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we open our mouth to sing a song....but with helplessness the song turns into a scream--that is life.
we open our mouth to scream out of helplessness ...but mysteriously the scream turns into a song --that is poetry.

KINGCUPS
SACHEVERELL SITWELL

When poetry walked the live,spring wood,
Hid ,ghostlike,in the leaves' green hood,
She came to a slant fence of sun,
Whose golden timbers,one by one,
Trod into a marsh's toils,
And here she stayed her flowery spoils;
But pitying the marsh's plight
She shook her lap,and wide and bright
Great kingcups to that waste she threw
Where nothing lived,and nothing grew
Now,where poetry passed.there stays
The light of suns,the fire of days,
And these cups for the kings to hold
Make summer with their wide-eyed gold


To a Hero Worshipper
(Sri Aurobindo)

Mine is not Byron's lightning spear
Nor Wordsworth's lucid strain
Nor Shelley's lyric pain
Nor Keats' the poet without peer
I by the Indian waters vast
Did glimpse the magic of the past
And on the oaten-pipe
Warped echoes of an earlier day

Bean Flowers
(C.H.Warren)

How wonderful is man,that he can take
Beauty from this or that,can wake
Strings in his vibrant being,till they are
Responsive to a leaf,a bud,a star.....
Look at these bean-flowers whose soft petals, thrown
Quivering back, are wings wind-blown,
Black-veined and delicate as any moth's
How,with the wind,the whole field flakes and froths,
Tosses in spume,
And spills upon the air a honied fume!
Yet were these flowers vain
Did no man, in himself create again,
Scent and shadow and shine....
Therein they are made lovely;he divine