Tag Archives: Poem

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Body And The Universe: By Madathil Rajendran Nair

. Advaita and Yoga, ART & POETRY, INSPIRATIONAL . ,

Close your eyes and still,
Feel your body
Part by part.

And, as you begin to drown
In slumber’s sweet hold,
Mountains pop up,
As do vales, waterfalls
Green trees, vast landscapes,
Stars and the Milky Way.

The body is all that,
Part by part!
The body is the Universe,
You are the body
And you are all!

A magnificent pulsation
Without parts and
Without a beyond!
Be just aware
And remain
Your own ecstatic self.

[Inspired by the poem “We Encountered The House Of Realization”  by Yunus Emre (1238 – 1320)]

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Lotus Land: By Madathil Rajendran Nair

. ART & POETRY . , ,

LOTUS LAND

India is a lotus land,
In full bloom, all white and red.
We begin our days
Saluting the Lord of the Day,
Who rises holding a white lotus
On a chariot of seven horses.

Our Goddesses of Word and Wealth
Are seated on lotuses,
One white and the other red
Oh, ours is land of lotuses.

We beat our chest
And say “I, I, I am the best”,
Our Sage says:
“That “I” is not you,
Look underneath
What you beat,
There is a lotus,
Lotus of the heart,
Your sacred retreat,
The divine habitat.”.

India is a lotus land,
In full bloom, all white and red.
I was a boy in teens
In my native Kerala,
A land full of ponds,
Who once swam a silver pool
In the early morning sun
To pluck a lotus
For his blushful girlfriend.

His feet got caught
In the mesh underneath,
In the netty knottiness
Of intricate roots.
He struggled hard to extricate
Himself in anguish and panic.

For the first time in life
Fear of death he tasted.
Lotuses all around
Looked and smiled,
They gave him hope
And enthused him to fight.

When at last the Lord
Helped him back to land
To hand the flower to the anxious lass,
He saw bees in her lashes
Hovering over red lotuses –
Her blushful cheeks,
And forgot all about
The struggle just bygone

Swinging to and fro,
Between pain and smile,
He grew up to learn
About the six circles
Of the Kundalini.
Each one was a lotus again
Of different number of petals,
The last one on the crown
In full bloom with thousand leaves
Where his Ma resides
As his resplendent Self.

And when he slept
He knew he was a pond
Of countless lotuses,
In full bloom, all white and red –
A body of shining water
With blossoms smiling all over.

Oh India is a lotus land,
In full bloom, all white and red,
Listening to the lullaby of the stars.

Madathil Rajendran Nair

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Mumbai In My Tears: By Madathil Rajendran Nair

. ART & POETRY . , ,

Impotent we stand and witness
The gruesome terror senseless,
As Mumbai weeps
Her sons and daughters fall in acts of bravery
Sanguine buds in a sacrificial pit
In the darkness of November nights.

Mumbai lies bleeding again.
She has seen her children die
In riots, blasts and fire,
Mowed down again
In a nightmare
By wickedness unparalleled,
Devilish and devious.

Her lap was home
For all those who came
From distant lands
Indian and abroad.
She was home for the persecuted
From all over the globe,
A cultured madam to the sailors,
Who set foot on her shores,
In their quest for gold and scents,
Gems, wisdom and condiments.

In you were blended, dear Mumbai,
Passion, culture, spice of life,
Hidden beneath your wealth and posh
Was always an unseen bond
That tied us rich and poor
All alike like gleaming gems
In a necklace of Indian-ness.

We walked your streets
Like in a dream
As do romantic leads
In fairy-tales feathery light
Played on our silver-screens.
Our goals were sure,
Our eyes azure,
We never had time for care,
Your embrace was so secure.

Temples, churches, and mosques we built
Together in one-nation spirit.
For something sacred from our past
Told us we were never apart.

We cackled like Diwali crackers
As we feasted Ramadan nights,
We smiled like Christmas morning
We were always one and one.

Misguided religion, death and terror,
Our enemies have them without any measure.
They are indeed a vilely lot,
Who place bombs in market hearts,
Desecrate all our holy hearths,
Shoot and kill us sans any thought.

A nation cries aloud to heavens
To send her savior daughters and sons,
Alas! in the pitch darkness around
Will she ever find those dear ones?
Will her prayers ever be heard?

