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

Snorers all
scattered world-wide
in offices and homes
in boardrooms
and bedrooms;
O Snorers all
loud and clear
low and shrill -
listen ye
to the loud wake-up call
as from Rip Van Winkle's Snore

stand up united
and drown the howl of protests
against snoring that is surely no less divine
than the Chorus of Angels in Heaven -
for the great God who made the Aurora
no doubt also conceived of the Divine Snore!


and so, stand up, ye sonorous Snorers!
unite! I call unto ye!
unite against the detractors
and the critics
and the complainants
and those of low culture
who cannot
lie still and listen to Snoring
as one rightly would at a concert hall
listening to the delightful play
of a quartet of violins


O how long will you take it lying down,
ye blessed Snorers of the World?
let the world know
the first divine music was indeed the Snore;
and the very height of human communication
is the unabashed snore
for all other modes of communication
lead to mis-communication
but the language of the snore is always exact and crisp!
the message of the Snore always precise!
the meaning always loud and clear!
and the very height of the snore
(let us declare to the world)
is the couple in bed
snoring away together
beside each other
making such divine music
making love with the rolling thunder of snores
so that one might say:
do we have a couple of wild boars
copulating in the next room?



stand up, O Snorers of the World -
and defy the mockers
and those who seek divorce
on grounds of insufferable Snoring;
stand up against those who sue
for loss of sleep from
friendly, neighborly Snorers;
stand up now
against these losers, these whingeing nags
uncouth and untutored
in the mysteries of the art of the Snore!
stand up and with one loud blast of
a universal Snore,
with one melodious Snore
let us
drown their dissenting voices,
their unprovoked cacophonous complaints!
stand up, Snorers young and old!
unite, Snorers black, white and gold!
defy the world! O ye Snorers
of quite nights and of lazy days:
let us overwhelm the world
with the pleasing symphony of Snores;
let us bless the ears of the world
with the dulcet streams of varied notes and arias!
stand up! unite! - O much-maligned Snorers of the World!
with one voice raised
in a triumphant Snore
let us declare:
*No longer will we be silent!
Our voices will be heard!

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told.
    Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
    And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

On this my happy and blessed day
fondly I remember what Mother always said
upon some naughty day when I made her sad
stalling on her bidding and not being a good boy
Son, live straight and be easy to interpret
Life is a complex menu of choices. Still -
you can cruise along if there’s love in your life

I remember the wistful poetry from my father’s lips
Creamy words spoken in jest or in epic tales
and untutored philosophy when he spoke of his going:
Death has come and it’s time for last words
My life has dragged by but now how it hurries!
Be the person that you must and **** the rest!
A truly rich person shares what they value most

And so it is that I’ve shared my heart and my mind
In numerous lines of poetry that has dared me to write it

On this my 66th birthday I read no ills in this number
For I’m just a wayfarer looking for words along my route
I pick the gems that sparkle and dazzle as I stroll to eternity
The landmarks on my route are
The friends I made and lost along the way
The doleful souls that brought tears to my eyes
The pretty girls that taught me I could never have them all

I remember too the places I’ve been to
And the songs of my people – lively commentaries on everything
And how life always lay waiting to be lived

My day of birth is my day of possibilities
And I keep hearing the line from the jazz classic:
Get your kicks on Route 66!

They said you were slow and languorous
That live or die 'twas all the same for you
Untutored, they were the swine before the pearls
And were ignorant of the coals that fanned your passion

I was one of the daring few that knocked at your door
The lithe girl in you  was always there for the seeing
You had a shape made in heaven and a smile to match
And your blithe ways said nothing mattered that much

We learned much about the body and the force of allure
We filled our gaps with information as you filled your cups
We became clumsier and more oafish as your grace peaked
But we always knew how to worship your form and beauty

The years went by and we all grew up and spread afield
Try as I did to search high and low, of you I found no trace
Yet with ease I found your pretty face in the clouds of time
And the rain wept your name and kept it showering

Now the relentless years have gone swiftly past somehow
And pretty little girls and bashful boys have grown old
Is this you with the fading sight and the tremulous voice?
'Tis no matter, I know how to bring back that lovely lass

So, no matter what, you'll always be that voluptuous beauty
I don't see your spindly legs nor mind your frequent lapses
They don't know what they missed, these modern types:
Love with the taste of spring water that bubbled out of you

Into the cupped palms of my doting heart that sang a duet
With the crescendo notes of your  ***** and the quiver
Of the enchanted world sitting upon your dancing behind
These enduring images never fade or melt away

Thus, dearest God's masterpiece, you'll always be my girl
And I the boy electrified by your articulate eloquence
Ignore them when they call you a hag and a witch
They know not the feel of the bliss that never goes away

It's fifteen years
since I let Jack fall.
I am unforgiven
by a wife who wasn't there,
who didn't see what happened
and who will never understand.

