Poem
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A Tree A tree beside the sandy river-beach Holds up its topmost boughs Like fingers towards the skies they cannot reach, Earth-bound, heaven amorous. This is the soul of man. Body and brain Hungry for earth our heavenly flight detain.
sad
Sri Krishna O immense Light and thou, O spirit-wide boundless Space, Whom have you clasped and hid, deathless limbs, gloried face? Vainly lie 'Space and Time, "Void are we, there is none." Vainly strive Self and World crying, "I, I alone." One is there, Self of self, Soul of space, Fount of Time, Heart of hearts, Mind of minds, He alone sits, sublime. Oh, no void Absolute self-absorbed, splendid, mute, Hands that clasp hold and red lips that kiss blow the flute. All He loves, all He moves, all are His, all are He! Many limbs sate His whims, hear His sweet ecstasy. Two in One, Two who know difference rich in sense, Two to clasp, One to be, this His strange mystery.
love
Who In the blue of the sky, in the green of the forest, Whose is the hand that has painted the glow? When the winds were asleep in the womb of the ether, Who was it roused them and bade them to blow? He is lost in the heart, in the cavern of Nature, He is found in the brain where He builds up the thought: In the pattern and bloom of the flowers He is woven, In the luminous net of the stars He is caught. In the strength of a man, in the beauty of woman, In the laugh of a boy, in the blush of a girl; The hand that sent Jupiter spinning through heaven, Spends all its cunning to fashion a curl. These are His works and His veils and His shadows; But where is He then? by what name is He known? Is He Brahma or Vishnu? A man or a woman? Bodied or bodiless? twin or alone? We have love for a boy who is dark and resplendent, A woman is lord of us, naked and fierce. We have seen Him a-muse on the snow of the mountains, We have watched Him at work in the heart of the spheres. We will tell the whole world of His ways and His cunning: He has rapture of torture and passion and pain; He delights in our sorrow and drives us to weeping, Then lures with His joy and His beauty again. All music is only the sound of His laughter, All beauty the smile of His passionate bliss; Our lives are His heart-beats, our rapture the bridal Of Radha and Krishna, our love is their kiss. He is strength that is loud in the blare of the trumpets, And He rides in the car and He strikes in the spears; He slays without stint and is full of compassion; He wars for the world and its ultimate years. In the sweep of the worlds, in the surge of the ages, Ineffable, mighty, majestic and pure, Beyond the last pinnacle seized by the thinker He is throned in His seats that for ever endure. The Master of man and his infinite Lover, He is close to our hearts, had we vision to see; We are blind with our pride and the pomp of our passions, We are bound in our thoughts where we hold ourselves free. It is He in the sun who is ageless and deathless, And into the midnight His shadow is thrown; When darkness was blind and engulfed within darkness, He was seated within it immense and alone.
peace
Revelation Someone leaping from the rocks Past me ran with windblown locks Like a startled bright surmise Visible to mortal eyes, — Just a cheek of frightened rose That with sudden beauty glows, Just a footstep like the wind And a hurried glance behind, And then nothing, — as a thought Escapes the mind ere it is caught. Someone of the heavenly rout From behind the veil ran out.
sad
The Silver Call There is a godhead of unrealised things To which Time's splendid gains are hoarded dross; A cry seems near, a rustle of silver wings Calling to heavenly joy by earthly loss. All eye has seen and all the ear has heard Is a pale illusion by some greater voice And mightier vision; no sweet sound or word, No passion of hues that make the heart rejoice Can equal these diviner ecstasies. A Mind beyond our mind has sole the ken Of those yet unimagined harmonies, The fate and privilege of unborn men. As rain-thrashed mire the marvel of the rose, Earth waits that distant marvel to disclose.
joy
Surrender O THOU of whom I am the instrument, O secret Spirit and Nature housed in me, Let all my mortal being now be blent In Thy still glory of divinity. I have given my mind to be dug Thy channel mind, I have offered up my will to be Thy will : Let nothing of myself be left behind In our union mystic and unutterable. My heart shall throb with the world-beats of Thy 1ove; My body become Thy engine for earth-use; In my nerves and veins Thy rapture's streams shall move ; My thoughts shall be hounds of Light for Thy power to loose. Keep only my soul to adore eternally And meet Thee in each form and soul of Thee.
love
Krishna At last I find a meaning of soul's birth Into this universe terrible and sweet, I who have felt the hungry heart of earth Aspiring beyond heaven to Krishna's feet. I have seen the beauty of immortal eyes, And heard the passion of the Lover's flute, And known a deathless ecstasy's surprise And sorrow in my heart for ever mute. Nearer apd nearer now the music draws, Life shudders with a strange felicity; All Nature is a wide enamoured pause Hoping her lord to touch, to clasp, to be. For this one moment lived the ages past; The world now throbs fulfilled in me at last
joy
The Blue Bird I am the bird of God in His blue; Divinely high and clear I sing the notes of the sweet and the true For the god's and the seraph's ear. I rise like a fire from the mortal's earth Into a griefless sky And drop in the suffering soil of his birth Fire-seeds of ecstasy. My pinions soar beyond Time and Space Into unfading Light; I bring the bliss of the Eternal's face And the boon of the Spirit's sight. I measure the worlds with my ruby eyes; I have perched on Wisdom's tree Thronged with the blossoms of Paradise By the streams of Eternity. Nothing is hid from my burning heart; My mind is shoreless and still; My song is rapture's mystic art, My flight immortal will.
sad
Bride of the Fire Bride of the Fire, clasp me now close, - Bride of the Fire! I have shed the bloom of the earthly rose, I have slain desire. Beauty of the Light, surround my life, - Beauty of the Light! I have sacrificed longing and parted from grief, I can bear thy delight. Image of Ecstasy, thrill and enlace, - Image of Bliss! I would see only thy marvellous face, Feel only thy kiss. Voice of Infinity, sound in my heart, - Call of the One! Stamp there thy radiance, never to part, O living sun.
love
A God's Labour I have gathered my dreams in a silver air Between the gold and the blue And wrapped them softly and left them there, My jewelled dreams of you. I had hoped to build a rainbow bridge Marrying the soil to the sky And sow in this dancing planet midge The moods of infinity. But too bright were our heavens, too far away, Too frail their ethereal stuff; Too splendid and sudden our light could not stay; The roots were not deep enough. He who would bring the heavens here Must descend himself into clay And the burden of earthly nature bear And tread the dolorous way. Coercing my godhead I have come down Here on the sordid earth, Ignorant, labouring, human grown Twixt the gates of death and birth. I have been digging deep and long Mid a horror of filth and mire A bed for the golden river’s song, A home for the deathless fire. I have laboured and suffered in Matter’s night To bring the fire to man; But the hate of hell and human spite Are my meed since the world began.
sad
Musa Spiritus O Word concealed in the upper fire, Thou who hast lingered through centuries, Descend from thy rapt white desire, Plunging through gold eternities. Into the gulfs of our nature leap, Voice of the spaces, call of the Light! Break the seals of Matter's sleep, Break the trance of the unseen height. In the uncertain glow of human mind, Its waste of unharmonied thronging thoughts, Carve thy epic mountain-lined Crowded with deep prophetic grots. Let thy hue-winged lyrics hover like birds Over the swirl of the heart's sea. Touch into sight with thy fire-words The blind indwelling deity. O Muse of the Silence, the wideness make In the unplumbed stillness that hears thy voice, In the vast mute heavens of the spirit awake Where thy eagles of Power flame and rejoice. Out, out with the mind and its candles flares, Light, light the suns that never die. For my ear the cry of the seraph stars And the forms of the Gods for my naked eye! Let the little troubled life-god within Cast his veils from the still soul, His tiger-stripes of virtue and sin, His clamour and glamour and thole and dole;
love
Invitation With wind and the weather beating round me Up to the hill and the moorland I go. Who will come with me? Who will climb with me? Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow? Not in the petty circle of cities Cramped by your doors and your walls I dwell; Over me God is blue in the welkin Against me the wind and the storm rebel. I sport with solitude here in my regions, Of misadventure have me a friend. Who would live largely?Who would live freely? Here to the wind-swept uplands ascend. I am the lord of tempest and mountain, I am the Spirit of freedom and pride. Stark must he be and a kinsman to danger Who shares my kingdom and walks at my side
courage
The Miracle of Birth I saw my soul a traveller through Time; From life to life the cosmic ways it trod, Obscure in the depths and on the heights sublime, Evolving from the worm into the god. A spark of the eternal Fire, it came To build a house in Matter for the Unborn. The inconscient sunless Night received the flame, In the brute seed of things dumb and forlorn Life stirred and Thought outlined a gleaming shape Till on the stark inanimate earth could move, Born to somnambulist Nature in her sleep A thinking creature who can hope and love. Still by slow steps the miracle goes on, The Immortal's gradual birth mid mire and stone.
