I've been treading green primrose paths
between tall trees and flowering shrubs
where sounds are of birds and wind in leaves,
where paths are level and smooth. No cacophony
from pneumatic drills or cars in too much of a hurry.
It's an unreal world untouched by traffic
that rides on the pavement to fulfil its hasty needs.
Here there is gentleness and peace, flowers opening
in colourful spring celebrations.
I can walk here along these quiet ways,
my slow gait is of no hindrance to the world.
If only all of life were so simple and gentle.
In that other world, I keep a precarious balance.
Water carries me
(balance, freedom, movement);
in the blue pool I am suspended.
The walking stick is left
on a hook outside.
But they all comment, unasked:
"Sorry to see you using one of those,
didn't need it last time I saw you."
"My Swiss friend? He hobbles now, like you."
"You're so thin, must put on weight."
"You don't look so frail today."
Do I usually?
"Yes, very drawn. But I think
it's marvellous you come at all,
with all this hurly-burly."
I don't paint much.
"Yes, I know, but it's good
to get out of the house, go somewhere."
In a blue pool,
the rhythm of starfish,
and time before, recaptured.
(Mottled sunlight evanescent,
plants reaching to the window pane,
while outside, leaves struggle to come in.)
I leave the water,
then I remember,
and I flounder.
The plane sinks blindly into cumuli
like ebon masks of tribal faces.
The earth is red, with rusty roofs
among too lush vegetation.
Shall we ever arrive from our dreams?
Air swirls in like hot molasses,
and we poor Europeans
with our lemon-rind complexions
are the lepers among this crowd
in their gorgeous clothes.
Arriving in our small flat
among white concrete palaces,
we find ourselves at home, yet not at home.
The household gods (or goods) are all
from Japan, Europe, somewhere else.
But two small drums nestle in a corner;
there are two paintings by `local artists'.
We make timid forays to the interior.
The towns amaze. Ibadan's
serpentine roads leading nowhere,
and smells of woodsmoke, petrol fumes and open sewers.
The kids have distended bellies,
women plait each other's hair.
The new urban diet is white bread and Fanta;
hunger breeds lethargy.
Roads bleed mud,
Mercedes vault the pot-holes. Wrecks
of burnt-out cars and mammy-wagons
(`Direct line to God', you need it here)
litter the battleground roadside.
A thin strip of tarmac,
then verges tilt downwards crazily.
The way narrows to a bridge,
no warning given.
Ashogbo, near the sacred shrine
of Oshun, goddess of water,
where people leave votive offerings
and murmur their wishes.
The green-brown river in the forest
flows from nowhere into nowhere.
Foetal statues are carved into tree-trunks.
There is peace here, `where prayer has been valid'.
In Oyo, on a wet day,
drummers at the Oba's palace
are angry, because we have no money.
A small filthy child who's been peeing
puts his hand in mine.
How can I refuse his gesture?
Some of them welcome us,
in an older tradition.
Some avoid us. Perhaps we smell ?
In a town square, all voices respond
to the praise-singer's chant but ours.
The ikon of the head of state
comes toppling down,
but we are unaware.
`Can I post letters home?'
`There may be difficulties'.
`Why? A strike?'
`No, the coup...' `What coup?'
One night we return home early.
Above us arches the milky way,
miraculous swathes of stars
dancing in the purple sky.
Lights still shine, but how many stars
have already died?
Absurd, man's linear time.
Eventually we retreat
thankfully to London. We sink
below the cloud, glimpse Richmond Park,
and it seems marvellous,
this clean ordered city.
Will we travel so hopefully again?
September, 1987
It was the same,
but not the same.
Raindrop blossom glinting
on bare twigs,
where one August, in refuge
from the heat,
between giant dock-plants
I glimpsed the water-garden.
Pool and waterfall,
the liquid moment,
while you photographed me
peering through leaves.
Even in December
a few flowers still bloom,
while condensation and mist
silver the cypresses.
Wet September, sodden earth
under a lid of grey skies.
You and I remember May time
on a Mediterranean shore;
volcanic, shimmering seas,
brilliant panoplies of flowers.
How we slept spreadeagled
beneath the dancing stars.
Our recollected lives seem
encapsulated, never fading.
You say life has become
static, dull. You feel
a prosoner in a world
grown alien and evil.
You talk of suicide,
dreading slow annihilation,
depredation of the senses,
the body's lingering decay.
Once I would have chided,
wept for your bleached skeleton
left lonely on the sand.
