this world has been there
from a long long time
reptiles inhabited it,
we came along much much later.
seasons come and go,
air swirl about, dancing-
thunders bring about rains,
which disappear into
womb of the earth.
dried seeds travel far and wide
uniting the world in a way
incomprehensible to humanity.
mountains stand tall
with a disdained look.
the sea centres in the midst,
hiding unfathomable secrets-
sometimes throwing those at our faces
with shimmering rage.
the world would still exist
(even when we all disintegrate into nothing)
with new life forms,
newer dimensions.
"are we having a sense of Déjà vu?”
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I wrote the above after reading Mary Oliver's Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End? Is it imitation? I don't know. It is more like my interpretations. However, it sure feels sloppy compared to hers! Posting this for World Poetry day exercise at poefusion as well!
Mary Oliver's Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?
Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?
