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by Maggi Liddchi, Niranjan Guha Roy, Deirdre Maguire, Sri Aurobindo
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he Psychic Being
It is the inner wing that quivers undislodged by sorrow.
It is the delicate thing that smiles untouched by joy.
It is the shimmering undefined by colour,
The song that cunningest throat can never even utter.
It sheds its gladdest, strongest rays through total darkness;
And by no darkness can it be extinguished.
It walks on water, walks on air;
Unlike the apple knows not how to fall.
It seeks for nought nor lacks for ought.
All lies within its calm dominion.
Of all the myriad things in life it is the one
To which it blithely can be said,
"Tomorrow you'll be there."
-Maggi Lidchi
Lonely Flute
In the hush of the soul listening,
A deafening crash of cymbals announced
The apocalyptic fall and final demise
Of the moribund Asura, blind lord of this world of matter.
Riotous winds shipped up the sea, a thousand violins
In ecstasy, presto, crescendo, ripped the veil to ribbons
Between the devotee and the dazzling splendour of Mahashakti.
The waves gone mad, danced in frenzy, foamy hands lifted high,
Thundering, a choir mingled with the voices of a hundred nations,
A huge roaring cosmic harmony, an eruption of laughter,
A volcanic outburst of soul's release from death and pain,
A giant symphony of orchestras from the East and the West.
Warriors on horseback descended galloping, brilliant,
From the high plateau, the hooves clanging, ringing.
In rhythm with a legion of timpani and drums,
Trumpets striking terror into the guts of demon hordes
Who infest the earth and feast on human misery.
An entreating flute came floating from some Wonderland.
Gods and angels, the Devil and his brood, man and beast, fish and fowl,
Felt an irrestible charm invading their distinction.
All barriers softly melted, revealing an eternal single Vibration.
Om Douce Mere, Om Sri Aurobindo.
-Niranjan Guha Roy
Listen, My Friend
Listen, my friend-
I've been wondering,
wondering
if I could truly love
an apple:
not for its pungent whiteness
(guilded with
red or
yellow or
green)
as it meets the cut
of knife
nor for its winey-tartness
as it stings my tongue
to life
not even for THAT
which drove Cezanne
to paint.
Listen: if I could not
love an apple
(or an otter
or a bee)
simply because it IS . . .
how then, my friend,
could I love thee . . . ?
-Deirdre Maguire
The poetic word is a vehicle of the spirit, the chosen medium
of the soul's self-expression, and any profound modification of the inner
habit of the soul, its thought atmosphere, its way of seeing, its type
of feeling, any change of the light in which it lives and the power of
the breath which it breathes, greatening of its elevations or entry into
deeper chambers of its self must reflect itself in a corresponding modification,
changed intensity of light or power, inner greatening and deepening of
the word which it has to use, and if there is no such change or if it is
not sufficient for the new intention of the spirit, then there can be no
living or no perfect self-expression.
-Sri Aurobindo,
The Future Poetry, p 255
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