AN INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART IN VERSE  
By Raj Nandy : Part One

INTRODUCTION
Background :
The India subcontinent and her diverse physical features,
influenced her dynamic history, religion, and culture!
The fertile basin of the Sapta-Sindu Rivers* cradled one of
world’s most ancient civilization, (seven rivers)
Contemporary to the Sumerians and the Egyptians, popularly
known as the Indus Valley Civilization!
The Sindu (Indus), Jhelum, Chenab, Ravi, Sutlej, Bias, along
with the sacred river Saraswati, shaped India’s early History;
Where once flourished the urban settlements of Harappa and
Mohenjodaro, which lay buried for several centuries;
For our archaeologists and scholars to unravel their many
secrets and hidden mysteries!
Modern scholars refer to it as ‘Indus-Saraswati Civilization’;
By interpreting the text of the Rig Veda which mentions
eclipses, equinoxes, and other astronomical conjunctions,
They date the origin of the Vedas as earlier as 3000 BC;
Thereby lifting the fog which shrouds Ancient History! +
(+ Two broad schools of thoughts prevail; Max Mullar refers
to 1500 BC as the date for origin of the Vedas, but modern scientific findings point to a much earlier date for their Oral composition and
their long oral tradition!)

On the banks of the sacred Saraswati River the holy sages
did once meditate, *
When their third eye opened, as all earthly bonds they did
transcend !
From their lips flowed the sacred chants of the Vedas, as
they sang the creator Brahma’s unending praise!
These Vedic chants and incantations survived many
centuries of an oral tradition,
When Indian Art began to blossom into exotic flowers like
Brahma’s divine manifestations;
With all subsequent art forms following the model of
Brahma’s manifold creations!
The Vedas got written down during the later Vedic Age
with commentaries and interpolations,
And remain as India’s indigenous composition, forming a
part of her sacred religious tradition! *
(Rig Veda the oldest, had hymns in praise of the creator;
Yajur Veda spelled the ritual procedures; Sama Veda sets
the hymns for melodious chanting, & is the source of seven
notes of music; Artha Veda had hymns for warding off evil
& hardship, giving us a glimpse of early Vedic life.)

IMPACT OF FOREIGN INVASIONS:
Through the winding Khyber Pass cutting through the rugged
Hindu Kush Range,
Came the Persians, Greeks, Muslims, the Moguls, and many
bounty hunters storming through north-western frontier gate;
Consisting of varied racial groups and cultures, they entered
India’s fertile alluvial plains!
Therefore, while tracing 5000 years of Art Story, one cannot
divorce Art from India’s exotic cultural history.
From the Cave Art of Bhimbetka, to the dancing girl of Harappa,
To the frescoes and the evocative figures of Ajanta and Ellora;
Many marvelous and exquisitely carved temples of the South,
And Muslim and Mogul architecture and frescoes along with
India’s rich Folk Art, enriched her artistic heritage no doubt!
Yet for a long time Indian Art had been the least known of
the Oriental Arts,
Perhaps because from Western point of view it was difficult
to understand the spirit behind Indian Art!
For Indian Art is at once aesthetic and sensual, also passionate,
symbolic, and spiritual !
It both celebrates and denies the individual’s love of life,
where free instinct with rigid reason combine !
These contradictory elements are found side by side due to
her culturally mixed conditions, as I had earlier mentioned!
Now, if we add to this the constant religious exaltation,
With the extensive use of symbolic presentation, from the
early days of Indian civilization;
We have the basic elements of an Art, which has gradually
aroused the interest of Western Civilization!

The further we get back in time, we only begin to find,
That religion, philosophy, art and architecture,
Had all merged into an unified whole to form India’s
composite culture!
But while moving forward in time, we once again find,
That art, architecture, music, poetry and dance, all begin to
gradually emerge, with their separate identities,
Where Indian Art is seen as a rich mosaic of cultural diversity!

(NOTES:-In the ancient days, the Saraswati River flowed from the Siwalik Range of Hills (foothills of the Himalayas) between Sutlej & the Yamuna rivers, through the present day Rann of Kutch into the Arabian Sea, when Rajasthan was a fertile place! Indus settlements like Kalibangan, Banawalli, Ganwaiwala, were situated on the banks of Sarsawati River, which was longer than the Indus & ran parallel, and is mentioned around50 times in the Rig Veda! Scientists say that due to tectonic plate movements, and climatic changes, Saraswati dried up around 1700BC ! The people settled there shifted east and the south, during the course of history! Some of those Indo-Aryan speaking people were already settled there, & others joined later. Max Muller’s theory of an Aryan Invasion which destroyed the Indus Valley Civilization during 1500BC, supported by Colonial Rulers, was subsequently proved wrong ! Indo-Aryans were a Language group of the Indo- European
Language Family, & not a racial group as mistaken by Max Mullar! Therefore Dr.Romila Thapar calls it a gradual migration, & not an invasion! The Vedas were indigenous composition of India. However, they got compiled & written down for the first time with commentaries, at a much later date! I have maintained this position since it has been proved by modern scholars scientifically!)

SYMBOLISM IN INDIAN ART
From the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic to the Cretan Bull
of Greece,
Symbols have conveyed ideas and messages, fulfilling
artistic needs.
The ‘Da Vinci Code’ speaks of Leonardo’s art works as
symbolic subterfuge with encrypted messages for a secret
society!
While Indian art is replete with many sacred symbols to
attract good fortune, for the benefit of the community!
The symbols of the Dot or ‘Bindu’, the Lotus, the Trident,
the Conch shell, the sign and chant of ‘OM’, are all sacred
and divine;
For at the root of Indian artistic symbolism lies the Indian
concept of Time!
The West tends to think of time as a dynamic process which
is forward moving and linear;
Commencing with the ‘Big Bang’, moving towards a ‘Big
Crunch’, when ‘there shall be no more time’, or a state of
total inertia !
Indian art and sculpture is influenced by the cyclic concept
of time unfolding a series of ages or ‘yugas’;
Where creation, destruction and recreation, becomes a
dynamic and an unending phenomena!
This has been artistically and symbolically expressed in the
figure of Shiva-Nataraja’s cosmic dance,
Which portrays the entire kinetic universe in a state of
eternal flux!
The hour-glass drum in Nataraja’s right hand symbolizes
all creation;
Fire in his left hand the cyclic time frame of destruction!
The raised third hand is in a gesture of infinite benediction;
And the fourth hand pointing to his upraised foot shows the
path of liberation!

