My reply to Tagore

Separated by a century I reply to a poem....

Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? 
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.
(RabindranathTagore,  The Gardener, 1915)


A reader replies

Great bard of Bengal, now almost one hundred years since those lines,
I, your reader, descendant of the Raj that you despised, living in a world so different to your day,
read of your garden. My heart leaps! 
I fling wide my garden door. The flowers, bright birdsong and fragrances speak now as they spoke in living joy 
that still rises with the sap and sings of divinity in subtle colours, so pale. My spring morning:
that same elation from floral memories and golden clouds.




(John Butterfield 2012)

Adultery (Matthew 5:27)

by John Butterfield

Jesus said,

It is not the sweaty consummation,

writhing: energy to ecstasy

that is most destructive.

Much worse are the mental

unconsummated fantasies

that override commitment

and undermine reality.

That give imagined passion

the motivation and power:

dreaming driving drawing draining

relationships in the real world.

What can compete with the unbridled unreality

of obsession that leads to a madness of dislocation?