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APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. (T.S. Eliot/The Waste Land) Before leaving, with some measure of relief, my birth month in this watershed year (the month and year I got old…) of 2019, I must speak to Eliot’s April meditations—which… Read More
Facing west from California’s shores, Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound, I, a child, very old, over the waves, towards the house of maternity, The land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circles; For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere, From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero, From the south, from the flowery… Read More