Goose Poems Quotes

Around, around the sun we go: The moon goes round the earth. We do not die of death: We die of vertigo.

At the edge of heaven, tatters of autumn Cloud. After ten thousand miles of clear Lovely morning, the west wind arrives. Here, Long rains haven't slowed farmers. Frontier Willows air thin kingfisher colors, and Red fruit flecks mountain pears. As a flute's Mongol song drifts from a tower, one Goose climbs clear through vacant skies.

The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don't mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don't sing all the time The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn't half bad if it isn't you Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our fool flesh is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs and having inspirations and walking around looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally 'living it up' Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician

The whispers you hear in your ear that you fear in the air everywhere, they are ghosts. The moans and the groans in the lowest of tones no one owns or condones, they are ghosts. You might deem them gremlins or water or wind, while others say shadows or rodents or sin. But oh! I say no! ‘Tis not so, child, for lo! The chills that you feel in a thrill that proves goose bumps are frightfully real, they are ghosts!

I Knew a Woman" I knew a woman, lovely in her bones, When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them; Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one: The shapes a bright container can contain! Of her choice virtues only gods should speak, Or English poets who grew up on Greek (I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek). How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin, She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand; She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin; I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand; She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake, Coming behind her for her pretty sake (But what prodigious mowing we did make). Love likes a gander, and adores a goose: Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize; She played it quick, she played it light and loose; My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees; Her several parts could keep a pure repose, Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose (She moved in circles, and those circles moved). Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay: I’m martyr to a motion not my own; What’s freedom for? To know eternity. I swear she cast a shadow white as stone. But who would count eternity in days? These old bones live to learn her wanton ways: (I measure time by how a body sways).

To do what I wish to. To not do what I do not wish to. The freedom to be where I want to be – to go wherever the thoughts go. And, the freedom to not be where I do not want to be: Happiness! Every human deserves that freedom. The freedom to be free even while alive – Nirvana, Moksha, Paradise and such are for the dead. The freedom to not kill yourself for your soul to rest in peace. You realise there is no magical figure to earn, until which you put off living your dreams. Just as there is no right age to be true to one’s self, or to living one’s life. You realise that the magic is in the living, not in any particular figure. And that the best age is your current age; and the best time – now.

Everyone gathered around as Franklin opened his other cards. “Mine’s a turtle cut-out,” said Snail. “Mine’s a turtle poem,” said Goose. “And I made up a turtle riddle,” said Fox. “These are great!” exclaimed Franklin. “I just wish I had my valentines for all of you!” “I just wish we could start eating all these goodies,” replied Bear. Everybody laughed.

Why did Du Fu write so many poems expressing his fondness for Li Bai, while Li wrote so few? Some have explained it by saying that many of Li Bai’s poems have been lost, and the lost works must have included many about Du Fu. This is a charitable interpretation, and it might even be true, but there is little point in us trying to impose equality on their friendship from our vantage point, centuries later. They were two very different personalities. Despite this, they were both great friends, models for generations to come. When a roc and a swan goose come together, their wing beats shred the air, and all creation looks up in wonder, but when they separate, the swan goose sings on and on of their encounter, while the roc has long since disappeared over the southern reaches or the northern oceans. It knows no bonds; it knows no obstacles. They are very different, these two, but they are both masters of the air, glories of the world.

We are all that. A summation of the could haves. A result of the choices not made, as much as of the choices made.

What I learned is that of all the creatures that I can see in this landscape, the geese best represent the communion of saints. They depend on one another. The lead goose does the most work, but when it is tired, it falls back and another takes its place. To be able to rely on others is a deep trust that does not come easily. The geese fly in the wake of one another’s wings. They literally get a lift from one another. I want to be with others this way. Geese tell me that it is, indeed, possible to fly with equals. GUNILLA NORRIS

I still loved you for all that you were, while you were busy focusing on all that I wasn’t. Indifferent we grew during the days we had no pains to share; we had by then forgotten how to share happiness....

