We continue to get newer members/colleagues to join in, some happy to observe, some to participate. 
We had a lovely 4th session and here are the proceedings:
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When Giving Is All We Have

One river gives 
its journey to the next. 
We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.
We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.
We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—
Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.
Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:
Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.
You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me
What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made
Something greater from the difference.

~Alberto Rios
~Presented by Vivek Ahluwalia
(Letter to the poet is attached as a photo)
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Said A blade of grass

Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”
Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.”
Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. and when spring came she waked again - and she was a blade of grass.
And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my winter dreams “

~Kahlil Gibran
~Presented by Sanjiv Kapur

Discussion-This is written by Kahlil Gibran, a Lebanese American painter, writer, poet and part-time philosopher!

Our discussion revolved around it’s ostensible playful tone while addressing a serious message about the cycle of life and reflecting upon the inevitability of repetition. A new circle participant observed that it enabled one to see life from the other side. 
In these times, when politeness and decency is at a premium, chronic self-righteousness needs to be exposed with some gravitas. I recalled that someone had said, “nothing undoes dignity like peevish indignation”. 
There was a remark on the feminine perspective in the poem that referred to personal muttering about “they scatter all my winter dreams”. A follow up query about a contextual connection to menopause was met with some humorous resistance and possibly, gentle indignation.
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Epigramme

Hast one ever seen man
Dig gold in a manure heap?
Then open two eyes
For digging among these,
Our fellow townsmen,
I turn up this nugget.
~William Carlos Williams 
~ Submitted by KumKum Bhasin Sood

Discussion-This poem was discussed by several attendees and Amrita understood it to be introspective asking the reader to look for a potential within. Vivek felt it had a Shakespearen sound as it started with ”hast” and was almost spiritual asking us to look for the God or spirituality within. Harbans asked for the meaning of ‘Epigram’ which was read verbatim by me from a dictionary  “ a pithy saying or remark expressing your idea in a clever way”.

I chose the poem, because 1) it is a short poems, 2) I like poems that are relevant to my life 3) are amusing - otherwise they do not appeal to me and thus not worth sharing.

I found it amusing because realistically no one looks for nuggets in a manure heap and that too with open eyes! However it expresses  my life’s journey where I have been able to find a nugget - a person - who subscribes to a few views (only a few!) of a group of people for whom I share disdain with a large swath of the population in USA- the Trumpistas! This person represents the nugget in this heap of manure and is very dear to me.

The author was an American poet who was also a physician and a farmer. He is considered a modernist poet who broke ranks with Ezra Pound and T.S. Elliot.
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The Emperor of Ice Cream

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

~Wallace Stevens
~Presented by Amrita Varma, HGD'97
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The Darling Letters

Some keep them in shoeboxes away from the light, 
sore memories blinking out as the lid lifts,
their own recklessness written all over them. My own…
Private jokes, no longer comprehended, pull their punchlines,
fall flat in the gaps between endearments. What
are you wearing?
Don’t ever change.
They start with Darling; end in recriminations,
absence, sense of loss. Even now, the fist’s bud flowers
into trembling, the fingers trace each line and see
the future then. Always…Nobody burns them,
the Darling letters, stiff in their cardboard coffins.
Babykins…We all had strange names
which make us blush, as though we’d murdered 
someone under an alias, long ago. I’ll die
without you. Die. Once in a while, alone, 
we take them out to read again, the heart thudding
like a spade on buried bones.

~Carol Ann Duffy, Poet laureate. UK.
~Presented by Harbans Nagpal

(Letter to poet is attached)

Dear Ms Carol Ann Duffy,
We write to inform you that on 9 September 2020 yet another one of your poems was read and discussed with pleasure at our Poetry Circle (of old boys and girls from a boarding school in the Himalayas). It was your splendid poem, The Darling Letters.

We found the poem to be gripping, reminding us of old love affairs, not yet completely released, their traces still kept in shoe boxes. The discussion in our group was unusually muted after reading your poem. Clearly we were not yet ready to spill all our beans, not yet ready to dig up those old buried bones! But then that is why we need poets like you, to take us by the hand to these painful places.

One question that was asked, and we relay it to you: where and how will the new generation of texters and snap chatters keep their Darling Letters?  A subject for you to ponder and write about, perhaps with the help of your daughter.

Please accept once again our congratulations and gratitude for a fine poem.
Harbans Nagpal
Chair.

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(Poem is attached as a photo)~Written & presented by Vinay Tuli

Discussion-
A light hearted fun filled evening was had with a bunch of friends....the reference to the goose...there was this life-sized sculpture of a goose just hanging on a peg...it drew attention ‘cause it was kind of cruel ...
The poem is about a fun..flirtatious...and great company evening 
Point being..that i am not answerable to anyone...i dont have to explain or rationalise my actions...so its just carefree fun!
Vivek's observation was that my poems were easily recognizable therefore to critique was difficult. I realise that and will try and camouflage in future. I think the surprised reaction was that it was bold self deprecating humor.