His name was not written in the heavens or the stars
But scratched out in the beer stains of a hundred bars or more
And in the sawdust on the floor
Where he often woke.

I spoke to Marlon once,or twice
Over a pint or two
The only way how Marlon knew
To converse.

I did not think him bad or worse than any other drunkard
I had come across
And Marlon,himself was at a loss to explain away
The drink that sunk him every day.

The beer that flowed instead of blood within his veins
Appeared to play games with his head.
Marlon blamed it all instead
On politics and the tricks they used to abuse this man
Whose only plan
Was to drink.

His friends were few and of those that knew him well
Knew he was heading straight to hell.
The day he fell
The day that it all came to an end
He was holding court with others of that sort down on the quay
With a free beer in his hand..too close to the open fire and
Whoosh..with a mighty roar
The fire caught hold and Marlon swore
But took time to take another drink,waste not want no more.
The fire engines tore up to the docks
Found a pair of striped singed socks and one burnt boot.

Poor Marlon turned to soot and ash
Rather rash to sit so near an open fire
While full of beer.

The cortege stretched for miles
And every man jack had a pack of crisps, a pint of beer
And drank a toast to Marlon Gere.
Farewell dear Marlon you were a hoot
Now you're just a bag of soot.
Goodbye dear friend
We'll send you the bill
But first of course
We'll drink our fill.

Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept
soundly, but Jove was wakeful, for he was thinking how to do honour to
Achilles, and destroyed much people at the ships of the Achaeans. In
the end he deemed it would be best to send a lying dream to King
Agamemnon; so he called one to him and said to it, “Lying Dream, go to
the ships of the Achaeans, into the tent of Agamemnon, and say to
him word to word as I now bid you. Tell him to get the Achaeans
instantly under arms, for he shall take Troy. There are no longer
divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them to her own
mind, and woe betides the Trojans.”
  The dream went when it had heard its message, and soon reached the
ships of the Achaeans. It sought Agamemnon son of Atreus and found him
in his tent, wrapped in a profound slumber. It hovered over his head
in the likeness of Nestor, son of Neleus, whom Agamemnon honoured
above all his councillors, and said:-
  “You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his
host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his
sleep. Hear me at once, for I come as a messenger from Jove, who,
though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you. He
bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take
Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has
brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at
the hands of Jove. Remember this, and when you wake see that it does
not escape you.”
  The dream then left him, and he thought of things that were,
surely not to be accomplished. He thought that on that same day he was
to take the city of Priam, but he little knew what was in the mind
of Jove, who had many another hard-fought fight in store alike for
Danaans and Trojans. Then presently he woke, with the divine message
still ringing in his ears; so he sat upright, and put on his soft
shirt so fair and new, and over this his heavy cloak. He bound his
sandals on to his comely feet, and slung his silver-studded sword
about his shoulders; then he took the imperishable staff of his
father, and sallied forth to the ships of the Achaeans.
  The goddess Dawn now wended her way to vast Olympus that she might
herald day to Jove and to the other immortals, and Agamemnon sent
the criers round to call the people in assembly; so they called them
and the people gathered thereon. But first he summoned a meeting of
the elders at the ship of Nestor king of Pylos, and when they were
assembled he laid a cunning counsel before them.
  “My friends,” said he, “I have had a dream from heaven in the dead
of night, and its face and figure resembled none but Nestor’s. It
hovered over my head and said, ‘You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one
who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his
shoulders should dock his sleep. Hear me at once, for I am a messenger
from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and
pities you. He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you
shall take Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the
gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides
the Trojans at the hands of Jove. Remember this.’ The dream then
vanished and I awoke. Let us now, therefore, arm the sons of the
Achaeans. But it will be well that I should first sound them, and to
this end I will tell them to fly with their ships; but do you others
go about among the host and prevent their doing so.”
  He then sat down, and Nestor the prince of Pylos with all
sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus: “My friends,” said he,
“princes and councillors of the Argives, if any other man of the
Achaeans had told us of this dream we should have declared it false,
and would have had nothing to do with it. But he who has seen it is
the foremost man among us; we must therefore set about getting the
people under arms.”
  With this he led the way from the assembly, and the other sceptred
kings rose with him in obedience to the word of Agamemnon; but the
people pressed forward to hear. They swarmed like bees that sally from
some hollow cave and flit in countless throng among the spring
flowers, bunched in knots and clusters; even so did the mighty
multitude pour from ships and tents to the assembly, and range
themselves upon the wide-watered shore, while among them ran
Wildfire Rumour, messenger of Jove, urging them ever to the fore. Thus
they gathered in a pell-mell of mad confusion, and the earth groaned
under the ***** of men as the people sought their places. Nine heralds
went crying about among them to stay their tumult and bid them
listen to the kings, till at last they were got into their several
places and ceased their clamour. Then King Agamemnon rose, holding his
sceptre. This was the work of Vulcan, who gave it to Jove the son of
Saturn. Jove gave it to Mercury, slayer of Argus, guide and
guardian. King Mercury gave it to Pelops, the mighty charioteer, and
Pelops to Atreus, shepherd of his people. Atreus, when he died, left
it to Thyestes, rich in flocks, and Thyestes in his turn left it to be
borne by Agamemnon, that he might be lord of all Argos and of the
isles. Leaning, then, on his sceptre, he addressed the Argives.
  “My friends,” he said, “heroes, servants of Mars, the hand of heaven
has been laid heavily upon me. Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise
that I should sack the city of Priam before returning, but he has
played me false, and is now bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos
with the loss of much people. Such is the will of Jove, who has laid
many a proud city in the dust, as he will yet lay others, for his
power is above all. It will be a sorry tale hereafter that an
Achaean host, at once so great and valiant, battled in vain against
men fewer in number than themselves; but as yet the end is not in
sight. Think that the Achaeans and Trojans have sworn to a solemn
covenant, and that they have each been numbered—the Trojans by the
roll of their householders, and we by companies of ten; think
further that each of our companies desired to have a Trojan
householder to pour out their wine; we are so greatly more in number
that full many a company would have to go without its cup-bearer.
But they have in the town allies from other places, and it is these
that hinder me from being able to sack the rich city of Ilius. Nine of
Jove years are gone; the timbers of our ships have rotted; their
tackling is sound no longer. Our wives and little ones at home look
anxiously for our coming, but the work that we came hither to do has
not been done. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say: let us sail
back to our own land, for we shall not take Troy.”
  With these words he moved the hearts of the multitude, so many of
them as knew not the cunning counsel of Agamemnon. They surged to
and fro like the waves of the Icarian Sea, when the east and south
winds break from heaven’s clouds to lash them; or as when the west
wind sweeps over a field of corn and the ears bow beneath the blast,
even so were they swayed as they flew with loud cries towards the
ships, and the dust from under their feet rose heavenward. They
cheered each other on to draw the ships into the sea; they cleared the
channels in front of them; they began taking away the stays from
underneath them, and the welkin rang with their glad cries, so eager
were they to return.
  Then surely the Argives would have returned after a fashion that was
not fated. But Juno said to Minerva, “Alas, daughter of
aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, shall the Argives fly home to their
own land over the broad sea, and leave Priam and the Trojans the glory
of still keeping Helen, for whose sake so many of the Achaeans have
died at Troy, far from their homes? Go about at once among the host,
and speak fairly to them, man by man, that they draw not their ships
into the sea.”
  Minerva was not slack to do her bidding. Down she darted from the
topmost summits of Olympus, and in a moment she was at the ships of
the Achaeans. There she found Ulysses, peer of Jove in counsel,
