Poetry

No two. Only one.

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(Photo credit: Sangeeta Mahajan. Sunrise on the Nilgiris. Oct 2026)

Today has been the day of dragonflies, hundreds of them swooping down the hill, past me as I sit on my balcony gazing at the gorgeous blue mountains of South India in the gentle afternoon sun. I am at an Ayurvedic centre (Indian traditional medicine) situated in the most scenic part of Tamil Nadu, known to be inhabited since prehistoric times. I am here, resetting my system, reminding myself what a healthy daily routine looks like and in the process getting looked after with daily massages and freshly cooked meals.

Being here at present is serene, soulful, safe and sacred. Holding myself and my body with love and honour. Returning to myself afresh. Being still and silent. Smiling on the inside, singing on the outside. Who would’ve thought this possible, even for the briefest moment. Yes, tomorrow I might turn into a puddle on the floor but right now, I am okay and that is a blessing.

Every week we chant ancient Sanskrit mantras. This week we chanted a set of verses written by an eighth century sage, philosopher and teacher of Non-duality, Adi Shankara. When asked by a young boy, who are you? He responded:

“Neither am I the Mind, nor the Intelligence or Ego,
Neither am I the Ears, nor the Tongue, eyes or Nose,

Neither am I the Sky, nor the Earth, Neither the Fire nor the Air,
I am Pure Blissful Consciousness.

Neither am I the Breath, nor the Five Vital elements,
Neither am I the Body, nor its Five Sheaths,
Neither am I the organ of Speech, nor the Hands, nor Feet,

I am Pure Blissful Consciousness.

Neither am I Hatred, nor Attachment, Neither Greed nor Infatuation,
Neither am I Pride, nor of Envy and Jealousy,
I am Not within the bounds of Righteousness, Wealth, Desire nor Liberation,
I am the Ever-Pure Blissful Consciousness.

Neither am I bound by Merits nor Sins, neither by Joys nor Sorrows,
Neither am I bound by Sacred Hymns or Places, Scriptures or Sacrifices

I am neither Enjoyment, nor an object to be Enjoyed, nor the Enjoyer,
I am the Ever-Pure Blissful Consciousness.

Neither am I bound by Death and its Fear, nor by the rules of Caste and denominations,
Neither do I have Father and Mother, nor do I have Birth,
Neither do I have Relations nor Friends, neither Spiritual Teacher nor Disciple,
I am the Ever-Pure Blissful Consciousness.

I am without any Form or Variations,
I am Present Everywhere as the underlying Substratum of everything,
Neither do I get attached to anything, nor get freed from anything,
I am the Ever-Pure Blissful Consciousness.”

The meaning of these verses is not yet fully clear to me but it is comforting to know that you and I share our Being as the one and only one blissful consciousness. So, if there is One and only One, then could there be any space for separation. Could this felt sense of separation be a mere illusion? I wonder.

Resource: The essence of Non-duality: https://rupertspira.com/

Thank you, Window.

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The quest for simplicity has led me by the hand to a lesson in appreciation. After struggling for years with the torture of the moment my mind wakens from sleep and recognises my world, I am learning to receive the morning as a blessing. The fridge whirring, the pigeons cooing, the shouted instructions from the coxes, a train rumbling past, the same dog barking on the beach, the sea breathing. The sun barging into our sea-side cabin nice and early and the sky, the sheer abundance of the big blue sky! Mostly smooth and bright but every now and then, ruffled moody grey. Ever-changing.

The simple joy of watching the infinite sky and the vast sea mirror each other and the thin line where they meet. Eyes that can see unaided. The comfortable air meeting the skin. A steaming hot cup of tea with a handle that’s easy to hold. Hands that are strong enough to hold it. Pain-free fingers that curl around it. The warmth of the steam. The welcome sharpness of tannin. A mind that can discern every detail. A smile that comes easy.

Thank you Morning.

The patience of ordinary things

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

By Pat Schneider.

