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!
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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
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
Monday, April 14, 2008
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!
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!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, April 11, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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