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Peace-
Meditation and Self Control The
Infinite in the Miniscule Bidyutprabha
Devi Tiny
little flowers, tiny
blades of grass. Rosy
innocent smiles on
tiny little lips. Wink
of the twinkling little stars, thin
stream of tears under the moist eyes. Pallid,
mild flames, of
little earthen lamps. Delicate
flowers. little
dew-pearls. Little
spots on
butterfly's wings. Specs
of dust tiny
droplets of rain. Whatever
the seeing eye Calls
the miniscule in creation, there
the mind discovers an
infinite world. Translated
from Oriya by Sumanyu Satpathi Peace-
Self respect THE
Soul’s Prayer Sarojini
Naidu In
childhood's pride I said to Thee: '0
Thou, who mad'st me of Thy breath, Speak,
Master, and reveal to me Thine
inmost laws of life and death. 'Give
me to drink each joy and pain Which
Thine eternal hand can mete, For
my insatiate soul would drain Earth's
utmost bitter, utmost sweet. 'Spare
me no bliss, no pang of strife, Withhold
no gift or grief I crave, The
intricate lore of love and life And
mystic knowledge of the grave.' Lord,
Thou didst answer stern and low; 'Child,
I will hearken to thy prayer, And
thy unconquered soul shall know All
passionate rapture and despair. 'Thou
shalt drink deep of joy and fame, And
love shall burn thee like a fire, And
pain shall cleanse thee like a flame, To
purge the dross from thy desire. 'So
shall thy chastened spirit yearn To
seek from its blind prayer release, And
spent and pardoned, sue to learn The
simple secret of My peace. 'I,
bending from my sevenfold height Will
teach thee of My quickening grace, Life
is a prism of My light, And
Death the shadow of My face.' Peace-
Meditation Meditation D.
Vinayachandran I
am a palm-tree on
the bank of this paddy field. My
voice is lost in the wind. On
the hill-top I
am a monastery. My
head is tonsured in
the prayer of Thathagatha. The
sea-shore is my love. Soaked
in sunset we
walk towards the moon. The
cry of this unseen bird is
my life. In the slant of
the sky it becomes deep blue. This
blind old man is
my prophet. Like
my alphabet he
keeps asking: "What
is your name?" Translated
from Malayalam by E.V. Ramakrishnan Peace
–Endurance Freedom Balachandran
Chullikkad A
disciple asked the tailor: Sir,
what is freedom? Is
it the calf frolicking in the fields? The
bird that flies up to build its nest in the sun? The
train that runs, whistling, north? The
street-lamp the wayfarer in the dark pines for? A
sleep without cares? Or
is it my redemption from the endless lengths
of cloth, the wheel that turns non-stop
and the relentless needle? The
tailor replied: Freedom
is food for the hungry water
for the thirsty coat for the one left out in the cold a
bed for the weary The
word for the poet the
arrow for the hunter society
for the loner courage
for the frightened death
for the eunuch and
a son to perpetuate the family for the married man arc
indeed freedom. Wisdom
for the ignorant Action
for the wise Self-sacrifice
for a man of action and
for the martyr his life are
freedom. But one
who stitches not will lose his dream-vision. There
is freedom at the illuminated tip
of the stitching needle. It
is the grain the sower reaps. The
bread for the one who sweats his brow. The
shirt for the one who stitched it. Then
the master resumed his stitching The
disciple, his doubts dispelled, started
threading his needle. Translated
from Malayalam by E. V.
Ramakrishnan. Peace-
Purity of Thought and Endurance. Stones O.N.V.
Kurup Stones
splinter and lie scattered in
front of me all the way. Stones
that trip my legs, stones
nailing in sharp; stones that
poison the deep in me, stones
that measure and mark the earth, stones
sticking out ill-omens. Yes,
stones and stones all this way I Smooth,
some rough- these
beauty-spots of the earth, they
are at times ugly and raw. Stones
again, the sinners aimed at
poor Mary of the past; (stones
with blood-tinged curse on every lip- have
we poked at their hearts for their kindness?) Stones
with their branded foreheads stand
witness to the graves that hide the
lavish waste of lives that
ate, drank and died reckless: Stones
lost in the flow and falsehood of history; stones
that have by hearted the echoes of those who
thirsted to' renew the land: lives
in thousands, numb
like dead stones, somebody
has trampled on. Stones
again, dreaming of some divine
touch of bliss; stones,
yes, the dark rock splinters in life dare
cap the caves of this wild of millions; stones
that boil like sun; stones
brimming like sad tears; stones
that darken like the night; stone
reddening like the dusk; stones,
time plays nickels and dimes, they're
the earth's still-borns, an
ever-forgiving mother's griefs. Who
can bring them back carving
life from their stone-blocks? Who
can fiddle its hush into a song? Come,
Shiva and Shakti. Come, come
in a mighty hammer and a chisel to
dance over these stones t Let
these stones labour in pain, beget
children fit enough to
create and destroy. Translated
from Malayalam by Joy T.R. Peace-Meditation The
Path Towards God K.
