Tag Archives: philosophical

The Wind: An Extreme Instance

The Wind: An Extreme Instance

What is the wind? -a flow in many forms, What the bards have call’d thee
All are their melodious evergreen songs, As a philocalist I see the wind in me.

Wind, a divine secret agent of the almighty, Invisibly roaming over seas, soils and nature For tidings of the colourful world slightly,
And the deeds, white and black of the creatures.

Wind, a messanger, takes the messages fairly
Of innumerable flowers’ fragrances,
Sweetness of fruits, melodies of bird-songs, tastes of poetry, And to the peasants love of animals’ disturbances.

Wind, a bondage of love and peace
Amongst the diverse hearts of its creatures,
And for a painter, wind is a moving picture
Oaf far-fatch’d fields, blue skies and solitary seas.

Wind, a wander’r rolling up the fallen leaves With her into the spelly paths making sound,
A Sufi singer; the song of herself can be listen’d In a loud silence all around.

Wind, a great saviour, a transparent shelter,
Creatures, all the three, are under her absent presence, They find haven in heaven of the lady defender,
The wind is wind, an extreme instance.

Now

Now

is forever,

now forever,

the long wait

of disappointed days

appointed

to be afar off

and away;

out of reach

of our grasp

that flails forlornly

in the air

striking at

shimmering

apparitions

that were never here

never real

in the now;

that forever now

that finds us

flailing

with outstretched

mendicant hands

grasping at pity

for pity’s sake,

until the shimmering itself

stops,

and we awake

from dreamless dreams

and sleepless sleep

staring agape

at

where we were

and are

in the now,

forever

Vanishing Point

Far,far away

in some distant place

past some vanishing point

on a horizon pan-caked flat

indivisible from the sky,

here we are

here we wander,

around and around

wondering

how we’ve come to be

here;

newly arrived somehow

at a place beyond

the Vanishing Point

where earth becomes sky

and sky itself,

we see now

even thro’ the glass darkly

all before us

the parallax view.

Predator

The hook lodges in the mouth
of the fish,
the fish thinks the hook is the
only problem,
thinks if it can only get rid of it,
then all will be well again
in its world;
But it is wrong…
The hook is attached to a line
which is attached to a rod
which is held by a hand
And the hand is controlled by
a mind,
a mind which has been waiting
and watching and plotting the best
time and place and method to
catch the fish;
And so the fish struggles
to free itself,
but all it manages to do
is to embed the hook deeper,
And as it continues to wriggle
and fight it uses up its
supplies of energy until it
is too exhausted to continue
and then its struggles cease;
And the hand senses it,
and begins to wind in the reel..

Eternity,interrupted.

In the beginning

when all has ended,

after the last vicissitudes

I encounter are rendered

null and void,

I’ll realise that the

journey is the destination

and mornings were never

my time of day,

much preferring the

early evenings of drinks before dinner

and a reverential contemplation

of sunsets in faraway places

I’d never been nor

would ever get to

in the time allowed,

when there was never enough

time allowed;

and so,

after much ado about nothing

with nothing more to say,

I find myself

at the end,

where everything begins.

Absence of Words

Where are they?

where are those words

that should have been

here…. and…. here…. and here,

all arranged in neat,

ordered lines?

Where are they?

those absentees who’ve

neglected their solemn duty

and have absconded into obscurity:

Meaning like wheat

cannot be harvested if

the page like the field

isn’t planted beforehand;

so, where are they?

for….now…… gaps

are…………. evident,

the….. words……. are

…….. too

…….. few.

Notes on the Limits of the Infinite

On the head of a pin

as we spin,spin,spin

in circling,circling circles

around around axis

turning axis around,

as we dance with angels

on the head of a pin;

swirling,swirling,whirling

in circles,circles turning

around around again

ceaselessly,

on the head of a pin

where we find ourselves

alone.