POEMS FROM WILD FLOWERS

POEMS FROM WILD FLOWERS
(my second slim volume)

Today in my little kitchen garden
I worked among the weeds,
Pulling them up from around
The edible lettuce seeds.

Then while my nimble soil-stained hands
From the rich, loose earth did pull
Two tiny wild flowers stared at me,
Bell-shaped and beautiful.

Entranced, my plucking I stopped,
And gazed at those lovely blossoms glow,
Then out of thanks for my delight,
I left them there to blow.

NEW-BLOWN LILIES

From my window today
The shimmering dew-dropped grass among,
New-blown lilies I beheld -
Pure in their stately whiteness -
Scenting the morning air with mild perfume.
I gasped in ecstasy at this vision fair,
Then turned and caught my little daughter’s smiling gaze

A twinkling dimple on her rose=blown cheek.
I thought:
How like the lily she seems,
Fresh and virginal
With nectar yet unsipped
But fragrantly inviting the bee;
I kissed her lightly on her willing cheek
Like the wind that wafts the lilies’scentsoft and cool.
O joy ineffable!
Flowers and a dimpling smile,
Twin gifts of a day delectable!

THE FARMER

Daily he toils
Back bent towards his task,
Sweat glistening on his sun-burnt cheek,
Calloused hands caressing the yielding earth
Aruund the willing plant,
Tending it as if it were a child’
Watching it grow from day to day,
Happy to note the peeping bud,the blown flower-

Incipient fruit and seed to satisfy man’s need.
O blessed tiller of the soil,
Preserver of our Joy and Hope and Love,,
Be not ashamed of hands soiled with the rotted ordure

That gives health to crops,
Or skin dark-hued by sun and wind!
Have you not earned bread savoured with the salt of sweat?

Are you not co-creator, co-sustainer with Him -
The source of all life -
Making two blades grow
Where grew only one before?
By: Randall Butisingh

REVERENCE FOR SUNDAYS HAS GONE

REVERENCE FOR SUNDAYS HAS GONE
(Article in Stabroek News)

Growing up in Buxton on the East Coast of Demerara as a boy, I remember what it used to be like on Sundays. Those who are living now and are old enough , will also remember. Our country was British Guiana then. I recall vividly, from around 1922, the stillness that pervaded the village on Sundays. During the day shops were closed, all activities ceased, most residents kept indoors or appeared to have kept there regardless of their persuasion.

The only sound that could have been heard was the loud peals, in the morning and early evening, of the various church bells calling the faithful of the different denominations to worship, and the uneven beat of shod feet on the brick road, going to and coming from church. The church-goers were clad in their Sunday best, the men in serge, tweed and palm beach, and the women, invariably in flowing white, all, men and women, wearing hats. In the hand of each was the prayer book and hymnal- the ladies with the added appurtenance of a fan which helped to alleviate the heat generated by a uaually packed congregation.

On entering the building, the men doffed their hats, and after prayers were said and seats taken, there ensued a pin-drop silence. No one spoke in church, even a whisper would have been audible. Any late comer had to walk on tip-toe and a screeching boot, which occasionally happened would shatter the stillness and embarrass the offender. This was the atmosphere set for worship in church. It was an awe-inspiring silence and reverence for the house of God.

Retiring from worship, the faithful spent the remaining hours of the day reading the Bible or resting their bodies for work during the week ahead. In the afternoon, the children were sent to Sunday School where they learnt the Catechism, the Ten Commandments, the Twenty-third Psalm, and were told stories from the Bible - all of which helped to mould the character of the youth. No play was permitted.

But the reverence of the day or the observance of it as a day of rest was not to continue. During my lifetime, which began two years before the first World War, I have witnessed many changes in society; changes in attitude towards religion and the gradual and almost precipitate breakdown of morality. Today, Sunday has become a holiday for all kinds of secular activities and sensual enjoyments - the stillness which once pervaded shattered with noise of all kinds.
It was in 1956 or thereabouts, when a bill was about to be passed to permit Sunday afternoon cinema shows. In a letter to the press I wrote: “I write with some degree of trepidation, though not with surprise about the bill to permit Sunday afternoon cinema shows.” In another part, I wrote:”In my opinion, if this bill is passed, Christians youths, who now reverence the day, will come to disregard it, and this will gradually weaken their hold on religion. My letter was quoted by a Christian member of parliament. The bill was passed.

So, from that time onwards, we have witnessed the violation of the sanctity of the day, and of it being a day of rest for all, Today, there is no activity precluded, entertainment or otherwise. The recent bill to open shops on Sundays, though seemingly convenient for the few, will further violate the sanctity of the day.

In conclusion, I would like to say that no economic progress alone could bring peace and happiness to a nation. Morality can only be built on the rock of true religion, with fruits of Faith, of Love and Compassion and of universal Brotherhood.