Satchidanandan Don't
go to the temples; Images
will entangle you. Don't
trust the holy books; Their
truths are obsolete. Don't
seek out priests; Middlemen
always bargain. Keep
away from groups; They
breed only violence. Watch
your body: It
is splitting apart. Attachment
does not hinder; Only
practise it with detachment. Love
is way If
not confined to Man. Poverty
is divine When
not imposed. Don't
block the wind. Don't
go after the cause. Meditation
needs no mounts. Squat
on the grass. Listen
keenly to the leaf, The
bird, the rain and-the river. Don't
forget the waking sun Even
while sleeping under the moon. Don't
curse solitude. The
world is most alive Inside
the lonely. Silence
is prayer; Emptiness,
fullness. Translated from Malayalam by the author. Peace-
Purity of thought How
to Go to the Tao Temple K.
Satchidanandan Don't
lock the door. Go
lightly like the leaf in the breeze along
the dawn's valley. If
you arc too fair cover
yourself with ash If
too clever, go half-asleep. That
which is fast will
tire fast: be
slow, slow as stillness. Be
formless like water. Lie
low, don't even try to go up. Don't
go round the deity: nothingness
has no directions, no
front, nor back. Don't
call It by name, Its
name has no name. No
offerings: empty pots are
easier to carry than full ones. No
prayers too: desires have
no place here. Speak
silently, if speak you must: like
the rock speaking to trees and
leaves to flowers. Silence
is the sweetest of voices and
Nothingness has the
fairest of colours. Let
none see you coming and
none, going. Cross
the threshold shrunken like
one crossing a river in winter. You
have only a second here like
melting snow. No
pride: you are not even formed, No
anger: not even dust is at
your command. No
sorrow: it doesn't alter anything. Renounce
greatness: there's
no other way to be great. Don't
ever use your hands: they
are contemplating not
love, but violence. Let
the fish lie in its water and
the fruit on its bough. The
soft one shall survive the hard, like
the tongue that survives teeth. Only
the one who does nothing can
do everything. Go,
the unmade idol awaits
you. Translated
from Malayalalam by the author. Peace-Endurance
and Self Sacrifice May
or May Not Come By Adil
Mansoori Sporting
in riversand this town may or may not come by This
scene on the screen of memory may or may not come by Draw
in your breath its ocean of fragrance Again
this drift of moist earth may or may not come by Let
us look at the colleagues with content These
smiling faces, this amiable gaze may or may not come by Fill
the sight with roads, windows, walls Afterwards
this town, these streets, this house may or may not come by Lament
today clinging to the kins Later
on someone's grave may or may not come by Farewelling
faces will reappear in the eyes Even
if any consort in the journey may or may not come by Let
me smear the soil of homeland on my head Perhaps
in a lifetime this earth may or may not come by. Translated
from Gujarati by Dileep Jhaveri. Peace-
Purity of Thought and Meditation. The
Boy Akhtar-ul-Iman On
the hills near villages in the east, Sometimes
in mango orchards, sometimes on dykes, Sometimes
in the lanes, sometimes in the lakes, Sometimes
amongst the merriment of youngsters half-clad, At
dawning, dusk, in the darkness of the night, Sometimes
at fairs, among the pantomime players, Or
lost on quiet by-paths chasing butterflies, Or
sneaking towards the hidden nests of little birds, Barefoot,
no matter what the weather, Out
of school, in deserted abodes, Sometimes
laughing in a group of pretty girls, Sometimes
restless like a whirlwind, In
dreams, floating in the air, flying like a cloud, Swinging
in trees like the little birds, I
see a boy, wandering, carefree, independent, As
the flowing water of mountain streams. This
nuisance acts like my shadow, Following
my every step, no matter where I go, As
if I were an escaped convict. And
he asks me: Are
you really Akhtar-ul-Iman? I
acknowledge the blessings of Almighty God; 1
admit that He laid down this earth Like
a vast bed of velvet and brocade; I
admit that the tent of skies is His benison; He
ordered moon and sun and stars in space; He
brought forth rivers by splitting mountains; He
created me from dust, And
gave me dominion over the earth; Filled
oceans with pearls, and mines with rubies; Filled
the air with bewitching bouquets; He
is the Master, Mighty, Singular, Wise; He
separates darkness from light, If
I know myself, it is His benevolence. He
has given splendour to the greedy, And
adversity to me; Made
idiots wealthy, and a beggar out of me; But
whenever I stretch out my hands to beg, The
boy asks: Are
you really Akhtar-ul-Iman? My
livelihood lies in the hands of others. All
I still control is my mind which understands That
I have to carry the burden the rest of my life, Till
my elements are dispersed, And
my pulse stops beating; That
subsisting means forever singing Melody
of dawn, or lament of night. In
front of the victors, I
cannot even call my song my own: I
have to smile when they say I
am singing their song, not mine. My
pen's creations, the work of my sleepless nights, Have
to be passed like a counterfeit coin. When
I think about myself, in sorrow I say That
I am a blister, bound to burst one day. In
short, I wander like the morning breeze, Longing
for the morning, When
I seek help from the night, The
boy asks: |