Sonnet — A Prayer to The Mother, on Day 3 of Navratri How many tomes have I perused, Scouring word and page for a clue From pile of words to dig and find The primordial name, the moniker true. How many lores have I mused upon, The genealogies of seers and their utterance Weaving myths where there is none Leaving us richer with new illusions! How many verses have I memorised, Chants from sanctified lips of yore That drew from heart a subtle sound To slay seeming appearance evermore.

Poem — A Prayer to The Mother, on Day 2 of Navratri Om. We summon these for the Yagña. Body is the altar. Swāha. Cardinal directions for sentinels. Swāha. Breath for conduit. Swāha. Limbs for implements. Swāha. Senses for ritual offerings. Swāha. Mind for attendant witness. Swāha. Aspiration-Fire for priest. Swāha. Atman/Soul for yagña host. Swāha. Hundred daemons for chorus. Swāha. Sound the summoner conch. Swāha.

Poem — A Prayer to The Mother, on Day 1 of Navratri Om. May the seat of our being be sanctified by Thee. Thus is our being sanctified. May the seat of our vision be sanctified by Thee. Thus is our vision sanctified. May the seat of our hearing be sanctified by Thee. Thus is our hearing sanctified. May the seat of our thinking be sanctified by Thee. Thus is our thinking sanctified. May the seat of our discrimination be sanctified by Thee. Thus is our discrimination sanctified.

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #76 And what then, what if Thou didst annul The brief circuit of long-sought pilgrimage, Rendered our daemon of memory dull To halt our hands bearing for Thee homage? Wouldst Thou Thy own name deface, Mar the edifice raised upon mind, Or roam distraught in heart’s temples And bespoil every sanctum cherished? Yield not to ways of a jilted suitor For all was and yet still is Thine, For the heart is not priced for barter When in adoration to Thee it was freely given.

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #75 Does it singe Thee, the passions fiery That slip restraint in severe summer sun? The flame-hounds that maul pitilessly Our every daily common affection. Does it numb Thee, the mortal winter, When shadow-robed Thou must prowl The crypts of heart housing our desire And silently vie to slay them all? Does it taint Thee, the impulse to mercy, When with Thy smiting might we plead, Appealing for last vestiges held dearly And by Thy effacing will to be spared?

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #74 Make me no more chronicler of Thy cycles, Standing on a turret within and watching The drama of siege upon cherished walls Ever the same danger and elation keeping. Make me no more a muse of ways human, Their themes circling a petty heart and mind, With avarice for bread of desire and passion wine On their bodies propped like a crown earned. Make me no more a warrior of Thy will, To roam and wander camps and coasts Like one cast out from home in exile And every face met is merely a stranger’s.

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #73 I rummaged the passing hours to find Some clue for the daily due I owed, The debt borne by us the clay-born For each new day brought by dawn. With scattered mind and fainting gaze I groped all thoughts in this maze, But all was sullen, stark and barren Under a reticent sun and tightlipped moon. But a mistress of silence held firm reign, No muse did sneak a defying whisper And imagination was lifeless and frozen; So on my oath did I helplessly dither.

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #72 Where dost Thou enlist Thy prophets, Like jugglers in a sparse country fare Swirling hued hollow words to please Bored toddlers evading a mother’s glare! Dost Thou seek in twilight’s taverns grimy The droopiest head awash with wine Mouthing for audience daily prophecy That in sober ears falls firmly undone! Dost Thou prowl a council of schemers Charting dull plots the dumb to dazzle, Who with sleight of word and phrase Rob the beggar of every redeeming will!

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #71 Bear not bitterness of old squabbles Born when soul naive-gazed and young With stumbling tottering excess Clutched like a toddler shining wrong! Nurse not the remembrance of quarrels, Vain disputation by my ignorance caused, Now shining darkly in vault of memories Like a dire black pearl in Thy offended mind! Wert Thou affronted by my touch cold When I bowed and held Thy feet, Arriving to Thy chamber utterly paupered By warmth wasted in the vain twilight?