A date in row E ...

by Wendy Cope ...

First Date: He

She said she liked classical music.
I implied I was keen on it too.
Though I don’t often go to a concert,
It wasn’t entirely untrue.
I looked for a suitable concert
And here we are, on our first date.
The traffic was dreadful this evening
And I arrived ten minutes late.
So we haven’t had much time for talking
And I’m a bit nervous. I see
She is totally lost in the music
And quite undistracted by me.
In that dress she is very attractive —
The neckline can’t fail to intrigue.
I mustn’t appear too besotted.
Perhaps she is out of my league.
Where are we? I glance at the programme
But I’ve put my glasses away.
I’d better start paying attention
Or else I’ll have nothing to say.

First Date: She

I said I liked classical music.
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
I hoped he would get the impression
That my brow was acceptably high.
I said I liked classical music.
I mentioned Vivaldi and Bach.
And he asked me along to this concert.
Here we are, sitting in the half-dark.
I was thrilled to be asked to the concert.
I couldn’t decide what to wear.
I hope I look tastefully sexy.
I’ve done what I can with my hair.
Yes, I’m thrilled to be here at this concert.
I couldn’t care less what they play
But I’m trying my hardest to listen
So I’ll have something clever to say.
When I glance at his face it’s a picture
Of rapt concentration. I see
He is totally into this music
And quite undistracted by me.

The sound of white ...

... by Missy Higgins

Like a freeze-dried rose, you will never be,
what you were, what you were to me in memory.
But if I listen to the dark,
you'll embrace me like a star,
envelop me, envelop me ...
If things get real for me down here,
promise to take me to before you went away -
if only for a day.
If things get real for me down here,
promise to take me back to the tune
we played before you went away.

And if I listen to, the sound of white,
sometimes I hear your smile, and breathe your light.
Yeah if I listen to, the sound of white ...
You're my mystery. One mystery. My mystery. One mystery.

My silence solidifies,
until that hollow void erases you,
erases you so I can't feel at all.
But if I never feel again, at least that nothingness
will end the painful dream, of you and me ...
If things get real for me down here, promise to take me to
before you went away, if only for a day.
If things get real for me down here, promise to take me back to
the tune we played before you went away.

I knelt before some strangers face,
I'd never have the courage or belief to trust this place,
But I dropped my head, 'cos it felt like lead,
And I'm sure I felt your fingers through my hair ...

Herman Wouk ...

... wrote this little chapter in Marjorie Morningstar ... there is something beautiful about this chapter, but also heartbreaking ... such lilacs are hard to come by ...

It was an avenue solidly arched and walled with blooming lilacs. The smell, sweet and poignant beyond imagining, saturated the air; it struck her senses with the thrill of music. Water dripped from the massed blooms on Marjorie's upturned face as she walked along the lane hand in hand with Wally. She was not sure what was rain and what was tears in her face. She wanted to look up at lilacs and rolling white clouds and patchy blue sky forever, breathing this sweet air. It seems to her that, whatever ugly illusions existed outside this lane of lilacs, there must be a God, after all, and that He must be good.

She hear Wally say, " I kind of thought you would like it." The voice bought her out of a near-trance. She stopped, turned, and looked at him. He was ugly, and young, and pathetic. He was looking at her with shining eyes.

"Wally, thank you." She put her arms around his neck - he was taller than she, but not much - and kissed him on the mouth. The pleasure of the kiss lay all in expressing her gratitude, and that it did fully and satisfying. It meant nothing else. He held her close while she kissed him, and loosed her the moment she stepped away. He peered at her, his mouth slightly open. He seemed about to say something, but no words came. They were holding each other's hands, and raindrops were dripping on them from the lilacs.

After a moment she uttered a low laugh. "Well, why do you look at me like that? Do I seem so wicked? You've been kissed by a girl before."

Wally said, putting the back of his hand to his forehand, "It doesn't seem so now." He shook his head and laughed. "I'm going to plant lilac lanes all over town." His voice was very hoarse.

"It won't help," she said firmly, putting her arm through his, and starting to walk again, "that was the first one and the last, my lad."

He said nothing. When they reached the end of the lane they turned back, and paced the length of it slowly. Rain dripped on the path with a whispering sound. "It's no use," she said after a while.

"What?"

"It's fading. I guess your nerves can't go on vibrating that way. It's becoming just a lane full of lilacs."

"Then let's leave." Wally quickened his steps, and they were out of the lane and in the bright open air again.

They drove downtown in sunlight along a drying roadway, with the windows open and warm fragrant air eddying into the Buick. "Come up and have lunch," she said when he stopped at her house.

"I have to go straight to the library, Marge. Term paper due Monday. Thanks anyway."

"Thanks for the lilacs, Wally. It was pure heaven."

She opened the door. Suddenly his hand was on her arm. "Maybe not," he said.

"She looked at him. "Maybe not what?"

"Maybe it wasn't the last. The kiss."

With a light laugh, she said, "Wally, darling, don't lose sleep over it. I don't know. Maybe when we find such lilacs again."

He nodded and drove off.

Tulips ...

~ by Sheenagh Pugh is not only beautiful, but pretty much sums up how I feel and what I hope for most of the times ...

The tulips name for your home town
bloomed well for me this May.

The weather was kind to them:
no wind bowed them down,

and though for a long while they lay
under snow, they came through;

they were winners. They did their name
honour; they had shape and class.

They were not unlike you,
without the pain and the weakness

that makes us care so much more
for a man than for a flower.

touching your face ...

with that
silence

it creates
allowing

and
trusting

the allowed;
all that's

been said
and is saying

this time
breath

held
between us

each time
familiar

each time
new

~ by Tom Leonard ... is so fragile ... like the breath being held in mid-air ...

To a stranger ...

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

~ by Walt Whitman

I had a big discussion about "The One" at a dinner the other night and despite what everyone said, I think this poem has lovingly summarised it in an indisputable way ...

The world is a box ...

My heart is a box of affection.
My head is a box of ideas.
My room is a box of protection.
My past is a box full of years.

The future's a box full of after.
An egg is a box full of yolk.
My life is a box full of laughter.
And the world is a box full of folk.
~ Sophie Hannah

Daniel Gilbert ...

"Our ability to love beyond all measure those who try our patience and weary our bones is at once our most noble and most human quality" is definitely an ideal to aspire to but whether it is possible on earth is something debatable ...

Erich Fried ....

"But" can be such a negative word, but not in this poem ...

At first I fell in love
with the brightness of your eyes
with your laugh
with your joy in life

Now I love your weeping too
and your fear of life
and the helplessness
in your eyes

But I will help you
with your fear
for my joy in life
is still the brightness of your eyes


"Without You" is a quite common title, but this poem captures the ambiguity we feel about someone so beautifully ...