Now I listen silently, and nod.
My boundaries have narrowed,
become an inner journey. You yearn
for that ever shining rim
of the distancing horizon.
We, one-time lovers, clasp.
Then go our separate ways.
I sit here alone with the chiming waters.
A different cast of players inhabits the garden.
Iceberg roses withstanding early frost,
Michaelmas daisies and berries, harbingers of winter.
A bushful of birds quickens before me,
Suddenly voluble now human entities recede.
Always I feel another presence ---
snapping of twigs, echoing voices just lost.
Roses smile benignly but no one is here.
Orange butterflies cluster fading mallows,
bees sip their last wine in the catmint,
a red hot poker glows in September dusk.
Does the paved path become more treacherous,
the jagged stones more wet and slippery?
But it was never meant to be easy, He said.
Last Christmas, we didn't receive a card.
We wondered how you were, had you died?
Dear venerable friend, Sydney is so far away.
Now in February arrives your latest volume,
posted sea-mail last November, a slow passage.
Outside my window here lie snow and ice,
the usual panoplies of winter. Your poems
evoke a world of sunshine on sand,
eucalyptus trees and oceans, but also your
precognitions of death, wanting a longer term.
We met in Devon years ago, when first I knew
my crippling diagnosis. On our first night
the others made off to the pub while we stayed in.
`Come on', you said, `let's have a workshop now.'
With great kindness, you guided my novice efforts.
You lost a husband young, reared five children,
were mother and father to your family.
Poetry came later but you've published three volumes
to acclaim. I loved your venturing here alone,
a bright spirit despite arthritis and infirmity.
Now you write about silences of empty rooms,
an antique mirror reflecting sunlight on a wall.
I hear your quiet cadences recalling picnics in the bush,
a whole terrain of images and names strange to me.
Though time may be short, you're planting for spring.
I am a poet, trying to express a pattern,
assembling order out of life's apparent chaos.
I am a storyteller, weaving fictions
out of fact, finding threads in the maze.
I am an artist with a loaded palette,
luminous colours adding magic to dull objects.
I am a wife, trying hard to be good,
a late role, but companion and friend.
I am an aspirant on the sea of life,
trying to keep abreast of its tumbling waves.
But I am a listener to many dialogues
within my own heart, and grieving friends.
I am a devotee, a fan painted on silk
to be expanded or contracted at the master's will.
A peacock butterfly undulating on a flower,
a pupa waiting to be set free to the far horizon
You won't find India's secrets in great cities,
in hotels of Taj Mahal splendour, rising upwards
amid packing-case dwellings thatched with straw.
At night, you see people crouching by flaring torches,
all their worldly goods around them.
In the `Garden City' of the south, I saw
a whole family riding pillion, perched
on a motorbike like acrobats in a circus.
There's a daily melee in the streets
that you have to be born into, or else not survive.
Stinging green of the paddy-fields, more vivid
than any green I've ever seen before.
Gentle bullocks, pulling carts full of coconuts
waiting to be chopped by the machete of the vendor
(How do all his fingers stay intact, I wonder.)
In the village endless kids come begging ---
bananas, chocolates, ballpoint pens.
It must be hard to see these foreigners
come with all their wealth --- watches, suitcases ---
riches they can only dream of.
With relief, I seek the sanctuary of the ashram,
withdrawing from the pace of that too vivid world.
There's a kind of life here unknown back home,
not hidden behind curtained windows.
I need to reflect again on why I'm here.
It's a long journey from yourself to yourself,
but I find I'm finally at peace here.
The aim of all my seeking is here before me.
I look deep into those eyes of infinity
that understand everything that was or will be.
The grail is wihin ourselves,
not at the end of some distant rainbow.
It can take lifetimes of searching
for that elusive vein of pure gold.
* * *
In my early years, I loved green fields,
wind in the leaves by a brown river.
Picking cowslips for wine in a wartime spring,
then plums and damsons for our Kilner jars.
Later came London suburbs, little houses all alike
with cream-coloured paint and pale green doors.
Rattling carriages along the Northern line
home to mum every night and my small sister.
Paper-thin walls and monotonous days
as I thumped a reluctant typewriter in city offices.
My pain turned inwards as I struggled to conform.
On winter evenings, I watched the lamplighter in Birdcage Walk.
* * *
Joys were transitory: one summer at Avebury
living in an ancient house, I felt its arms surround me
like a dear friend I once knew. I loved guiding
curious crowds through an uneven maze of rooms.