peace
Because Thou Art Because Thou art All-beauty and All-bliss, My soul blind and enamoured yearns for Thee; It bears thy mystic touch in all that is And thrills with the burden of that ecstasy. Behind all eyes I meet Thy secret gaze And in each voice I hear Thy magic tune: Thy sweetness haunts my heart through Nature's ways Nowhere it beats now from Thy snare immune. It loves Thy body in all living things; Thy joy is there in every leaf and stone: The moments bring thee on their fiery wings; Sight's endless artistry is Thou alone. Time voyages with Thee upon its prow And all the futures passionate hope is Thou
peace
The Inner Fields There is a brighter ether than this blue Pretence of an enveloping heavenly vault, Royaler investiture than this massed assault Of emerald rapture pearled with tears of dew. Immortal spaces of cerulean hue Are in our reach and fields without this fault Of drab brown earth and streams that never halt In their deep murmur which white flowers strew Floating like stars upon a strip of sky. This world behind is made of truer stuff Than the manufactured tissue of earth's grace. There we can walk and see the gods go by And sip from Hebe's cup nectar enough To make for us heavenly limbs and deathless face.
joy
The Golden Light Thy golden Light came down into my brain And the grey rooms of mind sun-touched became A bright reply to Wisdom's occult plane, A calm illumination and a flame. Thy golden Light came down into my throat, And all my speech is now a tune divine, A paean-song of Thee my single note; My words are drunk with the Immortal's wine. Thy golden Light came down into my heart Smiting my life with Thy eternity; Now has it grown a temple where Thou art And all its passions point towards only Thee. Thy golden Light came down into my feet, My earth is now Thy playfield and Thy seat.
peace
Evolution (revised) I passed into a lucent still abode And saw as in a mirror crystalline An ancient Force ascending serpentine The unhasting spirals of the aeonic road. Earth was a cradle for the arriving god And man but a half-dark half-luminous sign Of the transition of the veiled Divine From Matter's sleep and the tormented load Of ignorant life and death to the Spirit's light. Mind liberated swam Light's ocean vast, And life escaped from its grey tortured line; I saw Matter illumining its parent Night. The soul could feel into infinity cast Timeless God-bliss the heart incarnadine.
surprise
Bande Mataram Mother, I bow to thee! Rich with thy hurrying streams, Bright with thy orchard gleams, Cool with thy winds of delight, Dark fields waving, Mother of might, Mother free. Glory of moonlight dreams Over thy branches and lordly streams, Clad in thy blossoming trees, Mother, giver of ease, Laughing low and sweet! Mother, I kiss thy feet, Speaker sweet and low! Mother, to thee I bow. Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands, When the swords flash out in twice seventy million hands And seventy millions voices roar Thy dreadful name from shore to shore? With many strengths who art mighty and stored, To thee I call, Mother and Lord! Thou who savest, arise and save! To her I cry who ever her foemen drave Back from plain and sea And shook herself free. Thou art wisdom, thou art law, Thou our heart, our soul, our breath, Thou the love divine, the awe In our hearts that conquers death. Thine the strength that nerves the arm, Thine the beauty, thine the charm. Every image made divine In our temples is but thine. Thou art Durga, Lady and Queen, With her hands that strike and her swords of sheen, Thou art Lakshmi lotus-throned, Pure and perfect without peer, Mother, lend thine ear. Rich with thy hurrying streams, Bright with thy orchard gleams, Dark of hue, O candid-fair In thy soul, with jewelled hair And thy glorious smile divine, Loveliest of all earthly lands, Showering wealth from well-stored hands! Mother, mother mine! Mother sweet, I bow to thee, Mother great and free.
love
The Word of The Silence A bare impersonal hush is now my mind, A world of sight clear and inimitable, A volume of silence by a Godhead signed, A greatness pure, virgin of will. Once on its pages Ignorance could write In a scribble of intellect the blind guess of Time And cast gleam-messages of ephemeral light, A food for souls that wander on Nature's rim. But now I listen to a greater Word Born from the mute unseen omniscient Ray: The Voice that only Silence' ear has heard Leaps missioned from an eternal glory of Day. All turns from a wideness and unbroken peace To a tumult of joy in a sea of wide release.
peace
The Universal Incarnation There is a Wisdom like a brooding Sun, A Bliss in the heart's crypt grown fiery white, The heart of a world in which all hearts are one, A Silence on the mountains of delight. A Calm that cradles Fate upon its knees; A wide Compassion leans to embrace earth's pain; A Witness dwells within our secrecies, The incarnate Godhead in the body of man. Our mind is a glimmering curtain of that Ray, Our strength a parody of the Immortal's power, Our joy a dreamer on the Eternal's way Hunting the fugitive beauty of an hour. Only on the heart's veiled door the word of flame Is written, the secret and tremendous Name.
peace
The Witness Spirit I dwell in the spirit's calm nothing can move And watch the actions of Thy vast world-force, Its mighty wings that through infinity move And the Time-gallopings of the deathless Horse. This mute stupendous Energy that whirls The stars and nebulae in its long train, Like a huge Serpent through my being curls With its diamond hood of joy and fangs of pain. It rises from the dim inconscient deep Upcoiling through the minds and hearts of men, Then touches on some height of luminous sleep The bliss and splendour of the eternal plane. All this I bear in me, untouched and still Assenting to Thy all-wise inscrutable will.
peace
Nirvana All is abolished but the mute Alone. The mind from thought released, the heart from grief, Grow inexistent now beyond belief; There is no I, no Nature, known-unknown. The city, a shadow picture without tone, Floats, quivers unreal; forms without relief Flow, a cinema's vacant shapes; like a reef Foundering in shoreless gulfs the world is done. Only the illimitable Permanent Is here. A Peace stupendous, featureless, still. Replaces all, - what once was I, in It A silent unnamed emptiness content Either to fade in the Unknowable Or thrill with the luminous seas of the Infinite.
peace
The Call of The Impossible Our godhead calls us in unrealised things. Asleep in the wide fields of destiny, A world guarded by Silence' rustling wings Sheltered their fine impossibility. But part, but quiver the cerulean gates, Close splendours look into our dreaming eyes; We bear proud deities and magnificent fates; Faces and hands come near from Paradise. What shone thus far above is here in us; Bliss unattained our future's birthright is; Beauty of our dim soul is amorous, We are the heirs of infinite widenesses. The impossible is the hint of what shall be, Mortal the door to immortality.
peace
The Dreamboat Who was it that came to me in a boat made of dream-fire, With his flame brow and his sun-gold body? Melted was the silence into a sweet secret murmur, "Do you come now? Is the heart's fire ready?" Hidden in the recesses of the heart something shuddered, It recalled all that the life's joy cherished, Imaged the felicity it must leave lost forever, And the boat passed and the gold god vanished. Now within the hollowness of the world's breast inhabits - For the love died and the old joy ended - Void of a felicity that has fled, gone for ever, And the gold god and the dream boat come not.
sad
Cosmic Consciousness I have wrapped the wide world in my wider self And Time and Space my spirit's seeing are. I am the god and demon, ghost and elf, I am the wind's speed and the blazing star. All Nature is the nursling of my care, I am its struggle and the eternal rest; The world's joy thrilling runs through me, I bear The sorrow of millions in my lonely breast. I have learned a close identity with all, Yet am by nothing bound that I become; Carrying in me the universe's call I mount to my imperishable home. I pass beyond Time and life on measureless wings, Yet still am one with born and unborn things.
peace
The Kingdom Within There is a kingdom of the spirit's ease. It is not in this helpless swirl of thought, Foam from the world-sea or spray-whisper caught, With which we build mind's shifting symmetries, Nor in life's stuff of passionate unease, Nor the heart's unsure emotions frailty wrought Nor trivial clipped sense-joys soon brought to nought Nor in this body's solid transiences. Wider behind than the vast universe Our spirit scans the drama and the stir, A peace, a light, an ecstasy, a power Waiting at the end of blindness and the curse That veils it from its ignorant minister, The grandeur of its free eternal hour.
love
Life And Death Life, death, - death, life; the words have led for ages Our thought and consciousness and firmly seemed Two opposites; but now long-hidden pages Are opened, liberating truths undreamed. Life only is, or death is life disguised, - Life a short death until by Life we are surprised.
peace
Bride of the Fire Bride of the Fire, clasp me now close, - Bride of the Fire! I have shed the bloom of the earthly rose, I have slain desire. Beauty of the Light, surround my life, - Beauty of the Light! I have sacrificed longing and parted from grief, I can bear thy delight. Image of Ecstasy, thrill and enlace, - Image of Bliss! I would see only thy marvellous face, Feel only thy kiss. Voice of Infinity, sound in my heart, - Call of the One! Stamp there thy radiance, never to part, O living sun.
