World Sound Radio Adventures a la Tom Crane

Tom Crane is currently sending out beautiful music from around the world on  He’s going from Australia to Scandinavia to Africa and beyond. Actually Tom seems to go everywhere on the globe for music. It’s like travelling with your ears to exotic and mysterious places every Sunday afternoon.  To embark on this listening odyssey just click the link.

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No login required. Join the ear dance.  Enjoy the incomparable Tom’s feast to the fullest.

World Sound is followed by Saba: The Wind of Love

Tenzin Tsundue’s “Exile House”

Our tiled roof dripped

and the four walls threatened to fall apart

but we were to go home soon,


we grew papyas

in front of our house

chillies in our garden

and changmas for our fences,

then pumpkins rolled down the cowshed thatch

calves trotted out of the manger,


grass on the roof,

beans sprouted and

climbed dwon the vines,

money plants crept in through the window,

our house seems to have grown roots.


The fences have grown into a jungle,

now how can I tell my children

where we came from?


Poem presented as it appears in Kora

copyright Tenzin Tsundue, 2002

My Tibetanness by Tenzin Tsundue

Thirty-nine years in exile.

Yet no nation supports us.

Not a single bloody nation!


We are refugees here.

People of a lost country.

Citizen to no nation.

Tibetans: the world’s sympathy stock.

Serene monks and bubbly traditionalists;

one lakh and several thousand odd,

nicely mixed, steeped

in various assimilating cultural hegemonies.


At every check-post and office,

I am an “Indian-Tibetan”,

My Registration Certificate,

I renew every year, with a salaam.

A foreigner born in India.


I am more of an Indian.

Except for my Chinky Tibetan face.

“Nepali?” “Thai?”  “Japanese?”

“Chinese?” “Naga?” “Manipuri?”

but never the question—“Tibetan?”


I am Tibetan.

But not from Tibet.

Never been there.

Yet I dream

of dying there. 


printed with persmission given in KORA by Tenzin Tsundue @ 2002

Cemetery Hill, Wounded Knee, 29 December 2006

After the sage is gone

After the tobacco has fallen

After the prayers have gone silent

After the singing has ceased

After the drums are still

After the rusting cars, mini-vans, trucks have rolled away

After the horses’ trailers have departed

After the alternator has been changed on the ancient blue and white pick-up


Bowl sings

Instrument of a people without a country

But not without identity;

People making a new way-

Sings for a People with a land


Losing identity,

People fighting to heal their sacred hoop-

It sings rich and strong

To the North, South, East  and West

To the sky

To the earth

To the wind

To spirit within and without

Bowl sings as never before

Deep and full

Seeking all walking the winds

Bowl sings


Spotted Elk’s Band dances




poetry’s powers or Tsundue’s trespasses

While collecting my thoughts for a little glib yapping about favorite poems a certain slight volume of poetry came to mind, Kora, a story and eleven poems by Tenzin Tsundue and I decided glib could wait a while. 

The Olympic games and this last infamous torch run have come and gone like birds’ nests in harsh winter winds.  One highlight was the attention on the plight of Tibet.

Tenzin’s poetry speaks for itself–and him–better than I can prattle–so, without further ado here are two:

Desperate Age

Kill my Dalai Lama

that I can believe no more.

Bury my head

beat  it

disrobe me

chain it.

But don’t let me free.


Within the prison

this body is yours

But within the body

my belief is only mine.


You want to do it?

Kill me here–silently.

Make sure no breath remains.

But don’t let me free.


If you want,

do it again.

Right from the beginning:

Discipline me

Re-educate me

Indoctrinate me

show me your communist gimmicks.

But don’t let me free.


Kill my Dalai Lama

and I will

believe no more.


Prattling:  Odd how the lines “Discipline me/Re-educate me/Indoctrinate me” recall the subject of the new Wes Studi film, The Only Good Indian, as it portrays the infamous boarding school experience of a multitiude of Native Americans from tribes across the United States. Winter Fox Frank could have delievered these lines of poetry written by a Tibetan on the other side of the world. Okay, okay, I promised another poem instead of yapping (these are reproduced with persmission according to note in book).

A Personal Reconnaissance

From Ladakh

Tibet is just a gaze away.

They said:

from that black knoll

at Dumise, it’s Tibet.

For the first time I saw

my country Tibet.


In a hurried trip,

I was there, at the mound.


I sniffed the soil,

scratched the ground

listened to the dry wind

and the wild old cranes.


I didn’t see the border,

I swear there wasn’t anything

different, there.


I didn’t know,

if I was there or here.

I didn’t know,

If I was here or there.


They say the kyangs

come here every winter.

They say the Kyangs

go there every summer.


A kyang is a wild Tibetan ass.

Click the link below for photos of the poetry nite featuring Tenzin Tsundue’s poems:

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