Not nothing
without you
but not the same

Not nothing
without you
but perhaps less

Not nothing
but less
and less

Perhaps not nothing
without you
but not much more


"Cancellation" is what I encourage my patients to do ...

Being able to breathe out
one's unhappiness

breathe out deeply
so that one can
breathe in again

And perhaps also being able to speak
one's unhappiness
in words
in real words
which are coherent
and make sense
and which one can
understand oneself
and which perhaps
someone else can understand
or could understand

And being able to try

That again would
almost be
happiness

But "Perhaps" is their way to cope ...

Remembering
that is
perhaps
the most painful way
of forgetting
and perhaps
the kindest way
of easing
this pain

I have often been asked why I love poetry so much, and "One Hour" does explain it all ...

I have spent one hour
correcting
a poem that I have written

One hour
That means: In this time
1400 small children died of starvation
because every 2½ seconds
one child under five starves to death
in our world

Also for one hour
the arms race continued
and 62 million eight hundred thousand dollars
were spent in this one hour
for the protection of various powers
from each other
for the military spendings of the world
at the moment amount to
550 billion dollars per year
Our country also
contributes its mite

The question arises
if it still makes sense
to write poems
with the way things are
It maybe true
that some poems are about
military spendings and war
and starving children
But others are about
love and aging and
meadows and trees and mountains
and also about poems and pictures

If it wasn't also for
all these other things
then nobody really cares
about children and peace either anymore.

What it is

It is nonsense
says Reason
It is what it is
says Love

It is unhappiness
says Caution
It is nothing but pain
says Fear
It is hopeless
says Insight
It is what it is
says Love

It is ridiculous
says Pride
It is careless
says Caution
It is impossible
says Experience
It is what it is
says Love
~ by Erich Fried

I love the reply from Love "It is what it is", as it pretty much sums up everything in life ...

The night is fine and dry ...

The night is fine and dry. It falls and spreads
the cold sky with a million opposites
that, for a moment, seem like a million souls
and soon, none, and then, for what seems a long time,
one. Then of course it spins. What is better to do
than string out over the infinite dead spaces
the ancient beasts and spearmen of the human
mind, and, if not the real ones, new ones?

But, try making them clear to one you love —
whoever is standing by you is one you love
when pinioned by the stars — you will find it quite
impossible, but like her more for thinking
she sees that constellation.

After the wave of pain, you will turn to her
and, in an instant, change the universe
to a sky you were glad you came outside to see.

This is the act of all the descended gods
of every age and creed: to weary of all
that never ends, to take a human hand,
and go back into the house.

~ "Stargazing" by Glyn Maxwell reminds of the sky in Morocco desert ...

Easter Wings ...

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store.
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poore:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne:
And still with sickness and shame
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.
With thee
Let me combine
And feel this day thy victorie:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

~ George Herbert
An utterly incomprehensibly beautiful poem, which encapsulates the meaning of the Cross ...

Robert Frost ...

... said "Happiness makes up in Height for what it lacks in Length" ...

An interesting quote, but I suppose your definition of happiness depends on how readily you go from "what ifs" to "this is it", as acceptance is part of life. Yet, does accepting the knocks in life allow you to be happy or is it contentment?

Sophie Hannah ...

is definitely one of my favourite poets at the moment ... I love the simplicity of her language in linking our emotions to everyday life ...

Something Coming

The pavement shone with news of something coming,
or just with rain. She took it as a warning,
identical to last time - first the humming,
then thunder, then his letter in the morning.

She did her best to see some sort of sense
in all these things, to make them fit together.
At the same time, she laughed at the pretence
that love could be connected to the weather,

which can’t be true, or life would be too frightening
to live. Next time, she swore she’d go to bed
and not stay up to study trends of lightning,
and wonder what, if anything, they said.

Limited

Blank spaces count as characters. It's true.

I wasn't sure. And then I thought of you.

~ is commissioned by the O2, and it is about texting ... Just because a text is not being written, it does not mean that you are not being thought of constantly ...

Missy Higgins ...

... is a singer who I have been listening to a lot recently ...

"The special two" made me hope ...
I've hardly been outside my room in days,
'cause I don't feel that I deserve the sunshine's rays.
The darkness helped until the whiskey wore away,
And it was then I realize the conscience never fades.
When you're young you have this image of your life:
That you'll be scrupulous and one day even make a wife.
And you make boundaries you'd never dream to cross,
And if you happen to you wake completely lost.
But I will fight for you, be sure that
I will fight until we're the special two once again.

And we will only need each other, we'll bleed together,
Our hands will not be taught to hold another's,
When we're the special two.
And we could only see each other, we'll bleed together,
These arms will not be taught to need another,
'Cause we were the special two.

I remember someone old once said to me:
"That lies will lock you up with truth the only key."
But I was comfortable and warm inside my shell,
And couldn't see this place would soon become my hell.
So is it better to tell and hurt or lie to save their face?
Well I guess the answer is don't do it in the first place.
I know I'm not deserving of your trust from you right now,
But if by chance you change your mind you know I will not let you down
'cause we were the special two, and we'll be again.

And we will only need each other, we'll bleed together,
Our hands will not be taught to hold another's,
When we're the special two.
And we can only see each other we'll breathe together,
These arms will not be taught to need another...
'cause we're the special two.

I step outside my mind's eye's for a minute.
And I look over me like a doctor looking for disease,
Or something that could ease the pain.
But nothing cures the hurt you, you bring on by yourself,
Just remembering, just remembering how we were...

When we would only need each other, we'd bleed together,
Our hands would not be taught to hold another's,
We were the special two.
And we could only see each other, we'd bleed together,
These arms would not be taught to need another,
'Cause we're the special two.

... whereas "Where I stood" made me understand ...
I don't know what I've done
Or if I like what I've begun
But something told me to run
And honey you know me it's all or none

There were sounds in my head
Little voices whispering
That I should go and this should end
Oh and I found myself listening

'Cos I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cos she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood

See I thought love was black and white
That it was wrong or it was right
But you ain't leaving without a fight
And I think I am just as torn inside

'Cos I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cos she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood

And I won't be far from where you are if ever you should call
You meant more to me than anyone I ever loved at all
But you taught me how to trust myself and so I say to you
This is what I have to do

'Cos I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cos she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood
Oh, she who dares to stand where I stood

The Reassurance ...

... by Thom Gunn ...

About ten days or so
After we saw you dead
You came back in a dream.
I'm all right now you said.

And it was you, although
You were fleshed out again:
You hugged us all round then,
And gave your welcoming beam.

How like you to be kind,
Seeking to reassure.
And, yes, how like my mind
To make itself secure.

Prayer ...

... by Carol Ann Duffy ...

