Translated from the Sanskrit of Chauras (Chaura-panchasika, 1st century) by Powys Mathers, Love Songs of Asia, Knopf '46.

The boys' voices carried the melody up and down, simply but with richness that is in no other singing. When the record had finished, Doc wiped his hands and turned it off. He saw a book lying half under his bed and picked it up and he sat down on the bed. For a moment he read to himself but then his lips began to move and in a moment he read aloud slowly, pausing at the end of each line.

Even now I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening, Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl, Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep; Little wise words and little witty words, Wanton as water, honied with eagerness.

In the sink the high white foam cooled and ticked as the bubbles burst. Under the piers it was very high tide and the waves splashed on rocks they had not reached in a long time.

Even now I mind that I loved cypress and roses, clear, The great blue mountains and the small grey hills, The sounding of the sea. Upon a day I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies; For me at morning larks flew from the thyme And children came to bathe in little streams.

Doc closed the book. He could hear the waves beat under the piles and he could hear the scampering of white rats against the wire. He went into the kitchen and felt the cooling water in the sink. He ran hot water into it. He spoke aloud to the sink and the white rats, and to himself:

Even now I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast. Just for a small and a forgotten time I have had full in my eyes from off my girlThe whitest pouring of eternal light -

He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. And the white rats scampered and scrambled in their cages. And behind the glass the rattlesnakes lay still and stared into space with their dusty, frowning eyes.

• From the final pages of Cannery Row by John Steinbeck

Notes:

While Steinbeck, to the best of my knowledge, didn't produce any poetry like Hemingway did [see # 1113 and # 976 on the Minstrels page], I suppose he enjoyed poetry quite a bit.

I was pleasently suprised a few score years ago, when I was on a Steinbeck binge, to hit the last pages of Cannery Row (which I think stands as his best book along with Travels with Charley: In Search of America) and to find myself in the middle of this lovely love song. I remember reading it out aloud to myself, adding my voice to Doc's, that night as I put away Cannery Row and went to sleep.

So add yours too, even now.

List of butterflies seen on Saturday:

Mourning Cloak Monarch/ Viceroy Black Swallowtail

Also saw a milkweed plant dispersing winged seed, dreams setting off on voyages. And as fall deepens and trees drop their leaves, the filigree of branches in early morning light against the brick walls grows more and more intricate. And in the distance at the feeder, titmice feed.

Native American languages are divided into six phylum or families. The Cherokees who lived in this area (Georgia), when there was nothing here but deep woods full of flitting deer and mysterious mountain loins belong to a group called the Algonquian. To say hello in Cherokee, say sHi-yo (spelt siyo). The Meso Americans (Aztecs etc) became cultivators and established organized civilizations. The Great Plains Indians remained nomadic, moving with the game (bison) and gathering. Bruce Chatwin proposes in the "Anatomy of Restlessness" that the neuroses that modern society suffers from are directly mapped to the phenomenon of "settling" down. He would have approved of the Sioux and the Navajo and wouldn't have much use to the Incas and their bombastic cities.

However in the end the "civilized" killed both the nomadic and the city dwelling Indians with their civilized diseases, smallpox and liquor. Where that didn't suffice, machine guns did the job as at Wounded Knee. And tens of the "civilized" were awarded the Medal of Honor , the highest US gallantry award for their gallant act of killing a whole tribe, women and children included. But then history is always written by the victors.

A scribbled poem on watching a three year old girl play:

Golden haired child, this walk and twirl, this twinkle and delight, red strawberry juice tinted hands and a bird mouth breaking into high sudden giggles and then suddenly cries! Through you how close do I come to my Divine!

Planes are turning and circling in the sky, lost keys to faraway lands. I am singing under my breath, plumes of alphabet are falling. Falling, failing light is tracing memory maps on buildings of steel and blood. All signs are mixed up, down and up, how to tell? Arrows are quitely spinning about their center, what is the head and tail of these tales I hear? Chrome and crystal under the barlights are shining, where I am still drinking this bitter brew. But hey hey I am still singing the blues, under my breath, to a dear someone, anyone.