Passing
Moments
Here is a set of poems selected from my book Passing Moments that was brought out by
M/S Ultra Publications,
A Chant of Sweetness
A breeze
of happiness blows over my soul,
Orange-hued dew-wet from vineyards of peace;
It carries
the music of its gold and green,
The songs of birds, and the fruits of bright trees.
Streams
flow in the honey of its sweetness,
A vibrant light courses through nerve and cell;
My whole
being is jubilant, as if a prayer
To the infinite was set ablaze in it to dwell.
What can I
say of the intimate touch of that air,
Exuberance which makes the heart leap to the moon?
O the love
that is the foundation of deathless life,
Spontaneous and caring, authentic like a boon!
There is
the secret magic which has disclosed
The wonder, that the whole creation is a Flame,—
A flame
that grows in its own self to be flames,
Everywhere in awareness, the marvellous name.
Songs of Birds and Fruits of Trees
Two worships
"How do you worship god?"
Once I asked a rich man.
"A sovereign each day
That I take in my big van."
I looked at a village boy,
And with a running nose;
But in his folded hands
Was a small pink-red rose.
Two Worships: the
Pink and the Gold
Of the Mortal’s Lot
A dewdrop
sat on a leaf
Drinking orange of the morn;—
And sang,
“In the mortal world
Someone is wishing to be born.”
In the
evening a glow-worm
Quivered at the garden-gate;—
She said,
“Among mortal creatures
Dearest to me is my gleamless mate.”
A lonely
star burned in the sky
Undaunted by the enormous night;—
And said,
“Of the mortal’s lot
I take care with my nuclear light.”
A dewdrop sat on a leaf
Each Bird a Joy
The flock
of parrots went northward
To the fields north of imagination;
A coël sang early at morn in the east
From the mango tree east of creation.
The white
crane looked at the south,
Of wisdom, where lives the ever-wise;
Hornbill
preferred to go to the west,
The west of the worldly enterprise.
Then came
the sudden kingfisher,
Sudden in the revelation’s speed;
The eagle
rose to the dauntless sky
Where none can its winging exceed.
The bluebird
nestled in the heart
Deep in the heart of a bright flame;
But deeper
yet inside was another,
As if a secret name within a name.
The swan
from across the wide ether
Flew over the worlds outside death;
The
orange-breasted bird swept down,
Even as it looked at earth beneath.
A flock of parrots went to the
fields north of imagination
What Flame?
Who
mothered your joy,
In what flame of birth?
Did it
burn in the sky,
Or in the winter hearth?
Or was it
a star
Who felt it all right
To step
into birth
And win more light?
A star stepping into
birth
Love’s Leap
Up to the
mountain ridge
Once a one-eyed doe strayed;
But there
was a lonely hut
Where a lonely hunter stayed.
She could
not see the valley
That deepened on her right;
But then
felt an arrow whiz,—
She knew her mate in fright.
Swifter
than death’s weapon
She leaped beyond the cloud:
In a sky
where burn stars of love
Doe-eyed souls to her bowed.
Doe-eyed souls to her
bowed
Johannes Hohlenberg’s Painting
A splendid
painting I saw long ago
And the soul in it seemed to say,
That the
heavenly gleam in those eyes
Watches we all, all night and day.
A soft
breeze carried its perfume,
And calm the deep sense of its songs;
A memory
awoke of the past,
And crumbled the embodied wrongs.
From it an
authentic voice surged,—
Like a great wave on the shoreless sea;
A new
world is born, it proclaimed,
A world of joy which is death-free.
Through
the ages someone toiled,
To claim the flames of the sky,
There was
the Wondrous’s sacrifice
Willing the Will of the High.
He lit an
intense gold-bright fire
And offered all, all to the spirit;
From
across solar widenesses
Came a wideness earth to win in it.
From across solar widenesses
This Morning...
This
morning in my tranquil vision I saw
A host of white peacocks dance in a forest;
The early
rain glistened in the early light,
And forest trees and creepers were in it drest.
There was
the happy peace, bright and true,
And true were the birds to their happy songs;
Colours of
the sky spread everywhere
To gather which, came happy angel throngs.
Sweetness
was full, and flowing like a river
Hasteningly ran for the calm sea in heaven;
From that
cloister of peace, emerald holiness,
The Rishis who radiantly went up were seven.