Randall Butisingh

HELEN KELLER – an inspiration

HELEN KELLER - An inspiration

Researchers have recently uncovered a rare photograph of a young Helen Keller with her teacher Anne Sullivan, nearly 120 years after it was taken on Cape Cod. The photograph, shot in July 1888 in Brewster, shows an 8-year-old Helen sitting outside in a light-colored dress, holding Sullivan’s hand and cradling one of her beloved dolls.

Her life was a miracle and shows how the spirit can conquer all obstacles.

My first poem after reading her life was; “Helen Keller” (an inspiration).

TO HELEN

Take my hand
You who cannot see’
Whose mortal ears are closed to sound,
For I am lost in this fog of time;
My steps have strayed’
I cannot find the way;
Help me to know the strength
Of Faith and Hope,
And guide me
For naught I see
And cannot hear the Voice.

I began writing poetry in my late teens. I used to write little valedictory poems for fellow teachers and friends, short poems on nature and short plays for school concerts. But, it was in my 60^th year, that I became most prolific after reading the life of the late blind and deaf humanitarian Helen Keller. I was so inspired that the words flowed easily. I began to see the world as a more beautiful place – the flowers looked more beautiful, especially the lowly daisy, the birds sang more sweetly, and all nature seemed to entrance.

Helen Keller loved flowers, and though she could not have seen them, she knew the colours by merely feeling the petals. Until today, I refrain from trampling a lowly wild flower when walking on the grass. Her handicaps did not rob her of her zest for living. She traveled much, studied with the help of a good teacher; was able to get her Master’s Degree and she wrote poetry. In one of her poems she expressed these words;

“The word of God came unto me
Sitting among the multitudes;
And my eyes were touched with light,
And there was laid upon my lips a flame of fire.”

Helen Keller lived to a good old age, and though she never heard sound, she was able to speak.

In the dedication to her of my book ‘LOVE’S BALM” I wrote;

“Her body house was not complete. The windows of her sight and hearing were forever shut, but the window of her soul was open to love and beauty. She saw and heard with her hands; her feet were sure in the fog; above all, she saw eternal radiance and heard the Voice.”

Randall Butisingh 

 

 

 

 

Thought for Today

.ExternalClass .EC_hmmessage P {padding:0px;} .ExternalClass EC_body.hmmessage {font-size:10pt;font-family:Tahoma;}THOUGHT FOR TODAY The golden way is to be friend with the world and to regard the whole human family as one. He who distinguishes between the votaries of his own religion and that of another miseducates the members of his own and opens the way for discord in religion. Mahatma Gandhi

NO MAN AN ISLAND

NO MAN AN ISLAND
( Letter to Stabroek News in Guyana)

Two events in world history both within the present century touched my deeper feeling and brought tears to my eyes. One, five decades ago was the death of the saintly character, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, known as the Mahatma which means great soul, when he was assassinated by a religious fanatic at one of his prayer meetings. I was a young man then who followed his Satyagrah or Soul Force movement for the liberation of India. I was at school with primary pupils when a friend brought the news. I was stunned for a while, then I sat, rested my head on the desk, and the tears flowed copiously. This did not happen to me alone. People in all parts of the world felt deeply touched also.

The other event was recent. It concerned the death of a young woman, by no means saintly, who also met her death in tragic circumstances. She was hounded by greedy paparazzi who sought to expose her private life to gossip mongers for the entertainment of the gossip hungry. I’m no longer young, but my maturity could not stop the tears which came unbidden.

Why is it that these two characters, so very different caused me to feel the way I did? One , a frail old man, small in stature, by no means comely in the accepted sense, who went about scantily clad, possessing nothing save six household items, and the only picture on the wall of his tiny room - that of the Master who fired his imagination in the “Sermon on the mount.” We must remember, however that the Mahatma was Hindu and never professed Christianity. The other, a young vibrant woman, a beautiful princess, who possessed wealth and was mother to a son who will on day be heir to the throne of Great Britain.

Both of these individuals made sacrifices for greater causes. The Mahatma gave up all his material goods, his family and a lucrative career in order to serve his country and humanity. He toiled tirelessly for freedom from the British yoke, he went to prison, endured fasting so that India would become free and united.. His weapon was Soul Force and Non-cooperation with what he considered evil. By his renunciation, he was able to attract princes, statesmen and scholars to his humble mud-floored dwelling at Sewagram.

Princess Diana, on the other hand, gave up the opportunity to become Queen of Great Britain to become Queen of hearts to millions throughout the world through her genuine concern for suffering humanity. Her zest for living and her own quest for happiness did not preclude her from having the interest of mankind at heart.

We should learn from these two characters that we are all involved and cannot close our eyes to suffering humanity. One writer rightly expresses the indivisibility of humanity as: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.”

Randall Butisingh

MORE POEMS FROM LOVE’S LIGHT

MORE POEMS FROM LOVE’S LIGHT

I Do Not Ask To See Your Face

I do no ask to see your face,
O Love effulgent,
‘Twill be too much for my poor sight;
But as through dark clouds a golden glow
Gives promise of the glory of the sun,
Shed you a tiny ray of your pure light
To penetrate my gloom
And brighten up my hope;
Then with the spark my soul has caught,
I’ll walk with faith the dreary night;
Never fearing when You are the Light.