And nor will I, of course.
That slow-motion slip
from crested cliff to vanishing
replays before my desperate eyes
each night,
and each night I am as frozen
as on that wretched day.
A harmless walk gone awry
and a family forever shattered.

He was within my reach.
Another day I would have caught him,
effortlessly.
Another day I would have walked cliffside,
keeping him to the thrift-speckled verge,
soft and safe.
Another day we would have walked a woodland trail instead.

I don't know why that day
was the day I was distracted,
the day my reflex failed me.
I don't know why my brain misfired,
conscious enough to watch in horror
but not to propel me forward.
Sometimes we catch the cup as it topples,
sometimes we watch it spill to the floor.
Moments of blissful skill
followed by moments of dumb helplessness.

It was no cup that fell that day.

To her, though, there is no general flaw.
There is no explanation in biology,
no hormone or synapse to be blamed.
There is only me.  Her husband.
Jack's father.

There are no two sides to my coin, now.
There is only the man who let him fall.
She stays: she is dutiful.
But I could catch every falling cup,
remember to lock every door,
make never another mistake,
and he will still be dead
because his father was a careless man.

Ten years before Jack fell,
I,
a cautious man, untutored in love,
saw a beautiful girl
and inexplicably threw caution to the wind.
Another day I would have turned aside.
Another day I would have stammered my invitation,
lost my nerve.
But for that mysterious moment
There would have been no Jack,
and we would never have experienced
a limitless, all consuming love
which all the pain in the universe
can never staunch
or dim.

dabnagit  Travel back to before the nation began
and see Crispus Attucks killed — the
first American to die for American freedom, a freedom denied to his African and Native American forebears. Take a knee to honor his sacrifice and the other four dead.

Take a knee in grief that he who would become president minimized these first martyrs as "a motley rabble of saucy boys, negros and molattoes, Irish teagues and outlandish Jack Tarrs.”

Stand at Morris Island, South Carolina, where American soldiers fought to keep a young nation whole, a field of blue with 35 stars, not 22. Take a knee for the 54th Massachusetts Voluntary Infantry and its score killed at Fort Wagner, a hundred more presumed dead.

Take a knee in grief that the U.S. Army rescinded its promise of equality and paid the 54th little more than half a white soldier's monthly pay. Take a knee in awe at those who refused any pay that was less, yet died with "Massachusetts and Seven Dollars a Month!" on their lips, defending their white comrsdes' retreat.

Take a knee for Sgt. Medgar Evers, who defeated fascists at Normandy only to be killed by them once he was back home.

Take a knee from the suckerpunch by a U.S. senator from Mississippi in 1917, who said the return of black veterans would “inevitably lead to disaster.” Once you “impress the ***** with the fact that he is defending the flag” and “inflate his untutored soul with military airs,” it would be easy for him to conclude “his political rights must be respected.” Take a knee to honor those who died defending freedom. Take a knee to weep for the sharp rise in lynchings after both world wars — following the return of those impressed, untutored ***** souls inflated with military airs for having served.

Look at the lists, look at the videos, look at the witness testimony, look at the double standard: Amadou Diallo. Manuel Loggins Jr. Ronald Madison. Kendra James. Sean Bell. Eric Garner. Michael Brown. Alton Sterling. Philando Castile. (Take a knee; this could take awhile.) Akiel Denkins. Gregory Gunn. Samuel DuBose. Brendon Glenn. Freddie Gray. Natasha McKenna. Walter Scott. Christian Taylor. Ezell Ford. Akai Gurley. Laquan McDonald. (Take a breath.) Tamir Rice. Yvette Smith. Jamar Clark. Rekia Boyd. Shereese Francis. Ramarley Graham. LaTanya Haggerty. Margaret LaVerne Mitchell. And on and on. And on.

Take a knee for the unarmed, or subdued, or even fleeing men and women killed by officers pledged to protect and serve. Take a knee too for the officers killed by gun-toting gangsters…or by homeowners fearing a home invasion. While you're at it, take a knee for the more than 50 people killed every year by toddlers exercising their Second Amendment rights.