standing alone. He had not as yet laid a hand upon his ship, for he
was grieved and sorry; so she went close up to him and said, “Ulysses,
noble son of Laertes, are you going to fling yourselves into your
ships and be off home to your own land in this way? Will you leave
Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, for whose sake
so many of the Achaeans have died at Troy, far from their homes? Go
about at once among the host, and speak fairly to them, man by man,
that they draw not their ships into the sea.”
  Ulysses knew the voice as that of the goddess: he flung his cloak
from him and set off to run. His servant Eurybates, a man of Ithaca,
who waited on him, took charge of the cloak, whereon Ulysses went
straight up to Agamemnon and received from him his ancestral,
imperishable staff. With this he went about among the ships of the
Achaeans.
  Whenever he met a king or chieftain, he stood by him and spoke him
fairly. “Sir,” said he, “this flight is cowardly and unworthy. Stand
to your post, and bid your people also keep their places. You do not
yet know the full mind of Agamemnon; he was sounding us, and ere
long will visit the Achaeans with his displeasure. We were not all
of us at the council to hear what he then said; see to it lest he be
angry and do us a mischief; for the pride of kings is great, and the
hand of Jove is with them.”
  But when he came across any common man who was making a noise, he
struck him with his staff and rebuked him, saying, “Sirrah, hold
your peace, and listen to better men than yourself. You are a coward
and no soldier; you are nobody either in fight or council; we cannot
all be kings; it is not well that there should be many masters; one
man must be supreme—one king to whom the son of scheming Saturn has
given the sceptre of sovereignty over you all.”
  Thus masterfully did he go about among the host, and the people
hurried back to the council from their tents and ships with a sound as
the thunder of surf when it comes crashing down upon the shore, and
all the sea is in an uproar.
  The rest now took their seats and kept to their own several
places, but Thersites still went on wagging his unbridled tongue—a
man of many words, and those unseemly; a monger of sedition, a
railer against all who were in authority, who cared not what he
said, so that he might set the Achaeans in a laugh. He was the ugliest
man of all those that came before Troy—bandy-legged, lame of one
foot, with his two shoulders rounded and hunched over his chest. His
head ran up to a point, but there was little hair on the top of it.
Achilles and Ulysses hated him worst of all, for it was with them that
he was most wont to wrangle; now, however, with a shrill squeaky voice
he began heaping his abuse on Agamemnon. The Achaeans were angry and
disgusted, yet none the less he kept on brawling and bawling at the
son of Atreus.
  “Agamemnon,” he cried, “what ails you now, and what more do you
want? Your tents are filled with bronze and with fair women, for
whenever we take a town we give you the pick of them. Would you have
yet more gold, which some Trojan is to give you as a ransom for his
son, when I or another Achaean has taken him prisoner? or is it some
young girl to hide and lie with? It is not well that you, the ruler of
the Achaeans, should bring them into such misery. Weakling cowards,
women rather than men, let us sail home, and leave this fellow here at
Troy to stew in his own meeds of honour, and discover whether we
were of any service to him or no. Achilles is a much better man than
he is, and see how he has treated him—robbing him of his prize and
keeping it himself. Achilles takes it meekly and shows no fight; if he
did, son of Atreus, you would never again insult him.”
  Thus railed Thersites, but Ulysses at once went up to him and
rebuked him sternly. “Check your glib tongue, Thersites,” said be,
“and babble not a word further. Chide not with princes when you have
none to back you. There is no viler creature come before Troy with the
sons of Atreus. Drop this chatter about kings, and neither revile them
nor keep harping about going home. We do not yet know how things are
going to be, nor whether the Achaeans are to return with good
success or evil. How dare you gibe at Agamemnon because the Danaans
have awarded him so many prizes? I tell you, therefore—and it shall
surely be—that if I again catch you talking such nonsense, I will
either forfeit my own head and be no more called father of Telemachus,
or I will take you, strip you stark naked, and whip you out of the
assembly till you go blubbering back to the ships.”
  On this he beat him with his staff about the back and shoulders till
he dropped and fell a-weeping. The golden sceptre raised a ****** weal
on his back, so he sat down frightened and in pain, looking foolish as
he wiped the tears from his eyes. The people were sorry for him, yet
they laughed heartily, and one would turn to his neighbour saying,
“Ulysses has done many a good thing ere now in fight and council,
but he never did the Argives a better turn than when he stopped this
fellow’s mouth from prating further. He will give the kings no more of
his insolence.”
  Thus said the people. Then Ulysses rose, sceptre in hand, and
Minerva in the likeness of a herald bade the people be still, that
those who were far off might hear him and consider his council. He
therefore with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus:-
  “King Agamemnon, the Achaeans are for making you a by-word among all
mankind. They forget the promise they made you when they set out
from Argos, that you should not return till you had sacked the town of
Troy, and, like children or widowed women, they murmur and would set
off homeward. True it is that they have had toil enough to be
disheartened. A man chafes at having to stay away from his wife even
for a single month, when he is on shipboard, at the mercy of wind
and sea, but it is now nine long years that we have been kept here;
I cannot, therefore, blame the Achaeans if they turn restive; still we
shall be shamed if we go home empty after so long a stay—therefore,
my friends, be patient yet a little longer that we may learn whether
the prophesyings of Calchas were false or true.
  “All who have not since perished must remember as though it were
yesterday or the day before, how the ships of the Achaeans were
detained in Aulis when we were on our way hither to make war on
Priam and the Trojans. We were ranged round about a fountain
offering hecatombs to the gods upon their holy altars, and there was a
fine plane-tree from beneath which there welled a stream of pure
water. Then we saw a prodigy; for Jove sent a fearful serpent out of
the ground, with blood-red stains upon its back, and it darted from
under the altar on to the plane-tree. Now there was a brood of young
sparrows, quite small, upon the topmost bough, peeping out from
under the leaves, eight in all, and their mother that hatched them
made nine. The serpent ate the poor cheeping things, while the old
bird flew about lamenting her little ones; but the serpent threw his
coils about her and caught her by the wing as she was screaming. Then,
when he had eaten both the sparrow and her young, the god who had sent
him made him become a sign; for the son of scheming Saturn turned
him into stone, and we stood there wondering at that which had come to
pass. Seeing, then, that such a fearful portent had broken in upon our
hecatombs, Calchas forthwith declared to us the oracles of heaven.
‘Why, Achaeans,’ said he, ‘are you thus speechless? Jove has sent us
this sign, long in coming, and long ere it be fulfilled, though its
fame shall last for ever. As the serpent ate the eight fledglings
and the sparrow that hatched them, which makes nine, so shall we fight
nine years at Troy, but in the tenth shall take the town.’ This was
what he said, and now it is all coming true. Stay here, therefore, all
of you, till we take the city of Priam.”
  On this the Argives raised a shout, till the ships rang again with
the uproar. Nestor, knight of Gere

