broken world – monsoon clouds like Band-aid strips on an ebbing sky
Alternating between banal work and the feverish dystopia of my newsfeed, it does feel, sometimes, like the world is coming apart in an insane hurry, everywhere. In the middle of war and hate and climate change and the pandemic, if there is a safe place, it seems like it is getting smaller and smaller or fading away in the fog. Meanwhile, there’s poetry, rare but still able to say that, once, there was a time, somewhere, safe enough so a poet could, for a while, put pen to paper.
even in a parallel universe – is there this longing, this poem?
I’ve been an infrequent visitor to my blog. Sometimes I write and some of it finds its way to Instagram, the blog, however, is languishing… and nothing, it appears, can do away with Covid or create the mindspace for focused blogging, focused writing, focused anything. But, in the middle of pandemic listlessness, absent inspiration, disappeared muse and a time-devouring day job, I’m compiling a book. More on that, when the path stops being so utterly uphill. Hope to read all your posts this week and write more-post more-read more…think I miss this space… more than I realized. Stay safe all…the planet of the variants is not a friendly place.
The subtle within us beguiles with its
mystique. It is tranquil lake and tempest. It
is home and grave. The only way to know
the unknown is to accept that it will
immediately change places with the known. Nirvana like a river is constantly renewed.
To find myself, I have to go back to the
beginning. To the bottom of a spade as
it hits the earth. To the edge of the wind
as it brushes a star. To the void that had
no door, no womb, no face, no name. To
find myself, I have to find that nothing.
Your desire for love defies the fear that
bookends it. Finding and losing both
unfasten stars from the sky. Will you give up
this world for the one without expectations?
What thoughts came to you when you
sat cross-legged under that peepal tree?
Without a word, how will there be
meaning? We fabricate love from thirty
senses. But love can only water a parched
desert. You cannot plant a tree on a tree.
If your heart is not already broken, what
will Ghalib’s thousand desires heal?
What is proportion if you cannot comprehend
infinity? What is magnificence if you cannot calibrate
inadequacy? The baby Krishna opened his mouth to
show his mother his cosmic form. Can you feel that
mystery of being? And wonder why the ultimate creation
was so deliberately crafted out of fragile ephemera?
How much happiness is enough? How much
love is essential? Does enough run to the edge
of the universe or can a solitary umbrella of stars
make up your night? The moon’s dharma is to
keep going back to the beginning. What will
you do with a love that never stops wanting?
Arjuna and Subhadra: Raja Ravi Varma
Previous: Tao inspirations #8
Follow series on Instagram: @tp_poetry