Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Zen

Bustle in the streets
Blazing sun's heat
Find shades of silence.

Senryo

Mirage not just seen,
Boy thinks it's his love ringing;
It's the fax machine!

Haiku

Give the moon its space,
Eclipse means a holiday;
Time to bleach its face!

Monday, March 8, 2010

Haiku

Let not force define
Your life in linear time;
Eyes don't fall in line!

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Nomad in the Noon

Blazing heat penetrates my skin from open windows, but the sun's heat is insignificant when compared to the mind's. The birds sleep and I notice their soporific effects on me. They seem to have the trees to protect them and I observe them all silent even in their sleep. Like an eternity, inner peace remains even if it may be for a succinct spell of time. In five minutes, man may experience peace even while awake, rarely do I find such moments; I just know they are there, fleeting but never in vain.

Rays bleach the skin and one can feel it even without being exposed. When conversations follow the atmosphere there are arguments, then there are quarrels and finally broken transactions. Surprisingly, birds remain asleep without flying away. The tiresome arguments have left the scene quaking from the conflict. Trees have no choice but to remain still. The birds are probably not aware of the impact the situation has on them. Or maybe I am wrong and it may be that I am not aware of the impact the situation has on them.

A flower falls down to the ground as though to distract me. I cannot hear a single word spoken but in that space of silence a bee hums so as to tell me that music exists when no conversations take place. If I have to find it, I cannot choose to be overly disturbed by conversations that motion cause. The motion of speech brings about subject and object. What language may I speak to avoid conflict? What language may I speak to surpass motion? While in muse, the heat enters the room but the heat in the mind has escaped and man cannot help but possess his contradictions. If he wishes to avoid speech, he can do to await quiet afternoons with a notion that speech and motion are in the end, transient.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

An Esoteric Connection (Over Tungabhadra)

The view from this bridge feeds the pupils of my eyes with thrill. This time, I see the waterways below stare back at the viewer as the bubbles float in charged currents. Winds blow with immense strength to the extent that I simply can't be sedate. The pleasant circumference breathes life into my adrenalin. At the same time, there is no unpleasant feeling. The skies shine through the water surface below and the blue above that is lost to the sun tan is preserved in diluted creams. From them I am shielded by the magnificent bridge.

The experience scintillates my veins, but to merely allow the flow of this scenic body to attack my intellect would leave my experience incomplete. A hollow breeze will not carry you with it but over the bridge its power gets in volumes overwhelming. You fear that you may be lifted of the bridge by the wind and dropped in a flash. There is a gap of infinity between the bridge and the waterways, but you know you are above a thick water bed and it doesn't seem like too much effort would be needed to push you into its arms.

To think that this is no miserable feeling of fear is the recovering feature of its thrill. A landscape is delightful when the whole open space gives room for the laws of Physics to care. The chemistry is stable yet the picture uncanny and the Zen feeling that was described verbally in books freezes at the force of the wind's tenacity. The eyes are too small to capture the whole landscape on the other side of the river but numerous steps will take you away from this feeling as the bridge leads you to a more urban landscape. Past the river; the bridge and the steep height with its charming thrills finish as photographs that are preserved only by the manipulation of light and film.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Another Leaf in a Tree

Man is cold to natural beauty as he is forced into the habit of compulsory behaviour. He is unable to appreciate a maple leaf and note its dark shades of green. If it's not about needing a microscope it is that its shades are figuratively too insignificant for him to notice. In the trapped demise of feeling rushed, he finds it difficult to enjoy the pristine calmness that would otherwise be available. In a sorry state he complains of what holds him imprisoned in the cribs. Will a maple leaf draw him out? Can the roses relieve him from the clutches of high handed expectations? Can the rain shadowed clouds teach the aggressors and cultural authorities not to propel his barges that they have identified without his consent? He is right in asking.

Man, if he is the origin of society has been made a prisoner of order. A prisoner does not notice the variety of surplus forces for he is behind bars. There is a gap between him and other living beings. In this gap he feels separate from the rivers for he does not flow like them; he feels separate from the winds for he does not feel them, he feels he is separate from freedom for he is barred from too much of it. This separateness starts with a maple leaf and builds to a confrontation with his conscience. Green is not the colour that feeds his senses for they are closed. The only senses that are open to him are the senses that aid in his survival.

If a leaf can invoke this personal confrontation then it can surely bring him closer to the creation that he is, if not open up senses needed to please over natural beings. It can invoke it, but by no means does it attempt to provoke it. The tree that feels blessed to have such leaves may or may not be conscious of the fact that it has them. Man is conscious of its leaves. He may not be sure if the tree is sentient but the thought of it being so, can make him more sentient.

In the instant notice he looks at the maple leaf once again, at the flowing rivers he feels the winds again and at his freedom he looks again; he realizes how alive and sentient he really is. The wonders that he once let pass off, he now preserves, and believes for a minute that he can never experience boredom. He then stops being a machine. He stops listening to the clamour of his elders and his peers and starts listening to the mysterious cosmic emotion that keeps him composed in his freedom. He thanks the skies and realizes that there are no limits to his euphoric experiences. He quits his earlier preoccupations and lets the leaf tickle him to new depths of heaven.