Today’s Sketches of Robert, Ramana and Ramesh

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Robert and seek

I discovered last night this beautiful photo on the web, to draw from:  Robert & Seek.  The photo is on a blog called http://itisnotreal.com

Robert’s parkinsons’ whisper, slightly nasal, and wide uncluttered eyes…

“Who am I? … I’m teaching you today a combination of bhakta and jnana.  Bhakta and Jnana – Devotion and Wisdom.  Think of your Heart centre in the right side of your chest and see the form of the deity that you love dearly. The form may be of Krishna, Jesus, Ramana, Moses, Mohammed or a Guru.  Inhale, say Lord – or Hari – exhale, say the name of the One you love and desire.

This is called using Name and Form.  It is an ancient tradition. 

If you are an atheist and don’t want to see anyone’s form, you can see LIGHT, pure light, in your Heart.  And you can chant to yourself, something like this:  “I am an open channel for the manifestation of all Good …”  Whatever your practice is, this is what you can do.  But you’ve got to do this, you’ve got to follow this, make it happen.

Then … “Who is the ‘I’ beyond this image?  Who is the ‘I’ that is seeing Christ, seeing Ramana?  Who is the ‘I’ that’s observing all these things?

“Who am I?”   Never answer that question!  Just pose the question to yourself … who am I?    … who am I? 

You will notice the thoughts will not come through again.  The thoughts have stopped.  You will no longer be bombarded by thoughts! like you were before.  For thinking of the Sage within your Self, has calmed you down tremendously.  Who am I … ?

If thoughts invade you again, go back to Ramana Maharshi in your heart.  Or Christ, or whoever.  See the image, (breathe in Hari,) repeat the Name.  Hari Ramana!   Hari Ramana! 

Then go back again to “Who am I?” … “Who am I?”

When approximately an hour has passed, get up and go about your business.  You will find that during the day something very interesting has happened to you.  You are filled with peace!  You’ve entered a different dimension.  Things that used to make you angry will stop.  Things that made you depressed, lonely, upset – have gone away.  You will feel fulfilment.  Do the same thing before you go to sleep.”

From transcript “The Method of Freedom”

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butterlamp

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Ramana & Arunachala children

The photo for this drawing was another “find” – this time on facebook – (Eraaramesh, thank you!)     Ramana and the little brothers and sisters … nephews?   I seem to recognise them.

A “revisit to India” is long due.  Drawing this, recaptured for me the luscious sights, sounds, smells and faces of Tamil Nadu – those waggling heads. Wonderful feeling.

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Not like a boat’s sail wide outspread 
and worn away by wind and weather, 
but like the humble anchor sunk 
in the vast ocean’s depth, the mind 
should plunge and settle in the heart 
of wisdom.

Garland of Guru’s Sayings by Muruganar
(Ramana’s conversations  set to verse.)

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Ramesh talks at home

Ramesh Balsekar talks at home, Sindula Building in Mumbai – his crowded lofty living-room.  I hear the sparrows and crows, and over the rooftops, the sea can just be seen.  He looks rather pensive in this sketch.  I would like to have got him more sharp and “pouncy” – his teaching style is like a falcon.   However, there were these inward moments also, particularly when the lady sitting next to him sang the bhajans at the end of a vigorous morning.  He closed his eyes then, and slowly tapped the rhythm.

Ramesh was rarely still.  He quivered like a racehorse:

“My concept is, that no action is anyone’s action … The input is:  God sends you a thought, over which you have no control … the brain reacts to that input and brings out an output, strictly according to the programming.  And that output over which Lawrence has no control, Lawrence says is HIS ACTION.  You see?  … From that deepest possible source, which is the Source itself, the question will arise:  If Lawrence doesn’t do any action, WHO IS LAWRENCE?  WHO AM I?  

“But the big difference is, that it is not the intellect which asks the question.  The question ARISES from personal experience that Lawrence doesn’t do anything.  Lawrence doesn’t act – therefore who is Lawrence?  Then the question arises FROM THE VERY DEPTHS OF YOUR BEING, into which Ramana asks you to dive – ‘If I don’t do any actions, who am I?’ 

