Posts Tagged ‘poems’

Sweet Memory

You walked in to my life,
But just like that,
You walked back out,
Still you will be a memory,
A memory that I have created in my mind,
Still you will be a memory,
A memory that will always be locked,
Away in my heart and my mind,
I will always have a memory of you in my heart,
And I will always carry that picture of you in my mind,
Still you will be a memory,



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Friendships come and Friendships go Like wave upon the sand
Like day and night
Like birds in flight
Like snowflakes when they land
But you and I are something else
Our friendship’s here to stay
Like weeds and rocks and dirty socks
It never goes away!


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Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,
Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,
I respectfully salute you,
I genuflect
And I kiss your episcopal ring.

It is not, Monsignore,
The fragrant memory of your holy life,
Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,
Which causes me now to address you.
But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,
It seems appropriate to me to state
According to a venerable and agreeable custom,
That I love a beautiful lady.
Her eyes, Monsignore,
Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections
On everything that she looks at,
Such as a wall
Or the moon
Or my heart.
It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,
Yet not quite like it,
For the blueness is not transparent,
Only translucent.
Her soul’s light shines through,
But her soul cannot be seen.
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
And noble.
She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,
Made in the manner of the Japanese.
It is very blue-
I think that her eyes have made it more blue,
Sweetly staining it
As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.
Loving her, Monsignore,
I love all her attributes;
But I believe
That even if I did not love her
I would love the blueness of her eyes,
And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.

I have never before troubled you with a request.
The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas
are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,
Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,
And your brother bishop, my patron,
The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.
But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,
Do me this favour:
When you this morning make your way
To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses
because of her who sits upon it,
When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,
I beg you, say to her:
“Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,
Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you
For wearing a blue gown”.

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હવે થાકી ગયો સાકી પુરાણા એ સુરાલયથી,
નશો ચડતો નથી મુજને તમારા મ્હેકતા મયથી.

ગગનામાં શું રહેછે ,કોક મારા જેવો દુર્ભાગી,
કોઈ બોલાવતું લાગે છે મુજને એ મહાલયથી.

બધાં દ્રશ્યો અલગ દેખાય છે ,એ ભેદ સાદો છે,
હું દેખું છું વિમાસણમાં,તમે દેખોછો સંશયથી.

મને એ ભેદ લાગેછે દિલાસો આપનારઓ,
તમે મુજ દુર્દશા દેખી રહ્યા છો ખૂબ વિસ્મયથી.

હું જાણી જોઇને મારા કદમ એ જાળમાં મૂકું,
નથી હોતો કોઇ અજ્ઞાત તાર કોઇ આશયથી.

તમે અદ્રશ્ય રહી બાજી રમો ગાફેલ રાખીને,
મહત્તા કોઇની ઘટતી નથી એવા પરાજયથી.

ન મારી આ દશાને પણ ભૂલથી દુર્દશા કહેતા,
ખરીદી પાનખર મોંઘી વસંતો કેરા વિક્રયથી.

જવું છે એક દિ તો આજ ચાલ્યો જાઉં છું મિત્રો,
હું મહેફિલમાં નથી આવ્યો ટકી રહેવાનાં નિશ્ચયથી.

– હરીન્દ્ર દવે

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