Like this cousin of mine who unfailingly mutters before the first sip of his favourite whiskey, ‘Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim...’ ¬¬¬¬¬ – ‘In the name of the creator, the merciful and compassionate...’ – as if by force of habit. A very perplexing invocation to the very god who forbids it, that sure would leave Him wondering, “What the heck was that all about, son?” That irony is my clan, in a nutshell.

Every father is the perfect man to his son; closer to gods in perfection and divinity. But here, as he was being unflinchingly honest in his response and baring his very human imperfections, he was beginning to appear more of an imperfectly beautiful human and less of a depressingly perfect god. The conversations were so engaging that we went from sounding like raunchy teenagers, to erotic novelists, to perfect anti-socials. To being two unpretentious adults involved in a man-to-man talk. Finally, to being two independent souls unfettered by the mundane world and its constrictive definitions of relationships. The man was to become my muse. The theme. The story; its meaning and meaninglessness. The character, the audience. The admirer, the critic. The patron, and the beneficiary.

Wandered I have at the Kumbh, seeking salvation from the bondages of a painful past Dipped in its holy waters with a million sinners, cleansing me of the sin of having failed in love Burnt in the eternal pyres of Manikarnika, and of my mind, memories of a grim yesterday, and hopes of a colourful tomorrow Offered my self to the Lord of death, hoping to be reborn at the charnel grounds Scaled I have the mighty Himalayas, seeking solace in its serene peaks; Peaks with herbs so potent that they burned many a man’s grief into smokes of joy, With heights so cold that it froze rivers over, and with it, a man’s burning tears, too. In your love I learnt that the salvation, the hope, and the serenity they all offered, was right there where I was Or maybe, this realisation is the blessing these places offer a man – for hither, yonder and beyond.

Despair not that you are not articulate as those poets, or their ballads of love For, you are more eloquent with your deeds in love, than any poet has been with his words on love, For, your love is the poems they wrote about: one that lends colourful words even to the wordless, Boundless love that makes limitless words appear inadequate; Words less divine than the divinity they aspire to describe, And in you, I see that divine

And as you count yourself unworthy of my love, Do not elevate me to undeserving lofty heights in your love-struck mind Love me as a mere mortal, yet, Love me not for anything mortal in me; Love me for the soul I am…

Age always leaves one wizened, not necessarily wise. Age and wisdom! Grow up, will you? Remember, the world finds solace in the words of a Jesus, and not in that of a certain Joseph For, even Shankara and Narendra had their neighbours, uncles and aunts; It is for a reason we do not know their names, even less their teachings

Meaningful advice, like good sex, has to be desired; and remains consensual Anything forced is an assault that debatably deserves death.

Intense pain is not the limited servings on a humble plate in a poor man’s abode. That if shared with another reduces the host’s share of it. No matter how many people come in, the sufferer’s share remains the same. And it is a bowl that never runs out. One that still has enough to offer anyone who wishes to eat from it. The source that gives you the pain shall grant you its cure. Embrace yours wholeheartedly. For, beyond it is magic. Trust for it to unfold. And not to take anyone’s word for it. Including mine.

Sometimes we can all be like that. Not use all the knowledge we have and just be. Remain readers and observers – of words, events, and of life itself. We can try putting away the magnifying glasses and surgical knives in between. We can ignore imperfections, and learn to live with them. Love them even.

Silence. Laughter again. The happiness and relief was palpable. In the laughter, and in its silences. Humour, like good beard, takes time to grow on people. And only good things will befall those who can have a hearty laugh; even if it takes a month, or longer.

For, the hot tears of loneliness burn me more than will the fires of the pyre, or of any hell For, in your sole presence shall I feel less lonely, than I would amidst a thousand angels For, dying in your arms feels more heavenly than the promises of an illusory heaven For, a man's tears wiped will soothe his soul more than the tears shed at his funeral For, the kisses offered on death-bed are more fragrant than flowers strewn on tombstones;

Shards seldom radiate the beauty of fullness as a mirror does Even after you go, The splendour of the coffin I carry shall match the splendour of your near maternal love; And in its splendour shall I seek an atonement for all that I couldn't.