“And then again, if it is God’s will or grace, and the destiny of that bodymind organism, FROM that very Source from which the question arose, will arise the answer:  there really is no Lawrence.  There never has been any Lawrence, other than the name given to this bodymind organism.  You see?  And as far as my concept goes, that is the only sadhana or effort necessary.  That is my interpretation of Ramana Maharshi’s query “who am I?” 

That is my answer, Lawrence, to the question, the burning question which everybody has:  How do I go about this Self enquiry, if this Self enquiry is not a mantra and not an intellectual question?

From a conversation with Lawrence Bentley

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butterlamp boat

A butterlamp at dawn

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**

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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 also 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).  Watch this space.

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/

More Sketches of Ramana & Advaitins

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From the mountain which is a humanity, rivers flow, sculpting ridges, valleys and relationships.  The young Ramana scampered all over the mountain like a goat.  As he grew old, he became its teacher.

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Mani and Sundaram greet visitors at Ramanasramam

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3 Sunyata - a Danish devotee

Sunyata, (Emanuel Sorensen) a Danish sadhu, with his Tibetan dog Sri Cho Chu Wuj.  He wrote:

“In this life play I have not been in quest of Guru, God, Truth, Grace, Salvation, nirvana, or power lust.  I had no ambition to be different from what I am.

“Blessedly, I had escaped headucation, and was free of any imposed knowledge. I had no property.

“I did not marry. I did not belong to any cliques or creed. I was not attracted to their magnetism.

“I felt all is within our Self.  I had nothing to assert or resent.  Nor had I anything to boast about or regret.

I was fully contented.
I had joy in that which is.”

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Catherine Ingram on her first teaching visit to London.  Poonjaji of Lucknow liberated her strong Buddhist practice to “dialogue the dharma” around the world, watching storms in the clear sky.   We don’t run from the pain and breaking heart of life.   We witness and keep quiet with it, hearing it speak, seeking the true, as it begins to flow and the cloud dissolves.   “Let our words” said she, like a Taoist – “be well placed stones.”

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Isaac Shapiro, another of Poonjaji’s earlier Western messengers:  Satsang, company of the wise and merry in the Self.

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Papaji:  Peace

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Harilal Poonja

This is how I imagine him as a young man.  I didn’t meet Papaji, but knew some of his messengers.   The three volumes of “Nothing Ever Happened” which he dictated to David Godman, narrate his long and adventurous life as a yogi, siddha and modern master.  In his travels he helped countless people to become aware of ‘the impersonal reality that underlies the world and all phenomenal experiences”.  Often he was a “mystery man”, appearing on the mountain, on a train or in the jungle.  Young westerners adored him, and he as a bhakta couldn’t help falling in love with their Self.  His diaries explore the guru disciple relationship.

Ramana with Poonjaji and a devotee

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It is amazing how much the Advaita people like to talk.

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Mouni Sadhu from the western occult tradition, visits Ramana “In Days of Great Peace”.

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Spreading the good news – V.Ganesan, founder-editor (with Arthur Osborne) of Ramanasramam Journal The Mountain Path

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This is Ranjit Maharaj of Mumbai;  he and Nisargadatta Maharaj (Ramesh’s teacher) were initiates from another old Advaita lineage, which flowed fruitfully alongside Ramana and the Hill.  I have many drawings of Ranjit, because once I was commissioned by some of his devotees in America, to do a portrait of him … and none of my efforts to draw their beloved guru were successful in their eyes.

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Ramesh Talks

Sketches from life of Ramesh Balekar – these appeared in an earlier post, I think;  certainly the one on the right.   But they speak well enough, here.

 Out of a pile of newsletters fell Ramesh’s devotee Wayne, the other day …

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and here are Douglas and Catherine Harding built open for each other, exchanging billets-doux of the Obvious.

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From Papaji’s “stable” – Bernardo (Satyananda) enjoying a good meal at Osho Leela in Dorset, and …

Neelam, who gave him a name to sign his letters with.

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**

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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.  

I write, illustrate, design and print my books.   Watch this space.

Portraits & Poems of Eclipse for Ramesh – a Revision

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A revision of my earlier post, "Poems of Eclipse for Ramesh & 
Wayne", to update the verse formatting.   
These were written in 1999:  a sequential dialogue of Ramesh's 
Advaita teaching with the ongoing difficulties of life. 



