Hip-Hop Nature Boy and Other Poems Page 2

  Last night, as I lay sleepless

  In the summer dark

  With window open to invite a breeze,

  Softly a firefly flew in

  And circled round the room

  Twinkling at me from floor or wall

  Or ceiling, never long in one place

  But lighting up little spaces …

  A friendly presence, dispelling

  The settled gloom of an unhappy day.

  And after it had gone, I left

  The window open, just in case

  It should return.

  Rain

  After weeks of heat and dust

  How welcome is the rain.

  It washes the leaves,

  Gives new life to grass,

  Draws out the scent of the earth.

  It rattles on the roof,

  Gurgles along the drainpipe

  Collects in a puddle in the middle of the lawn—

  The birds come to bathe.

  When the sun comes out

  A lizard crawls up from a crack in a rock.

  ‘Small brown lizard

  Basking in the sun

  You too have your life to live

  Your race to run.’

  At night we look through the branches

  Of the cherry tree.

  The sky is rainwashed, star-bright.

  If Mice Could Roar

  If mice could roar

  And elephants soar,

  And trees grow up in the sky;

  If tigers could dine

  On biscuits and wine,

  And the fattest of men could fly!

  If pebbles could sing

  and bells never ring

  And teachers were lost in the post;

  If a tortoise could run

  And losses be won,

  And bullies be buttered on toast;

  If a song brought a shower

  And a gun grew a flower,

  This world would be nicer than most!

  So Beautiful the Night

  I love the night, Lord.

  After the sun’s heat and the day’s work,

  It’s good to close my eyes and rest my body.

  It’s a good time for small creatures:

  Porcupines come out of their burrows

  to dig for roots.

  The nightjar calls tonk-tonk!

  The timid owl peeps out of his hole in the tree trunk

  Where he has been hiding all day.

  Insects crawl out in thousands.

  The wind comes down the chimney

  and blows around the room.

  I’m watching the stars from my window.

  The trees are stretching their arms in the dark

  and whispering to the moon.

  But if the trees could walk, Lord,

  What a wonderful sight it would be—

  Armies of pines and firs and oaks

  Marching over the moonlit mountains.

  What Can We Give Our Children?

  What can we give our children?

  Knowledge, yes, and honour too,

  And strength of character

  And the gift of laughter.

  What gold do we give our children?

  The gold of a sunny childhood,

  Open spaces, a home that binds

  Us to the common good …

  These simple things

  Are greater than the gold of kings.

  A Frog Screams

  Standing near a mountain stream

  I heard a sound like the creaking

  Of a branch in the wind.

  It was a frog screaming

  In the jaws of a long green snake.

  I couldn’t bear that hideous cry.

  And taking two sharp sticks,

  I made the twisting snake disgorge the frog,

  Who hopped quite spry out of the snake’s mouth

  And sailed away on a floating log.

  Pleased with the outcome,

  I released the green grass-snake,

  Stood back and spoke aloud:

  ‘Is this what it feels like to be God?’

  ‘Only what it’s like to be English,’

  Said God (speaking for a change in French);

  ‘I would have let the snake finish his lunch!’

  The Cat Has Something to Say

  Sir, you’re a human and I’m a cat,

  And I’m really quite happy to leave it at that.

  It doesn’t concern me if you like a dish

  Of chicken masala or lobster and fish.

  So why all these protests around the house

  If for dinner I fancy

  A succulent mouse?

  Or a careless young sparrow who came my way?

  Our natures, dear sir, are really the same:

  Flesh, fish or fowl, we both like our game.

  Only you take yours curried,

  And I take mine plain.

  Lone Fox Dancing

  As I walked home last night

  I saw a lone fox dancing

  In the cold moonlight.

  I stood and watched. Then

  Took the low road, knowing

  The night was his by right.

  Sometimes, when words ring true,

  I’m like a lone fox dancing

  In the morning dew.

  Self-Portrait

  There was an old man in Landour

  Who wanted young folk to laugh more;

  So he wrote them a book,

  And with laughter they shook

  As they rolled down the hill to Rajpore.

  Granny’s Tree-Climbing

  My grandmother was a genius. You’d like to know why?

  Because she could climb trees. Spreading or high,

  She’d be up their branches in a trice. And mind you,

  When last she climbed a tree, she was sixty-two.

  Ever since childhood, she’d had this gift

  For being happier in a tree than in a lift;

  And though, as years went by, she would be told

  That climbing trees should stop when one grew old

  And that growing old should be gone about gracefully

  She’d laugh and say, ‘Well, I’ll grow old disgracefully.

