Ruskin Bond's Book of Verse
Page 2
Most lives run riot—
But the bud opens silently,
And flower gives way to fruit.
So must we search
For the stillness within the tree,
The silence within the root.
Listen!
Listen to the night wind in the trees,
Listen to the summer grass singing;
Listen to the time that’s tripping by,
And the dawn dew falling.
Listen to the moon as it climbs the sky,
Listen to the pebbles humming;
Listen to the mist in the trembling leaves,
And the silence calling.
Firefly in My Room
Last night, as I lay sleepless
In the summer dark
With window open to invite a breeze,
Softly a firefly flew in
And circled round the room
Twinkling at me from floor or wall
Or ceiling, never long in one place
But lighting up little spaces…
A friendly presence, dispelling
The settled gloom of an unhappy day.
And after it had gone, I left
The window open, just in case
It should return.
Rain
After weeks of heat and dust
How welcome is the rain.
It washes the leaves,
Gives new life to grass,
Draws out the scent of the earth.
It rattles on the roof,
Gurgles along the drainpipe
Collects in a puddle in the middle of the lawn—
The birds come to bathe.
When the sun comes out
A lizard crawls up from a crack in a rock.
‘Small brown lizard
Basking in the sun
You too have your life to live
Your race to run.’
At night we look through the branches
Of the cherry tree.
The sky is rain washed, star-bright.
The Owl
At night, when all is still,
The forest’s sentinel
Glides silently across the hill
And perches in an old pine tree.
A friendly presence his!
No harm can come
From night bird on the prowl.
His cry is mellow,
Much softer than a peacock’s call.
Why then this fear of owls
Calling in the night?
If men must speak,
Then owls must hoot—
They have the right.
On me it casts no spell:
Rather, it seems to cry,
‘The night is good—all’s well, all’s well.’
The Snail
Leaving the safety of a rocky ledge
The snail sets out
On his long journey
Across a busy path.
The grass is greener on the other side!
For tender leaf or juicy stem
He’ll brave the hazards of the road.
Not made to dodge or weave or run
He must await each threatening step
Chancing his luck
Keeping his tentacles crossed!
Though all unaware
Of the dangers of being squashed
He does not pause or flinch—
A cartwheel misses by an inch!—
But slithers on,
Intent on dinner.
He’s there at last, his prize—
Rich leaf-mould where the grass grows tall.
I salute you, Snail.
Somehow, you’ve made me feel quite small.
The Snake
When, after days of rain,
The sun appears
The snake emerges,
Green-gold on the grass.
Kept in so long,
He basks for hours
Soaks up the hot bright sun.
Knowing how shy he is of me,
I walk a gentle pace
Letting him doze in peace.
But to the snake, earth-bound
Each step must sound like thunder.
He glides away
Goes underground.
I’ve known him for some years:
A harmless green grass-snake
Who, when he sees me on the path,
Uncoils and disappears.
Once You Have Lived with Mountains
Once you have lived with mountains
Under the whispering pines
And deodars, near stars
And a brighter moon,
With wood smoke and mist
Sweet smell of grass, dew lines
On spider-spun, sun-kissed
Buttercup and vine;
Once you have lived with these,
Blessed, God’s favourite then,
You will return,
You will come back
To touch the trees and grass
And climb once more the windswept mountain pass.
The Trees
At seven, when dusk slips over the mountains
The trees start whispering among themselves.
They have been standing still all day.
But now they stretch their limbs in the dark
Shifting a little, flexing their fingers
Remembering the time when
They too walked the earth with men.
They know me well, these trees:
Oak and walnut, spruce and pine
They know my face in the windows
They know me for a dreamer of dreams
A world-loser, one of them.
They watch me while I watch them grow.
I listen to their whisperings,
Their own mysterious diction;
And bow my head before their arms
And ask for benediction.
Butterfly Time
April showers
Bring swarms of butterflies
Streaming across the valley
Seeking sweet nectar.
Yellow, gold, and burning bright,
Red and blue and banded white.
To my eyes they bring delight!
Theirs a long and arduous flight,
Here today and off tomorrow,
Floating on, bright butterflies,
To distant bowers.
For Nature does things in good order:
And birds and butterflies recognize
No man-made border.
Dandelion
I think it’s an insult
To Nature’s generosity
That many call this cheerful flower
A ‘common weed’.
