Awakening to what.

Is there a fixed path to how one should awaken?
In the awakening ,where is the woman or the man??

whose eyes opens?
the man's or the woman?
Who awakens??
whose body resists ,
whose mind surrenders?

the man's or the woman's??

Or is there only the sleeper murmuring in his sleep?

No matter how it happens.....when Nishagandhi blooms
there's such a fragrance.
The sleeper can't fall asleep in such a night
no matter how obscure it might be.

The anger is gone
the blossom is sweet
so sweet.

so sweet is the calling
The fear is gone.

Awakening
sufficiently

to be drunk by the fragrance of love.
The solitude is gone.

Drunken
sufficiently

to awaken in the laughter of one's being.
The pain is gone.

The sky is in you,the flower is in you, the river is in you.
What have you to say -- when silence is speaking .

Shhhhh!!!
The lovers are here.
Silence is in conversation
with your soul.

New Khadhi wearing Gandhi's

khadi wearing Gandhi's.
When you were thirsty your drinking waters came from the himalayas.

You astound the world.
They are all filled with deep admiration.
Of your carefully blend concoctions; well prepared scripts;
eloquent speeches,
polished motives, generosities, concerns, affectionate embraces.

But how can i shut my eyes.
My little village dies slowly in your arms
Plagued by your sweet promises.

Five years have gone.
Its voting time and you 're back.
There's almost no one in the village
The drinking water was poisoned
But you have come back with the same smile
Lucky for you that no one had Ghodse's gun.

INSIGHT--V

PART-- V

Are'nt these that men ought to learn
See truth-- no matter how he turns
Many new worlds-- but no new speech
All that is - is within him to teach
For Man must know in love alone
Are acres of heaven and every God's throne
Hence a heartful of love is a heart full of might
Nature inteprets to man his own insight.

FIN.

Insight - IV

PART -IV

The lone skylark goes to find the song
hidden in the secret of the dawn .
While a hungry child travels far to look
many things written on life's notebook.

Is everything in life conquered by trials
can footsteps cover every unknown mile.
Do Seagulls shatter the chains of prisons
and fulfil the calls of the shifting seasons.

Pause to inhale the scents of jasmines
the glory of heaven is hidden therein .
Pause to kiss your mother's face
Is'nt she the women, full of grace.

Pause to hold your old father's hand
Strength and love you'll understand.
Pause to touch an infant's face
and experience the depth of a warm embrace.

The keys to heaven's door above
can one find it , but through love.

Insight - III

PART - III

Can you understand those weepy tales
unless you sit by heart's lonely vales.
When a child has no friends to play with him
do fairies invite him, to a land of dreams.

A soul who kneels down to pray
whose graceful god smiles everyday.
A soul who sleeps with a sigh
fear not, providence hand is nigh.

He who cries and asks for peace
who will show him where it is.
The wonders of the day basks in light
But the wise learns as much from the sulky nights.

With every question he who asks
Nature's mystries to unmask
As a sage seated on a mountain peak
Emaciated and appeared weak.

Waiting for wisdom to hear her speak
And would wisdom speak for he was meek.
or everyday would he learn some more
a little more than the day before.

How shines the sun in the rain
how the soul mixes joy and pain
Would white light arch in Hope's seven glow
like wonderful rainbows set in a row.

The soul fulfilled, the mind enlit
thus, freedom found in his spirit.
As an eagle flown in the spacious sky
to understand what eternal imply.

For life had death , and death had life
and he saw them not, which way they went.
For death and life, togather remade
the withered grass, to exist and fade.

The cup of wisdom was too strong to sip
so a handful of songs passed his lips.
The crimson floats from morn to evening
revealed beauty's faint end and begining.

Does the spirit of the sky have indifferent tides
for passion and peace to gently abide
Did the sage trace where quiet laughter is
when he found he was a temple of peace.

NB: i don't know what to write in the next part, yet i feel that this poem does'nt end here!

A surprise for You - for making the clouds look more beautiful.

Your beautiful presence
like
a colourful prayer
hanging
in the winds
of the tibetan mountains.

your beautiful mind
like
a silent sky
murmuring
to the unborn clouds.

i have felt it
as
the coming in of a springtime breeze
offering
a thousand million fragrances of your soul,
having
witnessed
and witnessing the same love , nameless and infinite
carrying us more and more deeply within us.

Insight-II

PART II

Nothing can confuse this stern law
Beauty inherits not , a single flaw .
A blade of grass in the wilderness
vanquishes the poet's weariness .