hate
Ocean Oneness Silence is round me, wideness ineffable; White birds on the ocean diving and wandering; A soundless sea on a voiceless heaven, Azure on azure, is mutely gazing. Identified with silence and boundlessness My spirit widens clasping the universe Till all that seemed becomes the Real, One in a mighty and single vastness. Someone broods there nameless and bodiless, Conscious and lonely, deathless and infinite, And, sole in a still eternal rapture, Gathers all things to his heart for ever.
peace
I Have A Hundred Lives I have a hundred lives before me yet To grasp thee in, O Spirit ethereal, Be sure I will with heart insatiate Pursue thee like a hunter through them all. Thou yet shalt turn back on the eternal way And with awakened vision watch me come Smiling a little at errors past and lay Thy eager hand in mine, its proper home. Meanwhile made happy by thy happiness I shall approach thee in things and people dear, And in thy spirit's motions half-possess, Loving what thou hast loved, shall feel thee near, Until I lay my hands on thee indeed Somewhere among the stars, as 'twas decreed.
sad
The Unseen Infinite Arisen to voiceless unattainable peaks I meet no end, for all is boundless He, An absolute Joy the wide-winged spirit seeks, A Might, a Presence, an Eternity. In the inconscient dreadful dumb Abyss Are heard the heart-beats of the Infinite. The insensible midnight veils His trance of bliss, A fathomless sealed astonishment of Light. In His ray that dazzles our vision everywhere, Our half-closed eyes seek fragments of the One: Only the eyes of Immortality dare To look unblinded on that living Sun. Yet are our souls the Immortal's selves within, Comrades and powers and children of the Unseen.
sad
Life Mystic Miracle, daughter of Delight, Life, thou ecstasy, Let the radius of thy flight Be eternity. On thy wings thou bearest high Glory and disdain, Godhead and mortality, Ecstasy and pain. Take me in thy wild embrace Without weak reserve Body dire and unveiled face; Faint not, Life, nor swerve. All thy bliss I would explore, All thy tyranny. Cruel like the lion's roar, Sweet like springtide be. Like a Titan I would take, Like a God enjoy, Like a man contend and make, Revel like a boy. More I will not ask of thee, Nor my fate would choose; King or conquered let me be, Live or lose. Even in rags I am a god; Fallen, I am divine; High I triumph when down-trod, Long I live when slain.
sad
God Thou who pervadest all the worlds below, Yet sitst above, Master of all who work and rule and know, Servant of Love! Thou who disdainest not the worm to be Nor even the clod, Therefore we know by that humility That thou art God.
surprise
Liberation I have thrown from me the whirling dance of mind And stand now in the spirit's silence free, Timeless and deathless beyond creature-kind, The centre of my own eternity. I have escaped and the small self is dead; I am immortal, alone, ineffable; I have gone out from the universe I made, And have grown nameless and immeasurable. My mind is hushed in a wide and endless light, My heart a solitude of delight and peace, My sense unsnared by touch and sound and sight, My body a point in white infinities. I am the one Being's sole immobile Bliss: No one I am, I who am all that is.
joy
Soul In The Ignorance Soul in the Ignorance, wake from its stupor. Flake of the world-fire, spark of Divinity, Lift up thy mind and thy heart into glory. Sun in the darkness, recover thy lustre. One, universal, ensphering creation, Wheeling no more with inconscient Nature, Feel thyself God-born, know thyself deathless. Timeless return to thy immortal existence.
peace
The Godhead I sat behind the dance of Danger's hooves In the shouting street that seemed a futurist's whim, And suddenly felt, exceeding Nature's grooves, In me, enveloping me the body of Him. Above my head a mighty head was seen, A face with the calm of immortality And an omnipotent gaze that held the scene In the vast circle of its sovereignty. His hair was mingled with the sun and breeze ; The world was in His heart and He was I: I housed in me the Everlasting's peace, The strength of One whose substance cannot die. The moment passed and all was as before; Only that deathless memory I bore.
peace
Transformation: Sonnet My breath runs in a subtle rhythmic stream; It fills my members with a might divine: I have drunk the Infinite like a giant’s wine. Time is my drama or my pageant dream. Now are my illumined cells joy’s flaming scheme And changed my thrilled and branching nerves to fine Channels of rapture opal and hyaline For the influx of the Unknown and the Supreme. I am no more a vassal of flesh, A slave to Nature and her leaden rule; I am caught no more in the senses’ narrow mesh. My soul unhorizoned widens to measureless sight, My body is God’s happy living tool, My spirit a vast sun of deathless light.
courage
To Weep Because To weep because a glorious sun has set Which the next morn shall gild the east again; To mourn that mighty strengths must yield to fate Which by that force a double strength attain; To shrink from pain without whose friendly strife Joy could not be, to make a terror of death Who smiling beckons us to farther life, And is a bridge for the persistent breath; Despair and anguish and the tragic grief Of dry set eyes, or such disastrous tears As rend the heart, though meant for its relief, And all man's ghastly company of fears Are born of folly that believes the span Of life the limit of immortal man.
sad
Kamadeva When in the heart of the valleys and hid by the roses The sweet Love lies, Has he wings to rise to his heavens or in the closes Lives and dies? On the peaks of the radiant mountains if we should meet him Proud and free, Will he not frown on the valleys? Would it befit him Chained to be? Will you then speak of the one as a slave and a wanton, The other too bare? But God is the only slave and the only monarch We declare. It is God who is Love and a boy and a slave for our passion He was made to serve; It is God who is free and proud and the limitless tyrant Our souls deserve.
peace
The Guest - Sonnet I have discovered my deep deathless being: Masked by my front of mind, immense, serene It meets the world with an Immortal's seeing, A god-spectator of the human scene. No pain and sorrow of the heart and flesh Can tread that pure and voiceless sanctuary. Danger and fear, Fate's hounds, slipping their leash Rend body and nerve, - the timeless Spirit is free. Awake, God's ray and witness in my breast, In the undying substance of my soul Flamelike, inscrutable the almighty Guest. Death nearer comes and Destiny takes her toll; He hears the blows that shatter Nature's house: Calm sits He, formidable, luminous.
peace
Oh Lord, what shall I say to You? by Anandamurti (Prabhat Ranjan Sarkar) English version by Gunther Smith Oh Lord, what shall I say to You? You have broken my dark slumber, and now I shall move on the Path of Light. I shall move, I shall move, I shall move. My flower, which was long neglected, You have threaded in Your garland. The offerings of my mind, which were soiled with dust, You have taken onto Your lap. I exchange all I had, for I have received You. To You alone I will listen. I will listen, I will listen, I will listen.
peace
Oh unknown traveler, you come alone by Anandamurti (Prabhat Ranjan Sarkar) English version by Gunther Smith Oh unknown traveler, you come alone. At the end of night when the jasmine flower fell. Seeing my door closed, you stood by the wayside. My eyes half closed in sleep, some things I could see, and some things I could not. Then you went away at dawn, wet with the mist at the end of night, floating in the infinite void. The jasmine creeper at my door still carries the message of your arrival. Removing its drops of dew, it remains awake, ever waiting for you. If at that time, I had opened my door, and whispered a word in your ear that autumn midnight, I would have floated aloft, and mingled myself in your melody.
peace
On the path of the journey to effulgence, by Anandamurti (Prabhat Ranjan Sarkar) English version by Gunther Smith On the path of the journey to effulgence, all are invited today, hence, I call. The Earth, swinging in the great universal swing, has become beautiful. Today, there is no discrimination. Come all together, forgetting rivalry, let us all jointly announce that we are one and will remain one. All hearts are threaded in the same garland of gems. Let us all sing the song in the same tune. There is no high or low, black or white. All are brothers in the world. Pain or earnestness of one, is pain or earnestness of all. All hearts oscillate in the same swing, within the ocean of nectar, singing one song. Full of love, arousing hope, speaking in the same tone?look ahead. Extending love to both friend and foe, singing the song of pardon, let us go forward.
love
The violin of all human minds by Anandamurti (Prabhat Ranjan Sarkar) English version by Gunther Smith The violin of all human minds is playing with one harmony today, and so is the scent of every heart. With Your sweet appearance, You have descended on the Earth, giving the same realization. Do not break this garland of flowers, which is the entire wealth of my love. Come closer and still closer and closer; and take away my everything.
