A voice says
to the silences of my heart
things
it cannot understand.
Silence says
to the voices of my heart
things
it cannot express.
the monk in me smiles.
the man in me sighs.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Words pine in silence.
Whose twisting fingers
torments my heart ?
And words ache.
Oh it hurts, but it hurts me not!
Magic moons and firmaments alignes in my thoughts.
Of what use are these loveliness
if here, you are not.
Oh it sighs, but sighs me not.
torments my heart ?
And words ache.
Oh it hurts, but it hurts me not!
Magic moons and firmaments alignes in my thoughts.
Of what use are these loveliness
if here, you are not.
Oh it sighs, but sighs me not.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
in You i die so beautifully
You are
the sublime poems i cannot write
but
admire in secret silence.
You ache in me
as a touch my hands cannot reach.
You awake in me with what no dawns can give.
You are the poems i cannot write
but in you i can die so beautifully.
the sublime poems i cannot write
but
admire in secret silence.
You ache in me
as a touch my hands cannot reach.
You awake in me with what no dawns can give.
You are the poems i cannot write
but in you i can die so beautifully.
Talk to me in fRENCH.
Lovers conversing in kisses.
From where all could a kiss travel to become so sweet
that tongues licks words so softly from tongues.
Do kisses come from the candyland of your soul.
From where all could a kiss travel to become so sweet
that tongues licks words so softly from tongues.
Do kisses come from the candyland of your soul.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Ripened berries
I'd like to know it with you,
Drops of volcanic sweat
pushing out from the pores of our skin.
Two enlacing bodies
sweet swelling joy juices oozing
in such a silence.
Long deep breaths
Soothing
sensual storms
and
the dilated delirious carnal moans of love.
How voraciously the tongue gyrates around the ripened berries!
Drops of volcanic sweat
pushing out from the pores of our skin.
Two enlacing bodies
sweet swelling joy juices oozing
in such a silence.
Long deep breaths
Soothing
sensual storms
and
the dilated delirious carnal moans of love.
How voraciously the tongue gyrates around the ripened berries!
Flooded by your essence.
In exaltations of love --you bathe me.
Every part-- flooded by your essence.
Such are the things you say -- that even the stars and the moon won't move away.
Not a word is to be missed
Not a single drop of this sweet raining of love must fall
elsewhere
if not in the prairies of my heart.
I can feel your fingers move through my soul.
In every wisp of your breath
is the balm that sooths my spirit.
In a singular look raised up -- the heavens come laughing by my side
In you, my soul abides , it awakens , it sleeps .
When you turn to speak to me ,
every leaf, every river,
every cloud floating inside me,
stops to listen.
this is how my life moves on everyday.
I have always known love , but never felt it the way you give it to me.
I have cherished the beauty of your words
as though they were the bleeding of my own heart.
But , now i feel them as the pangs of my soul missing you.
Love has pierced me from all sides
so your plenitude alone will be my nourishments.
In you alone,
my hunger and thirst subsides
and multiplies anew.
If this is'nt being struck by love, then, what is it?
In your touches
my springtime awakes
in you, i rise and swoon.
On your lips the moons shall melt into songs.
In lakes of fire -- the trembling of my desires ,
pleads
to be satiated
by
your soothing kisses .
When shall you come
to sit besides me and lull me into quietness ?
That in your mingling with mine
these blissful, tearing tempests
may render bearable
sonnets of silences.
Every part-- flooded by your essence.
Such are the things you say -- that even the stars and the moon won't move away.
Not a word is to be missed
Not a single drop of this sweet raining of love must fall
elsewhere
if not in the prairies of my heart.
I can feel your fingers move through my soul.
In every wisp of your breath
is the balm that sooths my spirit.
In a singular look raised up -- the heavens come laughing by my side
In you, my soul abides , it awakens , it sleeps .
When you turn to speak to me ,
every leaf, every river,
every cloud floating inside me,
stops to listen.
this is how my life moves on everyday.
I have always known love , but never felt it the way you give it to me.
I have cherished the beauty of your words
as though they were the bleeding of my own heart.
But , now i feel them as the pangs of my soul missing you.