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre

~ Rockall, Malin, Dogger, Finisterre refer to shipping forecast ... I absolutely adore this poem ~ the idea of something more divine being at work, when you are at a loss, not knowing where to turn, when to think, what to pray, how to dream ...

Miracles ...

... do indeed happen, if we would only believe in them and maybe, just allow our eyes to gaze into the world with a sense of wonder ... This morning, one of my patients who hasn't smiled for days and days gave me a smile on her way to ECT ... she still has a long long way to go, and lots of issues to resolve, but she is a step closer ...

Miracles

Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

Asking you ...

Asking you ...
to pause,
to turn back,
to remember the touch,
to hold me once again.

Is that ...
too much,
too demanding,
too uncertain,
too catastrophic?

Leaving me ...
in pain,
in falling rain,
in an unstoppable train,
in a trance of longing.

Leaving and Leaving You ...

by Sophie Hannah

When I leave you postcode and your commuting station,
When I left undone all the things we planned to do
You may feel you have been left by association
But there is leaving and leaving you.

When I leave your town and the club that you belong to,
When I leave without much warning or much regret,
Remember, there's doing wrong and there's doing wrong to
You, which I'll never do and I haven't yet,

And when I have gone, remember that in weighing
Everything up, from love to a cheaper rent,
You were all the reasons I thought of staying,
And none of the reasons why I went

And although I leave your sight and I leave your setting,
And our separation is soon to be a fact,
Though you stand beside what I'm leaving and forgetting,
I'm not leaving you, not if motive makes the act.

~ this poem is just unbearablely ambivalent and beautiful ...

Glow ...

... by Thomas Baines

I remember it by the way your look touches me.
So clear.
No words are needed in the silences that hush the world away from here.
Hold on to this memory,
keep it locked inside.

I'll wait for you if you want me to.
I want your grow in me.
Cause I need you like I used to
and I bleed inside just for you.

I will not forget as the sun rises to the red.
I've been wrong.
Cause you exude the right whitest light that shimmers over me,
come switch it on.
Come and refresh this memory,
Light me up inside.

Wait for you ... wait for you ...

Tides ...

The evening advances, then withdraws again
Leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor.
We are drifting, you and I,
As far from another as the young heroes
Of these two novels we have just laid down.
For that is happiness: to wander alone
Surrounded by the same moon, whose tides remind us of ourselves,
Our distances, and what we leave behind.
The lamp left on, the curtains letting in the light.
These things were promises. No doubt we will come back to them.

~ Hugo Williams

I am not sure about the last line ... but I do love the picture it creates ...

Lemn Sissy ...

... is a poet I came across at the National Portrait Gallery the other day, and he wrote the following poem beside his portrait ...

"You remind me,
Define me,
Incline me,
If you died
I'd."

An intensively beautiful poem for a grey-sky-but-the-sun-may-still-come-out day ...

Ludwig Wittgenstein once said ...

... The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.

I am not sure if that is true, as there is often so much in this world which cannot be described by words or sounds, but maybe if something is to be shared, then language will be the limit of that experience ...

At Night ...

...

We are apart; the city grows quiet between us,
She hushes herself, for midnight makes heavy her eyes,
The tangle of traffic is ended, the cars are empty,
Five streets divide us, and on them the moonlight lies.

Oh are you asleep, or lying awake, my lover?
Open your dreams to my love and your heart to my words.
I send you my thoughts--the air between us is laden,
My thoughts fly in at your window, a flock of wild birds.

~ by Sara Teasdale

This poem captures the sense of closeness, even when one is apart ... and "My thoughts fly in at your window, a flock of wild birds" is something which cannot be replaced by modern technology ...

Sara Teasdale ...

...does express all types of emotions in such a simple way ...

I shall bury my weary Love
Beneath a tree,
In the forest tall and black
Where none can see.

I shall put no flowers at his head,
Nor stone at his feet,
For the mouth I loved so much
Was bittersweet.

I shall go no more to his grave,
For the woods are cold.
I shall gather as much of joy
As my hands can hold.

I shall stay all day in the sun
Where the wide winds blow,
But oh, I shall weep at night
When none will know.

I'll take you there ...

Chapter 21

The way out. To show the fly the way out of the bottle was the life's hope of Ludwig Wittgenstein but the truth is that human begins don't want a way out of the bottle; we are captivated, enthralled by the interior of the bottle; its glassy sides caress and console us; its glassy sides are the perimeters of our experience and our aspiration; the bottle is our skin, our soul; we're accustomed to the visual distortions of the glass; we would not wish to see clearly, without the barrier of the glass; we could not breathe a fresher air; we could not survive outside the bottle.

Or tell ourselves, in the glassy-echoing language of the bottle, that this is so.
~ by Joyce Carol Oates

I do wonder if we all have such bottles in our lives and if it is so devastating if one does not wish to have a way out ... It all depends on what we place our Hope in ...

Sonnet XLIV

You must know that I do not love and that I love you,
because everything alive has its two sides;
a word is one wing of the silence,
fire has its cold half.

I love you in order to begin to love you,
to start infinity again
and never to stop loving you:
that's why I do not love you yet.

I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held
keys in my hand: to a future of joy -
a wretched, muddled fate -

My love has two lives, in order to love you:
that's why I love you when I do not love you,
and also why I love you when I do.

- Pablo Neruda

... a poem I read last year, and I could not understand it until this weekend ... I think part of the anguish of this weekend can be explained by this poem - the conflicts of loving someone, the joys one experiences, the pains one encounters ... and one can become so so lost ...

But I also learnt something even more amazing this weekend ... the idea of to surrender, to trust ... all that you have to God ... so that He can comprehend, ponder, plan for you ...

The prayer ...

... by Celine Dion (she may not be my favourite singer, but I do like the first few lines from this song) ...

I pray you'll be our eyes,
and watch us where we go
And help us to be wise,
in times when we don't know
Let this be our prayer,
when we lose our way
Lead us to a place,
guide us with your grace
To a place where we'll be safe.

I pray we'll find your light
And hold it in our hearts
When stars go out each night
Let this be our prayer
When shadows fill our day
Lead us to a place
Guide us with your grace
Give us faith so we'll be safe

We ask that life be kind
And watch us from above
We hope each soul will find
Another soul to love
Let this be our prayer
Let this be our prayer
Just like every child
Just like every child

When we two are parted ..

...

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

~ Lord Byron

Good enough ...

... by Sarah McLachlan ...

Hey your glass is empty
it's a hell of a long way home
why don't you let me take you
it's no good to go alone
I never would have opened up
but you seemed so real to me
after all the bullshit I've heard
it's refreshing not to see
I don't have to pretend
she doesn't expect it from me

Don't tell me I haven't been good to you
don't tell me I have never been there for you
don't tell me why
nothing is good enough

Hey little girl would you like some candy
your momma said that it's OK
The door is open come on outside
no I can't come out today
it's not the wind that cracked your shoulder
and threw you to the ground
who's there that makes you so afraid
you're shaken to the bone
and I don't understand
you deserve so much more than this

So don't tell me why
he's never been good to you
don't tell me why
he's never been there for you
don't you know that why
is simply not good enough
so just let me try
and I will be good to you
just let me try
and I will be there for you
I'll show you why
you're so much more than good enough...

