Prabhu Iyer Mar 15
Let us write together, the story of the night:
flow like the stars in the distant river,
hopping stalk to stalk, you of the same plume;
Here I part your hair, and plant a kiss, holy
emerges the passage to the promised land
and the miracle, that rises like
the song from the dunes, from your dimples
and twinkles in your eyes, moon-kissed
the road that forks: this is where we wrong
took the turn, going back to where we started
stuck, deep under, we will peer periscoped
into the wide sky, dark, studded diamonds
and my hands slide into the clouds that
gather gentle the rains behind your neck:
this is the recipe for a storm, monsoon tide;
my forefinger on your lips:  keep silent now,
oracle mage, for your words can land
like summer rain on the roof tiles, birthing
them worlds, that cascade the starlines;
which were as one in the beginning;
shoreless we go, transmigrating star to star
this is the miracle of life, transmigrating from life to life, ever in quest of the one supreme, which is love
Prabhu Iyer Feb 28
The morning when the waves recede,
the low tide, when all was gone
consumed in desire now emerging -
bare the wet sand that we walk on,
shells to your soft feet, a puddle there,
minnows scamper eager, gone
the wave that now tides at horizon;
Winds, playing with our clothes
fluttering hair, beating hearts,
we are here, in virgin land, that was
all water before, just before this hour
every mis-step drowns ankle sand,
but here we are hand in hand,
reclaiming life, walk waking back
Prabhu Iyer Feb 27
Who smote the barriers at the gates of dawn
that the worlds roll out from the firmament of time
Who pierced the sky releasing the waters
that bring life to matter dead, egoless,
the simpleton who concedes all in love,
artist who fashions the arrow that rends
the delusion of separation, blue-
necked, the Yogi drunk of poison
darknesses that emerge in enquiry,
auspicious Lord, the terror to death
Third in the 5-part poem on Shiva, the great God of Hinduism: again set to blank verse in pentameter
Prabhu Iyer Feb 23
The stillnesses of the aeons before
the world-times which stir in Him adorned of
skulls of all the forms that ever arose,
who knows of what age when first He walked here?
Staff in hand, for who walks His path is but
Him, garlanded in beads native to heights
of the times before time, clad of the ash
burned of tenses, master of dance, in whose
drunken steps rise, these universes vast:
auspicious, three-eyed the Lord of all.
Second of my 5-part poem on Shiva the great God of Hinduism; Set to Iambic pentameter!

Part - 1: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2366267/red-hued-shiva-1/
Prabhu Iyer Feb 18
Conches and cymbals rend the air peering
into the mists of time vast like the snow-
clad peak, ancient that shines in the cells as
in the stars, matted whose locks gather the
sky-river in their folds, bearing the moon-
shell on his brow, merged in etherial that
datum where shine neither the moon nor stars
still like heavens that serpents slither lone
the one beyond all dual, red-hued like
the glacier anointed nigh at dusk
the 1st stanza of the 1st poem 'Shiva' in my now poetry project 'Sati' - this one is set to Iambic pentameter
Prabhu Iyer Jan 5
And darkest the night when all seems
lost, parts thick the blanket of fog;
Desiccated to the bone when
moonless in agony,
go emptied of Spirit the skies,

Broken in Her temples,
desecrated in the shrines
veiled, chained, burned at stake;
Scattered lays She,
as hope among the stars.

Among a thousand tribes risen,
to burst forth again,
Diana and Ishtar, Athena and Brigid,
crimson the rays that flood
regnal the horizon in waves;

Who casts time in the thrall of Her dice
fire cannot burn, nor weapons hurt,
who measures worlds in Her strides,
the black rose, Mistress of the night,

Garlanded in skulls of a thousand such
who know not Her might
whose hands sewn Her garment great
trampled death under Her thunder trail
Here She comes the ancient One:
Prabhu Iyer Dec 2017
That's how you break it
now you are alone
and I am alone
but that doesn't
make us of each other

the universe, starry night,
from the ringside view
of a puff rising;

let it rain, for
I must not get wet
out in the fury,
I've lost all adhesion

hymns
of nightbirds
rend the sky
this lonely hour
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