I am an émigré from a sun afar,
Here upon a green globe my habitat,
Attired in earth-formed robe for a quest
To lure that Light into stubborn matter.
An occult agenda am here to fulfil,
To raise a sliver to perfection’s pitch
And from that height the spirit catch
To light every hour with uncommon thrill.
Upon my tongue is Her silver seal,
My lips shaped by hierophant hands
And mind that augurs happy portends
To conjure in all that Joy’s spell.
By my works I pay my dues O Earth,
Thou shalt not want for bliss and mirth.
Oh the births I have taken obeying Thy dictums;
I have been trapped in icy dew drops,
Flung from far above in frozen snowflakes,
I have tip toed on storms, sneaked past the furies,
I rode the humongous exulting waves roaring like an ambrosia drunk god,
I have perished in a million withered leafs,
Bloomed and bared my heart to Thee in numberless flowers.
From a thousand lips I have called Thy name,
Forgotten names of a thousand forms more that I bore for Thee.
And now, now, by another quill on another page I birth
A temple of words for Thee to dwell in.
How inelegant is this new birth of me
Like an infant drawn by mid-wife hands,
Wailing and bawling amidst familiar voices
And all but a haze the eyes can see.
Trapped in a form, the parts all unsure
Of their workings, a mixture of instinct
And will and thought and touch distinct,
Breathing and crawling upon earth floor.
Yet sometimes I sit within as a Sage
And belie my age to soar above thought
Far above these hours with cares wrought,
Briefly escaping the limits of this cage.
In me the man, the animal and the clod
Prepare now a dwelling for the coming God.
A surreal silence rises in inner terrains,
Only remain echoes of a dying clamour,
Strange result from this long endeavour.
I now survey for obvious hidden gains.
An observation cold undeceived by appearance,
The senses no more the signallers dominant.
A silence now grows the guide prominent
Leading to apt action in most daily hours.
The heart’s ocean no more sullied by storms,
The rude winds of passion are all quelled.
In the deeps mightier heavings are birthed
Summoning hero-thoughts, broodings of sages.
Upon placid waters of mind reflecting fall
The faint trace of many a revealing sun,
Dispassionate contemplation of musing moon
And sole mounting flame of aspiration’s call. …
Obeisance O veil, obeisance to thy covering zeal,
By thy acute obstructions amplifying the lures,
Masking thy benedictions, multiplying their force,
By thy aid surreal am flung into spaces ethereal.
Obeisance O ignorance, obeisance to thy clouded knowledge,
By thy extended guidance this terrain I wandered,
Learnt all thy pittance, thy nooses sundered,
My mind shall brood no more by thy privilege.
Obeisance O deceiver, obeisance to thy mixed parts,
Thy squint-eyed distortions and rule of misapplication,
Thy whispers of doubts and lure of bright ruination,
O usurper of progress, I cast asunder thy chains.
O triple-woe, O masks of the insidious Foe,
Gaze in my soul’s mirror and begone evermore.
My slate is emptied of all scrawls,
The chalked figurines laboriously drawn
Of conceptions made through night and morn
In this strange air that every desire kills.
Anchorless my will dwells floating by
Upon routine storms of time and fate,
The winds of becoming only grate
In this strange night of a cold moon-eye.
But draw up I must a newer dream,
Mine by muse a shining word,
By its light reforge all my world,
For not to yield did my soul birth assume.
This new battle I shall wage for Thee,
By Thy light that dwells in heart of me.
The clays I have shaped in human days,
Burnished in blazing kiln many a form
For a colloquy with Thee above our norm
But ever Thou receivest us with a silence.
The quills I have wielded over the ages
Inking in each epoch many an ode,
To trace in words Thy coming’s road,
Oh how my fingers quiver with remembrance.
The spears I have flung afar for Thee,
My ire raged like a quenchless forest-flame
Upon those who besmirched Thy name,
I surged upon all like a vehement sea.
The quests I have ventured with paltry feet
Upon lone cold shores and deep silent valleys,
Thinking and intuiting the key to Thy secrecies,
Never these limbs sought an unearned rest. …
How many vacillations have passed within,
Like the shifting seasons, a severe summer
Of hot labours, the pinings of warmthless winter
And a too brief wasted spring the cycle to begin.
How many masks the ego has passionately worn,
Such expense of passion to uphold an appearance,
Each a conduit for an energy’s emergence
But none satiates hunger of the soul here born.
Yet a settled certitude is born in me,
It lords my being and governs my thought,
Under its gaze my works are wrought.
It abides in an air my eyes can’t yet see.
O certitude, O herald begin thy summons,
May His coming end cycling human seasons.
Begone o impostor light of misleading glare,
Bearing the dubious torch of shadow ideals,
Luring my heart into depths of abyss-lands
From its chartered course to the distant star.
Begone o malicious voice of whispers untrue,
Singing a dirge fashioned from the poison
Extracted from the fangs of human reason
To fell my quest and my soul’s call to disprove.
Begone o enervating inability of exertions shy,
Stamping my each laboured seed of will,
Watering with doubt the sprout to kill
The voyage of my soul to its haven most high.
The triple debilitators I have bound in my being
To rend in a miraculous instant of His seeing.
How many twilights must the soul cross,
The seasons of transition that press upon
Each haggard hour leaving the past undone.
The new moments burden me with dross,
Of sombre melancholy unfolding slowly.
The keen ear forlornly awaits the voice
That would mark course on these waters,
Till then the days must go on plodding dully.