Make Me a Sheep, O God by Laxmi Prasad Devkota

Dead tired I am, O God !
Make me a sheep, please.

This house of mine, a sword of Damocles
This bane of thinking
This sin of knowing
This heart-burning judgment of conscience
The three kinds of worries that I may fall into
This show of rising higher
This curse of bearing responsibility !

No ! No ! I so not want the magnificent pomp !
Let all the accounts be cleared after death !
Sweet and carefree !
Give me a beast's irresponsibility !
O God !Life without a spade but not the curse of labor,
The sweet thing is but to crunch the self growing grass !
Why the eighty-four types of dishes?
Why the tongue artificialised?
Why the ears artificialised?
Why so many perfumes for a dirty nose?
Why the sculpture-writer Vedavyas and a number of works like Shukabahattari fancy false?Why the hard labor of ignorance deep?
Why the yoking of the body?
So much of tears and cries- all of no use !
So much of shrieks of laughters for the change !
Why such a great deception over the flaming funeral pyre ?
Why playing on so many strings?

Listen to me !
Let the strong sufiet as they like;
but knowledge should not belong to me
A true hermit is the sheep.
the natural taste being the green,
The bleating may not blaspheme the virtues of god
Singing the praise in taste,
may not the cloth be woven;C
loth may not be woven;
let it be grown all over the body.
Let me fight with my horns.
Let there be no spiritual fight.
Let time glide smoothly !
Let there be no universal scorching-
the atomic destruction of the atheist.
Let me not make the false and sophisticated wisdom soar,
So that the queer future may give a string !
Let not the devil sit on my horns
As the symbol of knowledge.
Let me not dabble at the trap of civilization;
Let me not soar higher leaving the reality behind.
Let not my soul fall towards the ideals.
Let not the false strings play sweeter songs than "Ba ! Ba !"
Let me love the lamb.
I need only paternal feelings, O Lord
This is all I want.
No matter If he dies. It is up to the wish of my Lord !
Worry I won't- let not my breast dry till he lives,
Until his body becomes full.Or the grass becomes hard
And he does not become able to eat by himself
And no doctor is to be called.
Let my soul, inclined towards terrible black art,
never take speed.
Let not jump to the void like a sage.
Or with an artificial imagination.
Let me not create distorted magic of variegated colors out of magic-less truth
Let me not become a Brahmin to live on dirty water washing away other's sin;
Let me not advance my feet towards Hell,
being fully conscious of sins as the virtuous persons.
Let me not reform in order to expose this world.
Let me not patch up the old and tattered things.
Let me lit the light of life,Like the simple beautiful and un-beautiful light of Nature,
When dyingLet me reach higher up than the sage,
And to the heaven, than the Brahmin,To the abode of bliss than the pious,
Let me not point out a defect !Let me have divine animality,
O Providence,
Be kind to me and seize me quickly !Come !
Please !Make me a sheep right now.

He has fallen from the black clouds
and is living in the shadows.
Do we see a god in him,
or do we see a beggar?

- Laxmi Prasad Devkota

Oh yes, friend ! I'm crazy-that's just the way I am.

Oh yes, friend ! I'm crazy-that's just the way I am.

I see sounds,
I hear sights,
I taste smells,
I touch not heaven but things from the underworld,
things people do not believe exist,
whose shapes the world does not suspect.
Stones I see as flowers,
lying water-smothered by the water's edge,
rocks of tender formsin the moonlight
when the heavenly sorceress smiles at me,
putting out leaves, softening, glistening,throbbing,
they rise up like mute maniacs,like flowers,
a kind of moon-bird's flowers.
I talk to them the way they talk to me,
a language, friend,that can't be written or printed or spoken,
can't be understood, can't be heard.
Their language comes in ripples to the moonlit Ganges banks,
ripple by ripple..Oh yes, friend ! I am crazy-that's just the way I am.

You're clever,
quick with words,
your exact equations are right forever and forever.
But in my arithmetic take one from one...
and there's still one left.
You get along with five senses,
I with a sixth.You have a brain, friend,I have a heart.
A rose is just a rose to you...to me it's Helen and Padmaini.
You are forceful prose,I liquid verse.
When you freeze I melt,
when you're clear I get muddled and then it works the other way round.
Your world is solid,mine vapor,yours coarse, mine subtle.
You think a stone reality;harsh cruelty is real for you.
I try to catch a dream,
the way you grasp the rounded truth of cold, sweet coin.
I have the sharpness of the thorn,
You think the hills are mute...
I call them eloquent.Oh yes, friend !I'm free in my inebriation-that's just the way I am.

