Archive for the 'poetry' Category

Some poems from two of Sri Chinmoy’s books

Many of Sri Chinmoy’s students read his poems and aphorisms as part of their meditation practice. Much of the time, people turn to his three major collections of aphorisms - Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, and Seventy-Seven Thousand Service Treees - but Sri Chinmoy also wrote many smaller collections of poetry as well. Here are some nice poems I found in two of these smaller collections:

From I Need only God:

How will you know
If you are divine?
You will know
If you are divine
When you discover
That without your body’s Himalayan achievements
The world can exist-
But not without your soul’s
One little smile.

I had many more lives.
I shall have many more lives.
But I have only one Master
And that is what I always want.
Who is my Master?
My own higher Self,
My Eternity’s All.

******

From Every Day a New Chance:

I may not know what it means
To be perfect,
But I do know what it means
To be happy.

Forgive
If you want to regain
The full freedom-joy
Of your mind and heart.

Not a fear-prompted prayer
But a love-inspired meditation
Can and does
Gladden God’s Heart.

(Photo by Pavitrata Taylor: Last August, when I was in New York visiting my teacher, some doves were released as part of a ceremony - this one, instead of flying off, stayed around till the end and then went)

Ode to Mother Kali

Mother Kali

They do not sell your statues in the shops, O Mother.
Buddha, Ganesh, Lakshmi, all in vogue,
adorning lobbies of comfortable houses,
prosperity to those who already have,
a scent of spirituality to mask the rot

but you, Mother, are not in fashion.
no marketing niche for you,
no category
the analytic mind sees you coming,
scythe gleaming in the sun
to once and for all
cleave the Real from the unreal
it drops everything
and flees

Mother, we talk amongst ourselves
about how life is suffering
life is unfair
sometimes I imagine
that when I get to the soul’s world
I can write God a strongly worded letter
demanding immediate and radical changes
to the Cosmic Game
before I agree to come back down again

but you,
you are just having the time of your life,
are you not?

and those who come to know your dance
can see it everywhere

I bet that was you
with your arms around your long-suffering servant
as the car gracefully pirouettes through the air
with him in it
I see you taunting the forces of death
just try
i dare you
i double triple dare you
touch him
go on
cross that line
and see what happens

I bet that was you
coasting inland
atop a chariot of tidal waves
gathering souls to yourself
like a blackjack dealer in Vegas
ready to spread them out again
on freshly-watered soils

I bet that was you
standing on top of the crossbar in 1988
when Charlie Redmond took that penalty
and you were laughing your head off

I bet that was you
dancing with a fury
and a speed
that makes you seem everywhere at once
stampeding through opposing armies
like a Nebraska linebacker
as tanks shatter through walls
as men pierce through boys
and the game gathers pace

And I know that is you
standing behind your chosen sons
the great Masters
who like the Buddha
will not move
will not sleep
until your six billion children
one by one
awaken
rub their eyes
and wonder why it took so long
to truly live

your dearest, dearest, dearest sons
dearer to you than your own Life
yet you strap them to the leaden harness of a human body
as they hold their nose and take the plunge
immersed and alone in the sea of ignorance
but you stand beside their bed
as they lie hooked up to the machine of maya
you hold their hands
as they siphon the ingratitude and begrudgery of the world
out through their very bones
Oh Mother, often I marvel how they can stay on earth for so long
and when I do
in the silence
then
I sense the starlit footprints of Your Compassion.

Mother, the PR department have been on to me
they say you are giving God a bad name
you are not projecting the right image
they have given me a 492-page manual on politically correct etiquette for cosmic gods
they want you to study it
they want you to put some clothes on
and behave yourself
maybe then, they say, they’ll even be able to sell your statues in the shops
but their stilted ideas about compassion
bind and blind compassion itself
because the more I discover you
I see your naked sword is indistinguishable from your cooling touch
your reaping is indistinguishable from your sowing
that the hour of death is as much your Compassion
as the hour of birth
and that the entire universe
is but a one-act play
of your Love

.

Don’t go back to sleep

For years, copying other people, I tried to know myself.
From within, I couldn’t decide what to do.
Unable to see, I heard my name being called.
Then I walked outside.


The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.

(Jaaludin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks)

I came across this gem on poetseers.org. I like poems like this that lay down the gauntlet and prod you out of any complacency you might be feeling. The mind can make everything seem mundane, even the spiritual life. And the spiritual life is the greatest adventure there is. Living at the limits of the possible, challenging your imperfections at any turn, witnessing little miracles of growth and transformation happen when you least expect them. It’s important to remember that.