Tennessee Williams ...

... pretty much sums up how I feel at the moment ... "There is a time for departure even when there's no certain place to go."

Longing ...

... by Matthew Arnold

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth;
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say: My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day

When I am dead, my dearest ...

... by Christina Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget

I love the line - "Be the green grass above me with showers and dewdrops wet" ....

A Little fall of rain ...

... from Les Miserables ...

EPONINE
Don't you fret, M'sieur Marius
I don't feel any pain
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt me now
You're here, that's all I need to know
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
And rain will make the flowers grow.

MARIUS
But you will live, 'Ponine - dear God above,
If I could heal your wounds with words of love.

EPONINE
Just hold me now, and let it be.
Shelter me, comfort me

MARIUS
You would live a hundred years
If I could show you how
I won't desert you now...

EPONINE
The rain can't hurt me now
This rain will wash away what's past
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
I'll sleep in your embrace at last.

The rain that brings you here
Is Heaven-blessed!
The skies begin to clear
And I'm at rest
A breath away from where you are
I've come home from so far

So don't you fret, M'sieur Marius
I don't feel any pain
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt me now
That's all I need to know
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close

MARIUS (in counterpoint)
Hush-a-bye, dear Eponine,
You won't feel any pain
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt you now
I'm here
I will stay with you
Till you are sleeping

EPONINE
And rain...

MARIUS
And rain...

EPONINE
Will make the flowers...

MARIUS
Will make the flowers... grow...

... was my favourite song from the musical when I was 15, and still is now ...

A moment to remember ...

... by Alexander Pushkin may just answer the question asked ...

A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To vain the pursuits world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents,
Long did I your features haunt my dreams.

Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.

In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me
No one to cry for, live for, love.

Then came a moment of reinessance,
I looked up - you again are there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

A question ...

... by Robert Frost

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

... does ask an interesting question, but I sincerely do think (or maybe wish to believe) that the scars we do have, the burdens we do carry, somehow make us appreciate the stars in the sky more ...

Keeping Christmas ...

"A Short Christmas Sermon" ... by Henry Van Dyke ...

ROMANS, xiv, 6: ~ He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord.

It is a good thing to observe Christmas day. The mere marking of times and seasons, when men agree to stop work and make merry together, is a wise and wholesome custom. It helps one to feel the supremacy of the common life over the individual life. It reminds a man to set his own little watch, now and then, by the great clock of humanity which runs on sun time.

But there is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.

Are you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your fellow-men are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe,and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

But you can never keep it alone.

(I love this sermon when I read it back in August, but I will like to add a verse to its ending ~ “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible" (Matthew 19: 16) ... Have a lovely Christmas as we reflect on God's amazing gift to all mankind on this Christmas Day ...)

Come here ...

... a lovely song from Kath Bloom, played in an even more amazing film ~ "Before sunrise" ...

There's wind that blows in from the north.
And it says that loving takes this course.
Come here. Come here.
No I'm not impossible to touch I have never wanted you so much.
Come here. Come here.
Have I never laid down by your side.
Baby, let's forget about this pride.
Come here. Come here.
Well I'm in no hurry. Don't have to run away this time.
I know you're timid.
But it's gonna be all right this time.

camomile tea ...

... is the tea of choice for one of my favourite people on the earth ... and Katherine Mansfield has written a poem on it ... I love the picture this poem draws and it reminds me so much of him ...

Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.

Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,
The tap is dripping peacefully;
The saucepan shadows on the wall
Are black and round and plain to see.

Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her ...

... by Christopher Brennan

If questioning would make us wise
No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;
If all our tale were told in speech
No mouths would wander each to each.

Were spirits free from mortal mesh
And love not bound in hearts of flesh
No aching breasts would yearn to meet
And find their ecstasy complete.

For who is there that lives and knows
The secret powers by which he grows?
Were knowledge all, what were our need
To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?

Then seek not, sweet, the "If" and "Why"
I love you now until I die.
For I must love because I live
And life in me is what you give.

~ is a pretty intense poem, but I love the first and final lines ... I once heard a talk about love, in that instead of saying "I love you because of what you have done, or for whom you are, or if you will ...", we can instead just love with no reason or condition attached ... As to if it is really possible in this earth, I am not sure, but "So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love" (1 Cor 13:13).

Butterfly Laughter ...

... by Katherine Mansfield is a lovely little poem, reminding you of the importance of those precious, little things in life ... we do tend to overcomplicate the various aspects of our lives, and somehow, it is so easy to lose sight of what is important ... Soemtimes, we all just need to be still, and try to remember the blue butterfly in our lives ...

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: "Do not eat the poor
butterfly."
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother's lap.

Confession

by Frantisek Halas ...

Touched by all that love is
I draw closer toward you
Saddened by all that love is
I run from you

Surprised by all that love is
I remain alert in stillness
Hurt by all that love is
I yearn for tenderness

Defeated by all that love is
at the truthful mouth of the night
Forsaken by all that love is
I will grow toward you.


- This poem does summarise the spectrum of fears/doubts/longings/joys/pains/hopes one experiences/sees in love, but we still draw toward it, for it is the answer to our souls ...

Nobody knows ...

... is a song by Pink ...

"Nobody knows
Nobody knows but me
That I sometimes cry
If I could pretend that I'm asleep
When my tears start to fall
I peek out from behind these walls
I think nobody knows
Nobody knows no

Nobody likes
Nobody likes to lose their inner voice
The one I used to hear before my life
Made a choice
But I think nobody knows
No no
Nobody knows
No

Baby
Oh the secret's safe with me
There's nowhere else in the world that I could ever be
And baby don't it feel like I'm all alone
Who's gonna be there after the last angel has flown
And I've lost my way back home
I think nobody knows no
I said nobody knows
Nobody cares

It's win or lose not how you play the game
And the road to darkness has a way
Of always knowing my name
But I think nobody knows
No no
Nobody knows no no no no

Baby
Oh the secret's safe with me
There's nowhere else in the world that I could ever be
And baby don't it feel like I'm all alone
Who's gonna be there after the last angel has flown
And I've lost my way back home
And oh no no no no
Nobody knows
No no no no no no

Tomorrow I'll be there my friend
I'll wake up and start all over again
When everybody else is gone
No no no

Nobody knows
Nobody knows the rhythem of my heart
The way I do when I'm lying in the dark
And the world is asleep
I think nobody knows
Nobody knows
Nobody knows but me
Me"

But somebody does ... if you would only believe ...

