ALL REALS (Or Brahma Satyam Jagad Satyam)

It is not yet.

Or is it ?

I don't know what is `it'.

I don't know if there is `yet'.

Not that I don't know.

I know, but oh, I don't know

It is all so very clear

No puzzle, no despair

... ... ...

... ... ...

Now I shall do a `Real Imagination' act.

It's all true, It's all love,

It's all life, It's all real

It's all here, now.

... ... ...

... ... ...

In the dim shadowy horizon

I seem to see some shadow shapes

Hear some shadow voices

Feel some shadow shadows

... ... ...

... ...

The ink has dried

The seeming eternal moment seems past

I have to quit now

I have to give an imaginary interval

I am back to play acting

But this real image keeps shining

While what seems to be a newfound me

Goes about playacting

It's curtains for now

5.50 p.m.;Hyd. Tea Table

(Srinivas present at times)

THE DEADLY MAUSOLEUM (or Brahma Mithya Jagad Satyam)

It was a hundred and eight years ago

That he died, my Supreme Grand Father.

But he was a freak

He was a show-piece, case

Special doctors descended on him

One said, `it is a heart death,

Body's hot, current' flow's on'

But it didn't last

Body was burnt to dust

But the specialists didn't give up

They said,`it's a body death,

But he lives'

They conferred, they debated,

Then they presented

A dressed up decorated vegetable

They prescribed a set of motions

For us to pretend before him

They told us some psycho tips

That will bring back the dull drab

vegetable

To some sort of life.

We are at it still.

You must admire our stubbornness.

We carry on the daily drill

In this stupid mausoleum

It doesn't have a corpse even,

But some miscast metals, ill shaped stones,

And some silly shadows

That has some pathetic maudlin links

With that whipped up dead corpse.

Pity us, pity us, we are at this game

A thousand of us have left

All our valuable works

To play this morbid game

Thousand thousands more

Give vital parts of our lives

For this shadow-play.

I cannot let go now.

I am hooked, I am done with,

There is a fatal charm

In this diabolical dead man

Not him, his dead body's shadow does that.

Imagination soars, dreams throw up, joy abounds.

Devil perhaps knows how it happens,

How a long dead repulsive

Half-naked, rustic, unkempt, stale vegetable

Drags us all, bright and beautiful

To his place, the doomsworld.

10.15 a.m.

16 March 1995

Temple Siddha peeth

Holy Hyd'bad

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS !

Words, words, words !

Words given birth by me

Words nurtured in my womb

Words nourished at my breasts

My bouncy, beautiful, baby-girls, all.

... ... ... ...

They are not always bouncy

Nor are their beauty for ever

This is my grief

One exhilarates now

Yet she exasperates the next moment

She fills me with strength and surety now

Yet again,

She drains me by dullness and doubts.

My womb is full of girls unborn.

I am in a dilemma.

I despair of giving birth to them.

But I want them madly.

I have to take them as they come.

Ill or well formed.

I cannot stop

Fragility is my first name

Vulnerability is my vocation.

... ... ...

An experience, a moment,

A human, Me. She, He,

Stamp of Infinity on them all,

Innocence, merry mischief, joy,

Writ in Gold on the wrapper

But words, words, words

They are all clothed by words

There is not a single good eye on earth

Everyone has goggles, inside or out

None can see in the brilliance of the wordless

splendour

They dare not, they cannot let go of words

They clothe themselves

They force others to dress up.

... ... ...

I ? How do I do ?

I too dare not.

I delight to dress up

I dance in different costumes

To the mirror, to girls of my gang

It is all a green room affair.

I don't face strangers

But the green room expands

Strangers start to string into my shining set

Then I revel and reveal myself

But still clothed by words

Fine words, expressive words, sometimes.

But still words, after all.

Coarse, crude, dull, drab dresses

Or silken, smooth, shining, colourful,

Filmy, fine textured clothes,

Wondergirl Veronica's Vanderwhat wears

But they too don't reveal all

They dim, they diffuse the light within.

They too clothe and cover, after all.

... ... ... ...

Words, words, words,

They are my despair, they are my delight

They drain me dry, they drive me on

I grope in darkness, I look in light

For the wordless word,

For me the Princess' and

My Empress' real new clothes.

5.23 pm

>11 Mar 1995 < 15 Mar 1995

Temple Basement

Hyderabad

Miss Infinity (or the Chat Show Girl)

Dearest !

What else to call you as ?

Sister ? Daughter ?

My Girl ? My Baby pearl ?

My A ? My B ? My him ? My her ?

My molten golden mountain girl ?

My bright-eyed, beaming, blue-seas boy ?

Infinity ? One-in-all ? All-in-one ?

... ... ...

Oh ! None says it all.

Dearest comes nearest.

Dearest, my all-in-all,

My own, My self !

What do I want ?

Just fun with you !

Just want to chat with you.

