Poetry

Day 924

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Day 924

CHIRAG
(Central Himalayan Rural Action Group; Also means ‘lamp’)

Every time I return to India I witness immense beauty in simplicity. I feel that beauty changing me. I grew up in a simple, sweet world. Moving away from it was difficult but time moulded me. Somewhere deep within that appreciation of simplicity remains. I see it without romanticising it. It is a part of me. I feel closer to myself each time I am faced with it.

Last week I volunteered to tell a story at a primary school in a small village in the Himalayas. I sat in a circle on the floor of a well lit large classroom with a group of  sixteen 7 year olds and we chatted for about half an hour in a mixture of Hindi and English. One of them asked me if we would be singing but I wasn’t able to confirm that. It bothered me.

The Principal, an enthusiastic young man of 29, said they didn’t have a music teacher in the school as the charity had just about enough money to pay for teachers to cover the academic curriculum. A local musician has offered to teach music but they are waiting for funding to come along to be able to employ her.

It is Saagar’s 23rd Birthday today.
I think he would have liked for that school to have a music teacher.
Happy Birthday Darling!

“O Bud! Your life is so moving that only for a while
You blossom, for just a smile.
“In this garden, O dear,” said the bud
“Just a few are lucky to smile, even for a while.”
(Translation of an Urdu couplet by Josh Malihabadi)

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Chirag School Newsletter 2_Autumn 2016

 

Day 922

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Me and Mine

Where dost thou seek Me?

Lo! I am beside thee.
I am neither in temple nor in mosque
I am neither in Kaaba nor in Kailash.
Neither am I in rites and ceremonies,
nor in Yoga and renunciation.

If thou art a true seeker, thou shalt at
once see Me : thou shalt meet Me
For the priest, the warrior, the trades- man,
and all the thirty-six castes alike are seeking for God.
Hindus and Moslems alike have achieved that End, where remains no mark of distinction.

O friend!  Hope for Him whilst you live, know whilst you live,
understand whilst you live, for in life deliverance abides.
If your bonds be not broken whilst living, what hope of deliverance in death ?

It is but an empty dream, that the soul shall have union with Him
because it has passed from the body
If He is found now, He is found then,
If not, we do but go to dwell in the City of Death.

If you have union now, you shall have it hereafter.
Bathe in the truth, know the true Guru, have faith in the true Name!
It is the Spirit of the quest which helps ; I am the slave of this Spirit of the quest.”

Do not go to the garden of flowers.
O Friend! go not there.
In your body is the garden of flowers.
Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus, and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.

TELL me, Brother, how can I renounce Maya?
When I gave up the tying of ribbons,
still I tied my garment about me
When I gave up tying my garment,
still I covered my body in its folds.
So, when I give up passion, I see that
anger remains ; And when I renounce anger, greed is
with me still ; And when greed is vanquished, pride
and vain glory remain; When the mind is detached and casts Maya away, still it clings to the letter.

THE moon shines in my body, but my
blind eyes cannot see it.
The moon is within me, and so is the
sun. The unstruck drum of Eternity is
sounded within me, but my deaf
ears cannot hear it.
So long as man clamours for the me
and the Mine, his works are as naught.

When all love of the me and the Mine
is dead, then the work of the Lord
is done. For work has no other aim than the
getting of knowledge.

When that comes, then work is put
away.

–Saint Kabir 

 

Day 910

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Bluebells are the undisputed spring highlight. At their peak, around this time of year, they form an unearthly blue haze through the woodlands. A winding path in the wood passes through swathes of dainty blue flowers. Here, the air is laden with a delicate perfume and birds sing happily in the background. Tall trunks of ancient trees emerge randomly and the light filtering through the canopy gives a different hue to the blue carpet every few minutes.

The perfect way to spend an afternoon with friends, chatting and taking pictures, desperately trying to capture the image of what it feels like to be there, frustratingly aware that it’s impossible.

Half of the world’s population of bluebells are here in the UK.

Bees, hoverflies, butterflies and other insects feed on the nectar of bluebell. Their flowers provide an important early source of nectar. Field of bluebells are intricately woven with fairy enchantments.
The blueness of the bluebells is nearly purple. It reminds me of this poem by Jenny Joseph and my big purple coat.

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Day 905

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Where is the news of Union with you that I shall give up life.
I am a holy bird of Paradise, from the world’s trap shall rise.

By your love, I swear that if you call me to be your slave,
I shall give up the mastery of life and the world.

Oh Lord, let the rain fall from your guiding clouds,
Before, like dust, I rise and vanish from sight.

When you come to my grave, bring wine and the lute to me,
So that I, delighted to see you, from the grave dancing shall rise.

Though I am old, hold me tightly one night to your breast,
Then, in the morning, from your bosom, young shall I rise.

On the day of my death, give me a minute’s time to see you,
Then, from the world and life, I will be set free.

  • By the Persian poet, Khwāja Shams-ud-Dīn Muḥammad Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī

Day 895

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The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Emma Lazarus wrote this sonnet in 1883 in America to raise funds for the  construction of the pedestal  on which stands the Statue of Liberty.

The glorious aspiration set out in this poem seems to have been well forgotten and contorted over the years.

It appears as though humanity sits at the verge of self destruction. We refuse to learn lessons from history. All too familiar ugly realities of the past repeat themselves -demonising of a particular religious group resulting in seemingly justified atrocities against humanity, wars in the name of peace and liberty, a conviction of weapons of mass destruction/chemical weapons proven wrong, rightful nuclear assault of another country, false news and propaganda, massive unplanned military operations used as knee-jerk reactions to events in order to overthrow tyrannous regimes, complete lack of meaningful dialogue and statesmanship.

The awfulness of it!