It was easier to teach the vast untutored population through
symbols, images, and paintings in the form of Art;
For a picture is more effective than a thousand words!
The Dot or ‘bindu’ becomes the focus for meditation,
Where the mental energies are focused on a single point of
creation,
As seen in the cotemporary art works of SH Raza’s
artistic representations!
Yet the same dot when expanded as a circle becomes
wholeness and infinity;
The shape of celestial bodies of the cyclic universe in its
creativity!
The Lotus seen in many sculptures, on temple walls, and
majestic columns, denotes purity;
A symbol of non-attachment rising above the muddy waters,
retaining its pristine color and beauty!
The Lotus is a powerful and transformational symbol in
Buddhist Art,
Where pink lotus is for height of enlightenment, blue for
wisdom, white for spiritual perfection, and the red lotus
symbolizing the heart!
This Lotus symbol also finds a place in Mughal sculptural
carvings and miniatures;
The inverted lotus dome resting on its petals, forms the
crown of Taj Mahal’s white marble architecture!
The trident or ‘trishul’ symbolizes the three god-heads
Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva;
As the Creator, Preserver and Destroyer, in that cyclic
chain which goes on forever!
The ***** stone of Shiva-lingam surrounded by the oval
female yoni symbolizes fertility and creation,
Usually found in the inner sanctuary of Hindu temples!
Finally, the symbol of ‘OM’ and its vibrating sound,
Echoes the primordial vibrations with which space and
time abounds!
All matter comes from energy vibrations manifesting
cosmic creation;
Also symbolized in Einstein’s famous matter-energy equation!
The Conch Shell a gift of the sea when blown, sounds the
ancient primordial vibration of ‘OM’!
It’s hallowed auspicious sound accompanies marriage
ceremonies and rituals whenever occasion demands;
And pacifies mother earth during Shiva-Nataraja’s sudden
seismic dance! (earthquakes)
Dear readers the symbols mentioned here are very few,
Mainly to curb the length, while I pay Indian Art my
artistic due!

A BRIEF COMPARISON OF ART:
Despite the many foreign influences which entered India
through the Khyber and Bholan pass,
India displayed marvelous adaptability and resilience, in
the development of her indigenous Art!
The aesthetic objectivity of Western Art was replaced by
the Indian vision of spiritual subjectivity,
For the transitory world around was only a ‘Maya’ or an
Illusion,- lacking material reality!
Therefore life-like representation was not always the aim
of Indian art,
But to lift that veil and reveal the life of the spirit, - was
the objective from the very start!
Egyptian funerary art was more occupied with after-life
and death;
While the Greeks portrayed youthful vigor and idealized
beauty, celebrating the joys of life instead!
The proud Roman Emperors to outshine their predecessors
erected even bigger statues, monuments, and columns
draped in glory;
Only in the long run to drain the Roman treasury, - a sad
downfall story!
Indian art gradually evolved over centuries with elements
both religious and secular,
As seen from the period of King Chandragupta Maurya,
Who defeated the Greek Seleucus, to carve out the first
united Indian Empire ! (app. 322 BC)

SECULAR AND SPIRITUAL FUSION IN ART:
Ancient Indian ‘stupas’ and temples were not like churches
or synagogues purely spiritual and religious,
But were cultural centers depicting secular images which
were also non-religious!
The Buddhist ‘stupa’ at Amravati (1stcentury BC), and the
gateways at Sanchi (1stcentury AD), display wealth of carvings
from the life of Buddha;
Also warriors on horseback, royal procession, trader’s caravans,
farmers with produce, - all secular by far!
Indian temples from the 8th Century AD onwards depicted
images of musicians, dancers, acrobats and romantic couples,
along with a variety of Deities;
But after 10th Century ****** themes began to make their mark
with depiction of sensuality!
Sensuality and ****** interaction in temples of Khajuraho and
Konarak has been displayed without inhibition;
As Tantric ideas on compatibility of human sexuality with
human spirituality, fused into artistic depictions!
Religion got based on a healthy and egalitarian acceptance
of all activities without ****** starvation;
For the emotional health and well-being of society, without
hypocritical denial or inhibition!
(’Stupas’= originated from ancient burial mounds, later became devotional Buddhist sites with holy relics, & external decorative gateways and carvings!)

KHJURAHO TEMPLE COMPLEX (950 - 1040 AD) :
Was built by the Chandela Rajputs in Central India,
When Khajuraho, the land of the moon gods, was the first
capital city of the Chandelas!
****** art covers ten percent of the temple sculptures,
Where both Hindu and Jain temples were built in the north-Indian
Nagara style of Architecture.
Out of the 85 temples only 22 have stood the vagaries of time,
Where a perfect fusion of aesthetic elegance and evocative
Kama-Sutra like ****** sculptural brilliance, - dazzle the eyes!

KONARAK SUN TEMPLE OF ORISSA - EAST COAST:
From the Khajuraho temple of love, we now move to the
Konark temple of *** in stones - as art!
Built around 1250 AD in the form of a temple mounted on
a huge cosmic chariot for the Sun God;
With twelve pairs of stone-carved wheels pulled by seven
galloping horses, symbolizing the passage of time under
the Solar God !
Seven horses for each day of the week, pulls the chariot
east wards towards dawn;
With twelve pairs of wheels representing the twelve calendar
months, as each cyclic day ushers in a new morn !
The friezes above and below the chariot wheels show military
processions, with elephants and hunting scenes;
Celebrating the victory of King Narasimhadeva-I over the
invading Muslims!
The ****** art and voluptuous carvings symbolizes aesthetic
bliss when uniting with the divine;
Following yogic postures and breathing techniques, which
Tantric Art alone defines!
(Both Khjuraho & Konark temples were re-discovered by the
British, & are now World Heritage Sites!)

Artistic invention followed the model of cosmic creation;
Ancient Vedic tradition visualized the spirit of a joyous
self-offering with chants and incantations!
The world was understood to be a structured arrangement
of five elements of earth, water, fire, air, and ethereal space;
Where each element brought forth a distinct art-expression
with artistic grace!
Element of Sculpture was earth, Painting the fluidity of water,
Dance was transformative fire, Music flowed through the air,
and Poetry vibrated in ethereal space!