The man whose love for nature claims
His ears are blessed with loft refrains .
He does not say Rose ,the flower
Is more beautiful than the rainy shower.

The lillies refuse to surpass or tease
The wild grass who stands drawfted beneath.
The jasmines chaste fragrance reach
And mingles with the silent pinewood peace .

The rhythm the bee has in its hum
Abates the dignity of the distant drums.
The humble woods offer their laden fruits
rippened by the songs of the shepards lute.

The solitary mountains tranquil look
Nourishes the rivers, streams and brook.
Reproach not the vagabond's slothful game
Or you'll erase forever simplicity's name.

Who knows why he loves to roam
and be entertained by the seaside milky white foam.
Has the sky not set its crimson dome
so the vagabond's comfort could be his home.

Does'nt the dewdrops of the morning sky
often drip from the orphan's eye.
Hands in his pockets he goes to meet
someone kind there in the streets .

while the garderner waters the flower beds
the mountain's shadows softly spreads
only to let us know it dwells
Like silence in a charming shell.


PS: Felt the need to be rhymey - dimmey...part 3 of this poem tommorow.

Insight-I

PART I

In simple words let me bind
these secret whispers of my mind
i dip my pen in spiritual ink
with a poem laughing at its brink .

a beauteous bud thus appeared
from truth's own gardern words have smeared
like pebbles lanced from a cosmic sling
fell in my heart- with sublime things .

a loftier breath spoke its charm
the biography thereof - i embalmed

through the rustic scented bamboo grove
this poem moved like a moveless move
The tree in his soul began to speak
the esoteric river began to weep.

the master of silence watched the silence sweep
and a faint little voice arose from the deep.


NB: will continue this mystical poem in many parts....see you tommorow!

The story of Buddha's garbage.

It took me some time to realise that i had'nt given any description to my blog's title. And it was only yesterday i typed one, very quickly.

I named this blog quite intuitively as 'the SPIRITUAL GUIDE ' i found in a garbage ( was a very pretentious idea, but, it pleased me.)

And to my amusement it occurred , what if it was'nt an ordinary garbage bin??
What if it was Buddha's personal garbage can?

What could i find in there , so different than from the others??
What rubbish could he throw away??

What if i found a guide book, which contained the handwritten descriptions , of his trails and errors before he became the Buddha?

Or what if it really was an authentic manual from his ancient teachers, filled with mystical sutras, secret breathing techniques, sounds,mantras and other alchemical incantations ,where a random reference brought to you an instant solution to a problem.

How wonderful could that be to bump into such a treasure!

The idea began to transform into a serious theme.

And, the garbage bin appeared to me as my own symbolic mind.

I began to realise, i had already filled it with my childhood, with all that my parents told me , with all that the community showed me , the code of conduct , values, cultural affirmations that forged my identity,etc .

What kind of mind did the Buddha have??
Did this mind have a nationality, a belongingness to any particular group or sect?
Or was it the very symbolism of freedom. Freedom not as an act or as a consequence of doing.
But as an inner flowering of who you really are!
This freedom that was'nt concerned with the wiping out of memories, as the memories did'nt interfere anymore with its fonctioning freely.

The mind subsides in the quietness of the being.
'Being'- as the awakening of the self in its totality;
undivided, unfragmented.....absolutely flowing with its inner river.

Here, the intellect remains a tool, and not as the bulldozer of thought gathering daily, the more and more of everything it seeks to possess, to give the feeling of the very security that it is after.
Here, the intellect is not more than; your heart, or lungs.
It is just there, to collaborate in the fonctioning as a whole.

And so, what kind of garbage could such a mind contain before it drops itself, melting into the nothingness of its contents ?

What kind of garbage was put in there before he decided to throw everything away?
How did he proceed to the emptying processus?
And how did it become garbageless?
And even if, there was some garbage leftover in his bin , could it still suit me as guide -lines to my own personal journey.

So this is the story of how i found the wornout guide on spiritual technology.

In the begining , i began posting parallely in another blog which i thought could be dedicated to all sorts intimate communion with nature, contemplations , soul poems, etc. I titled it as " watching the mountains with closed eyes". Again, as a metaphor to point out that the reality is --as it is, translated by the insides.
However, after having put in the first materials in, it came to a stand still ,and ever since i have'nt really updated it.