Would you notice when I am gone?

... is a question which each of us asks ourselves at some points in our lives ... this is a story of someone who died without anyone knowing ...

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/the_way_we_live/article2334698.ece

but there are people who do care, as shown in the article. Sometimes, we just have to look a bit deeper, to hold onto them a bit longer, to allow them to be a bit closer ... otherwise, we will live in a world where we are utterly alone ...

being adopted as adults ...

... is an article written by Ariel Leve in The Times ... its concept is probably very silly, but it does raise some interesting questions, and somehow, it seems like a good idea for my memory clinic ... it will be good for my patients if they are visited by their "families" every now and then ... families can be so mis-matched, but I suppose that is what makes them special in a strange kinda way ...

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/ariel_leve/article5113682.ece

change ...

... is something which we all aspire to, as shown in the recent election in America. I have been reading "Germinal" by Emile Zola, and the following paragraphs strike a chord. We all want justice, but can it really be achieved on earth? Can Mr Obama really carry the hope of so many people on his shoulders, without disappointing some? Can we forsake the world that is to come?

~
"What a crazy idea!" said the young man. "Do you need a damn God and his paradise to make you happy? Can't you make your own happiness on earth all by yourself?"

He talked on endlessly, in increasingly passionate tones. And suddenly, the bolts locking the horizon burst open to let a gleam of light break through and illuminate the grim lives of these poor people. The endless chain of poverty, the brutish labour, the bestial life they led, first shorn of their fleeces and then led to the slaughter, all this suffering disappeared, as if a great blaze of sunshine had swept it away; and in a dazzling, magical vision, justice descended from heaven. Since God himself was dead, it would be justice which would now ensure the happiness of men, by opening up a kingdom of equality and fraternity. Just like in fairy-tales, a new society would grow up overnight, a great city, shimmering like a mirage, where each citizen would fulfill his appointed duties and take his part in the community of joy. The rotten old world would crumble to dust, a new young breed of humanity purged of its crimes would form a single, united race of workers , who would have for their motto; to each according to his worth, and each one's worth to be judged according to his efforts. And the dream grew continually vaster and finer, all the more seductive for riding higher and higher into the realms of impossible fantasy.

At first La Mahreude refused to listen, for she was seized with a vague feeling of panic. No, really, it was too fantastic, you shouldn't get carried away by such ideas, for they made life even more revolting afterwards, and then you would kill anyone who got in your way, just to be happy. When she noticed the anxious gleam in Maheu's eyes, she grew worried, seeing him so carried away, and cried out, interrupting Etienne:

"Don't you listen, my dear? Can't you see he's telling us fairy-tales? ... D'you think the bourgeoisie will ever agree to work as hard as we do?"

But little by little the charm started to work on her too. She finally started to smile as her imagination was aroused, tempting her to enter this marvellous world of hope. It was so sweet to forget the pain of reality, if only for an hour! When you live like an animal, with your nose to the grindstone, you need at least a little pocket of lies, so that you can enjoy gloating over things you can never possess. And what really excited her, what made her agree with the young man, was the idea of justice.

"You're right there!" she cried. "For me, once something's just, I will go to hell for it ... And it's true, it would be only justice for us to have fun for a change."

Then Maheu felt able to let himself go.

"In the name of all that's holy! I'm not a rich man, but I'd certainly give a hundred sous not to die before I've seen all that ... What's an upset, eh? Will it happen soon, and how are we going to do it?"

Etienne started talking again. The old society was falling apart, for, he affirmed outright, it couldn't last more than a few months longer. As for the means of putting it into practice, he seemed to be less sure of himself, confusing his sources and, given the ignorance o his audience, feeling no scruples at launching into explanations where he himself was out of his depth. All the systems he knew of went into his maw, smoothed over by his certainty of an easy triumph, of a universal embrace which would put an end to the misunderstandings between the classes; apart from the ill will of one or two individual bosses or bourgeois who might perhaps have to be made to see reason. And the Maheus appeared to understand and approve, accepting this miraculous solutions with the blind faith of converts, like the early Christians at the beginning of the Church who awaited the emergence of a perfect society out of the very compost of the ancient world. Little Alzire hung on every world, imagining happiness as a vision of a very warm house where the children would play all the time and eat as much as they wanted to. Catherine sat transfixed, still holding her chin in her hands. staring at Etienne, and where he fell silent, she shivered slightly, as if she suddenly felt cold.

But La Maheude looked at the cuckoo clock.

"Past nine o'clock, what are we thinking of! We'll never get up in the morning."

And the Maheus left the table, feeling sick at the hart, and near to despair. They had suddenly felt as if they were going to be rich, and now they fell back with a crash into the mire. Old Bonnemort, who was leaving for the pit, complained that that sort of story didn't make the soup taste any better; while the others went upstairs one by one, suddenly noticing the damp on the walls and the foul, fetid air. Upstairs, once Catherine, who was last into bed, had blown out the candle, Etienne heard her tossing and turning feverishly in the midst of the silent and slumbering village before she was able to sleep.

~ by Emile Zola, translated by Peter Collier

Courage ...

~ by Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
comver your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

~ I am not entirely sure how I feel about this poem, but I like the way she describes sorrow, especially given the poetess' history of depression and multiple attempts of suicides ... I think writing such a hopeful poem requires a great deal of courage in itself ...

nothing ...

~ by James Fenton

I take a jewel from a junk shop tray
And wish I had a love to buy it for.
Nothing I choose will make you turn my way.
Nothing I give will make you love me more.

I know that I've embarrassed you too long
And I'm ashamed to linger at your door.
Whatever I embark on will be wrong.
Nothing I do will make you love me more.

I cannot work. I cannot read or write.
How can I frame a letter to implore?
Eloquence is a lie. The truth is trite.
Nothing I say will make you love me more.

So I replace the jewel in the tray
And laughingly pretend I'm far too poor.
Nothing I give, nothing I do or say,
Nothing I am will make you love me more.

... reminds me a little of the poem "Flowers" by Wendy Cope, although they are different in their approaches, as "Nothing" is far more negative in tone ... but it does make you wonder what will happen if they just reach out a little ...

The Blower's Daughter ...

... by Damien Rice is the opening song in "Closer" ~ a film which just breaks your heart and stays with you for a long time after watching it ... This song sums up the film beautifully; the sense of loss, the hopelessness, the uncertainties of life, the loose ends which we hold onto so desperately, while they drift away in the wind, forever disappearing from our clasps ... maybe sometimes, it is only in losing when you learn its true meaning ...

"And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her skies

I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial

I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?

I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you...
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new"

The Embrace ...

You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.

I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out--at work maybe?--
having a good day, almost energetic.

We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative

by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?

So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you--warm brown tea--we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.