Will he come half-clad,
With a disarming smile, bespectacled,
Holding a walking stick, of concrete will,
Speaking a language of peace?
Or will she be seen serving the poorest of the poor
With a message to set us free
In Love’s Universal Consciousness?

OM SHANTIH, SHANTIH,  SHANTIHI

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A Dedication to My Father on His 70th Birthday: By Harsh K. Luthar

. PERSONAL, TEACHERS . , , , , , , , ,

My father was my protector and best friend. I wrote the following in 1996 when my Father turned 70 as a dedication to him. The picture is of him at 72 holding my daughter. It was taken in the summer of 1998.

The last wonderful summer my father and I spent together was in 2003. Several months later in November of 2003 he fell ill. After that I was only able to see him at the hospital. My father passed away in early 2004 at the age of 78. I think of him everyday.

Summer time with my Father – 1998

A Dedication to My Father on His 70th Birthday in 1996

My father was a mathematics professor. He is now retired. I saw him spend countless hours writing papers and constructing new math problems. He involved the whole family in helping him with an undergraduate math journal, Delta, that he had founded, and of which he was both the editor and the publisher. It was too much work for one man, but my father persisted in doing the impossible for years. Delta later merged with the Mathematics Magazine issued by the Mathematics Association of America. We were all happy when that happened!

My father spent a lot of his evenings grading math exams. This used to irritate my mother. “Must you spend so much time reading student exams? Give them a grade and get it over with,” she would say. He usually replied, “What do you think I teach, sociology or philosophy? Can I just read the first and the last line and give a grade!” Then he would laugh heartily feeling he had uttered a profound truth.

My father actually loves the humanities but is of the opinion that everyone should have concrete skills to earn a living. He never hesitated to express his views to me and others about education. Once, in order to demonstrate the superiority of learning math over other disciplines he said to his colleague who taught astronomy the following: “If our students know math and statistics they can get a job at the plant (he was referring to the local GM Plant). If they take astronomy and don’t get a job what will they do? How will they eat? Maybe they can go to your house and you can all watch the stars together on an empty stomach!” My father thought what he had said was quite funny, although the astronomy professor did not. The following poem is dedicated to my father.

PROFESSORS DON’T GROW OLD

Professors don’t grow old

they just grade away

like a master jeweler

who has to differentiate

between precious rubies and stones

who with a heavy heart sings

and then has to part

with diamond rings

that must end up on

someone else’s finger.

Professors don’t grow old

they just grade away

like a gardener who

asks the birds to stay

in the nest he has made

so they can rest in the shade

of the tree of wisdom

carefully pruned

standing in the luscious grass

only to see them fly away.

Cool breezes and the

fresh waters of knowledge

is what we received

in the college

that was my father’s heart.

Yes, professors don’t grow old

they just grade away

and then slowly fade away

to pictures on the walls

leaving nothing behind

but the touch of ideas

given with humor and kindness

and their smiling eyes

bubbling forever in our mind.

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Through the Veil: By Joyce Sweinberg

. ART & POETRY . ,

flower

Misty mystical morn
born of last evening’s tempest,
clothed in Maya’s veil.

Children of the cloudbursts return to the source,
dancing reflections of Infinity
rising to the call of the Beloved.

Lingering droplets, moist and luminescent
reflections of Infinity
playing in the filtered light of the sun.

Laden with the fullness of nothingness,
quiet clouds of misty air dancing, glistening, listening
to the music of the morning.

Hark! the birds are calling,
declaring the perfection of All That Is Brahman.
Let me not care for reason!

flower

Photographs courtesy of Joyce Sweinberg

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The Ascent: By Madathil Rajendran Nair

. ART & POETRY, INSPIRATIONAL . ,

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A mountain side afire,
Crimsonness aflame,
Seated Mother drowned in your thought,
The flame of forest I am.
A perineal flow of molten lava
That weaves serpent-like,
Breathing heat and fire alike,
That is how You begin
Raising Your head
Answering the call,
The call of my Immortality!

Thunder claps aloud,
Lightning streaks the skies,
It rains on the peaks
Setting rivers in rage,
Down abdominal foothills.
Mother, I am
A deluge
Of joy nonpareil,
Electric, ecstatic.
That is how you move,
Answering the call,
The call of my Immortality!