How dare they so degrade
A flower divinely made!
Sublimely does it bloom and seed
In sunshine or in shade,
Thriving in wind and rain,
On stony soil
On walls or steps
On strips of waste;
Tough and resilient,
Giving delight
When other flowers are out of sight.
And when its puff-ball comes to fruit
You make a wish and blow it clean away:
‘Please make my wish come true,’ you say.
And if you’re kind and pure of heart,
Who knows? This magic flower might just respond
And help you on your way.
Good dandelion,
Be mine today.
Night Thoughts
This mountain is my mother,
My father is the sea,
This river is the fountain
Of all that life may be…
Swift river from the mountain,
Deep river to the sea,
Take all my words and leave them
Where the west wind sets them free.
So, piper on the lonely hill,
Play no sad songs for me;
The day has gone, sweet night comes on,
Its darkness helps me see.
Wild Is the Wind
Wild is the wind tonight,
Deep is the thunder,
Lightning across the sky
Splits it asunder.
Witches will ride tonight,
Ranging the sky,
Wizards will cast their spells—
Great men will die.
Who’ll be my guide tonight,
Starless the sky;
Who’ll brave the demons
Now riding so high.
I’ll take the road alone,
I’ll reach my goal;
Witches and wizards
Must yield to man’s soul.
The Whistling Schoolboy
From the gorge above Gangotri
Down to Kochi by the sea,
The whistling-thrush keeps singing
That same sweet melody.
He was a whistling schoolboy once,
Who heard god Krishna’s flute,
And tried to play the same sweet tune,
But touched a faulty note.
Said Krishna to the errant youth—
A bird you must become,
And you shall whistle all your days
Until your song is done.
These Simple Things
The simplest things in life are best—
A patch of green,
A small bird’s nest,
A drink of water, fresh and cold,
The taste of bread,
A song of old;
These are the things that matter most.
The laughter of a child,
A favourite book,
Flowers growing wild,
A cricket singing in a shady nook.
A ball that bounces high!
A summer shower,
A rainbow in the sky,
The touch of a loving hand,
And time to rest—
These simple things in life are best.
A Bedbug Gives Thanks
I’m a child of the Universe
Claimed the bug
As he crawled out of the woodwork.
I’ve every right
To be a blight.
To Infinite Intelligence I owe
My place—
Chief pest
Upon the human race!
I’m here to stay—
To feast upon their delicate display,
Those luscious thighs,
Those nooks and crannies
Where the blood runs sweet.
No, no, I don’t despise
These creatures made for my delight.
A kind Creator had my needs in mind…
I thank you, Lord, for human-kind.
Childhood
Sweet Dolly
Sweet Dolly, you’re the girl for me,
Kind Dolly, I shall always see
You climbing in your father‘s garden,
Picking apples off a tree,
Sorting out the rosy ones
And giving them to me!
Boy in a Blue Pullover
Boy in a faded blue pullover,
Poor boy, thin, smiling boy,
Ran down the road shouting,
Singing, flinging his arms wide.
I stood in the way and stopped him.
‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Why are you happy?’
He showed me the nickel rupee-coin.
‘I found it on the road,’ he said.
And he held it to the light
That he might see it shining bright.
‘And how will you spend it,
Small boy in blue pullover?’
‘I’ll buy—
I’ll buy a buckle for my belt!’
Slim boy, smart boy,
Would buy a buckle for his belt
Coin clutched in his hot hand,
He ran off laughing, bright.
The coin I’d lost an hour ago;
But better his that night.
Little One Don’t Be Afraid
Little one, don’t be afraid of this big river.
Be safe in these warm arms for ever.
Grow tall, my child, be wise and strong.
But do not take from any man his song.
Little one, don’t be afraid of this dark night.
Walk boldly as you see the truth and light.
Love well, my child, laugh all day long,
But do not take from any man his song.
View from the Window
I’m in bed with fever
but the fever’s not high.
Beside my bed is a window
and I like looking out at all
that’s happening around me.
The cherry leaves are turning a dark green.
On the maple tree, winged seeds spin round and round
There is fruit on the wild blackberry bushes.
Two mynah birds are building a nest in a hole—
They are very noisy about it.
Bits of grass keep falling on the window sill.
High up in the spruce tree, a hawk-cuckoo calls:
‘I slept so well, I slept so well!’
