Love swirling

A dervish turner dances in my soul
Day and night he dances
He dances in silence
on the palms of god
And God's heart breaks in tears
by the beauty of this dancing

Salut au monde.

You may find me somewhere high on a cliff
in a gardern of clouds
where i go often
To greet the universe.

Pink peach flowers sways in the valleys of my heart
and the sun rises from its horizon
No kurushetras; no allah hoo's
No mystical mantras
No kabala symbols
No crucifixations.

Only pink peach flowers
perfuming.
Making space for the nameless .

Unfiltered silence
More intoxicating than all the wisdom of men
opens the pages of my heart
for god's own finger to write
this morning's poem.

God wrote.
And
Love stepped in.

She wrote on my skin

Her warm mouth
wrote on my skin
How the moon travelled in the sky.

Light fell
everywhere she wrote.
like a cloud she let me float
until flowers rained from volcanoes.
fell hot pebbles
on hot tongue.
bees from heaven, my brain they stung.

She
called me with her soft looks.
A look you hear
in whispers.

fill me with the tide
and tie me to your river .
when dawn breaks
this night you shall remember.
How my moon travelled in your sky
And how my warm mouth drank from your river.

Xilence*. A poem, for a poet (written to style her own metaphors)

Step into the river.
We could drink our solitudes for tea
And leave the biscuits crumbs on the table clothes of our skin.
Pecking at them with the lustful beaks of our minds.

Ungloriously, looking at the dying sun.
Consoling the scars that are.
And those that will never be.

The bitter taste of the known , numbs our tongues
while words mumble in fear
to deaf gods.
Nevertheless, the acuphene is only a hum that won't disturb the music of silence;
Nor, stop being a lover again.

If we could look into the mirrors of our faces
And watch the melting of the sorrow we deny.

In denial, feel the stink in every God's shitpot
the leftovers of his paradise.

Remembering, to forget
your last dance in the sand.
The winds that carried your sand dunes
into the heart of a forest, growing out of your own myth.

And so what, if hatred are the shoes in which you walk
screaming, blasphemy for philosophy
from the sour rivers of our experiences.

So what, if insanity laughs
in every crumb that we ate.
The bitterness now
on numb tongues, babbling...
Indifference, puts hers arms arround our shoulders
drying the streams of life.

So what, if our open eyes, before beautiful landscapes, suffocate in their blindness
transforming canvases, drenching with wet paints of our pain.

Refusing to die.
even, when the walls of our ego fall upon us, in crushing piles.
Kissing the feet of the Gods we have created
from the hankering of our desires, for heaven and immortalities.

Step into this river
Never to be the same ever again.

when memories have been washed away
Our own Godheads shall no more be a myth .

our faces shall have no more their skin
from, the endless to endless, we shall stay flowing .
From, the nameless to silence, we shall sing our songs and dance our dances.
The beautiful shall no longer be a quest -but, the emanation of our beings.
Our shoes, discarded by its uselessness
we shall walk ,naked feet in our souls, and fly without wings in our heavens.

The landscapes where we wander
where wanders also our rivers.
Thus, be witnesses to them, without the need to open our eyes.
For it is'nt through our open eyes we shall witness our own ungowning selves.

Step into this river,
the endless river of breath;
With each breath, we shall melt down our masks,
to see our faceless face
unfolding out of every flower .

Step into the river.
Within each heart
the springtime showers the most beautiful perfume
spreading in the nostrils of our soul.
And only one word shall name it

Love.

And it shall remain more than a word.

Step into the river
Love is more than a word
Just as, the ever changing smiles on the lips of the Nameless.
Each day, invites us through open doors
passing, secrets only our emptyness can grasp.
Translations only our silence can understand
Be there then, with the river
endlessly flowing to the nameless.

The happiness that we seek, shall depend on no heaven
And the heavens that we seek, shall depend on no God.

Is not God the mysterious quality
of Love flowering .
Is not the flowering of love - God.





*Xilence ( to be pronounced as exsilence) is a new word that i've created.
it means = exiled in noise.

Seven flowings from the heart of the Soul

Seven rivers flowed out of my soul..
So here they are.


The first flowing of gravity -- Silence plants the seeds of words.

The second flowing of desire -- intoxicates and ties knots in the perceptions.

The third flowing of duality -- life struggles and learns through conflicts.

The fourth flowing of understanding -- the seasons of Love takes you through the ocean in the sky;
And, the sky in the ocean.

The fifth flowing of encounter -- brings 'you' to your death,
your masks melt like wax in the sun; only then, you can step into the next flow.

