A November day in 2014 —a time in the light of another life

I have been thinking about time and found this picture in time passed. This was taken in a place called Baray, at a remote province in an ancient kingdom. It was an ordinary sunny day for a transient traveler. I did not know then I was to return and extend my stay because there was a long story to be written.

I chose this picture at random. When I look closer now I notice the immaculate hand carving on the piece of wood that held up the stairs, commemorating the timeless care and love for art of this people.

Unlike an outsider like me from a relatively developed city, the dust is of no consequence to them. I looked at the superficial cover of dust everywhere. But the artist looked at each piece of solid material (in this case, real wood) underneath the dust cover and decided to make a beauty out of it. I looked at the bicycles and wondered how anyone could bear to ride on them. The proud owners looked at them as valuable assets that enhanced their livelihood. I looked at the lean chicken and wondered they would be of any commercial value. The farmers told me that they didn’t normally eat the chicken as they were considered expensive dishes. They kept the chicken for their eggs and an important day in the future, or for a valued guest from a faraway land…

Yes, I will remember that November day in 2014 —a time in the light of another life, for a long time.

Praise, 2021-02-03

a traveling bird’s pausing and three poems

Pause

 

colorful island birdBe like the bird who, pausing in her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings, knowing she hath wings. Victor Hugo

The Oven Bird
By Robert Frost

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.

Birds of Passage
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Black shadows fall
From the lindens tall,
That lift aloft their massive wall
Against the southern sky;

And from the realms
Of the shadowy elms
A tide-like darkness overwhelms
The fields that round us lie.

But the night is fair,
And everywhere
A warm, soft vapor fills the air,
And distant sounds seem near,

And above, in the light
Of the star-lit night,
Swift birds of passage wing their flight
Through the dewy atmosphere.

I hear the beat
Of their pinions fleet,
As from the land of snow and sleet
They seek a southern lea.

I hear the cry
Of their voices high
Falling dreamily through the sky,
But their forms I cannot see.

O, say not so!
Those sounds that flow
In murmurs of delight and woe
Come not from wings of birds.

They are the throngs
Of the poet’s songs,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs,
The sound of winged words.

This is the cry
Of souls, that high
On toiling, beating pinions, fly,
Seeking a warmer clime,

From their distant flight
Through realms of light
It falls into our world of night,
With the murmuring sound of rhyme.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I decided to post three poems from three poets/writers. The picture is taken from my random coloring on a cluster of stuff, mainly one-dimensioned buildings. Why the poems on birds? Well, if you look closely you can find him perching alone somewhere in the picture. The rests are unseen perhaps, flying overhead at night just as the poet said, with their wings singing the murmuring sound of rhyme.