And take a knee for the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines who died so that a football player can take a knee as long as some people are shot by police in the back, or even when down, or even after they're on their knees…while others for some reason are far less likely to be shot in the same circumstances. Take a knee, Rodin-like, and ponder why.

Take a knee and join those who are taking a knee out of respect not only for the flag, but for the republic for which it stands, one nation…

(Striving to be a more perfect union)

…under God…

(Who "created all men equal"; "male and female he created them.")

…indivisible…

("Build that wall!" "Lock her up!" "Fire the sons of ******* if they won't stand for this flag but run them over if they protest a rebel flag!")

…with liberty and justice for all lives can't matter unless black lives matter.

So for these all, and many more, take a knee. Take your time, but take some heart. Then lift each other up and lock your arms. Play ball.

Hey, wake up to this living dream,
Strangled minds of future hope.
We are all atoms of naive serenity,
Fused with an higher scream.
To explore the theatrics of nature,
To acknowledge the only truth,
As working hands and support shoulders,
The crimes of untutored youth.
We have got to change our road,
Exchange the tires,
We had to hold so long,
Now the pain inspires.
They tell there's millions to touch,
That there's hope in hats.
For craves my heart to ride away to the absolute,
Like the ghosts of a burning cigarette.
Did they tell what was missing?
The eyes to see, peace at our time.
Did the books see fit?
Or they screamed of literal garbage.
For we may be unpolished gold pebbles,
For we may seem to be amateurs,
But once we swim into the seas,
The impurities fades as the gold shades,
And we welcome our hands to the ***** feast.

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.
Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

If your children are prisoners
And raised to have no voice
They grow up untutored
In how to make a choice.
If questioning is not allowed
How will they ever learn?
This is how we teach them
That frozen fire can burn.

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.

If saying no is tantamount
To picking up a weapon
Then sooner or later
Their rebellion will deafen.
The children cannot exist
In a world that makes them whole
If they are raised and treated
As if they had no soul.

Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

So ask yourself some questions
About what you were taught.
Some family traditions are
Better abandoned and fought.
Is there any act a child can do
That needs a slap across the face?
If not then there may be
No hope for love in our race.

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.
Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

Ah, young Sir, most elegant young scion
of a noble family of our Great City -
how well you play even these games
as cards and board games
with such composure, calm and dignity
that we of the lower classes
can never muster
and with what generosity of spirit
young Sir
what dignity and skill
even as you deign to play cards with us,
such ordinary folks, such untutored people like us…
but honest we are, young Sir,
and so in your wisdom and learning you have seen
and so you have chosen to come in our midst
and to play with us…
so you no doubt wish to know the world
so that you may have such wisdom as when one day
you move even deeper in court circles
and in the halls of power
as no doubt by the signs on your face and in your manner
young Sir
you are destined to do so…
ah Sir, how well you consider your moves…
…forgive me for talking, it is my admiration for you
that makes me talk…I shall be quiet the while
as you pause to make your next move…

…ah, Sir – such gravity and poise you have...
and such deep meditation you make
before every card move…
it is a dignity and insight, most noble young Sir
you have no doubt acquired
in the great schools, and from your most learned tutors
no doubt such wisdom as you have acquired
in all your studies
as noble youth like you are privileged to…
not like us poor street urchins
and common people of the street
in our ignorance, in our pettiness…
but still, Sir – we are honest people, you will find
and perhaps one day, young Sir,
you shall speak for us in those halls of power
in which you shall shine –
perhaps then you will speak for us ordinary folks
how though common and plain, yet most honest you found us…
play on, young Sir, play on….consider your moves
and hold your cards close to your *****, indeed…
indeed…indeed…I shall be quiet…so you can
deliberate and apprehend your every move…
but honest ordinary friends of yours we are, young Sir…
always we remain your honest friends
of the taverns and streets…

and the moon wraps me in its dust
a cold dust that freezes my sore skin
as the stars twinkle in a warm vigil
over my yearning body ablaze with
the fire of quests still to be satisfied
together the moon and the stars brew
a romance in bloom like wild flowers
starring the open fields with colour
the old moon weeps cheerless songs
    melodies never before heard
by untutored human ears
or played by arthritic fingers
in search of a miraculous cure
as acidic woes from dim pasts and distances **** nascent dreams
stranger than the quirkiest fictional tales
is the story of cold moons in tropical skies
nevertheless i shall lean forever towards that dream
whose promise is a pale shadow of reality

The perfection of every love
Is never truly known until it's
Passing...And in the shadows
Of the past are the beginning of
Tomorrow-are our bower where
All our labors are  offered up as
as  the not articulate prayers of
The untutored child telling  of his
Wish that love be known at last
For then is our life at an end but
Why should knowing be to die?

