Isha

At Velliangiri foothills, lives

a cheery abode.

 

In there, reside Shiva

and His beautiful consort.
 

A space, little.

Yet, with love it is flooding.

 

A home, unperturbed.

Yet, graciously unsettling.

 

Merging

His is the name, I find myself recite,

every so often.

 

His is the energy, I find myself sip,

every so often.

 

His is the presence, I find myself caress,

every so often.

 

His is the dream, I find myself visit,

every so often.

 

He is the sea, I want to jump into.

He is the womb, I want to crawl back to.

 

Would you know if

my poems are of Shiva?

Or of my Master?

 

Because after that night, for me,

two lines have gently begun to merge.

 

Him and Trance

In those tunes, I see Him.

An unusual style though,

a slow abandoned dance.

Two doses or a thousand,

of mysterious, nameless trance.

 

In a mere glimpse,

I devour a droplet of ecstasy

that He is drowned in.

The same, flowing from

the corner of His eyes.

 

The kind of tune that makes

eyes, bereft of light and

throat, bereft of voice,

cry and squeal inside

to its impassioned delight.

 

A night

His dark face stood

like a mountain.

Flirting with the blackness

of the night.

Little naïve creatures, in bliss,

wiggled and pranced,

at His foothill,

all night. 

These little creatures herded,

from distant soils,

to savor every piece of Him,

dusk till dawn.

Then,

a pair of puncturing eyes,

furtively, uttered

something enticing.

So, I now unwearyingly, hang on.