sun rising o’er the garden,
filling each dewdropp with light.
No heart could ever harden
to this beauty in our sight,
of lush green dew that rises.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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