  I can do it better.’ And we had to agree;

  For in all the garden there wasn’t a tree

  She hadn’t been up, at one time or another

  (Having learned to climb from a loving brother

  When she was six) but it was feared by all

  That one day she’d have a terrible fall.

  The outcome was different; while we were in town

  She climbed a tree and couldn’t come down!

  We went to the rescue, and helped her descend …

  A doctor took Granny’s temperature and said,

  ‘I strongly recommend a quiet week in bed.’

  We sighed with relief and tucked her up well.

  Poor Granny! for her, it was more like a season in hell.

  Confined to her bedroom, while every breeze

  Whispered of summer and dancing leaves.

  But she held her peace till she felt stronger

  Then sat up and said, ‘I’ll lie here no longer!’

  And she called for my father and told him undaunted

  That a house in a treetop was what she now wanted.

  My dad knew his duties. He said, ‘That’s all right

  You’ll have what you want, dear, I’ll start work tonight.’

  With my expert assistance, he soon finished the chore:

  Made her a tree house with windows and a door.

  So Granny moved up, and now every day

  I climb to her room with glasses and a tray.

  She sits there in state and drinks mocktails with me,

  Upholding her right to reside in a tree.

  Do You Believe in Ghosts?

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  Asked the passenger

  On platform nu
mber three.

  ‘I’m a rational man,’ said I,

  ‘I believe in what I can see—

  Your hands, your feet, your beard!’

  ‘Then look again,’ said he,

  And promptly disappeared!

  Portents

  Spider running up the wall

  Means that rain is going to fall.

  Spider running down the wall

  Means the house is going to fall!

  In Praise of the Sausage

  I like a good sausage, I do;

  It’s a dish for the chosen and few.

  Oh, for sausage and mash,

  And of mustard a dash,

  And an egg nicely fried—maybe two?

  At breakfast or lunch, or at dinner,

  The sausage is always a winner;

  If you want a good spread

  Go for sausage on bread,

  And forget all your vows to be slimmer.

  Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark

  Don’t be afraid of the dark, little one,

  The earth must rest when the day is done.

  The sun may be harsh, but moonlight—never!

  And those stars will be shining forever and ever,

  Be friends with the Night, there is nothing to fear,

  Just let your thoughts travel to friends far and near.

  By day, it does seem that our troubles won’t cease,

  But at night, late at night, the world is at peace.

  Walk Tall

  You stride through the long grass,

  Pressing on over fallen pine-needles,

  Up the winding road to the mountain pass:

  Small red ant, now crossing a sea

  Of raindrops; your destiny

  To carry home that single, slender

  Cosmos seed,

  Waving it like a banner in the sun.

  Silent Birth

  When the earth gave birth to this tree,

  There came no sound:

  A green shoot thrust

  In silence from the ground.

  Our births don’t come so quiet—

  Most lives run riot—

  But the bud opens silently,

  And flower gives way to fruit.

  So must we search

  For the stillness within the tree,

  The silence within the root.

  Listen!

  Listen to the night wind in the trees,

  Listen to the summer grass singing;

  Listen to the time that’s tripping by,

  And the dawn dew falling.

  Listen to the moon as it climbs the sky,

  Listen to the pebbles humming;

  Listen to the mist in the trembling leaves,

  And the silence calling.

  Cherry Tree

  Eight years have passed

  Since I placed my cherry seed in the grass.

  ‘Must have a tree of my own,’ I said—

  And watered it once and went to bed

  And forgot; but cherries have a way of growing

  Though no one’s caring very much or knowing,

  And suddenly that summer, near the end of May,

  I found a tree had come to stay.

  It was very small, a five months’ child,

  Lost in the tall grass running wild.

  Goats ate the leaves, a grasscutter’s scythe

  Split it apart, and a monsoon blight

  Shrivelled the slender stem… Even so,

  Next spring I watched three new shoots grow,

  The young tree struggle, upwards thrust

  Its arms in a fresh fierce lust

  For light and air and sun.

  I could only wait, as one

  Who watches, wondering, while Time and the rain

  Made a miracle from green, growing pain …

  I went away next year—

  Spent a season in Kashmir—

  Came back thinner, rather poor,

  But richer by a cherry tree at my door.

  Six feet high, my own dark cherry,

  And—I could scarcely believe it—a berry,

  Ripened and jewelled in the sun,

  Hung from a branch—just one!