Dear friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that one of my favourite Hollywood actor Richard Gere had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen, I composed in a simple format about the same. Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.


                    ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!

In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit  word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation',  -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!

ZEN could be practised in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
-  preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an Elusive
After-Life’!
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolising Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, when, or how? ',
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
                                                      - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.

Mon papa, c'est le plus fort des papas.
Mon papa, c'est le plus beau des papas.
Mon papa, même quand il est fatigué, on dirait Richard Gere.
Mon papa, même si il est carnivore, moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand il mange, on dirait qu'il a 5 ans, mais moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, il a des voitures super cool qui font vroom.
Mon papa, quand il conduit, on dirait Michel Vaillant, même pas peur.
Mon papa, quand il me dit bonne nuit, j'ai même plus peur.
Les monstres sous mon lit, eux, ils se désintègrent avec la force des bisous de mon papa.
Mon papa, parfois, il ronfle et je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand on est dans la piscine, il joue au crocrodile avec nous.
Mon papa, quand il porte des choses, les manches de sa chemise se déchire sous les   muscles.
Mon papa, avec une barbe, on dirait un homme des caverne, c'est trop cool.
Mon papa, quand il fait des câlins, on disparait sous ses couches d'amour.
Mon papa, quand il nous emmène faire du shopping, il supporte des heures et il sourit.
Mon papa, il nous laisse faire des trucs qui lui font peur, mais il veut nous faire plaisir, alors il dit oui.
Mon papa, il m'a laissé faire du saut en parachute, et je suis même pas morte.
Mon papa, il râle parfois mais on sait qu'en fait, c'est parce qu'il nous aime.
Mon papa, même quand il voyage, il pense à nous.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage avec des photos tout le temps quand il travail.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage tout le temps quand il est en vacances.
Mon papa, il fait des trucs de papa trop génial.
Par exemple, il connait nos restaurants préférés, et il sait ce qui nous fait plaisir.
Alors il nous y emmène.
Mon papa, même quand il est en colère, il est beau.
Mon papa, quand il sourit il est comme Thor, le dieu du tonnerre, il est puissant.
Du coup, parfois, ma maman elle fait un nervous break down.
Parce que mon papa il est trop beau c'est même pas normal.
Mon papa, il a un double menton pour que si un jour Game Of Thrones arrive dans la vraie vie, on pourra pas lui trancher la gorge.
Mon papa, il fait du vélo plus vite que le Tour de France. La preuve, ca fait des années qu'ils sont en France, mon papa, lui, il est déjà à Dubai.
Mon papa, parfois il oublie notre anniversaire quand on lui demande au pif, mais il oublie jamais de le souhaiter, donc on lui pardonne.
Mon papa, il voyage en first class.
Mon papa, il connait les aéroports mieux que James Bond.
Mon papa, il regarde des series TV de jeunes.
Mon papa, il porte des costards.
Mon papa, il nous emmène manger des dans endroits incroyables.
Mon papa, il nous emmène dans des hôtels de luxe.
Mon papa, il devrait être président du monde.
Mon papa, il est mieux que les autres papa parce que c'est le mien.
Mon papa, il est irremplaçable.  
Mon papa, si on m'en donnait un autre, j'en voudrais pas.
Mon papa, je veux que celui la.
Mon papa il est pas toujours là, mais c'est pas grave, parce qu'il est jamais ****.
Mon papa, il traverse le monde mais après il nous raconte, alors c'est cool.
Mon papa, il fait une super vinaigrette. Dommage que j'aime pas la vinaigrette.
Mon papa, quand il fait un barbeque, ca fait beaucoup de fumée et pas beaucoup de feu, mais c'est pour mieux nous impressioner quand il fait rôtir la viande.
Mon papa, il parle Anglais.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur papa du monde.
Mon papa, je l'aime, même si maintenant, il a presque un demi siècle.
Mon papa, c'est comme un druide.
Ca meurt jamais.
C'est trop cool.
Mon papa, c'est comme une mode indémodable, tu veux jamais le remplacer, il est toujours tendance.
Mon papa, on peut pas le comparer a une mode fashion, parce que c'est un humain.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur humain que je connaisse.
Avec ma maman et ma soeur et mon chat, mais chuuuuut.
C'est un secret.
Mais ce que je préfère à propos de mon papa, c'est que dès que je le vois, je peux lui dire:
"mon papa, je l'aime."

Julia Roberts
lied to them.
Richard Gere
is not going to
climb onto a
rickety ladder,
risking his life,
facing his fears
just to kiss their
lips. He is only
one man. And
they are but a
few

Day of Satan's painful duty! Dies iræ! dies illa!
Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; Solvet sæclum in favilla
So says Virtue, so says Beauty. ***** David *** Sibylla.
Ah! what terror shall be shaping Quantus tremor est futurus,
When the Judge the truth's undraping-- Quando Judex est venturus.
Cats from every bag escaping! Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Now the trumpet's invocation Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Calls the dead to condemnation; Per sepulchra regionem,
All receive an invitation. Coget omnes ante thronum.

Death and Nature now are quaking, Mors stupebit, et Natura,

And the late lamented, waking, Quum resurget creatura

In their breezy shrouds are shaking. Judicanti responsura.

Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, Liber scriptus proferetur,

And the Clerk, to them referring, In quo totum continetur,

Makes it awkward for the erring. Unde mundus judicetur.

When the Judge appears in session, Judex ergo quum sedebit,

We shall all attend confession, Quicquid latet apparebit,

Loudly preaching non-suppression. Nil inultum remanebit.

How shall I then make romances Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,

Mitigating circumstances? Quem patronem rogaturus,

Even the just must take their chances. Quum vix justus sit securus?

King whose majesty amazes, Rex tremendæ majestatis,

Save thou him who sings thy praises; Qui salvandos salvas gratis;

Fountain, quench my private blazes. Salva me, Fons pietatis.

Pray remember, sacred Saviour, Recordare, Jesu pie,

Mine the playful hand that gave your Quod sum causa tuæ viæ;

Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. Ne me perdas illa die.

Seeking me, fatigue assailed thee, Quærens me sedisti lassus

Calvary's outlook naught availed thee; Redemisti crucem passus,

Now 'twere cruel if I failed thee. Tantus labor non sit cassus.

Righteous judge and learnèd brother, Juste Judex ultionis,

Pray thy prejudices smother Donum fac remissionis

Ere we meet to try each other. Ante diem rationis.

Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, Ingemisco tanquam reus,

And my face vermilion flushes; Culpa rubet vultus meus;

Spare me for my pretty blushes. Supplicanti parce, Deus.

