Long Sanctum sanctorum Poems
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I awake to beautiful music,
As birds sing sweetly outside my window.
I rise and dress unhurriedly,
And go into the kitchen to prepare my morning tea,
The first of many for it sits easily on my stomach,
And energizes me for the day ahead.
Sweet
Cup in hand I emerge into the garden.
It is early morning and the dew is heavy on the grass and shrubs.
The air is perfumed with the fragrance of flowers.
Bess hum busily among them as the birds continue to serenade me.
I am soothed as my senses awaken,
To the sights and sounds about me.
Sweet
My garden, my sanctum sanctorum,
Where I commune with my God.
I praise Him for His goodness, His mercy and His tender care.
I thank Him for His providence,
And as I pray my spirit surges with new hope and reassurance.
Sweet
I rise and return to the kitchen and place my cup in the sink.
I am soothed, energized, reassured.
I feel stronger, more confident, reborn.
I know that whatever this day may bring,
There is nothing I cannot face,
Nothing I cannot conquer,
As long as I remain standing beside my God.
Sweet
The temple resembled a market place. They bought and sold.
By the rich even the Sanctum Sanctorum was controlled.
Communion of the humans with the divine seemed delinked.
From the lost tongues of hypocrites, like sounds of cracked gongs, clinked
Bonfires of sanctity from the hearth of your heart erupt
Possessed by the love of your father's abode, you were crushed.
Wrath, in the form of a whip, spun in your unconsciousness.
Each vendor of dignity soon regained their consciousness.
Could the priests and elders whose pride was demolished bear this?
Their mouths were shut. Within their hearts, there were many conflicts.
Why do you do this? What sign would you show? These were queries.
You knew your physique would berazed. You had, yet, no worries.
Pray in the house of God, Merchandise has its market place.
From the fullness of Abba, you knew, flew fullness of grace.
AQUAMARINE waves kiss the shore as gulls fly overhead.
CRIMSON Geraniums hang in baskets on the porch.
We've planted LAVENDER outside the garden gate for luck,
and lined the driveway with LILAC bushes.
There is a LEMON tree and a TANGERINE tree in the back yard.
They offer shade and luscious fruit.
I don my best CHARTREUSE muumuu and a CORAL necklace and bracelet,
with a SAFFRON colored ribbon in my hair to welcome my guests.
We will sit in the garden and sip WATERMELON wine,
as we discuss my new home and what to do with it.
This will be where I will come to enjoy nature and find peace.
It will be the place where I will come to retire in this quaint little village.
It will be my sanctum sanctorum.
My little house by the sea.
April 14,2021
I awaken to beautiful music as birds sing sweetly outside my window.
I rise and dress unhurriedly.
I go into the kitchen to prepare my morning tea,
The first of many for it sits easily on my stomach,
and energizes me for the day ahead.
Sweet
Cup in hand I emerge into the garden.
It is early morning and the dew is heavy on the grass and shrubs.
The air is perfumed with the fragrance of flowers.
Bees hum busily among them as the birds continue to serenade me.
I am soothed as my senses awaken to the sights and sounds about me.
Sweet
My garden, my Sanctum Sanctorum where I commune with my God.
I praise Him for His goodness, His mercy and His tender care.
I thank Him for His providence and put before Him my petitions;
And as I pray my spirit surges with new hope and reassurance.
I feel stronger, more confident and reborn.
Sweet
I know that whatever this day may bring,
There is nothing I cannot face
Nothing I cannot conquer,
As long as I remain standing beside my God.
Sweet
Guarded by towering hills on the East
And flanked by the Arabian Sea on the West
With its easterly shore of stretching sandy swell
That lulls the restless waves to sleep,
There is a land, my land of green vegetation
Nestled among palm trees and paddy fields.
Oh! I am in love with this narrow strip of land
Of rugged hills and meandering rivers
Of placid backwaters and blue skies
Of gibbering monkeys and singing cuckoos
What rich diversity you graciously provide
A land dotted with temples, churches and mosques
Where Hindus, Christians and Muslims cohabit
Where diversity flows through her arteries
And unity beats through her throbbing heart
Here souls dance to the timeless rhythm of music
Of diverse genres, vocal and instrumental
Classical and folk, sung either as solo or in groups
With the accompaniment of (2) 'veena',(3) 'tanpura' and violin
Their varying pitches beautifully synchronized!
In the serene dawns and dusky evenings
The atmosphere gets abuzz with the soft strains
Of (1) ‘Sopana Sangeetham’, the ethnic music of Kerala,
It comes floating from inside the Hindu shrines
Flooding soul’s enchanted shores,
And opening the floodgates of piety
In healing murmurs and throbbing notes,
As the symphony builds up its circuitous round
It descends down as a stream of blessing
Drenching devotees in its moistening sweetness
Like the drizzle of dew drops from heaven
Making hearts ride in the palanquin of joy!
May.21.2023
If your Birthplace- Country was a Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Anoucheka Gangabissoon
This poem is about Kerala, a small state in India, which is my birthplace and its geography and culture.
1.Sopana Sangeetham is a form of Indian Classical music, developed in the temples of Kerala. It is sung, sitting by the holy steps leading to the sanctum sanctorum of a shrine.
2.Veena- a stringed musical instrument, one of the oldest of Indian musical tradition, played sitting cross legged, capable of producing all oscillations of Carnatic music
3. Tanpura- a drone instrument of Indian origin used mainly in a concert of classical music, creating a melodic background, but not a melody.
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021
In the sanctum of the sanctum sanctorum,
Lies the quiet hope of mankind's grace.
A whisper of peace through sacred decorum,
Behind the altar — a hallowed place.
Dark clouds weep where light refrains,
While clear skies hold back the flood.
Upon the altar, truth remains
Carved in fire, stone, and blood.
How do we speak of both?
A beginning — and an end?
Before the altar, hearts grow loath
To trust the truth it dares to send.
How do we name the sunrise, the fall?
The dusk that dies, the dawn that breaks?
What holds the night? What breathes through all?
Where shadow bends, the altar wakes.
On what hangs the vault above?
On what is the Earth suspended?
We never asked — nor dreamed thereof —
The questions we’ve pretended.
How do we carry both?
The burden of life and death?
The weight of chance, of silent oaths
Unspoken with each breath?
We should have searched with open minds,
But turned away, afraid to see —
No Heaven, no Hell — just threads we bind
In webs of our fragility.
What does it matter — what we know?
What truth does knowledge ever show?
At journey's end, when time runs slow,
Behind the altar, all shall glow.