                                 **
   TO RAMESH

 I do not have to go anywhere else but here   
 to hold your hand, smile into your laughing   
    elder dove-hawk eyes   

 and thank you   
 for helping my understanding   
 rock steady; whatever rock   
    may roll,   
 nothing can alter the rock itself.   

 Jane loves mountains and rivers.   
 Mountains and rivers   
 move within the people   
 and break the outline of her heart.   

 Who is jane, indeed -    
 the projectionist - the   
 indispensibly inefface-able   
 Tarot card in her long floating dress ?   

    No matter.   
 The rock is that   
 as well as the mountains and rivers.   

 Companionship when the outline   
 which separates us, breaks   
    is indescribable.   

 Companionship   
 when there are no persons   
    is indescribable.   
 The companion ship of being   
    is indescribable.   
 The companionship of no earth, no trees,   
 no people and nothing to think or see or be   
 in any direction, is indescribable   

    naked of every sight   
    and containing everything.   

 Such is tantra, web of the universe,   
 the sparkle of its mountains and rivers   
                                                      11 July 1999


  A high tide at Alet in Brittany
                                  **
                                  ..

      WHEN YESHUA WENT UP THE HILL TO PRAY

 Thunder draws the bow   
 across a barometric current.   
    It shouts.   

 Thanksgiving trembles in   
 my string when she is tuned,   
 like light from primrose spilling   
 bright stars in a grassy bank,   
 dazzles the camera, a blur.   

 Wild flowers are light sources.   
 They answer the sun.   
    They pulse.   
 Bluebells in a photo, fade   
 to a hint of amethyst,   
    too bright.   

 See how we connect   
 through what we   
    do not see.   

 When YESHUA went up the hill to pray,   
 leaving his lambs asleep,   
 he rested from the multitude.   

 In the soul’s deepest rest,   
    as Eckhart says,   
 is prayer which is silence,   
 making the primrose shine.   
    It shines because   
 there’s nothing to stop it shining.   
    And nobody.   
.
.


                                 ..      

      RIGHT ANGLE CROSSING OF NODAL RIVERS

 Certain types of stress   
 may be removed for good,   
 but what remains is variable   
                    (as Swami Liquorman would say).   

 For instance: a relative integration   
 into the herd of sheep,   
 their concerns with wool;   

 For instance: release from the drama –   
 to clarity, peace,   
 but the gears still turn my wheel;   

 For instance: One who is free   
 recognises another,   
 unobtrusively.   

 A line of destiny shivers,   
 at crossroads. ‘Rivers’   
 renouncing the known   
 may in one another, drown.   

 Conception’s silence is the GAP   
 where streams of current   
 in one another’s wave, fragment   
 to an interference that doesn’t add up.   
 From the gap, as death exhumes,   
 a flowing mystery resumes.   
 What is your and my cross   
    of life? Awareness!   

 Shock plummets through   
 the shivering ship   
 reaction, flinching, from the nails,   
 strata sagging, breaking timbers,   
    as before sleep   
 sudden stumblings on the rock,   
 fog of nerve-ends jangling bells.   

 The secret of soul shock     
 is to soften it open.      
 Let it be. Let the alarm be not   
    walled up or out.   

 As Robert in Arizona used to say,   
 it is preordained while you lie asleep on the gears.   
 Awakening has no preview, nothing, no way.   
 No-one knows where the car might go. Who cares ?   
                                                        7 July 1999                                                                  ..


                                  **
                                  ..
    STONE IN THE RIVER BED

 If God removes a rock or obstacle   
 upraising the wave of standing-over,   
 the understanding coming strong, itself   
 rolls the rat that sat in the river, away.   

 So, what happens? Why!   
 The whole standing-over lot falls down   
 to the bed of the river, melts as   
 the ever it was, the river, the river, the river.   

 Dislodging a stone from the bed of a river   
 is a wondering weight to feel.   
 My language is not flowery   
(as accused)
 but applied, precision tool.   

 The words dropped in the gap   
    are not mine.   
    They come.   
 Then I polish the pebble,   
 inward casting, better to see.   
 The corner stone I yesterday heaved, and could not place,   
    and wanted to cast away,   
 today shifts into true, the treasure   
 exposed, the Stone.   

