The lost poet’s word

The lost poet came wandering by this lonely road.
Looking.
Blankly.
This way and that for god knows what.
Possibly a word.
So, weary, he by this rock sat.
Wondering where the word was to be found.
Then in a sudden burst it came to his mind.
God damn the word which I have to find. I’ll make it up myself.
Let it be nice but not too long. With a good enough sound to fit in a song.
But it must be new so nothing widely known. If it must be new it should be all my own.
So, there he sat by that wayside stone.
Thinking and thinking for his word.
You might find him still if you ever wander there.
Wander onto the lonely road.
Where only the lost poets go.

Fragments of a Song from the Vedic Garden

Kapila o Kapila where is the word, the sound which is the root of all speech?

Listen o Madvi the word is in silence, the silence which is at the root of all sound.

Kapila o Kapila the word is not silence, speech is not silence, then how is silence the root of all sound, in which it is found, the word?

Stillness is the root of the storm, o Madvi, and night is the root of day, the welcoming womb is the root of all life and so, o Madvi, silence is the root of all sound. The word is in silence, in the rest of wordlessness, a rest before rest is conceived. The word is found in nothing but itself and that is the word in itself.

O Kapila o Kapila if the word is in nothing, and the word is itself, in nothing is the word but nothing itself, where is the word then found?

The word is not found in the world, o Madvi, and the world is not found in the word. For one is not one but when one is itself and one is the root of the one.

Kapila o Kapila then what must one seek for all we have known is the word?

Madvi o Madvi the world is itself, and nothing but itself and that is the root of the world. And that o Madvi is that.

**

The Ghost

1

I reached forward to touch her. As my fingertips reached her skin I felt a tingle run through my body, a sort of mild electric current prickling my skin, quickening my heart and pushing my breath. She felt… warm. And soft. And strange. Almost… non-material, as if she was woven of wisps of mani-textured smokes. But real. Yet how? This had to be something extrasensory. Can you have a body of gaseous stuff? Was she a vision? No. Maybe, but she was a feeling. Can you feel a vision? I’ve heard hallucinations are visual. No, but some are… real. Some hallucinations infringe on reality… become real in the moment. Some hallucinations become real, yes. Reality. Some hallucinations are reaity. Some realities are… hallucinations.

They say, if you look into the eyes you can tell a phantom from a person. The phantom has no flicker in the soul. The soul is a fire in the eye. Her eyes burn. They burn right into the core of my being. The essence of my existence feels naked and revealed in her gaze. Who witnesses whom? Who stands before whom for the judgement? Am I her dream or is she my fantasy?

But… she is too beautiful to be real. And why would such beauty form from imagination one such as me? I am not fit to be anyone’s fantasy. I know that, I have known that… always.

Then, it is certain. She is mine. And it is certain she is a fantasy. For, who else would deign to look upon one such as me with those eyes. Those eyes which say… I see you, deep, deep within. And who would let me touch… so, that it quickens my breath and pushes my heart. Away. Away. Away.

Interstellar Love Song

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.