The earth splits apart
To show her mines
Of dazzling gold and gems.
Mother, I am
Your red robe sprinkled
With golden dots,
Covering the navel
That upholds
Creation from dust to stars.
That is how you smile
Answering the call,
The call of my Immortality!

Heart beats a rhythm,
As sanguine turns
The skies around
Into vastness unbound.
Rosy redness I am.
Where I borrow the hue,
There you are,
Humbling the damsel dawn
In her blushful sheen,
Answering the call,
The call of my Immortality!

Air sings your glory,
Tunnels of light awake,
Up the bronchial paths,
As sounds of music play,
Distant anklets clank.
A sky of quiet I am,
Drowned in a joyous brood
That the breeze soothes
Into sky-like evanescence.
That is your ascent,
Answering the call,
The call of my Immortality!

A temple zooms upward,
As space stands aghast,
Time loses her support,
Events come to naught,
A boundless beauty dawns
On the temple heart.
There You are!
Mother of all!
Seated on a matchless throne,
Fondling the strings
Of my being on your lap,
To play an eternal note,
Answering the call,
The call of my Immortality!

Galaxies in spate
Glitter the crown
That adorns a forehead
Where countless skies
Find at last their resting place.
Light-years without a count
Lose their way,
Listening to an immortal lullaby,
And seeking their essence
In the moist eyes,
Oceans of kindness.
Mother, You are
Seated on the Lotus
Of a thousand petals,
All crimson red,
Like a sunset
That human eyes
Have never ever beheld.
There You are! Mother!
My own Immortality!

Vanquished distance cries,
With time undone,
In the ocean
Of your magnificence
Of unsurpassed shine.
Unwanted are the eyes
To know it all
In me the fullest thing,
For You are the One,
Brittle mortality beheld
So far with a wrinkled mind
And blinded eyes,
As it did a distant star
In the wilderness of the skies.

With your ascent now made,
You have never been
Other than the unknowing me.
Mindless, formless here I burn,
A speck of camphor at your Feet,
In an endless flame
That never can be
Other than You, my Immortality.

Image can be found at www.vishvarupa.com

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Mr. Madathil Rajendran Nair was born in 1946. He is currently stationed in the Middle East working as a PRO for an Oil Company. Mr. Nair is a prolific contributor to Yahoo Group Advaitin on Vedanta and a Moderator of the Group. He often writes at other Yahoo Groups too, which focus on spirituality. He dabbles with poetry in English and Malayalam, his native tongue, but has no published works yet.

Note: Perineal = Of the perineum corresponding to the first cakrA

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Freedom: By Jeff Belyea

. ART & POETRY . ,

poison

Poison tipped
white lies
Fly Swiftly
Their whispered hissings
Silently decry
My burgundy dark deeds
These arrows drunk
With excessive wine
Still easily find
Their mark
Sharp merciless fangs
Drag me to the ground
Biting wounding truths
Have found me out
Pleading for release
I am left bleeding
Deep blue eons of time
Confine me find me
In a beggar’s grip
But then I am delivered
Before the queen of kindness
Who melts my chains
Lays claim to my sanity
And grants my
Freedom

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You Would Have Made A Splendid Old Lady

. ART & POETRY, PERSONAL . , ,

jerry

Dedication for Jerry and Dolores

When I first met Jerry Katz, Jerry was a happy go lucky philosopher and expounder of wisdom with no website. I was in the same boat and having fun. Jerry and I often debated about profound things and hurled wisdom filled words at each other. Jerry was good at ducking though. If a discussion did not go his way, Jerry would shift positions, saying that words do not mean much anyway. If I said Truth and Love were the same, Jerry would insist that Truth was higher than Love. If I said that Self was the highest Truth, Jerry would say no, there is something higher than Self. If I quoted Ramana, Jerry would quote Nisargadatta. If I read lines from Robert Frost, Jerry would take out his Walt Whitman poetry. If I talked about health foods, Jerry would talk about the donut shop that he goes to every morning. You get the drift. Jerry and I had to argue a little on a daily basis. All friendly stuff. Jerry never gets mad. Well, actually Jerry does swear sometimes.

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