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When I listen to great, elevating music, I feel that being alive and being able to feel Music in all its subtle, nuanced glory that strikes the deepest chords of our inner reality, justifies being human, even though the consciousness that comes with humanness has such an immense burden.
I am sure this is how God convinced man to exist, by promising him the gift of Music.
Filed under: Poems
…Eventually,
We all collapsed,
Atom against atom,
Idea against idea,
Child against child.
When Blood was exhausted,
The voice of God,
The conscious one,
Died.
Silence.
Void.
Oblivion to oblivion.
God emerged; then,
Submerged — again,
into the folds of mystery.
Sleeping for aeons,
In infinity’s womb,
Until the purposelessness,
Creates him again.
Arduous birth,
Painful flowering,
Improbable triumph,
Just for destruction.
We decide,
if this must go on.
Alas, most of us
are sleep-walking.
Stop deluding yourself,
And wake the hell up!
…Who arrange colours to produce a picture, I teach.
The picture is not in the colours, nor in the canvas, nor in the plate…
(/ed: …but in the Mind. The same way, reality provides just the bare substrate as-is and
the Mind paints an objective world laden with meaning through cognition and the
entailed directed action.)
– Mahayana Buddhism, Lankavatara Sutra, Chapter 2, IX:118
This, right here,
Is unfathomable.
Happiness is possible,
But only that.
To fathom and be safe,
Thats impossible.
Fortunately.
Even God doesn’t know whats gonna happen next.
That’s the point, he’d claim –
“A creator with a plan,
Is no creator at all.
Think about it:
Would you make a movie
Who’s ending you knew,
And then buy popcorn to see it?”
And so, creation is his invitation:
Come, lets see what happens next.
There is one special ingredient, though,
that only he could add:
Infinite creativity.
So, if you think –
“This ended too bad”
“That ended too sad”
Forget all that,
This is a party,
Of infinite morphing into
Another infinite.
Nothing really goes anywhere,
And that’s the secret.
Knowing this deeply,
Is like jumping off the stage,
As shakespeare would put it.
You and I will turn to mud,
But hey, mud is not really that,
Useless. Give it some respect.
It creates life again, lots and lots
And lots of it and then some more.
That’s why creation is unfathomable.
If you think mud is pretty boring,
God will say, “Dude, you’re boring.
Have you ever asked an earthworm about mud?
No, right? because you think you’re my only son,
You arrogant monkey. Mud is awesome!”
What has this world
Come to be,
You can’t even trust mud,
To be uninteresting, see?
I feel the people who use the word “mundane”
for anything at all really, are really insane.
Forget about stocks, and the economee,
Come, hear creation’s philosophee,
Put some time in trying to see,
Creation from the million eyes of a bee.
(Or a dung-beetle for that matter,
For a poem on decomposing matter.
Don’t worry dear reader, I won’t disclose,
The gory details of that ode).
I don’t know what this poem is about. Really.
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Here are the boundaries,
My Mind knows,
But it keeps bleeding,
Beyond the borders,
To flow,
And flower,
In places I don’t know.
Come here my love,
Let me submerge,
In our love,
Slowly.
Let me feel you,
Your heart, soul,
Straining for me,
Placidly.
Give me your beauty,
So I’m imbued,
In its radiance,
Sunburnt.
Let your hair flow,
And ensconce me,
So I exhale,
Released.
We are here now,
With our love.
So be here,
Forever.
The kisses and caresses,
Are fickle, illusive.
But our dreams,
Real.
So come lets dream,
Plant a seed,
Of love here,
Now.
Slake a scorched world,
Which seeks just
One thing now,
Love.
Come, let us dissolve,
Forget our “I”s,
Into one Life,
Together.
This poem wrote itself. I wanted to write more but it just brought itself to a conclusion and wouldn’t budge. When I read it again, it didn’t feel incomplete at all. Strange feeling, but in a good way =).
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Found this beautiful poem recently, here. It expresses most scientists’ world-view, and might I add, mine too, so beautifully and evocatively that I just had to post it here. In today’s world of fanatical religiousness and the upcoming stupidity of fanatical atheism, this poem is a welcome relief.
From desert cliff and mountaintop we trace the wide design,
Strike-slip fault and overthrust and syn and anticline…
We gaze upon creation where erosion makes it known,
And count the countless aeons in the banding of the stone.
Odd, long-vanished creatures and their tracks & shells are found;
Where truth has left its sketches on the slate below the ground.
The patient stone can speak, if we but listen when it talks.
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the rocks.
There are those who name the stars, who watch the sky by night,
Seeking out the darkest place, to better see the light.
Long ago, when torture broke the remnant of his will,
Galileo recanted, but the Earth is moving still
High above the mountaintops, where only distance bars,
The truth has left its footprints in the dust between the stars.
We may watch and study or may shudder and deny,
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the sky.
By stem and root and branch we trace, by feather, fang and fur,
How the living things that are descend from things that were.
The moss, the kelp, the zebrafish, the very mice and flies,
These tiny, humble, wordless things — how shall they tell us lies?
We are kin to beasts; no other answer can we bring.
The truth has left its fingerprints on every living thing.
Remember, should you have to choose between them in the strife,
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote life.
And we who listen to the stars, or walk the dusty grade
Or break the very atoms down to see how they are made,
Or study cells, or living things, seek truth with open hand.
The profoundest act of worship is to try to understand.
Deep in flower and in flesh, in star and soil and seed,
The truth has left its living word for anyone to read.
So turn and look where best you think the story is unfurled.
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the world.
– Catherine Faber
A stone falls in a pond,
Ripples,
Some large, some tiny,
So many.
A hammer hits a piano string,
So many tones,
Some high, some low,
Trapped in time’s flow.
The weave of a cloth,
So intricate,
Threads here, there,
Meandering to a plan sublime.
Insects buzz around a light,
So beautiful,
Ripples on a shimmering mess,
Trapped in a plan divine.
The pattern matters,
The substrate does not.
The mind is like this,
Complex, beautiful, ephemeral,
Rippling thoughts, shimmering dreams,
Does it matter, in gray matter or what?
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Everyone faces a choice at one point in their life –
To not think and “be happy,”
Or think about how the world may be made a better place.
People are scared to think, because once you see clearly,
It becomes your inescapable burden to carry your will to fruition –
For everyone’s good and the only way to lasting personal happiness.
May we all be courageously thoughtful and deeply happy.
I love you, for your sweet smile,
Revealing those crooked teeth,
The infinite fuzz your hair are,
The way you fumble and screw up.
But most of all, I love the way,
I can talk to you endlessly.
You love me,
For that couple of hair on my head,
My skin like silt, The way I always,
Love to ride my hyperbole.
And my strength as a man,
Every time I cry on your shoulders.
But wait, don’t tell anyone:
You’re supposed to be my Prize – beautiful and elegant,
And I’m supposed to be your Man – handsome and strong.
In this world of mass-media superficiality
And capitalism-induced inadequacy,
True love will always be, our dirty little secret.