Love has pierced me from all sides
so your plenitude alone will be my nourishments.
In you alone,
my hunger and thirst subsides
and multiplies anew.
If this is'nt being struck by love, then, what is it?
In your touches
my springtime awakes
in you, i rise and swoon.
On your lips the moons shall melt into songs.
In lakes of fire -- the trembling of my desires ,
pleads
to be satiated
by
your soothing kisses .
When shall you come
to sit besides me and lull me into quietness ?
That in your mingling with mine
these blissful, tearing tempests
may render bearable
sonnets of silences.
How beautiful you are
i have'nt moved anywhere from here!
except,
i have been wandering in the spaces of your heart
amazed by how beautiful you are!
except,
i have been wandering in the spaces of your heart
amazed by how beautiful you are!
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Silent syllables
Beloved,
you say that
this door can be opened
only through a syllable.
But ,
how was i supposed to know
that silence had syllables.
Had i not
sat at your feet
for days and night watching
your shadow
by the riverbanks of my soul
i would'nt have percieved
how close you were to me all this time.
you say that
this door can be opened
only through a syllable.
But ,
how was i supposed to know
that silence had syllables.
Had i not
sat at your feet
for days and night watching
your shadow
by the riverbanks of my soul
i would'nt have percieved
how close you were to me all this time.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Autumn - brief encounters with dying-- part II
Mr Buffard,and his late wife had spend all their life togather,
had a special group of friends circle,
frequented the idea of how the order of things ought to be - and how things ought not to be.
Most of the time they maintained a sort of classification of codes and conducts, and Nadine grew up in those set patterns that formed her into quite a psycho- rigid person.
She had a very keen sense of pragmatism.
However, one thing she missed was-- the same things as her parents, ' how to express her sentiments '!
Very often she was barked at by her father , which was his way of letting her know - he cared! She barked at her friends and she snapped at life. She hated people who moaned and groaned about petty little things. She 'd say " Whack the hell out of yourself and face it!!"
When her mother died, that was it §
-- there was nothing more nor nothing less.
You just had to " Whack the hell out of you and face it.
One had to know her sufficiently enough to understand her attitudes .
Now, that her father was dying, meant losing both her parents in an year's interval . It was too much, the pressure and stress was welling up, her close friend Danielle was constantly arround her like her shadow.
The two spinsters were inseperable,
belonging to the same category of people whose life was guide by facts and square perspectives.
Nadine cooked well , she was a blend of a fine sense of hospitality and very nosy host who had'nt the slightest scrupples when she'd set forward to exploring the intimate lives of people , friends and relationships.....just as her parents.
One day, arround mid-september, a friend arrived from India to spend a little more than a month's vacation in France. The weather was still beautiful, the countryside vineyards were glowing with the colours of early autumn.
Myfriend taught literature at college and loved painting, we spoke of our representations of colours, the subtle hues perceptible when one knew how to be witnesses to them etc, etc...
And, i began to describe to him how Autumn had upset my theories of ' yellow'.
Yellow to me was the radiance of life.
But, Autumn taught me - it as the dying part of green.
Well , even in the lands where i came from , the leaves turned from green to yellow before they fell.
But, it never captivated me as much as it did now, before the sharp contrasts of Autumn .
Trees were set aflame with brilliant colours of red , bright yellow, orange reminding of the warm summer.
i could see in every yellow leaf ; a buddha ;
radiant;
ready to detach and fall ;
to decay or get carried away by the winds into nothingness.
How beautiful and graceful it was, this falling.
So insignificant ,
almost unnoticed.
a leaf detached and fell,
slowly spiraling to the ground, i felt a solitude arround it as it fell,
yet, i could'nt ignore a silent celebration .
A goodbye in whispers ,
inaudible;
but not sad.
That leaf, as it fell , it fell in my own heart.
That goodbye i heard , in my the spaces of a silence where ears awaited listening.
I became so full in this falling, that for the first time i saw the peaceful smile of dying. Saying, that everything was okay.
i realised within myself, how a leaf says goodbye to its tree. Was there a drop of sorrow in its heart ?
so complete it was -in its falling, that i did'nt want any answers.