love
At dusk, at dawn I gaze upon your beauty by Darshan Singh English version by Barry Lerner and Harbans Singh Bedi Original Language Urdu At dusk, at dawn I gaze upon your beauty -- A dazzling spectacle of rising moon and sun. So far, the wayfarers have not discovered your footprints: They stand staring at the stepstone of your door Your glance of abundant grace did not satisfy; We with the seeing eye know a glance from a glance. Saqi, they've just arrived and taken their seats; How is it that they've already gained intimacy? Some you inspire with the madness of prostration: They cannot tell their heads from your door. Saqi, whoever comes by even a tinge of awakening We see sitting in your assembly, oblivious to this world. Men who are maddened by the thought of the goal See not fellow travelers -- they are intent on the road. Master, in what strange state your Darshan lives: We always see his eyes moist with tears.
joy
How did I ever think silence the language of love? by Darshan Singh English version by Barry Lerner and Harbans Singh Bedi Original Language Urdu How did I ever think silence the language of love? What I thought would not come to light was in plain sight. I hear my silence talked of in every lane; The suppression of a cry is itself a cry of pain. The beloved's regard was but a flash of light; How innocent to think I'd found eternal bliss. These, too, in the end were the gardener's: the lightning and the wind And that handful of pitiful straws I'd called my nest. Darshan, the glances I'd fancied voiced my love -- Even they couldn't convey the unplumbed depths of my longing.
love
How should I tell of the feeling that reigns by Darshan Singh English version by Barry Lerner and Harbans Singh Bedi Original Language Urdu How should I tell of the feeling that reigns in the court of the friend? Dancing light is my beloved's face, cup and carafe are ecstatic! Every nook and cranny is effulgent with his light; Every mote and grain celebrates the beloved's face. On earth from end to end I see his beauty, In heaven after heaven I gaze upon my friend. Seeker banished from the beatific vision, look through the eyes of your heart! How can you see the beloved's light with eyes of flesh and blood? Man's sorrows I bore, this world I loved -- My whole life I gave to the work of my friend. Brushing past me, it stirred my heart and was gone: God! The morning breeze has learned to tease from my friend. Let them try to imprison him in temple, mosque and church! The seeing eye finds the beloved's signs in every mote. Very near your heart are seekers of your vision; Those who look at the surface are exiled from the beloved's light. What can I say of the grace he showers on me within? Darshan, the moment I close my eyes, the beloved's light begins.
love
In what state was I by Darshan Singh English version by Barry Lerner and Harbans Singh Bedi Original Language Urdu Who knows, in what state was I when I met her eyes? Where, who was I? Completely lost. For you that sun and that moon are gaudy snares: Beware, lest caught, your gaze rise no higher. My love -- the paradise at my journey's end -- is annoyed. Why does every path seem so lonesome? Impetuous tipplers, have regard for the goblets and cups! As you journey through the world of hearts, step gently. My madness knows why, nightlong, desperate with sorrow, I rush about with tearful eyes, embracing shadows. I follow no guide, no creed -- just an inkling of the way: A tug at my heart leads me forward. Friends, we must not let the darkness enshroud us again! So many kissed the gallows before we saw this dawn. When beauty herself provokes a look, therein lies the thrill: Were she not so expectant, what would compel my eyes? Darshan, life is the confluence of reality and dream: In this union lies the exaltation of a human being.
love
Wonder of wonders! by Darshan Singh English version by Barry Lerner and Harbans Singh Bedi Original Language Urdu Wonder of wonders! What grace flows within the saqi's tavern! The secrets of both worlds are an open book in his cup. Why do you seek in the temple? What will you find in the Ka'aba? Open your inner eye, look in the idol house of your heart. Friends, by morning you'll find nothing here but ashes: My heart also burns, with the same sorrow as the moth. The wine of Truth the saqi keeps concealed in his eyes, Whatever he pours in the cup deceives thirst. Who is aware of this wonder? Without instruments Resounds a symphony in the chamber of the heart! Saqi, is slaying my desire your kind of mercy? I hear endless ecstasy reigns in your tavern. In moments of quietude, I often begin to wonder: Is a musician playing a melody within my joyful heart? In all your life, Darshan, nowhere will you find A joy to rival the rapture of Master's tavern.
peace
Ah, Come Sit Beside Me by Jiddu Krishnamurti Ah, come sit beside me by the sea, open and free. I will tell thee of that inward calmness As of the still deep; Of that inward freedom As of the skies; Of that inward happiness As of the dancing waters. And as now the moon makes a silent path on the dark sea, So beside me lies the clear path of pure understanding. The groaning sorrow is hid under a mocking smile, The heart is heavy with the burden of corruptible love, The deceptions of the mind pervert thought. Ah, come sit beside me Open and free. As the even flow of clear sunlight, So shall thine understanding come to thee. The burdensome fear of anxious waiting Shall go from thee as the waters recede before the rushing winds. Ah, come sit beside me, Thou shalt know of the understanding of true love. As the mind drives the blind clouds, So shall thy brutish prejudice be driven by clear thought. The moon is in love with the sun And the stars fill the skies with their laughter. Oh, come sit beside me Open and free.
peace
I Am All by Jiddu Krishnamurti I am the blue firmament and the black cloud, I am the waterfall and the sound thereof, I am the graven image and the stone by the wayside, I am the rose and the falling petals thereof, I am the flower of the field and the sacred lotus, I am the sanctified waters and the still pool, I am the tree that towereth among the mountains And the blade of grass in the peaceful lane, I am the tender spring leaf and the evergreen foliage. I am the barbarian and the sage, I am the impious and the pious, I am the ungodly and the godly, I am the harlot and the virgin, I am the liberated and the man of time, I am the the indestructible and the destructible, I am the renunciation and the proud possessor. I am all few know me. I am neither This nor That, I am neither detached nor attached, I am neither heaven nor hell -- few know me -- I am neither philosophies nor creeds, I am neither the Guru nor the disciple. O friend, I contain all. I am clear as the mountain stream, Simple as the new spring leaf. Happy are they That meet with me.
joy
I walked on a path through the jungle by Jiddu Krishnamurti I walked on a path through the jungle Which an elephant had made, And about me lay a tangle of wilderness. The voice of desolation fills the distant plain. And the city is noisy with the bells of a tall temple. Beyond the jungle are the great mountains, Calm and clear. In the fear of Life The temptation of sorrow is created. Cut down the jungle -- not one mere tree, For Truth is attained By putting aside all that you have sown. And now I walk with the elephant.
joy
I have been a wanderer long (from The Search) by Jiddu Krishnamurti I have been a wanderer long In this world of transient things. I have known the passing pleasures thereof. As the rainbow is beautiful But soon vanishes into nothingness, So have I known, From the very foundation of the world, The passing away of all things Beautiful, joyous and pleasurable. As the moon is full and serene, In the day of harvest So am I In the day of my Liberation Simple as the tender leaf am I For in me are many winters and many springs. As the dew drop is of the sea, So am I born In the ocean of my Liberation As the mysterious river Enters the open seas, So have I entered Into the world of Liberation This is the end I have known.
joy
I have no name (from The Song of Life) by Jiddu Krishnamurti I have no name, I am as the fresh breeze of the mountains. I have no shelter; I am as the wandering waters. I have no sanctuary, like the dark gods; Nor am I in the shadow of deep temples. I have no sacred books; Nor am I well-seasoned in tradition. I am not in the incense Mounting on the high altars, Nor in the pomp of ceremonies. I am neither in the graven image, Nor in the rich chant of a melodious voice. I am not bound by theories, Nor corrupted by beliefs. I am not held in the bondage of religions, Nor in the pious agony of their priests. I am not entrapped by philosophies, Nor held in the power of their sects. I am neither low nor high, I am the worshipper and the worshipped. I am free. My song is the song of the river Calling for the open seas, Wandering, wandering, I am Life. I have no name, I am as the fresh breeze of the mountains.
peace
Winter It smelt of new rains and of tender Shoots of plants- and its warmth was the warmth Of earth groping for roots… even my Soul, I thought, must send its roots somewhere And, I loved his body without shame, On winter evenings as cold winds Chuckled against the white window-panes.
love
Words All round me are words, and words and words, They grow on me like leaves, they never Seem to stop their slow growing From within... But I tell my self, words Are a nuisance, beware of them, they Can be so many things, a Chasm where running feet must pause, to Look, a sea with paralyzing waves, A blast of burning air or, A knife most willing to cut your best Friend's throat... Words are a nuisance, but. They grow on me like leaves ona tree, They never seem to stop their coming, From a silence, somewhere deep within...
sad
A Losing Battle How can my love hold him when the other Flaunts a gaudy lust and is lioness To his beast? Men are worthless, to trap them Use the cheapest bait of all, but never Love, which in a woman must mean tears And a silence in the blood.
