Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

Behind the innocent trees
old Fate is slowly forming
her taciturn face
Wrinkles travel thither
Here a bird screams and there
a furrow of pain
shoots from the hard sooth-saying mouth

Oh and the almost lovers
with their unvaledictory smiles-
their destiny setting and rising above them
constellational
night-enraptured
Not yet proffering itself to their experience
it still remains
hovering in heaven's paths
an airy form

Praising, that's it! As a praiser and blesser
he came like the ore from the taciturn mine.
Came with his heart, oh, transient presser,
for men, of a never-exhaustible wine.

Voice never falls him for things lacking lustre,
sacred example will open his mouth.
All becomes vineyard, all becomes cluster,
warmed by his sympathy's ripening south.

Earth, is it not just this that you want: to arise
invisibly in us? Is not your dream
to be one day invisible? Earth! invisible@
What is your urgent command, if not transformation?
Earth, you darling, I will! Oh, believe me, you need no more of your spring-times to win me over: a single one,
ah, one is already more than blood can endure.
Beyond all names I am yours, and have been for ages.

Don't be shamed, when the dead brush against you,
those other dead, who held out to the end.
(What, after all, does end mean?) Exchange glances
peacefully with them, as is customary,
and have no fear of being conspicuous
through carrying the burden of our grief.
The big words from those ages when as yet
happening was visible are not for us.
Who talks of victory? To endure is all.

She, on the cathedral's vast ascent,
simply stands there near the window-rose,
with the apple in the apple-pose,
ever henceforth guilty-innocent

of the growingness she brought to birth
since that time she lovingly departed
from the old eternities and started
struggling like a young year through the earth.

She, so belov'd, that from a single lyre
more mourning rose than from all women-mourners,-
that a whole world of mourning rose, wherein
all things were once more present: wood and vale
and road and hamlet, field and stream and beast,-
and that around this world of mourning turned,
even as around the other earth,a sun
and a whole silent heaven full of stars,
a heaven of mourning with disfigured stars:
she,so beloved.

In a Foreign Park
Borgeby-Gard

Two paths. They're speeding no one's business.
One, though, at times, when pensively alone,
lets you go on. You feel you've lost your bearing;
till suddenly you find you're once more sharing
the solitary round-plot with the stone
and once more reading on it: Baroness
Brite Sophie- and once more with your finger
outfeeling the dilapidated year

Like Hail on standing harvests he descended.
What would ye promise God? On every side
uncounted gods await what ye decide.
Choose, and be crushed by Him ye have offended.

And then, with arrogance till then unspoken:
I and my house have been and are his bride.

Whereat they all cried: Help us, give some token,
that this hard choice may not bring punishment.

The leaves are falling, falling as from far,
as though above were withering farthest gardens;
they fall with a denying attitude.

And night by night, down into solitude,
the heavy earth falls far from every star.

We are falling. The hand's falling too-
all have this falling-sickness none withstands.

And yet there's One whose gently-holding hands
this universal falling can't fall through

The leaves are falling, falling as from far,
as though above were withering farthest gardens;
they fall with a denying attitude.

And night by night, down into solitude,
the heavy earth falls far from every star.

We are falling. The hand's falling too-
all have this falling-sickness none withstands.

And yet there's One whose gently-holding hands
this universal falling can't fall through.

Oh, how I wish,
Perceived by no one,
To fly after a beam
To where I'm nothing.

You! Shine in a circle-
No better fate-
And study from a star
How light is made.

And to you I'd like
To say what I now whisper,
That in a whisper I deliver
You, child, to light.

I'll sketch this out; I'll say this quietly-
Because its moment is still not evident:
The game of the unconscious sky will be
Accomplished later, with experience....

And beneath the time-soaked sky
Of Purgatory, we frequently forget
That the blessed storehouse of the heavens
Is our home, limitless and present.

And uniting my consciousness
With half-unconscious existence
Do I, indiscriminate, choke down this slop,
Consume my own head beneath this fire ?

And why prepare this magic-box
Beforehand in empty outer space
If the white stars, turning,
Slightly blushing, head for home?

Can you sense- stepmother of a Gypsy camp of stars,
Night- what now is, and what's to come ?

Where's the strangled,shackled cry ?
Where's Prometheus- support and sidekick of the rock ?
And where's the kite- the yellow-eyed lock
Of his talons, glowering as he flies ?