Even as
they reached that dazzling world
A golden-footed flame walked unto them;
Prized
gifts of immortal things it gave,—
Undimming splendours of its realm.
But they
wished one boon to be granted,
For the forest where the peacocks danced;
In that
holy peace rose a sudden chant
Such indeed as again its holiness enhanced.
Athwart it
speeded rapturous chariots,
Indra and Agni’s, the Wind’s, of the Sun-God;
And the
wood buzzed in lucent peace,
And peace became their perfection’s abode.
A host of white peacocks
Alert Seeress
Monday
morning just at 4 O’clock
I heard a
sudden sound,
As though
some impatient spirits
Were
moving around.
“Give us
our share,” was their shout
From
across the street;
“Our viand
and our wine in red pots,
Our
choicest treat.”
No
oil-lamp burned in the temple,
None slept
in the yard;
The
trusted watchman had gone home,
Leaving
God himself to guard.
Alarmed,
the seeress from her face
Tore the
night’s veil;
Compassionate
eyes poured peace
Happy dawn
to hail.
Alarmed, the seeress tore the
night’s veil
What Path of Wisdom...?
A blind
man sat there alone,
In
lengthening shadow of the temple wall;
People who
came to pray
At the
temple told me he was the wisest of all.
I went and
humbly asked him,
“Please
tell what path of wisdom did you follow
Blind
since birth as you are,
Sitting
here the way to God you seem to know.”
“Blindness
gave me this sight,”
He said,
“showed me this path to see the song;
I see God
O where you are,
Even as
would a deaf hear the loud temple gong.”
And the
deaf man told me,
“O hear
what the moon says, stars, the sun;
I can
swear as they hurry
They raise
a chant in praise of the silent One.”
Blindness gave me this sight to see
the song
Tragedy at the Moon-Gate
I had
given you a promise
To meet you at the moon-gate;
Faithfully
I kept the word
Till it became pretty late.
Even the
slow-drifting dream
Unwaitingly took its leave;
That you
wouldn’t be there
Least did the moon believe.
You had
told me earlier
You would wait and take me
To the
garden by the stream
In love yours to make me.
But then
in the meanwhile
Perhaps something happened;
Only a
pale phantom I saw,
As if by fear dampened.
A scarlet
shadow floated
On a scarlet stream of time,
One of the
horrid past
Had committed the crime.
In guise
of love he came
As if to kiss your feet;
But in
your helpless cry
Admitted self-defeat.
An ashen
spirit laughed
Where I was to wait;
But how
can love be lost,
It asked, at the moon-gate?
Rejoice in
a garden where
You see no defeated things;
Yet a
round moon is there,
There another gate swings.
An ashen spirit laughed where I was
to wait
The Wind Blew from the South
The wind
blew from the South
And
carried soft fragrance of a dream;
And my
wise heart fell asleep
Forgetting
pride, forgetting self-esteem.
Grapes
hung from the vines
And a
sweetness dripped in earth’s mouth;
Love was
the love of God
Who came
out from a shrine in the South.
The trees
grieved no more
And
flowering songs the birds gave to earth;
And in the
suddenness
Of love
came my soul to the world of birth.
The suns
that long waited
Rode the
chariots drawn by white horses;
Through
bodies of truth
Immortal
breath of life’s joy now courses.
Soft fragrance of a dream
How Many?
“How many
whelps you gave birth to?”—
To a
lioness asked her forest friends.
“But a
prince and with a princely mane,
In whose
roar roar of the fire blends.”
“How many
colours make your bow?”—
Asked the
white to the arc of the sky.
“The
colour of joy is my favourite,
To see
which you need a singular eye.”
“How many
shadows did you cast
When the
pale moon drifted in the night?”
And the
spirit replied to the boy,
“But then
one yet stayed in the daylight.”
“How many
years from eternity
Did you
take to fashion our time?”
“I forgot
to count the hours,” replied God;
“Lulled to
sleep I was by your rhyme.”
In whose roar, roar of the fire
blends
New Birth
A new dawn
came in the joy of peace
And the grasses swayed with the wind;
Mute
Nature in it awoke and took a road,
Took a song, poem dew-fresh moods to find.