Thief and harlot, when repenting, Qui Mariam absolvisti,

Thou forgavest--complimenting Et latronem exaudisti,

Me with sign of like relenting. Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

If too bold is my petition Preces meæ non sunt dignæ,

I'll receive with due submission Sed to bonus fac benigne

My dismissal--from perdition. Ne perenni cremer igne.

When thy sheep thou hast selected Inter oves locum præsta.

From the goats, may I, respected, Et ab hædis me sequestra,

Stand amongst them undetected. Statuens in parte dextra.

When offenders are indited, Confutatis maledictis,

And with trial-flames ignited, Flammis acribus addictis,

Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. Voca me *** benedictis.

Ashen-hearted, prone and prayerful, Oro supplex et acclinis,

When of death I see the air full, Cor contritum quasi cinis;

Lest I perish too be careful. Gere curam mei finis.

On that day of lamentation, Lacrymosa dies illa

When, to enjoy the conflagration, Qua resurget et favilla,

Men come forth, O be not cruel: Judicandus **** reus,

Spare me, Lord--make them thy fuel. Huic ergo parce, Deus!

Dear Friends , this is an old poem of mine which was composed after I learnt that Richard Gere, one of my favourite Hollywood actors had become a Buddhist and believed in Zen Philosophy. So having read about Zen I composed this simple verse. Hope you like it. If you like it kindly re-post this poem. Thanks, - Raj.

                      ZEN PHILOSOPHY
With roots buried deep in soils of Ancient India,
And watered by the exotic blend of three different
cultures;
Reflecting the mysticism of India, the pragmatism
of the Confucian mind, and the Taoist’s love of
naturalness and spontaneity,
Buddhism bloomed and blossomed into an exotic
flower called 'Zen Philosophy'!

In 475 AD a pupil of Buddha called Bodhidharma
went to China.
There the Mahayana School of Buddhism mingled
with Chinese Taoism, which evolved into Chan
Philosophy!
'Chan ' derived from the Sanskrit  word 'dhyana',
which meant 'silent meditation',  -
Through which the Buddha attained enlightenment
and salvation!
Later, in 1200 AD this Chan philosophy travelled to
the shores of Japan,
Where 'Chan' got translated to 'Zen' by its many
followers and fans!
ZEN is the art of meditation to achieve inner awakening,
To gain intuitive knowledge, highlighting the inadequacy
of logical reasoning!
It therefore advocates the practice of 'Zazen' or 'sitting
meditation',
For acquiring inner awakening through silent
contemplation!

ZEN could be practiced in our daily life,
Without entering a hermitage, leaving behind your
family or wife!
'Gain the naturalness of your original true nature',
-  preaches the Zen Teacher through meditation,
'Rather than through mere faith and devotion,
which is contrary to Zen notion.'
'One must awaken to this present moment to feel
this life,
And not waste time in speculations of an ‘elusive
After-Life’.
The 'Enso' or the ‘circle’, is the Zen symbol which is
often deployed,
Symbolizing Enlightenment, Strength, the Universe,
and the Void!
With this 'expression of the moment ' the Zen Philosophy
starts,
And today the ‘Enso’ is also the symbol of Expressionist
Art!
Never ask the Zen Master 'What is Zen, When, or How? ' ,
For he will always tell you, - 'Zen Is The Instant Now'!
                                                      - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.

Mahayana in Sanskrit means 'Great Vehicle', and is the largest major tradition of Buddhism existing today. The other branch is called Hinayana, meaning the ‘Lesser Vehicle’.

He's Uncle John to you, but John to the rest of us
Got a way of telling stories without the fanfare or the fuss
He can jump into any conversation, has a lot of stuff to say
and every bit is interesting 'cause that always been John's way.

There was one about his summer job before 1970,
paid to push a Swan-shaped boat off a dock in Asbury
With a grapple hook on a ten foot pole, or something of that sort
well he'd push 'em out and pull 'em in wasn't doing it for sport~
The same guy who owned the swan boats, tunneled love across the way
twice a week John worked the darkness, but preferred the light of day.

Played rhythm at the Upstage in band called 'Cory' later
workin' Perkins in West Belmar, took the name from the percolator
Around that time he grew his hair out, it was like an Afro-sheen
mistaken for Tinker, a surfboard chinker and drummer with Springsteen.

Cruisin' down around Brookdale in his '39 LaSalle
Met 'Stinky' Tink at Thompson Park, where he was singing with his pal

Hey John, you look like Tinker,
but now you favor Gere
a live ringer for Mike Richards,
and don't forget DeNir-

Oh, if you can't remember anything from 40 years ago
just ask your Uncle John who knows the time in Tokyo.

She brought to mind

The one who loved my Dad

A Guinevere in modern times

And me her Galahad

But that was the illusion

Of a non-mind reading lad

I mistook her pounding heart

That evening in my pad

We watched a film with Richard Gere

The man who drove her mad

When I misread her lust and drool

She slapped this randy lad

On a fateful day, the ‘Establishment’ sought volunteers
Not wanting to be out done by my vying peers
My hand went up and - all said ‘three cheers’
I thought I’d soon be handsome like Richard Gere.

Thus in the lab began the genetic engineering
A needle here, a chop there and additional gearing
The docs remorselessly toiled on me
Treated me like a zombie I could see.

