When, I was watching…

When I was watching the evening star,
arc across the gaze of the crescent moon,
when the cloud wistfully walked the sky dome,
and the last sounds of the birds’ nest began to fade,
when the last light was long gone,
when the doorways were no more golden framed,
when the night had just now begun,
when the evening was yet not forgotten,
the bell-flowers breathed their white fragrance,
the cicada cried his night-song,
but i, alone, watched, listened and sighed,
another day gone,
another day gone –

When, I was so watching –
I recalled another night, long yet not so long ago,
When another moon, another sky, another star,
other nests, other sounds, other doors,
were still awake, were still open,
when I longed for them to be silent,
when longed for them to be shut,
when I longed for the day to pass,
But I was younger then,
And I am older now.

Then the days were too long,
now, the nights are too short.
But they pass, all the same,
they pass.
they must.

For all life is too long,
But, one, too short,
Yet, wanes the moon,
Yet waxes word and song,
But all too short, yet all too long.

The lost poet’s word

The lost poet came wandering by this lonely road.
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


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
you and i

Coma: A Poem



neither silent, nor unheard

the Echo becomes a Reality


Point of Measure

So I am Alive – I say


In relation to the sound, that echoes

But through, and through

The voice of my Father comes as a ghost of the mind


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.