Bless you. You came back, so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.

~ Mark Doty

Forgetfulness ...

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
~ Billy Collins

I have sat through a few memory clinics recently, and dementia is extremely hard to deal with, but I love the way the poet embraces it with such open arms, associating the moon with a love poem long forgotten, but never long lost ...

From: Parnell to Queenie ...

Paris......

I have no pictures of you now
I didn't keep the few you left me:
notes...a handful of scraps...
fraying to powder at the edges
fading
on the age-stained folds.
But you are always before me
like that apt word on the tip of the tongue
that doesn't come
--a certain expression on faces
that turn the inquisitive head
....where did I see that before?
on whom?
Your voice with one woman,
your walk with another
...the flurry of an entrance
...the hat askew
your neck before me, your back,
you hands raising a cup.
You are vanishing
bit by bit
like broken glass smoothed
in the roll of the sea.

And I thought...isn't it the same
with the relics of the saints,
a tooth here,
this one's clothes, that one's handkerchief, yet another's pen.

And then I realised that I'm a relic of you,
my hair you ran your fingers through
my lips where you laid your mouth.

You didn't fall with the white flakes of your letters
I tore up on the Pont Neuf.
The river didn't swallow you along with them.
You last while I do.

~ by Padraig O Snodaigh
From the Irish, trans. by Gabriel Fitzmaurice

What a beautiful poem ... talking about the love that is never lost, despite its physical realities, because "you last while I do". It does express a different sentiments to "if you forget me" ... but both poems are equally loving in its own way ...

Love is a many-splendored thing ...

Love is a many splendored thing
It's the April rose that only grows in the early spring
Love is nature's way of giving a reason to be living
The golden crown that makes a man a king
Once on a high and windy hill
In the morning mist two lovers kissed and the world stood still
Then your fingers touched my silent heart and taught it how to sing
Yes, true love's a many splendored thing

~ a song by Four Aces

What am I to you ...

What am I to you
Tell me darling true
To me you are the sea
Fast as you can be
And deep the shade of blue

When you're feeling low
To whom else do you go
See I cry if you hurt
I'd give you my last shirt
Because I love you so

If my sky should fall
Would you even call
Opened up my heart
I never want to part
I'm giving you the ball

When I look in your eyes
I can feel the butterflies
I love you when you're blue
Tell me darlin' true
What am I to you

Yeah well if my sky should fall
Would you even call
Opened up my heart
Never wanna part
I'm giving you the ball

When I look in your eyes
I can feel the butterflies
Could you find a love in me
Could you carve me in a tree
Don't fill my heart with lies

I will you love when you're blue
Tell me darlin' true
What am I to you
What am I to you
What am I to you

~ Norah Jones

Again and again ...

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

The life that I have ...

The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours

The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours.

~ Leo Marks
It is believed that Leo wrote this poem about his girlfriend, Ruth, who was killed in an air crash. What an amazingly loving poem ...

I am very bothered ...

I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.

O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.

Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.

~ Simon Armitage

This is one of my favourite poems when I was at school ... it is amazing to have found it again now ...

Coat ...

Sometimes I have wanted
to throw you off
like a heavy coat.

Sometimes I have said
you would not let me
breathe or move.

But now that I am free
to choose light clothes
or none at all

I feel the cold
and all the time I think
how warm it used to be.
~ Vicki Feaver

i carry your heart with me ...

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
~ e e cummings

flowers ...

i shall imagine life
is not worth dying,if
(and when) roses complain
their beauties are in vain

but though mankind persuades
itself that every weed's
a rose,roses (you feel
certain) will only smile

~ e e cummings

~~

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

~ e e cummings

He and She ...

Should one of us remember,
And one of us forget,
I wish I knew what each will do–
But who can tell as yet?

Should one of us remember,
And one of us forget,
I promise you what I will do–
And I’m content to wait for you,
And not be sure as yet.

~ Christina Rossetti

LXXXIX

When I die, I want your hands on my eyes:
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands
to pass their freshness over me once more:
I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny.


I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.
I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you
to sniff the sea's aroma that we loved together,
to continue to walk on the sand we walk on.


I want what I love to continue to live,
and you whom I love and sang above everything else
to continue to flourish, full-flowered:


so that you can reach everything my love directs you to,
so that my shadow can travel along in your hair,
so that everything can learn the reason for my song.
~ Pablo Neruda

Echo ....

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the sparkling silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.
~ Christina Rossetti

For Jane ...

a very tender poem by by Charles Bukowski

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

Alexander Pushkin ...

(translated by R. Mainwaring-Hewitt) ...

I loved you; even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know,
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.

If I could but forget ...

... Paul Laurence Dunbar

If I could but forget
The fullness of those first sweet days,
When you burst sun-like thro' the haze
Of unacquaintance, on my sight,
And made the wet, gray day seem bright
While clouds themselves grew fair to see.
And since, no day is gray or wet
But all the scene comes back to me,
If I could but forget.

If I could but forget
How your dusk eyes look into mine,
And how I thrilled as with strong wine
Beneath your touch; while sped amain
The quickened stream thro' ev'ry vein;
How near my breath fell to a gasp,
When for a space our fingers met
In one electric vibrant clasp,
If I could but forget.

If I could but forget
The months of passion and of pain,
And all that followed in their train--
Rebellious thoughts that would arise,
Rebellious tears that dimmed mine eyes,
The prayers that I might set love's fire
Aflame within your bosom yet--
The death at last of that desire--
If I could but forget.

Alone with Everybody ...

~ Charles Bukowski

"the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

Anonymous submission."

Persuasion ...

... by Jane Austen, is the first book she wrote, but the last one to be published. Like many of the main characters in her books, Captain Wentworth corrected all wrongs with a letter ...

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F.W."

Soon afterwards, they "proceeding together; and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow".

Novels create the second chances which are often denied to us in life ...

A wish ...

... by Christina Rossetti

I wish I were a little bird
That out of sight doth soar;
I wish I were a song once heard
But often pondered o'er,
Or shadow of a lily stirred
By wind upon the floor,
Or echo of a loving word
Worth all that went before,
Or memory of a hope deferred
That springs again no more.

Absence ...

... by Elizabeth Jennings

I visited the place where we last met.
Nothing was changed, the gardens were well-tended,
The fountains sprayed their usual steady jet;
There was no sign that anything had ended
And nothing to instruct me to forget.

The thoughtless birds that shook out of the trees,
Singing an ecstasy I could not share,
Played cunning in my thoughts. Surely in these
Pleasures there could not be a pain to bear
Or any discord shake the level breeze.

It was because the place was just the same
That made your absence seem a savage force,
For under all the gentleness there came
An earthquake tremor: Fountain, birds and grass
Were shaken by my thinking of your name.

Your laughter ...