“Success! Success!” was their sudden shout
I looked down and could see a sprout
I said “what’s this, I am half a tree?”
They said ‘silly’ from human ******* we set you free.

Alas! Instead of ‘Richard Gere’, they left me with roots
As a tree now, I go where I please without boots.

One of the worst parts about post 9/11 airports is you can't meet your lovers at the gates anymore.
You can't run off a plane and embrace with a kiss like two poor folks who never went to etiquette school.
The kind of kiss that is more like two faces punching each other.
The kind of kiss that has traveled a thousand miles in bated anticipation.
We shuffle off the plane and head to the baggage claim.
The kids behind me were born after 9/11.
They will never understand Richard Gere and Julia Roberts brand of love.
A love where nothing else mattered but getting back into each other's arms.
That love is gone.  
We have to go through security first.
Take off your shoes, check your liver for spots, and make sure you aren't
    carrying anyone else's luggage.
Loose lips, sink ships.
Don't say anything that might give aid to the enemy.
Everyone has to make sacrifices.
Your love comes second.

i would like to argue with anyone regarding Chris Rea's music... well... it's not exactly dad-rock... glam rock in spandex... it's not the Eagles (god forbid) or Lynyrd Skynyrd... it's a music to do something while listening to it... or rather... not listening to it: rather... it's not listening to traffic... while cycling at night... i don't even think it's car music... it's: cycling at night music... say... to the 24h Tesco for a £6.25 35cl bottle of the cheapest whiskey... while the brothel just teases me... road to hell... it was written about Chris being stuck in a traffic jam on the M25... well... there's hardly a traffic jam when cycling at night... no hands on the handlebars... gliding...

i woke up today and... cleaned the drain...
oddly enough i didn't puke...
but the sight of all that grime of soap and hair...
and fleshy dirt... i always say:
there's nothing like the smell of fresh horseshit
in the morning... nothing can beat it...
no perfume... no delight of a curry...
the smell of fresh horseshit in the morning...
or... spreading manure when planting baby
trees in the garden...
the butterflies were still there...
it didn't feel right: come again?
nothing ever feels right in all honesty...
although i lie: it does for a while...
probably like the fury when undertaking
the act of ******... it probably feels great...
*** also feels great in the act...
and when done properly...
a day... now two... afterwards... it still feels
quizzically good...
but just because there were still butterflies
in my stomach...
let's be honest...
i'm no Edward Lewis... maybe a Bradley Cooper
lookalike... ha... ha...
but no Richard Gere...
and she wasn't some Vivian Ward...
                                i cycle in the night for 35cl
of whiskey... he drives a Lotus...
a lawyer while over 'ere... some sort of a... poo'et...
reality check... what a fascinating take
on hyper-gamy...
                    i too liked  La traviata...
   (saw it at the st. petersburg opera house...
she wanted to see madame butterfly...
                    i insisted... bending of will)
although... this is some retelling...
   what poet wouldn't fall for a *******?
   - how's it going with ms. chaste over there
on the cockerel-carousel?
i never understood the mystique of...
not letting the lecher out during *******...
what "no kissing" rule?
why have i managed to kiss all the prostitutes
i've slept with... i lost count... i don't have
a number...

- but i have a fitting song to complete
the movie in my head...
faithless - woozy...

    - away from internet culture... eh... listening
to a book review of... HALSEY's poetry...
the bisexual experience... ****** men...
the trauma of having *** with a man...
i do hope they don't use ******...
that wouldn't be fair...

  and having *** with women is somehow...
not "traumatic"...
like that one time she was a timid *******
and i fed pearls to pigs
or rather wasted £120 on... touchy-feely bollocking
that left me feeling like castrated imp?!

listen 'ere... missy... what choice do some of us
*** "starved" when encountering ***?
i had to check my body...
itemize it to stop this... ****** cinema having
fun in my mind... all this daydreaming
where i really was the protagonist with
this... pristine nymphomaniac...
i said i wouldn't drink to save up for another
encounter: not going to happen...
i drink to write truthfully...
but i've cut down...

i said i wouldn't look at *******:
no films anyway... something akin
to the old tabloid: the Sun's page three...
three shakes of the fox's tail
and i turned into a premature *******
case...
from being an ******* dysfunction case
with a timid *****
to fully blossoming with a head pulsating
in the spectrum of purple:
i guess she really did tell me that
she owned my phallus when i moved my hands
to pretend force-feeding her:
she already did anyway...

how's that? the dark arts... i don't have any other
name for it...
*** of the *** "starved"...
while i'll be giving her another hour's worth
of drip... ******* so easily over...
let's me honest... thinking about a cow's ******
sack will not make a difference...
i still like milk...
   but... if i'm so ******* adamant on semi-:
feeding pearls to pigs...
i need to harden my body and my mind...
i can't have a cockerel for a mollusc...

           yes... because *** for men is not...
traumatic... perhaps in stable relationships
where both man and woman
can... pretend *** never existed...
at the supermarket i spotted these two chubby-loved-up
bundles of joy...
let's just pretend... *** has to translate back
into furthering genes... whatever the hell that means...
a good idea never seems to attach itself
to genes...
nothing biological came out of Newton...
perhaps it would be best
to aim at an ***... perhaps...

