cosmic rains
from interstellar clouds
in a whirl of wonder
that nobody saw
danced into being
a star
they say
and of the stardust
you and i were born
why? to dance
to some secret rhyme
we dance still
round the path of endless time
locked forever
you and i
forever in the endless sky
in an endless dance
forever
you and i
Coma: A Poem
neither silent, nor unheard
the Echo becomes a Reality
and
Point of Measure
So I am Alive – I say
Hmmm.
In relation to the sound, that echoes
But through, and through
The voice of my Father comes as a ghost of the mind
Almost
Some Reality, twisted in the mirror-maze of the Subconscious
And I cannot say what is what
An image ?
Or the Reflection of it?
His Own Sound,
Or one thrown across the gorge
And back from the mountains?
I am only an irrational point
An electron
measured only by an assumption of my existence
My Existence can only be Assumed
I follow the sound through whatever path
And on every turn I just miss another figure
Only, slightly, catching the back of the foot
As he turns
As he turns, too, and wonders –
Whose foot is that, which turns left into whichever way?
Through the labyrinthine corridors of my own mind
I follow the ghost-sound of my own Father
Which echoes, in my mind, asking me to wake up
But I am just a dream
To wake will be my end
The Liberty Rhyme
it is the day
when i wash on to the shore
when the tide has turned
when the age is no more
onto the sands i climb
for my final breath
onto the shores of time
for my end and death
it is on this land
that i now breathe
its dreams and hopes
are my funeral wreathe
on its soil once grew
the freedom and joy
like on grass the dew
did sadness annoy
but as i the sentinel
of time and of age
do wait for the fading
of sadness and rage
i hope for a sunrise
for a new day to dawn
for dewdrops again
for another new morn.
The Man from the Hills – a folk tale
It is from the first weeks of the seasons turn that I begin my descent from the far icy valley of the distant north. I follow in the trail of the Bhutia Shepherds as they take their flock down towards safer climes – safe from the winter and safe from the wolf. But I keep out of sight from those hateful men. I have had enough of their shouting curses on me, setting their dogs upon me and their flinging dung. They think I am a tantrik who will curse their sheep or their children, even worse. Who but a tantrik they say will live alone in such a place as my valley of fire and ice? But what do they know the fools!
Ah my valley! What should I say of it that you will believe me, Sir, the educated man that you are. Will you believe if I tell you that the gates between the realms of the gods and man open in the valley every spring? Will you believe if I tell you of the enchantment of the gandharas in the first days of spring? Of Indra’s revelry and the streams of holy soma that flow down the mountains like waterfalls and break on the rocks not in rainbow colours but in golden haze of light? Or of the tremors in the mountains when the great lord of the cosmic dance makes union with the goddess of the flowers? The flowers, the flowers, what should I say of them. Their beauty I will not describe for there are no words for me to try. Of their fragrance what should I say but that one deep breath is enough for the mind to expand beyond the confines of maya’s pall.
I found the valley, Sir. I found it in a dream. It was only a legend before that the hill folk said and knew. From there, it was said, that the souls of the dead emerge after purgatory for their earthly karma has cleansed them and made them divine to return to the homes of their children to watch over them. For good and for bad.
It was a goddess – maybe the same as she of the flowers but I cannot tell for sure – who revealed to me the path which would safely meander around the maze of icy cliffs and falls and bridge the fiery rivers of lava that flow between them. I was brave enough, or fool enough, you can judge, to trust in the dream and leave this world to seek the valley. I sought and I found. The valley and peace. Lived, though you might not believe, for a hundred years. Yes, I am a hundred and fifty years old. But I am not a tantrik I am only a man who has found peace.
Why, if the valley is as I have told, must I descend to the karma-bhoomi of earthly existence in these winter months? Live in the world and age in the world? Suffer in the world and be shamed in the world? I must tell you. It is for my soul, Sir. It is for my soul. In the winter months, when the earth turns around, so does turn around the cosmic balance on which it is strung. The gates of the gods are frozen shut by walls of ice and trickle by trickle a stream of liquid fire lays open another gate, a viler door, to the dark stars of the Asuras. And then where flowers once bloomed from the earth thrust forth shards of steel. No wafts of flowery scent anymore but the most poisonous fumes only a breath of which will shrivel a man into a decayed corpse. No devas jovial prance but my tread the earth the most dreadful demons fit enough for the nightmares of the gods. And what of him who is cursed enough to find himself there when the valley is turned into a burning hell? He will lose his soul. Not his life. That will remain. But his soul. And forever he will walk the earth. A man without a soul.
