Roll back the tides of time, and tell,
Of ancient books of myths, of hell,
Of temperance, nuns succumbed to gloom,
Entombed within their living tombs,
Of monks, and saints, and gospel song,
Born gently by the breeze, along,
Of deep toned organs' peeling swells,
Of virgins, Mary, and funeral knells,
Of dim-lit cells and penance loaned,
Which can for one's darkest deeds, atone,
Look back and lift the veil of night,
And view the man, the anchorite,
There he sits, so sad, so pale,
Shuddering at superstition's tale,
Crossing his chest with meager hand,
While saints and priests, a motley band,
Array before him to urge their claim,
To heal, in the Redeemer's name,
To climb the heavenly ladder, made,
By every patron, of every grade,
From wealthy abbot, fat and fair,
To starving child, withering there,
All of them eager to usher in,
The soul, ransomed by It's sin,
And tell me hapless bigot, why,
For what, for whom did Jesus die,
If pyramids and statues of saints must rise,
To form the passage to the skies,
Would you think man can wipe away,
With what but penance, day by day,
One single sin, too dark to fade,
Beneath a bleeding Savior's shade.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
Her skin's mahogany, not regal white.
She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton,
and has the dress sense of an anchorite.
Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer.
Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine.
She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer:
thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein.
It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles,
and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk:
she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells,
and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk.
A fiery, funny, perky popinjay?
I wouldn't have her any other way.
Closed shattered the walking desert!
Moving airy mind in the open sky
finds the wings
Everything is there
In this universe, a full of adolescent beauty
No, I really didn't bring anything
At the wharf of primordial unearthly female genitals
In the convergence of enjoyment
I am a beggar
No, I have nothing
Being an anchorite, I am rapturous
In the verse of longer song,
In the deific rhythm of ektara
love comes, love goes
to the unknown confused noise
The poetic mind is empty with the antenatal river
So, still sings in the guise of asceticism
15.10.2020 Chattogram
he is but an anchorite
lost in the maze of life
twisting along like a vine
unable to scale the wall
he is trapped
somewhere inside
his mind
confined
to a sinuous past
a puzzle
without pieces
he questions
the thorns
of roses
as they prick
the blood
from his fingers
turning away
from the paths
of this garden
neglected
and choked
in the vines
of his past
June 28 2020
Maze 10 word challenge
Sponsored by A Dear Heart
Fall to rise !
Rise to help
those are falling
life is beautiful
if we make parallel
in falling and rising
with cordial help
Knowledge,
Knowledge with love
the light
pure sunlight
without borrowing
can harrow,
can lend the light
liberally, lavishly
(without demand back anything)
I the moon
from the full dark to crescent
gradually full moonlit
by lending that light
yeah, by that knowledge with love
I make myself
every inch of love
in the knowledge
O' love, look
the Anchorite I'm
in that agitated ocean of knowledge love,
the pure light
yes, take it note here
light never can die
cause of not borrowing
and I'm immortal
in that knowledge with love, the light
the illuminating, rising light
to help the falling one
-25/11/19 CTG, BD
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
Her skin's mahogany, not regal white.
She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton,
and has the dress sense of an anchorite.
Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer.
Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine.
She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer:
thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein.
It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles,
and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk:
she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells,
and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk.
A fiery, funny, perky popinjay?
I wouldn't have her any other way.
ANCHORITE AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN
Not heeding brute reality, nor matter’s bane
I kneel at the door of heaven, a suppliant,
Transcribing words of wisdom, like the rain
On wild flowers; the garden’s hierophant:
Anointed, a habit on my body’s beauty
I lie in the threshold of my tryst with God -
The first flight from earth being my duty
Becoming His perfect mean and golden rod,
I cool my heels in a dank, dark cell
Where half-light becomes my element
God’s plenty in motes, with the music of the bell
A love feast of the penitent.
I rise on wings of thankfulness and praise,
Sing out in silence the glory of His ways.
from IN MEMORY OF HER 2008
Its singularity is insular
until it stirs itself
and throws its restless particles away,
out to the blackened, hungry sea,
the heaving grace of irony
whose understanding is but to receive
and never to return.
Now in the steady beam of sacrifice
there is disclosed the synthesis of fire,
that essential spirit stuff
which place is only to destroy
yet on its saving mission
borne along on minute quanta,
substance of the universe.
I cherish that cold vision
of a lonely cynosure upon the coast
that draws me from the world
and speaks of vigil to the night...
speaks of faith where none is asked...
speaks where time enfolds
an unknown plain
in its embrace of light.
The lighthouse, that last ghost
of mother shore and set apart
like some evasive anchorite
enchained in vows of silence,
demonstrates its wisdom
in th' immaculate restraint
of modesty that we who write,
audacious in pretensiousness,
will never understand.
~