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George Krokos Feb 2014
Oh Swami Muktananda Paramahansa that bliss of liberation you attained
by Guru Nityananda's grace emancipation in this very life you had gained.
You were a representative of the lineage of poet-saints that had gone before
showing how easy it was, by chanting the name of God, to meditate for sure.

You stressed the importance of repeating the mantra 'Om Namah Shivaya'
and that if done with love would bear fruit regardless of who was the sayer.
There was so much energy about you that one could feel, like an ever present force,
the supreme blessing of Guru Nityananda was with you always being its very source.

You were a living embodiment of chitishakti or divine power-knowledge-bliss
and most of all those who came before you could also easily experience this.
It appeared at times you were unapproachable if one was by your presence overawed
and that you were on the constant lookout for any sincere aspirant who was not bored.

You also emphasized and revealed the true nature of the guru-disciple relationship
stating in plain modern words what was expected of one like in an apprenticeship.
Many secrets of the inner path you divulged and laid bare in all your writings and talks
saying the receiving of Guru's grace was what made a difference on the path one walks.

A book called 'The Play of Consciousness' explained some of the inner experiences you had
your spiritual autobiography for the world at large making many inspired and extremely glad.
To many it meant that someone was still around living these days who had been through it all
and was available to instruct and guide others on the path to the goal he'd been to well before.

You were a living True Saint, Sadguru or Perfect Master to many it seemed
and showed the way or path of the Siddhas being the one which you deemed.
Living at a place called Ganeshpuri in India nearly fifty miles from Bombay
many came from all parts of the world to see you and in your ashram stay.

In the abode you named 'Shree Gurudev Ashram' in that land of yoga where people came
many found what they were after becoming your devotees to whom you gave a new name.
There was a strict daily discipline of chanting certain scriptures, work, study and meditation
and also the occassional all night chanting of the name of God which was a holy dedication.

The atmosphere in that place was so pervaded by the energy radiating from your being
almost as if one were living in another world and could not help what they were seeing.
The whole place resembled that of a temple palace attracting people from far and wide
who came to experience what with your grace you said was to be found but only inside.

You opened up a whole new ancient path of spiritual experience leading gradually to the goal
that people from all walks of life could participate in and regain the lost treasures of their soul.
By one-pointed devotion, self-effort, obedience, meditation and the blessings of Guru's grace
anyone could practice Yoga easily without much struggle and attain that inner peaceful place.

There were many new centres that opened by enthusiastic devotees in far away lands;
with the money, sweat and labour of all those who selflessly gave by their willing hands.
And it didn't really matter at what distance or place this centre was situated from you,
although not physically present your spirit, being all pervasive, was subtly there for you.

You also visited many of the countries where your devotees lived both in the east and west
giving darshan to all those old and new followers of the Siddha path you said was the best.
Initiating many people by either a look, word, thought, touch or even by your physical presence;
and all who received of your grace getting a real buzz, were invited to tell others of its essence.

It was mostly at a certain two day program, held every one or two months, called an "Intensive"
anyone could partake of the Siddha Yoga Initiation offered, at a price, which wasn't expensive.
This was also designed to enhance and recharge those who were already practising meditation
involving chanting, meditation and talk sessions including a lunchtime meal and brief relaxation.

One had to participate fully, from about nine to five, over the two days, usually on a weekend
to get the full benefit of what the program had to offer and experience Guru's grace descend.
This was really the main date on the calendar for all those into meditation that were not to miss
if they had nothing better to do and wanted to get a lift in their 'sadhana' and acquire some bliss.

It remotely seemed to be a bit of a fund raising venture with all the money seen changing hands
but to those who couldn't afford it, must of been painful missing out, one somehow understands.
There was also the question, which crossed one's mind, as to what was being bought and sold?
- a meditative experience the result of Nityanandaji's grace through Swami Muktananda's hold!

Although no one was ever heard to complain about not getting their share of what was being given
and with the attitude of 'the more you put into something the more you'll get back' one was driven.
It also depended a lot on how much in tune you were and what prior preparation had been made;
how sincere you were in your effort also what devotion and faith at the feet of the Guru one laid.