How you might ask should I know this if I have never found myself caught within this season’s turn? I have seen the man. The walking ghost. For every winter as I descend he makes a journey too. While I for the world, he for the hell. No I have not seen him. But I have heard his howls in the night as he sheds his earthly skin. I have smelt the acrid burning of his flesh as he turns into his true demon form.
I shudder to think that he lives in this world too during the summer suns and walks with man as other men do. Have you seen him, Sir? You might have but how would you know? You would not. Not by action or by word does the demon reveal himself. But in thought and in work what does he do? He hides his trail, I am certain. He covers his wickedness under some garb. But now that you know you must remain aware. You must look hard at the things that are done in this world and be wary of the demon’s deed.
The night is cold, is it not? Let me not keep you any longer. I must thank you for roof and meal you have provided me today. Tomorrow I will leave before dawn. Where to? Ah, that I cannot say, Sir. I seek. For some sign of him. And if I find I will remain in this world and never return to the valley. I will chase the demon in this world. In this world I will the demon slay.
Sound of some words…
I strike words on the keyboard
what notes would they sound
if they were heard
if they made music aloud?
you would need a kind heart
to listen to the words as they come
to every movement apart
as a beat of the poet’s love…
for life, living and you
what music would be heard
some to tear one
through and through
if you had that heart.
if i was the poet.
if it was my music.
if it was my life.
if it was my love.
if you listened
to the sound.
The Intoxication on the Sixteenth : some blabbering and a ballad
Living on a go-go in a moony love town and a whirl of ever pleasurable commotion is always present in my head. Dancing, prancing, loving and kissing everybody I meet. This is happiness; the buzz in my head is the pinnacle of all happy feeling. Ah, the elation of intoxication. Where to now, Al-Wanderer of the Earth and the Moon and the Stars and the Skies, and what’s and why’s? Where are you off to now, Al-Drunk-Like-Shit, my friend of countless puke-ings, and fellow discoverer of uncovered manholes?
Holy Mammoth Mammary! Another one!
Where are you? Where the hell did he go? Oh, well…
The Druid has knowledge of a potion
The most potent magic concoction
A beaming face, a smile, a wink
Says he – I’ll give you a special drink.
I take a swig of ambrosia from a green bottle
Ho-Ho-Ho and a full throttle-
Onward, Sweet May, onward and on
As my heart forgets the one before you gone.
And how it works, in every vein
Now rising in fumes up to my brain
Two starlit eyes, one slipping tongue
A heart proclaimed as ever young.
In virgin places ne’er before been
I travel the worlds of In-Between.
Thus giddily I deeper sink
Into the magic of the Druid’s drink.
Glory be to all mankind!
There is puke and then there is puke. One kind that you actually wait for and the other you for which you wait and wait and wait. Like him, standing there, head in a shit hole, grabbing onto the edge where many an asses sat, shat. He waits for it to pour out him, torrents of peace. It won’t come so easy.
First there is going to be that sickening feeling, of something gooey and warm, of something alive inside, going round and round, everywhere in your digestive tract. Up, up, up, out, out, please. You could die, you could kill, and just fucking get it out of me. No more drinking, ever, moron. Never going to touch alcohol in my bloody life. Then it happens.
Phwack! And peace splattered all over the loo. You feel as if the eyes are going to pop right out your skull. Pushing, pushing, out mother-fucking peanuts! Doesn’t matter if you graze the pipe on your way out. Phwack! Peace, God, peace and I’m never going to drink again, ever.
PS. Brush your teeth at least twice a day or they will rot.
The Eunuch Celebration
We dance wild and free.
Today is the celebration of what we are, what we are not and what we just could not be.
Dance wild sister-brother, half brother, born of the womb of an undeserving mother,
of sin,
dance like you never have and be glad you aren’t a man.
I am not a man, gentle brother-sister, half woman.
I am a celebration of the eccentricity of the Creator
Or evidence of his incapability.
I am gentle, gentle
So fair, so fair
I am fair, I am fair
So gentle, so gentle.
I am passion, and perfume
As I am dust, and deepest shame
Yet I too am born of love
In that all are same.
So sweet, so sweet
Complete-Incomplete.
Dance today, fair sister-brother, half brother!
A Celebration! Of sorrow, of ridicule.
We will sing great songs, as the minstrels of today.
And sing and dance, dance and play.
Fair sister-brother, half sister, be bold and loud
I am! I am! And I am proud.
