Discarding daily ritualistic practices, Courageously chanting pragmatic didactics, This wondering monkey-mind Jumping from tree-to-tree Of thought-tiring theories, When relishes relief in a rare pose Is indeed, falling prey to the joy of praying, Surrenders to a momentary ecstasy, Eating a fruit of joy In ephemeral poise Without chattering mind’s noise, An epiphany hidden in ritualistic practice’s prayer - When the soul sheds layer after layer To meet the spiritual master Seated at the core of this oniony-self’s soul.
(Upon understanding the meaning of Yoga) Born without sense of ‘I’ We learn to identify Through words like ‘me’, ‘mine’ and ‘my’ All else is ‘All’, I am ‘I’ We let our ego fly high But salvation there does lie Where I is all and all is I Only if ego does die And we unlearn to say ‘I’ Then can the spirit rise high. See not all as all v/s I, Open the universal eye.
An ink-kissed author has fewer things to bother some things mandatory, While some come in handy an inkpot of ideas, a nib of words, a flow of emotions - blue, green, red, purplish, black, dark, grey, insolvent - a rhythmic flick of fingers tuning a thought that lingers, an unclenching fist and an unquenchable thirst, an unrestricted burst of poetry oozing out of every blob that stains - remains claims conquers remembers and reminds of some moment pushed behind by time yet served fresh again by the mind plated with a pinch perspective and forked, to help roll it completed before it gets chewed on to endlessly only until it is out in ink like a gush of water ultimately set free breaking stony belief, turning the direction of thoughts, regurgitating a pearl of wisdom, from the very bottom, raising the self above a selfly selfie of insights to see the other side, wear another skin, and be re-attired from within, an ornamented pearl then embellishing the sense of selflessness soaked in ink. For the love of ink, An ink-kissed author estranges -self- soliciting -solitude- in turn.
In Her Words
(For Eunice de Souza)
Her words and voice echo in the alleys of St. Xavier’s College, Bird flocks sing poetry in Vakola’s streets Her presence wins over her absence If she were buried at Westminster Abbey, she would’ve dressed in red and black With a necklace of skulls to complete her favourite look But, here at St. Anthony’s church... for her funeral, She lies in red and white wearing a necklace of silence Friends, relatives, students, fellow poets… call to her, their hearts recall Majesty of this magic lady, and melody of her tone. Her parrot may narrate the obituary she once wrote for Mr. Death Mr. Parrot finds death a Hasty man, with no manners to woo a lady, “At 77, isn’t she entitled to more before he could steal her breath so early?” says her parrot! Cynthia at Emie’s still waits to pedicure Eunice’s figurative poetic feet, Over Rita’s gossip and Miss Louise’s titbit. The priest at the church paused mid-word To see the visitor he saw as scandal-scintillating, now slain and dim. So swiftly she sailed off… to another world Of being in poetry. Being a poet, She searched for tales to turn to poetry, With surreptitious secretive glances Amongst the crowd at church or the chapel, or even the temple Across the street, where she found Prabhu for example. Perhaps, she too learnt from green-eyed furry friends, what she advised other women to learn - how to die alone! What she forgot, is advice on how to mourn The loss of a soul-sisterly poet, who wrote poems that helped you cope with life, and also with… what she euphemistically calls the otherness of lovers.