There were no restrictions, it appeared, to either old or young, male or female to begin meditation,
all could profit and benefit in one way or another in the process and practice of Self contemplation.
One had to have an open mind and heart to receive and partake surely of the Grace that was there;
that power of the True Living Master, which was so all pervading, being available for any to share.

Sadgurunath Maharaj Ki Jai
_________________
This is a tribute poem to Swami Muktananda Paramahansa who I went to see and stay in his ashram back in 1978. From my unpublished book "The Seeds Of Life" compiled in 1996.
K Balachandran Jan 2012
Like those green hills
in an undaunted meditative silence
in front of the house
i was brought up

               my secrets are pretty open,

i am still a gun with full of bullets
if i spill the beans
i'll be compromised, some one pointed out
so what?

yes, i did fornicate a bit
most unforgettable one
was with an intellectual type
under the 'wisdom tree'
highlighted as a tourist attraction
in the municipal park,
on a full moon day,
that was a condition she put,
i found  no problem to agree.

this was the time when we were wild
smoked joints, did theater,
and went about aimlessly
but read a lot, as if our lives
would come to a grinding
halt the very next day;
so we had to finish all that.
it was as if we are mad.

Oh! not to forget the Ashram
over looking a lake
where one learned few things
on life and other matters of interest,
how can i forget the fiery  poet,
who got there to get
enlightened if possible in a week
we slept and created a lovely scandal
(you should forgive me for all that,
quite coincidental, not at all intentional)
noted in my diary thus--
'poets are no less hot than other mortals'

Once in drunken stupor
i went to swim in the lake across the Ashram
with full of crocodiles that relished
eating people's limbs
not all, but one at a time,
the girl who found me floating
inviting attention of crocs
dragged me  out, took me to her room
in the Ashram, and at that night
she said:"how romantic!
let's go to bed together
your punch drunk meat
would have been eaten
by crocs by now..so celebrate"
she was so much better than crocodiles
in heat, left me in a state of dazzle
Yes now it can be told; one of my secrets is this
I believe in eclectic wisdom,
as ephemeral life has  
wisdom alone offers salvation.

i have no great secrets,
no Swiss bank accounts,
affairs with  enchanting courtesans
in any Maharaja's court.
The last and only Maharaja i met face to face
had retired long back
and during my interview with him
addressed me "Sir"
how could one tell a Maharaja
though he is a paper tiger that
one is averse to colonial manners!

                                        About certain secrets to be unearthed:
                                         I will recount this in a later date.
K Balachandran Oct 2014
In his dreams the Vally in the throes of efflorescence call out
in a language heart alone understands;
from the hanging bridge over Ganga, he views the ice-capped peaks,
Vally's ***** extravagance and the river's turbulence.

The river runs too deep, at times he finds,
the currents treacherously strong,
from the window of his *Ashram, the view is clear.
She bathes naked, alone on a step submerged in water,
eyes feast on her moonlit curves,
the pleasures skin deep, camouflage the existential dilemmas ! he smiles
In memory his Guru speaks:"Eat only those fruits that make one immortal"
Yet another Himalayan journey in search of the fruit tree unknown

It's too late to redefine, life and love when the avalanche thunders above
on his lonesome path, every step uphill is fraught with slippery stones,
one way leads to the top, to bathe in the light of  the star reaching down

Some days end in too long nights, too cold, the sun shows up hesitant,
her body has the warmth that reaches to his icy depths,
a ****** alone could penetrate, but it still wouldn't melt
Himalayan silence, chant of Ganga, the ghost of a ******
that follows him  like a faithful dog, are all these fragments of a dream
or realities stringed together from many different planes?
Ganga---river Ganges       Ashram---monastry
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2013
Saw women
Waiting at the bus stop

Heard the new cinema song
From the advertising vehicle

Asked the stranger sitting near me
Whether he was not going to Potta ashram

In conductor’s seat
Slumbers a traveler without a ticket (stowaway)

Under the label of defence forces,
Two school children
On the Ladies’ seat,
Padre from the local church

“The lady who brings this card is an orphan
Her family was lost in floods
She is the only one for herself and her child
A blue card fell in my lap.

How did I become blind?
Beating time on the stomach,
A Tamil song stretched its arm
Became deaf

A girl became mute
“do you remember this face?”

