POEM FOR FRIENDS

my mother at sixty six by kamala das DRIVING FROM MY PARENT'S HOME TO COCHIN LAST FRIDAY MORNING, I SAW MY MOTHER, BESIDE ME, DOZE, OPEN MOUTHED, HER FACE ASHEN LIKE THAT OF A CORPSE AND REALISED WITH PAIN THAT SHE WAS AS OLD AS SHE LOOKED BUT SOON PUT THAT THOUGHT AWAY, AND LOOKED OUT AT YOUNG TREES SPRINTING, THE MERRY CHILDREN SPILLING OUT OF THEIR HOMES, BUT AFTER THE AIRPORT SECURITY CHECK, STANDING A FEW YARDS AWAY, I LOOKED AGAIN AT HER , WAN , PALE AS A LATE WINTER'S MOOON AND FELT THAT OLD FAMILIAR ACHE, MY CHILDHOOD'S FEAR , BUT ALL I SAID WAS , SEE YOU SOON , AMMA , ALL I DID WAS SMILE AND SMILE AND SMILE... . ABOUT THE POET KAMALA DAS (1934) WAS BORN IN MALABAR, KERALA. SHE IS RECOGNISED AS ONE OF INDIA'S FOREMOST POETS. HER WORKS ARE KNOWN FOR THEIR ORIGINALITY, VERSATILITY AND THE INDIGENOUS FLAVOUR OF THE SOIL. KAMALA DAS HAS PUBLISHED MANY NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES IN ENGLISH AND MALAYALAM UNDER THE NAME 'MADHAVIKUTTY'. SOME OF HER WORKS IN ENGLIS

THE COLOURS OF THE SEA LOOKS TO FADE AWAY. THE HUES OF THE EVENING CLOUD LOOKS LESS BRIGHT EVERY DAY. IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE NONE OF THEM STANDS TALL COMPARED TO YOUR RADIANCE EVEN THE SUN FEELS SO  SMALL GOOD NIGHT  

The moon has a face like the clock in the hall; She shines on thieves on the garden wall, On streets and fields and harbour quays, And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, The howling dog by the door of the house, The bat that lies in bed at noon, All love to be out by the light of the moon. But all of the things that belong to the day Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way; And flowers and children close their eyes Till up in the morning the sun shall arise. Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-moon-by-robert-louis-stevenson

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast In a field I looked into going past, And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it - it is theirs. All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent-spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is, that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it will be less - A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express. They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars - on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. Poem Source: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/desert-places/ DESERT PLACE POEM EXPLANATION In the first stanza, Snow and Night is covering The field very fast. It was that field  he used to play during past. The ground was to be Completely covered With snow in few upcoming moments. But, some weeds could be show

A tree's leaves may be ever so good, So may its bar, so may its wood; But unless you put the right thing to its root It never will show much flower or fruit. But I may be one who does not care Ever to have tree bloom or bear. Leaves for smooth and bark for rough, Leaves and bark may be tree enough. Some giant trees have bloom so small They might as well have none at all. Late in life I have come on fern. Now lichens are due to have their turn. I bade men tell me which in brief, Which is fairer, flower or leaf. They did not have the wit to say, Leaves by night and flowers by day. Leaves and bar, leaves and bark, To lean against and hear in the dark. Petals I may have once pursued. Leaves are all my darker mood. source: https://allpoetry.com/Leaves-Compared-With-Flowers ANALYSIS The Poet is saying that a tree leaves,  Woods, bar may live good for long time without  Decomposition. But it will not give fruits  And flowers until we provide right food to Its root. But the poet does not c

  There was never a sound beside the wood but one, And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound— And that was why it whispered and did not speak. It was no dream of the gift of idle hours, Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows, Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers (Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake. The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows. My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.  source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53001/mowing-56d231eca88cd

He gave the solid rail a hateful kick. From far away there came an answering tick And then another tick. He knew the code: His hate had roused an engine up the road. He wished when he had had the track alone He had attacked it with a club or stone And bent some rail wide open like switch So as to wreck the engine in the ditch. Too late though, now, he had himself to thank. Its click was rising to a nearer clank. Here it came breasting like a horse in skirts. (He stood well back for fear of scalding squirts.) Then for a moment all there was was size Confusion and a roar that drowned the cries He raised against the gods in the machine. Then once again the sandbank lay serene. The traveler’s eye picked up a turtle train, between the dotted feet a streak of tail, And followed it to where he made out vague But certain signs of buried turtle’s egg; And probing with one finger not too rough, He found suspicious sand, and sure enough, The pocket of a

  The west was getting out of gold, The breath of air had died of cold, When shoeing home across the white, I thought I saw a bird alight.   In summer when I passed the place I had to stop and lift my face; A bird with an angelic gift Was singing in it sweet and swift.   No bird was singing in it now. A single leaf was on a bough, And that was all there was to see In going twice around the tree.   From my advantage on a hill I judged that such a crystal chill Was only adding frost to snow As gilt to gold that wouldn’t show.   A brush had left a crooked stroke Of what was either cloud or smoke From north to south across the blue; A piercing little star was through.

  The land was ours before we were the land’s. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England’s, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become. source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53013/the-gift-outright    

  The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside him in her apron To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life

      Lovers, forget your love,     And list to the love of these,     She a window flower,     And he a winter breeze.     When the frosty window veil     Was melted down at noon,     And the cagèd yellow bird     Hung over her in tune,     He marked her through the pane,     He could not help but mark,     And only passed her by,     To come again at dark.     He was a winter wind,     Concerned with ice and snow,     Dead weeds and unmated birds,     And little of love could know.     But he sighed upon the sill,     He gave the sash a shake,     As witness all within     Who lay that night awake.     Perchance he half prevailed     To win her for the flight     From the firelit looking-glass     And warm stove-window light.     But the flower leaned aside     And thought of naught to say,     And morning found the breeze     A hundred miles away. source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44263/fire-and-ice

  Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44263/fire-and-ice

  You'll wait a long, long time for anything much To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves. The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch, Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud. The planets seem to interfere in their curves But nothing ever happens, no harm is done. We may as well go patiently on with our life, And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane. It is true the longest drout will end in rain, The longest peace in China will end in strife. Still it wouldn't reward the watcher to stay awake In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break On his particular time and personal sight. That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night.

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With