In the cold of the month of Magh
I sat warming to the first white heat of the star.
The world called me drifty.
When they saw me staring blankly for seven days
after I came back form the burning ghats
they said I was a spook.
When I saw the first marks of the snows of time in a beautiful woman's hair
I wept for three days.
When the Buddha touched my soul
they said I was raving.
They called me a lunatic
because I danced when I heard the first spring cuckoo.
One dead-quite moon night breathless
I leapt to my feet,filled with the pain of destruction.
On that occasion the fool sput me in the stocks.
One day I sang with the storm...
the wisemen sent me off to Ranchi.
Realizing that same day, I myself would die
I stretched out on my bed.
A friend came along and pinched me hard and said,
Hey, madman,your flesh isn't dead yet !
For years these things went on.I'm crazy, friend-that's just the way I am.

I called the Nawab's wine blood,
the painted whore a corpse,
and the ding a pauper.
I attacked Alexander with insults,
and denounced the so-called great souls.
The lowly I have raised on the bridge of praiseto
the seventh heaven.
Your learned pundit is my great fool,
your gold my iron,friend !
your piety my sin.
Where you see yourself as brilliant
I find you a dolt.Your rise, friend-my decline.
that's the way our values are mixed up,friend!
Your whole world is a hair to me.
Oh yes, friend, I'm moonstruck through and through-moonstruck!
That's just the way I am.

I see the blind man as the people's guide,
the ascetic in his cave a deserter;
those who act in the theater of lies
I see as dark buffoons.
Those who fail I find successful,
and progress only backsliding.
Am I squint-eyed,or just crazy?Friend, I'm crazy.
Look at the withered tongues of shameless leaders,
the dance of the whore
sat breaking the backbone of the people's rights.
When the sparrow-headed newsprint spreads its black
liesin a web of falsehood to challenge Rason-
the hero in myself-my cheeks turn red, friend,
red as molten coal.
When simple people drink dark poison
with their ears thinking it nectar-
and right before my eyes, friend !-
then every hair on me maddened !
When I see the tiger daring to eat the deer, friend,
or the big fish the little,then into my rotten bones
there comes the terrible strength of the soul of Dadhichi
and tries to speak, friend,
like the stormy day crashing down from heaven
with the lightning.
When man regards a manas not a man, friend,
then my teeth grind together,
all thirty-two,top and bottom jaws,
like the teeth of Bhimasena.
And then red with rage my eyeballs rollround and round,
with one sweep like a lashing flame taking in this inhuman human world.
My organs leap out of their frames-uproar ! uproar !
My breathing becomes a storm,my face distorted,
my brain on fire, friend !
with a fire like those that burn beneath the sea,
like the fire that devours the forests,frenzied, friend !
as one who would swallow the wide world raw.
Oh yes, my friend,
the beautiful chakora am I,destroyer of the ugly,
both tender and cruel,
the bird that steals the heaven's fire,
child of the tempest,spew of the insane volcano,
terror incarnate.Oh yes, friend,my brain is whirling, whirling-that's just the way I am.

Fear No More by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

All the World's a Stage by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

A Ballad of the Two Knights by Sara Teasdale (1884 - 1933)

Two knights rode forth at early dawn
A-seeking maids to wed,
Said one, "My lady must be fair,
With gold hair on her head."

Then spake the other knight-at-arms:
"I care not for her face,
But she I love must be a dove
For purity and grace."

And each knight blew upon his horn
And went his separate way,
And each knight found a lady-love
Before the fall of day.

But she was brown who should have had
The shining yellow hair --
I ween the knights forgot their words
Or else they ceased to care.

For he who wanted purity
Brought home a wanton wild,
And when each saw the other knight
I ween that each knight smiled.

"Elegy" by Ambrose Bierce(1842-1914)

The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.

Little Birds by Lewis Carroll(1832-1898)

Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.

Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.

Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!

Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.

Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.

Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"

Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!

Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.

Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.

Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.

a SHOUTING poem by Michael Shepherd

This is a SHOUTING poem.
Not a gentle wildflower poem
not a whispering-of-love poem
A SHOUTING POEM.

This is a POSTER poem.
Not a subtly persuading poem.
not a think-about-it poem
A POSTER POEM

This is a HARD OF HEARING poem.
A what?
I said a HARD OF HEARING POEM

This is a LOST SPECTACLES poem
to test your sight.
No no not LAST TESTICLES
no try the next line - -
A LOST SPECTACLES POEM
now where did I put them

This is a HAVE YOU SEEN MY? poem.
I know I put it down somewhere.
Are you sure you haven't seen it?
Oh no, you didn't use it for THAT...?
Why are you laughing it's not funny.
I hadn't even finished it...

