Diseases Of Our Age

January's jaundice has given way
To February's fevers just today
As if through barometers darkly see
A long march stretching ahead barrenly

And should April's cruelty not suffice
To drive home hard our human sacrifice
We come at last through our dismay to June
To take a gasping breath, and not too soon.

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Tagore's writing distills in me some odd secretion of wonder. I cannot read him all at once. So I reflect on his illumination as if a cave-bound Platonist. Here he is again.

This is my prayer to You, O God
- strike, strike at the root of poverty in my heart.
Give me the strength to bear lightly my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor nor bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
Give me the strength to surrender my will to Your love.

Homesick

Rabindranath Tagore was my late maternal grandfather's favourite poet. Here is one example of why this was so. It's a poem by Tagore called Salutations. I thank She-Who-Binds for the remembrance of it.

In one salutation to thee, my God, let
all my senses spread out and touch
this world at thy feet.

Like a rain-cloud of July hung low
with its burden of unshed showers let
all my mind bend down at thy door in
one salutation to thee.

Let all my songs gather together
their diverse strains into a single
current and flow to a sea of silence in
one salutation to thee.

Like a flock of homesick cranes
flying night and day back to their
mountain nests let all my life take its
voyage to its eternal home in one
salutation to thee.

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Ah, bright wings...