Life Poems
Most Famous Life Poems of All Time!
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One candle holds the whole room's darkness back—
a single flame against the accumulated night,
and the darkness, for all its depth and practice,
has no answer for the light.
Hope is the candle. It does not need
to be...
Not yet is not the same as never—
the distance between them is the whole field of hope,
the whole practice of the faithful,
the whole length of the long rope.
Not yet means the door is still a door,...
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In all the years the earth has been the earth,
the spring has not once skipped a year—
has not looked at the hardness of the winter
and decided not to reappear.
It comes with its ridiculous optimism,
its pink...
Hold on a little longer—not forever,
just longer than the feeling says to stop,
just long enough for the season to remember
to turn before you reach the drop.
I know how long the long night is—I've lived one.
I...
Before the house decides what it is doing,
before the phone begins its urgent call,
there is a window of the wholly quiet—
the peace before the day takes all.
I try to live inside that window—
ten minutes with...
Breathe in. Breathe out. The ancient instruction,
the one the body never needs reminding—
and yet the mind needs it constantly,
needs the body's rhythm for the finding
of the still place underneath the noise,
the calm that doesn't disappear...
The forest teaches silence differently—
not the absence of sound, but its arrangement,
the bird in the distance, the creak of the branch,
the particular acoustic enchantment.
In the forest the sounds become the silence,
the noise becomes the ground...
The thing I held the longest
was the thing that cost me most to keep—
the grudge, the grief, the old resentment
that I fed through every sleepless sleep.
When I finally opened my hand and let it go
the...
We argued and we let the argument sit
between us like furniture we worked around—
until one morning, for no particular reason,
one of us chose the laying-down.
I do not remember who went first.
It does not matter now...
I gave myself permission to do nothing—
sat in the chair without an aim in sight,
watched the dust motes move in the afternoon
in the particular slant of autumn light.
No list, no task, no justifying purpose—
just the...
When the cage door opened she did not fly at once—
she had forgotten what flying was for,
had grown so used to the measure of the wire
that the sky seemed like too much to explore.
This is what...
The most important freedom is the mind—
the liberation from the thought that says you can't,
the breaking of the chain that lives inside your thinking,
the walking past the interior restraint.
No government gives or takes this freedom—
it...
They raised the flag at dawn, those first ones—
their hands still trembling with the newness of the thing,
the sky still holding its uncertain morning
while the anthem found its voice to sing.
What they bought with everything they...
A word, once spoken, cannot be unspoken—
it lives in the air after the mouth has closed,
it enters the ear and leaves a permanent impression,
it seeds the ground of everything that grows.
This is why they fear the...
The bravest freedom is the one you claim
when everyone expects the other road—
when the family has a plan, the culture has a plan,
when the expected has its heavy load.
To say: this is my life, and I...
The freedom I want most is this:
to be exactly what I am without apology,
to move through the world in my own particular way
without the weight of someone else's eulogy.
To love what I love, to work what...
My mother tongue is a river I was born into—
before I knew that rivers had a name,
I was already swimming in its grammar,
already shaped by its syllabic flame.
Hindi: the language of my first lullabies,
the tongue...
Maa—the shortest word for the largest thing,
two letters that carry the whole first world,
the smell of home, the sound of safety,
the life before the life was unfurled.
No translation captures it completely—
Maa belongs to the language...
In a foreign city in a foreign winter
I dream of the Deccan in July—
the particular green of the post-monsoon fields,
the particular quality of that sky.
They say the homeland is in the language—
wherever Hindi is spoken,...
The Ganga does not know our names—
it has been running too long for that—
but it has carried the prayers of ten thousand years
in its cold and patient current, fact by fact.
At its banks the oldest rituals...
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