 See how the water rolls away, and on?   
 See water, stone, stone, water, wall of stone,   
 fluid, all of stone, cold, hand in water, solid current   
    presses my hand   
 just like stone, which it is,   
 flowing, chuckling, splashing, racing   
 river, mountain, stone, sky, space.   

 Hand in current, ‘cross the river flowing   
 imagines a solid surface, pushing it.   
 My hand, now rivering rivulet,   
 the current itself is showing.

 The standing-over wave resounds   
    high over the stone,   
 a curve of space and time and planets   
 into the hidden presence of stone,   
    tickle the stone,   
 guddle it like the sides of a fish,   
    tease   
 gently from bed if the time has come,   
 to chuckle and roll.   
 The current does that, not I.   
 Should I move before its time, one stone,   
 the nature of the river bed   
    is stones.   
                                                        7 July 1999
                                                                  .
.

 Ramesh at Home - a sketch from life

                                  **
                                  ..

    FISH

 My standing-over sounds and choirs,   
 and cries out DOH RE ME   
 (from the depth we cry to Thee ...)   
 but a smoothly flowing   
 river, you’ll note, is quiet.   

 In this “write” a stone became   
    a fish.   
 No sound uplifts the hidden matter,   
    it swims,   
 receiving opening halls   
 of flow, upstream or down,   
 or across the stream, does not   
    resist.   

 Like a bird in the breeze, the   
 fish is aqua-dynamic,   
 may come to the surface, you see,   
 hello little fish, then gone again.      

 I don’t want to guddle this   
 fish or flip it onto the bank   
 for its natural element   
 is my teacher ;   
    but   
 open the root,   
 where I am right now.   

 My pipeline into earth   
 is not behind closed doors.   
                 Ah yes !   
          Ah yes !   
                   Got you ! ...   
                                 but let it go again.   
                                 Never seize or trap the fish   
                                   or it will die   
                                 and be your belly-concept only,  
                                   in all your dreams   
                                 a flavour far too strong for life.

                                 I think that’s   
                                 enough for now.   
                                                         7 July 1999

.

 ramesh at home
                                **
                                ..
.
      EASE OF JUST BEING SHIFTED

 If you drop a rock into a pool   
 shakti rises, turns   
 it into a fish.   

 If a Fool patiently all day waits,   
 the Moon arises to the bait.   

 Weary, by noon’s end,   
 felt my dowsing around with fish   
    is foolish.   
 The leading role of my masque,   
 disapproving the task,   
 scolds my lethargy – not   
    a kind friend.   

                   Yet as   
 the bed where it lay, levels,   
 the Stone itself unravels:   
 a hollow that held   
 soft silt embedded,   
 the sky has seen.   

    I hope   
 that if my follying sits a-fishing all day still,   
 a High lunar Priestess will   
 my following entice, beyond   
 the fringe capacity   
 of my Foolish cap-&-bell capability   
    to “cope”.   

 Here in the living-room, meanwhile   
 My unsuspecting spouse   
 serenely contemplates within our house   
 his intelligent Companion –   
    quicksilver Knight by sleight   
    of holy Bishop, the Rook to pit   
 computerized ‘pon black and white – a Master pantheon,   
 in shades of courtly grey to dance , the winsome imp beguile.   

 My rocky river stone brought to rest   
 gently today, is only shifted   
 to an ease of being, solidity just   
 coming alive, watery bed sun-bright uplifted.   
                                                          8 July 1999
.

Tarot Fool & Priestess

DOG DAYS AND FISH-HOOKS

When the pores close up   
and rain pours upon unforgiving stone,   
my tell-a-vision is left to herd   
the leaking word. 

Unable not to spin the top,  
gone is all I saw so clear   
to a blur or mere   
foolishness, mine alone.    

In the piglet's trough where they feed,   
how stupid indeed   
my words:  "Oh! now there's peace and light
on waves' crest, here in sight!"   
   
All my boast can see   
is troughs at sea.   
The way got blocked again with stuff half seen   
and over-workings on the screen.

Let it be -   
does the cog which clogs the wheel   
care what consciousness  
does or does not do today?   
If it is honest, it cannot miss. 
In service to ME, it is coffined.   
In service to Being, it is defined -  
a limitless clogged-up-ness.   