(I read another poem on the same theme, if not quite in the same vein, yesterday - it was written by Vikramaditya, an American student of Sri Chinmoy. It was called ‘The Wrath of Vikramaditya’. The wrath was directed at anyone who had been practising meditation and had allowed the notion to creep into their minds that perhaps they can relax and let enlightenment come in the next incarnation or the one after that….there is indeed wrath in this poem, a lot of it, two pages worth to be exact, a big stick to Rumi’s little carrot - but perhaps both are needed, stick and carrot alike. Vikramaditya’s poem is available in the August 2005 edition of Panorama, a compilation of poetry prose and art created by Sri Chinmoy’s students from all around the world. Actually, I believe that is Prabhakar Street, one of the editors of Panorama, in the above photo, which was taken by Jowan Gauthier)

 

Plato, Aristotle, Yeats and Kavanagh

Two philosophers - Plato and Aristotle. Both had the same question - what is reality? Plato held that what is truly Real is to be found in the eternal ideals that never change no matter what happens on earth, his one-time student Aristotle disagreed. No, the real is here, in everyday life, in objects that can be measured and quantified.

Kedar at Sri Chinmoy Centre galleries

Two and a half thousand years later, we had two Irish poets - W.B Yeats and Patrick Kavanagh, and yet the same differing viewpoints on where the real is to be found. Yeats, the idealist, immersed in the philosophy of the East (where some people say Plato and Socrates got their inspiration from), quoted the following lines in Sailing to Byzantium:

Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

And we can see again here a yearning for something beyond worldly experience in these lines from ‘A Stolen Child’:

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

In contrast, we have Kavanagh, the small farmer growing seeing God in the fields and banks hedgrows of his native Monaghan, in the everyday goings-on of country life, as expressed so beautifully in his poem Innocence:

Cavan farm

They laughed at one I loved-
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love’s doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.

Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?

I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women,
Nothing of cities,
I cannot die
Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

When I was studying both of them at school, I definitely sympathised more with Kavanagh. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that both my parents came from very close to where he lived so I had a real feeling for the landscape, but also I was never keen on the excessive symbolism employed by Yeats (still am’nt - is am’nt a word?). But also I was very drawn to his way of seeing beauty in the everyday, in the here and now.

It’s funny, they always say you become more conservative as you grow older - less idealistic and more practical, less Platonic and more Aristotelian. I think the opposite is happening with me - not totally, mind, I still have a healthy avoidance of pure ideas that cannot be verified in the inner laboratory of the heart - but, like Yeats, I am beginning to look more and more for my inspiration to a higher reality rather in than the to and fro of everyday life.

Ultimately, however, I think both philosophies are just two matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that Eastern philosophy has managed to put together for thousands of years. My own teacher, Sri Chinmoy, being very much immersed in this timeless stream of Oriental wisdom, often refers to the transcendent Reality and the everyday reality as ‘God the Creator’ and ‘God the Creation’ . We can see that the Creation has been evolving and becoming more perfect, evolving more and more into the idea of the Creator to which it aspires. However - and this is the beautiful thread that links the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle together - that the creation can only evolve once we love and accept it for what it is. As Sri Chinmoy says: “We have to accept the world as it is now. If we don’t accept a thing, how can we transform it? If a potter does not touch the lump of clay, how is he going to shape it into a pot? The world around us is not perfect, but we also are not perfect. Perfect perfection has not yet dawned. We have to know that humanity at present is far, far from perfection. But we are also members of that humanity. How are we going to discard our brothers and sisters who are our veritable limbs? I cannot discard my arm; it is impossible. Similarly, when we meditate soulfully, devotedly, we have to accept humanity as our very own.”

Not only can the two go together, but adopting one to the exclusion of the other tends to an imbalance - For example, those who rely too much on Platonic ideals tend to try to create a utopian society which, as the philosopher Karl Popper argued, can quickly turn into a totalitarian one because not everyone sees the Truth in their own way. But those who go to the other extreme might also lose any sight of a higher goal to life, and stay ensnared in the weary cyclical churn of events without making any forward movement. So there is a need for a ‘middle path’, just like that advocated by that most well known exponent of Eastern wisdom - the Buddha. Although the Buddha’s philosophy is always said by many to be mind-based, I always feel the ‘middle path’ is something that can always be felt by going inside your own heart and listening to the inner feeling you get there, whereas following the mind is always what drives one to extremes. And here too is no different - one can place oneself in the peace and vastness of heart, as it aspires upwards to the Platonic goal, and at the same time reaches outwards in Aristotelian empathy with the myriad forms of life.