A poem for troubled times

 

Today, as I reflect on the past days and more to come, there is a slight perturbation which stirs my thoughts. But I keep myself going and try motivating myself so that I don't despair. There are some days when my words are sufficient but on other days, there is always poetry.

Here is a poem that I have been going to when thoughts of fear assail:

Everything Is Going To Be Alright, by Derek Mahon

How should I not be glad to contemplate

the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window

and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?

There will be dying, there will be dying,

but there is no need to go into that.

The poems flow from the hand unbidden

and the hidden source is the watchful heart.

The sun rises in spite of everything

and the far cities are beautiful and bright.

I lie here in a riot of sunlight

watching the day break and the clouds flying.

Everything Is Going To Be Alright

Hope this poem lightens your day and brings cheer to you in these grim times.

Take care and stafe (stay safe)

NO TITLE REQUIRED BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

There was a time when I posted poems that I enjoyed reading. I wanted my readers to read those poems as well. Today, after a long time, I present to you a very soulful poem by Wislawa Szymborska, a Polish poet. This poem was brought to my attention by one of my former students. In equal measure she is a lover and writer of wonderful poems. I am glad that I had the privilege of being her teacher. If you have noticed, this poem has been resting in the side-bar of my blog for a very long time. The periphery has taken the center. Hope you enjoy this work of art.

It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
beside a river
on a sunny morning.
It's an insignificant event
and won't go down in history.
It's not battles and pacts,
where motives are scrutinized,
or noteworthy tyrannicides.

And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
And since I'm here
I must have come from somewhere,
and before that
I must have turned up in many other places,
exactly like the conquerors of nations
before setting sail.

Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
its Friday before Saturday,
its May before June.
Its horizons are no less real
than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.

This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
The path leading through the bushes
wasn't beaten last week.
The wind had to blow the clouds here
before it could blow them away.

And though nothing much is going on nearby,
the world is no poorer in details for that.
It's just as grounded, just as definite
as when migrating races held it captive.

Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.

The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
Ants stitching in the grass.
The grass sewn into the ground.
The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.

So it happens that I am and look.
Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
on wings that are its alone,
and a shadow skims through my hands
that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.

When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
that what's important
is more important than what's not.

Sheepish, in awe and the after effects

Have you read a poet's works as a student and then taught the same poet's works to your students AND then met him?

Well, I have done all the three and believe me, it's one memorable experience.

The first time I heard that there was going to be an exchange program to Northern Ireland, the only name that appeared in my mind was SEAMUS HEANEY. Do you know him? Have you read his works?

Today I met him at a book launch. Another being took control of me. That being was awed, acted foolish and felt almost in a dream-like state. The reason: SEAMUS HEANEY.

I have never seen myself go ga-ga like this. Being quite pragmatic and acknowledging any form of celebrity worshipping as nonsense, I could not fathom my behaviour.

I took a photograph with him, got his autograph and came home drunk with the joy of having seen him. Then a million arrows of pragmatism confronted me. I was lost. I was reciting his poems to him. He smiled. I could not answer coherently to his questions. Lost. Standing next to a Nobel Prize winner does not happen everyday.

Sheepish and joyous.