The way of American Al Anon hero   
paved with sonorous "Oh   
Mother fucks and Holy shits",   
with jovial laughter roars  
giving scant ear to choice bits   
of sentiment that blister at the oars.    
Salt of the alky tank, his sage sobriety   
helped reduce his popularity.   
The people went off feeling edified   
upon the wagon but   
a little sad.  

Cloud with brightness shining round or through the edge   
is my depression with   
tiny tasks of clothes and teeth,   
and a simple life's a weary hedge, 
toiling at my archival debt. 
I hate hot weather, I boil and sweat.   
Lonely?  Can't stop chattering?  monkey moans   
feeling bored, tired, fidgety, drones. 

Stuck.  Life too full - fool, foolish,  
heavy chatter.   
Stuck. And curious it is,   
alive and stuck, to own   
my issues. Personal behaviours   
are wearyingly irrelevant.  

When stuck, light floods in and chimes,   
There's nowhere to go.  
The way she feels obliged to spell it out   
at all times!   

The truth is stuck, stuck up and bored.   
Consider day after day this song   
crossing a river   
(no banks to board)   
with a staff, a poole, a pen to feel me along.   

Of what accord my tiny gleams,   
the triumphs few?   
Step, then step, then step, don't slip -   
foot forward, the view   
is walking -    
strange it is to be me, like being you!   
an insect, deep beyond belief.   
Nothing can "help" - not this   
writing, not a teacher, not anything.   

Life,   
I'm a ravening basket case.   

This to realize, awe inspires   
for nothing can help   
the water of life -   
no hope. No end in sight. No goal.   
No change. No charity. Why?  

This is real - not badges   
with sages upon them to wear.   
With no fantasy to prop 
my spirituality, what progresses?  
Ow! my ankle   
misjudged the hidden rock,   
tumbles into and as the flowing river!

Caught I am, as fish   
on the hook, this open-ness.

.8 July 1999

Devotion

**

..

Water, stone

            PRESSURE POINTING

I found a pressure point   
in my left hand, whose sore signal   
probed, released   
a tingling trap in upper arm.   

Like this, a teacher   
gently penetrates the core.   
The kink slowly slow uncurls 
by ancient acupunctural science.   

Wherever the sore signal manifests,   
apply the gentle there, there -   
let it tell.   

Pull up the core with the seed.   
Your patterns bring you home. Honesty   
pulls up my taproot   
with the mouldering weed.   

Leaning on the points of life, that touch   
is unavoidable. I till the field for decades.   
The meridian comes out and up   
and seasonally discharges.   

There are parcels undelivered   
from the post-office of my   
Under-being. In sight is seeing.
Seeing doesn't mean seeing something.  
It moves the finger to write.   
I learned this, 
exploring tantra, art of touch, of love.   
Nothing in the web   
of days, months, years,   
changes, or gets better, or what ever.  

Touch continuously   
taps the combination   
here, there, everywhere, the same place.   
I have my ideas, but what are they? 

How can I see the ineffable   
except that it is   
through crest and trough?

11 July 1999

Ramesh at Gut Schermau    

        UNKNOWN FACTORS OF FASCINATION

Loving you in the being-with way, 
could, through frameless window   
touch him, here and now! 
Our separateness is a myth.   

The unknown quantum A appears in B   
through souls C, D, F or X,   
like electron's double rotation.   
Positive and negative "spin"  
through virtual and manifest seas   
are our polarised probables.

WE KNOW NOT WHAT WE ARE - (but are "known"...) 
and I certainly am not those   
crotch-forks in the street   
going to parties, to dimly drink   
unanimous uni-formity.   

What am I?  Which hidden part   
proliferates, up-rises, ripples?   
Which of you, within those I see,   
seeks out and touches me?   

Under the ground 
the life sparkles, warms,   
is husbanded in ways   
we cannot conceive.   

Indifferent to the container,   
and spilling unique into each and every One, 
each and every one thinks he or she 
begins or ends!   

and we play these unknown factors,   
ciphers of fascination to one another   
in T.S.Eliot's four quartets   
till we close the book -   

the mystery breaks here on the beach   
in wave after wave after   
wave after wave unending   
from the mist: out of dingy daily mist.   