Even if it is five days of bereavement leave that I get granted as if on parole. I would rather take out those five days now and be there while my folks are still around. A merriment leave, if you may. To celebrate life; not to grieve death. To create memories; before they, too, become a memory. Or, I do… Five days of bereavement! Since when did bereaving for the dead also start coming with deadlines?

Or, maybe the thought that a bird in a golden cage is an object of great amusement for an unadventurous world and its inhabitants. For, no one cares to strain their eyes to see a free, soaring eagle in the high skies. For, a happy crow in one’s own backyard is not an amusing sight for anyone either. I am less stressed about being in this cage, than I am about my caged dreams and atrophied wings… It is the thought of the skies I had forsaken that stress me more than these glittering interiors… It is the thought of the sights that await me upon kissing the horizon that are stressing me more… Finally, it is the stories about these sights resting deep within and waiting to be told that are stressing me out more than anything else…

I wish this freedom for others too. Somewhere, a potential actor now playing the depressing role of a software engineer. A promising baker who ended up a banker and cooks up pie charts. A budding writer making up stories to escape a day’s work. A talented painter who spends her colourless days shading those shady graphs. Sadly, it does not take much for talent to turn latent. One truly turns gay only when one finally comes out of such assumed identities and forced orientations.

For repressed freedom is more vengeful than usurped money; in its wrath can nations bleed For, a dripping blot of vermilion on the mother's forehead is a ghastly sight no child can behold For, even an ingenious cartographer cannot embellish the contours of a headless nation, As easily as a dexterous economist does window dressing, with numbers pliant and servile

Distrusting their brothers’ breath, Insecure of their neighbours’ shadows, Leaving behind a joyous world of togetherness, Living behind closed doors, Erecting facades of indifference, They dwelled in islands of isolation Feeble were their laughs, faint their smiles – impalpable behind the various masks they wore Ah! Those master masqueraders of the times we live in!

Tears, glistening like crystals under the dazzle of bright lights, appeared on her almost lifeless eyes – eyes that have not yet dried up, despite the copious amount that had flowed through them over the years. When life gives you certain experiences, it creates in you a volcano of unending grief. All that you wish is for this volcano to erupt once, so violently and uncontrollably that it would eventually turn into an island of tranquillity amidst the unhappy seas of your heart. But in a world that loves to shackle even your tears, these dormant volcanoes erupt only in spurts, forcing from their depths an uncontrollable flow of molten lava, or at times milder geyser springs, in the rare silences of your private space.

I cherished my body’s reflection in a mirror, and desired a sharp intellect to go with it, In my reflections I saw a beautiful self beyond both I kept waiting for words eloquent, I was moved by silence more profound I yearned for the surety of a river's flow in my life's journeys, I was granted the freedom of wandering clouds…

The sound of silence was beginning to get louder, and familiar. And I was deeply in love with it. Not only does it not involve religious practices, it makes you shed all religious affiliations for ten days. What you are left with is your bare breath. That becomes the only thing you focus on – your personal rosary. There are no pictures of gurus, or even of the Buddha himself. There are no personalised gods or its dubious derivates – dogmas, or godmen – to prostrate before. No hugs, kisses, threads, amulets, satins or holy ash. No holy ‘trap’ of devices designed for an instant osmosis of blessings. No grand trickery that makes life here a hell in promise of a heaven there. It shows us the same arduous path that some of the enlightened men have walked. Men who can only show the path and are not the destination; where they communed with their truth, or, for lack of a better word, their God, in silence. The choice is left to us, to walk, stroll, stray, or squat on that path. [Many men; Ab to Za, all those alphabets and all the other men in between… Same grand truth, revealed in parts… Same path, seemingly different… Same destination…. No single path.] But Vipassana does not offer us the easier path of pleading, coaxing, extorting or seducing such men for easy blessings. It nudges you to start walking. To be your own blessing. To create your own miracles.

