Poetry Fest - Day 2

 Day Two poetry fest ... on this auspicious Kojagori night I share with you a poem on the full moon. The full moon has been a constant in human history, yet its significance has changed over time ... once considered a goddess, the moon has lost its enchantment.

~ Full Moon ~
A poem by Robert Hayden

No longer throne of a goddess to whom we pray,
no longer the bubble house of childhood's
tumbling Mother Goose man,

The emphatic moon ascends --
the brilliant challenger of rocket experts,
the white hope of communications men.

Some I love who are dead
were watchers of the moon and knew its lore;
planted seeds, trimmed their hair,

Pierced their ears for gold hoop earrings
as it waxed or waned.
It shines tonight upon their graves.

And burned in the garden of Gethsemane,
its light made holy by the dazzling tears
with which it mingled.

And spread its radiance on the exile's path
of Him who was The Glorious One,
its light made holy by His holiness.

Already a mooted goal and tomorrow perhaps
an arms base, a livid sector,
the full moon dominates the dark.

Poetry Fest - Day 1

I share with you a poem that has pleasant associations for me. This poem was in my I.C.S.E. Syllabus years ago !! 

~ Ballad of a River ~
A poem by Patrick Fernando

Dawn fires the surface into gold,
Gold-eyed the herons stilt and stalk.
At silver noon the waters hold
Wheelings of a mirrored hawk.

I've not seen water lie so still
As here. Perhaps an otter may
Disturb its peace, or white-cranes till
The green edge, wading tall-knee-deep.

In gusts of wind, a faint wood hum
Plucked leaves and broken petals dance,
The wind departs, the wood is dumb,
And floating yellows gather brown.

To think up to a mile ago
This river bounded like a hound,
Convulsed and nearly wrecked our boat,
And lies here gentle as a pond !

A rich practical man I'm told
Demanded, why this idleness?
He got no answer and compelled
The river into harness.

Like frightened birds the minutes fled
Pursued by roaring steel and fire.
The river slaved and profits grew
To almost overtake desire.

Until, they say, one windy night,
In deepest vigils of the owl,
The river rose and foaming white
Descended like a murderer.

At dawn the waters shone restored
The wreckage stood like blasted rocks
Round which the burnished mirror showed
Artistry of a wild brown hawk.