Does That Lazy Rainy Afternoon Visit You !

Lalitya Lalit

Author of 7 poetry collections, Lalitya Lalit (Born : 27 January 1970) is an Indian poet and Satirist who writes in Hindi. His original name is Dr. Lalit Kishor Mandora. He has written widely for neoliterates. At present, He is working as Assistant Editor (Hindi) with National Book Trust and lives in New Delhi. Today is his birthday! Wishing happy birthday to lalitya lalit and presenting some poems translated by Om Gupta : Being Poet        

1.

There are people
and
People
who will deceive you
innocently,
and you will never know
it includes
men
and women too.

2.

It is easy to fool them
they are everywhere
in every city
but they are not all same
How does it matter
Change their names
They will look different
but they will think the same
Yes, did you hear me?

3.

Can I do something for you?
Driving license
School admission?
Operation?
Long queues of the helpless
Sad people
unhappy people
they will keep on standing
it is their destiny
you will always find them there.

4.

The shirkers
Deceiving themselves
Never learn
New things
Dark well frogs,
Playing cards in
government offices
drunkards
reach late
every night
Thrash wife, kids
Claim ethics
Duffers
Sharkari babus.

5.

It was raining.
but the postman came, with your letter.
it smelt of my village.
I could feel those tender moments.
I burst at the seams.
by god, you left nothing for imagination—
“Reach office on time,
Eat lunch on time.
Beware of those fashionable hookers,
How much you care of me,
Or maybe you care of yourself!”
Does that lazy rainy afternoon visit you—
On the eve of our marriage. When Gainda aunty gave
Sattu and Choorrma meshed Laddoos
to you and to me,
and we ate them together.
You had brought them,
hidden in your odhni,
I can still smell them
in your letter.
Do you remember when Bittoo was born?
The whole village had sweets
Amma, Bappa danced with me,
I shared sweets at factory.
Slowly, steadily, carefully,
Lo and behold, Bittoo is ten.
How is Bimla?
Does she talk about me?
I am worried about her.
Village is no more safe
And girls grow up fast,
so sad, Puran kaka is no more!
And Hari nambardar also left us
I want to come their!
Hope I can
This city kills me every moment
Doesn’t give time and space
Even Hari coldn’t come when his baba died
Because the show must go on.
I am sad at it!
Qutab Minar often calls me.
You can’t fool me, are you listening?
Beware of the city?
Do a good job.
Remember, the boss is always right.
I want you to be happy.
Don’t came by train.
I am scared of the bombs and blasts.
That Mandi blast is still alive and kicking in my mind
Lali’s bhojai’s yellow blouse
Don’t forget.
And sweater for bittoo.
And of course odhini for Bimla
is getting long
Just come!
Last word
Come babu, come
Don’t come in kurta pyjama
Last month he was here
Kajri’s woh
He looked a hero.
Smart, dashing, dazziling
Please come in pants and shirt
And don’t forget to wear shoes
And where is that twisted cap
You looks like ‘Raj’ in that
My words have finished.
Your wife
Jamuna Devi
Near Kali Mandir 
Village and Post Office—Dhondhsa
Distt.—Aligarh, UP    

Happy Birthday Joyce Kilmer !

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

Today is the birthday of an American writer and poet Alfred Joyce Kilmer (06 December 1886 – 30 July 1918), mainly remembered for a short poem titled "Trees" (1913), which was published in the collection Trees and Other Poems in 1914. Though a prolific poet whose works celebrated the common beauty of the natural world as well as his Roman Catholic religious faith, Kilmer was also a journalist, literary critic, lecturer, and editor. While most of his works are largely unknown, a select few of his poems remain popular and are published frequently in anthologies. At the time of his deployment to Europe during World War I (1914–1918), Kilmer was considered the leading American Roman Catholic poet and lecturer of his generation, whom critics often compared to British contemporaries G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936) and Hilaire Belloc (1870–1953). He enlisted in the New York National Guard and was deployed to France with the 69th Infantry Regiment (the famous "Fighting 69th") in 1917. He was killed by sniper's bullet at the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918 at the age of 31. He was married to Aline Murray, who later became a poet and author in her own right, with whom he had five children. Presenting some poems : Being Poet

Easter

The air is like a butterfly
With frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky
And sings.