That can't be- there'd be no more tragedy,
But just these aggressive lips-
But these lips head straight to the core,
To the Sopho-woodcutter, the Aeschy-stevedore.

Me, right now, I'm in a spiderweb
Of light- light-chestnut, dark stranded.
The people need light and air, a luminous blue,
Need bread and snow from Elbrus, too.

All I have no one to advise me,
Hardly likely that such I'll find:
Neither in the Crimea nor in the Urals
Are stones so transparent, so lamenting.

The people need a verse that's secret, of their kind,
To once and for all wake up from it

I shook off the sweat and the sun. I realized that I had destroyed the natural balance of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I had once been happy. Then I fired four times into the lifeless body, where the bullets sank without leaving a trace. And it was as if I had rapped sharply, four times, on the fatal door of destiny.

A strange idea suddenly came to him: that of standing up right now, going over to Nikodim Fomich and telling him everything that had happened the day before, down to the last detail, and then taking him to his lodgings and showing him the gold objects in the corner, inside the hole. The urge was so strong that he actually stood up in order to put in into action.

'They may easily make a search of the place while I'm gone,' he reflected, and came to a halt. but he was suddenly overcome by such despair and by such cynicism with regard to his own downfall, if one may use such an expression, that he waved his hand in impatience and continued his descent.

Terror was gaining an increasing hold on him, particularly after the second, quite unpremeditated murder. He felt that he wanted to escape from this place as quickly as possible.

Raskolnikov was in a state of extreme excitement. All this was, of course, the most commonplace and the most frequently encountered kind of conversation; many times before he had heard some ideas expressed by young people in other forms and in relation to other subjects. But why had he chanced to hit upon such talk and such ideas precisely now, when inside his own head there had just been engendered......

He abandoned the bench and set off, almost at a run: his original intention had been to turn back and go back home, but the thought of going home suddenly seemed a horribly repulsive one: there, in his corner, in that horrible cupboard of his, all this had been fermenting within him for more than a month now, and he moved wherever his eyes led him.

'Well, and what if I'm mistaken? he suddenly found himself exclaiming. 'What if man- the whole human race in general, I mean- isn't really a villian at all? If that's true, it means that all the rest is just a load of superstition, just a lot of fears that have been put into people' heads, and there are no limits, and that's how it meant to be!...

Like a postponed present,
That's how winter feels-
From the first I've loved,
Its uncertain extent.

Fear makes it beautiful,
Something terrible might occur-
Before this forestless circle,
Even the crow's lost the nerve.

But all that's most powerful is tenuous,
Bright blue of these convexities-
Ice half-circles at the temple of the streams,
Lulling to a sleep without dreams.....

Wave follow wave breaks the back of a wave with a wave
Hurls itself at the moon with a slave's despair
And the callow Janissary depths
The new sleepless city of the waves
Stretches, startles, scrapes a ditch in the sand
And through the shadowy the turbid air appear
The ramparts of a wall not yet begun
And soldiers of suspicious sultans pitch
From staircases of foam dropping one by one
And icy eunuchs pass out cyanide

Gotta keep living, though I've died twice,
And the water is driving the city crazy:
How beautiful, what high cheekbones, how happy,
How sweet the fat earth to the plow,
How the steppe extends in an April upheaval,
And the sky, the sky - pure Michelangelo.

By kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wring. No, terror's useless, whatever its colour- white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system, Zina! (Pg.20)

He's the kind who always eats well and never steals, he wouldn't kick you, but he's not afraid of anyone either. And he's never afraid because he always has enough to eat. The man's a brain worker, with a carefully trimmed, sharp-pointed beard and grey mustaches, bold and bushy one like the knights of old. But the smell of him, that came floating on the wind, was a bad, hospital smell. And cigars.

What she wanted was to express her sense of loss, her grief and affection for someone she had never seen. She had cherished that desire so long that the image of the dead infant had become a symbol of yearning for her. She thought of it whenever she felt sad. Also the picture was to symbolize herself surviving all these years, as well as the beauty and sadness of her love for Oki.

There seemed to be only one way to keep his son from seeing Keiko: telling him that he had spent the night with her at Enoshima.

Why did the white lotus bloom in fire ? Why did it not wither away ?