If a gentleness comes through the probe   
upon that place, why not?  

Who cares if I get tired and sore   
and obsessive over tasks   
and way the wrong things?

11 July 1999

 

Ramesh openly

**

..

**

See also the earlier blog in this series – “A big Peach of Yin and Yang –  Advaita Poems”

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.  

I write, illustrate, design and print my books.   Watch this space.

Poems of Eclipse for Ramesh & Wayne

Image

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TO RAMESH

I do not have to go anywhere else but here
to hold your hand, smile into your laughing
elder dove-hawk eyes

and thank you
for helping my understanding
rock steady ;  whatever rock may roll,
nothing can alter the rock itself.

Jane loves mountains and rivers.
Mountains and rivers
move within the people
and break the outline of her heart.

Who is jane, indeed –
the projectionist – the
indispensibly inefface-able
Tarot card in her long floating dress ?

No matter.
The rock is that
as well as the mountains and rivers.

Companionship when the outline
which separates us, breaks
is indescribable.

Companionship
when there are no persons is indescribable.

The companion ship of being
is indescribable.

The companionship of no earth, no trees,
no people and nothing to think or see or be
in any direction, is indescribable

naked of sight
and containing everything.

Such is tantra, web of the universe,
the sparkle of its mountains and rivers

11 July 1999

Image

A high tide at Alet in Brittany

**

**

      WHEN YESHUA WENT UP THE HILL TO PRAY

Thunder draws the bow
across a barometric current.
It shouts.

Thanksgiving trembles in
my string when she is tuned,
like light from primrose spilling
bright stars in a grassy bank,
dazzles the camera,  a blur.

Wild flowers are light sources.
They answer the sun.
They pulse.

Bluebells in a photo,  fade
to a hint of amethyst,
too bright.

See how we connect
through what we
do not see.

When YESHUA went up the hill to pray,
leaving his lambs asleep,
he rested from the multitude.

In the soul’s deepest rest,
as Eckhart says,

the prayer which is silence,
makes the primrose shine.

It shines because
there’s nothing to stop it shining.
And nobody.

Image

Daisies through shadow

**

**

       RIGHT ANGLE CROSSING OF NODAL RIVERS

Certain types of stress
may be removed for good,
but what remains is variable

                                … (as Swami Liquorman would say).

.

For instance :  a relative integration
into the herd of sheep,
their concerns with wool ;

For instance :  release from the drama –
to clarity, peace,
but the gears still turn my wheel ;

For instance :  One who is free
recognises another,
unobtrusively.

A line of destiny shivers,
at crossroads. ‘Rivers’
renouncing the known
may in one another, drown.

Conception’s silence is the GAP
where streams of current
in one another’s wave, fragment
to an interference that doesn’t add up.

From the gap,  as death exhumes,
a flowing mystery resumes.
What is your and my cross
of life ?   Awareness !

.

Shock plummets through
the shivering ship
reaction, flinching, from the nails,
strata sagging, breaking timbers,

as before sleep
sudden stumblings on the rock,
fog of nerve-ends jangling bells.

The secret of soul shock
is to open and soften.

Let it be.  Let the alarm be not
walled up or out.

As Robert in Arizona used to say,
it is preordained while you lie asleep on the gears.
Awakening has no preview, nothing, no way.
No-one knows where the car might go.   Who cares ?

7 July 1999

Image

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         STONE IN THE RIVER BED

If God removes a rock or obstacle
upraising the wave of standing-over,
the understanding coming strong, itself
rolls the rat that sat in the river, away.

So, what happens ?   Why !
The whole standing-over lot falls down
to the bed of the river, melts as
the ever it was, the river, the river, the river.

Dislodging a stone from the bed of a river
is a wondering weight to feel.
My language is not flowery
but applied, precision tool.

The words dropped in the gap are not mine.
They come.
Then I polish the pebble,
inward casting, better to see.

The corner stone I yesterday heaved, and could not place,
and wanted to cast away,
today shifts into true, the treasure
exposed,  the Stone.

See how the water rolls away, and on ?
See water, stone, stone, water, wall of stone,
fluid, all of stone, cold, hand in water, solid current
presses my hand
just like stone, which it is,
flowing, chuckling, splashing, racing
river, mountain, stone, sky, space.