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Love's Lantern

(For Aline)

Because the road was steep and long
And through a dark and lonely land,
God set upon my lips a song
And put a lantern in my hand.

Through miles on weary miles of night
That stretch relentless in my way
My lantern burns serene and white,
An unexhausted cup of day.

O golden lights and lights like wine,
How dim your boasted splendors are.
Behold this little lamp of mine;
It is more starlike than a star!

As Winds That Blow Against A Star

(For Aline)

Now by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
And feet that shod in light should dance
Walk weary and laborious ways?

But rays from Heaven, white and whole,
May penetrate the gloom of earth;
And tears but nourish, in your soul,
The glory of celestial mirth.

The darts of toil and sorrow, sent
Against your peaceful beauty, are
As foolish and as impotent
As winds that blow against a star.

Alarm Clocks

When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm
Across green fields and yellow hills of hay
The little twittering birds laugh in his way
And poise triumphant on his shining arm.
He bears a sword of flame but not to harm
The wakened life that feels his quickening sway
And barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!"
Take by his grace a new and alien charm.

But in the city, like a wounded thing
That limps to cover from the angry chase,
He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,
And wanly mock his young and shameful face;
And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring
In many a high and dreary sleeping place.

Citizen of the World

No longer of Him be it said
"He hath no place to lay His head."

In every land a constant lamp
Flames by His small and mighty camp.

There is no strange and distant place
That is not gladdened by His face.

And every nation kneels to hail
The Splendour shining through Its veil.

Cloistered beside the shouting street,
Silent, He calls me to His feet.

Imprisoned for His love of me
He makes my spirit greatly free.

And through my lips that uttered sin
The King of Glory enters in.

Madness

(For Sara Teasdale)

The lonely farm, the crowded street,
The palace and the slum,
Give welcome to my silent feet
As, bearing gifts, I come.

Last night a beggar crouched alone,
A ragged helpless thing;
I set him on a moonbeam throne --
Today he is a king.

Last night a king in orb and crown
Held court with splendid cheer;
Today he tears his purple gown
And moans and shrieks in fear.

Not iron bars, nor flashing spears,
Not land, nor sky, nor sea,
Nor love's artillery of tears
Can keep mine own from me.

Serene, unchanging, ever fair,
I smile with secret mirth
And in a net of mine own hair
I swing the captive earth.

Easter Week

1 "Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
2 It's with O'Leary in the grave."
3 Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn
4 A hue so radiantly brave?

5 There was a rain of blood that day,
6 Red rain in gay blue April weather.
7 It blessed the earth till it gave birth
8 To valour thick as blooms of heather.

9 Romantic Ireland never dies!
10 O'Leary lies in fertile ground,
11 And songs and spears throughout the years
12 Rise up where patriot graves are found.

13 Immortal patriots newly dead
14 And ye that bled in bygone years,
15 What banners rise before your eyes?
16 What is the tune that greets your ears?

17 The young Republic's banners smile
18 For many a mile where troops convene.
19 O'Connell street is loudly sweet
20 With strains of Wearing of the Green.

21 The soil of Ireland throbs and glows
22 With life that knows the hour is here
23 To strike again like Irishmen
24 For that which Irishmen hold dear.

25 Lord Edward leaves his resting place
26 And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce.
27 See Emmet leap from troubled sleep
28 To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!

29 There is no rope can strangle song
30 And not for long death takes his toll.
31 No prison bars can dim the stars
32 Nor quicklime eat the living soul.

33 Romantic Ireland is not old.
34 For years untold her youth shall shine.
35 Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,
36 The blood of martyrs is her wine.