Hushed Monsoon

 

View from the Western Ghats - Tamil Nadu, India

View from the Western Ghats – Tamil Nadu, India

At the vanguard of life,

Captured by the stream and the essence of being.

 

In the community of bamboo clusters and

Bougainvillea clouds;

We collect flowers for compost.

Fresh seeds shower the lanes,

To reap and sow as nature dictates.

 

The garden is speaking softly

Of a greatness in effortless intention.

No thought, no goal; pure action realised.

 

Do nothing for the seasons dance along with us.

We regenerate freely with open hearts;

We can no longer leave, we can no longer stay.

 

Life is cleansed of doing and in wholeness we abstain;

Suspended in the process,

 

Transfixed by the pink moons passage

And the sound of hushed monsoon

Coming to wash it all away.

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Mars Returns

Burning sunrise over Kodai Kanal, Tamil Nadu

Burning sunrise over Kodai Kanal, Tamil Nadu

 

On clear nights I stand shivering, looking up;

The song lines are sung, I track the paths between stars and

All else that brought me here; to harrow point.

 

We trace the patterns with love, that which joins us within a circle;

We fake eternal empathy for a seat at the wicker table.

 

There is a melody that must not be heard.

A madness emanates within the mighty chasms

Of this universal emptiness, the morning prayer bells are rung

For no one,

One hand reaching out from the orange robes.

 

Such bitter pills of truth are to be swallowed whole, in their barbed entirety,

Grains of sweetness cannot confer the taste of relinquished fortune.

Epiphanies of nonsense breeds contentment within

A bottomless pit of arcane ardour.

 

I feign bravery towards it, I feel cloaked by it in fleeting moments.

It is a tone that alters my heart; disrupts my wiring,

Leaves me naked before beauty.

 

As a steadying gesture upon my arm, a defamed soliloquy.

In a silent corner, find a stained glass mind

To filter out such light.

 

The vertiginous nature of this dance

Seems eased enough that I may play my hand,

I may no longer desecrate that space.

 

Playing at God with planets.

In a sanctified peace, I look to my feet

For pleasure proceeds and wish for visions of Mars

And Jupiter colliding in truth sparks.

 

The inception of red flames, engulfing a single

Lone witness, who’s halo remains the leaves and thorns

Of a solitary bramble row.

 

In these astral lanes we find a way.

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Tapovan (A Collection) – Himalayas, India

Above Rishikesh

Above Rishikesh

Tapovan

Where the great sages

Once sat;

Where now I sit,

A humble scribble.

 

Rest with the holy men

And look to the stars.

 

Narrow windows

Of the soul,

Gleaming eyes

And begging bowls.

 

One and Many Faces

Within the calmest chamber of my heart, I found you sleeping;

Truth flowered from your eyes.

Locked in your gaze I remained breathless

And in your arms I gladly died.

 

Lost in the depths of love, guided by an inner bride,

May we merge these senses, make these revolutions shine.

 

Our silent dance now roars, engulfs all suffering;

Shatters illusory doors, floating on this conscious stream.

 

On the backs of Gods we ride, pilgrims ever set for salvation;

Beyond the temples of twisted mind, all one and many faces.

A Jungle Waterfall

A Jungle Waterfall

2

Fanned by the flame of infinite

Destiny; we are naturally cursed and blessed.

 

Hung in the cauldron of uncertainty, envy grips sincerity.

 

Crude words blot the page,

Sorrow is the cause

For the mountain orchids speak.

 

Nameless Sage

There is a formless forest guru, teak carved and polished clear;

As a tiger stalks and kills, this wooden soul would sit.

Just an old stone wasting no time at all; tendrils for toes, ascending with

Nature.  A rare breed with cloud-like constitution.

 

Given to an internal voyage, of Syrius he claimed soul form.

Now fully merged and fresh ash smeared, elephant hide wrapped tight to his ribs,

His three eyes stare at unity, directly.

 

Deep in the forest, lungs lined with early morning dew,

He talks only with tiny birds and hears of the coming rains.

Living out the depths of truth, where existence is the nectar,

A bliss filled concentration of effortless implication.

 

This heart a humble furnace, the nameless sage

Who charges the Himalayas with stillness,

A tranquil quake of focused purity.

 

Silent Song

In early day the mist has come,

Trees are stirring.

 

There is a deep well of beauty,

Still in time.

 

I hear the river fall

From the centre of the morning sun;

 

To disappear forever,

In silent, silent song.

 

Mandala Void

From out of the void,

A mandala, a body;

 

Something visible where the mind may feast

And fracture.

 

These fragments of burning candles,

The taste to realize;

Sweet mango, fresh chai.

 

White Swans

Rest easy in this celestial session,

Loving all, excluding nought.

 

All religions written in the mental sky.

When it clears, expose the vast light of truth.

 

Infinite the beatitude, god is nothing to fear.

Finer energies exist here, higher powers

We may touch; that we are.

 

Sleepless and nestled in the mothers arms.

Safe to tread the path riding white swans,

Wearing bells.

 

Here or There

Here or there; a fantastic meander,

Wild elephants in fields of sunflowers.

 

At odds with the love we are,

We are sleeping to make new days.

 

Yet all night our lamp

Still burns with grace.

The valley leading to Rishikesh

The valley leading to Rishikesh

Extracts from a collection written in Rishikesh, India, January ’14

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The Ox and Cloud

Orientation cloud

Sparkling firmament

Sleeping ox ambles

Timeless skies call

Invisible lover

Tickles my bones.

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Clear Sky

I imagine

Greater changes,

Creativity spirals

Without control,

The universe reflects

Something of nothing,

As we play with

Our infinite potential.

 

Momentarily;

Our collective memory is a

Shared greatness;

No action inert,

No form is lifeless,

When the eyes of the unseen

Are seen.

 

The known is rising

And falling,

Insight lights

Darkened corners.

So subtle the energy

Passing through,

A divine dialogue ignites

With deeper intent,

Drunk on intuition

Colluding with silent speculation,

Form means

Emptiness profound.

 

Over my thoughts

Creation lingers,

Evolution clings

To wisdom re-inacted,

 

The actor falls silent

As the selfish idea

Is susceptible to a wandering nature

Embedded in flux,

Freed now to drive

In clear skies.

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The Empty Boat – Chuang Tzu (Zhuangzi)

Who can free himself of achievement and fame
Then descend and be lost
Amidst the masses of men?
He will flow like Tao, unseen…
He will go about like life itself,
With no name and no home.
Simple is he, without.
To all appearances he is a fool.
His steps leave no trace.
He has no power.
He achieves nothing.
He has no reputation.
Since he judges no one,
No one judges him.
Such is the perfect man.
His boat is empty.

Chuang Tzu, The Empty Boat

Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly

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The Poetry of the Bauls

Bauls, the wandering mystics and minstrels of Bengal. Their branch of thought pre-dates even the Rig Vedas; for me their poetry and songs evoke all that is magical about India.

My soul cries out,
caught in the snare of beauty
of the formless one,

As I cry myself,
Night and day,
Beauty amassed before my eyes,
Surpasses moons and suns.

If I look at the clouds in the sky,
I see his beauty afloat.
And I see him walk on the stars,
Blazing within my heart.

I am returning to India in early January and ‘Riding effortlessly……’ will switch from a mainly poetry based blog to being a mainly travelling poetry blog.

Wishing you all a peaceful Christmas time and prosperous New OneX

 

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