Storyteller

Moony Clay

Moon’s cloudy carpet.
[Image by Jagriti Rumi]

Now a clear dot… now hazy… mixing with the clouds through and through, then beaming alone gloriously. Splattering moony clay, then rubbing it, greasing with it the deep dark sky.

Mirroring all the romantics and dream-talkers, the moony clay moulds itself to fit into the beholder’s eyes and patient hearts. It listens, nods and registers its reply with the artist.

Moony clay – an assiduous storyteller, slowly moving away – happily builds the wavy waves and like a sand clock shows the slipping time its way.

Singing joyously, dancing leisurely, the moony clay creates and fills the heart with hope, lost in splendour.

See how it re-shapes, re-writes its journey, certain of uncertainty in knowing… in knowing it all. 


Images by Jagriti Rumi


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She, the Infinite

A Poem

She, in red!
[Image by Gil Dekel from Pixabay.]

*

For building a house, thought God,

What could be the strongest element to mix

In the foundation so that the house wins over Time?

What could be infinite in nature, powerful and rejuvenating

So that the house nurtures love, peace and joy,

So that the flames of birth and death doesn’t sicken or weaken

This house called the Universe?

*

“There is nothing as alive as the feminine part of me,

It is infinite, supreme and divine;

My lovely equilibrium, my alighted spirit,

Fulfil this task, rise-o-infinite!”

-Said God.

*

And so the house called the Universe was built with feminine power at its core.

*


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The Moon’s Job

Our Moon Connection.
[Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay]

The Moon’s not shy,

Your winking eye

Knows a secret.

*

The Moon’s not singing

Your composition

In a bar.

*

The Moon’s not dreaming

Your lovely dream

In the dream-world.

*

The Moon’s always only listening

To your stories,

Patiently till the end,

Passing messages at times,

Giving hints

To the storyteller

And the painter…

Messages and hints of love…


*

More posts for Moon Lovers –

To The Moon And Back

Moon Colour

Crescent Moon Lights

In Slo-mo Towards the Moon

The Moon is Moving


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Lord Jagannath’s Eyes

Lord Jagannath by Vrindavan Das.
[Source – fineartamerica.com]

One eye says that the play is on.

The wheel of Time moves ceasing for none, winning over oceans, mountains, the sky, the wind and the fire.

People crowd to clench forms and beliefs, together they build and destroy. They wait to gauge for more and what is better.

Look now, how they shine, bright like fireflies, honest to the core; look now, how they lure, how they trick the tricksters, how they slay a man’s soul.

Speak not, for they are at work, cross-legged monks, meditating on what is less; speak not, for you will fail to express how chaotic is the chaos.

Rising high is the music of unity and harmony; falling face down is the corrupt, fake cry of every rigid mind.

Knowing the beginning, waiting for the end, it walks, it lingers, we walk, and we linger.  

Tala Pattachitra, Palm Leaf Painting – Odisha’s ancient art form.
[Source –
ethnicpaintings.com]

Second eye says that it is all absolute bliss.

There is no Space or Time and it binds none; the ultimate end and the ultimate start merges with the absolute existence.

Flowing in a silent music, dancing always, the ripple reaches the centre.

The Brahman breathes; formless, it is of the colour peace.    

Lord Jagannath’s eyes are the universe we see and the universe we can’t see. The happy devotee who bows, who worships, who sings, who gazes gets mesmerized by one of the universes, and by Lord Jagannath’s smile.

Our million eyes find a million revelations in Lord Jagannath’s eyes.

*

Lord Jagannath, Lord of the Universe.
[Source – harekrsna.de]

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Bumblebee

Prose Poem

“Towards the Moon flower”, said the Bumblebee.
[Source – Pixabay]

Flying high in the sky reaching for the beautiful white flower named moon, the Bumblebee forgot about home, colours and fragrance of the land.

The wind resisted it, throwing it back and forth. Like a puppet the Bumblebee danced.

It rose up and crossed the cloudy river, river that was flowing to nowhere special, river that was attuned with the Universe.

A tiny spot, a funny Bumblebee approaching its white flower… the moon saw it and decided to wait

 
 

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Illusion is the First of All Pleasures – Voltaire

Ocean eyes, an illusion or a reality…
[Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay]

All that you see, all that is in your mind, all that you have experienced, all that which breathes within you, exists only because you are.

The inevitable change assures gently that illusion is reality and the rest a seeming.

The carousel of life goes on; from the darkest night to the brightest morning, from black and white to the rich spectrum, you pass by. Humming a single note, you pass by.  

The end, the beginning. Remember?  

You created the rainbow as you saw it, you replied to the mountain when you echoed, you walked ahead to make it happen, you looked behind to say goodbye, you stopped to realise and what was beyond came to you with an epiphany.  

Illusion is a friend. Fathomable, it is the reality.


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A Soul Nebula

Poem

Nebula helix_spitzer_2048 [Source – Flickr]

*

The glowing dust took me away

Bluish green and reddish grey

Nearby star: a dot of light

Peeking through the dusty night  


Where am I? Earth or sky?

Dancing with gravity, can’t fly!

Still I am floating very high

In a hazy colourful sky  


A strong fluorescent light touches me

Immersed, I try to see

Emptiness fitting all around and silence

Assuring me the Grand Presence  


Sitting cross legged and eyes closed

I float with a pink rose.  

*


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A Memory in My Pocket

Prose Poem

I found a memory folded in a paper. I read it and it hit me.
 
The memory was not meant to meet me. It was draped with words that were very loud. Terse and cold.
 
It said ‘I am leaving you…forever’ with the initials Rosie.K.
 
I wondered how the person for whom this memory was meant to be dealt with it.
 
Naively, I searched around for Rosie.K, but the wind made my eyes wet instead.
 
I read and re-read the memory as if it would reveal some more of it through magical words.
 
Why do memories always make us halt, lying to us that we can play with time, even reverse it?
 
I folded the memory again and kept it in my jacket’s pocket.
 
It tickles me whenever it feels like making me unfold it.
 
A Memory In My Pocket
Image by TanteTati from Pixabay

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