10 August 2007



              Not Home

              I was eight, and alone.
              Waiting in the garden I talked
              to trees. Seeds sprouted.
              Crickets sang. In the house
              Grandma lay dying.
              Caught an insect, held it
              in my hand. Plucked a leg off,
              as I softly sang. Very cruel,
              very bad. Surely Papa would
              come home, if I were bad.
              Make me hurt, for being bad.
              One more leg then, and another.
              Time crawled. I lost count.
              Finally there were no more legs,
              but Papa wasn’t home.
              I dropped the useless insect
              on the ground. In the house
              Grandma went on dying.
              On and on her body twitched,
              till I crushed it with a stone.
              Papa wasn’t home.
posted by Gilbert at Friday, August 10, 2007 1 comments


              Osho on Love

              You fall in love with a woman
              because she is so new:
              the physiology, the colour of her hair,
              the way she walks, turns, says hello.
              Everything is new, the territory unknown:
              you are drawn like a moth at night
              to a glass-walled flame.
              As you approach, she runs away:
              that is part of the game.
              If she simply says, "Yes, I am ready,"
              the mystery would fade that very moment -
              in fact you would think of
              how to run away. Man is a hunter,
              so when the woman is chased,
              running away, hiding here and there,
              avoiding, saying no,
              the man gets hot. The challenge
              becomes intense, the woman must be
              conquered. Now he grows ready
              to die for her, to do whatever is needed,
              his heart will flutter, he will fly,
              singe his wings on her heat,
              beat his small head on her glass walls.
              Before the night ends, he will
              take her, yes he must, before she too
              burns out in the first cold
              light of dawn.
posted by Gilbert at Friday, August 10, 2007 1 comments