Sight
became swift and sky-embracing,
And footfall of silence the ears heard;
Unflawed
heart beat not to bear anguish,
To know needed was not thought, word.
Faith grew
pure and wide, spontaneous,
And wisdom poured from a high cloud;
Old death
was no longer a prop for life,—
Instead life only its perfect sense allowed.
Six times
did the soundless bell ring
And six seasons speeded just in one hour;
Amber-hued
was the breeze that came
Carrying the time-transcendent’s power.
Spirit
found a house to dwell in birth,
Not a gloomy rented place, lifeless room,
But a
bright house for the stars to stay:
A flame was seeded in Matter’s womb.
And the grasses swayed with the
wind
To Buy Shadows
Once on a
road to
Two poets met at the noon hour;
One
praised hexametric gods,
The other his house and bower.
Two frogs
croaked in a pond,
And said, “Queer the village folk.
We can be
in and out of life
If only we know how to croak.”
“I know
your appetite’s small,”
Said the Priestess to Reason;
“But go
and wed White Passion
In this jolly holiday season.”
On their
way to the
Two hurrying streams met by a shrine;
For his
holy dip will its old god,
They asked, join the pilgrim-line?
Word and
Sense went to market
To buy a kilo of sweet potatoes;
But
finding prices a bit too high
Just bargained for their shadows.
Two frogs croaked in a pond
Please Answer It
What can the poor ball do? —
It's an old man's kick.
What can the old man do? —
In his hand an old stick.
With the old stick he walks
To meet the God of Death;
Will the kind God in return
Give him faultless breath?
With the old stick he
walks
Heritage of Life
In search
of a Red Rose I set out on a journey
And travelled along a stream, across hill and land;
I trod
many seasons of grief and pain, of hunger,
And saw dreaming shadows walk hand in hand.
Maybe a
few thousand years passed this way,
Of mythic wakefulness and of ancestral sleep;
And yet
another thousand rose in a true answer
That in moods of silver-mauve I need not weep.
But all
this must end like a comic, end forever,—
Wounds of heart, teardrops from foolish eyes;
The
blackbird song, time-torture, must withdraw,
And make room for the Red Rose’s enterprise.
The sages
say the fields are rain-green, happy,
And the sky is blue and happy the gentle breeze;
Without
danger you may soar like a little bird,—
Because the foundation of the world is in peace.
And the
night is there for the stars to twinkle,
And the day for flaming hours to carry the gold;
True,
quite true, there is death tied to the leg of life,
But the heritage of life is a joy unknown, untold.
In search of a Red Rose I set out
on a journey
How Many Lives?
How many
lives has death granted to me?
Nine lives, they say, a cat has—nine to die;
In the
deeps of silence deeper than night
Nine dreams of loneliness nine times cry.
A sudden
hue spreads goldening the morn,
And its joy weaves a white jasminean garland;
A sweet
scented wind lifts up the early birds,
As if life has come a newness to understand.
Now from
the alert edge of the sky arrives
Swift-footed destiny to prepare a bright day;
And all
the sorrows that had filled the past
Like mist just uncomplainingly fade away.
But then
in gorgeousness of time to be born
The deepening depth of eternity awaits:
And so
birth is escorted by death’s shadow,
Death who has nine lives, to cross nine gates.
But death
can cross the ninth gate only if
A sacrificial fire is kindled in the heart;
Then will
the being be carried in a surge,
A great surge new divinity to body impart.
Death who has nine lives, to cross
nine gates
World of Poetry
Here and
there you want
A bit of thought;
There and
here wish
Some human plot,—
Betrayal
of love,
A measure of pain,
In the
cattle show
Tinge of cattle-bane.
But what
sense the words
If they do not sob?
Robbers of
life they
The joys of life rob.
These
shadow figures
Cast on a shadow wall,
Are but
shadow thoughts
Of the Master of all.
But drop this
outright
If you wish to see
What
really they are,
In world of poetry.
Swiftness
of flame,
Sharpness of hue,
A
suggestive mood
Is truer than the true.
Grasp the
subtle sound,
Greenness in the green,
Form of
the formless,—
That’s poem of the unseen.
