It's like…you know.

Like slow-melting chocolate,
Like honey filled with buzzing noumena's,
Like the lazy cat-stretch of incense,
Like distilled knowledge,
Like sunshine running in the sap of trees,
Like currents snake twining,
Like cells laughing,
Like pure unadulterated delight
rivers of lightness
Ripple flow and murmur through me.
Awakenings burst within me.
Now like thunder.
Now like faint breeze stirring the leaf.













This is a tribute to the Shakti. She who is felt, but never understood. Understood but never encompassed, encompassed but never encircled until embraced, embraced only if you are very foolish or blessed.



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.
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Tarun Cherian:

Seed Of Gnowing

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

Glowworms bound into a shape.
Call it a body.

Each cell remembers
it is light.

This time I open myself to it utterly.
What is it?
Not what the web of words
can catch.

The experience spirals out of touch.
The usual forms a scab,
reality slowly stops bleeding away.

Distances separate me from me.
Yet, something is planted
in the earth of my mind.
What rain will call it out of its silence?

What are the seasons of the soul?
I am that dried leaf raining down,
I am the dark sky,
I am the earth smell of rain.
You wake to this, a clue of who you are.

Beneath God's gown is a bra.




The Lightning Body

(Experience 2000, Cambridge L/O Bangalore)

Imagine a summer storm iridescent with lightning,only it happens in your body. And the lightning we were talking about? Well it isn't lightning either. Is more the deep content of a child massaged by his mother's fingers, the wine-heady satisfaction of a Sunday afternoon, the sensual slowness of amber honey lazily trickling, the curious stirring of a lover's tongue, the rippling dissolve of a half an hour orgasm, the fierce knowing of a prophet's eyes, sprinkled with volts. It, whatever it maybe, ripples up my body with exquisite slowness. Sparkling fingers touch, turning each cell dense with orgasmic incandescence. It moves with grass-suffused slowness,

Flickering-gold beneath lily pads, one may call chakras. Now nibbling at the toes. Now hyalescent fins moving at the crown. Circles on circles, of dancing children {only you can't see the children}, of molten gold {only you can't see the gold}.

It fades. It fades, but it's there, through meetings, campaigns, arguments, like the sheen of shot silk woven into my being. Suddenly, in the middle of a discussion on the middle class housewife's idli rice preferences, the Ajna pulses, the Sahasrara opens and shuts.

The universe winks on and off.

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