My cat Evan knows nothing of war
or famine or pestilence or blood.
Bravo to his ignorance of ideology!
He cares nothing for torn soldiers,
starving children, the Ebola virus,
or oozing traumatic amputations.
He sits solemnly on the recliner
listening to John Coltrane
thinking only tranquil cat thoughts,
imagining nothing more disturbing
than kibble and another day of naps.
He does not need to consider himself.
He is himself - a sleek, gray
untutored genius of silence:
the only true Buddha I've ever met.
   - mce

I am still changing;  learning the obvious-
The truth long believed but misunderstood
Because the circumstances from which it
Arises was yet unknown so the sentiment
Could not be spoken from the heart still
Untutored by time.  So much that we hear
That is bold strong and brave comes only
From the broken hearted; the meek seeking
Peace who have learned the vital lesson that
If you cannot love here on earth as it is in
Heaven; fearing to forgive but seek to avenge
For wrongs  wept for.  Calling for justice on the
Poor in spirit who have already suffered much
Subordinating love to worldly pride.Then it is
A better more loving judgement to be taken up
That from your higher post you may at last know
Mercy that is Love triumphant.  Your Lover will
Follow you who you would not leave me behind.
I Would be with you always where your Love  is
If it cannot be here then to the hereafter call me.
Yet it is not my choice it is you who would leave
Me unloved - Harden not your heart hear my cry

Massive water body in one-time quarry
colour blue like the sky and edges green with algae
offers untutored swimming episodes with man-bushed boys
I watch them float around like effortless swallows in the sky
hoping against hope that it can be me one day
on my back  at ease like a log or diving deep
Big boy with breaking voice will carry me on his back
I strip and hike around the pool on his sinewy back
Again and again till my fears are lulled and I'm relaxed
These days I smile whenever I hear the monkey tell the buzzard:
Straighten up and fly right, for the boy shook me off
And made for the bank to watch me splash and nearly drown
With hindsight I know I should've told him to straighten up and swim right;  but that's how you learn to swim among the boys

There is a major shortage
Especially in southern latitudes
That creates an insufficiency
Of any proportionate gratitude.
They don’t realize down there
That the 1970s gay rights fuss
Let issues of personal freedom
Come in from the back of the bus.

These noisy not-very-Christians
Should be standing up to cheer
Instead of ******* and moaning
Over copious bottles of beer
Because all of us are different
In many different secret ways
And if all their secrets came out
Their friends would be amazed.

The difference is that those,
The ‘be Godly on Sunday’ folks
Would be the sad punchlines of
Some fairly disgusting jokes.
The reason they are not making
******* look much more tame
Is they seldom admit out loud
And give their peccadilloes names.

They scoff at those born gay
And point their fingers at us
And use their faulty logic to
Pompously try to combat us.
It takes those of us who stand,
Who fit the profile of the plucky
To try to get across the point;
Bigots should think themselves lucky.

It’s a wonder that the news today
Of the gropers and the whorehounds
Those jerks elected to high office
Think they stand on moral ground
While many reverends are molesting
Blackmailing, cheating and conniving
And yet of hypocrisy by the righteous
News virtually never stops arriving.

Could it be that it is too much for them
To keep this self-righteous stance
Of watching those demanding freedom
And still looking at them askance?
Wouldn’t it be better if they all
Did what their pal Jesus really said
And get what the revivalist untutored
Greedy church liars out of their head?

My muse's absence saw another bloom
Saw I review of a praise, richly gathered.
Defer your attribute with golden plume
And dearest phrase is by all wit shattered.
I think nice aims while some write words,
And like untutored youths pipe amen
To every hymn that alert ardor affords
In shiny form of discriminating pen.
Hearing you praised, I say it is true,
And to utmost praise I add much more:
But that is in my head, as thou loves you,
Such words are final, they hold rank before.
Then others for sake of words give relief,
Tho my silent thoughts do indeed speak.