... by Pablo Neruda ...

Take breath away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lanceflower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in your joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

if you forget me ...

... by Pablo Neruda ...

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

~ an utterly awesome poem. Maybe it is a realistic way of looking at love, but does "my love feeds on your love" means that it is conditional? Or is letting go a more mature way of loving someone? Maybe there is an extensive to how much you can love someone alone ...

chasing pavement ...

... by Adele ...

I've made up my mind,
Don't need to think it over,
If i'm wrong I am right,
No need to look no further,
This ain't lust,
I know this is love.

But,
If i tell the world,
I'll never say enough,
Cause it was not said to you,
And thats exactly what i need to do,
If i'm in love with you.

Should I give up,
Or should I just keep chasing pavements?
Even if it leads nowhere,
Or would it be a waste?
Even If i knew my place,
should i leave it there?

I'd build myself up,
And fly around in circles,
Wait then as my heart drops,
and my back begins to tingle
finally could this be it ...

Should i give up,
Or should i just keep chasing pavements?
Even if it leads nowhere,
Or would it be a waste?
Even If i knew my place,
should i leave it there?

But beautiful ...

... a song by Carmen McRae ... I read the lyrics from a book, but was unable to find the song ...

Love is funny or it's sad
Or it's quiet or it's mad,
It's a good thing or it's bad -
But beautiful.

Beautiful to take a chance
And if you fall you fall
And I'm thinking I wouldn't mind at all
Love is tearful or it's gay
It's a problem or it's play
It's heartache either way -
But beautiful.

And I'm thinking if you were mine
I'd never let you go
And that would be but beautiful
I know.

Letting go ...

... is probably one of the hardest things to do ... something out of reach, like a shining star. Part of you feels that if only you can master it, the whole universe is in your hand ...

It can be a person, a patient, a place, a job, a memory ... sometimes, in the process of letting go, you discover some long forgotten places; maybe the star is still 10 millions light years away, but you have experienced the coolness of a summer night in catching it ...

... letting go means trusting it in a more capable hands than yours, and ultimately, in God's ...

What I miss about you ...

... by Katie Meula

Missing the train every morning at 8:52,
Sipping coffee from the same cup as you.
The sharing of secrets we thought no one else knew,
That's what I miss about you.

The new way that love had made me see,
Your bashful grin when you asked if I would like your key.
The knowing way you used to caress me,
That's what I miss about you.

You stole in with your starry smile exciting me,
Driving with you in your new car, feeling free.
If it's true that love is blind, then I was blind willingly,
You made me feel we had a future, that could be and would be.

The way you said I'd be no one on my own,
Your habit of soaking yourself in over-priced cologne.
The way you turned the light out when I knew you were home,
That's what I don't miss about you.

I bet you're using your weary magic like it's new,
Driving so fast with a new fool beside you.
Presumably believing she's the last of the lucky few,
I wonder if she knows she's being lied to like I do.

The way I only doubted myself when I was with you,
Like I was a fool for expecting something from life too.
Your skill of putting me down in-front of everyone we knew,
That's what I don't miss about you

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night ...

by Dylan Thomas ...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Interpretation

Somewhere within your loving look I sense,
Without the least intention to deceive,
Without suspicion, without evidence,
Somewhere within your heart the heart to leave.
~ Vikram Seth

Variation on the theme love ...

... an interesting interpretation by Margaret Atwood, as you would expect ...

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.

cry, the beloved country ...

... is one of those books which should be read at some points of one's life ... it is a simple story, about a man's journey to find his lost son. Along the way, he found other souls to save, and he experienced some mind-blowing kindness, transcending the difference in beliefs, races, principles, social statuses, leading to forgiveness and compassion in a lost world.

A great book about a simple man with his struggles with his own selfishness and self-righteousness, leading to the ultimate forgiveness and repetence ...

Valentine ....

... by Carol Ann Duffy ... a little dark, but a most interesting metaphor ...

"Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife".

Colorblind ...

... by Counting Crows

I am colorblind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside
I am ready
I am taffy stuck and tongue tied
Stutter shook and uptight
Pull me out from inside
I am ready
I am fine

I am covered in skin
No one gets to come in
Pull me out from inside
I am folded and unfolded and unfolding
I am colorblind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside
I am ready
I am fine

Not love perhaps ...

~ by A. S. J. Tessimond

This is not Love, perhaps,
Love that lays down its life,
that many waters cannot quench,
nor the floods drown,
But something written in lighter ink,
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.

A need, at times, to be together and talk,
And then the finding we can walk
More firmly through dark narrow places,
And meet more easily nightmare faces;
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand,
And then find Earth less like an alien land;
A need for alliance to defeat
The whisperers at the corner of the street.

A need for inns on roads, islands in seas,
Halts for discoveries to be shared,
Maps checked, notes compared;
A need, at times, of each for each,
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.

Elizabeth Bishop ...

... is a poet who I came across the other day in an anthology ...

One art ~
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.


Insomnia ~
The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.

Once ...

... a musical for our time ...

Say it to me now ~
"I'm scratching at the surface now
And I'm trying hard to work it out
So much has gone misunderstood
This mystery only leads to doubt
And I didn't understand
When you reached out to take my hand
And if you have something to say
You'd better say it now

Cause this is what you've waited for
Your chance to even up the score
And as these shadows fall on me now
I will win somehow

Cause I'm picking up a message Lord
And I'm closer than I've ever been before
So if you have something to say
Say it to me now ..."

If you want me ~
"Are you really here or am I dreaming
I can’t tell dreams from truth
For it’s been so long since I have seen you
I can hardly remember your face anymore
When I get really lonely and the distance calls its only silence
I think of you smiling with pride in your eyes a lover that sighs

If you want me, satisfy me

Are you really sure that you believe me
When others say I lie
I wonder if you could ever despise me
You know I really try
To be a better one
to satisfy you
for you’re everything to me
And I do what you ask me
If you let me be free"

When your mind is made up ~
"So
If you ever want something
You call, call
And I'll come running
to fight
And I'll be at your door
And there's nothing worth running for

When your mind is made up
There's no point trying to change it
When your mind is made up
There's no point trying to stop it

You see, you're just like everyone
When the s*** falls
All you want to do is run away
And hide all by yourself
When there's fall, fall
There's nothing else

When your mind is made up
There's no point trying to change it
When your mind is made up
There's no point even talkin'
When your mind is made up
There's no point trying to fight it ..."

A&E ...

... is what I have spent the last two and a half month doing and to be honest, it is not my favourite department/subject on earth ... the work itself can be tedious (with about an interesting-rate of 1/10), the staffs can be difficult (some are absolutely amazing though), the hours are just plain awful (all those evenings at the department, seeing only the moon) ... I sometimes wonder why I choose to be a clerking machine for 4 months ...