Room With a View in Santiago

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The old city shutters stood open.

Not to admit the world, for the world was already here; only to let it drift through old granite, through warm air, through the afternoon.

Below, children called, trolleys rattled over stone, shopkeepers laughed, voices crossed and uncrossed like birds above a square.

Nothing argued. Nothing needed to win. The street was not divided.

Beside me, a small dog claimed a borrowed mat with complete confidence that love had already prepared it.

I thought of my son.

I thought of all that seems absent, and of all that love refuses to call lost.

The heart did not deny its longing. The afternoon did not deny its peace.

Neither excluded the other.

Then, without announcement, a smile from a waiter, a bowl of water that had not been requested, churros that had not been ordered, a kindness that carried no invoice.

And I understood, if only for this hour,
that there are moments which cannot be bought because they were never for sale;

moments which cannot be earned because they were never wages;

moments which ask nothing except that they be allowed.

Nothing was missing.

Nothing was excluded.

Nothing was demanded.

Nothing had to justify itself.

The 5pm cathedral bells found their place among the voices, and nothing was disturbed.

Time found its place without disturbing the timeless.

The voices still rose from the street below.

The light still rested upon the granite.
The dog still slept.

Love still loved.

And for this afternoon,
everything already was.

  • By a dad at CORe at the end of his pilgrimage, Camino de Santiago.

Like cloud joining cloud.

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Loss Too Deep for Words

When all that seems real is lost,
where words blur and fail,
where intention cannot reach the depth,
where heart hungers
and soul starves.

Only the warmth in the heart of another
finds the pulse,
like cloud joining cloud,
a delicate meeting
before language.

Seeing and seen,
no grandeur, no pretence.

Not words.
Not healing.
Not intention.

Not reviving.
Not demanding.
Not offering.
Not outside, just there, stepped inside.
Rare.

Once isolated, unreachable,
now golden sun emerging, real.

Only that which is real
can touch that which is real.

Nothing survives
that is not love.

  • By Tony Bisson

(Tony is a bereaved father. He wrote this poem expressing what being in the Circle of Rememberance means to him.)

Love endures.

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As you walk through the intense fire that follows the death of your child, your heart burns for those walking behind you. You turn around and look at their tear-drenched faces – parents whose child just died . Despite the unbearable heat of your own loss, you can’t help but reach out to them. Their predicament as unbearable to you as your own. In trying to ease their pain, you believe you diminish your own.

This poem is offered by one of the CORe members for those carrying the heavy load of love and loss. It deeply respects the brokenness while also tracing the quiet light that remains, reminding us that even in grief’s shadow, love whispers through.

I feel your grieving, heart laid bare,
pieces scattered, our lot unfair.
Yet each fragment, though fragile, shines,
resilience stitched by love’s designs.

Your angel child, though gone from sight,
does dwell in memory, a quiet light.
In laughter caught, in whispers faint,
in all the love your heart can paint.

Each tear a bridge, each sigh a thread,
connecting worlds where you are led.
The joins of grief, so tender, true,
are etched with courage in all you do.

Though nights are long and shadows deep,
their presence lingers—it does not sleep.
In dreams, in stars, in softest air,
your dearest whispers: “I am there.”

Your love endures beyond the pain,
a sacred flame that shall remain.
Though broken, your heart bears a light,
turning grief’s darkness into sight.

So let each memory softly bloom,
a garden bright within the gloom.
Even in sorrow, love will find
its way to warm the grieving mind.

Now fragments found, arranged anew,

Love, hope, and courage form the glue.

Your heart, though changed, beats strong and true,

A living flame that carries you.

Whispered Reflection:

Each fracture, each delicate seam, carries a quiet, hidden light. Through love, courage, and the passing of time, these pieces are held together, forming a heart that is not the same as before—but more radiant for all it has endured. The very places of repair shine with their own gentle beauty, a reminder that even in loss, love endures and is able to recreate beauty.