Sat on the seat for handicapped
With a sense of belonging and righteousness.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Connor Apr 2015
A firetruck races past the isolate Blue Fox and infinity. Dulcimer clatters fading brickwork on the cross markets and churches where blind men are the imagining heaven. Luminescent Volcanic leaves heated from sunfire beautiful in the Spring choke lanes which are battered by abstract cavern homes. What happened to the Orient Harpsichord Serenity? Where does the Blue Fox go? Incense Markets Sauna with Smoke are busy in Denpasar while I'm here at a North American shopping mall where Ivory Columns cradled in violet fauna do wait sturdy and enchanted in rows.
Here I'm waiting by the leather clay shade bench in silent meditation breathing community whispers and listening clear to water pour from the lionhead fountain. Parrots caw atop a wide gated ceiling facing Empyreus.

There is a fire in America. The Blue Fox is hidden beneath firs and palms bathing in humidity. The Blue Fox is writing prophecies of economic collapse and rampant pointless murders making the newspapers. Ash storms blazing while banana painted trucks row on row attend to Victorian wood panels cooling to onyx powder in too short a time. There is no room for learning when The End Times go too quickly.
I'm listening to Bob Dylan scream instrumental prayer on harmonica rough against my ears. The Blue Fox treads February Beaches a few hundred miles from Australia and whistling the words of flowers in his head. He chews on wheatgrass jangling change in his fur pockets like those cartoons. He is the vision of Bohemia, he is an active star dazzled in this beguiled galaxy, yet in his spine he carries the turmoil doppleganger kept by all and known by none.
The firetrucks are doing all they can to quell the lung-poison vase boiling an apartment dancing inside but it continues to grow in its enraged fury.

There's a fire in America boys and girls, come around and see.
Canoes of memorial gold row through oppression and genocide, the Inuits and First Peoples of ancient years are wondering too where the blue fox went when agony cries the air. Stories of wisdom replaced with stories of war. Balaclavas labyrinthine through  exotic Bazaars thick with music and plants hanging off fishhooks and brass coat hangers while I write and dream of such Valhallas in my shopping mall on a quiet afternoon.
Bill is playing the banjo with faded paint and a single broken string, there he is on Yates! Cowboy hat made of charcoal velvet holding a meager collection of change.  
Stephen Schizophrenia is lying on his back watching aluminum kingdoms hover on by expanding nimbus clouds. He has eleven dollars to his name along with a damaged half torn belt with his initials engraved on the buckle  He taps his feet to Edith Piaf howling "La Vie En Rose" while an Airplane collides with his sacred personal aluminum palace, suddenly he can't block out the repressed memories he's fought decades to hide deep and dark in his bleak jazz enthralled brains.

Maybe we're all supposed to fall apart. Maybe we're designed to hurt and cause hurt. Where is that ****** Blue Fox? He's ebullient, thoughts fragmented in sharp bliss glass cutting him through while he rolls around the sands catching Buddha particles in his paws digging holes on Kuta Beach to his Idyllic land where happiness is forever and therefore false.

The Blue Fox falls in love overwhelming with everybody and every soul. So many souls by the billions every place! Even the tyrants. Even the demons. Even the necrophiliac scoring an OD'd brunette at twenty six from Anaheim who collapsed flatlined by prescriptions on a 3rd floor Complex.
He adores the narcissist who loves everybody as fully as The Blue Fox as long as they are herself. She is the harmonic untainted flytrap unaware of its own venomous nature but jealous of Summer and jealous of those whose names are heralded through generation to generation.
He adores The addict who is hollow of everything but the ****** sizzling under his patchy skin while he sinks from divinity swelling through his heart. He smiles while the remaining light dies inside him, left with only the regret remedies of suicide.
He adores The artist who fled to the big City and became nothing but watered down pigment after the Capitalists tossed him off the nearest skyscraper shouting pretentious metaphors.

The Blue Fox loves them all! He has no concept of the corrupt, or the lazy, or the greedy and needy and crazy and forgotten. They are all equal to him! The Blue Fox is knelt on paisley carpet smooth and spectacular! His regular India ashram, uplifting his body and his mind. The blue fox knows no doubt. Or anxiety, frailty or tears. He has no impulse or desire. The Blue Fox is joy in form and breathing spectrums of color mixing to combinations we cannot perceive.

