Classic poem of the day
I carried my curds to the Mathura fair …
How softly the heifers were lowing …
I wanted to cry, “Who will buy
These curds that are white as the clouds in the sky
When the breezes of shrawan are blowing?”
But my heart was so full of your beauty, Beloved,
They laughed as I cried without knowing:
Govinda! Govinda!
Govinda! Govinda!
How softly the river was flowing!
I carried my pots to the Mathura tide …
How gaily the......
Member poem of the day
I heard the old year leave
noxious, corrupt and crippled
dragging through cold streets
like a brittle bag of bones
with tortuous, decrepit step.
My old words were there
and a facsimile of old me
trapped in rotting burlap
tempting with the heady
scent of perfumed decay.
I resisted the craving to cling.
I let them wander by, blind.
Good riddance to past pasts...
may they molder in perfect putrefaction.
and tomorro...
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