More perhaps to listen to your chatting with me,

In every one, in every thing.

In A, In P, In S, in Z,

In this boy, in that girl,

In this god-brother, that dog-friend.

I listen to you in all

And drink in the joy of

That Golden Girl's

Early morning Chat Show

15 Feb 1995

Hyderabad Temple Basement

in presence of Alwal Sanjeev.

Fly High or ‘Lok na pok’*

Myriads of myopic insects swarm

Breed, feed, drop wings, die, all within the norm

Look up perchance, sight the big bird rising

Screech, curse or just go wisely sighing

‘Poor one, that, plunging into emptiness,

How will miss all earthy mud and marshes!’

Strange ’twill be if the air-borne big bird should

Change course, crash-land and catch a slushy cold.

No, it just pulls itself up, sights set high

Not for it, this befogged deathly mud pie.

Poet, bring a new star to fill the dearth

May you harness his rays, defog the earth

Or at least, go alone in thy brave way

May yet light the wing buds of a mutant stray.

‘Lok na pok’ is a Bengali expression meaning ‘ the common people who cavil at pioneers are like crawling worms’

Lok means people, pok means worms and na may be taken to mean ‘are’.

Swami Sampurnananda; 20 Dec. 2003, 1 p.m. Lalgarh Kuthia veranda.

THE FLUTE

THE FLUTE

(OR MURALI)

 

When Thou broke this piece

Away from its mother bush

Oh, how it hurt my Lord !

And how the bamboo cursed

When it Thy knife pierced

And left gaping wounds !

But Thy lips touched it,

Thy sweet breath filled it,

It found itself a flute

And ever since then

It never ceased to sing.

         ***         ***

But why folk and funny tunes

And not the classic ones

The Flute could never find

Nor does greatly mind

For, it is Thy hands that hold

And Thy breath that flows.

A Visitor at the snowy heights

A Visitor at the snowy heights
She dances o'er the mountain range
At her nude presence
There blooms a freshness
That fills the mountain air
As Her feet kissThe soft stage of snow
Streams burst to freedom
Their fun and merriment
Echo over ranges

Flanked by mountain's daughters
Of many songs and dances
She dances her way down
To the foothills and the plains

A visitor at the snowy heights
She dwells in plains and foothills

As a mother rests
In the late morn
Infant at her breasts,
And gazing far beyond
The notes of Her song
Play in mother's heart
And its sweet strains
Holds her in thrall
At Her tender touch
Breasts bloom in fullness
And their fragrance
Fills the infant's heart

A little girl in rags
Carries on her hip
Her little child brother
And tries and tries to feed him
His wildly roving eyes
Chance upon her face
And gazes open-mouthed
Beholding Her dance
The sister slips the food in
And as the ailing mother
Looks at the daughter
She fills her eyes
And floods her heart

With arms round the other
As two merry boys
Swing from a swing
The cadences of Her song
Rise and fall along
In their happy hearts

With sister in the front
A brother rides a bike
On a shady road
In a silent valley
And mountains loom afar
As the brother listens
To the sister's chatter
Through her lips She slips
And floods the silent vale
With Her cooling freshness
And as the brother drives on
She stays in his silence

As boys gather
By a mountain pool
Into Her open arms
They run and plunge themselves
And as they have their food
She fills it with Her flavour

At a river bank
As a lover waits
For her heart's beloved
She creeps near in stealth
And stabs the girl at heart
She draws the dagger out
The girl writhes in pain
And as the lovers meet
She fills their hands and hearts

Oh ! In a thousand homes
She dwells in the plains
Where people meet
With not a shred of cover
There She dances nude

---

Sure, they want Her mad
But dare not see Her nude
They shrink from Her light
Run into a house
And close the doors tight
And yet in groups they gather
To rave and revel in
The rare rays of light
That find their way in
They dare not see her straight
But gaze in wonder at
The sprinkling of Her light
Sparkling in the skies.

Dwelling in darkness
They behold a sudden flash
Of blinding brilliance
Hushed and awed, though,
A long single moment,
Next moment they shriek
And turn their eyes away
The Maiden smiles to Herself
And dims her nakedness
With flowing robes and gold
The eyes that turned away
Open to the dimness
They turn to look again
With fear and longing great

In mute wonder they see
A paragon of beauty
Lustrous in gold
Clothed in shining silks
Hearts eased and pleased
They burst into songs
With more gold and silks
They deck Her with love

Ah, little do they know,
That Her nakedness
Adores Her ornaments
And shines through the silks
While the silks and gold
Twining around Her
Bask in stolen glory.

Written in 1981
Also see
http://www.writerscramp.ca/archives/visitor.htm
For penguin pic. Thanks to 
Footprints in the Snow - Jim Lenthall from
http://pixdaus.com/single.php?id=114136
For the other pic. thanks to 
the wonderful persons responsible whose link 
I am not finding right now. I intend to find it soon.