Yevtushenko, Carver, Neruda—
poets who represent the people, their conscience,
speaking out against national infamies.
Is writing poetry like scribbling a note to be sent
into an underground to give hope?
I keep forgetting, Why do I do it?
Finally, before it’s
too late, I remember what even sensitive
Yevtushenko or Neruda or Carver can’t
remember—that Krishna is the center,
that recitation of His name or something about Him
from sastra and the pure devotees
will be real amelioration. Because what’s
wrong in the world anyway? It’s not one
set of rebels against a government, it’s not capitalists
or communists, but the gross neglect
of the soul, of knowledge of the soul—
neglect of recognition that there is a supreme
purusa and everything belongs to Him.
(_Gentle Power_)