sad
An Introduction I don't know politics but I know the names Of those in power, and can repeat them like Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru. I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar, I speak three languages, write in Two, dream in one. Don't write in English, they said, English is Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins, Every one of you? Why not let me speak in Any language I like? The language I speak, Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses All mine, mine alone. It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest, It is as human as I am human, don't You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the Incoherent mutterings of the blazing Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair. WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me But my sad woman-body felt so beaten. The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me. I shrank Pitifully. Then … I wore a shirt and my Brother's trousers, cut my hair short and ignored My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook, Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh, Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows. Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to Choose a name, a role. Don't play pretending games. Don't play at schizophrenia or be a Nympho. Don't cry embarrassingly loud when Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call Him not by any name, he is every man Who wants. a woman, just as I am every Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans' tireless Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone, The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and, Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I In this world, he is tightly packed like the Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns, It is I who laugh, it is I who make love And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner, I am saint. I am the beloved and the Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
love
Annette Annette, At the dresser. Pale fingers over mirror-fields Reaping That wheat brown hair. Beauty Falling as chaff in old mirrors, While calenders In all The cities turn….
joy
Forest Fire Of late I have begun to feel a hunger To take in with greed, like a forest fire that Consumes and with each killing gains a wilder, Brighter charm, all that comes my way. Bald child in Open pram, you think I only look, and you Too, slim lovers behind the tree and you, old Man with paper in your hand and sunlight in Your hair... My eyes lick at you like flames, my nerves Consume ; and, when I finish with you, in the Pram, near the tree and, on the park bench, I spit Out small heaps of ash, nothing else. But in me The sights and smells and sounds shall thrive and go on And on and on. In me shall sleep the baby That sat in prams and sleep and wake and smile its Toothless smile. In me shall walk the lovers hand In hand and in me, where else, the old shall sit And feel the touch of sun. In me, the street-lamps Shall glimmer, the cabaret girls cavort, the Wedding drums resound, the eunuchs swirl coloured Skirts and sing sad songs of love, the wounded moan, And in me the dying mother with hopeful Eyes shall gaze around, seeking her child, now grown And gone away to other towns, other arms."
sad
In Love O what does the burning mouth Of sun, burning in today's, Sky, remind me….oh, yes, his Mouth, and….his limbs like pale and Carnivorous plants reaching out for me, and the sad lie of my unending lust. Where is room, excuse or even Need for love, for, isn't each Embrace a complete thing a finished Jigsaw, when mouth on mouth, i lie, Ignoring my poor moody mind While pleasure, with deliberate gaeity Trumpets harshly into the silence of the room… At noon I watch the sleek crows flying Like poison on wings-and at Night, from behind the Burdwan Road, the corpse-bearers cry ‘Bol, Hari Bol' , a strange lacing For moonless nights, while I walk The verandah sleepless, a Million questions awake in Me, and all about him, and This skin-communicated Thing that I dare not yet in His presence call our love.
love
Krishna Your body is my prison, Krishna, I cannot see beyond it. Your darkness blinds me, Your love words shut out the wise world's din.
love
Love Until I found you, I wrote verse, drew pictures, And, went out with friends For walks… Now that I love you, Curled like an old mongrel My life lies, content, In you….
love
My Grandmother's House There is a house now far away where once I received love……. That woman died, The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved Among books, I was then too young To read, and my blood turned cold like the moon How often I think of going There, to peer through blind eyes of windows or Just listen to the frozen air, Or in wild despair, pick an armful of Darkness to bring it here to lie Behind my bedroom door like a brooding Dog…you cannot believe, darling, Can you, that I lived in such a house and Was proud, and loved…. I who have lost My way and beg now at strangers' doors to Receive love, at least in small change?
sad
Punishment in Kindergarten Today the world is a little more my own. No need to remember the pain A blue-frocked woman caused, throwing Words at me like pots and pans, to drain That honey-coloured day of peace. ‘Why don't you join the others, what A peculiar child you are! ' On the lawn, in clusters, sat my schoolmates sipping Sugarcane, they turned and laughed; Children are funny things, they laugh In mirth at others' tears, I buried My face in the sun-warmed hedge And smelt the flowers and the pain. The words are muffled now, the laughing Faces only a blur. The years have Sped along, stopping briefly At beloved halts and moving Sadly on. My mind has found An adult peace. No need to remember That picnic day when I lay hidden By a hedge, watching the steel-white sun Standing lonely in the sky.
sad
Relationship This love older than I by myriad Saddened centuries was once a prayer In his bones that made them grow in years of Adolescence to this favored height; yes, It was my desire that made him male And beautiful, so that when at last we Met, to believe that once I knew not his Form, his quiet touch, or the blind kindness Of his lips was hard indeed. Betray me? Yes, he can, but never physically Only with words that curl their limbs at Touch of air and die with metallic sighs. Why care I for their quick sterile sting, while My body's wisdom tells and tells again That I shall find my rest, my sleep, my peace And even death nowhere else but here in My betrayer's arms...
sad
Summer in Calcutta What is this drink but The April sun, squeezed Like an orange in My glass? I sip the Fire, I drink and drink Again, I am drunk Yes, but on the gold of suns, What noble venom now flows through my veins and fills my mind with unhurried laughter? My worries doze. Wee bubblesring my glass, like a brides nervous smile, and meet my lips. Dear, forgive this moments lull in wanting you, the blur in memory. How brief the term of my devotion, how brief your reign when i with glass in hand, drink, drink, and drink again this Juice of April suns.
sad
The Dance of the Eunuchs It was hot, so hot, before the eunuchs came To dance, wide skirts going round and round, cymbals Richly clashing, and anklets jingling, jingling Jingling... Beneath the fiery gulmohur, with Long braids flying, dark eyes flashing, they danced and They dance, oh, they danced till they bled... There were green Tattoos on their cheeks, jasmines in their hair, some Were dark and some were almost fair. Their voices Were harsh, their songs melancholy; they sang of Lovers dying and or children left unborn.... Some beat their drums; others beat their sorry breasts And wailed, and writhed in vacant ecstasy. They Were thin in limbs and dry; like half-burnt logs from Funeral pyres, a drought and a rottenness Were in each of them. Even the crows were so Silent on trees, and the children wide-eyed, still; All were watching these poor creatures' convulsions The sky crackled then, thunder came, and lightning And rain, a meagre rain that smelt of dust in Attics and the urine of lizards and mice....
sad
The Freaks He talks, turning a sun-stained Cheek to me, his mouth, a dark Cavern, where stalactites of Uneven teeth gleam, his right Hand on my knee, while our minds Are willed to race towards love; But, they only wander, tripping Idly over puddles of Desire. .... .Can this man with Nimble finger-tips unleash Nothing more alive than the Skin's lazy hungers? Who can Help us who have lived so long And have failed in love? The heart, An empty cistern, waiting Through long hours, fills itself With coiling snakes of silence. ..... I am a freak. It's only To save my face, I flaunt, at Times, a grand, flamboyant lust.
love
The Looking Glass Getting a man to love you is easy Only be honest about your wants as Woman. Stand nude before the glass with him So that he sees himself the stronger one And believes it so, and you so much more Softer, younger, lovelier. Admit your Admiration. Notice the perfection Of his limbs, his eyes reddening under The shower, the shy walk across the bathroom floor, Dropping towels, and the jerky way he Urinates. All the fond details that make Him male and your only man. Gift him all, Gift him what makes you woman, the scent of Long hair, the musk of sweat between the breasts, The warm shock of menstrual blood, and all your Endless female hungers. Oh yes, getting A man to love is easy, but living Without him afterwards may have to be Faced. A living without life when you move Around, meeting strangers, with your eyes that Gave up their search, with ears that hear only His last voice calling out your name and your Body which once under his touch had gleamed Like burnished brass, now drab and destitute.
love
The Maggots At sunset, on the river ban, Krishna Loved her for the last time and left... That night in her husband's arms, Radha felt So dead that he asked, What is wrong, Do you mind my kisses, love? And she said, No, not at all, but thought, What is It to the corpse if the maggots nip?
sad
The Old Playhouse You planned to tame a swallow, to hold her In the long summer of your love so that she would forget Not the raw seasons alone, and the homes left behind, but Also her nature, the urge to fly, and the endless Pathways of the sky. It was not to gather knowledge Of yet another man that I came to you but to learn What I was, and by learning, to learn to grow, but every Lesson you gave was about yourself. You were pleased With my body's response, its weather, its usual shallow Convulsions. You dribbled spittle into my mouth, you poured Yourself into every nook and cranny, you embalmed My poor lust with your bitter-sweet juices. You called me wife, I was taught to break saccharine into your tea and To offer at the right moment the vitamins. Cowering Beneath your monstrous ego I ate the magic loaf and Became a dwarf. I lost my will and reason, to all your Questions I mumbled incoherent replies. The summer Begins to pall. I remember the rudder breezes Of the fall and the smoke from the burning leaves. Your room is Always lit by artificial lights, your windows always Shut. Even the air-conditioner helps so little, All pervasive is the male scent of your breath. The cut flowers In the vases have begun to smell of human sweat. There is No more singing, no more dance, my mind is an old Playhouse with all its lights put out. The strong man's technique is Always the same, he serves his love in lethal doses, For, love is Narcissus at the water's edge, haunted By its own lonely face, and yet it must seek at last An end, a pure, total freedom, it must will the mirrors To shatter and the kind night to erase the water.
