Number 5 Tagore web -ontor momo
5. Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
Cleanse thy impurity, bless them a glow
Beauty, may the diva touch the unborn heavenly , beyond the creation
Awaken, prepare
for the gallant cause, intrepid
Do good to others, be active, make them sure and certain
Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
reach to the souls soaring higher in the flight in assonance
to remove the impediment of the voyage
Calm and placid a reach, to beseech humbly
thine speechless impeccable trochaic
The foothill and the fragrant Jasmine, make them a humble duo
be praiseworthy, be praiseworthy
be praiseworthy
Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
Copyright © Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2025
5. Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
Cleanse thy impurity, bless them a glow
Beauty, may the diva touch the unborn heavenly , beyond the creation
Awaken, prepare
for the gallant cause, intrepid
Do good to others, be active, make them sure and certain
Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
reach to the souls soaring higher in the flight in assonance
to remove the impediment of the voyage
Calm and placid a reach, to beseech humbly
thine speechless impeccable trochaic
The foothill and the fragrant Jasmine, make them a humble duo
be praiseworthy, be praiseworthy
be praiseworthy
Bless thy mind blossoming to the degree of all these, brimming ashore
the fullest hymn, in the innermost shrine, pearls of wisdom and adore
Momo blended in well with the trees
moved fast considering he was walking in brush
we followed this big-foot-like-creature down the Missouri River
It was 1971, we knew he was an anomaly.
Tried to tell people.
They thought we had been smoking pot.
I have never smoked pot
But I have seen Momo, so I know he is real
He appeared taller than other men,
his coverings were made of leaves
he blended in with the trees
we think we found his camp
it was a horrible smelling place
Gorgeous Grass Faerie was sent to soothe the little fellow.
He was lost in the bowels of the jungle with snakes of yellow.
His sniffles were heard by elves, faeries, owls and a gnome.
He was lost, for he had wandered rather far from his home.
The first thing we need to do is give him food the faerie said.
She gathered some strawberries that were magnificently red.
She brought them to him and coaxed him into trying a bite.
He was shy, but he looked up and lost a bit of his enormous fright.
We will take care of you until your mother finds you, she said.
Do not worry, nothing will harm you. The owl will not make you dead.
The owl heard this and agreed, going back to sleep with a wink.
He never ate up baby mice, their tummies were disgustingly pink.
Momo Mouse’s magnificent mama found him about an hour later.
She had been frantic, for he had fallen off an oak tree’s open elevator.
I saw you tumbling, but I lost sight of you in the weeds, my son.
She was grateful for everything Grass Faerie and her friends had done.
when I see the smudged bowl that Momo lived in, I think of his
fins, which drifted off of his body and
broke apart like popsicles, and my fingernails,
which flake into pieces and snag on my sweater. it goes on, then, to
scars on my face and side and especially one on my
thigh, a casualty from fence-climbing into a covert
Astroturf party in Riverside park.
Momo was rushed to my uncle Bill’s aquarium hospital,
a small tank that sits beside a large glowing one, where
all the sick fish live.
I swallow to think that he slipped into the sink, once,
and I screamed OH MY GOD again again again until my
father threw him back into the bowl with his white hands.
my fish was buried in a backyard where a
golden-retriever named George once lived.
I think of Momo’s small fish bones, the ones that will stay behind
once his scales and eyes disappear into the ground, and I think
knobby knees, mine, the ones my
cousins mocked six summers ago, and of
lives so glossy, and of girls who make my
stomach hurt, and of little blue fish, whose
eyelash lips whisper kisses to no one