What was to be understood , was understood in an instant ;
the understanding itself, became the blossoming of peace.
i heard that things got worse , Monsieur Buffard had very little time left,
My friend from India and i went to see him at the hospital,
we knocked at the door and entered.
The morphine left him sluggish.
i had seen his face before , pale and yellow,
and if there was any fear he did'nt show it. And he still did'nt show it now.
We smiled,
and he smiled back, greeting silently. i laid on his table the chocolate cakes, he thankfully accepted.
He tried to sit upright in his bed.
He asked me for his set of pencils and drawing sheets.
he wanted to sketch a portrait of my friend . But, the very gesture of holding his pencil exhausted him,
he mumbled excuses.
i said to him it was okay, what he needed was to take rest.
we looked at each other, it was a bit windy outside.
we spoke of the now spreading colors of autumn.
i saw the leaves from his tree- falling, not a word was being said, but we both could see how they fell.
Three days later i learnt that he died.
That evening i layed in bed recalling the lines translated by Bruce Lee, the lines of the ancient chinese poet Tzu Yeh:
Young man,
seize every moment of your time.
the days fly by,
before long you too shall grow old.
If you believe me not,
look there in the courtyard;
how the frost glitters white ,cold and cruel
on the grass that once was green.
Do you not see
that you and i are as the branches of one tree .
With your rejoicing comes my laughter;
With your sadness starts my tears.
Love,
Could life be otherwise with you and me?
§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§
had a special group of friends circle,
frequented the idea of how the order of things ought to be - and how things ought not to be.
Most of the time they maintained a sort of classification of codes and conducts, and Nadine grew up in those set patterns that formed her into quite a psycho- rigid person.
She had a very keen sense of pragmatism.
However, one thing she missed was-- the same things as her parents, ' how to express her sentiments '!
Very often she was barked at by her father , which was his way of letting her know - he cared! She barked at her friends and she snapped at life. She hated people who moaned and groaned about petty little things. She 'd say " Whack the hell out of yourself and face it!!"
When her mother died, that was it §
-- there was nothing more nor nothing less.
You just had to " Whack the hell out of you and face it.
One had to know her sufficiently enough to understand her attitudes .
Now, that her father was dying, meant losing both her parents in an year's interval . It was too much, the pressure and stress was welling up, her close friend Danielle was constantly arround her like her shadow.
The two spinsters were inseperable,
belonging to the same category of people whose life was guide by facts and square perspectives.
Nadine cooked well , she was a blend of a fine sense of hospitality and very nosy host who had'nt the slightest scrupples when she'd set forward to exploring the intimate lives of people , friends and relationships.....just as her parents.
One day, arround mid-september, a friend arrived from India to spend a little more than a month's vacation in France. The weather was still beautiful, the countryside vineyards were glowing with the colours of early autumn.
Myfriend taught literature at college and loved painting, we spoke of our representations of colours, the subtle hues perceptible when one knew how to be witnesses to them etc, etc...
And, i began to describe to him how Autumn had upset my theories of ' yellow'.
Yellow to me was the radiance of life.
But, Autumn taught me - it as the dying part of green.
Well , even in the lands where i came from , the leaves turned from green to yellow before they fell.
But, it never captivated me as much as it did now, before the sharp contrasts of Autumn .
Trees were set aflame with brilliant colours of red , bright yellow, orange reminding of the warm summer.
i could see in every yellow leaf ; a buddha ;
radiant;
ready to detach and fall ;
to decay or get carried away by the winds into nothingness.
How beautiful and graceful it was, this falling.
So insignificant ,
almost unnoticed.
a leaf detached and fell,
slowly spiraling to the ground, i felt a solitude arround it as it fell,
yet, i could'nt ignore a silent celebration .
A goodbye in whispers ,
inaudible;
but not sad.
That leaf, as it fell , it fell in my own heart.
That goodbye i heard , in my the spaces of a silence where ears awaited listening.
I became so full in this falling, that for the first time i saw the peaceful smile of dying. Saying, that everything was okay.
i realised within myself, how a leaf says goodbye to its tree. Was there a drop of sorrow in its heart ?
so complete it was -in its falling, that i did'nt want any answers.