sad
The Rain We left that old ungainly house When my dog died there, after The burial, after the rose Flowered twice, pulling it by its Roots and carting it with our books, Clothes and chairs in a hurry. We live in a new house now, And, the roofs do not leak, but, when It rains here, I see the rain drench That empty house, I hear it fall Where my puppy now lies, Alone..
sad
The Stone Age Fond husband, ancient settler in the mind, Old fat spider, weaving webs of bewilderment, Be kind. You turn me into a bird of stone, a granite Dove, you build round me a shabby room, And stroke my pitted face absent-mindedly while You read. With loud talk you bruise my pre-morning sleep, You stick a finger into my dreaming eye. And Yet, on daydreams, strong men cast their shadows, they sink Like white suns in the swell of my Dravidian blood, Secretly flow the drains beneath sacred cities. When you leave, I drive my blue battered car Along the bluer sea. I run up the forty Noisy steps to knock at another's door. Though peep-holes, the neighbours watch, they watch me come And go like rain. Ask me, everybody, ask me What he sees in me, ask me why he is called a lion, A libertine, ask me why his hand sways like a hooded snake Before it clasps my pubis. Ask me why like A great tree, felled, he slumps against my breasts, And sleeps. Ask me why life is short and love is Shorter still, ask me what is bliss and what its price....
sad
The Suicide Bereft of soul My body shall be bare. Bereft of body My soul shall be bare. Which would you rather have O kind sea? Which is the more dead Of the two? I throw the bodies out, I cannot stand their smell. Only the souls may enter The vortex of sea. Only the souls know how to sing At the vortex of the sea. Your body shall be dead, Poor thing, Dead as driftwood, drifting And drifting to the shore. Your body shall ride the tide, Rider, slumped dead On white war-house. Charging. Your body shall bruise white Against the coral reefs, Your body, Your lonely body. I tell you, sea, I have enough courage to die, But not enough. Not enough to disobey him Who said: Do not die And hurt me that certain way. How easy your duties are. How simple. Only roar a hungry roar, Leao forward, And retreat. You swing and you swing, O sea, you play a child's game. But, I must pose. I must pretend, I must act the role Of happy woman, Happy wife. I must keep the right distance Between me and the low. And I must keep the right distance Between me and the high. O sea, i am fed up I want to be simple I want to be loved And If love is not to be had, I want to be dead, just dead While I enter deeper, With joy I discover The sea's hostile cold Is after all skin-deep. The sea's inner chambers Are all very warm. There must be a sun slumbering At the vortex of the sea. O sea, i am happy swimming Happy, happy, happy ... The only movement i know well Is certainly the swim. It comes naturally to me. I had a house a Malabar And a pale-green pond. I did all my growing there In the bright summer months. I swam about and floated, And divided into the cold and green I lay speckled green and gold In all the hours of the sun, Until My grandmother cried, Darling, you must stop this bathing now. You are much too big to play Naked in the pond. Yes, the only movement i really know Is swimming, It comes naturally to me. The white man who offers To help me forget, The white man who offers Himself as a stiff drink, Is for me, To tell the truth, Only water. Only a pale-green pond Glimmering in the sun. In him I swim All broken with longing. In his robust blood i float Drying off my tears. Yet i never can forget The only man who hurts. The only one who seems to know The only way to hurt. Holding you is easy Clutching at moving water, I tell you, sea, This is easy, But to hold him for half a day Was a difficult task. It required drinks To hold him down. To make him love. But, when he did not love, Believe me, All I could do was to sob like a fool. O sea, You generous cow, You and I are big flops. We are too sentimental For our own Good. Lights are moving on the shore. But I shall not return. Sea, toss my body back That he knew how to love. Bereft of body My soul shall be free. Take in my naked soul That he knew how to hurt. Only the soul knows how to sing At the vortex of the sea.
sad
The Sunshine Cat They did this to her, the men who know her, the man She loved, who loved her not enough, being selfish And a coward, the husband who neither loved nor Used her, but was a ruthless watcher, and the band Of cynics she turned to, clinging to their chests where New hair sprouted like great-winged moths, burrowing her Face into their smells and their young lusts to forget To forget, oh, to forget, and, they said, each of Them, I do not love, I cannot love, it is not In my nature to love, but I can be kind to you. They let her slide from pegs of sanity into A bed made soft with tears, and she lay there weeping, For sleep had lost its use. I shall build walls with tears, She said, walls to shut me in. Her husband shut her In, every morning, locked her in a room of books With a streak of sunshine lying near the door like A yellow cat to keep her company, but soon Winter came, and one day while locking her in, he Noticed that the cat of sunshine was only a Line, a half-thin line, and in the evening when He returned to take her out, she was a cold and Half dead woman, now of no use at all to men.
sad
The Testing of the Sirens The night, dark-cloaked like a procuress, brought him to me, willing, light as a shadow, speaking words of love in some tender language I do not know ... With the crows came the morning, and my limbs warm of love, were once again so lonely... At my doorstep I saw a pock-marked face, a friendly smile and a rolleiflex. We will go for a drive, he said. Or go see the lakes. I have washed my face with soap and water, brushed my hair a dozen times, draped myself in six yards of printed voile. Ah... does it still show, my night of love? You look pale, he said. Not pale, not really pale. It's the lipstick's anemia. Out in the street, we heard The sirens go, and I paused in talk to weave their wail with the sound of his mirthless laughter. He said, they are testing the sirens today. I am happy. He really was lavish with words. I am happy, just being with you. But you . . . you love another, I know, he said, perhaps a handsome man, a young and handsome man. Not young, not handsome, I thought, just a filthy snob. It's a one-sided love, I said. What can I do for yoou? I smiled A smile is such a detached thing, I wear it like a flower. Near the lake, a pregnant girl bared her dusky breasts and washed them sullenly. On the old cannon-stand, crows bickered over a piece of lizard-meat and the white sun was there and everywhere . . . I want your photo, lying-down, nineteen-thirty-four guns, he said, against those rusty nineteen-thirty-four guns, will you ? Sure. Just arrange my limbs and tell Me when to smile. I shut my eyes, but inside eye-lids, there was no more night, no more love, or peace, only the white, white sun burning, burning, burning... Ah, why does love come to me like pain again and again and again?
sad
As the man and the woman in me by Lalan English version by Deben Bhattacharya Original Language Bengali As the man and the woman in me Unite in love, The brilliance of beauty Balanced on the bi-petalled Lotus bloom in me Dazzles my eyes. The rays Outshine the moon And the jewels Glowing on the hoods of snakes. My skin and bone Are turned to gold. I am the reservoir of love, Alive as the waves. A single drop of water Has grown into a sea, Unnavigable...
love
Could I ever forget him by Lalan English version by Deben Bhattacharya Original Language Bengali Could I ever forget him since I delivered my heart at his feet? His beauty enchants my eyes round the compass wherever I steer myself. Though all call him black, He is not black. He is the glow of the moon-- the black moon, and there is no other moon to equal him....
love
He talks to me by Lalan English version by Deben Bhattacharya Original Language Bengali He talks to me But he would not let me see him. He moves Close to my hands But away from my reach. I explore The sky and the earth Searching him, Circling round my error Of not knowing me: Who am I And who is he?
sad
How the days drag by Lalan English version by Deben Bhattacharya Original Language Bengali How the days drag before union with the man of my heart! Round the hours of the day and night as the rain-bird, chataka, watches the clouds, I gaze at the black-moon hoping to surrender myself at his feet--in vain. Like lightning flashing through the clouds and hiding in the clouds never to be found again, I saw his beauty flashing through my dreams and I lost Krishna.
sad
The moon is encircled by moons by Lalan English version by Deben Bhattacharya Original Language Bengali The moon is encircled by moons. How can I hold it In my hands? The unseizable moon, Glowing in the brilliance Of a million moons, Rocks my head In a lunar carnival.... Moon fruits adorn The tree of the moon, Flashing, Luminously flashing. I try to see But my eyes cannot bear; The rays of beauty Dazzle them.