This is an ACROSS THE ROOM poem.
Read it while you're in bed
watching TV
doing the ironing
reading the newspapers
putting the new wallpaper up
combing the cat
having a bath
washing the car
talking to the neighbours
gardening
this is an ACROSS THE ROOM POEM

This is a BLOWN ACROSS THE STREET POEM
no need to run after it
and pick it up
just watch it blow
maybe wonder
if you missed anything

Mind by Michael Shepherd (8.4.1929 / Marton, Lancashire)

and mind might ask,
why then are brain cells gray? Is it
because the world is just
so wonderful, that they, stunned
and amazed, cannot decide
which colour to praise first?
(Mix all the colours of the paints,
and the result is gray.)

or is it because they feel themselves
so dull in comparison
with the miracle which is creation,
the miracle they (miracles themselves) , faithful, serve?
(Mix all the colours of the spectrum,
and the result is white.)

or is it, because they know
their work lies between ultimates
such as (do they themselves
call them this?) black,
and white? do they know
their work is equity –
to balance all things, so that gray is not gray
as we use gray for worldly metaphor; but

the gray of lakes at peace;
of silver that lives in itself,
needing no sun but its own innerness;
mercury that is moved but longs
to be united in a perfect sphere;
gray of clouds that know
the blessings that they hold;

and, the shining gray of mind -
for which gray hair is living metaphor,
the wisdom which life holds in store for you -
as how many poets, this moment round the world,
are joining new electric paths of thought between
these tiny, great gray worm-like cells which hide, compact,
their vast and inner space which spins out eager words
of metaphor, for that so nameless,
boundless, dazzling spectrum,
the radiant space of self?

Similes, Metaphors and stuff by Michael Shepherd

Isn’t it strange, this thing called
Poetry – and even stranger, these things
called similes and metaphors, which are
the very essence of what poetry
uses to try to get to us?

Look! Over there, in that field! Did you
see it?
No, what?
A hare! Never seen one before! It’s
hiding in the grass now – there! It’s jumped up again!
watch it bounce up and down as it runs,
must have strong hind legs,
isn’t it funny? So fast, too – our dog will never catch it…

No I still didn’t see it, I was watching that beautiful
perfect V-formation of wild geese against the blue sky
over there, I wonder where they came from,
where they’re going? And does
their leader know and lead them, or
do they all know and they're
all on the same goosy wave-length and
they must be cleverer than us then,
how do they do that...?
You missed them, they're
out of sight now, so
we'll never know...I guess our dog
barking, set them off…

And so, our mind – that lively, scatty, playful, faithful dog,
chasing hares which catch our idling attention,
chasing wild geese which are out of reach,
barking up the wrong tree,
seeking with a wagging tail
the beautiful, elusive good;

Or, like Swami Vivekananda describes,
mind as monkey – restless, vain, vindictive,
agile, watchful, quick to move,
never quite at rest – and worse,
intoxicated, selfish, full of pride; and
worse again – cunning, drunken, angry,
inventing enemies in its divided mind –

Similes for one thing like another,
metaphors for situations which
connect in depth of mind like
crossword clues which finally
illuminate – ah yes, now I see
what it’s getting at…and
we're into a world of enchantment where
the word makes all Creation one, and new...

Like parables, they take us deeper, subtly
tease the mind, and then dart round and past it
like wingers on the football field
thrilling our attention, their joyous goal
touching our heart with the adventure and
pointing it towards a boundless love

similes, metaphors, homely proverbs, parables –
more difficult than thinking, easier than thought,

magic

Michael Shepherd

A meeting in a Part by Wendell Berry

In a dream I meet
my dead friend. He has,
I know, gone long and far,
and yet he is the same
for the dead are changeless.
They grow no older.
It is I who have changed,
grown strange to what I was.
Yet I, the changed one,
ask: "How you been?"
He grins and looks at me.
"I been eating peaches
off some mighty fine trees."

tentacles of time by Kabir(1398 - 1518)

Oh Sadhu This is the Village of the Dead

The Saints Have Died, The God-Messengers Die
The Life-Filled Yogis Die Too |
The Kings Die, The Subjects Die
The Healers and the Sick Die Too ||

The Moon Dies, The Sun Dies
The Earth and Sky Die Too |
Even the Caretakers of the Fourteen Worlds Die
Why Hope For Any of These ||

The Nine Die, The Ten Die
The Eighty Eight Die Easily Too |
The Thirty Three Crore Devatas Die
It's a Big Game of Time ||

The Un-Named Naam Lives Without Any End
There is No Other Truth ||
Says Kabir Listen Oh Sadhu
Don't Get Lost and Die ||

illusion and reality- kabir(1398-1518)

What is seen is not the Truth
What is cannot be said
Trust comes not without seeing
Nor understanding without words
The wise comprehends with knowledge
To the ignorant it is but a wonder
Some worship the formless God
Some worship His various forms
In what way He is beyond these attributes
Only the Knower knows
That music cannot be written
How can then be the notes
Says Kabir, awareness alone will overcome illusion

If by Rudyard Kipling(1865-1936)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Fight by Laurel Blossom

That is the difference between me and you.
You pack an umbrella, #30 sun goo
And a red flannel shirt. That's not what I do.

I put the top down as soon as we arrive.
The temperature's trying to pass fifty-five.
I'm freezing but at least I'm alive.

Nothing on earth can diminish my glee.
This is Florida, Florida, land of euphoria,
Florida in the highest degree.

You dig in the garden. I swim in the pool.
I like to wear cotton. You like to wear wool.
You're always hot. I'm usually cool.

You want to get married. I want to be free.
You don't seem to mind that we disagree.
And that is the difference between you and me.