These shadow figures cast on a
shadow wall,
Are but shadow thoughts of the
Master of all
Behind the Eclipse
Moon arose
in a grey-purple sky
And stood
above the ancient ghoulish town;
The weaver
was still at his loom
Weaving
dreams which were dark-brown.
One went
to the crowded bazaar
To buy a
sword of sharp historic steel,
Trademark
of murderous time
Who across
ages held no feelings to feel.
Between
the warp and the woof
The second
found for itself an inky place;
And then
it made a gaudy cross
Which
forebode to every dream disgrace.
Another
chased a fleshy woman,
Her soul
as if caught in a red cage of flesh;
And
children she bore were shades
Of desire
who yet these dreams immesh.
But rushed
a swift dream-hound
And a full
moon arose behind the eclipse;
Then came
a white weaver-dream
With a
dream in hand and a song on his lips.
That old
weaver of yester-time
Who had
all life in tenuous dream of death
Threaded
throughout his life,
Took it to
weave in unphantomed breath.
Did the old weaver weave all life
in tenuous dream of death?
My Search
A child walked up to me
And said in the garden were waiting seven gods;
But the backyard shouted:
"Believe him not, all they are just great
frauds."
I glimpsed in the night
A swan, white and purple, richly growing gold;
It looked as though
Some trepidant soul suddenly became bold.
In my lifeful trance
I saw a radiant woman long ago named Savitri;
The sky became a sun,
The sun set afire by love who indeed is but she.
I saw a radiant woman long ago
named Savitri
A Mystic in the Making
How does
it matter if I know not the road
And uncertain seems the future, hidden from me?
But the
road will turn into a journeying faith
And lead me on, step by step, degree by degree.
I had
picked up for my long tireless quest
Half-words and half-colours, half-images,
Idioms
that would tell more than what they are
And reveal meanings through pages and pages.
That
wondrous moment had come in half-sleep,
The moment for us in life to inseparably meet;
I had
crossed the wearying distances of sight,
At the end of sight a strange half-sight to greet.
Brooding
mountains rose above calm summits
As though a sudden sky became a massive blue,—
As though
fadeless tireless winging of the birds
Itself into the winging of a flame turned anew.
Now I live
alone, remembering you in trance,
And in it a mystic monologue constantly I hear;
I know in
it I shall meet you again, and again:
A half-seer surely shall see the sun-seeing seer.
Journeying faith of the sculpted
pilgrim
Six Brahmins
Six
Brahmins once went to the Forest Dweller
And staidly prayed for knowledge of the Eternal,—
What he
eats, how lives in beast and man and tree,
Begetter of creatures, manywise, and paternal.
Freedom he
gives and our fates too fashions,
We take his wings and his bright roses smell;
Gigantic
mountains and swift streaming rivers
Stream or stand about his great moods to tell.
Six mighty
breaths he breathes in life and death,
Of these first five in the body and last in the sky;
Six worlds
he has set up in them to take food,
Cooked in sun and household fires that never die.
He has put
sight in the eye, word in the speech,
That he may look into Matter and speak of it;
He broods
on the Syllable and does sixfold work,
By abiding in work to ever abide in the Spirit.
Verses
make his path and take him to earth,—
O to conquer for him these six mortalities!
Out of the
unmanifest he comes into birth
And kindles gold flames to flame rapidities.
Fire-Offerings: kindling gold
flames to flame rapidities
Heard-Unheard
I have
heard many songs in the course of time
But many more songs have remained unheard;
But then
there is no end to the course of time
And there are yet silent spaces to be stirred.
All these
mute hours must pass like fading dreams
And all the notions of life, its mystery
Deepen
into sleep that is God’s one great gift,
Holding in it truth that is ever true and free.
I am not
worried that there were wasted hours
Or that I spoke at times the vernacular of despair,
For the
unknown, the unseen, is a wondrous hope
And it carries the quiet flame up on the flaming stair.
But the
sky there is not a misty or tenuous blue
Nor is my unsung song made of uncertain stuff,
Now that
the morn of morns, and the day of days,
Has come I tell you the unheard is not the far-off.
I might
have lived unlived love for too long,
Cherished feelings that sharpen the points of pain;
But ‘tis
pain that pushes unhappy things behind,—
To such an extent that forever love it shall gain.
Wondrous Hope