In our youth we seek to learn; to
Learn from our experience how to
Live ,  live longer, live happier and
With all that we learn we move step
By step closer to old age and our own
Mortality-then the only thing we seek
Is how we may restore our youth and
To do that we must learn to forget. As
One overloaded with survival gear who
Cannot flee he the lion unless he drop
His heavy load; all his hard won gain
To know with an innocent mind that
He will never die alone  is the antidote
That can restore the body to its spirit.
Oh Sweet bird of youth we never knew
You were our last and greatest treasure
Bird you never were but my soul alone
Where untutored still I freely believed
Soared in my heart to the truth of love

Found and lost at once,
immediate
inbetweenity, here, not there
in a way, in the air, expired

whoosh, shush and remember
the wonder lost,
when the boy who wished never
to grow old
with this now to
remain the time of our lives, when
not knowing keeps us safe,
and our guides into ever on go, ever
be
holding, ever eyewise-touching
the face of God,
big g.

Time and Joy, Edwardian Gay
repressed as zeitgeist calling for
"lovely, wonderful thoughts"

infantile omnipotence, 700 million light
geotimed timid old ideas

The author imagines the same vision
one way, plain, unencoded

white wolves in a walnut tree
freud interpretted the unconscious wish source

ah, it was the witnessing of *** enacted, eh?
I think we may have granted Herr Freud
more credence than guesses are often allowed.

Is this not the same social act as when
any knowledge is claimed by faith in the answer
accepted

inner being, outer shown, reflective seeing
the world we see, we agree to see,
this is that, you see,
I say, literally living in word alone, a nobody

founding one fair-made tale, of favors owned, shrinking

death in the brothers wish, where lay the dead man
I recall as always handsome, though I never knew him.

I was such a liar, so ready to say true a not-ever-true

Having no success that makes history,
hold no certain truth that certainly made me
choose
to wish to
be an author of the faith I pour out

clap your hands if you believe
in fair
ways found oddly marked in the peace
found in old

"better to have had less ambition"

Thinking as a child, not as the old man, watching
slight smile
forming the setting for the scene, making much

of being a little boy, once, as a story
sifted from another, seeping into solution.

Yes the spirit of my time has been my friend,
for, most of the ways I wished to learn,
now are in my grasp, well within my reach, mine
and that of my Artistical Intuitive Muse,
ever aiming my morning at the mercy on the edge
of one day alone
with you,

lost in youth's untutored virginity
or something, impatient, yes, I'd wait… perfect moments
are rare,
but do occur, if your aim is close..

Five hundred years ago, I'd be burned for knowing this and saying so.
I know now, the bell must toll, and
what they say when they ring the bell.

--- that was after math, come and see...

What will be done?  Jesus's father's will, our father's will if you will,
be inclusive a bit
and lieve mine be done in harmony

include me in your cult of gnostication professionals, see

I been gambling all my life, sin
ce early on.

I aimed to have won souls in games, not of chance, but truth.
Will you, wont you, as you were wont to do, do now

lift up your voice and shout, I am a ******

Welcome to my inner burning man, in my desert, ashes blow away, yond

the edge of Kumeyaay to Yuma and Blythe, where
Quechan and Mohave wise ones say they heard,

when there were old ones, who never went to jail
for drunk and disorderly being,
after their hopes went on to being happy as could be,

-- some day Sammy, the Apache, and his brother Jonah, link

- my grandpa never been in jail, that little Hualapai kid said
- and I said my grand kids can't say that,
- though I had none, at the time.
- The grand, the better version of me, children, better adapted
- to now, by nature...

do not call the bhorn worth of a child common, we took great pains
to remain random,
you will notice, if you look real close, atom boundary field close,

order exists only in bubble-ish force fields with

geistlich actions enfolding north to south and uptodown
round and
round on an all be, wall, all be dammed, the flow is
in the foam the bubbles
are on and we can see that

as once, long ago, the winds they call Santana, no relation,

saw the making of the intaglios in Blythe.

The great rain of fire, some say eight thousand years ago,
left a layer of frothy lava rock and obsidian tears,
scattered, one layer thick,

at least as far as El Paso, I witness,
I have walked this land.

I grew to manhood. Lost my first ****** fluids in this land,

once when I was preverbal, I fell into the effluent overflow,
from the sewer system that mustabin
more primitive in 1951, or so,

say, I was three, age of my youngest grandson, Everest Pax:

my sire was attending me while gathering worms, to go fishing,
at the river, fifty hard miles away,
back in them days.