  And next year there were blossoms, small

  Pink, fragile, quick to fall

  At the merest breath, the sleepiest breeze …

  I lay on the grass, at ease,

  Looked up through leaves, at the blue

  Blind sky, at the finches as they flew

  And flitted through the dappled green,

  While bees in an ecstasy drank

  Of nectar from each bloom, and the sun sank

  Swiftly, and the stars turned in the sky,

  And moon-moths and singing crickets and I—

  Yes, I!—praised night and stars and tree:

  A small, tall cherry grown by me.

  View from the Window

  I’m in bed with fever

  But the fever’s not high.

  Beside my bed is a window

  And I like looking out at all

  That’s happening around me.

  The cherry leaves are turning a dark green.

  On the maple tree, winged seeds spin round and round.

  There is fruit on the wild blackberry bushes.

  Two mynah birds are building a nest in a hole—

  They are very noisy about it.

  Bits of grass keep falling on the window sill.

  High up in the spruce tree, a hawk-cuckoo calls:

  ‘I slept so well, I slept so well!’

  When the hawk-cuckoo is awake, no one else sleeps,

  That’s why it’s also known as the fever bird.

  A small squirrel climbs on the window sill.

  He’s been coming every day since I’ve been ill,

  and I give him crumbs from my tray.

  A boy on a mule passes by on the rough mountain track.

  He sees my face at the window and waves to me.

  I wave back to him.

  When I’m better I’ll ask him to let me ride his mule.

  Boy in a Blue Pullover

  Boy in a faded blue pullover,

  Poor boy, thin, smiling boy,

  Ran down the road shouting,

  Singing, flinging his arms wide.

  I stood in the way and stopped him.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Why are you happy?’

  He showed me the nickel rupee-coin.

  ‘I found it on the road,’ he said.

  And he held it to the light

  That he might see it shining bright.

  ‘And how will you spend it,

  Small boy in blue pullover?’

  ‘I’ll buy—

  I’ll buy a buckle for my belt!’

  Slim boy, smart boy,

  Would buy a buckle for his belt

  Coin clutched in his hot hand,

  He ran off laughing, bright.

  The coin I’d lost an hour ago;

  But better his that night.

  Little One Don’t Be Afraid

  Little one, don’t be afraid of this big river.

  Be safe in these warm arms for ever.

  Grow tall, my child, be wise and strong.

  But do not take from any man his song.

  Little one, don’t be afraid of this dark night.

  Walk boldly as you see the truth and light.

  Love well, my child, laugh all day long,

  But do not take from any man his song.

  October

  October comes …

  The mountains resonate

  To festive drums.

  At sunset time

  The western sky

  Is drenched

  A crimson winterline.

  October’s here.

  The pilgrims come

  Steep hills to climb,

  For now

  It’s Durga-puja time.

  At Ganga’s mouth

  The icy waters

  Issue fo
rth.

  The hills resound

  As waters from the north

  Sweep down …

  The mighty river

  Makes its way

  And winds along

  To Bangla’s Bay.

  The days speed by,

  Diwali lamps

  Are shining forth

  From East and West

  And South and North.

  The goddess smiles,

  Our heads bow down,

  We pray

  For better things to come.

  October’s gone!

  The night’s grow long,

  We sing a softer

  Sadder song,

  Recalling hopes of yesterday,

  Lost loves, lost dreams …

  But still we pray

  For better times to come our way.

  The Owl

  At night, when all is still,

  The forest’s sentinel

  Glides silently across the hill

  And perches in an old pine tree.

  A friendly presence his!

  No harm can come

  From night bird on the prowl.

  His cry is mellow,

  Much softer than a peacock’s call.

  Why then this fear of owls

  Calling in the night?

  If men must speak,

  Then owls must hoot—

  They have the right.

  On me it casts no spell:

  Rather, it seems to cry,

  ‘The night is good—all’s well, all’s well.’

  The Trees

  At seven, when dusk slips over the mountains

  The trees start whispering among themselves.

  They have been standing still all day.

  But now they stretch their limbs in the dark

  Shifting a little, flexing their fingers,

  Remembering the time when

  They too walked the earth with men.

  They know me well, these trees:

  Oak and walnut, spruce and pine

  They know my face in the windows

  They know me for a dreamer of dreams

  A world-loser, one of them.

  They watch me while I watch them grow.

  I listen to their whisperings,

  Their own mysterious diction;

  And bow my head before their arms

  And ask for benediction.