Nigh is the afternoon sun
blazing down on earth white.
Foreheads are wet.
Throats run dry
Hunger burns a dark flame
keeping sleep just at bay.
Then she slides
into half closed eyes
wearing the garb
of morning light.
The compass of truth;
the ocean of order
Goddess silence.
In language that was
never conceived
I speak with her.
Tell me, O Goddess
What is thy form?
Is thee of light
divine and flowing?
Is thee of flame
still and austere?
Is thee of beauty
brilliant and benign?
The divine nymph
closes her eye.
Tell me, O Goddess
What are thy signs?
The throbbing unrest
is that thy coming?
The thirsting ennui
is that thy flag?
The raging desire
is that thy herald?
The serene sylph
sits cross legged.
Tell me, O Goddess
Who are thy kin?
The spoken word
is it thy child?
The divine music
is she thy sister?
The breath that is drawn
is she thy love?
The queen of present
stopped her breath.
Tell me, O Goddess
where dost thou live?
The hills that are lofty
are they thy seat?
The sea that is deep
is that thy abode?
The still moon in the lake
is that thy perch?
The woman with one eye
shimmered in space
Tell me, O Goddess
what is thy path?
Thus did I ask.
The great arms of the wind
blew the needle away.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Armoire
When you wear your dress
of sheer white
pure and spotless
I sit in silence
seeing knowledge that is great.
When you wear your dress
of dull grey
jaded and insipid
I lie in ennui
breathing death that
seems immortal.
When you wear your dress
of brilliant blue
infinite and azure
I look in awe
feeling the stretching ocean
in a single drop.
When you wear your dress
of abundant green
I stretch my soul
laying its weariness
like a dewdrop on the grass
for your sun to drink.
When you wear your dress
of glittering gold
I toil and sweat
matching my work to your
immediate glory,
beads of pearl on your shimmering dress.
When you wear your dress
of transparent crystal
I open my arms
receiving and giving
all that is forever
a flowing river.
When you wear your dress
of crimson red
Then I take my pen
dip it in your blood
Then creation kneels
in awe before the poet.
of sheer white
pure and spotless
I sit in silence
seeing knowledge that is great.
When you wear your dress
of dull grey
jaded and insipid
I lie in ennui
breathing death that
seems immortal.
When you wear your dress
of brilliant blue
infinite and azure
I look in awe
feeling the stretching ocean
in a single drop.
When you wear your dress
of abundant green
I stretch my soul
laying its weariness
like a dewdrop on the grass
for your sun to drink.
When you wear your dress
of glittering gold
I toil and sweat
matching my work to your
immediate glory,
beads of pearl on your shimmering dress.
When you wear your dress
of transparent crystal
I open my arms
receiving and giving
all that is forever
a flowing river.
When you wear your dress
of crimson red
Then I take my pen
dip it in your blood
Then creation kneels
in awe before the poet.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Dusk and lust
Evening has lit up
with a copper sunlight.
Southern breeze
kisses all in an infinite mercy.
The golden glow
spreads in Man's smile.
The frenzy of day
has reached his orgasm.
Soon he shall turn over
and sleep covered in night's blanket.
with a copper sunlight.
Southern breeze
kisses all in an infinite mercy.
The golden glow
spreads in Man's smile.
The frenzy of day
has reached his orgasm.
Soon he shall turn over
and sleep covered in night's blanket.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Awake
Tarry no longer my heart
weary and arid is this land
arise! this is the moment to start
come now take my hand
words are but trifles
meaning too deceives
Alas how it stifles
all that the ear receives
Why in the corner we hoard
thoughts that belong to the pyre
Murky footprints that have long trod
Ashes crumbling from a dead fire
There see the morning sun
the fresh breath of life anew
Dawn has come with the sound of One
The path is shown, open and true
Monday, March 3, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Prose on a cold dark night
I'm a poet trying to write prose
A blind eye that cannot see
I'm the lovely red rose
that knows just to be
What do you do, when your true love, the flame that burned in the solitude of your soul, goes silent? When you know all the notes that make up the most perfect music, but your mouth refuses to sing? When there is a river flowing in your heart...but she flows quietly on a soft bed of sand?
I have written, in pangs of desire, longing and sorrow. My heart was the sacrifice I offered to the idol I worshipped. In the dull light of hunger, I sat in front of her cruel form, cutting my burning heart and bleeding words to appease her. She never heard me. My thirst for love, beauty and truth grew coiled like the incense I burned. But the idol was silent.
Yet, I took a perverse joy in the whole affair. In bringing my heart to her and let it die a slow death in the light of her cold stare. I felt myself rising with each sacrifice. I felt I was somehow higher and more evolved compared to those who never saw the idol. I magnified my own dark shadows with the flickering light of my intellect and my imagination. I rejoiced as I saw them throw fantastic shapes on the walls.
And then, one day, the hot air from the plateau reached me. My heart stopped aching, and I was confused. I threw my idol in ager and shivered at the shadows on the wall. The sweltering heat fuelled my soul, making me sweat...beads of salty perspiration, pearls of truth seeping out from my very skin. I was alive. Alive but confused, like the newborn who doesn't understand that it has come to this world.
I had dreamt of this very thing all my life. To experience and to feel what I have seen reflected in the many words that I have read. To feel in my heart the light that shined in the heart of every poet and every lover. To see with my own eyes, what the eternal lover sees forever in the night sky. And yet, now that I had it in my hands, I wrote no more.
