I speak through you.
(Experience and poem, Night of 3 rd Feb, 03)

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.


“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.”


The voices cease.
I am the emptiness of the flute between lips.

That's it.

Sometimes…a heaven descends

(Poem & experience, 2002, Cambridge L/O , Bangalore)

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.

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.

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.


Depicting beings of pure consciousness is different in one key aspect from depicting usual objects. A representation of lightning doesn't give shocks. A true evocation of an energy being… actually calls it there. And when that happens it can be jaw dropping.
Back to main poetry & writing page
Poetry: Pilgrim's Footsteps:

The Pilgrimage to the Newspaper Stall

The stroll to buy newspapers on Sunday
is a pilgrimage.

Light suffuses the stairs,
gold suffuses the light,
steps awaken the cells.

The neem tree in the car park
is a shock,
on some Sundays, it's a cathedral,
sending out an intense calm,
deep like a needle into the veins of the soul.

Each step of light is on light.
The solid earth is light – cool, underwater, cloudy.
Stars. Symbols. Words of silence.
A grammar of being.

Mind, sharp – a little hungover,
separating body mind step word.
each step to the gate is inward.
The gate challenges.
Can you walk among the stars?
And cross the road?

The Milky Way and M.G.Road
are cousins.
Coming to the divider
In-focus shifting a trifle,
not shifting.

I reach the sanctuary of the other side.
Muddy, slushy, dug up.
And yet the eyes show a rich reveling
in its being.

Is there any place where God isn't?
I judge the trench,
leap across, hop across, step across.
A goat, not a goat.
A million participations in each cell.
The creepers tumbling over the wall,
spill over the walls of my being.
I breathe out. And in.

Rivers of thought.
A star symbol which
has been playing hide and seek
for the last few weeks
rises like the fish of wisdom.

“They are souls”
the words form to me
in reminder.

Someone picks a stone
And hits the scooter of a friend.

I pick the papers.

There's an eclipse on the front page.
The shopkeeper is bald.
There's a complicity, an understanding,
A pact.

How do I enter into his life?
A symbol of, who knows what, on Sunday mornings.
I walk away.

I look at a temple tree.

It looks back at me.

Back to home page

For the lack of another word he is a half guru.

My Guru is cut in two.
Like a child snips a cut out accidentally
through the middle.

He is a bright shiny dark.
And sits in a half lotus
in a land where the grass is a fire engine green.

He is.
And so wisdom spreads its petals.

He is half. Because his other half
would tear the world at its seams.

I met him in a real dream.
He did not say he is my Guru.
He gave me two gifts.

It wouldn't make sense to you.
It burns in me.

Like my guru. I am becoming half.
And my world is like planted flame.

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.