Lucknow series – Poonja & Mira


Harilal Poonja is playing with Krishna round the other side of Arunachala, and hookey from Ramana.  He had siddhis or powers.  He said, “keep quiet.”


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With a ghee lamp   
butter from the cow is burned,   
leaving nor ash nor carbon.

With a ghee lamp   
the cow is burned; pure   
is Vedic light from the Sun she gives.

Fire, brave ship in water shining.   
Sun, bright fire in the sea alive.   
Water, deep peace of night.   

Fire is in the wood.   
Fire sleeps in the wood.   
Fire from the Sun   
is present in all beings. 

Let there be peace   
to all beings:  to rocks, plants,   
rivers, animals and people.   
Let there be peace. 

His soul is to her love released.   
In the flower childrens' fire,   
Master's body fell, was licked and torn,   
eaten, feasted. Let there be peace   
to all beings.

from Poems of Eclipse, 1999



“The beauty in your Self has no landing place.  Why do you want a flat ocean?  

Let the arrow inward never land … “

Mira Decoux, London 1999



The wisdom of an elder, beautiful woman   
plays among the cows.   
The Daughter of the Mountain nomad   
knows not what'll happen next.

With her Master's zest   
she parries the prurient in the bud   
with deft shield   
and sword to pierce, with lighter touch. 

Because like Parvati, she by Ganges waited   
outside time, her spouse,   
an old, old river through her flows, a gravitas.   
A terrible compassion in her stands.   

Master's eyes are palpable   
in her round feminine face   
with wide laughter wrinkled -   
soft apples bloom, from the river.

Bhakti in the West is not well understood.   
The soul of bhakti is the effortless   
being taken;  Master's effortlessness.   
There is no lineage, no permission for the river.   

It overflows its banks, within my house.   
The room is filled with the river lady's 
way of hen partying   
here, with Master in our toes.

My thoughts are cradled in small sails   
the river takes to its own.   

They are brave little ships.   
They are butter, lit in paper boats.

from Poems of Eclipse 1999





It seems inappropriate to say it   
when Papa says "keep quiet".   

By the old oak   
flows a brown dappled brook,   
pebbles teasing twigs you toss   
your devotees -   
"See? out it goes! your golden light, your bliss" - 
and oh! ... I am Rosy cross.

The sky within us as we walk   
together up the hill, doesn't talk.   
Mira, you are being a lioness with a kitten,   
that boy.

Making Vedic revelry in a Flemish glade -    
the gods together lightly    
tumble on the grass, mouth   
the little fishes kissing sacred space -   
and all are buddhas - your face!    
the dust reddens milkmaid paths   
of Vrindavan.   

As a child, your lover the Master   
played Krishna hookey   
in the nooks behind Ramana's hill -    

and in all of Master's children, tears   
of Master's bhakti laugh, roll flowing down his   
strong dark cheeks   

and he and you   
are calves of the god Govinda   
out of the white, dark eyed kine in argosy   
on holy river of dead souls,   
by barque of Self divinity,   
by bark of banyan tree and belgian beech,   
for bhakti in the Ganga is   
being taken 

for in Papa Poonja's heaven   
no lineage exists to know,   
and no permission is given   
for Ganga to flow;   

yet I am not your Master's child.   
I only pretend.   
And I see you playing   
goddess;  Mira you're being   
a lioness with a kitten,   
that boy.

In the brook's soft shhh ... 
by the old oak,   
rosy apples of alchemic lineage      
recall my roots from earth to heaven   
and to earth again   
agelessly - 

so there!

from Poems of Eclipse  1999




Emerald Table, Plough Shares & Imponderings

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1.            I speak no fiction, but only what is certain and most true.

2.            What is below is like the above;   and as above, so below, for the miracle of Oneness.

3.            As all beings were uttered in one word,  so do they all evolve diversely as One Being, by the order and adaptation of Nature.

* *


4.            The father is the Sun,  the mother the Moon.   It is carried in the belly of the wind, and the Earth is its nurse.

5.            It is the seed of all perfection throughout the universe.

6            The power of it is realised when it is reduced to Earth.


* *

 7          Separate Earth from the Fire, the subtle from the gross, acting with prudence, humility and good judgment.

 8            Ascend in your heart with deep wisdom from Earth to Heaven;  then again descend to Earth, and unite together the powers of Above and Below.       Let all ignorance & obscurity fly from you.

 9.            You shall find a greater fortitude than fortitude itself,  for it masters any subtlety of thought and can penetrate every surface or solid.

* *

10.   Thus is formed the lily in the field

 11.   Hence, the coming of the glory of the world, here established.  And so my name is Hermes Three times Great, three parts of this whole wisdom.

 12.   Here is the action of the Sun in my Great Work.

Tradition of Hermes, Alexandrian Library


He makes a plan

31 May 2012       PLOUGH SHARES

In Antonia White’s novel Frost in May, I re-discovered an extraordinary paragraph about the infra-self-supporting Catholic living organism – where have I quoted it? – ah, in my Impondering poem in Poems of Eclipse.   I shall put a bit of it, below.   The strange Authority’s impassioned purity tortured the soul to do it a favour, and that belief is embedded in primitive Catholic attitude – the Catholic pitch-fork making toast.   However, my ten Catholic years – 1977 – 87 –  met a sensible compassion, none of that inverted pitch-fork stuff – they were down to earth.  My Dominicans, in their history, invented the Inquisition!    But by the 20th century they talked of trees of Life, which sink their roots deep by the flowing river.   Wearing black and white, their sermons are awareness:  our Lord not 2000 years ago, but NOW, HERE.   It suddenly occurred to me that souls become priests to transform and atone their Order’s atrocities.   The Catholic Church is like a weed.  It has an extraordinary vital resilience.