CONCLUDING INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART:

Indian Art is like a prism with many dazzling facets,
I have only introduced the subject with its symbolism,
- without covering its complete assets!
After my Part Three on ‘Etruscan and Roman Art’,
Christian and Byzantine Art was to follow;
But following request from my few poet friends I have
postponed it for the morrow!
Traditional Indian Art survives through its sculptures,
architecture, paintings and folk art, ever evolving with
the passing of time and age;
Influenced by Buddhist, Jain, Muslim, Mogul, and many
indigenous art forms, enriching India’s cultural heritage!
While the art of our modern times constitutes a separate
Contemporary phase !
The juxtaposition of certain concepts and forms might
have appeared a bit intriguing,
But the spiritual content and symbolism in art answers
our basic artistic seeking!
The other aspects of Indian Art I plan to cover at a later
date,
Hope you liked my Introduction, being posted after
almost forty days!
ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH RAJ NANDY
E-Mail: rajnandy21@yahoo.
    FEW COMMENTS BY POETS ON 'POETFREAK.COM' :-
I have a vicarious pleasure going through your historical journey of Indian art! Thanks for sharing this here! 2 Mar 2013 by Ramesh T A | Reply
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The prism of Indian Art is indeed has myriads of facets and is an awesome mixture of many influences some of which you list here so clearly - a very understandable presentation of symbolism too - -thank you for your fine effort Raj. 2 Mar 2013 by Fay Slimm | Reply
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Oh what an interesting read with immense information capturing every single detail. You painted this piece of art with utmost care. Truly, it's works Raj…tfs 2 Mar 2013 by John Thomas Tharayil | Reply
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First, I have to say, the part about the lotus symbolism reminds me – My name ‘NILOTPAL’ can be split into ‘NIL’ meaning BLUE and ‘UTPAL’ meaning LOTUS. So my name represents wisdom (although it contradicts ME.. LOL). A lot of things were mentioned in the veda and other ancient Indian texts that were way ahead of the time Like the idea of ‘velocity of light’ got considerable mention in the rig veda-Sahan bhasya, ‘Elliptical order of planets, ‘Black holes’ , although these are the scientific aspects. The emphasis on contradictory elements or even the idea of opposites in Indian art is interesting because India developed the mathematical concept of ‘Zero’ and ‘infinity’. Hard to believe Rajasthan was a fertile place but now it possesses its own beauty. It was great to read about the Natraja, ‘OM’ and the trident(Trishul). Among symbolisms, Lord Ganseha is my favorite because a lot is portrayed in that one image like the MOOSHIK representing

To some siblings are a gift from God
To some siblings are a curse from hell
But to me....
siblings are...
A shoulder to cry on when I overflow
An ear to listen when I need to clear mii head
A body to talk to when I'm not in the mood
Mii help me when I can't do it alone
Mii life preserver when I swim out to far
Mii buddy when I wanna play
Mii closest friend whom no one can replace
Mii guardian who has mii back when I'm too busy covering the front
Mii treasure box in which I confide all of mii precious secrets
Mii compass for when I've lost mii way
Mii salt for when mii food is tasteless
Mii hope when I'm backed up against the wall
Mii night light when I'm afraid to sleep
Mii....
I have no more words to describe mii siblings for no one can truly use words to say just what...
Mii siblings are to me...

(The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages
      — is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E.
      coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced
      to rhyme with assuages. Groaner: a whistling buoy.)

I

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.

The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land’s edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
                                       The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.
                                       The sea howl
And the sea yelp, are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,
And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.

II

Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowers
Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;
Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage,
The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable
Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?

There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable—
And therefore the fittest for renunciation.

There is the final addition, the failing
Pride or resentment at failing powers,
The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,
In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,
The silent listening to the undeniable
Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation.

Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing
Into the wind’s tail, where the fog cowers?
We cannot think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable
Like the past, to have no destination.

We have to think of them as forever bailing,
Setting and hauling, while the North East lowers
Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless
Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,
To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,
The bone’s prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable
Prayer of the one Annunciation.

It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.
Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony
(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,
Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,
Is not in question) are likewise permanent
With such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better
In the agony of others, nearly experienced,
Involving ourselves, than in our own.
For our own past is covered by the currents of action,
But the torment of others remains an experience
Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.
People change, and smile: but the agony abides.
Time the destroyer is time the preserver,
Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,
The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.
And the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by: but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.

III

I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant—
Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing:
That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.
When the train starts, and the passengers are settled
To fruit, periodicals and business letters
(And those who saw them off have left the platform)
Their faces relax from grief into relief,
To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.
Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;
And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think ‘the past is finished’
Or ‘the future is before us’.
At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,
Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,
The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)
‘Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.
At the moment which is not of action or inaction
You can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being
The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death”—that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
Which shall fructify in the lives of others:
And do not think of the fruit of action.
Fare forward.
                      O voyagers, O ******,
You who came to port, and you whose bodies
Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,
Or whatever event, this is your real destination.’
So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna
On the field of battle.
                                  Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

IV

Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
Pray for all those who are in ships, those
Whose business has to do with fish, and
Those concerned with every lawful traffic
And those who conduct them.

Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
Women who have seen their sons or husbands
Setting forth, and not returning:
Figlia del tuo figlio,
Queen of Heaven.

Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea’s lips
Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s
Perpetual angelus.

V

To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,
Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,
Observe disease in signatures, evoke
Biography from the wrinkles of the palm
And tragedy from fingers; release omens
By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable
With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual
Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press:
And always will be, some of them especially
When there is distress of nations and perplexity
Whether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.
Men’s curiosity searches past and future
And clings to that dimension. But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,
Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.
For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Here the impossible union
Of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled,
Where action were otherwise movement
Of that which is only moved
And has in it no source of movement—
Driven by dæmonic, chthonic
Powers. And right action is freedom
From past and future also.
For most of us, this is the aim
Never here to be realised;
Who are only undefeated
Because we have gone on trying;
We, content at the last
If our temporal reversion nourish
(Not too far from the yew-tree)
The life of significant soil.

a miracle child
born to a mortal mother
the creator pretends
to be the created

stealing butter,
breaking pots,
teasing girls,
Gokulam’s naughtiest child

and then one day
the friends complain
“Mother Yashoda, your little one
is eating mud from the Yamuna banks”

worried she rushes
to her darling boy
her anxiety disguised as anger
he smiles - the sly little blue-eyed boy

in his musical voice he cries-
“I did not eat mud, sweet mother, the boys lie!
come look within
and see with your own eyes!”


poor Mother Yashoda
not knowing she stared
into that little mouth
and lost herself in what was there

he lifted swiftly the
veil of maaya
the truth shone forth
with a blinding light!

