Jagriti Rumi

What Made The Monk Smile?

The monk was tired, he drank the water from the rivulet, still felt the same. Like the dark heavy clouds that take over the sky so often, the monk had almost given up to such heaviness. If only he could just sit there forever and listen what stories the wind brought to him.

Thinking this he got up and moved ahead. One step at a time. The seamless pattern, the embroidery cross, squares, diamonds, chevrons on his sweater soaked in the sun; it was a parting gift, the monk couldn’t refuse the loving people of that small village.

Strong wind currents and his rough hard shoes made music together; often the pebbles added to it.

Lines on his forehead made him look tense. Just then he reached a fork in the road; the monk stood still and saw two things – the rough path ahead and a tiny little flower beaming at him, growing out of the rocky mountain. The monk walked towards the flower and stared at it.

He smiled and resumed walking ahead. His smile echoed in the mountain valley. 

A Hit Comic Strip – Mr. Bombay

Volume 1, Issue 2
Ha ha ha!
 
Then Mr. Bombay said, “check out this O-some song. Bobby McFerrin is O-some.”
 
Enjoy!

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LINES WRITTEN

What you seek is seeking you. – Rumi
[Image by Michael Treu from Pixabay.]

Lines, full of an era’s touch, were written. Some read and understood. Some followed. They tried. And then, lines were drawn.  

Lines drawn were stone-solid, iron-hard. But time can always seep through and can rust till it is dust. Thus, lines started to fade.  

Lines started to change. Change bloomed. They so rightly say, whatever is unimaginable is imaginable.  

Lines are narrowed down to a box. A box in the head. The head awaits to breakaway, not realising that because it awaits, it awaits.  

Lines are pruned to look similar, to look contemporary, to look right.  

Lines are shredded. Words crippled, meaning transformed.  

Lines like a guide help a seeker. The one who is seeking life meets the mid-way end. The end is the beginning.  

Are you seeking life? In this very moment?


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Seven Days Old

The precious ones also have to clear debts. It is always painful and quick, they come and go. Mysteries alone hint at what must have happened. Holding life so sincerely, the precious ones look no different from the rest. Tip toe-tip toe, crafting the time in hands, breathing the air as rationed, meeting the eyes as destined, the precious ones partly remain aware… the end is near.

Must it be so devastating, so random, so sudden? The precious ones acknowledge death wholly making it inconceivable for the others.

Like a quiet walk in the garden full of flowers, playing and making friends, acting the monologues, reciting life, the precious ones draw the curtain on their own.

Without walking a step, without eating a morsel, without knowing the ties, without seeing the whole world a precious one said goodbye just in seven days. Her eyes looked at bliss even after her body turned cold.

Glorious soul, seven days old.

Cid Corman’s Blue Aerogrammes

In a thin air-light piece of blue paper words were written, no space wasted, legibly shinning, beautifully written. It was for everyone, Cid Corman called it direct poetry.

Haiku

If these words
dont remember you—
forget them.
***
The leaf at last gets
the drift of wind and so
settles for the ground.
***
I wear the mask of
myself and very nearly
get away with it.
***
There is no end and
never was a beginning – so
here we are – amidst.
***
Rain-drops. Each
makes a point
of silence.
***
You are here – just as
I had imagined –
imagining me.
***
Nothing ends with you —
every leaf on the ground
remembers the root.
***
We wear out
but the sky
looks as new
as ever
***

A COUPLE
She keeps coming home
to me – of all things – and I
remain home for her.
***


Cid Corman wrote for and ran the magazine Origin. He followed a lovely rule, he replied to each and every letter that the magazine received within 24 hours, if he couldn’t, he didn’t do it at all. Lucky must be the ones who got his answer, that too in the form of direct poetry. The book, Famous Blue Aerogrammes, is about these replies. I have just read a few of these and still I can say that the magic continues… blue feathery magic that makes you smile.

Li Bo

Li Bo/ Li Po/ Li Bai 
“Drinking Alone under the Moon,” by Li Bo

                       Translation by Paul Rouzer  

Among the flowers, a single jug of wine;
I drink alone. No one close to me.
I raise my cup, invite the bright moon;
facing my shadow, together we make three.
The moon doesn’t know how to drink;
and my shadow can only follow my body.
But for a time I make moon and shadow my companions;
taking one’s pleasure must last until spring.
I sing — the moon wavers back and forth.
I dance — my shadow flickers and scatters.
When I’m sober we take pleasure together.
When I’m drunk, we each go our own ways.
I make an oath to journey forever free of feelings,
making an appointment with them to meet in the Milky Way afar.


Li Bo overwhelms one with the powerful yet simple use of imagery in this particular poem. You’ll see him walking alone, with a pot of wine, the moon shining above and his shadow dancing along. Loneliness is what drives him, hope is what is hidden. Maybe he laments for the dead past or he cries to see the uncertain future, but he is definitely, truly in the present. The moon, his shadow, his two close friends, vouch for it.


(About the poem and the author – http://afe.easia.columbia.edu/at/libo/lb04.html

Seemingly Real

Stopping for a while, I look down from the bridge. I cannot hear the river flowing by, it must be very deep. I cannot see through the dense cold fog, yet I keep gazing. My footsteps cannot be traced, nor can I trace someone else’s footsteps. A skylark’s song breaks the reverie. What lies at the end? ‘Shush’, I tell my mind. What is the hurry, I question it back; the end is the end.

Taking a deep breath, I start walking ahead. The fog engulfs me for a moment and then disappears just to reveal the endless bridge. My eyes glistens, my mind speaks up, ‘seemingly real?’

With myself accompanying me, I continue walking.

Moon, Moon, Moon, Moonlight

Cheers, dear moon!”
[Source – Pixabay]

In the search of a moon Haiku poem, I found how beautifully a 21st century poet addressed to his favourite classic poet –

*

… lifting my cup, 

I asked the moon

to drink with me …

Li Po

*

And if Li Po had

got the moon in his mitts

what would he have done with it?

Cid Corman

*

Today, I decided, I will stay with these words and leave rest of the search for tomorrow.

*

Moon was its usual self,

I was the one, lost and fuzzy,

Moonlight still showed the way.

*


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A Hit Comic Strip – Mr. Bombay

Haha! Mr. Bombay rocks, haha!
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The River

“Throughout the whole of life one must continue to learn to live and what will amaze you even more, throughout life one must learn to die.”
 – Seneca
 
The river knows it, it chooses to learn consciously, to learn truly.
 
It keeps flowing, it makes an effort and understands better.
 
Earlier as a rivulet, it stayed uncertain and still, once it almost died, it dried up. Revived by the clouds’ mercy, the rivulet never looked back.
 
Accepting and changing on the way, the river gushes towards the calm sea.
 
Yes, all the waterfalls celebrate constantly this very union – the river meets the sea.
 
 
The River.
Image by Hardebeck Media from Pixabay

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