Love Light

I am happy when I love
Thanks to Him Who is above;
See the love light in my eyes?
True it is Love never dies;
Truth and Love and God are One,
Love remains when all is gone.

Oasis Of Delight

Gold I sought to satisfy my greed,
Power and position to command;
I sought security in things possessing
And happiness in surfeiting.
But I found life a dreary desert
And wealth and power a mere mirage;
Gladdening the eye, only to disappear
And leave the thirst unslaked.

I tried giving to ease the weight of care
that rested on me so heavily;
I gave my gold, my strength, my self
To help my fellow traveller;
“Twas then I found an Oasis of Delight,
Sweet peace and rest beneath the shade
And living waters cool and clear
To slake my thirst for aye.

by: Randall Butisingh

The Resources of Mother Nature

The Resources of Mother Nature

The Resources of Mother Nature are there for all God’s children. We are all given our individual talents to use, to share and to serve one another, so that no one will be neglected and none go hungry. The farmer, the fisherman, the scavenger, should all be given the same respect as the minister of religion, the doctor of medicine, the lawyer, the merchant, for all are God’s children and all are dependent on one another for their sustenance in one way or the other.

To pile up wealth which is the bounty of the Creator and not to use it creatively and productly for the common good, is as Satya Sai Baba says: like storing up compost in one spot and not scattering it in the fields to make it fertile and produce. The late Mahatma Gandhi said; “He that has much of this world’s goods and sees his brother in want and does not help him is a thief.” This principle applies to individual as well as to nations.

We are all God’s children, inheritors of His kingdom. He makes the sun to shine and the rain to fall on every one, the just and the unjust. We should learn from the ants and the bees. See how they toil together for their communities. They do not war among themselves. Alas for man, the apex of creation, made in the image of his Creator, with intellect and the power of discrimination; endowed with freewill; has the capacity for goodness and compassion, but obsessed with greed and lust for power, uses every measure, even the taking of the lives of his fellowmen and the destruction of his environment to accomplish his desire.

We came into this world with nothing; and after a short stay we leave naked as we came; we can take nothing with us; all are equal in the dust. But, in the final reckoning all will have to give account for the use of their talents.

As we sow, so shall we reap.

By: Randall Butisingh

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY

The Voice of God is not afar;
It speaks in every twinkling star !
And in the bright light of the sun
Is radiant He, the only one !
O, open your eyes that you may see
The One in all - and so be free.

J.P Vaswani

POEMS

The Beggar

Londsome and friendless that beggar sat
On a gray dusty pavement in town
Begging of alms from the passersby
Hurrying up and down.

My God, what pitiable sight to see
That wretched being all forlorn;
Her robe the colour of the dust,
Tattered, unwashed and torn.

I paused a moment with heavy heart,
Then I heaved a heavy sigh;
While heedless of her need and pain,
Jostled the busy passersby.

I dropped a coin in the outstretched palm,
My fingers touched the leprous hand;
Where can I wash them came a thought
Which was easy to understand.

O shameful thought, my heart declared,,
So full of vanity and sin;
I kissed the fingers which touched the hand
Of my brother man, my kin.

He Sang

He sang!
This beggar, lame and sightless,
With begging bowl and laboured gait,
Poured out his lay
In doleful, dulcet notes,
Bartering his gift of song
For bread to satisfy his want.
I dropped a coin into his battered bowl -
A shiny metal thing;
He heard the music of the clink,
Gave thanks and limped away;
I watched him singing go
Ear strained to reach the sound
That warmed my heart
And stirred my soul
Until I heard no more.
Then wonderstruck, I realised
He was the giver
And I
the beggar.

My Neighbour

A wretched stranger met me by the curb
With hand outstretched to beg for gold;
I passed him by without a word
And left him sad and unconsoled.

When on the way to seek my own
My conscience pricked me to the bone,
I hurriedl retraced my steps
To cheer my neighbour
He was gone.

By: Randall Butisingh

POEMS

Life’s Precious Gift

You spurned my Gift
A little trinket thing
Which I did offer you;
You thought it was too small a thing;
Yet, if you had cared to peep
Within that frail, cheap token,
But close the eyes
And open out the heart,
You would have seen
What only Truth can show
Life’s most precious gift -
Love.

Light Divine

Let me not waver!
Let not the dazzling glare
of ephemeral earthly lights
Obscure the pure spark
of Light Divine
Which my restless spirit
caught but a tiny glint!
O Divine Omnipotence,
Let not the vision of that spark
be lost; But with life-giving Breath
Fan spark into
Flame Immortal!

Handful Of Coins

The King
Threw a handful of coins
To the crowd in the noisy street;
Everyone scrambled and fought
For a share of the golden treat.

God
Threw down His sparks from above
To the multitudes below;
One only caught a tiny spark
To set his soul aglow.

Who
Saw the burning bush
Or heard God’s voice therein
Was it the host of Israelites
Or Moses pure within?

by: Randall Butisingh