The Happy Wanderer

Miracle we feel you, Happiness rapping at the door When we have less than a few choices, The heart just wishes to soar... Feeling blessed at the beauty of the moment, Not cursed that there aren't more. Miracle we feel you, Singing tremors of the present Encore! 'Tis a miracle we feel ourselves Just content to be right here just now With plenty to look forward to, sure, But with not much to lug in the tow. Not much to compare and weigh against Precious little over which to pine and lament Cartloads to plan and commit over Bearing in mind that the present moment Is the one and the only bright Cover. P.S.: Post-dated poem: This poem was written during the initial weeks of the lockdown, in the light of the bright side of the situation that had suddenly, abruptly, overtaken the world. Just because we're in a storm doesn't mean that the storm can enter our hearts!

It's drizzling. The pecks by a sparrow's moist feet Are trickling down the window Engulfed by tiny water-drops. Like bandits in a forbidden prison, Infamous once, forgotten thence. They add the sharp knock on the pane To their unconscious water-work. As if to cut and saw the glass And then gently heal it with The flow of the whispering water.  A squirrel feels her claws take on  The force of the bark of the Ashoka tree. The brusque bark bristles against her fur And soothes, caressing the irritation That some wild-berry, immobile Inconspicuous- a tiny twig, red fluff Had unwittingly inflicted. As she defeats gravity with the friction Of her claws- she enters the sight Of the birds at my window-sill. The bottom of her eye catches their wink And flits upward. Was that a smile? Oh yes, mild and bashful, but a smile still. Now she has not only herself rolled up But also the corners of her lips. Until a crow almost deafens her ...

Book Title: Gulliver's Travels Author: Jonathan Swift It was the period around the break of the eighteenth century, in pre-industrial Europe. Olden days, nascent notions of science, archaic styles of raiment, poetry, art and prose, the constant tug and pull of the Church with a rebellious public, the state maintaining a subtle but favorable balance between a minuscule chunk of the various deviations made by visionaries from its established codes, dubbing these as the 'manifestation of its progressive views', and the core of its existence, its hegemonic presence. There was a moat between the autocracy's intentions and the public's perception of them, so that the physical moat between the Royal Palace and the towns and countryside was much revered and respected. Or, if I may say so safely, at least to the extent, that a world-renowned book published by a progressive Irish satirist emphasizes his pride for his nation with a great deal of force.  Which made ...