The muck was as thick as oat meal and smelled like what it was,
and I was dunked,
baptized in the dung that came from the town where I was born,
by some concurence of events I can only imagine being intentional,

but I was rescued and rushed to the home of some people
so old they had a wood burning kitchen stove,
like the one Ben Franklin sent his wife from London,
not the one he invented in Ben and Me Disneyfied American History,
common to us all.
And that is all I recall, per haps, my older sister remembers,

nope,
I called, no hassle, from my AI converged phone via Bluetooth
and Google Assist Generic Asexual Tobor Robot voice

this is the future, when the 31 flavor stories are sprouting
like horse leeches crying more, more, more

sip slowly still waters where horse leeches are proverbial bywords.
learn reasons for mysteries,

or be sorted out of the few who went with Gideon. Eh,

the actual 300, not those *** Spartans.
Gideon's 300, they were the ones, who knew the danger of drinking
still waters in a land where horse leech lips lessons were hard bought.

Got an idea what a spiritual horse leech may be,
a private interp, or two, meaninggul to you, but you must be the

teller, for your copyright invoked, ala right of first reason,

survive by making a way for your self among the heathen hordes,
of untutored proles and peons and sturdy peasant stock
of the baser sort,

slave material, minimum wage, deltas. You can despise the
egregious among them.

Scorn the ones who look up and say,
there is no peace.

Eh? Scorn me, you depressed button of cascading woke jokes, I'll
be dammed by no mud nor ice,
watch

let there be words... now, any thing can happen.
Learn your lessons as needed,
not as anticipated and waited for the chance, to know it all at once,

and become Herr Doktor Professor of Hidden Knowledge,
you must pay, not your life, oh no,

not your heart, but I bet you will give it frreely once,
you know
all we know, behind the curtain, where

well
yes, that curtain was never rewoven or sewn, we never asked why not.

the veil was interrnal, oh, I see, men as tree entries in the idea of all that
can be done, once we master the potters art,

on the scale of mitochondrial batteries cocked with one ATP shot,

that, a billion billion times is this act of me touching you with words, never spoken. And now, you discover the geogrraphy

containing me is warrring with the geogaphy containing you,

psshaw. I like you. The universe is friendly and telling you is the good I do.

Peace, out.

my brain
failing two times
to achieve the hour of two
does lie awake
and seek news
reassurance from familiars
wonders from the untutored
wisdom born in by stones
who come to frolic
and leave cairns
to say goodbye
till tomorrow

My Cupid's absence saw another bloom,
Scene reviews of praise, richly gathered.
Defer your attribute with golden plume,
And dearest phrase is by all wit shatter'd.
I think nice aims while his aim reassures,
And like untutored youths we pipe Amen!
To ev'ry hymn. The ardor needs be yours
In shiny form of fine discriminating pen.
Hearing you praised, I say it is very true,
To your praise I would add much more:
But do so in my head, as thou loves you,
Such it is, final, for he holds rank before.
Then others for sake of words give relief,
My silent thoughts do still speak to grief.

Found and lost at once,
immediate
inbetweenity, here, not there
in a way, in the air, expired

whoosh, shush and remember
the wonder lost,
when the boy who wished never
to grow old
with this now to
remain the time of our lives, when
not knowing keeps us safe,
and our guides into ever on go, ever
be
holding, ever eyewise-touching
the face of God,
big g.

Time and joy, Edwardian Gay Hebrew
repressed as zeitgeist calling for
"lovely, wonderfull thoughts"

infantile omnipotence, 700 million light
geotimed timid old ideas

The author imagines the same vision
one way, plain, unencoded

white wolves in a walnut tree
freud interpretted the unconscious wish source

ah, it was the witnessing of *** enacted, eh?
I think we may have granted Herr Freud
more credence than guesses are often allowed.

Is this not the same social act as when
any knowledge is claimed by faith in the answer
accepted

inner being, outer shown, reflective seeing
the world we see, we agree to see,
this is that, you see,
I say, literally living in word alone, a nobody

founding one fair-made tale, of favors owned, shrinking

death in the brothers wish, where the dead man
I recall as always handsome, though I never knew him.

I was such a liar, so ready to say true a not-ever-true

Having no success that makes history,
hold no certain truth that certainly made me
choose
to wish to
be an author of the faith I pour out

clap your hands if you believe
in fair
ways found oddly marked in the peace
found in old

"better to have had less ambition"

Thinking as a child, not as the old man, watching
slight smile
forming the setting for the scene, making much

of being a little boy, once, as a story
sifted from another, seeping into solution.