What was to be understood , was understood in an instant ;
the understanding itself, became the blossoming of peace.
i heard that things got worse , Monsieur Buffard had very little time left,
My friend from India and i went to see him at the hospital,
we knocked at the door and entered.
The morphine left him sluggish.
i had seen his face before , pale and yellow,
and if there was any fear he did'nt show it. And he still did'nt show it now.
We smiled,
and he smiled back, greeting silently. i laid on his table the chocolate cakes, he thankfully accepted.
He tried to sit upright in his bed.
He asked me for his set of pencils and drawing sheets.
he wanted to sketch a portrait of my friend . But, the very gesture of holding his pencil exhausted him,
he mumbled excuses.
i said to him it was okay, what he needed was to take rest.
we looked at each other, it was a bit windy outside.
we spoke of the now spreading colors of autumn.
i saw the leaves from his tree- falling, not a word was being said, but we both could see how they fell.
Three days later i learnt that he died.
That evening i layed in bed recalling the lines translated by Bruce Lee, the lines of the ancient chinese poet Tzu Yeh:
Young man,
seize every moment of your time.
the days fly by,
before long you too shall grow old.
If you believe me not,
look there in the courtyard;
how the frost glitters white ,cold and cruel
on the grass that once was green.
Do you not see
that you and i are as the branches of one tree .
With your rejoicing comes my laughter;
With your sadness starts my tears.
Love,
Could life be otherwise with you and me?
§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Words - in an inkpot of silence.
Words
collect
in an invisible inkpot of silence.
A procession of feelings
gives neologism to your private ears.
Architecture of words
in amazing structures,
transforming
the spaces in the human mind.
More real
than any existence.
Lent me the pages of your soul to write
what could'nt be written anywhere else,
where the pen cannot write
a prayer on a parchement is raised,
in sanctified silence.
collect
in an invisible inkpot of silence.
A procession of feelings
gives neologism to your private ears.
Architecture of words
in amazing structures,
transforming
the spaces in the human mind.
More real
than any existence.
Lent me the pages of your soul to write
what could'nt be written anywhere else,
where the pen cannot write
a prayer on a parchement is raised,
in sanctified silence.
Autumn : Brief encounters with dying - part 1
The autumn i had seen before,
were in paintings, posters, movies or in poems .
The lands i came from, basked in the warm glowing tropical sunshine, and large gatherings of monsoon clouds.
where i lived, i never saw a tree totally denuded;
and coming back to life the next season.
However, the contrasts awaited me in another land.
Little did i know of Autumn, who was to be one of my most marvellous teacher, and all the lessons that i was to learn from her.
And so , it is of Autumn - i'm going to speak.
The first time in France , at the end of september; the last traces of summer long gone,
the wind becoming chillier and chillier everyday,
swept across the mountains;
when it was'nt so ,
the fog would be the silent visiter,
hanging in the fields or playing opaque with the wild stretches of space, veiling the face of the morning or the moon at night.
In faint sunlight, October came to its end.
The colours blazed out upon the folliages. As though they were the streak of thoughts rising from the consciousness of the mother Earth.
In the early morning hours of dull visibility by the countryside, i would descend by foot -- the steepy road to the nearby hospital ,that had offered me a job as a student. Very often there was a lots of missing staff , so it was easy for me to fit in.
After work, in the afternoons, i would climb up back to the village where i lived,
Yet , nothing was a routine,
there was something everyday,
something new i had'nt seen before.
It always nourished the poetic side of my life,
both knowingly and unknowingly;
in quietness
or in discret remarks,
or during conversions with very pleasent group of friends at weekends.
Nadine,
i had met her a few times.
During one of such the evenings .
we spoke of Indian medicine, art, culture and philosophy, food , work,
and idle gossipping, like it goes on in every part of the world.
Sometimes, my indian tanned presence, made me more a caricature of indian mysticism, my friends would associate with my way of looking at things, bringing Gandhi into the picture.
i said , i did'nt know much about Gandhi ,
though there was a lot about him that was stuffed into the programmes at secondary school ,
i did read a part of his biography -- but , that was all !!