                                                  * त्वमेव माता च पिता त्वमेव ।
                                                   त्वमेव बन्धुश्च सखा त्वमेव ।
                                                   त्वमेव विद्या द्रविणम् त्वमेव ।
                                                   त्वमेव सर्वम् मम देव देव ॥

she saw herself
and her dear little boy
the whole of Gokulam
within his jaws lay!

and the whole earth
and the universe
galaxies and multiple worlds
was her little boy cursed?

her fear mounted as she saw
the entire cosmos
the boundaries blurred
time - a non-entity

the past, present and future
only a tiny river
she saw the vast expanse
of his creation

he made these worlds
held them like puppets on a string
and then morphing
he became death!

and unable to take more
she swooned
when the Creator, the Preserver and the Destroyer
merged to become-her adored little one!

                                                     You are my mother, and my father
                                                     You are my relative and my friend
                                                     You are knowledge, You are prosperity
                                                     You are my everything, My God of Gods*

and then he looked at her
with an infinite compassion
he’d shown her
what she needed to see

now it was time
for her to forget, to become
his doting mother again
he kisses her with innocent love and toothy grin

once more
maaya takes hold
the illusion more beautiful
more irresistible to behold!

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
         04.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

This salt
in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me,
but
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those solitudes
when I heard
the voice of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a broken
voice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.

And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food. Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.

A tug of war
It is the past experience and what was saw and felt
A word in keeping a person in line
A restriction of one’s thoughts and actions
A procedure in holding one back
******* being a form beyond one’s accord
Thank God there is a Lord
There is a chance to survive
More than a thought being a strive
I dream but all I see is a nightmare
I see effort, but when will there be preserver?
Its like a road block with detour
A method of turn back
I feel as if I am trapped in bonds
Maybe I am still sleep and need to wake up from my yond
Perhaps it’s nothing more than a dream
It’s my thinking I am in a movie stream
But its truly tough being rough
A different slavery oppression of the past with a theory of the present
A overseer continuing in present oppression
A silenced voice having no expression
The downward bound with no mountain reach
It’s time for a rebellion approach
Oppression is real and not a joke
It’s like an open wound with having a stinging poke
Oppression is alive and attempting to do well
Yet the world has a message in tell
‘OPPRESS AND OVERCOME, ITS ABOUT NO MOVEMENT AND BEING NUMB. IT TAKES MULTITUDES IN SUPPLYING THE STRENGTH, BUT ALL MUST GO THE MILES NO MATTER WHAT THE LENGTH”
Survival is how you chose to live
Its not a verb but is subjective
The voice must always be objective
Oppression cannot continue in terms in having its way
The sunrise has risen and it’s a tomorrow being a new day
These are the times to move forward and be strong
It’s a matter of all personalities of creeds in knowing how to get along
So shake whatever chains you feel you have on
Stand up and be counted where you belong
Don’t let any form of oppression hold you back
You have grasped the concept of understanding in the theory of thinking sharp being the detailed tack
Just give oppression one big smack
Listen America it’s the various cultures that stack
Oppression stand back as you have been defeated being a pack.

Just remember,
You can help someone, but you can't be anyone's life-preserver
Or else,
You'll drown with them too.

ODE TO  RIOTERS
The clouds rumble , O! sons of Malice ,hear
The smoke of arson and roar of lies
In the name of God in heaven; to the tune of lords near
Ignorant men  , followers of Dionysus fly like flies.
Think ! read ,what the history of man tells
Of fire that Prometheus brought for our happiness
But, ingratitude of satanic forces by  spells
Inflame the fire of Ire and burn the huts; brings unhappiness.
Tempters like Hera of Zeus pleasantly smile
Resting in Bars or legislatures , counting votes on computer screen
Echo of slogans on Equality, Fraternity, Liberty from a mile
Makes in social conscience  a  scathing scene.
The land of Buddha. Abraham Lincoln, prophets of peace all
Sent by God to every race and all clans dull,
Told the people all over to be kind
Loving ,lovable and of service mind.
(2).
O! political crookedness, in struggle for power  you tempt
People to compete and hate and conquer
By communal spirit forgetting  Divine Spirit and contempt
Religious heads and political aspirants together
Like criminals think and twist the holy ideas, even
They hold holy books in left hand and in right hand gun
And advice disciples to die and **** for heroic heaven
For them, as if death is an easy going fun;
The First Estate of France still as  impulses here in world
Reign the countries as rulers  of Democracy mocking
And they jointly exploit subjects ; and devotees of the spiritual world,
Misguide men and women  by prayers rocking
Hope of Heaven and horror of Hell
Make the people, forget all , and yell
When the villainous leaders signal by baton
The desperados become boys wanton.
(3)
O! devilish War-Lords, do you read Vedic Books?
What they mean ? for you mean? as they tell of God ,the sole Creator
The Creator of you and the “Other”  in your hooks.
The Preserver and Destroyer , may not be for you Pharaohs greater,
O! Pharaohs , you don’t  cause rain, make the Sun rise
And the greenery, birds and fish flourish .
When the Earth rumbles and tsunami rages you give the price
The rewards of hatred you sowed nourish-
All around ,as chemical war terrorism-a horrible nightmare
But, Epicureans! All are from Him and unto Him all shall return.
Marketing competitions and sale of arms cause the Wars
As history reminds us :none gained but failed to sustain peace;
Still, the blunder of division of people and exploitation stars
Rise , at the West with the dying Sun’s horses and Mars.
Politics and Economics -two horses of Civilization unbridled
Terribly gallop with men on them girdled.
(4)
O! cruel  egoistic  businessmen ,you globalize immorality
By greed, you trade with  fanatics and  terrorists,
Spur clashes: Multiculturism versus monoculturism  denying plurality
Challenging Eternity; certainty of scientists.
At Saranath,Lord  Buddha told  disciples on the Middle Path of  life
To Torah “The Lord our God , the Lord is One”, so Jesus taught us all
And guided to worship  God in” Spirit and truth “ in our life
No other Lord but Allah deserves worship of us all-
Allah is the Light of the Earth, and of the Sky ,O! Lord
God is the Eternal  Light  to illuminate all  ;to be worshiped
Bhagavat Gita says,"The body is the temple of God
In the Spiritual realm : all are from the One ,the  worshipped.
God is the only One without birth and death
The Unique unlike the creatures on earth
The Force is called “atma” by Vedas no trade and
Sciences  tell: it is Eternal  , cannot be made by human hand. .
(5)
O! the ill -taught  simpletons , think !why shall we spoil life
in feuds communal or political  for the luxury of masters
Suicide never a sacrifice; if at all ,it is beheading of human in life
At the altar of regal, egotist power-mongers.
The Only God is the  Seed of all; names may differ by language difference
Holy books use all noble qualities to the name the Supreme Lord
Then, why the sons of that One Lord, in repentance
Think on action : virtue  or evil and pray: forgive ,O! Lord
In democracy, we are free to believe  the God or not
Still, we can be human by refraining from paining others
Freeing ourselves from communal hatred, the vicious knot
As the political fences   encircle us that make us enemies of others.
Stars in the sky and the Sun and the Moon
Are mortal ones from God for our boon.
Let us be men and women loving all , serving all;
Not severing heads; but lead a life ,culturally tall.
                                             ***********
Note:atma=soul.

