“The world is always in movement” — V.S. Naipaul
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| SOURCE |
“I
do not believe in political movements. I believe in personal movement, that
movement of the soul when a man who looks at himself is so ashamed that he
tries to make some sort of change – within himself, not on the outside.”—
Joseph Brodsky
Midweek
Motif ~ Movement
I
was listening to a Bengali song the other day when suddenly I heard the voice
of the words in a different note I was not familiar in my childhood. I was aware
and amazed how the song writer had captivated a ‘movement’ all around him. In the
song the focus is mainly on a plant, engrossed in the bliss of life merrily
singing of its motion. It’s a Tagore song. Here is a translation which I did:
River dear, in a fit of frenzy you rush at will
I, a dazed magnolia, insomniac, sit fragrance-filled
Ever quiescent, I keep my deep treading concealed
In each sprouting leaf and flower trail my path reveals
River dear, motion-thrilled you wildly race
Losing yourself in course endless
Ineffable is my rhythm; a life’s stir towards light
The sky knows its bliss as do the silent stars of the night
Movement is a layered word to me; both
its noun and verb forms. What picture does it create in your mind when you see
the word?
To
me the word immediately sketches the image of physiological posture of pain and
suffering of ageing. Then on second thought it becomes a voice of that organized
effort to bring about or resist changes in the society.
Let’s
see how the word speaks to you.
Souls’ Festival
by Matsuo Basho
souls’
festival
today
also there is smoke
from
the crematory
The City In The Sea
by Edgar Allan Poe
Lo!
Death has reared himself a throne
In
a strange city lying alone
Far
down within the dim West
Where
the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have
gone to their eternal rest.
There
shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten
towers that tremble not!)
Resemble
nothing that is ours.
Around
by lifting winds forgot
Resignedly
beneath the sky
The
melancholy waters lie.
No
rays from the holy heaven come down
On
the long night-time of that town;
But
light from out the lurid sea
Streams
up the turrets silently-
Gleams
up the pinnacles far and free-
Up
domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up
fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up
shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of
sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up
many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose
wreathed friezes intertwine
The
viol the violet and the vine.
Resignedly
beneath the sky
The
melancholy waters lie.
So
blend the turrets and shadows there
That
all seem pendulous in air
While
from a proud tower in the town
Death
looks gigantically down.
(The rest is
here)
The Owls
by Charles Baudelaire
UNDER the overhanging yews,
The dark owls sit in solemn state,
Like stranger gods; by twos and twos
Their red eyes gleam.
They meditate.
Motionless thus they sit and dream
Until that melancholy hour
When, with the sun's last fading gleam,
The nightly shades assume their power.
From their still attitude the wise
Will learn with terror to despise
All tumult, movement, and unrest;
For he who follows every shade,
Carries the memory in his breast,
Of each unhappy journey made.
Please share your new poem below and visit others in the spirit of the community --(Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be - Masks)
