is This.
As morning sweats
Witness to the effort of churning
out word forms laid at the altar of Day.
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- I caught this wind onwards to fly to the nether thither where my fancy is constantly debating the veracity of it all.
- The bowl is empty always. Break the bowl, and empty the beggar’s emptiness.
- Mind not the eagle’s proud soaring. It is but an aberration that beguiles the eye. It will soon have to contend with dust in all its ramifications, and then you can ask “how goes it now with the soaring, huh?”
- The particulars subsume themselves in a point at infinity
- Generalities are abstract only to the extent that you are out of tune
- Harmony is the relentless movement which swells the path of the seeker
- The sought is guided by the ought
- Moral law is as binding as physical law
- Boundaries are expressed in the particulars.
After making peace with …
Posted: May 20, 2013 in Deep, Kooky, Mystic, Philosophy, Poetry, Religion, WritingTags: Deewan-e-Zoomi
I. … the god of small things I turned a corner or rather was nudged to sit in a corner
by myself god of small things I said why and was given no answer not fair I say
II. … the fire in my belly the god of small things said tsk tsk I said you don’t
get to say tsk tsk the fire is in my belly and the peace too is my you know prerogative
III. … the big man a small voice in the inner recesses of my tiny mind in the inside of
my gut said no no no don’t you go making peace with the big man break this peace now
IV. … the kooky mystic spouting garble-de-gook I found myself spouting my own version
of garble-de-gook the only difference being it was starting to make eminent sense
V. … the poor man the god of small things smiled the big man frowned the fire in my
belly grew and I spouted some garble-de-gook and all was right somehow for the time being
When day yields. When the speck of grit that commands your nicely formed idioms yields. When
Silt expands into niches that are carved out of daily necessity. That too only when it yields.
There is then that possibility too that we can somehow mark our selves out. And the dark will
Somehow sub side. But that is only a possibility whose time is my time, whose shark teeth will
Not bare the foetid blue laziness imbibed in this song. Is this a song? Will it yield?
The New Babylon
Posted: January 23, 2013 in Humor, Mystic, Poetry, Too subtle to elicit a cackle, WritingI have arrived on the shores of this new Babylon
Where the masters of old have carved out remnants
Of stone that turn to dust, turn to dust. Good grief
I exclaim, this new Babylon, is two parts dust and
Two parts stone! I have arrived thus on the dawn of
This new Babylon yearning for the voice of Akkad,
Bahroz, Ohud, Ilyad, Porphus, Daryush, and Gamarr:
Accented names, difficult to pronounce, origin unknown.
The mystics of Rum will dance with less fervour now that
The secret is out: two parts dust and equal parts stone.
Absence of Kulfi
Posted: December 10, 2012 in Deep, Humor, Poetry, WritingTags: lesser-known-epistemology-of-kulfi, when-will-the-darn-chirping-stop
I am a believer in kulfi
in the presence of kulfi
and when the kulfi is finished
that absence of kulfi is felt
not as the presence of anything
negative but only as the positive
absence of, you guessed it, kulfi.
(If depression can be thought of as an absence of emotion, that absence of emotion can also be thought of as an emotion, unlike kulfi, whose absence can never be thought of as another kulfi.)
