some poems, old and new
She walks, She walks with a little leap in her step, The leap is in her right leg, not her left. So every right step she takes She does with a little leap a leap of trust, a leap of joy.
Some call it a disability, Her special ability to leap with every right step. But she can walk, walk with a leap in the rightness of her step.
Every time she takes a right step, her heart bounces up in bliss accompanied by a little gasp, of effort, of delight, of pleasure rippling through her muscles in the rightness of her step, in the Truth of her Being.
that little girl
that little girl
A husband and wife Have it all very nice A house with a view A garden, a stew They play and they gambol They sing and they sink Into the quagmire of emotions they never leave behind. A husband and wife Have it all very fine Yet they wonder and they ponder what would make it all worthwhile? A husband and wife Yet the distances betwixt them Do often intervene And the longed for intimacy Is somewhere out at sea Where the angels step in to heal as the demons come clean. A washing of the soul Can bring that joy about That calls with the fervent cry of The cuckoo and the peacock in a cloud. May all your dreams turn lucid And all fantasy abound with the clarity of truth seeking A homecoming of ye to y'rself aloud.
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Leaves falling from the tree timelessly in Castanadian sequence endlessly swaying leaves twirling gently with the breeze letting drop their light mass and the dead weight of loss Leaves descending to the ground surrendered to the fall of the eternal moment announcing softly the arrival of the Unborn, Unmanifest & Undying. |
A moon cries tears of blood the kite of hope collects them all they dance on the string little rivulets of pain metamorphosing suffering into play, little children skip and gambol in the shower of flowers and look to the kite as at a rainbow. |
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i have said my prayers
and am at peace
since the day i
recognised the face of doom
as one of my reflections.
there are others too
who speak of life
in a measured stance
or as a journey from
point A to point X.
The Epitaph
Jonathan Livingstone Seagull
lies buried
under the sands,
under the sea,
his wings clipped,
his flight castrated,
his limitations
not existing in
his thoughts
but in the
epitaph
of my ideals.
Waiting at twilight
| Waiting at twilight
for the sun to set for the wind to rise for the tide to swell for my passions to ascend to a deafening crescendo echoing and re-echoing your name.... |
|||
| waitng at twilight
for you to come for us to submerge our identities along with the sun, to awaken to a new twilght a new identity that also waits for the second twilight. |
|
(this poem features in the digital work opposite)
Do you have period pains? i don't. i am glad to be woman even with all the baggage it entails. the collective suffering being down trodden, the cultural conditioning putting the other above yourself, intuitive wisdom notwithstanding, the calling for emancipation, in you i find my trust and reverence. Sing once more, sing a new song Aparijita. |
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Silent, tall trees
the eternal presence
they look at me dispassionaately
and relieve me of the torment
of my passions
Tall, silent trees
comfort me
restore me to myself.
The other night
they rained.
I cried
to be one with them
and him, who
i met under the trees
when they'd rained
once, ages ago.
Individual trees
collect
to form a community
called the forest
some tall, some short,
some thin, some broad,
all with a trunk and foliage.
All mute collected beings
form a collective uprising,
against the raucous noise
of the animate voice.
[A R.D.Laingish poem]
i long to belong to you
will you be long in belonging to me?
we belong together
in our longing for belongingness
with each other.
Explore the labyrinthine
intricacies of your psyche
and prepare to encounter
the demons and the ghosts
of childhood
with the wisdom
of acceptance.
Divulge your secrets
and exchange them
for peanuts.
Diverge from oft-repeated
circulatory patterns
of thought -behaviour.
Dispel your fears,
dry your grievances
in the summer sun.
Enrich yourself
in the halcyons of
trust and forgiveness.
But foremost
be gentle
with yourself.
(a la Desiderata)
In Your Absence
You are always in my mind
and in a sad sweet, safe corner of my heart,
that i reach in certain moments of solitude.
All my thoughts i address to you,
you are the silent listener of my inner commentary.
And when my thoughts are still, as sometimes
my lonely heart calls to you,
can you hear me then?
And when my heart is still, as sometimes
can you feel me then?
feel like i do? One heart, one soul,
no desire, no urgency,
no impatience, no nostalgia even.
but right now, i long
to be in your arms again,
to cry against your chest
to feel the touch of your lips against my cheeks,
to hear your voice softly saying 'hello'
drawing me out of myself - to you.
The sun has set, beyond the trees
the sky is many beautiful vivid colours,
the crows are cawing noisily, returning home.
Distant noises of the traffic in the busy city around
reach the 'red garden' that i am sitting in,
on a small rock-hill,
leaning against a rock pillar,
looking at the first star in this evening's sky,
and making a wish for love, peace, death and release.
At The Bus Stop
A serpentine queue
nine standees long
waits for the 87 Ltd.
Outwardly distressed at having to wait,
inwardly rejoicing for getting to cackle
two female clerks
bicker and crib
about the dual duties of home and office.
The 'mini-lady' endeavours
to show unconcern but
fails when she spots
a fifth youth ogling
without any pretensions
and with utmost concentration.
"Your poetry is like musk
fragrant, decorative,
seemingly colourful,
a luxury.
Make it a necessity
a kind of a drug
that calls for
absolute addiction.
Turn its simplicity into confused philosophy.
Become a little more ambiguous,
and you could be a lot more famous"
"Dear well-wisher,
you want me
to gain a wide following
to give my poetry a pedestal
on which it can strut.
My poetry is not motivated
towards creating an impact.
it simply serves the purpose
of giving a form to
my musings and feelings.
When this form is aesthetic,
I am happy.
and happiness is an end in itself."
nevertheless she laughs
she has cried
tears of pain and agony
faced the betrayal of friends
struggled on the path of lonesomeness;
and looked at trees and flowers
with a new freshness. she has suffered
depths of despair
and longed for release
from the darkness;
she has listened to the sounds around
and their profound silence.
she has awakened to a new identity
in losing her personality;
nevertheless she laughs.
she guffaws, she bawls
she tirades, she crawls
she even yearns,
now and then,
nevertheless she laughs.
the dance of essence
saturn turns around on its rings
in elaborate twirls and twists
while consciouness springs up in strings
as the elegance of the universe
unfolds its dance
in multiple manifestations of essence.
out of one comes the two
out of two comes the three
out of three comes the many
out of many come each and all
but all are dancing
the elegant dance of the universal essence.
the indivisible advaita charades in many forms
time and space are but two such norms
others include energy mass shape size weight
characteristic color caste creed race
or any other distinguishing feature or trait
their essence tucked neatly inside
the elegance of the universal dance.
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