joy
A breathless counsel curiosity will catch you dear for you are a writer and it is your license to startle the world with a hundred thousand words instead of a dazzling smile or those occasional winks and i don’t want to probe for after all you are renouncing all the time and i don’t want to stop you racing against life but i have been there and i have returned and i know what happens when it takes hold of a woman yes i know what happens then but i will not tell you the answers i have sealed my lips i have learnt how not to say what i must be saying somehow i don’t want to be fledging you in security for what happens with all my parenting will only be a compromise darling child instead i let you free i want you to ask the questions i want you to prick and not polish your wounds i will let you to be hurt in the face of the world i want you to learn more than what you want to learn sometimes i feel i want you to get hurt badly hurt and bleed before the world and then i shall sit back and feel my work is done for once you have known what pain is then you shall know how to preserve the fringes of happiness i want you to be alone in the ravenous world where you never know what happens next just so that you will no longer find routine to be so despicable and amidst that pervading fuzziness you shall long for an anchor for all your dreams only realizing much later that you are your safety you are your ultimate but till then you might screech and scream but when you retain your temperament you will find that life will always lie waiting like an hungry beast and at each turn you take i wish you learn the greater horrors and now i confess darling i want you hurt because i want to watch you fight and fight and fight i want you to pull together those moonbeams of hope i want you to throb precariously i want you to be living on the edge i want you to learn the thousand one ways in which you can melt the boundaries of saturation called death and the emptiness of life and the fidgetiness of what might be called love i want you to lose i want you to win but some day i want you to be free
love
Apologies for living on i am living on because providing apologies is easy once— i was making choices with insanely safe ideas of fleeing-madly-and-flying-away i was a helpless girl against the brutal world of bottom-patting-and-breast-pinching i was craving for security the kind i had only known while aimlessly-afloat-and-speculating-in-the-womb now— i am locked away a terrified princess waiting for-death-and-not-any-brave-prince i don’t dream or think i just remember and wince at-voices-of-the-past-smirking-in-sarcasm once— i ran away in the darkness nothing beaconed me more than the prospect-of-solitude-and-the-caress-of-a-million-stars i ran into the arms of the ravishing night nothing pulled me back: not even the memories of-love-i-had-once-known-&-stolen-kisses-savoured-for-so-long. i ran until terror stopped my tracks for, trembling i turned and saw that the moon was another-immodest-ogler-and-lecherous-stalker.
sad
Aftermath the next morning in school during your english exam you take permission to go to the toilet where you throw up all the white and creamy breakfast milk. only it tastes sour and looks like bits of maggoty curd. weeks later, you get to know two things one of which will change your life for ever. first, you scored the highest in the english exam. second, you became a gossip item. you still don’t know what affects you more. because of your boldness and brashness and bunking classes your ulcerated vomit is taken for morning sickness. the sourness extends when you hear hushed whispers passing around. girls younger than you, point at you and speak such banal secrets. in staff-rooms, and in ungainly corridors teachers chatter of your child, so vividly imagined in the backdrop of your really empty womb. slander is a slaughterhouse. even best-friends seek answers as the rumours inflame. your anger is mistaken to be toward a crude imagined lover who disowned you. you know the nauseous truth of your thighs: you are virgin. But evidence will not be revenge, for, so many smoky eyes implore you to supplicate, to admit alleged truths. impeaching faces lay down rules: don’t shout or scream, but swallow the shame. next, confess the sin. sin yes they will shred your innocent life to that yes you may fume or froth or boil or simmer yes you are their staple soup they need you just this way yes your fury takes its toll annihilating you not them yes anger and hatred seethe in your untamed tresses yes you know how gossip chokes even the tethered dreams yes something breaks in you yes dear yes you start the brute search for sleeping pills and chaste suicide ideas.
sad
Composition At that brief time When you wait For the audacious cane To strike your skin, And the rest of you is flinching And cringing, with part shame, And part pain, Poetry dictates itself In your mind. Short lines Rip through, like bullets From a machine gun. The poem comes with the Freshness of a life set free, Whistling its way, Painfully, like wind searing Through the palm fronds. Then, The cane thrashes Your skin, dancing cruelly And bouncing in wooden joy. Before you scream, Or shake, the poetry stops. And the Muse, is tentatively, Laid to rest, much before the Composition is Complete.
sad
An angel meeting me and may be we will almost fall in love. . . I will look into his eyes, and he into mine— my one single eye, (the unfortunate other blinded by a disciplinizing slap) and we will agree, adjust that Love can be Blind. And he, healthy boy well-fed, white with his rosy cheeks, will wonder about me, pity my bony body, those thin ribs and worry and feel my twisted ears and the scars on my hands, (reminders of the flirtation of my skin and a cruel cane) and perhaps lift my skirt. . . Before he learns the greater horrors, I owe him the truth of me— So, I will say to him: “I went to school”.
sad
Amnesia, selective When memory decides To no longer bear the burdens— Of pain, or even plain indifference She has her winsome wicked ways. Some day, years later, Life requires you to unearth Some event long past and you Set about browsing your brain Like a desk-full of office files and then— Come across a resounding emptiness. Memories drizzle-fragile Are not to be found. What Greets you instead, through Those yellowing sheets of typed matter is The blank and ugly blotches of dried whitener So carefully applied, then. It has a fading smell of Chalk and chlorine: a blend, like memory, that works at Your throat. You try to scratch it and the faintest hopes are Betrayed as the caked pieces of the whitener crumble, Displaying nothing, but toe curling holes where crummy paper and ink once contained you.
sad
Sage in the cubicle Even your tongue, Craves for the taste of tears. . . And you are crying again. Misery is (you always believe) the only genuine Emotion and sadness, the way of the real world. She wouldn’t have any of it. Sage in the cubicle, healer of sorts. Three years your junior. She makes soul-talk Sound as prosaic as aeronautical engineering. At the end, Her warning: ‘Stop this right now.’ What will you say of your feeling Living with a sister who terrorizes Even manic depressions out of your mind?
sad
Songs of summer “I am happy, life is good.” Heard at the end of a therapy class. . . The heavy-duty brainwashing and you Remember your crores stacked away. . . Your Harvard airs helps in large doses Soon, the colors peel away and there is nothing To do than wrestle with your yearnings. “I would like to make love.” Wanna fuck? It is easier saying it this way For something that you paid for in cash And cheques and credit cards. Forget the lesser action, the lack of poetry— What mattered was how you let go Of your hate and heat and hunger But never had the courage to talk To her of love or loneliness. . . “You are trespassing on my territory” You guarded it with LoCs and walls And barbed wire fences where hatred Danced like high-voltage electricity. . . You killed creatures and cleared forests And wiped away the darker people And those of dreamy tongues with Your agenda of a war-a-week, the Worlds-to-win and vengeance-to-wreak. . . Your Mushroom clouds and wmds and Poverty drafts and armchair chivalry and A collective manhood of nuclear warheads That explode and penetrate. . . “She’s mine.” To make her yours and yours alone, You pushed her deeper into harems Where she could see the sunlight Only from the lattice windows. Domesticated into drudgery she was just Another territory, worn out by wars. A slave Who maintained your numbers. “Let’s make love.” ~all that you thought~ What’s taking her so long to undress? Quick! Sooner! ~all that you said~ I m gonna fuck till ya faint. . . “Oh how nice to have made love.” ~breathless~ Iminahurry. Cyasoon.~panting~ Here are the words, again— I am happy. Life is good / I would love to make love. You are trespassing on my territory/ She’s mine. Let’s make love/ Oh how nice to have made love. On sunny green fields these are the only Six sentences the male of a grasshopper can ever say. But what have we done with words?
joy
Marijuana murdered him Noon A gray rainy day— On a road less traveled the patrol tracked down much: Him (him is now an it, a crumpled cruel corpse for women To beat their breasts about); the wreckage (four black wheels That speak of despair and a mangled red car-body awash yet Soiled and the cold apparitions of smoked glass and steel); The crime record— He stole at home he found no work he pimped his sis he Mortgaged his mom he raped a girl (the myth reads so: like A crow calling its kindred he invited the last of his friends to Join the feast, the fest, yes the plunder between her thighs) He stabbed his professor dad he lived on air and alcohol And insulin and morphine—but it was the marijuana that Murdered him as he screamed at the vengeful rain that Teased away his nirvana, the excuse of an existence. . . No pair of exacting eyes to see the trees drive into a rage into His car that once swallowed whole black roads but for the God on his dashboard temple who had since returned to Formlessness, to a hundred and eight tiny crystals that held Psychedelic rainbows that outshone all the trapped sun. . .