It reminds him that beyond stale predictability lies hidden moments, random and beautiful… Beyond depressing comfort zones of stagnation are happy meadows of growth… Beyond tears are laughs waiting to be laughed and beyond darkness is light waiting to unravel itself… Beyond it all is life waiting to be lived… Kumbh taught me how to be alone in a swarm of people. To find your little islets of peace amidst a sea of teeming people. How you have to find your way even where there are a million others around you trying to find theirs. How you do not necessarily have to stop and ask each time you feel lost. Kumbh had planted its magic that was to blossom in the days that followed…

[Kerala; Communism, ballots over bullets… Promises, experiments, egalitarianism… Last remaining memory of a shared dream… Beautiful, regretful… Beautiful dreams disappearing on waking up to realities… Realities, regrets that remain… Dialectics eschewed, materialism that remains… These villages are notorious for infanticide, foeticide, STDs, malaria, TB and the more rampant malnourishment, poverty and casteism. All of it killed its people. Along with snake bites, sorcery and quackery. These are the little miracles that my kind take for granted, for we believe we are born with certain entitlements. We fail to see the miracles. Maybe it is for this reason there aren’t many rationalists and atheists hailing from the houses of the poor.

Maybe, I am in the process of finding my answers. Maybe someday I get my answers right. Or maybe someday I will realise there are no right answers, or maybe that there are no answers… [But isn’t it better to ask your own questions, than live a life with no questions, or, still worse, live with the same inherited answers for a lifetime – the shabbiest of all hand-me-downs! Tattered, obsolete, abused… Over generations, millennia… Bloodsheds; divine alibis and bail-outs… Grand fiction; convincing stories… No brain, all heart, blind beliefs… Those happy to be blind, when they have nothing to believe in, do they do more harm? Necessary evil? …maybe, maybe not… Who knows! Commingling of faiths; that familiar commotion of thoughts. Ah! Those bipolar swings: of belief and agnosticism, of romanticism and pragmatism, heart and the mind, of being creative and clichéd, dissonance and compliance, of conformity and growth; and now between the extremely unrelated extremes of religions and its gods on one end and THE God on the other.]

Of uncharted roads, unimagined experiences, and strangers less strange than the familiar. To travel anywhere without reservations; of bookings, or otherwise. To happily hop on to the next vehicle that comes along on a deserted road. To sleep in any corner of the world that offers me my six feet of space. To feel at home at every place, even other than home. Travels that remind you that if life is indeed a journey, it is also best enjoyed if one travels light. Not lugging around unnecessary baggage; of emotions and possessions. Travels that teach you that when in pain, the only place to run to for a solution is within you. And not to magical mountains or ‘mystical savannahs’; if you know what I mean. For, none exist.

Travels that remind you that if life is indeed a journey, it is also best enjoyed if one travels light. Not lugging around unnecessary baggage; of emotions and possessions. Travels that teach you that when in pain, the only place to run to for a solution is within you. And not to magical mountains or ‘mystical savannahs’; if you know what I mean. For, none exist.

As darkness spread hesitantly in a clear sky, devoid of neon glows and the pollutants, Bright celestial light from scattered crystals of sparkling stars And a moon that shone like a giant white chandelier, guided me on my path ahead, As I continued to be swept along on this journey, To a destination, I still am unsure of…

By the time he was by her shores, it was the twilight hour And he stood witness to their blending in celestial communion His tired eyes beheld the amber of her blushes drip into her tresses And ripple in a gentle zephyr of his caresses In her ankles he saw the white frills of a long turquoise robe, Replete with the tinkling of her anklets Like the many dead whose ashes are dissolved in her waters, He emptied in her the remnants of his memories, so there remained no trace of his old self, Like a monk who does self-oblation, shunning all bondages of an insignificant past He wished to be reborn in the same life, a different man with a different name – A man with no yesterdays and no tomorrows

… I am at best an ‘arranger’ of sorts. Someone who gets lucky at times in arranging those meaningless letters in a sensible pattern; letters that have in them the power of endless possibilities. End of it, despite my best efforts, some of my writings may still remain as disjointed and incoherent as they are on a QWERTY keyboard. And that to me is the rationale for the name of this blog: Worthless Whispers. To sum up, I am like the curious kid who runs his tender fingers on the melodiously mysterious piano, unwittingly hitting the right notes, alternating between music and noise, as if his fingers are guided by the will of the invisible.