*** isn't "traumatic" for men...
  so bisexual women have to state that all *** with
men is ****?
**** inverted... a timid ***** that can't
give you a hard-on is like...
a barber who can't trim your beard...
or a dentist that can't ease your toothache...
for ****'s sake... am i not imprinting a
parody of 2 + 2 =  4?!
no... wait... last time i heard:
how do i manage to pick up these
bogus messages i don't know:
mathematics is racist...
well... let's all study algebra if arithmetic is
too soon... "too soon": to somehow also pretend
to spell...

among the Goliaths and the Nimrods
i have learned that...
sure... we're all supposedly literate...
but... for some people there's still no horizon
for... there's still no... chance for language
arriving at a spontaneous fluidity...
there's no horizon for...
  digression...       n'est ce pas?

the best **** turns out... i have to return to...
cycling... push-ups and stomach crunches...
drinking in moderation...
and once i've tested the waters and the dream
is finally over...
where i can **** myself off for... at least ten minutes
without teasing the prospect of an *******:
i'll be ready for another encounter:
as promised...
where she will show me her mouth: agape...
her wonders of her tongue...
her eyes glistening in her mania...

   funny how i was once diagnosed as psychotic...
well... a once upon a time... a...
nymphomaniac met up with
a Spartan psychotic and...
oh... they had a dozen children...
and these were the envy of Nox and Cerberus...
when that... ******* concept
came to its final fruition...

it's almost unbelievable how...
the most... tried and tested method of... "inquiry"
can become a put off for some...
but i know what this is worth...
the butterflies in my stomach:
the unblocking of the drain with the sight
of curling hairs and soap grime...
by comparison... her well attired body in cleanliness...
but for me... i need to harden my body...
i need to exercise...
and wait for my cockerel to recover
for pecking at the oyster...

that's how it is... esp. when not conscripted
into the army of the numbed heads of
male genital mutilation... circumcision...
of course she knew that she would pull it back
during *******...
but that i still have the sheath...
i don't have that ****-numbing luxury of
somehow being... brain dead enough
to have to compensate with...
hey! 3 ****** at a time!

- i can't just become a duracell bunny and have
a hard-on all the time...
recovery period...
after 4 years of "solo project" of projecting
fantasy... to come up with the reality...
it's not going to be... well... i had
a dream: although i sleep but am a dreamless
****... her name burning into my brain:

oddly enough... it's akin to the prophet
Muhammad's first wife... Khadija...
has she rolled in her grave long enough
to emerge as a ******* in a brothel?
i'll just wait for Muhammad to turn in his grave
and be called out as:
ambitious pseudo-Solomon...
i'll wait for that one...
although: i think the concept of reincarnation
is horrid: i.e. there are only a limited number
of true selves...

  the rest? zombies... dead once: dead again...
monstrous strap-ons of technological
advancement: suddenly running dry on the prospect /
need to procreate...
no? if everything is being automated...
who needs... i never liked reincarnation...
that concept of completely obliterating the faculty
of memory... it takes a second to conceive...
circa... 9 months for the tadpole to wriggle out...
about 4 years for any consciousness to arrive
armed with the faculty of memory...

reincarnation is like: a hyper-inflated take
on libido... or... something akin to...
the doppelganger...
but it's not like there isn't a push-back...
if actors could steal the shadows of people...
people steal the faces of actors
and associate them with... the crippling furores of
fame... once upon a time...
how were you known who...
so-and-so was... Richard the Lion-heart...
this freely available spread of the image...
once upon a time...
of greatness was never associated
with an immediacy of recognition...
oddly enough...

i suppose there's still more time, required...
to ponder this transition...
**** me... if i'm going back at a stab
with this nymphomaniac...
i need to harden my body...
my phallus can't be a mollusc...
i need my body tense...
so that when she does her... ***** tricks...
i'll be fit for an hour's worth...
if not to my pleasing:
then at least to hers...

      oh sure... only women find *** with
men traumatic...
only women have a voice in a democracy...
where's the ******* fire?!
where's that: a face that sent a thousand ships
toward old Priam's gates?

obvious there's a sieving process...
i like a sieving process...
those that arrive... those that: don't arrive...
those that are late... and those...
that are... always late...
perfectly simple...

           i need a second encounter with my nymph...
i need to crease these meanings...
i need for my sight to turn all blurry
and my hearing to fade out...
a gurgling snigger of a boar...
        a sound of an animal almost drowning
in a swamp of its own ****...

the *** was great... but the aftermath...
well... if i were in a closeted, stable... relationship...
none of this would have happened...
i wouldn't be writing like this, or even:
about this...
there are some journalistic columns... funded...
properly paid... of the higher sort of "peoples"
describing visits to... Parisian ******...
like... affairs were: solid steel... Lego-building encounters...
but me and these ****** is suddenly...
what? decrepit moi?
    degenerate moi?
                  self-deprecating humour comes...
allied with... a self-moralistic accusation-al mandate...

it's trivial overtly-worded *******...
but it does... sometimes...
turn my heart of a pebble's worth of a throw into
a... soft... fleshy... essentiality of...
the plethora of doubts... and negations...

        yes... a night well invested in...
                                      came the time for hardening
the body...
to later hope of relaxing it with another
encounter: for the vain hopes in all of existence...
her face is still unknown to me...
it too immediately contorts into
her manic circus of arriving at pleasures:
conversations will never give.