Yes the spirit of my time has been my friend,
for, most of the ways I wished to learn,
now are in my grasp, well within my reach, mine
and that of my Artistical Intuitive Muse,
ever aiming my morning at the mercy on the edge
of one day alone
with you,

lost in youth's untutored virginity
or something, impatient, yes, I'd wait… perfect moments
are rare,
but do occur, if your aim is close..

A   sight,   a   sound,   an   unheard   voice,
Remembrance's   velvet   claws   unsheath
An   insistent   rapping   on   the
Unsuspecting   mind.

Still'd   echoes   unshackle
The   chains   of   suspended   Time.
In   faint   rumbling   murmurs
Stalk   and   violate   the   consciousness

The   dust   off   lost   days   is   stirred
Like   the   faint   rustlings   of   leaves
Touched   by   the   infant   breeze
Presage   the   storm.

A   first   stray,   drifting   thought
Arrays   the   splendour   of   memories
A   multitude   of   choices   blossom
Like   buds   with   morning   dew.

The   strains   of   lost   songs,
Innocently   echo   from   beneath
The   burden   of   accumulated   years
In   untutored   crescendo.

A   sight,   a   sound,   an   unheard   voice
Transformed the   music   of   forgotten   days,
Lightened   mood;   Time   forsakes   barren   Winter
In   the   embrace   of   an   imagined   Spring.

As prospective students
ably ready themselves to matriculate
and/or first set little feet
inside halls of learning,
I rebroadcast a poem crafted
at the height of Covid-19.

A couple years gone back educators
adaptation regarding coronavirus
severely impacted on the classroom,
which modifications necessitated school boards
to rejigger methodology teaching paradigm,  
quite herculean feat yours truly
(self tasked himself with assignment)
attempted to encapsulate difficulty courtesy

his handy dandy trademark poetic flair;
through arbitrarily chosen words,
nevertheless encompassed feeble effort
forthwith present authored outcome
read endeavor printed below,
which attempt barely hinted
at near insurmountable obstacles
pandemic loosed upon webbed wide world.

The following reasonable
already obsolete rhyme
verst animated mine
faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue,
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus,
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signaled resumption of school year
back in vogue.

Countless challenges abounded
as millions of students
(darting to and fro, hither and yon
analogous to flagellated spermatozoa)
did re:zoom
even fetus soon did kickstart
to get academic jumpstart while in utero
eventually nudged out of womb,
whence a new born babe
cradled in mother's arms
lulled to sleep listening to Mozart
while older siblings

awaited crossing guard signal
when one after another
bus came by... vroom,
whereby administrators established
virtual and/or actual room
adapted to delegate assignments
as reported by local newsroom
facilitated by unrenown,
unstoried, and untutored writer,
most likely a bonafide married,
and once former unbridled groom.

Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information
super highway road)
confronted those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload,
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode,
whereby inquiring inquisitive young students
taught abc's including
modus operandi how to code.

Virtual golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress children
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online,
while one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
made his poetic cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to instruct,

which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true orthodox methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
neither folded flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor ever served as safety patrol.

Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously, nobly, royally struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
invariably experiencing cognitive dissonance
who floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade.

Bard of Perkiomen Valley
readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled
in kindergarten today,
he would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
situated within Lower Providence district
emotionally fractured psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.

Concomitant to foster
misgivings of wretchedness,
I harbor jealousy
at young whip smart kids,
who already possess laudatory command
concerning salient technological knowhow,
me far beyond paternal parental stage
yet speculate how child raising
could allow, enable and provide
insight into latest
cutting edge binary wizardry.

Less impactful upon precocious
boys and girls hungry
as a caterpillar for knowledge
included protracted time eons ago,
when fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters
experienced opportunities to
relish countless hours whittled away
being tutored as son(s)
and/or daughter(s) for stereotypical roles.

Within realm of cyberspace
positive kudos extolled mentoring progeny
about rudimentary concepts
(plus edifying offspring
about all encompassing
social media platforms netiquette)
aided in turn with
sophisticated computer programs
(possibly created by little Einsteins)
invariably lovingly bonding (yeah right).

Poetry is my friend ,
It lends to me a library,
One unknown and unread,
Untutored there to be said,
A simple line or many verse
Discovering sentiments
I can converse.

Love Mary ***