Hand in current, ‘cross the river flowing
imagines a solid surface, pushing it.
My hand, now rivering rivulet,
the current itself is showing.

The standing-over wave resounds
high over the stone,
a curve of space and time and planets

into the hidden presence of stone,
tickle the stone,

guddle it like the sides of a fish,
tease

gently from bed if the time has come,
to chuckle and roll.
The current does that, not I.

Should I move before its time, one stone, there are others;
the nature of the river bed
is stones.

7 July 1999

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Ramesh at Home

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            FISH

My standing-over sounds and choirs,
and cries out DOH RE ME
(from the depth we cry to Thee …)

but a smoothly flowing
river, you’ll note, is quiet.

As I wrote, a stone became
a fish.

No sound uplifts the hidden matter,
it swims,

receiving opening halls
of flow, upstream or down,
or across the stream, does not
resist.

Like a bird in the breeze, the
fish is aqua-dynamic, may come to the surface, you see,
hello little fish, then gone again.

I don’t want to guddle my
fish or flip it onto the bank
for its natural element
is my teacher ;

but
open the root,
where I am right now.

My pipeline into earth
is not behind closed doors.

Ah yes !

Ah yes !

Got you ! … but let it go again.
Never seize or trap the fish or it will die
and be your belly-concept only,

in all your dreams
a flavour far too strong for life.

.

I think that’s
enough for now.

7 July 1999

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ramesh at home

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            EASE OF JUST BEING SHIFTED

If I drop a rock into a pool
shakti rises, turns
it into a fish.

If a Fool patiently all day waits,
the Moon arises to the bait.

Weary, by noon’s end,
felt my dowsing around with fish
is foolish.

The leading part of my masque,
disapproving the task,
scolds my lethargy – not
a kind friend.

Yet as
the bed where it lay, levels,
the Stone itself unravels:

a hollow that held
soft silt embedded,
the sky has seen.

I hope
that if my follying sits a-fishing all day still,

a High lunar Priestess will
my following entice, beyond the fringe capacity
of my Foolish cap-&-bell capability
to “cope”.

Here in the living-room, meanwhile
my unsuspecting spouse
serenely contemplates within our house
his intelligent Companion –

quicksilver Knight by sleight
of holy Bishop, the Rook to pit
computerized ‘pon black and white – a Master pantheon,
in shades of courtly grey to dance , the winsome imp beguile.

My rocky river stone brought to rest
gently today, is only shifted
to an ease of being, solidity just
coming alive, watery bed sun-bright uplifted.

8 July 1999

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Fool & Priestess Tarot

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DOG DAYS AND FISH-HOOKS

When the pores close up
and rain pours upon unforgiving stone,
my tell-a-vision is left to herd
the leaking word.

Unable not to spin the top,
gone is all I saw so clear
to a blur of mere
foolishness, mine alone.

In the piglet’s trough where they feed,
how stupid indeed
my words: “Oh! now there’s peace and light
on wave’s crest, here in sight !”

All my boast can see
is troughs at sea.

The way got blocked again with stuff half seen
and over-workings on the screen.

Let it be –
does the cog which clogs the wheel
care what consciousness
does or does not do today?

If it is honest, it cannot miss.
In service to ME, it is coffined,
In service to Being, it is defined:
a limitless clogged-up-ness.

The way of the American Al Anon hero
paved with sonorous  “Oh
Mother fucks and Holy Shits”,
with jovial laughter roars
giving scant ear to choice bits
of sentiment that blister at the oars.

Salt of the alky tank, his sage sobriety
helped to reduce his popularity.
The people went off feeling edified upon the wagon, but
a little sad.

Cloud with brightness shining round or through the edge
is my depression with tiny tasks of clothes and teeth,
and a simple life’s a weary hedge, toiling at my archival debt.
I hate hot weather, I boil and sweat.

Lonely ?   Can’t stop chattering ?   monkey moans
feeling bored, tired, fidgety, drones.

Stuck.   Life too full – fool,  foolish,
heavy chatter.
Stuck.  And curious it is,
alive and stuck,  to own my issues.
Personal behaviours are wearyingly irrelevant.

When stuck, light floods in and chimes,
There’s nowhere to go.
The way she feels obliged to spell it out
at all times !