It’s time to discover your roots
Your heritage from the very beginning
History in the making being an inning
Being surprised in what you will find out
You mighty have somebody famous that you want to know more about
Now gather your research and see what you find out
Perhaps your roots date back to a craftsman who designed something unique
Maybe a celebrity figure who has reached their peak
Then later you find out they also tweet
Maybe a slave who was part of the plantation war
Ancestry eye heritage into another
Physical portrait of the other
Heritage that gave you a start
Your life was creation being a new mark
Heritage from yesterday
Destiny being your journey
Your future prepared from the very beginning
Your past too help you preserver on
A moment of reflection, “Knowing how to get along and knowing in life in where you belong”
A distance journey ever after with tomorrow having a defined meaning, and with the conquest of information too what has been longing.

We walked along the left bank of the holiest river in the world
as the sun kissed the hazy emerald sky into morning,
and I watched as an old man padded barefoot to the water's edge,
dawn in his collarbone,
bending with brittle bones to say prayers for the new day.

At first glance,
the river is thick and murky,
garbage entwined in its current like rings on crooked fingers
and I listened to the winces of the rest of my group members--
no Americans with Western Sensibilities would find divinity
in its sewage runoff and fish corpses.

But Holy is subjective.
Found not only in church pews and rosaries.

Hindu religion is composed of 3 cycles representing the stages of life:
Brahma is the creator,
Vishnu the protect,
and Shiva the destroyer,
without one stage there cannot be another
with creation comes the inevitability of destruction
and we walked through that early morning mist
past the cremation fires kept lit for centuries
because to have your body turned to dust on these banks
is to achieve eternal salvation,
to die and then be reborn into light
with the presence of death comes the beginnings of life
don't tell me there isn't divinity in this.

As the sun grew bigger, I waltzed.

Past the women doing washing in the river
saris glimmering on the surface of the water
like schools of colorful fish and
Indian children doing cannonballs into the embrace of the current,
grinning because they knew something we didn't,
but still, I waltzed.
Past the gossiping birds
and the giggling vendors
and the fishing boats and river men
and the homeless woman shouting at the top of her lungs
Namaste to the world!
And the countless believers greeting each other like
Namaste, my brother.
Hello.
I love you.
The Light in Me honors the Light in You.

People make pilgrimages to this sacred place from hundreds of miles away,
buckets strapped to their shoulders just to bring back a bit of this holy water to bless their homes,
barefoot
and dancing the whole way.

As the Indian sun rose midday into the sky,
and it was time for us to leave,
I watched as children and men and women and families
lit tiny candles balanced on flower petals
and sent them down the river as offerings of light
to Vishnu, the protector, preserver of life.
We know it as the Ganges River,
but its people affectionately call it the Ganga
and I didn't know Hindu
but I could've sworn Ganga meant Home.
Meant life.
Meant cycle, or current.

As I turned to leave,
back up the steps and onto the crowded Varanasi streets,
I took one last look back over my shoulder
as thousands of tiny candles flickered and floated
on the soft, unwavering current,
illuminating that holy river into eternity,
and I thought,
*what a fall.
but what light.
what impossible light.

A race between the Flash and the Man of Steel
This would be a competition for real
Who do you think would move fast?
Who would you think would come in last?
It’s a possibility in what could be
Imagine two Super Marvel’s in a race too see who is truly great
It would also show their sportsmanship in how they both relate
It would be a run to the finish
The winner being triumphed and distinguished
This wouldn’t be a race against crime
That story is another time
Flash moving at the speed of light
The Man of Steel feeling a bit uptight
The Man of Steel would be disqualified if he were to fly in order to win
But the Man of Steel coming from another planet, would that automatically disqualify from then
A canny detail
But the policy remains in order to preserver
It was Flash in the lead
The Man of Steel was maneuvering in proceed
Just around the bend
It was Flash being the champion at the very end
Well the Marvel Hero’s shook hands and are off to fight crime
This will be until the end of time.

sometimes
i wonder
if i'm dreaming, so
i pinch myself,
but
you're always
still there with me,
holding me afloat.
even then,
i can't help but fear:
what if
we're forced apart
and
i drown?

where is my indian
is it in the way i don't use my palms as a medium to transport rice into the back of my mouth
is it in the way my face turns gloomy at the sight of spice and curry
is it in my skin color that isn't as brown as you need it to be
is it in my eyebrows which aren't as bushy as per your requirements

is it in the way my tongue twists awkwardly as i say happy diwali
is it in the way amma is the most fluent piece of tamil i speak
is it in the way i didn't know how to recite the words at my grandpas funeral
is it in the way i cannot, for the life of me, name you another tamil movie besides chandramukhi?

or

is it in the religious classes i took up until age 12
is it in the ramayana epic that i learnt, age 8
is it in the sanskrit bhajans i was made to sing, not knowing what they meant, age 10
is it in knowing that ganesh is the remover of obstacles,
brahma, vishnu, shiva - the creator, the preserver, the destroyer

is it in the eyeliner drawing a bindi in between my eyes when i
head to the temple, to present myself as indian

where is my indian
is it on a checklist, is there a passing mark?
where is my indian
please tell me,
because i am tired of feeling like a foreigner in my own skin

I can swim,
   But I'll always

Drown in you..

