Joseph Furtado is without any doubt one of the best poets who have enriched the treasure-trove of Indian English poetry, but it is lapse on our part that we have failed to recognize them. Why could we not know them? How could we forget them so easily?  It is a matter of reckoning. Perhaps we had not the capacity of grasping humour, irony and caricature. We were but a backward, underdeveloped, rural, superstitious, illiterate and poor lot living below the poverty line under impoverished circumstances. Had we been conversant with the language, we could have admired and appreciated him.

Before A Cage of Bubuls is a fine poem from Furtado who compares the lot of the caged bulbuls with that of his, but his not so worse. It is true that the bulbuls cannot sing, dance and play freely if they lie caged in. They are not the things of the cage, but of the wild woods and free space. How can they freely from the cage? He is pained to see a bird of woods caged in living under bondage.

But he would like to see them free and flying and singing in a full-throated voice. The bulbuls are the beauty of the woods and without them, the woods cannot be. The poet transports us into a world of bulbuls whom we fail to name.

Before A Cage of Bulbuls

It pains me, bird, to see thee here:
All vain is thy despair and rage;
No more thy voice the woods will cheer,
A voice that made the woods so dear
Confined for life within a cage. 

My fate is not less hard than thine, 
Yet much less galling were the chain—
'Mong strangers doomed to toil and pine
And something fain would I resign 
To see thee range the woods again.

His love for bulbuls has really benefitted us as seen in the poem and the poem is noteworthy to be mentioned in this context.

A lover of the king-crow, poet Furtado likes to see the bird cawing as usual as he has been in love with the bird since his childhood. Many years ago, he used to see it when it used to alight and caw. Still now he meets him often and his cawing has not stopped. The poet watches the king-crow, and it too watches him and as thus life keeps going, the charkha of life spinning. And as thus we cut a sorry figure, the poet says holding a chat with the bird.

The crow has a life of own. It keeps chasing other harmless birds and has a teasing tactic of own. As far as he remembers, how did a boy try to chase it among the herds too? It cannot where he is now. To caw is its job. This is but Nature. We are a part of that.

The King-Crow

Again, as years ago, 
Now every day we meet: 
You watch me from that tree
I watch you from this seat— 
Two sorry creatures we! 
You're what you ever were; 
You know none other joy
Than chasing harmless birds:
Ah, know you not the boy 
Who chased you mid the herds! 
He's off-—to chase that crow;
What will the poor bird do?
It caws and caws and flies: 
'Tis Nature's law, but who
Would have it otherwise?

The poet as an observer of life, a reader of man and his manners has seen both the East and the West. The girls of the East he has seen, the girls of the West he has, but the charm seen in the fairest Brahmin girls, how to describe it? He does not want to turn to the Western girls, but to the Indian Brahmin girls. The poet remembers the Brahmin girl met at Nashik fair.

The Brahmmin Girls he seeks to clutch the sighting of them along with him rather than the walk and loitering of the stylistic, modern European girls, be she Laura or Kates or someone other else in the jeans and the shirt. Their blue-blue eyes, apple cheeks, rosy lips and golden locks, he wants then not, but the Brahmin girls seen at Nashik fair, taking his heart away with their chaste hearts and simple and innocent feelings. She is Mohini, manmohini for whom beats the heart of Joseph Furtado.

Brahmin Girls

I've seen the East, I've seen the West,
And truth it bids me this declare—- 
Of all the girls the Brahmin girls
Are fairest of the fair: 
The Brahmin girls, the Brahmin girls, 
The Brahmin girls so fair,
Upon their nose the ring of pearls 
And jasmine in their hair.
No more your Lauras, Kates or Jeans, 
Your eyes of blue and locks of gold;
Mohini sweet, a girl as sweet
I never shall behold:
Mohini sweet, Mohini neat, 
So madden’ng to behold, 
With kinning chinning round her feet 
And fas fis of the fold.
I met a girl at Nasik fair,
A Brahmin girl of beauty rare; 
She smiled so sweet when I did greet 
As bade me not despair;
But said all rude—confound the prude,
She'll drive me to despair— 
''Before I wed go shave your head. 
All save a tuft of hair.”

Even the butterflies which keep about hanging onto, hovering around to attract the poet for an expression. It is lovely to see the colourful butterflies and the prints embossed upon words fail to describe it. But talking about the butterflies refreshes in him the memory of his ladylove. She too turns up in the meantime. But the ladylove is so playful that she starts going after them. When she makes an entry, at the same time starts chasing them away playfully. A viewing of her distracts his mind from the butterflies flying and hovering. The ladylove turns into a butterfly engaging the imagination of the poet. It is not Blue-Eyed, nor Green-Eyed, but Grey-Eyed hovering over his mind and its consciousness.

We doubt whether the poet is saying about his Grey-Eyes or about the butterfly. Keeping us in the dark, he continues to get the benefit of doubt. The coming of the ladylove spoils the sport as she turns into a butterfly, taking the place of the insect thereafter. Coming in between the poet and the butterflies, she disturbs the sporting spirit. It is also good to see her chasing the butterflies.

Butterflies 

Beautiful butterflies 
All flutt’ring so gay,
And I feasting mine eyes 
As joyful as they! 
Till you come on the scene—
You haunting Gray-Eyes—
You come in between 
And chase them away,— 
My poor butterflies 
You chase them away, 
Oh you cruel Gray-Eyes!

It is Gray-Eyes who has but broken his heart. Even she has broken his heart, he does not want to curse her. God should forgive her. He is not here for all time. The asks his ladylove to show some mercy. Whether she responds or not is not the question. He too has some plan and agendum and bounce back by surprise. The poet wants nothing, but her from God. And if this be not, he has some pranks in waiting to be applied in. He will go behind her when she keeps combing her hair and will cover her eyes with his hands to tell who he is, what his mission and vision for. A lover he knows how to love and take to one’s liking. A flirter he likes to play with and flirt. A dreamer he can dream and strike by love.

The Broken Heart
 
You have broken my heart, Gray-Eyes,
And I die ere my time.
God forgive you the crime! 
But I won't tarry there, 
Be the place e'er so fair!
And called heaven or paradise— 
And what am I to do there? 
I want nothing but you, Gray-Eyes. 
So, mind now, cruel woman, mind 
When dressing your hair 
I will come from behind
And cover your eyes.