ou feel like the man who woke up with an uncommon, if not melodious, voice in the land of the deaf. There is no one to hear you. Even if they wanted, they could not. You start wondering if this really is a meaningless blessing, or a meaningful curse. For, even while we can pretend to write for ourselves in large part, we also wish to be read by the world. And that world hates to read. A certain Kafka had to die before he was read. An uncertain Nietzsche had to pay to be published. An honest Bukowski remained hated for the good part of his life. A frustrated Kaczynski had to blow up people and buildings in the US for his thoughts to get published. Our own Amish was rejected more times than there ever will be sequels to his books. Why should someone like you and I even attempt writing then? I do not know, even now. Sometimes it helps not to know all the answers. We can skip some questions. Kill a few, and move on.

A son who is inheriting the unfulfilled dreams and unlived life of his father. A man who never wanted to marry or have children, to have a limiting career, or anything that tied him down, my father is a utopian romantic with undreamt dreams. One who wished to live his life as if there are no tomorrows. Then, in the end, to walk into the embrace of an obscure death in an unknown land, without a trace or a lingering whiff of memory. To die as if there were no yesterdays.

All lives that remain unlived have to be lived at some point. All unwritten stories need to be completed at some point. All dreams that remain unfulfilled deserve to be fulfilled at some point. All unpaid debts ought to be repaid at some point, including the cosmic ones. More so when there are no future generations to carry them forward. Let it all end with me. All stories unsaid, all verses unwritten, all dreams unfulfilled, all lives unlived. Let all the noises die forever. Let all voids be filled permanently. Let there be no smiles that remain hesitant anymore

Love me as a mere mortal, yet, Love me not for anything mortal in me; Love me for the soul I am…

Silence. Laughter again. The happiness and relief was palpable. In the laughter, and in its silences. Humour, like good beard, takes time to grow on people. And only good things will befall those who can have a hearty laugh; even if it takes a month, or longer.

The sound of silence was beginning to get louder, and familiar. And I was deeply in love with it. I stopped being mute, and became dumb again. There are no pictures of gurus, or even of the Buddha himself. There are no personalised gods or its dubious derivates – dogmas, or godmen – to prostrate before. No hugs, kisses, threads, amulets, satins or holy ash. No grand trickery that makes life here a hell in promise of a heaven there. It shows us the same arduous path that some of the enlightened men have walked. Men who can only show the path and are not the destination; where they communed with their truth, or, for lack of a better word, their God, in silence. The choice is left to us, to walk, stroll, stray, or squat on that path. [Many men; Ab to Za, all those letters of alphabets and all the other men in between… Same grand truth, revealed in parts… Same path, seemingly different… Same destination…. No single path.] But Vipassana does not offer us the easier path of pleading, coaxing, extorting or seducing such men for easy blessings. It nudges you to start walking. To be your own blessing. To create your own miracles.

Ms. Hackett handed me a copy of the poem. “Miss Mary, why don't you read it,” she said. “You might have a different inflection in your voice." I read the poem, as clearly as possible, and tried not to cry. It was a powerful piece about the violence against protesters in Birmingham, Alabama, and a mother's decision to send her child to church rather than participate in a march. It was the wrong decision, and the daughter died in the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombing. One boy knew the poem by heart and recited the words as I read them aloud. “Wow,” I said, when I finished the poem. “As a mother,” said Ms. Hackett, with her hand on her heart, “that gets me every time. It gives me chills ” She raised her sleeve to reveal goose bumps on her forearm, and I revealed mine. The boys looked for goose bumps on their own arms.

Miss Mary, why don't you read it,” she said. “You might have a different inflection in your voice." I read the poem, as clearly as possible, and tried not to cry. It was a powerful piece about the violence against protesters in Birmingham, Alabama, and a mother's decision to send her child to church rather than participate in a march. It was the wrong decision, and the daughter died in the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombing. One boy knew the poem by heart and recited the words as I read them aloud. “Wow,” I said, when I finished the poem. “As a mother,” said Ms. Hackett, with her hand on her heart, “that gets me every time. It gives me chills ” She raised her sleeve to reveal goose bumps on her forearm, and I revealed mine. The boys looked for goose bumps on their own arms.