Apparently ,Gandhi had left deep traces of him everywhere,
but, as far as i'm concerned, i did'nt adhere to most of his ideas, perhaps that being so haughty of me.
Secondly, Gandhi was not a man, but, an idea.
Repeating , the daily national pledge at the morning group routine school asemblies schedules before the national flag..." India is my country , all indians are my brothers and sisters".....
has lead me to look upon an indian girl as my sister. As a result, in spite of her beauty i was brainwashed to sublimate myself, in order to not subjugate incestually.
This is what Gandhi has done to me.
Which helps me to understand my self exiling from India .
And now i've got used to it.
With time ,i realised that i was'nt patriotic at all, a hindu prayer says;
" From the unreal lead me to the real, from the incomplete lead me to completeness".
has help me to abolish the idea of belonging to a community or to a land, or to an ideology.
i'm the world ,
where i'm-- is the world !
and i can change myself ; therefore, the world in which i am !
this laid a certain foundation to my thought.
Once Nadine invited me ,
"Joseph, i'm sure my father would love to meet you, you both have so much to exchange , so please come if you have some freetime.
You know he's an artist, and exposes his painting from time to time.
His great grandfather was married to an Indian muslim princess etc.."
An year so passed, she reminded me again.
I nodded my head, and forgot about it , Another year passed and , it was autumn again.
Monsieur Buffard, retired since a couple of years, spent his time in what he loved to do the most: Painting and sculpting; creating things from nothing....a rare artist .
One evening, i arrived late to join a group of friends, and amidst us was seated ,an elderly man wearing a robe over his pyjamas.
i was intrigued, and it came to an end when someone presented to me,
Monsieur Buffard.
He said to me ,warmly shaking hands, " if you cannot come to the mountains, the mountains has to come to you".
i smiled at the beauty of his metaphor.
i was the last to dinner.
Mr Buffard was tired, and was waiting to get back to his home , he had made the effort to stay because he really want to meet me.
i was very touched, by the high esteem he had of me.
He was much older than my father, yet,
in an instant he adopted me as the son he'd have loved to have.
When he and Nadine left,
i learnt
that he had recently lost his wife from cancer, and, he too was in a terminal phase ; dying.
Explaining of him in such an evening attire.
He was undergoing chemo - therapy,
stubornly keeping to the strict minimum demanded by the palliative proposition of a nearby hospital.
I was overwhelmed by our brief meeting, how i regretted of not having met him before. Which i understood later: our meeting was sufficient enough to impart to each other something very remarkable.
Friendship.
i would go and visit him very often as i could,
In each encounter he wanted to transmit to me the essentials of what he had learnt, i discovered that he was a business man dealing with carpets , and had initially dropout from the " beaux arts '
He had built a fountain in his gardern,
and stone scultped Victor hugo's bust, which he displayed in a delicate bush of fine creepers and roses;
all around sprawled carvings affirming ,who the creator was.
Sometimes, he would authorise himself , to order me around to water his plants protected undercover....though, i love garderns, i'm not the kind to disturb anything.
i realised , how he'd have had loved to do it himself,
and so, he would sit on his swing guiding me with his crutch.
Often, he behaved very rough and angrily with his daughter, but, gently and caring towards me. He sure was'nt someone who ushered you around, but with me , it was different.
When he asked me what was my idea of violence ,
i told him that it goes to the phrase , not Gandhi's ;but, the poet,Francis Thomson's.
" Pluck not a flower from its branch, lest you perturb a constellation in the heaven."
Struck by the intensity of its truth
i have naively followed this thought through out my life ever since .
i understood that everything had a significant place on earth , no matter how insignificant it might seem to our human eye.
A single phrase can change your entire life, and such was the case with mine.
In fact, my life is a little more than such phrases and encounters, craddled by some unknown joy coming from a pathless land known only as a secret to my soul alone.
were in paintings, posters, movies or in poems .
The lands i came from, basked in the warm glowing tropical sunshine, and large gatherings of monsoon clouds.
where i lived, i never saw a tree totally denuded;
and coming back to life the next season.
However, the contrasts awaited me in another land.
Little did i know of Autumn, who was to be one of my most marvellous teacher, and all the lessons that i was to learn from her.
