Written by
Mangesh Padgaonkar |
Salaam,
To everyone, salaam
To the hand that holds
And brandishes the rod, salaam,
With my left hand on my rear
For fear of the boot,
A right-handed salaam,
To the one who watches me closely, salaam,
To the one who doesn’t watch and doesn’t care, salaam,
To the one who’d like to buy me out, salaam,
To his unseen boss, who orders him to buy me out, salaam,
Salaam, dear friends, to everyone, salaam.
It is a long poem, and it ends:
To every one of you, a reverential salaam.
If I had several arms and hands,
Like our sacred pantheon,
With every one of them I would have salaamed.
Forgive me, mortal as I am,
That I have only two:
The left I reserve for my rear,
And with the right I offer you
A simple, one-handed salaam.
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Written by
Richard Jones |
When the sun goes down
I have my first drink
standing in the yard,
talking to my neighbor
about the alder tree
rising between our houses,
a lowly tree that prospered
from our steady inattention
and shot up quick as a weed
to tower over our rooftops,
where it now brandishes
a rich, luxuriant crown.
Should we cut it down?
Neither of us wants to --
we agree that we like
the flourishing branches,
shade like thick woods.
We don't say it,
studying our tree in silence,
but we know that if the roots
get into the foundations
we've got real trouble.
John goes back inside.
Nothing to be done in summer --
not to those heavy branches.
I balance my empty glass
on top of a fence post.
In the quiet early dark,
those peaceful minutes
before dinner, I bend down
to the flower beds I love
and pull a few weeds --
something I've meant to do
all day.
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