My thoughts are an angry ocean and I've been tossed out to sea.
I'm drowning.
Lord calm them, please.

A famous ship that set sailed
The name “Titanic” a cruise liner marked for preserver, but something down the line failed
The Titanic made it’s way over the seas
Yet on the deck the passengers were treated to an endless breeze
As the music played an elegant melody
The feeling of majestic royalty within red carpet hospitality
This was the first of the Titanic voyage
History in the making for sure
But will the Titanic reach destined shore?
A final night that everyone narrates and regrets
As the doomed cruise liner continued on the waves
Disaster struck with thoughts on did the waves behave
Panic was among the travelling passengers
The passengers being distinguished in the category of who’s who
There was a special passenger and I will give you a clue
The insignia of R.H.
I didn’t give the last name as I am trying to see if you figured out what R.H. stands for
You will be surprised in galore
The passenger was Rowland Hussey Macy
The name associates with MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE
A store you probably shop today
But Mr. Macy perished on board the ship “Titanic”
Yet he was a man of the seas by way of Merchant ****** from Nantucket
But the Titanic was constructed to be unsinkable
However the situation does make one think as what really happened on the Titanic?
A mystery of the seven seas
Let your mind wander but feel at ease
All the passengers perished, and their soul’s went to thee.

Monster snowstorm Meteorologist have warned
But when you have faith you don’t be alarmed
Yet this snowstorm is going to be for the record books
All a person has to do is just look
Like a typewriter keyboard going up the ladder
But in this case it is the Northeast with the matter
If the snowstorm piles up as much as Meteorologist predict, the snow will be around long and will certainly be icy and thick
Transportation will definitely shutdown
There will be no way too get around
Everyone will be stationery in homeward bound
It will television and cell phones with snowstorm updates
Then a mission to work or wait
There is no guarantee
It is a matter of wait and see
The snowstorm provided by thee
Man can’t defeat and tell the snow too stop
It’s all controlled from the almighty being at the top
The Sanitation Department will be doing their job in clearing the snow away
However it won’t be gone all in one day
This could be a snowstorm bringing snow that could last for days
Don’t even think on taking a plane being a getaway
It will be the wintry frozen ice that will stay
The best advice that I could give is to think of the season spring
Mild with warm hearts in getting through the snow in helping you preserver
Don’t think on fear
As God is always near
A snowstorm is God’s way in purifying the earth
I remember being taught that at birth
But think on doing things at home being fun
Always remember, weather conditions you have no control and God will always be the centered number of one.

Pringles with presentation in flavor
The chip itself is something to sliver
One bite and you know the taste is fresh
We look and you know you need to buy
All it takes is one try
The crispness being at its best
Other potato chip competitors in their contest
Lays with no one can just one
Wise got you in their eye
Utz we got you covered
But neither one can explain why
The Pringles P being perfection
The consumer being the indication
You will agree yourself
There is no comparison with anybody else
The goodness with the man with the beard
Pringles with how your taste will preserver
It’s the crunch on yes and the flavor that says it best.

Ketchup bottles have been taken off the shelves
Homes don’t even have ketchup themselves
French Fries, Hamburgers and Franks are all upset
But who in the world let?
A mystery we all must solve
We all must get involved
Look for clues in find
It’s the French Fries in who we must be kind
Let’s see of we can find any clues
We must be determined and not lose
There were traces of ketchup spills
Where there is a way is also a desired will
On the TV, there was a briefing at Heinz concerning why the ketchup was stolen
A competitor with its own brand recipe of ketchup stated, “Our ketchup is the best, and we are ready to do the test”
But will really contest?
Heinz has been around for years, but a new competitor wants to triumphed in preserver
Now how long can French Fries and other foods requiring ketchup continue in going plain?
Now the competitor being called, “ALL THE SPICES COMPANY, INC.”
ALL THE SPICES COMPANY, INC. does have a ring in its name
But what is their ingredient too whom they want us to be lame?
Now Heinz has a special blend, which they will never tell
Yet in the supermarket stores it does sell
But not knowing much about the competitor, how can they tell?
The Consumers have control in the flavor test
They will surely determine who is the best
Maybe more of less
Well after much tasting, Heinz was the victor without any effort
I am sorry to say, “ALL THE SPICES’ just couldn’t cut it
They wouldn’t have compared to even mustard
But don’t let me go there
However, just beware in who you feel is the best
Let your taste buds be the test
The French Fries can continue to have the ketchup style while competitor, “ALL THE SPICES” we be thinking on Heinz resources during while.

I see no other endless tomorrow than

To lie face to face with you

On a bed of lavenders and violets.

The cool sun magnifies

The verdant fields in your eyes

And the radiant shadows of my hair.

Morning breeze enshrouds our bodies

Sustained by flames more eternal than Vesta’s.

Here forever after

In my ideal world.



If I felt hunger it shall not last long,

For there are nectars from the giant continent that is you.

If you knew thirst it shall be quenched,

Just drink from my hidden wells and fountains.

But remember that I’m not like the ancient Eve

And you can only be the Adam in our own accord.

The butterflies or birds won’t shame me.

The grasses or trees won’t complain.

For loving you is the only truth

In my ideal world.



My hands are here to heal and amuse you,

As long as your arms embrace me from harm.

We own only the lips and ears

Where sweet sounds pass by

To lull as to dream or memorize

We’ll not know starless night of horror,

The way the moon becomes our constant watcher.

We’ll fear no lightning or thunder of wrath

For the rain will be our noble preserver.

Come and stay

In my ideal world.



We don’t have to worry about Sunday

Or think of God to pray.

Nature is our divine link to the cosmos,

And us the perpetual worship fleshed out.

Celestial or earthly we need not know

For this is the spot where boundaries depart.
But all these remain as bright colors in my head

Unless you key in yourself in my mind

And enshrine me to your heart.

Our story can be written by our breath

On petals and foliage of existence to this place.

Somewhere we can call ours,

Come and take

My ideal world.

