Awakening: Welcoming The Joy
It is there for us all... we often are not there for it.
Creative Director with 18 award-winning years. Award-winning Poet. 6 books of poetry, spirituality, art published.
Falling Upwards
Sometimes I lie down on a stone bench in the park
and look down at the sky,
and I think if I let go I'll fall like a leaf
past the trees and slow into the clouds
and through the deep whispering blue.
Sometimes a hawk slides
slow from the pool of one eye to another
and not a seam.
Sometimes there's the trees and I.
Sometimes I am the stone bench, sun-warm and lazy.
Sometimes the eucalyptus scent-blown shivering.
Sometimes I lie down on a stone bench in the park
and look down at the sky,
and I let go and I fall like a leaf
past the trees and slow into the sky
and through the deep whispering blue.Sometimes…a heaven descends
(Poem & experience, 2002, Cambridge L/O , Bangalore)
1
Sometimes taking Buffy for a walk,
I just see grass flowers in the breeze
and my heart gets so big that a god could easily fit in,
the kind with size zillion feet.
2
Sometimes midway through this and that
a door opens, that earlier I would have called an abyss,
and I walk through and leave myself behind.
3
Sometimes, I beam stupidly with smiles like armour-piercing shells.
Sometimes, I blaze at unmentionable degrees centigrade.
Sometimes, I go so deep I go right through the universe.
Sometimes, a touch like a lover tonguing every cell.
Sometimes, my body shimmers off.
Sometimes, overfilled with joy, rage explodes.
Sometimes, I feel like a pregnant sow birthing a joy large as an elephant.
Today a happy wind rose up…
( 12 Jan, 03, Sunday Morning, written by the wind, translated by me. Tarun Cherian)Today a happy wind rose up and shook my hair as if I were a tree and all my leaves whispered and branches swayed and my sap rose delicious to my crown then slowly like the scent of my sex spread like a skirt falling on the surprised man walking beneath.
Today a happy wind rose up, like the ones that blew in childhood, the ones that stirred the still galleon, that the less gifted see is paper boat, in the pond to action, dizzying round, though the sailors don't object being intrepid adventurers all, the dark armoured beetle – the pirate king, the red stone – little john, the rainbowed yellow wing – the friendly wizard, the blood-brown dried leaf, the sail.
Today a happy wind rose up and leaf danced in circles holding hands and giggling, leaping our dancer bodies lithe about the heavy feet of a man, woman that suddenly change to match our feet and join the circle for awhile.
Today a happy wind rose up and all my fears, my hates, my campaigns, my next meditation student, my sadness like dried grass, all lifted and breathed a little deeper, then rose up and scattered out of the window of my being and I did not run after them, but let them go…
Today a happy wind rose up and stirred the dulled surface of the pond of my mind, my dog is sniffing at, and suddenly I see it is no pond, but lake rippling, shivering, calming, joying, turning into puddle merely not to scare my child-heart feet, attached to near 40 shouldered years, from splashing through.
Today a happy wind rose up, perhaps it came from your side of the globe, or maybe a higher place, even higher than the cloud, no matter, with lifted heart and these words like dried leaf tumbling in the giddy wind, I send it your way, send it on.
The Luminous Moment
Early Saturday. Sun still stretching. Ensconced in a chair downstairs at an open window. I look out and the tree in front of our home giggles. Did sparrows tickle the toes, or the breeze? Toss the book I was reading aside. It’s displaced by a subtly inserted thought. ‘Knowledge does not rest in books, but it may rest in them, light like a bird on a branch.’Seize pen, rough sheets, as I write it down, a shaft of slanting, morning light catches the paper. Bringing a troop of light and shadow, leaf dancing and gold catching the fur of the page. I stop struck. As I bring the point of my pen down again, I am in for a greater surprise. The light hits the metallic shaft and throws glorious reflections. As I write it turns into a dizzying arabesque.
Before the words, like heralds, go rippling shimmers. Behind come hard angular shadows. My mind ponders: If before me the universe strews light. And behind me is that which is ruled by gravity and shadow. Then where am I? Something deep inside me goes ‘boing’ like a Japanese mega drum.
I am at the cusp between light and gravity. We are at the point where possibility turns into experience and experience into fact. Busy nose deep in the textures of life, we don’t notice the shivers of light we send out ahead. We are not privy to how light turns heavy, becomes physical, is the ground we walk on. We don’t see that the moment, beautifully arrayed around us in all its incredible detail, comes from the stylus of our being.
There’s a feeling that we are chasing the light. That we can catch it. That when we open the fingers of our being it will still be there. I open my fingers. It is here.
(This piece has been published by WordPool in the mid 1990's, a pioneering esite in India. Also published on creatorschild.com )
I speak through you.
(Experience and poem, Night of 3 rd Feb, 03)
I
Floundering
like a child
in the baby pool of a dream,
I am swept under,
don't seize the broad hints,
the unfamiliar hands.
“That is all this life is,
a lesser god's post prandial,
(in non-latinese that's - stuffed-his-face like-a-pig-too-much) dream.”
The realisation nudges.
And since my mind's door is not bolted down,
it swings open. And they joyously take it
for an invitation, step through.
II
“I am grass flower, I speak through you.”
“I am star, I speak through you.”
“I am wind in a dark night, I speak through you.”
“I am the light in the dark corner, I speak through you.”
“I am the yearning that cannot be spoken, I speak through you.”
“I am the hand in an unfamiliar life, I speak through you.”
“I am the root growing slow, I speak through you.”
“I am the sleeping river, I speak through you.”
“I am earth mother, I speak through you.”
III
The voices cease.
I am the emptiness of the flute between lips.
That's it.
-Art: Shaktipats in Disguise.
-Gallery of Tarun's Spiritual Art -Critics Praise:
-Writing: - Poetry:
*Pilgrim's Progress.
*Kundalini Rising.
*Awakenings: Welcoming The Joy.
*Regenesis
* Witness
*Refusing to Fall.
*Je Suis Human.
*Rules of Life.
*Homeland
- Short Stories:
*The Merciful Tree
- Songs & Hymns & Video Poetry
- Mantras
- Articles: uploaded at creatorschild.com, Tickle Newsletter, edited by Tarun & Celia Cherian
- Books:
*Buffy's Doggy Revelations uploaded @ creatorschild.com
*The Chronicle of Death & Rebirth uploaded @creatorschild.com*
Selection from Speaking in Tongues.
*FREE: Big Treasures in Little Pockets. uploaded @ creatorschild.com
*FREE: The Hour Before Dawn. uploaded @ creatorschild.com
- Talks, Videos