Meanwhile, the " Buddha's garbage " kept growing with all sorts of poems;
spiritual, as well as love poems;
sometimes, full of godliness,
While, at other times, filled with my deep sensual love ; at times i'd ponctuate it with some traces of my 'carnets de route', personal sketches, a painting or two.
This also made me realise that spirituality and erotic were compatible ; i would even go to the extent of saying' inseparable.'!..love translates in a hundred million ways, and there's no need to make a problem out of it.
If the body made a problem out of breath it would choke itself, would'nt it??
You might say that breath is indispensible !!
Well, that's ok with me.
So as far as love is concerned,
One could love with a look, one could love with a touch; me, i prefer mingling them both.

Well; this is more or less about it.

I'm actually thinking of doing some prose....however , prose or poetry ?? I shall leave it to my intuitive mind. Meanwhile, i shall await your reflections and questions if you wish to know more about "Buddha's garbage", including that which i have'nt yet written.

Hope you won't hesitate to meditate collectively.

Thoughts in ashes.

Every word burns.
The pen is full of fire
the thought forest is blazing
Someone left the furnace of my mind open
The soul's voice is a volcano
and truth flows like lava

POEMS FULL OF TOUCH: Hungry silences on tormented skins.

Your kisses rained on my face such a long while ago.

An ocean full of flowers
Softly touching swollen moons.

Swollen full moons rising in your blouse
dripping moonlight between your thighs.

Almond trees in your eyes
And angels in the sky.

Saffron breath on your skin
cry me a love moan.

Tongue the trembling hungry silence.

Could'nt feel better in any heaven
wrapped in your hot tormented wet skin.

Dying in tantalising sliding legs - poems of touch
and whispers.

Place your fiery feminine face against melting love rivers.
Waves ceaslessly seismic
falling into the quietness of well being.


Nb: The erotic and the sensual arises as much from the spiritual. Only the translation of the energy is different. Just allow yourself to indulge. That's what Shiva would say!

For Tibet -- freedom to the land of prayer.

To that beautiful land
where prayers float in the wind
where the soul writes poems for the gods
where the gongs sound to silence the noise within your inner spaces
where tall mountains are temples
where the wind is filled with mantras
where pebbles, rivers ,sky are teachers
where beautiful lotuses are born from the buddhahood
Where peaceful living is a birthright.

Can there be freedom anywhere in the world
if this land of prayer is crushed by our blindness.

Hear the cry of Tibet while the new Gods of economy
wipes away her mountains.

Sweet rivers out from the body.

Sweet rivers out from the body
chant their songs.
Parting the curtains of your garden
stands a rose
delicately.

Delicately,
the air distills the sweetness
as only a woman can do.

Placing in the midst of my hands
the sweet rivers of your body.

Daintily moaning,
swollen wild love juices
oozing out
of the opening
petals of your rose.

Snow falls in the soul

The eyes of my heart watches
The snow falls in the soul.

Pathways,
memories,

Dissolves.

Unsprouting words on the hills of silence.
The Karmic winds blows ,
taking the last clothes i'm wearing.

The seeds of Omkara
pushes out
into the sunshine of nothingness.

Gods born from imaginations and fear
strive to stay alive in dark entrails of thoughts
The anguished corners and corridors are swept away by madness .
And no clinging Gods can stay.

The seriousness of Truth
rolls like a head
sliced down by the soul-consciousness.
Resurecting anew in the self.

The snow falls in the soul in silence.

A morning in the heart

Morning boats on foggy waters.

fish under the shadows.

Invisible knife slits the sky

and the sun pours gold in the meadows.

A mystic's path

Rich is a heart that sees beyond want.
as a tree is full of blossom to make the air sweeter
as the wind is upon the sails when the oars can pull no more
as silence is upon the tribulations of the spirit
as sound becomes voices to cry freedom
as freedom glows from the dark of our eyes
as radiance is the face our very nature.

Return then, to your interiors ; alone.
wisdom seeps as a perenial stream
As you bend upon the waters to wash your face
whose face shall you see,
the nameless one of your long search;
or your own original face you had lost somewhere.

The mist and the mountain

My hungry heart feeds
on the mist and the mountains
of your smiles.

The fire and the flame
continually moans through its throat.
Though the world may not hear the secrets
love opens the insides with her songs.

i wonder where you lie hidden.
i look into the longingness
i look into its mornings
i look into every secret path
And everywhere, i find the rising fragrance of your sweet presences.

There are a thousand million things i want to talk to you.
This pen and paper and you
makes these pages wet with tears
Mine, are murmurs of a lover
while you, the one who can't hear it.