A Different History by Sujata Bhatt
Great Pan is not dead; he simply emigrated to India.
Here the gods roam freely, disguised as snakes or monkeys; every tree is sacred and it is a sin to be rude to a book.
It is a sin to shove a book aside with your foot, a sin to slam books down hard on the table a sin to toss one carelessly across a room. You must learn how to turn the pages gently without disturbing Sarasvati, without offending the tree from whose wood the paper was made. Which language has not been the oppressor’s tongue? Which language truly meant to murder someone?
And how does it happen that after the torture, after the soul has been cropped with a long scythe swooping out of the conqueror’s face- the unborn grandchildren grow to love that strange language.
Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.
Continuum by Allen Curnow
The moon rolls over the roof and falls behind my house, and the moon does neither of these things,
I am talking about myself.
It’s not possible to get off to sleep or the subject or the planet, nor to think thoughts.
Better barefoot it out the front. door and lean from the porch across the privets and the palms into the washed-out creation, a dark place with two particular bright clouds dusted (query) by the moon, one’s mine the other’s an adversary, which