sad
Why do the heroes die? Unlike in fairy tales, young heroes die. All the dazzling princes, strong men of might, Robinhoods and Messiahs that never lie Are done to death, Evil winning the fight. Heroes are bled; not just deprived of life God turns in his throne, the dead in cold graves And perhaps death ends the lifetimes of strife. Is slaughter the prize for not being slaves? Brave men encounter blows, fight their case, Leave forsaking the world they came to mend. ‘Youth may arise and fill this vacant space’ One faint hope; heroes reach the destined end. Heroes get their Halos. Applause. Praise. All glories shine brighter with sacrifice.
courage
Work is worship, or so they said. . . Six thirty in the a.m. And you still have not Gone to bed. It is three days Since you have Combed your hair. It is a week Since you had a bath. And six weeks Since your dog had hers. It is three months Since you popped The baby pink multi-vitamins. It is half a year Since you met your only best friend. Woe to your scraggyscornfullistless world Where the moonlit sky exists only in the grand Lullabies that one of your grandmothers sang.
sad
Meeting the prophetess Leave your books behind. Since memory, Like knowledge, is a traitor, Erase every hoarding of your horrible past. At last, when you enter her world Of fraying edges and falling angels Don’t barter words where touch will do and be the truth. For once allow her silence to sear, strip your life-layers Because she who knows the truth will not know the tale.
joy
The flight of birds “a poem should be wordless as the flight of birds.” —Archibald Macleish, Ars Poetica. birds don’t sing in their flight for them flying is a muse they compose mid-air weave agnostic verse sneering haughtily at our absurdity as they float over our meaningless mosques and churches and those patrolled international borders and other disputed sites where the guns go bang bang bang all the time they swing over there losing their birdegos (ego is difficult to retain in mid-flight) wondering about and watching men plucking out and quashing the lives of other men and women and poor helpless children and they shed a birdtear or two from there a birdtear that is lost midway due to heat of some explosion down below some crazy fanatical bomb detonating killing instantly the people and the city and the forests and even the pitiable babybirds who are yet to learn to fly they contemplate of writing poems about a bird’s egg charring before even being boiled and scratch their beaks unsure if this is a metaphor or simile or other poetic device o the birds have lots and lots and lots to write about o their writings will never be banned they borrow freedom to write poems in the sky they come back and pass it on to us we take the song only brutally but at least we take the song to take the poem to unscramble the words from the song and to put it back again as song so spontaneously that it remains the poem and the song to remember forever this refrain whose melody haunts us and to hum that refrain which preserves our sanity perhaps we need to fly a trifle aimlessly like birds or because we are humans six-sensed creatures with massive egos and massive superegos and massive egos on the ego and because of possessing gray matter what doctors call medulla oblongata we need to feel with our red hearts than think with some unlocatable mind we need to look deeper. . . into ourselves, into eyes we need to lose ourselves then, and only then the poems will come silent wordless as the flight of birds
joy
Blackboard poems S P A C E is a problem unlike your never-ending paper or the maddening blankness of your word processor where you can go on and on in anguish or insanity or boredom on one-hundred-and-seven degree Fahrenheit afternoons. (To write the next lines you need to take the green&goldbrown duster to rub off these eight) Colour is another confusion you want to wish away. At sixteen you wouldn’t write OneSingleWord unless it was forty percent gray letters on a plum background and your monitor looked like a high class youknowwho. The font then was Footlight MT Light, 13 pt. Now, at twenty one, it is Verdana, eight point. (I have erased again) NOTHING SEDUCES LIKE YOUR OWN HANDWRITING. THE WHITE CHALK DANCING ACROSS GLASS GREEN. Creepers on W’s & R’s, hats on S, hearts on I’s & J’s. (I have erased again) I don’t grudge the colours too. Instead of two hundred and fifty six fantasies there is the catholic bridal white. Sometimes, there is yellow, blue, green, purple, red and orange and the opportunity of giving them names— Flaky Fullmoon. Bleached & Faded Captain Haddock Suit. Temple-tank Algae. Crushed Lilac Under Flashlight. Sherbet Stain. Sawdust Chillidust Cream. (I have erased again) There is considerable exertion (let me hazard a guess: writing takes two hundred calories per hour, erasing with the duster five hundred, and walking across must be say, around eighty). Then, there is chalk-dust allergy that compels me to sneeze. And the chemical after-effect that spoils the moody brown skin of any glowing goddess. And the unbearable sounds of chalk squeak. . . (I have erased again. The fifth time now.) But, a poet loves writing blackboard poems. (So easy, to imagine, an audience) Yet, how much she dreads Impermanence. . .
joy
Returning home And you see the two-crows-for-joy-pass that are sitting on overhead cables and the evening moon, a mere silvery slice against fluffy translucent sky. And the remains of your school where you spent your twelve longest years and lived through everything. And the bus-stand you had to draw for your art-class in yellow ochre or asphalt grey and the emptiness that now occupies the place where a tiny café once stood. And the tree where they fed you lunch before you learnt to walk back home. And I thought of my parents. Brilliant people talking of the intricacies of their life and the corruption of morals and the bygone days and hunger in their childhood and their deaddear- departed parents as if to teach you what to talk to your children. (And you are their child, so you speak their lines.) Still returning home, And there are rusty mammoth girders that outline the sky like the derelicts of lost dreams and crossed hopes. And girls so flimsy pretty yet unsafe in the little worlds of lip gloss and love affairs that you could have smoked them into oblivion. And the dry decaying dead leaves crushed with varying noises and carrying a spent smell that clings to your hair. And the shy forest noises that violate your fixation over sight and sound and smell and touch yes touch. And I thought of my lover. A primitive man who would invade your aloneness on insomniac nights and challenge your assumptions of love and your sophistications and fill your ears with the four letter words of his ancient language that have begun to sound to you like earth songs to which your body awakens. (And you are his love, so you listen to his lines.) On the way home, the small lessons you learn of life. . . Love, or the promise of love, its lack of choice. This large world. And its littleness.
joy
Cinquains Morning Song Wet pink And dusty grey The sky begins to blush. Some sleepy careless charm welcomes Daybreak. Even Song Azure And pink gold hues The smug sky at twilight A final flush of fulfilment Night falls.
joy
How they prostitute a poem It is uniquely easy For some to sell Ideals because Business of absent Goods is essentially A sacrosanct but mostly A flimsy transaction. Some learn, early on, To prostitute their verse. So, in all the waking hours They scavenge for a simple simile That matches requirements, fulfills needs. They barter reality And every romance To a blurred triplicate Carbon-copy World of Hard Cash and Price Tags and Brand Names. In this brothel Of stilled hope and Stagnated stories, poems Are born virgin and endowed With voluptuous figures of firm, Full breasts and wide hips where men Prefer to plant their pastime dreams, Or conceive their seed, Or merely spite themselves, Or dabble at domination. But, the poem, with this Bogus existence becomes An adept, untiring prostitute. Taken On a starry night, The poem opens (dry and drab and dreary: lacking love and life) like The paid-for parting Of the thighs.
anger
Sun in the mouth And the truth scorches and singes the pink open flesh of your mouth with its pungent yellow taste, so, speaking the truth is not so easy with just one tongue, anyway. Seeing might have been closest to truth and as Plotinus said the eye would not be able to see the sun if it was itself not sun and so seeing was understanding. The Egyptians called the eye with the circle of the iris with the pupil in the centre as the sun in the mouth and that was their truth. Cyclops must have had little to see in this vast world and deprived of the whole truth and that was his loss, his tragedy. Even Argus with all his eyes couldn’t escape in the end. How much truth, how many eyes of how many senses would it take to tell the truth to the lord of the third-eye? A king of a Tamil temple city raged mad to know the truth of the scent of a woman’s hair. Since money bought truth he made ready, a thousand gold coins. And a poor poet still married to faith prayed on to Shiva, the lord of struggling survivors, lord of births and lives and deaths, lord of poor poets who gave him a poem to be sung at the king’s court. A savant there picked a mistake like peeling the scab of a healed wound and said that the poem was wrong. He said that any woman’s hair did not have a natural scent. The lord of dances and grey ash and cremation grounds came down to challenge this stubborn man who extended his truth, even if the woman was the consort of the lord. He would not budge even if the lord threatened to open his third eye, the eye in the forehead which would reduce him to bone-white ashes as light as the wispiest clouds. The court cowered in fright. . . But in arrogance the savant said a mistake is a mistake even if it was the lord of the forehead-eye. O’ saint-bard and master of many wily words What do you know of truth or love, or the scent of a woman’s hair? On the nights of naked sky and a fragile quarter moon, my lord, he of the deep blue throat, he of the rivers in his hair, he of the third-eye, comes to me. Before he tears the blankness of my womb, before he traces the length of my spine, the curve of my thighs, before he strokes my cheeks, he buries his head in the thousand and one nights of my long tresses and he says it smells like the wind-lost voices of his childhood summers.
joy