From earth to ether
stretch your invisible strings
like silver beams
Where should I touch you, Spring ?
I hear your silent symphony everywhere.
I hear your call
somewhere in my eager within
gathering to compose my distracted being,
and the note of agony that resounds on
my dark terrace, dies in your knock
like droplets dying in a streams.
What is the voice that moves the mountain ?
What is it that blossoms forth in the air
and is caught again
in the sweetness of your movement ?
Are you not a meeting place of voices ?
In you I hear the roar of the sea
and the quiet storms above;
in you only, in unlimited space I move
and meet eternity.
As the insatiate pen of an artist
who always wants to do wonders
but is dissatisfied with the feeling
that something is missing, my fingers ache.
My fingers which do magic and warble music
in the warm receptive softness of your body
now ache. My fingers ache to move over all :
the woods, mountains, oceans and stars as well
like wind, and to fondle both the happy
and the wretched ones of the earth.
The fingers which often deflower buds
and play on the pervasive piano,
the same fingers which till the land,
grow orchards and spray parasites,
the fingers which run machines and business,
are striving now for perfection,
aching for the rapture of playing with fire,
be it infernal or ethereal, or maybe to pass
from one to the other, washing away
in the furnace all stale insipid infiltrations.
|Song of the Happy
Each fault is a new discovery
in the search for truth
and hence, a part of the creative process.
What harm is there if Columbus missed the way
and reached a continent ?
If you call it ignorance not to be ashamed
nor penitent of being what I am,
well then, let it be ignorance.
Why should I know your dos and don'ts ?
That is not truth anyway.
I am drawn to the forbidden like a baby.
Only when you stare at my crippled leg
that I feel an ache, a discomfort.
Only when you thrust upon me a sense of guilt
that I begin to ask myself, "Am I guilty?"
Why do you look so strange ?
Are you a fish that loves to poke around
from sheer instinct ? Poke then how much you like.
If I don't like my being a cripple,
I don't hate it either.
Grown accustomed to it, I can well be indifferent.
I am free like a bird in my own world and can still
appreciate the vastness of the blue in a cool composure,
where light is light and darkness, meditation.
yesterday when I was in the lavatory
I recalled some lines from the Gita.
But in the temple or church I forget what to pray.
I simply watch people and the face of the deity
in childlike curiosity.
I don't remember if I wringed anyone.
Tell me what should I pray ?
That I sinned being born and coming such and such way ?
I hardly stopped anywhere.
have I not come ?
Truth is greater than making or breaking of laws.
Do you call knowledge a sin ?
If it is so, pour it into my cup full to the brim.
I'll drink deep without any sense of loss or shame.
I'll embrace any sin that can be of some knowledge
and help the process of evolution.
|The Question of
If to wake means to open your eyes
and come all the way to fall victim
to the same old blinding establishment
that blinds and blocks clear vision
to divide men and see the world in divisions,
it is better to stop where you are
and sleep another four thousand years
of profound sleep to find one good morning
no trace of an institution.
Establishments are so
strong and corrupt,
so institutionalized with nets varying
in length and size that
like hungry whirlpools they swallow any truth,
any spiritual finding to make it a party
to accelerate their own greedy pursuits.
But awake with restraint
so that you may not join a blind alley.
Hence, no tragic repetition
of the snake-ladder game.
Have not the Jews retained
and doubled in Spinoza, Bergson and Einstein,
though they kept rolling and rolling
to gather no foolishness ?
The Soul Supreme has no
nor is he confined to a dogma.
it is men only who make rules
and choose to remain fools.
If love is life,
And water love,
Let us two joins above
And come down as rain
All the world to dissolve,
So that something new
Will come up, some new life,
Something fresh and fragrant;
For it human follies drown and die,
What will still survive
Is love and its living current.