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The bhakti path

The bhakti path winds in a delicate way.
On this path there is no asking and no not asking.
The ego simply disappears the moment you touch
him.
The joy of looking for him is so immense that you
just dive in,
and coast around like a fish in the water.
If anyone needs a head, the lover leaps up to offer
his.

poem by Kabir
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The river and its waves are one

The river and its waves are one
surf: where is the difference between the river and its waves?

When the wave rises,
it is the water;
and when it falls,
it is the same water again.

Tell me, Sir, where is the distinction?
Because it has been named as wave,
shall it no longer be considered as water?

Within the Supreme Brahma,
the worlds are being told like beads:
Look upon that rosary with the eyes of wisdom.

poem by Kabir
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A poem for Coleman Barks, Daniel Ladinsky and Robert Bly

Rumi, Haziz and Kabir
paused from drinking wine together

and saying how lucky they were
to meet each other at last

and said to me in a dream,
‘Those clever people who say

that our poems in translation
are nothing like the original

should shut their mouths and write
the same poem in the two languages

which they think they know so well…
we’ll wait here for them…

here where poetry and wine
and fragrant roses and love

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
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It Is Needless To Ask Of A Saint

It is needless to ask of a saint the caste to which he belongs;
For the priest, the warrior. the tradesman, and all the
thirty-six castes, alike are seeking for God.
It is but folly to ask what the caste of a saint may be;
The barber has sought God, the washerwoman, and the carpenter-
Even Raidas was a seeker after God.
The Rishi Swapacha was a tanner by caste.
Hindus and Moslems alike have achieved that End, where remains no mark of distinction.

poem by Kabir
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O How may I ever express that secret word?

O How may I ever express that secret word?
O how can I say He is not like this, and He is like that?
If I say that He is within me, the universe is ashamed:
If I say that He is without me, it is falsehood.
He makes the inner and the outer worlds to be indivisibly one;
The conscious and the unconscious, both are His footstools.
He is neither manifest nor hidden,
He is neither revealed nor unrevealed:
There are no words to tell that which He is.

poem by Kabir
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Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale.
From what land do you come,
O Swan? to what shore will you fly?
Where would you take your rest,
O Swan, and what do you seek?

Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise, follow me!
There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule:
where the terror of Death is no more.
There the woods of spring are a-bloom,
and the fragrant scent 'He is I' is borne on the wind:
There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed,
and desires no other joy.

poem by Kabir
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The lotus in the heart

How many centuries of centuries and trust
did it take the lotus
to take that crazy jump
from the known earth to unknown laws of water –

to learn how to feed itself, to blossom,
to float on the water
without the water dampening its trusting, open petals?

That same love that taught it all these things
may teach that lotus in my heart
over centuries of centuries
or in one crazy, trusting jump.

*

[leaning on Kabir's ‘jis se rahani apar jagat men’]

poem by Michael Shepherd
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I talk to my inner lover, and I say, why such rush?

I talk to my inner lover, and I say, why such rush?
We sense that there is some sort of spirit that loves
birds and animals and the ants—
perhaps the same one who gave a radiance to you
in your mother's womb.
Is it logical you would be walking around entirely
orphaned now?
The truth is you turned away yourself,
and decided to go into the dark alone.
Now you are tangled up in others, and have forgotten
what you once knew,
and that's why eveything you do has some weird
failure in it.

poem by Kabir
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Apollo's Quill

Writing is tough but made easy
When I'm not lazy
When I'm not crazy
But choosy
About this brand of pen
Its ink a brand won..
Writing
In a style written golden
People rating it to number one
And calling it their way..
Blake and Byron one day
Yeats and Keats another day
Milton and Middleton any day

And words worth this pen
Naming it after an Indian
Kabir or Tagore or Amir
Kannadhasan or Bharathidhasan or Bharathiar..

This pen of poets

[...] Read more

poem by Indira Renganathan
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I have been thinking

I have been thinking...
I have been thinking of the difference between water
I have been thinkingI have been thinkingand the waves on it. Rising,
water's still water, falling back,
it is water, will you give me a hint
how to tell them apart?

Because someone has made up the word
'wave,' do I have to distinguish it
from water?

There is a Secret One inside us;
the planets in all the galaxies
pass through his hands like beads.

That is a string of beads one should look at with luminous eyes.

poem by Kabir
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