When the hawk-cuckoo is awake, no one else sleeps
That’s why it’s also known as the fever bird.
A small squirrel climbs on the window sill.
He’s been coming every day since I’ve been ill,
and I give him crumbs from my tray.
A boy on a mule passes by on the rough mountain track.
He sees my face at the window and waves to me.
I wave back to him.
When I’m better I’ll ask him to let me ride his mule.
Cherry Tree
Eight years have passed
Since I placed my cherry seed in the grass.
‘Must have a tree of my own,’ I said—
And watered it once and went to bed
And forgot; but cherries have a way of growing
Though no one’s caring very much or knowing,
And suddenly that summer, near the end of May,
I found a tree had come to stay.
It was very small, a five months’ child,
Lost in the tall grass running wild.
Goats ate the leaves, a grasscutter’s scythe
Split it apart, and a monsoon blight
Shrivelled the slender stem…Even so,
Next spring I watched three new shoots grow,
The young tree struggle, upwards thrust
Its arms in a fresh fierce lust
For light and air and sun.
I could only wait, as one
Who watches, wondering, while Time and the rain
Made a miracle from green growing pain…
I went away next year—
Spent a season in Kashmir—
Came back thinner, rather poor,
But richer by a cherry tree at my door.
Six feet high, my own dark cherry,
And—I could scarcely believe it—a berry,
Ripened and jewelled in the sun,
Hung from a branch—just one!
And next year there were blossoms, small
Pink, fragile, quick to fall
At the merest breath, the sleepiest breeze…
I lay on the grass, at ease,
Looked up through leaves, at the blue
Blind sky, at the finches as they flew
And flitted through the dappled green,
While bees in an ecstasy drank
Of nectar from each bloom, and the sun sank
Swiftly, and the stars turned in the sky,
And moon-moths and singing crickets and I—
Yes, I!—praised night and stars and tree:
A small, tall cherry grown by me.
Kites
Are you listening to me, boy?
I am only your kitemaker,
My poems are flimsy things
Torn by the wind, caught in mango trees,
Gay sport fo
r boys and dreamers.
My silent songs. But once I fashioned
A kite like a violin,
She sang most mournfully, like the wind
In tall deodars.
Are you listening? Remember
The Dragon Kite I made one summer?
No, you are too young. A great
Kite, with small mirrors to catch the sun
And eyes and a tongue, and gold
Trappings and a trailing silver tail.
A kite for the gods to ride!
And it rose most sweetly, but the wind
Came up from nowhere,
A wind in waiting for us,
My twine snapped and the wind took the kite,
Took it over the flat roofs
And the waving trees and the river
And the blue hills for ever.
No one knew where it fell. Boy, are you
Listening? All my kites
Are torn, but for you I’ll make a bright
New poem to fly.
I Was the Wind Last Night
I was the wind last night.
I vaulted the river and swam seven mountains.
And turned aside the tall trees guarding the valley.
I caught glimpses of you through the window as I wandered around the little house.
They wouldn’t let me in; too cold a wind!
I hung about listlessly, afraid to call too loud.
Then like a weary man limped homewards over the sleeping mountains
When will I learn the value of stillness?
Tigers Forever
May there always be tigers, Lord.
In the jungles and tall grass
May the tiger’s roar be heard,
May his thunder
Be known in the land.
At the forest pool, by moonlight
May he drink and raise his head
Scenting the night wind.
May he crouch low in the grass
When the herdsmen pass,
And slumber in dark caverns
When the sun is high.
May there always be tigers, Lord.
But not so many that one of them
Might be tempted to come into my bedroom
In search of a meal!
Evening by the Fireside
Boy by the fire dreaming
Baby sleeping
Mother nodding, knitting
Father reading
Wood crackling, spitting
Wind in the chimney humming
Old house creaking
Small mouse squeaking
No one speaking…
Baby waking!
Boy hungry
Mother grumbly
Father rumbly-bumbly
Baby shrieking!
Old house shaking
Small mouse squeaking
Wind in chimney howling
Everyone shouting, scowling
Baby yowling!
Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark
Don’t be afraid of the dark, little one,
The earth must rest when the day is done.
The sun may be harsh, but moonlight—never!
And those stars will be shining forever and ever,
Be friends with the Night, there is nothing to fear,
Just let your thoughts travel to friends far and near.