I have a dream...

I have a dream that one day this Nation will rise up and live out
the true meaning of its creeds ---'we hold these truths to be self-evident
that all men are created equal'.

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of slaves
and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the
table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi,
sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression,
will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream today...

Martin Luther King Jr.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia.. may depend.. on the irrecoverable nature of
the past for its emotional impact and appeal.
It is the very pastness of the past, its inaccessibility, that accounts for a large part of nostalgia's power...This is rarely the past as actually experienced, of course; it is the past as imagined, as idealized through memory and desire.

-Linda Hutcheon-

Men

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.


MAYA ANGELOU.

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
   Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
   Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 
   The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
   And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
   Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry.


By Robert Herrick

One!

To us all towns are one, all men our kin.
Life's good comes not from other's gift, nor ill
Man's pains and pain's relief are from within.
Death's no new thing; not do our bosoms thrill
When joyous life seems like a luscious draught.
When grieved, we patient suffer; for, we deem
This much - praised life of ours a fragile raft
Borne down the waters of some mountain stream
That o'ver huge boulders roaring seeks the plain
Tho' storms with lighting's flash from darkened skies
Descend, the raft goes on as fates ordain.
Thus have we seen in visions of the wise!
We marvel not at greatnessof the great;
Still less despise we men of low estate."

Kaniyan Poongundran in Purananuru.
Tamil poem written 2500 years ago
Translation rendered by Rev. G.U Pope.

Return of the exile

After years of wandering, I return
to this strange place, the home I left;
forgotten in the land of my birth.

Nourished under alien skies,
I come alone woken by nightmares,
unable to drift back to a land of dreams.

Gone is the mansion, the garden I grew up in,
gone are my people, landscape of my childhood.

None left here to comfort me
through the long journey into light
or nothingness, redemption or oblivion...

We have hardened ourselves, grown up;
no longer ask questions we do not understand.

Is that why we are punished for turning back?

Can't we explode space and time
back to when it all began,
demand to know why we were sent here,
why so hard the lives given to us,
some more than others;
where do we go when our time is up---

Our insignificant lives
tempered by the questions we ask?

Shanta Acharya.

Dispossessed

Dispossessed

We embarked on this pilgrimage
to the promised land beyond the treacherous seas,
true believers, steadfast in our faith,

Dreaming of placing trust
in our adopted homeland; thought
life would no longer be cheap, easily snatched:

Did not reckon death had so many paths,
so many notions of justice and redemption.

What are you after?
Our souls are sick, moving from harbour to harbour.

To know itself a soul must look into its own soul.

We knew the islands were beautiful
when we stowed ourselves, leaving the rest to God,
praying to the imortal sea to bring us here.

Our country is closed in; our days clouded by war.
At night fear rose like the moon
spreading its shroud over death and hunger.

We came here believing in freedom,
believing if we wished it long and hard enough
our dreams will turn into reality.

Our history a mascot we carried in our hearts.

We did not expect a miracle,
we did not look back---
have we not paid enough?

If you need more
take us,
whatever is left of our dreams, our possessions;
only spare our children, our future.....

Shanta Acharya, Associate Director, Initiative on Foundation
and Endowment Asset Management at London School of Business.