I watched as a bird
(Perched upon a limb)
Fell to the water
(And drowned from inside him)
I wanted to save it
(But there was no purpose I could serve)
It sank deeper each day
(With its own mind as a life preserver)
I filled lungs when it needed to breathe
(But God needs you to get air on your own)
I wanted it to float
(i think it wanted to drown)
Wings are meant for flying in the clouds
(Not swimming in the sea)
So when you throw that empty bottle
(Please God just don't hit me)

although I'm not sure how much more pain you can cause me

Curiosity and questions
challenging creation

Busting down each **** wall
built by that cursed machine

Each stride brings you closer to the finish line but each stride pushes it even further

You musn't stop running

For god sakes don't stop

For if you cease to push forwards
the end is already behind you

Raging, roiling, boiling sea,
filling every last crevice
inside of me

Washing away my last
gasps of breath,
leaving me winded
and ready for death.

I've swum for so long,
and yet not long enough;
It's not right to give up now
but these waves are getting rough.

I'm getting the hang of
letting myself sink
a bit





Just enough for the cold
to ache in my bones
And every time it rains
My skeleton cries and drones.

The depths are so much
calmer than the rage above,
All I see from here
are faint ghosts that push and shove

I
want to inhale the cold,
but the cold will smother me,
and I'll never grow old.

This all hurts, every wave
and every splash
The rushing current
to pull me under in a flash

I'm just trying to swim,
listen to the silly blue fish,
keep going, don't stop,
You can have anything you wish!

I'm just tired. Is that even allowed?
We say it's okay, but our actions
speak the ugly truth.
There's just no satisfaction.

Everyone around me is tired, too.
Is it fair to stop swimming,
and let them go on in peace?
There's another race I'm never winning.

I don't need a life preserver,
nothing is wrong, because
others around me are drowning, too.
Life simply doesn't take a pause.

This all hurts, I can't breathe,
I don't like what's inside of me
The water I've breathed
boiling and roiling and ready for tea

Leaking through organs
and soaking in my veins
My head is swimming,
and surely that sounds insane.

Must be lack of oxygen flow,
'cause I'm still sinking
Bubbles slipping from my lips
I blow and up they go

Sinking, thinking, dreaming sea
lay to rest what's inside of me,
and in your darkness, I will sleep.

A vase collects dust until there is the perfect flower,
It is more than just a vase then.
It is a life preserver, without the vase the flower would not survive.
A flower is just a flower until it finds the perfect vase.
It is more than just a flower then.
It is the meaning of life, without the flower the vase would only collect dust.
*I'll hold the water you need to survive, you'll be my reason to live.

I remember things being different.
The tears come and I can’t tell why anymore.
I tie these sad grey bricks to my ankles.
I bathe in puddles of my own fear.

The tears come and I can’t tell why anymore.
No one threw me a life preserver while I drowned.
I bathed in puddles of my own fear,
only wishing for change or death.

No one threw me a life preserver while I drowned.
Comfort flees from the numbness,
only wishing for change or death—
knowing now that change won’t come.

Comfort flees from the numbness.
I will rest at the bottom of this salt sea,
knowing now that change won’t come—
I breathe in as the tears hide in the sea.

I will rest at the bottom of this salt sea.
I tie these sad, grey bricks to my ankles.
I breathe in as the tears hide in the sea.
I remember things being different.

i will cram myself into a goldfish bowl
because it's awkward inviting people to look at me if i am perfectly normal
maybe everyone will forget to feed me
and one day you'll find me belly side-up

or perhaps i will dig myself into the cheerios in my bowl
i need a life preserver
and there are several stacked up in there

maybe i will get bitten by a computer virus and morph into code that nobody can decipher

or maybe i will write a poem
and it will preserve a portion of my soul

(so that my ideas may die without such a struggle)

The Lord has smiled on your years
It was the Holy Spirit that continues to help you preserver
As God is always near
There were times you said enough is enough
But Mother ***, the Lord responded, I have added more years to your life
You have earned the years well
Your every footstep of pure confidence, everyone can tell
This Birthday wish is to motivate you to carry on
The idea is to remain strong
You have given me plenty of advice
As your Nephew, I never had to think twice
Your encouragement was like the fragrance of spice
I love you Dearly Aunt Margaret
But it is your humor accompanied with your Faith that truly instills in me
Your personality is the spread of salvation
It’s not a wonder, but an indication
Happy Birthday Aunt Margaret and long may you live
Continue the inspiration and smile that you give
You live your life to strive
Yet your wisdom surpasses even the number five
You are an Aunt of no nonsense and jive
An Aunt aiming for Heaven’s glory
Enough said, as this is your Nephew’s story
That’s my Aunt Margaret, a Mother and Grandmother to some, but an Aunt who will always be number one.

A man called Prince
The spiral of time
Talent with singing vibes
Instrumental with the flowing strides
Creativity all comes to mind
Purple showers in counting blessings
The remembrance in heart all will remain
Singing and dancing that took its final bow aim
It was Heavens moment that would allow
One dance and the soul strived up
The continuing pouring rain that filled the cup

Heavens name with Prince
He wasted no time and answered at once
Time with a limit
A commitment to perform
A date with Heaven
A Prince that became God’s servant
It was the applause
The extended hand
Welcome Home Prince

Now we don’t do R&B; up here
It’s praises of songs in how we preserver
We treasure your talent
Here in Heaven, no need to be silent
But we welcome you still
You are here in Heaven being God’s will

What’s in a name, but from Prince, you are under God’s name
Prince, it was you life in music in the move and soothe
The rhythm and harmony with the groove
To the world, you were a celebrity with talent to prove
Your talent captured the Lord
But it was all part of the Earthly accord.

The dialogue,
The volume,
The content..
It gets better right?

The petty,
The put-downs,
Vocal *****...
Too often why I'm up at night.

Egocentrism,
Carelessness,
And Irresponsibility.
Yet I'm the sewer rat not living up to my ability.

The toxic street withers me,
Too much debt to free,
I can predict the machines' actions almost constantly.

The happenings follow me,
What I see hollows me,
Will I ever emerge from this filth triumphantly?

It's the insanity I wake up to,
The vanity and the same stew.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what I have to go through.

It's grown ever-plain to see,
This isn't the way, that life should be,
But it's tossed onto the pile I've simply named "the pain in me."

No luminosity around to save selves,
Violent sound waves bounce off of every shelf.
Through these waters I have delved,
But no life-preserver,
No help.

