In touch with silence of the Self
In this noisy world of busy lifestyle
That seldom show silver lines on dark clouds,
When time speeds so fast one can’t hope to catch,
And goals flex such that one can’t hope to reach,
Where’s that tranquil time with one’s very self
To fill up stillness to its spilling brim--
Absolute silence? It’s nigh but a dream.
One might go to the wilderness of poles,
Or reach to the roof of world’s tallest crest,
Relentless would the heart beat, nonetheless,
The sound of breath taken in and released,
And that ever present noise of one’s thoughts
That whine even when one’s alone with skin,
O Absolute Silence whither art thou?
To escape, one flees to world’s far edges
To be in touch with one’s inner most core,
A few moments far from maddening crowd,
But what when this passing haven’s no more,
Time comes to leave, back to the hell called world.
Oh, so soon from heaven and back to hell!
Fleeting proves such silence sought from without.
Life is to live on one’s abilities,
Experience all one’s possibilities,
To sit beside one’s Self, listen to it,
And in end see the light of self’s lamp lit--
Much harder than scaling a tallest peak.
Man’s mortal weakness starts when he can’t sit
Alone and be in commune with his Self.
One wonders if the truth of this cosmos
Lie buried deep in such silence of self
Along with all of doubts, all of questions,
Man’s ambitions and all mundane desires.
And all this when spill over from his mind,
He needs to be at such secluded spots
Of sheer stillness, be they tall mounts or poles…
Well past hurries to be bodily still,
Past all worries be utterly tranquil,
Hustle, bustle, all flurries, just to chill,
And in touch with man’s true nature to feel.
And still. a passing cloud, a fleeting dream,
Which when ends back to reality grim,
Unless one rises from bottom like cream.
Poets perhaps feel it once in a while
When after all the mental marathons
And catharsis of deep-felt emotions,
A poem just fails to materialize,
And all his being goes in deep silence
Of thoughtless state we call meditation,
And in the end is born that lost poem.
______________________
Reflections |15.12.2024| silence, spiritual
Poet’s note: This is a blank verse. Each stanza is a septet, no septet royal nor any rhyme scheme.
Copyright © Aniruddha Pathak | Year Posted 2024
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