I always believed in a love that was blind. Light, the only teacher we have to help us see, is himself blind. To see like him, our eyes must seek blindness. And it is thus that my love came to me. But what I did not expect was that, truth is not seen by just blind eyes, but a blind soul.
I see now, everything, every single sensation that a man could experience in a lifetime. I'm at once happy, sad, thirsty, satiated; I'm in harmony and in chaos at once. What I see is not an overwhelming spectacle, it is a simple heart, that silences everything.
So, I bleed words lesser now. Is it because my love has been fulfilled? Is it because my muse has left me? No. It is because I do not write to impress, to tempt or to share, to bare. I do not write in the pangs of hunger nor in the joy of satiety. I put pen to paper not for you, my reader who is reading this; not for her, who makes me writes this; not even for me, who sees it all. I write with no intention of influencing. I write with no influence.
I write, because it happens. I write, when it happens. I write, like my pen - picked up when it is time and sealed when it is done. I do not imagine or create a world - they merely appear.
Like the rain cloud, I gather my nectar in silence and when it is time, I pour it all out. Like the rain cloud, I do not pour at the will of any God or man - especially mine. Like the rain cloud, I do not shower a drop of false water, even if the earth shrivels in drought.
When the idol is broken and the Goddess shines in the poet's every living moment, he speaks only truth. And most of the times, that truth is silence.
A blind eye that cannot see
I'm the lovely red rose
that knows just to be
What do you do, when your true love, the flame that burned in the solitude of your soul, goes silent? When you know all the notes that make up the most perfect music, but your mouth refuses to sing? When there is a river flowing in your heart...but she flows quietly on a soft bed of sand?
I have written, in pangs of desire, longing and sorrow. My heart was the sacrifice I offered to the idol I worshipped. In the dull light of hunger, I sat in front of her cruel form, cutting my burning heart and bleeding words to appease her. She never heard me. My thirst for love, beauty and truth grew coiled like the incense I burned. But the idol was silent.
Yet, I took a perverse joy in the whole affair. In bringing my heart to her and let it die a slow death in the light of her cold stare. I felt myself rising with each sacrifice. I felt I was somehow higher and more evolved compared to those who never saw the idol. I magnified my own dark shadows with the flickering light of my intellect and my imagination. I rejoiced as I saw them throw fantastic shapes on the walls.
And then, one day, the hot air from the plateau reached me. My heart stopped aching, and I was confused. I threw my idol in ager and shivered at the shadows on the wall. The sweltering heat fuelled my soul, making me sweat...beads of salty perspiration, pearls of truth seeping out from my very skin. I was alive. Alive but confused, like the newborn who doesn't understand that it has come to this world.
I had dreamt of this very thing all my life. To experience and to feel what I have seen reflected in the many words that I have read. To feel in my heart the light that shined in the heart of every poet and every lover. To see with my own eyes, what the eternal lover sees forever in the night sky. And yet, now that I had it in my hands, I wrote no more.
I always believed in a love that was blind. Light, the only teacher we have to help us see, is himself blind. To see like him, our eyes must seek blindness. And it is thus that my love came to me. But what I did not expect was that, truth is not seen by just blind eyes, but a blind soul.
I see now, everything, every single sensation that a man could experience in a lifetime. I'm at once happy, sad, thirsty, satiated; I'm in harmony and in chaos at once. What I see is not an overwhelming spectacle, it is a simple heart, that silences everything.
So, I bleed words lesser now. Is it because my love has been fulfilled? Is it because my muse has left me? No. It is because I do not write to impress, to tempt or to share, to bare. I do not write in the pangs of hunger nor in the joy of satiety. I put pen to paper not for you, my reader who is reading this; not for her, who makes me writes this; not even for me, who sees it all. I write with no intention of influencing. I write with no influence.
I write, because it happens. I write, when it happens. I write, like my pen - picked up when it is time and sealed when it is done. I do not imagine or create a world - they merely appear.
Like the rain cloud, I gather my nectar in silence and when it is time, I pour it all out. Like the rain cloud, I do not pour at the will of any God or man - especially mine. Like the rain cloud, I do not shower a drop of false water, even if the earth shrivels in drought.
When the idol is broken and the Goddess shines in the poet's every living moment, he speaks only truth. And most of the times, that truth is silence.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The house of words
Through the many doored house
My song walks through,
One
door
at
a
time
It knocks on an ivory door
and opens it with laughter
A word comes out of it
Pleasure.
It knocks on a silver door
and opens it with a smile
A word comes out of it
Wisdom.
It knocks on a sandalwood door
and opens it with pride
A word comes out of it
Elixir
It knocks on a golden door
and opens it with silence
A word comes out of it
Truth
It knocks on a glass door
and opens it with tears
A word comes out of it
Love
It stands in front of an open door
Laden with all the words
No word comes out
No
word
My song walks through,
One
door
at
a
time
It knocks on an ivory door
and opens it with laughter
A word comes out of it
Pleasure.
It knocks on a silver door
and opens it with a smile
A word comes out of it
Wisdom.
It knocks on a sandalwood door
and opens it with pride
A word comes out of it
Elixir
It knocks on a golden door
and opens it with silence
A word comes out of it
Truth
It knocks on a glass door
and opens it with tears
A word comes out of it
Love
It stands in front of an open door
Laden with all the words
No word comes out
No
word
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