There is a fire in america. It rages on unstoppable. It engulfs countries thousands of miles and histories away. It swallows the morning, noon and night. It protrudes disease in its wake. It heats up the ozone layer allowing radiation to make us more than cancer the zodiac. It causes our terror. It blots out our ardor. It havocs our heroes. Nothing is clean anymore. There is a fire in America.

And America is the world!  I'm watching out the front doors of this shopping mall where an elderly man trips at the food court escalator and becomes more renowned with every lethal collision down the tiles of freedom. Paramedics arrive shortly after and attend to another scalded by that same fire.
Up and up it goes!
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2014
Saw women
Waiting at the bus stop

Heard the new cinema song
From the advertising vehicle

Asked the stranger sitting near me
Whether he was not going to Pota ashram

In conductor’s seat
Slumbers a traveler without a ticket

Under the label of defense forces,
Two school children
On the Ladies’ seat,
Padre from the local church

“The lady who brings this card is an orphan
Her family was lost in floods
She is the only one for herself and her child
A blue card fell in my lap.

How did I become blind?
Beating time on the stomach,
A Tamil song stretched its arm
Became deaf

A girl became mute
“do you remember this face?”

Sat on the seat for handicapped
With a sense of belonging and righteousness.
Translation : Anitha Varma
David flew into my bedroom
light blue eyes flashing excitement

"Sonya ki," he gushed

"We are now the proud parents
of a newborn baby pineapple!"

For two years David fathered
and diligently nurtured the
pineapple cutting from
the Yoga ashram

Cooing, lullabying,
coaxing, fertilizing

I threw on my sandals
and dashed into the
bucolic nursery

There peeking up at us
it's amber pink body
swaddled in spiky
leaves
was our own little
darling pineapple
My advice to fellow geezers?
Just say **** it!
“Roll up to the magical mystery tour!”
Just like John & Yoko!
Smoke a big fat doobie each morning.
Step out the Hogan door, just greet
The East and walk in beauty.
After a few weeks you just won’t
Give a **** anymore; just not give a ****
In general, no longer care about what’s
Not important: The Guv’ment.
Politics. The rate of unemployment.
Inflation. Even radical, freaking
Muslim Jihadist TERROR!
Yes.  Just light up, Babaloo,
Do one’s bit for the Decline &
Fall (dropped you, didn’t I?)
Let’s mourn the dying ***** goddess.
America: that shining city on a hill,
Colombia in all her senility, insolvency &
Not even D or I, just Lusions of grandeur.
Let us contemplate the decrepitude,
The crumbling, up-in-smoke spiritual infrastructure,
The USA: the United ****'s-Creek of America,
Going down, down, down . . . ALERT!
NEWS FLASH! It’s Rome & Great Britain,
It’s the update, the demise of Empire all over again.
I remember those sorry-***, pathetic Brits,
Met them all over while hitchhiking around
Europe, an intensive, closely observed tour of duty
Abroad: a gift to myself, in fact a scholarship,
I rigged for myself back in the early ‘70s.
Going abroad: once a reserved right of passage for certain,
Privileged children of the 1890s, lucky spawn from
Families known as the “Well-to-do.” And why not add:
Dubbed the “Mauve Decade" because William Henry Perkin’s
Aniline dye allowed widespread use of that color in fashion.
The "Gay Nineties,” referring to a time not of buggery, but
Merriment & optimism, & lest we forget, Twain’s “Gilded Age.”
Got the time, spare a dime, got the freaking time-frame, Mack?
It was a dark & stormy total eclipse of Jupiter.
Spiritually speaking, I was free-floating.
And what of those same-self, sad-assed &
Sorry, pathetic Brits?
Well, consider the specific years.
Experience in Europe in my early 20s,
Meant 1972, 1973 & 1974.
Surely, a time for English disillusionment,
What with the sun finally setting,
A vague, prismatic twilight time,
A virtual requiem for His or Her Majesty’s Empire,
“Rule, Britannia ... Britannia rule the waves.”
(Cue ruffles & flourishes, fifes & flugelhorns)
This was pre-North Sea Oil Bonanza days.
This was England before Mrs. Thatcher
Gave her good people a long overdue,
Richly deserved kick in the tuchas.
“The Iron Lady” they called her.
Stopped Orwell’s future, doornail dead, she did.
“Maggie’s Miracle” they called it.