-
and baba moonschtrung also said the same, kenwah?

only once you visit
the eastern coast of kenya
do you realise...
   oh right...
they sent all the loud-mouth
west africans to america...
no wonder...
and you might rightly ask:
wonder?
   oh hell, loved the kenyans...
had a cognac and a coffee,
talked
about timber imports
from ghana...
     fell asleep in the open air
and had no somali pirate
bother me...
  punctured my hand on
a coral crown while diving into
the indian ocean,
had a kenyan doctor stitch me
up...
     you know what
east africans call west africans,
esp. those born
in america?
            *******...
     even the africans can tell
an african from a ******,
that's how bad the epidemic has
become:
ye, woah, ye, hide-e hide-e **-**...
ye-yo... limo *******...
boom boom, shizzle nuts
salami... ******* go waaaaaaaaaaay...
high... white boy got shroom
for a ****-yo...
      i know that east africans
abhor west african,
they call them -
     kakhuluizinkamba
oh look, he he...
      a german sounding
colony in africa, simply
based on the spelling "conundrum"
(it's called an act of ridicule
as to excuse a misnomer,
because third party says, so):
i think that means: loud mouth...
plus... never met a nigerian
girl i'd like to ****,
but one kenyan coal...
mmm hmm...
  smoked her grass
  like a serpent princess
         and god,
            that skin was a mirror
i allowed myself to fixate on
the moon... clearly i saw
something in the rhesus' OOH!
that much needing a photograph
startled expression...
    ***** ***** ***** WHA?
NIGER NIGERIA SAY WHA?
hmm... herrkichert: giggles...
             i love the fact that
africa is, a continent,
up is not down,
west is not east,
       lighter skinned peoples
are not respect,
get shipped off,
             speak some rap,
some settle for the palm
tree tropicana of the carribean...
                it's, ha! like this arab
fwend said to me:
     the love of: genital: contrasts...
it's far beyond colours...
its a certain fascination with
shapes...
      although opposite in terms
of universals of *** antonym...
well no, it's not like every
single white girl...
        not every single black girl...
but you're on your own,
sitting at a table playing
a steppenwolf game with
the audience, and three kenyan
beauties approach you for
a chat...
             locked in to having genitals,
and there's a chair,
thank you, very much...
     if only the somali pirates...
i'd be like: you really forgot
the cognac...
                i had it in a little glass
next to my head,
when i woke up, the cognac was...
dead? well, gone, richard gere style...
kinywa kwa sauti kubwa
             kwa sauti kubwa kinywa
it's not perfect,
because i'm not learning,
i just want to known
of the arabs, keeping
crocodile zoos to ensure
  a steady stream of leather shoes
in Mombasa tell you
to read it: left to right to left,
or to read it: right to left to right,
beyond what the druids wrote,
grammatically speaking...
the other bit?
        zoo                    lú!
  so do the african-americans even
know that an east african would
call a west african a ******?
extra G, prowess!
   i think he ment to say: loud mouth...
ha ha...
  i love how african-americans
are deluded about the delusion
of an africa: UNITED!
  black, what-what?!
              no, i haven't been to a lot
of places...
        but the places i've been to
i attempted the human face...
kenya imports timber from ghana...
learned that from the bartender
giving me extra short of cognac
trying to play poker with me...
    but ven e'gein, outside of
    Arkansas... there is no Arkansas!
i'd gloat, bloat,
if i only did have to hide
in one of those Nero flotilla shades...
when in africa? hide from
the sun... have a ******* hyper-active
form of siesta...
        otherwise you're reduced
to getting a suntan,
which makes you look as stupid
as eating tablespoons of
             powdered cinnamon;
simba m'ah schlimba...
                     sham'ah sham'ah
  sham'ah yay...
              harpoon,  
                    first mate:
       it 'em at day tatties...
                one ****** down,
two ******* down...
                third?
                   did a seal's worst
impression of a baboon
scratching its over-taxed
worth of **** (already) worth's
of hemorrhoids...
  ever see a baboon with
a third ****-cheek?
i.e. a hemorrhoid?
                      hence the clapping...
B. Moonglit of the jungle,
never, ever, really managed
to wipe his ***...
                 still...
                 i love how african-americans
think there's an "africa"...
             well... there's kenya...
but you know,
  you sample one good aspect
of the continent,
   there's no real point sampling
a lottery ticket
              of replica to "prove"
a "similar" point of experience.

Everyone's waiting
The waiting room
Some look sad
Some neutral or mad
Some play with their children
The sounds of joy
The child often drops
Its colorful toy

Some cough
Some sigh
Some seem tough
Some seem to hide

Everyone one is waiting

Some are patient
And some aren't
Everyone's a patient
Some old, some current

None of them knows really what to do.
Some of them are just like me and you.
Some believe in the now
Some are looking for how
To entertain themselves ...
There are some brochures
On the shelves ...

Some read, some are in deep thought
Some text their friends
Some are being called
Some just seem to pretend
Doing nothing at all
Just as I am sitting here
I am waiting without fear
And I'm typing this poem
On my phone, that's my gere
It is always better to create
A beautiful poem to hear
Even if a situational
Even if an inspirational one
It always makes sense
To write a poem when you're alone! :)