In a Monsoon Fervour
We can’t wait for the rains to begin. To feel anew, to hear the rain speak, to lie in bed all day and stare out the window, mulling the passage of time.
We can’t wait for the rains to begin. To feel anew, to hear the rain speak, to lie in bed all day and stare out the window, mulling the passage of time. To think about responsibility and brood for the rest of the day. To catch rainbows and sing the monsoon song. To feel the terror and loss. To despair. To come alive.
Last night the rain spoke to me by Mary Oliver
Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.
Time by Alex Dimitrov
Again I am unprepared
standing under an awning
in the middle of summer
autumn, winter, spring —
watching the downpour
in what could be
the middle of life;
wondering how long I’ll wait
before becoming the rain.
Rain by Jack Gilbert
Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
and yellow
a terrible amber.
In the cold streets
your warm body.
In whatever room
your warm body.
Among all the people
your absence.
The people who are always
not you.
I have been easy with trees
too long.
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
Now
suddenly
this rain.
Rain by Raymond Carver
Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgivable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
Shoulders by Naomi Shihab Nye
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo
but he’s not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.
His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy’s dream
deep inside him.
We’re not going to be able
to live in this world
if we’re not willing to do what he’s doing
with one another.
The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.
Monsoon Song by Ranjit Hoskote
Days of grace, days of thunder.
Days when cold stone could have dreamt it was skin
born to carry the weight of saffron clouds.
Peace held us captive.
We who could speak were sworn to silence.
We who could sing were beaten like drums.
We ran, dodging havildar and thug.
We danced among nameless objects
in the garden of buried stories.
Our wrists ached, the choked sap rose
through our numb fingers.
Write all you know, the baobab said,
on these sheets of rain.
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The rains bring along a state of introspection. If like us you tend to make more notes in the monsoon than ever, get our poetry inspired notebooks here.