The flowing of consciousness -- the undescribable , is felt through the wisdom,
of pure presence.

And you find your way to the river of oneness.

The flowing of Oneness -- in fact, the seventh is'nt a flow anymore :
It is infinite space.
You are omnipresent.
The seventh flowing --is the footsteps of god walking in you;
going nowhere
But , dancing to the songs of 'being'.

If the fourth is in reconciliation ;then, the seventh is in communion.

Even amidst our visions that grows upside down -life continues to spread heavenwards

So cast your nets in the sky and gather a handful of stars in your heart.

If at all you seek a purpose today

why not sail on the wings of beauty.

Without asking - they are yours.

if only you'd lift your eyes from the grounds on which you have been clinging since your birth.

If at all you 'd stop seeking god the way you do.

just sit and enjoy

the graces of life.

in that single moment all will become

God.

A heartfull of love

is a heart full of God

A poem

Drip with me ,
togather in a dewdrop

Out from the heart of a flower
we call Love

Into the porous throat of the earth
To become a vein of a stream

Out from the heart of a flower
Also a significant part of
An ocean called: Eternity.

To the coming of Spring.

Life takes me by the shoulders
and whispers
a poem of peace in my ears

How close i feel to the universe.

Quietness is healing
Every space between
me and myself

The wild grass grows out of my pen

The almond trees bloom

Enough has been written for today.

Facing face to face.

How can i say i feel freedom
when all my yesterdays still clings to me

So many words said and unsaid
So many stabs and wounds still unhealed
So many unfulfilled desires still haunting

Have'nt said something to each other since a long time

And it has become difficult
to find something to say

Gingered faced gypsy.

Ginger faced gypsy,
your jingling feet fascinates me

In each little jingle
a sweet secret dwells
Like copper pots dropping
into a deep dark well.

Your hair like beehives
curls through your veils.
Your shinning marble eyes;
your Bulbul voice.

Your mother
in her haythatched kitchen cooks

And your father
makes merry with his band.

While so freely you lay
here in my hands

Touching hurriedly hungryly
unknown lands
Your pomegranate kisses,
soft seeping blisses
Your dainty little hips
and your nipple tips

Will they move like this till morning.

Ginger faced gypsy,
I quietly left
Knowing
we 'll never cross our paths again
But i still think of you
Wondering
what your gypsylittle name was.

Mumbai city souvenirs.

I

Bombay city,
parts of you exhausts me,
So many eyes haunted by a nameless disease of the mind.

Bombay city,
your music is only the sound of rushing, cars, trains, people.

Bombay city,
my eyes too have been eaten by your vultures,
and my flesh is being torn.
Through your dark tunnels, subways, lanes and piles of buildings
i hear
the coughing human heart.

Bombay city,
your nights are'nt really quite;
amidst the thick gloomy fog
in the neon lights
the hankering hawkering still goes on.

Bombay city,
indifferent to life and death
what more can i say about you.
Cries , moans, shouts, screams,
headaches,heartaches,soulaches.....
Blood and gutters, life and germs,
all mingling in our genetic pool.

II

Mumbai;
the otherside -less glorious;
The green blue gutters,
far lethal than acid,
a green tree grows from it;
a sparrow sips from it;
A child sits besides relieving his constipated belly.

Through the subways
the train moves in the morning
From the suburbs to the city.
A hundred thousands of them
shitting between the raiway tracks;
And cancerous shrubs sprouts,
on flows the gutters from somebody's toilets, urinals, basins;
A million streams where children play in the monsoon rains;

Mumbai,
you tell me that life goes on.


III

Slums
and more slums;
growing daily
in the lies and deceptions of the city.

Brawls ,fights, rapes, molests, glamour.
A child with a soul
must kill the soul to live.

IV

Allergic and allergic again;
Sights and smell nauseating;
developping, deteriorating,
Don't touch me Bombay city
When parts of you are so full
of sickness, pus and phlegm,

how can i say that all is well.


V

In two brief hours
how many suicides i 've committed
I can't digest your cruel laws.
Men in the streets
knock
before doors
that won't open.

A soul stood before me
knowing not
what to trust,

But it stood there
till the downpouring rain came
Looking
at passing blank faces.

VI

My nose burns,
my lungs like two black air bags heaves;
Slowly the city enters - making me a part of it;

Showing me where to fit in.

Cyanide dust is everywhere
in my eyes ,
in my thoughts,
In my heart,
in my breath,
in my laughter.

Living in cyanide- you know, what it is.
I'm dying.


VII

Mumbai,
what have i seen in you
to have loved you.