And so , it is of Autumn - i'm going to speak.
The first time in France , at the end of september; the last traces of summer long gone,
the wind becoming chillier and chillier everyday,
swept across the mountains;
when it was'nt so ,
the fog would be the silent visiter,
hanging in the fields or playing opaque with the wild stretches of space, veiling the face of the morning or the moon at night.
In faint sunlight, October came to its end.
The colours blazed out upon the folliages. As though they were the streak of thoughts rising from the consciousness of the mother Earth.
In the early morning hours of dull visibility by the countryside, i would descend by foot -- the steepy road to the nearby hospital ,that had offered me a job as a student. Very often there was a lots of missing staff , so it was easy for me to fit in.
After work, in the afternoons, i would climb up back to the village where i lived,
Yet , nothing was a routine,
there was something everyday,
something new i had'nt seen before.
It always nourished the poetic side of my life,
both knowingly and unknowingly;
in quietness
or in discret remarks,
or during conversions with very pleasent group of friends at weekends.
Nadine,
i had met her a few times.
During one of such the evenings .
we spoke of Indian medicine, art, culture and philosophy, food , work,
and idle gossipping, like it goes on in every part of the world.
Sometimes, my indian tanned presence, made me more a caricature of indian mysticism, my friends would associate with my way of looking at things, bringing Gandhi into the picture.
i said , i did'nt know much about Gandhi ,
though there was a lot about him that was stuffed into the programmes at secondary school ,
i did read a part of his biography -- but , that was all !!
Apparently ,Gandhi had left deep traces of him everywhere,
but, as far as i'm concerned, i did'nt adhere to most of his ideas, perhaps that being so haughty of me.
Secondly, Gandhi was not a man, but, an idea.
Repeating , the daily national pledge at the morning group routine school asemblies schedules before the national flag..." India is my country , all indians are my brothers and sisters".....
has lead me to look upon an indian girl as my sister. As a result, in spite of her beauty i was brainwashed to sublimate myself, in order to not subjugate incestually.
This is what Gandhi has done to me.
Which helps me to understand my self exiling from India .
And now i've got used to it.
With time ,i realised that i was'nt patriotic at all, a hindu prayer says;
" From the unreal lead me to the real, from the incomplete lead me to completeness".
has help me to abolish the idea of belonging to a community or to a land, or to an ideology.
i'm the world ,
where i'm-- is the world !
and i can change myself ; therefore, the world in which i am !
this laid a certain foundation to my thought.
Once Nadine invited me ,
"Joseph, i'm sure my father would love to meet you, you both have so much to exchange , so please come if you have some freetime.
You know he's an artist, and exposes his painting from time to time.
His great grandfather was married to an Indian muslim princess etc.."
An year so passed, she reminded me again.
I nodded my head, and forgot about it , Another year passed and , it was autumn again.
Monsieur Buffard, retired since a couple of years, spent his time in what he loved to do the most: Painting and sculpting; creating things from nothing....a rare artist .
One evening, i arrived late to join a group of friends, and amidst us was seated ,an elderly man wearing a robe over his pyjamas.
i was intrigued, and it came to an end when someone presented to me,
Monsieur Buffard.
He said to me ,warmly shaking hands, " if you cannot come to the mountains, the mountains has to come to you".
i smiled at the beauty of his metaphor.
i was the last to dinner.
Mr Buffard was tired, and was waiting to get back to his home , he had made the effort to stay because he really want to meet me.
i was very touched, by the high esteem he had of me.
He was much older than my father, yet,
in an instant he adopted me as the son he'd have loved to have.
When he and Nadine left,
i learnt
that he had recently lost his wife from cancer, and, he too was in a terminal phase ; dying.
Explaining of him in such an evening attire.
He was undergoing chemo - therapy,
stubornly keeping to the strict minimum demanded by the palliative proposition of a nearby hospital.
I was overwhelmed by our brief meeting, how i regretted of not having met him before. Which i understood later: our meeting was sufficient enough to impart to each other something very remarkable.
