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Poems

 
MUD POEMS

And that is why I say
My body is mud.
Because it needs the rain.
It needs the sun on its face
And the mist in the hills:
Without these the mud dies
And shrinks up the earth;
Without these the soul dies.
For if the mud is gone
What else remains?

###

Long ago I heard a song
That said mud fell from heaven,
And disbelieved.

Once I heard a song that said
The sky came from the earth,
And disbelieved.

Time changes all.
Time has changed me.
Or have I come to know
That the mud
Comes from heaven
And heaven
From earth?

###

You see, when the circle ends
It returns to the same point.
Eventually, we must return
To the sea, the mud, the sky.

I made mud gods in spring
And then put gold and vermilion
In their hair and sandal
On their foreheads, and later
When the harvest came
To the mud gods I offered
The first grain and prayed
That the rains would be plentiful.

So the mud gods kept my thoughts
And watched the skies for rain:
And I return to the gods
Who kept my soul together

The mud gods of spring,
The mud gods of winter,
The mud gods of the hills
The trees, me, and mine.

For this is where the circle begins
And comes to rest, eventually.

Editor's note: Bulbul Singh passed through San Francisco three decades ago on his way from India to points east. He left behind a cycle of poems he had written "as my song of joy for my mother, the Mud." He had begun them in 1973, during a drought. Here are three of them, at a time of great floods. We do not know where to find Bulbul Singh now. Please let us know if you do.

 

 

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