..

The truth is stuck, stuck up and bored.
Consider day after day this song
crossing a river (no banks to board)
with a staff, a pole, a pen to feel me along.

Of what accord my tiny gleams, the triumphs few ?
Step, then step, then step, don’t slip,
foot forward, the view
is walking –

strange it is to be me, like being you !
an insect, deep beyond belief.

Nothing can “help” – not this
writing, not a teacher, not anything.

Life,
I’m a ravening basket-case.

This to realize, awe inspires
for nothing can help the water of life –
no hope.  No end in sight.  No goal.
No change.   No charity.  Why ?

This is real – not badges
with sages upon them to wear.
With no fantasy to prop my spirituality up,
what progresses ?

Ow ! my ankle
misjudged the hidden rock,
tumbles into and as the flowing river !

Caught, I am, as  fish
on the hook, this open-ness.

8 July 1999

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devotion

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water … stone

PRESSURE POINTING

I found a pressure point
in my left hand, whose sore signal
probed, released
a tingling trap in the upper arm.

Like this, a teacher
gently penetrates the core.
The kink slowly slow uncurls ;
by ancient acupunctural science.

Wherever the sore signal manifests,
apply the gentle there, there – let it tell.

Pull up the core with the seed.
Your patterns take you home.  Honesty
pulls up my taproot,
with the mouldering weed.

Leaning on points of life, the touch is unavoidable.
I till the field for decades.
The meridian comes out and up,
and seasonally discharges.

There are parcels undelivered
from the post-office of my
Under-being.
In sight is seeing.

Seeing doesn’t mean seeing something.
It moves the finger to write.
I learned this,
exploring tantra, art of touch, of love.

You see, nothing, in the web
of days, months, years,
changes, or gets better, or what ever.

The touch continuously
taps the combination
here, there, everywhere, the same place.
I have my ideas, but what are they ?

How can I see the ineffable
except that it is,
through crest and trough ?

11 July 1999

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Ramesh at Gut Schermau

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UNKNOWN FACTORS OF FASCINATION

Does loving you
in that being-with sort of way,
through frameless window
touch him, here and now!

You see, our separateness
is a myth.

The unknown quantum of A appears in B
through other souls, C, D, F, or X,
like electron’s double rotation.

Positive and negative “spin”
through virtual and manifest seas
are our polarised probabilities.

We KNOW NOT WHAT WE ARE –
(but are “known”…)

and as for the
crotch-forks in the street
going to parties, to dimly drink
unanimous uni-formity …

What am I?
Which hidden part
proliferates, up-rises, ripples?

Which of you, within those I see,
seeks out and touches me?

Under the ground
the life sparkles, warms, is husbanded
in ways we cannot conceive.

Indifferent to the container,
and spilling unique into each and every one,
each and every one thinks he or she
begins or ends !

and we play these unknown factors,
ciphers of fascination to one another, in T.S.Eliot’s
four quartets
till we close the book –

the mystery breaks here on the beach
in wave after wave after
wave after wave unending
from the mist :  out of dingy daily mist.

If a gentleness comes through that probe
upon the place, why not ?

Who cares if I get tired and sore
and obsessive over tasks, and say the wrong things ?

11 July 1999

A Sequence from Poems of Eclipse

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open

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See also the earlier blog in this series – A big Peach of Yin and Yang – Four Advaita Poems

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.  

I write, illustrate, design and print my books.   Watch this space.

Way in

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“Okay, so this is where I get to do my Kleenex trick.  No rabbits though.  Sai Baba materializes all kinds of things.  I play with tissues.  Watch me pull a universe out of my hat.”

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       WHITE WEB SEMINARS

Touching the Liquorman’s elbow,

how soft, loose and tender

the bar-room beanstalk really is.

Old Ramesh comes up with gentle

   un-toothed smile

like a petal, speaks my name,

opens his arm in a half embrace.

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These small encounters touch me,

   knowing those beings

whom Being destroyed,

for all their mannerist wit

   and wordiness

are un-resistant like the sky.

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They wear white garments

for crowded web site seminars,

watch tennis on TV, and fondly meet;

but sky, the waterspout, earth

and persons through them pass

meeting no resistance,

catching nothing up.

from Poems of Eclipse, 1999

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