Friendship.
i would go and visit him very often as i could,
In each encounter he wanted to transmit to me the essentials of what he had learnt, i discovered that he was a business man dealing with carpets , and had initially dropout from the " beaux arts '
He had built a fountain in his gardern,
and stone scultped Victor hugo's bust, which he displayed in a delicate bush of fine creepers and roses;
all around sprawled carvings affirming ,who the creator was.
Sometimes, he would authorise himself , to order me around to water his plants protected undercover....though, i love garderns, i'm not the kind to disturb anything.
i realised , how he'd have had loved to do it himself,
and so, he would sit on his swing guiding me with his crutch.
Often, he behaved very rough and angrily with his daughter, but, gently and caring towards me. He sure was'nt someone who ushered you around, but with me , it was different.
When he asked me what was my idea of violence ,
i told him that it goes to the phrase , not Gandhi's ;but, the poet,Francis Thomson's.
" Pluck not a flower from its branch, lest you perturb a constellation in the heaven."
Struck by the intensity of its truth
i have naively followed this thought through out my life ever since .
i understood that everything had a significant place on earth , no matter how insignificant it might seem to our human eye.
A single phrase can change your entire life, and such was the case with mine.
In fact, my life is a little more than such phrases and encounters, craddled by some unknown joy coming from a pathless land known only as a secret to my soul alone.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Nothing less than this!
I climb upto the thresholds of your soul
with a garland of many unborn dawns.
where all will love takes me
to find
such a garland..
with a garland of many unborn dawns.
where all will love takes me
to find
such a garland..
Is your own mind taking you for a ride.
The ultimate spiritual reality.
and nagging projects,
is there one?
The barriers of conditioning
consumed by incenerating flames
brings the lightness
no flapping feather on the wings of a bird can ever hope
no cloud in the sky can ever dream.
Do your atoms go beyond its orgasmic cores
vibrates to the beauty of living.
Dying
is more or less the same thing.
as the humming of the storms
transforming the earth in you into wind and vapours.
The self is my most volatile entity
filling infinity in an instant.
How can any fear touch it.
The death what i see in the others and in me
is it really death?
or the visible becoming invisible.
Have you seen what has died and what has not.
so just drop the question.
and watch the immolations of your thoughts
in its stillness becoming alive.
Being alive means , you still can watch.
Watching
the blossoming of the instant .
sweeping
the ugly and beautiful
with the same stroke.
as a monk kicking
the colourful dust of his mandala
created in a moment of his practised playfulness.
If watching is neuro-psychological,
brain-mind controversies,
Is beauty the compensations
given to console yours, or your ancestral traumatisms?
While Darwin debates with the avatars
Can Shiva psycho analyse Freud.
Is God born from the archiac dementia of the terrorised mind?
And the oozing of love a right-brain hypertrophy?
Can savour not become more than the tongue can taste.
Can fragrance not be more than the nostrils can distill.
The light, more than the eyes can filter.
How can one go with a cup to contain the mesureless.
How can thoughts taste that which, is not of thought.
what is taught cannot be learnt
just as those things can come into existence
through your being conscious of it.
Every day - is our meal .
to which we restrain or indulge
explaining to our rationalities
its emptiness or fullness.
Rancidity is memory
where experience is condensed ?
in labeled bottles of good , neutral or harmful.
With the translator gone
the newness of discovery,
Can it be read by our amazement?
Here is a silent zone
wherein the aphasia
neither Broca nor Wernicke can indicate.
Is man standing before God's door ?
or is God standing before Man's door?
Or just your mind taking you for a ride.?
and nagging projects,
is there one?
The barriers of conditioning
consumed by incenerating flames
brings the lightness
no flapping feather on the wings of a bird can ever hope
no cloud in the sky can ever dream.
Do your atoms go beyond its orgasmic cores
vibrates to the beauty of living.
Dying
is more or less the same thing.
as the humming of the storms
transforming the earth in you into wind and vapours.
The self is my most volatile entity
filling infinity in an instant.
How can any fear touch it.
The death what i see in the others and in me
is it really death?
or the visible becoming invisible.
Have you seen what has died and what has not.
so just drop the question.
and watch the immolations of your thoughts
in its stillness becoming alive.
Being alive means , you still can watch.