Politics about the present situation and abuse, postpone the Real issue.  Political ferments obscure it yet again, in priestly vestments.   The Real issue is how we discover each other.

The temple is NOW eternal in the heavens and embodied.   Think of Douglas and Catherine Harding  putting on their glasses;  the Temple moves through them infinitely, as I.

Entering the Joy of the Master – being Entered – is accomplished by being embodied.

The practice of listening to the still small voice, is moved by it daily – the tiny movement whose pulse extends through the sea to that Project Sunrise under the Horizon.   In such moment, the universal Link (invisible to the envelope-handler) is awake and active through the ether   …  which we do not, materially, perceive or respect.   The ether supports an informed pollution – in other words, exploitation – but its essential nature is uncompromised.   The essential nature of the ether is TELEPATHIC.   It is instant, all over the planet.

I am absorbed at present in the elementary transmit-principle, like learning to walk:  the form.

But the ultimate fact is TELEPATHIC.   No thought, no gesture, no realisation is lost.   It travels among the psychic veins everywhere, across streets and seas, like the Sun’s multi-directional photons, finding the willing targets who pass it on.  (Facebook and all networking copies the principle.)  It is amplified (in the existing soup) by a conscious pulse of intention;  (a way of love).   So of course, I receive it:  it passes seismically through my “here”.

We humans are incredibly laborious about the truth.   Look at the learned essays written about Ramana Maharshi’s nirvikalpa and sahaja samadhis.

In fact there is none other than the Sun:  the chain-reactive Light in principle …  and the housework.

The principle has been heaped everywhere into chunky websites, both sane and toxic, clinking with adverts and commerce.   This rough texture is inevitable for the time being, because it outlets ALL the collective dark Karmas at one whoosh.    Pluto dredges Capricorn.   My soul peace, sees just this moment! – how little we are, and how we at present scratch – apes scratch, I sit by the river prehistorically and see a branch float by.  If I sit on that floating thing, I might catch fish.  If fish are my dreams I receive the deep.

Dark brown is the river,   
golden is the sand.   
It flows along for ever   
with trees on either hand.   

Green leaves afloating,   
castles in the foam,  
boats of mine a-boating -   
where will all come home?   

On goes the river   
and out past the mill,   
away down the valley,  
away down the hill.   

Away down the river   
a hundred miles or more,   
other little children   
shall bring my boats ashore.

 A Child’s Garden of Verses, R.L.Stevenson


The deepest thoughts are unworded, and punchy, like the Devas in nature.   They are PHOTONS.   They are ganglia of the Sun’s action.   There is clarity in their atmosphere.   This clarity is impenetrable by demonized fantasy hosts, and it prevails.   The toasting forks turn into lost, tiny things, in the outer spheres of the photonic dimension.  It is like a little man or spacecraft falling into Jupiter’s gravity field.   They are barely recognisable.   They turn into something else which they cannot see.

The Alchemical immune system is – as I discover with astonishment! – invincible.   It turns all arrows into plough shares.   See the loud white wings of seagulls to the plough, rich red clods of earth.  Strange … how that field tool shares.

The deepest thoughts in the ground – they rise to meet the loud white wings – are breath and space BEFORE THE WORD.   The hottest part of a little flame, is transparent around the wick.   Prana is pure consciousness.

The sea remains, as the waves pass through it.   The sea is Photon’s eternity, and as I see the setting Sun’s golden path across it, I taste, with all my being.

Into this “fold” arrive forgotten companions and other concentricities – raindrops on pond.    The feeling with you is deep and concise:  a conversation.

An impression throbs and gains substance.    Seed falls into the ground, catching other seeds;  little dandelion sparks.    So networking is what I make of it – just like anything else.

And I might create and begin my blog with today’s Photon thoughts, and the Emerald Table.


paper boats poems  ja 1988


Part of a poem:   IMPONDERINGS
Some things today to ponder:   
there is no rational proof of my existence.   
My death.  And "subtle interrelation of doctrines"   
to keep the Faith alive.

The body takes form, and perseveres   
through playing cards of popes,   
Vatican councils, inquisitions, Meister Eckhart,   
blood among the Borgias shed.   

An un-personed   
mutually impersonating person   
bred through the tangled web   
of history, prevails.   

An interrelation of doctrine   
through the cellular web,   
as a body prevails.   

Nothing can be removed      
or changed.   

Interwoven transparencies   
of human history underground   
present a living organism   
in the leaf.   

A beautiful understanding comes   
of mutually supporting and invisible   
karmas, kamas and tendencies;   
and how   
I influence no   
swing of the rope   
in fluency of the whole.   

As a human eye   
who incompletely sees,   
I serve.

From Poems of Eclipse  2000

 JA 31 May 2012




My adventure invites fellow travellers.  I am a poet, an artist and a seer.  I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.

This blog is  a vehicle to promote my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books) – along with many other creations in house.  

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