Those Brits I met & knew back then,
Those “Used-to-be-Contender” types:
Self-deprecatory, apologetic & cynical,
Mocking the Union Jack,
Shedding salty tears for Lost Empire.
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England.”
Ironic & bitter to a man,
“Gulping gin & bitters later,” observes
Current tenant occupier, 221B Baker Street,
Sherlock finding the word at last,
The definitive literary term,
That one precise mot juste, that says it all.
In a word? Sardonic.
The USA is going down, down down—
“And away goes trouble down the drain!”

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That’s right: $KA-CHING$!
An ad right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Always the sensible poet, I kept my day job.
But now in my 60’s finally figuring out:
HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY?
Bow down to Adam Smith & Ricardo—
Not the ‘Splaine me, Cuban bandleader
Of that surname, but David, the classical economist,
The “Iron Law of Wages” guy
It’s time to make money.
Call in the Madmen.
Send in the clowns.

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$KA-CHING$! $KA-CHING$!

And Dan Draper: an alcoholic, chain-smoking,
***** magnet & Korean War ****-up, shifty
Name-changer, last seen at that Big Sur ashram,
The Esalen Retreat & Jingle Inspiration Center,
**** Whitman coming clean, at last:
Hovering a foot off the ground
In the lotus position, receiving **** *** from a
Coke bottle incarnation of Vishnu.

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Money: FUNGIBLE GREEN.
$KA-CHING$!

Those once sardonic Brits,
Now have Brooklyn accents.
We’re going down the drain, Babaloo!
The barbarians are at the gates,
A horde of hunger, a ******* rabble,
Green-eyed monsters, envying America’s poor,
Craving what little Uncle Sam’s indigenous poor have left,
Ragtag migrants, short, dark compañeros,
Swarthy Huns & Visigoths,
Whitman's last yawp, the last gasp breath of
Work Ethos, be it Protestant or Papist,
A colossal mélange of famine, hope & prayer,
The usual suspects: “Your tired, your poor,
Your wretched refuse & solid waste,
Your huddled, yearning masses.”
My advice to Emma--Sephardic-Ashkenazi,
Proto-Zionist, years before Herzl:
Get yourself a nightclub act, Ms. Lazarus.

America: I am hidden in a high grass savannah,
I watch the hyenas pick your carcass clean.
Adam Smith: he displaced the term greed--
Smacking as it does of deadly sin baggage—
Replaced the term Greed with Self-Interest.
And the only invisible hand I know of is
Down my pants, jerking me off,
Mesmerized by slogans, divine metaphors, like:
“A rising tide lifts all boats,” a Big Lie, for example.
Today’s economists call it “The Multiplier Effect.”
You pay me and I pay him & he pays he or she,
Merry Goes Round, Goes Round & Round the Merry-Ground.
All is just so cool & groovy,
Life is just a copacetic bowl of copacetic until
Some self-interested ****-*** decides to export
Your ******* job right out of the country:
Casus belli? Most certainly. Class warfare,
Always our hitherto history.
It’s not like that fat slob Michael Moore never warned us.

**Roger & Me (1989) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0098213/ Internet Movie Database  Rating: 7.5/10 - ‎22,470 votes Director Michael Moore pursues GM CEO Roger Smith to confront him about the harm ... Roger & Me -- Michael Moore's controversial but popular film is a highly ... Plot Summary - ‎Quotes - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards
K Balachandran Jan 2012
In this gypsy street
where past and present
are juxtaposed,
and stealthy future
incognito fornicates with  both,
we live like a family
(dysfunctional !)
under attack from aliens.