Watching
the blossoming of the instant .
sweeping
the ugly and beautiful
with the same stroke.
as a monk kicking
the colourful dust of his mandala
created in a moment of his practised playfulness.
If watching is neuro-psychological,
brain-mind controversies,
Is beauty the compensations
given to console yours, or your ancestral traumatisms?
While Darwin debates with the avatars
Can Shiva psycho analyse Freud.
Is God born from the archiac dementia of the terrorised mind?
And the oozing of love a right-brain hypertrophy?
Can savour not become more than the tongue can taste.
Can fragrance not be more than the nostrils can distill.
The light, more than the eyes can filter.
How can one go with a cup to contain the mesureless.
How can thoughts taste that which, is not of thought.
what is taught cannot be learnt
just as those things can come into existence
through your being conscious of it.
Every day - is our meal .
to which we restrain or indulge
explaining to our rationalities
its emptiness or fullness.
Rancidity is memory
where experience is condensed ?
in labeled bottles of good , neutral or harmful.
With the translator gone
the newness of discovery,
Can it be read by our amazement?
Here is a silent zone
wherein the aphasia
neither Broca nor Wernicke can indicate.
Is man standing before God's door ?
or is God standing before Man's door?
Or just your mind taking you for a ride.?
Thursday, June 5, 2008
For your butterfly kisses.
Let love talk in kisses.
let each word
interupt
if, it hopes to give that which your kisses cannot.
Let me take you by the storming desires.
Storm you
with all kind of kisses,and trembling breaths.
With all the torrents and pent up hungers
Till at last, your lips brush lightly,
to describe
what sweetness cannot tell.
Let me lay next to you
while
it downpours
by the windows.
Let me listen
to the warm conversations of our skins.
Let me listen
to the rain of the sweat, on our bodies
the saltiness, of their seas on our tongues.
Let me make love to you slowly and gently
With every little flicker of the candle flame play in your eyes,
Pouring
your womanly nectar in looks,
Riding
in their dark sensual chariots.
to become
even more mysterious than the nights
no heavenly glory can compete.
Give me then, all the butterfly kisses that you promise
and
i'll will ask the moon and the comets to paint your gardern for one auspicious night.
let each word
interupt
if, it hopes to give that which your kisses cannot.
Let me take you by the storming desires.
Storm you
with all kind of kisses,and trembling breaths.
With all the torrents and pent up hungers
Till at last, your lips brush lightly,
to describe
what sweetness cannot tell.
Let me lay next to you
while
it downpours
by the windows.
Let me listen
to the warm conversations of our skins.
Let me listen
to the rain of the sweat, on our bodies
the saltiness, of their seas on our tongues.
Let me make love to you slowly and gently
With every little flicker of the candle flame play in your eyes,
Pouring
your womanly nectar in looks,
Riding
in their dark sensual chariots.
to become
even more mysterious than the nights
no heavenly glory can compete.
Give me then, all the butterfly kisses that you promise
and
i'll will ask the moon and the comets to paint your gardern for one auspicious night.
Would you be here with me.
If wishes were wings, would you be here with me?
Whose footsteps do i hear in my heart?
Who comes in? And who goes away?
What kind of storms rage behind the vallies of my eyes?
Beloved Silence,Why do i yeild so easily to your whispers?
From where comes so much sweetness in your voice??
In which corridor of your mind, are you looking for sign boards?
Whose hands lifts me up in conversation with truth?
Whose howling pain transformed into a nightingale's throat?
Whose footsteps do i hear in my heart?
Who comes in? And who goes away?
What kind of storms rage behind the vallies of my eyes?
Beloved Silence,Why do i yeild so easily to your whispers?
From where comes so much sweetness in your voice??
In which corridor of your mind, are you looking for sign boards?
Whose hands lifts me up in conversation with truth?
Whose howling pain transformed into a nightingale's throat?
I sit with thought of you.
i sit with thoughts of you
while solitude plays with drifing clouds
i watch them pass
and wonder where will it rain tonight.
while solitude plays with drifing clouds
i watch them pass
and wonder where will it rain tonight.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Open these love buds.
In you, i have been all these years
waiting for the beaming rays
to open these love-buds.
waiting for the beaming rays
to open these love-buds.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
