They say the world is a mirage
compared to the samadhi void.
I say the void is a mirage
compared to Shyam,
who strolls through lusher gardens
than enlightenment,
where scholars and yogis
cannot pass the flaming sword
of the gate keeper.
His wine is love stored up
in a hidden wineskin,
the passion of emptiness,
the breast from whom
intellectuals never drink,
having forgotten how to weep
the transcendental tears
of longing,
which are the ordinary tears
of a hyacinth in December,
a crysalis congealed
in dreamless bewilderment,
a peacock wandering
alone in a cage of circles,
sad mirrored rainbow
that will not see the source
of its reflection
until the fan of knowledge
closes up into itself.
Come now, be as human as you can.
Through these tears
what is more inward than I
becomes visible,
deeper in the seed
than next Spring,
sweet beyond tasting,
flute music of silence,
body of emptiness,
love alone without an object,
consuming lover and beloved.
Krishna's not a symbol:
only stillness dancing.
Don't look for any meaning:
just have the affair.
Take the journey of one heart-beat
across the ocean of your blood
to blackness beyond stars;
collapse, return
to the brilliant vacuum
between one breath and another,
transforming your flesh
into dark matter like his,
sweet as a rain-laden cloud
exhausted by kirtan tears.
I only give you glimpses
of Krishna's vastness,
the trembling blue silence
of an eye that sees itself.
I only leave clues
about the scented bower
toward whose entrance
sinlessly naked you wander,
crazy enough to be invited
He meets us all here,
even the crashers,
He the diamond-throated
feather-crowned outrageous
paramour we each
imagined was our own.
He whispers the secret name
only your lover could possibly know.
You thought it would just be
the two of you? Fool!
His gaze contains us all.
His body is the sky,
infused and ringing
with golden sub-nuclear bells,
the infinitesimal gods
of every possible world.
Govinda twines his limbs with yours,
yet there are countless ways
to make love: He is the madness
of pure Possibility.
How could one finger of his hand
not fondle all our hearts?
How could the intimate glance
of his omniscient eye
not torment every soul
into dissolving?
The one who asked you to this dance
invited every beggar.
Don't RSVP:
just be on your knees.
Bhakti is pulsation
of the darkest star
forming and unforming
dusty planets for the rendezvous
with every whirling soul.
Leave petty jealousy behind.
Real beauty, after all, is out of control.
Don't bother with convention
when you enter the jasmine-scented grove
on this particular world,
on this particular night,
created just for you.
To each bride,
Radha-Govind is the groom,
remaining somehow faithful
to One alone.
Now here is the secret:
each of us cries,
"I am the One!"

1 comment:

Dana said...


It's beyond beauty what you wrote!
You know: Your words have on me the effect that Krishna has on his Gopees... Sometimes I think you are mine... that I am the one :)

Your words entice me! Yet, they free me... I cry and cry, and then crack a laughter!

Now, I have one question:
How come divinity always manifests as a male having female Gopees...
We never heard of a female manifestation having male Gopees!
Isn't it?

Now forget all my questions, and excuse my 'restless' mind!
But answer this: Were you among K. Gopees, back then in that cycle?

And Finally, I am sorry I missed our meetings for the past month, but I promise to catch up on all your danses! Both the Old and the New! I will danse them back with you one by one!

In 'Danse' alone!
Your Gopee (or to be more specific: one of your Gopees!)