I let out a shriek
in the middle of the night,
in creative frenzy
as I hit a high
and can't contain,
the ecstasy to myself,
and to alert the neighborhood
to see how they take it,
isn't it, jolly good
a fine display of  anarchy
harmless and enjoyable?
Just wanted to check
how it would look,
if some outrageous
incident happened,
at the dead of night
amidst the thousand
silly and serious stuff
we all  are engaged in.

every morning a lovely woman,
bit worked up, if not totally moonstruck,
who does nothing in particualar
other than living a life
as a business,
goes out in to the streets,
winding, without an end
if you decide to measure it
with your moving legs.
She  is a walker through the streets
most of the time of her life
(a mystery still, why I ponder)
till late night, when the night birds
are out on their rounds.

Some times when I come out of
a hospital after visiting an ailing girlfriend,
or while paying my bills in a counter
I encounter her, an enigma sans clues,
symbolizing the life in this street.
some times she throws a parsimonious smile
like a nickel to a panhandler
(I've seen you somewhere, take this)
sometimes she has a blank stare
like a temple cow, shaking it's head
at a devotee, the meaning
is what you think, good or bad,
she seems like possessed by a spirit,
that has restlessness as a curse.

An old couple, only out in the evenings,
are seen in the art gallery
fighting over perceived meanings
in an abstract painting.
(A wonderful way to fill
the vacuum of life with artistic gobbledegook)
"Read it the way you like
no harm"someone intervenes,
"No need to take lessons on art
from passer by nincompoops"
comes a lance, as a retort.

Free roaming bulls and cows
gate crash  and eat banana plants,
and attack our poor Amaranthus,
eye catching in it's bright purple flowers.
they had tried even a cactus,
with strange pattern and soft thorns,

this street has many voices that whisper,
about old time mishaps,
love birds killed by relatives
in the name of family honor
a horror still haunts dark nights
(quickly swept under expensive carpets)
with muffles voices(I never succeeded to hear)

A cut throat banker, at the height of
his business success,
gave away everything to an Ashram*
where meaning of life is being explained by Gurus
juggling lucid metaphors, every day.
strikingly similar to the myth of Sysiphus,
the banker condemned himself to learn
Yoga postures which he would forget at the end
and try to learn  all over again,
year round.

Last night we saw two lovers,
under the lush bamboo grove,
in an intimate state of trance.
one by one from from 80 houses,
men , women,  and
senior citizens,  came out,
with the happiness comparable to finding a new spice route to India,
when Turks took Constantinople.
We have a hope
their hearts should have chanted in chorus,
a new tender leaf has sprouted
in this withered tree of degenerated life.
*A spiritual hermitage usually Hindu or Buddhist
I poked my head outside
the temple door
scent of fading loquat blossoms
and damp wood reminds me
of nights in the forest

Green glades of the ashram
redolent with serenity and succor
infuse peace into our spirits
during  these stressful times

My hubby David
offers fresh plucked gardenias at
the goddess' altar  

Beautiful Shakti
pearls spilling, cascading
from the royal diadem
onto Her Divine brow
eyes glowing stars
pervade the candlelit atmosphere

David and I hold hands
as we leave the sanctuary
and orbit the blessed lake
sparkling with heavenly fish
We smile at each other
happy and content on the sacred shores
of Yoga Shakti Ma
We hurl coconuts to the ground
circumambulate the Shiva Lingam shrine
at the Yoga Shakti  Ma Ashram
my grandsons little Sean and Alex
tug the temple bell after each round
ringing in the New Year
above, the moon full, white candle
glows
in Shiva’s dreadful locks
and cobras looped around
His sapphire neck dare not hiss
Auspicious One!
drink the halahala  poison of hatred, anger,
lust, jealousy and pride lodged
like an arrow deep in our hearts
churn the ocean of nectar
and awaken the
sleeping Self
cradled softly in a  manger
swaddled, peacefully
within
Red bottle brush blossoms
swirl in the steamy Florida heat
despite the sizzling temps
the ashram is always a
welcome refuge

Softly, I enter the
sacred premises
doing namaste to all
the hallowed murtis

Soon songs decorate the
tranquil atmosphere
Smiling inwardly waves of
euphoric bliss well up from
a Divine spring

The sweetness is Non-Stop
truly my heart is a honeycomb
dripping with holy Love

I break off pieces of this
nectarine prasadam
an offering for you

— The End —