Then, on Friday, we had a stimulation day (where plastic robot acts like patient) and for once, I actually know how to deal with an acutely ill patient. My technique is still pretty poor (I am never going to be a vascular surgeon) but I somehow managed to absorb some knowledge about patient management (and not only when they have psychiatric problems or falls or being confused or generally unwell - yep, I am sent to see such cases all the time).

So maybe, just maybe, these four months are not wasted. Somehow, in the midst of the repetitiveness, I have learnt something ... Maybe there is some goodness to be found among the mundanes ...

The Lives of Others ...

... (German: Das Leben der Anderen) is probably one of the best films I have seen for a long long time ... Watching the lives of those around you, with the ability to affect their densities ~ Will one try to do good? Will one seize the possibility, without guarantee of success? Will love for mankind triumph over national pride? Can one do the right thing, even if one has gone down the wrong path for so long?

There has been a lot of arguments about "The Lives of Others" as some critics felt that it is not reflective of what happened in Eastern Germany with the Stasi force. There has been no documented case of Stasi operative trying to save their subjects. Yet, this is where the beauty of the film lies ... It allows one to believe in the goodness of humankind, even in the darkest of place ...

"Remembering Maria A" by Brecht was read during the film and summarises the possibility of holding onto something good:

"It was a day in that blue month September
Silent beneath the plum trees' slender shade
I held her there
My love, so pale and silent
As if she were a dream that must not fade

Above us in the shining summer heaven
There was a cloud my eyes dwelled long upon
It was quite white and very high above us
Then I looked up
And found that it had gone

And since that day, so many moons in silence
Have swum across the sky and gone below
The plum trees surely have been chopped for firewood
And if you ask, how does that love seem now
I must admit, I really can't remember
And yet I know what you are trying to say
But what her face was like, I know no longer
I only know I kissed it on that day

As for the kiss, I long ago forgot it
But for the cloud that floated in the sky
I know that still and shall forever know it
It was quite white and moved in very high
It may be that the plum trees still are blooming
That woman's seventh child may now be there
And yet that cloud had only bloomed for minutes
When I looked up
It vanished on the air"

Goodbyes ...

... are probably one of the hardest things to say, especially after you have spent an intense weekend with a group of people who you dearly love but do not see often, due to the geographical distances, various commitments, the general busyness of life ... Such weekends always remind me of the scene in "Snoopy, Come Home", in which Charlie Brown said the following wise words, while looking at the abandoned dog-house of Snoopy:

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like, and just stay together forever. Someone would leave. Someone would always leave, and then we have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. You know what I need? I need more 'hellos'."

I wonder why too ... maybe that is the answer to our sadness sometimes ...

Life's unexpected ...

... is always around the corner, waiting to make itself known ... sometimes, it is hard to know how to react, when it drops by to say hello. January has passed in such a flash with job application and random A&E shifts, but I will always remember the miscarriage I witnessed on a cold winter night ... the unexpectedness of the situation, the anguish of the mother, my inability to face the pain, the helplessness we both felt ...

I thought that with times, I will grow stronger as a doctor and be able to face with what life throws at us, as we are constantly witnessing pain, illness, devastation, disappointment, death at first hand ... In a callous way, A&E has hardened my heart, as sometimes it is tough to love some of the patients we see ...

Yet, whenever I am struggling with such emotions, I will encounter a case which makes me genuinely care again. The pain is sometimes harder to bear, but as Mother Teresa said: “I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love.”

The unbearable lightness of being ...

... is a book by Milan Kundera. It's involves 4 characters, with Czech modern history as a background, and a lot of philosophical rambling. It has many awesome ideas in the book (and some not-so-great ones). I particularly like the following paragraphs;

"We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under.

The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. That is the case with the German singer, the American actress, and even the tall, stooped editor with the big chin ...

The second category is made up of people who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. They are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners. They are happier than the people in the first category, who, whey they lose their public, have the feeling that the lights have gone out in the room of their lives. This happens to nearly all of them sooner or later. People in the second category, on the other hand, can always come up with the eyes they need ...

Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. One day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark ...

And finally, there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers. Franz, for example. He travelled to the borders of Cambodia only for Sabina. As the bus bumped along the Thai road, he could feel her eyes fixed on him in a long stare."

This is a fairly interesting way of looking at people, and in many ways, it is true ... the eyes are personalification of what is important in their lives ... The first category can represent power/wealth/being known, which is similar to the second category, except in the scale and the "controllability" of the eyes. The third group is love (in its various forms, be it the flickering love of a lover, the adoring gaze of a child, the approving nod of a parent), whereas the last group consists of those unknowns which we hold dear; the lost love, the One, the never-ending possibilities, God ...

Do people metaphoresis from one category to another, because of the changing nature of their beliefs and the harsh experience of life?

India ...

... is definitely one of the most fascinating countries I have ever visited ... it was just so different; the people (always smiling, no matter what they are facing), the crowdiness (I will always remember the Sunday market outside Jama Masjid), the slowness (my sister called it "Indian Stretch Time"), the chaos (you do as they say, not by the rules), the randomness (haggling involves asking for 50% off original price --> walking away --> the shopkeeper calling you back and selling it at your price but with 50 rupees extra --> more head shaking --> deal closed), the poverty (a child offered to jump into a crazy waterfall for 50 rupees: 60p), the sense of hope (they will knock and knock on a car window for some changes), the sense of desperation (homes made out of cupboards, sheets of fabric) ...

It does have some awesome architectures (Taj Mahal, Agar Fort, Hawa Mahal, Humayan Tomb etc), interesting history (Mughal emperors, Hindi kings, British Indian Company, Gandhi, Pakistan), a certain degree of religious tolerance (from an outsider's point of view, although I have no doubt that it is debatable), exotic food (way tooooo spicy for me, but prawn curry at United Coffee House is awesome!), creative modes of transports (I have been on an elephant, a camel, a horse, a rickshaws, an auto, a very slow slow moving train, a bumpy 40 seats plane) and the most amazing massage ever (although it did involve a lot of flours and hot oils?!?!?)

I have also observed my own family in close quarter (I have not spent more than 5 days with my family in one go since 2003), got to know my brother-in-law, learned a tremendous amount about myself and having my habits and views challenged.

Rabindranath Tagore wrote a poem on Taj Mahal ~

"You know Shah Jahan,
life and youth, wealth and glory,
they all drift away in the current of time.
You strove therefore, to perpetuate only the sorrow of your heart
... Let the splendour of diamond, pearl and ruby vanish,
... Only let this one tear-drop,
this Taj Mahal glisten spotlessly bright
on the cheek of Time for ever and ever.
.... Oh king, you sought to harm time
with the magic of beauty and weave garland
that would blind formless death with deathless form...
This mausoleum stands still and unmoving in its place."