I am unable to manipulate,
I'm just part of the tracks.
Desensitization's turned me from an alley cat,
To sewer rat,
Just by being exposed.
So I crawl through these tunnels with nothing but hope,
That there's a way I can go back..
Reverse the de-evolution I suppose,
And return to a world I thought I knew with humanity.
'Til then I scrape on living a life, transparently.

Youth muscles being the winning at trophies best
Winning and intensifying at every contest
A date with the heavy weights
The posing being just write too illustrate
A bodybuilder’s strategy that no one could anticipate
But it was the raw of the audience in there appreciate
However the body years continued to preserver
A sudden stop in training that signaled fear
But there was a desire, but a small flame
But a certain surge and inspiration too be bold
Even though a Bodybuilder turned old
Take control and grab those weights and take hold
Time showed it’s never too late
Old muscles responded with every lift
I was once a champion, and know how to not be stiff
But what if
Determination and no try
The weights adjusting to I too I
Intensity in being determined to raise the weights high
Yes I am a male Bodybuilder from the past
However a wiser Bodybuilder that is not going to finish last.

In the corner collecting dust all alone
This violin has seen fame being entertaining and full blown
The violin has played Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall
It even has seen all over the world by all
The violin even played solo behind various themes
A violin voice of melody of its own
But years of neglect into the dust years
There is no preserver
The violin’s time has come an sad end
Sits with no purpose
A violin that enthused the world
Now forgotten strings
The violin had the spotlight doing its thing
Alone now, but the violin proved without a doubt
It showed what music was all about.

I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now
holding my wallet, my cigarettes
and my car keys
at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960.

Dearest,
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.
The sea is very old.
The sea is the face of Mary,
without miracles or rage
or unusual hope,
grown rough and wrinkled
with incurable age.

Still,
I have eyes.
These are my eyes:
the orange letters that spell
ORIENT on the life preserver
that hangs by my knees;
its ***** canvas coat;
the faded sign that sits on its shelf
saying KEEP OFF.
Oh, all right, I say,
I'll save myself.

Over my right shoulder
I see four nuns
who sit like a bridge club,
their faces poked out
from under their habits,
as good as good babies who
have sunk into their carriages.
Without discrimination
the wind pulls the skirts
of. their arms.
Almost undressed,
I see what remains:
that holy wrist,
that ankle,
that chain.

Oh God,
although I am very sad,
could you please
let these four nuns
loosen from their leather boots
and their wooden chairs
to rise out
over this greasy deck,
out over this iron rail,
nodding their pink heads to one side,
flying four abreast
in the old-fashioned side stroke;
each mouth open and round,
breathing together
as fish do,
singing without sound.

Dearest,
see how my dark girls sally forth,
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut,
its shell as rusty
as a camp dish,
as fragile as a pagoda
on a stone;
out over the little lighthouse
that warns me of drowning winds
that rub over its blind bottom
and its blue cover;
winds that will take the toes
and the ears of the rider
or the lover.

There go my dark girls,
their dresses puff
in the leeward air.
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs
or the breath of dolphins;
each mouth opens gratefully,
wider than a milk cup.
My dark girls sing for this.
They are going up.
See them rise
on black wings, drinking
the sky, without smiles
or hands
or shoes.
They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.

Tradition says that the role of walking your daughter down the aisle to her new husband is the act of giving her away to a man who will pick up where you left off in the mission of protecting her.
But the day you gave me away, I wasn’t wearing a long white dress and there wasn’t a man waiting for me at the altar.
You gave me away to the world the day you told me that you needed a break as if our relationship was one that you could just flip a light switch on and off,
But I’ve been in the dark for far too long.
You snapped my spine in half the day you said that I didn’t show love or respect towards you. But how do you model a behavior that you’ve never been shown?
Five years, I tried to make our strained relationship work, for five years, I forgave you for throwing me aside and
Time and time again I tried to love you only to have you show me all the reasons for why I couldn’t.
We would never have the type of father daughter relationship that was described in fairytales or in movies.
You gave me away that day like I was food leftover on a plate of an entrée you were no longer hungry for.
You threw me out, sink or swim into a world full of male potentials,
And I drowned.
I was too worried about finding someone to rescue me from the flowing current and I had forgotten how to tread water.
Years of swimming lessons and I was still reaching for a life preserver.
But I’ve been lost in the sea of men too long.
Being daddy’s little girl is more than just an expression, more than just a role to fill as a daughter.
Being daddy’s little girl means that he wants you too.
Being daddy’s little girl means that we’ll walk down an aisle in between the guests at the wedding and you’ll give me away to my new husband who’ll vow his love for me:
For better or for worse, for rich or for poorer, in sickness and in health
Unlike yourself, where you pushed me away long before we’d reached worse.
You let me go like a balloon on a string without an anchor to hold me down,
Watching me float away without a care in the world as to where I ended up at, whose arms I fell into because I thought he’d take care of me like you were supposed to be doing.
You gave me away as I was just a little girl and I was without the slightest clue of what to look for when trying to find someone to take care of me.
I wanted you to take care of me.
I’d learned from you that distance was far better than being close to someone,
But it didn’t soften the blow when you gave me away.
When I was a little girl, I dreamed of you meeting my new dates and threatening to break their neck if they broke my heart but I can’t help but wonder
Why isn’t your neck shattered?
You took my heart out of my chest and crumpled it like a piece of paper before stomping it into the ground the day you gave me away.
I knew what a broken heart felt like before my first boyfriend did the same.
You left me cut wide open from the wound and I’ve yet to heal.
A hole inside me aches for a love that only a father can give,
The abyss within pains my chest with a void too easy to remember its presence.
And I’ve tried filling it with romantic relationships that meant nothing and guys who only wanted to fill such a space for one night.
You gave me away to the world of males I thought I needed in my life when I only needed you.
But you’d never know that because you gave me away
Like giving away spare change on the floorboards of your truck to a homeless person and I’m not sure if I’m the coins or if I’m the person in need of a home.
You gave me away the day you married the woman who took my spot and she became the most important girl in your life.

r.i.p. me
i'm drowning in your eyes
so like the ocean
washing over my whole being
unable to leave
your tides pull me back
every time
i’m sinking fast
i can’t breath
i’m done for
lost in the vast oceans
of your eyes