Pebble

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

– Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

– Zbigniew Herbert
Translated by Peter Dale Scott and Czeslaw Milosz.

Submitted by Hema.

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Published:
June 22, 2010 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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The Borderland

King of Death, your fatal messenger came to me
Suddenly from your durbar. He took me to your vast courtyard.
My eyes saw darkness; I did not see the invisible light
In the depths and layers of your darkness, the light
That is the source of the universe; my vision
Was clouded by my own darkness. That a great hymn
To light should swell from the inmost cavern of my being
And reach to the realm of light at the edge of creation –
That was why you sent for me. I sang,
Aiming in my melody to bring to the theatre of physical
Existence the poetic glory of the spirit.
But my vina could not play the music of destruction,
Could not compose a raga of silent wrath;
My heart could not engender a serene image of the terrible.
And so you sent me back. The day will come
When my poetry, silently failing like a ripened fruit
From the weight of its fullness of joy,
Shall be offered up to eternity. And then at last
I shall pay you in full, finish my journey, meet your call.

– Rabindranath Tagore

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Published:
June 21, 2010 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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A Note

Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings;
to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain from everything it’s not;
to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes.
An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off;
and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another,
mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.

– Wislawa Szymborska

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Published:
June 20, 2010 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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