Quotes about himalayas, page 6
The Word Walks Across Centuries
The Word Walks
moves upon bridges
vibrating spun light.
Someone once said
Jesus Christ
could not come
centuries earlier
to speak the word
to inspire spread
his Gospel Message because...
Jesus Christ
born of
immaculate conception
human embodiment
of divinity
needed Roman Roads
to walk upon?
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Akbar, the Great (1542 - 1605)
Can a man - all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it's only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
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poem by T. Wignesan
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Gross National Happiness
Gross national happiness now in Bhutan
is the goal, and not gross national product;
happiness great but not gross is my plan,
and the bottom line I’ve always buttocked.
Naturally there will be many naysayers
who claim that this line is fallacious,
but bottoms like summits of high Himalayas
aren’t gross when they’re firm and curvaceous.
Inspired by an article on Bhutan in the NYT on Bhutan by Seth Mydans in Thimphu (“Recalculating Happiness in a Himalayan Kingdom, ” May 8,2009) :
If the rest of the world cannot get it right in these unhappy times, this tiny Buddhist kingdom high in the Himalayan mountains says it is working on an answer. “Greed, insatiable human greed, ” said Prime Minister Jigme Thinley of Bhutan, describing what he sees as the cause of today’s economic catastrophe in the world beyond the snow-topped mountains. “What we need is change, ” he said in the whitewashed fortress where he works. “We need to think gross national happiness.” The notion of gross national happiness was the inspiration of the former king, Jigme Singye Wangchuck, in the 1970s as an alternative to the gross national product. Now, the Bhutanese are refining the country’s guiding philosophy into what they see as a new political science, and it has ripened into government policy just when the world may need it, said Kinley Dorji, secretary of information and communications. “You see what a complete dedication to economic development ends up in, ” he said, referring to the global economic crisis. “Industrialized societies have decided now that G.N.P. is a broken promise.” Under a new Constitution adopted last year, government programs — from agriculture to transportation to foreign trade — must be judged not by the economic benefits they may offer but by the happiness they produce. The goal is not happiness itself, the prime minister explained, a concept that each person must define for himself. Rather, the government aims to create the conditions for what he called, in an updated version of the American Declaration of Independence, “the pursuit of gross national happiness.”
5/8/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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AdiSankara
Luminous on the snowy Himalaya
The effulgence of Kaladi Kerala
The beacon light up there spirited
From south of Bharath enlightened
Bestowed the blest Sivaguru and Aryamba
Lord siva born to them, great Sankara
Not an ordinary child but divine
Did he younger resort to be a sanyasin
Would a mother consent? Aryamba didn't
Yet she soon couldn't but consent
Destiny, a crocodile to Sankara threw a life-threat
Relieved him demanding he be an ascetic asset
Thence Aryamba let Sankara renounce, go yonder
Was she then mollified to be attened to later
Set out Sankara for an accomplished guru atlast
For he in search of an ascetic tryst
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Maha-Bharata, The Epic Of Ancient India - Conclusion
The real Epic ends with the war and with the funerals of the deceased
warriors, as we have stated before, and Yudhishthir's Horse-Sacrifice
is rather a crowning ornament than a part of the solid edifice. What
follows the sacrifice is in no sense a part of the real Epic; it
consists merely of concluding personal narratives of the heroes who
have figured in the poem.
Dhrita-rashtra retires into a forest with his queen Gandhari, and
Pritha, the mother of the Pandav brothers, accompanies them. In the
solitude of the forest the old Dhrita-rashtra sees as in a vision
the spirits of all the slain warriors, his sons and grandsons and
kinsmen, clad and armed as they were in battle. The spirits disappear
in the morning at the bidding of Vyasa, who had called them up. At
last Dhrita-rashtra and Gandhari and Pritha are burnt to death in a
forest conflagration, death by fire being considered holy.
Krishna at Dwarka meets with strange and tragic adventures. The
Vrishnis and the Andhakas become irreligious and addicted to
drinking, and fall a prey to internal dissensions. Valadeva and
Krishna die shortly after, and the city of the Yadavas is swallowed
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poem by Romesh Chunder Dutt
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Full Moon And The Mournful Thunder Of A Train
Full moon and the mournful thunder of a train
passing through town. Venus, Jupiter, Mercury
long gone down for the rest of the night.
Orion a pale imitation of itself in the west.
Mars near Regulus, the little king with the heart of the lion,
and Saturn off to the east. Like water returned
to the river it came from, everything immersed
in the fluidity of silence
swimming through the trees
as if virgins were older than fish at the spring equinox.
A habit of wandering when no one else is around
walks me out of town like some unknown journey
stringing my feet along with a line
and two minutes with a lunar hook dangling
in the effluvial plains of the moon's volcanic seas
as if I needed to be played into it by the sacred syllables
of ancient starmaps talking in tongues like oceans of awareness
into the ears of the seashells who can repeat
every word they say to themselves in secret.
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poem by Patrick White
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If Only I Could Remember Things For Awhile
If only I could remember things for awhile
as they were before they changed. Savour them.
Let the flavour of the jewel
that's been ripening in my voice
wash through my mouth
like the mystic blaze of a star sapphire
and every word I say be a firefly of insight
that can shed some light on dark matter.
Would that my tears fell fruitfully enough
to feed the world, that one dropp of my blood
after years of preparing the potion, were enough
to immunize a whole planet from affliction.
And what marvels would my eyes not delight
in showing anyone, if they could astonish the blind
like an orbiting telescope that's just had
its cataracts removed
like the reflection of the moon peeled
like an albino eclipse off the black mirror of the lake
only to discover that all this time they groped through the dark
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poem by Patrick White
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In That Slum Of A Neighbourhood
IN THAT SLUM OF A NEIGHBOURHOOD
In that slum of a neighbourhood
you were the Butterscotch Man.
Old. East Indian. Sikh. Kind.
Long white beard and hair
pouring out of your turban.
And as I can remember you now
fifty-four years later
you were a cloud circling the peak
of Mt. Sumeru
the world mountain
that walked among children
handing out one hard butterscotch candy to each.
You're always there in my childhood
on the corner of Douglas and Hillside
by the totem-pole telephone booth
everyone jimmied for change,
reaching deep into
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poem by Patrick White
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The Masque of Plenty
Argument. -- The Indian Government being minded to discover the economic condition of their lands, sent a Committee to inquire into it; and saw that it was good.
Scene. -- The wooded heights of Simla. The Incarnation of the Government of India in the raiment of the Angel of Plenty signs, to pianoforte accompaniment: --
"How sweet is the shepherd's sweet life!
From the dawn to the even he strays --
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
(adagio dim.) Filled with praise!"
(largendo con sp.) Now this is the position,
Go make an inquisition
Into their real condition
As swiftly as ye may.
(p) Ay, paint our swarthy billions
The richest of vermillions
Ere two well-led cotillions
Have danced themselves away.
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Stones Flake to Sand
Stone flakes to sand, and mountains melt to mould,
as Time's transgressions fault lines day by day.
Nature's plans, tectonic placques enfold,
grind growth to grit as bit by bit they fray.
Each season’s growth, though loth, fails, tale soon told,
same story – morning glory - passing play.
Dictators fêted, mated stranglehold -
as swift their rise their fall, ball out of play.
Raging volcanoes age, old page stone cold.
Gone - lifeless echo – mighty mammoth's sway.
Alas what fossil still sends scented spray?
Ruined are idols piled, forgot, unsold.
Yet galaxies from dust clouds coalesced, -
add H²O and Time … Life’s lit_mus[t] test.
Yet hibernation's dreams strange themes may range,
encouragment when sleeper will away
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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