There were happy years in the Georgian House,
my small office on the fourth floor with no lift.
Once a window cleaner descended distributing leaflets,
`Heavenly Delivery Service', he said, as he moved on.
Making another fresh start, I came to this elegant city.
My tall windows looked on to a formal garden, goldfish in a pond.
That basement flat saw me twist and turn, freeze and burn.
My lover's words bit like corrosive acid into my soul.
* * *
Now, I have seen my master. Not here
but among gilded domes and perpetually green trees.
He says: the only difference between us is,
I know I'm God, you just don't know it yet.
In that strong gentle presence, all wounds are healed.
Landing in London there is chill fog.
We wait endlessly but no-one arrives.
I long for India, sun and bougainvillea,
jewelled saris and roses all year long.
Most of all, I miss Your physical form,
gliding gracefully over sand each morning
like an orange flame, barely touching ground,
omniscient eyes that see and act.
You come physically near me each day
but yet you are centred in eternity,
past and future, all the keys to our hearts
are wordlessly read, all comprehended.
You are silent, no words, no talk.
But I so miss your slender physical form
that bears our heavy load and lightens it.
No-one else could carry that burden.
One day we were hidden by children.
Suddenly You bent backwards and waved
as if to say: `You think I've forgotten
but I don't forget. I see you there.'
I'll remember that wonderful smile,
your compassion stretching to infinity.
Healing us, searching us, leading us on
to where you, teacher and friend, always are.
1992
It was a difficult pilgrimage,
often I felt alone and frightened.
That first night in the vast shed,
lines of bodies criss-crossed by mosquito nets,
toilets far away and steps at night.
Huge crowds at darshan, we pushed
and scrambled to reach the inner sanctum.
"No Madame, you cannot come here, too full today."
Crowds of schoolchildren at half-term.
Suddenly He comes and the clouds lift.
He floats weightlessly, not of this world,
His robe burns like an orange flame.
One day I waited two hours in hot sun,
crowds in front had drifted away. I pushed
my wheelchair forward into the empty space.
Smiling and laughing, He appears from the side,
sun through black hair is incandescent blue.
He comes towards me, sweetest smile
in the world on His face, all love there.
Aura of His hair turns glowing pink.
I sat by my crippled friend, so anxious
to deliver the letter she'd received from her daughter.
We comforted each other, there on the ground.
I stared at His window, praying for her.
No one ever knows if He will take a letter or not.
He has returned from a tour, days spent away,
Delicate feet lightly stepping on sand,
He passes us, then wheels back,
questions my friend while He collects the letter.
Later I hug her as she sobs with joy.
He stares at me: "You here too?" the look says.
I smile back silently, happy for her
as He passes on, leaving her blissful.
This place can be one's heaven or hell,
everything you can know, you will know it here.
His presence is bliss, He'll lighten your load,
but the entrance to paradise is snagged
with barbed wire, teeth that can bite.
Tempers flare in this hot sun
but he is Siva, creator and destroyer who burns.
My last day, He comes directly across,
smiles with a look of recognition but no words.
He knows us all through and through, He says.
A last gift was given, its munificence astounds,
its true value unknown until my return home.
1993
I heard the cry of a night-owl in the summer garden,
and the soft sound of rain which soothes and protects,
reminding me of childhood's early Sunday mornings.
* * *
India was already hot in February this year,
sun glinting gold on the mandir at sunrise,
on the dragons, gryphons and elephants painted
blue, pink and white, all chanting the Lord's praise
in ecstatic stillness as He slowly moved among us.
Bhagavan Himself, gliding over sand,
dressed in his gown of orange, spreading benediction
to all His creatures on this vast earth.
How fortunate I am to have known these moments,
a tangible God who speaks in our own tongues.
* * *
I returned to winter in England, having left
the summerlands of Heaven. Snow began falling,
I watched flakes like large coins slowly
drift past my window, carpeting the ground in silence.
I wondered which was the dream, which the reality.
Nothing in this world is permanent or lasting.
I listened to the Lord's soft voice as he told us,
`You are not the body, you are the atma',
and the sound of the night-owl crying in the rain.
1994
atma --- divine essence, the highest principle in life
mandir --- temple
maya --- illusion, unreality, apparition
for Sai Baba
I've known the one kind all right,
making love ceaselessly through night and day
till you're too sated to concentrate on anything.
Sleep will close your eyes remorselessly,
in the middle of a play, on the beach at midday.
My days of honey were short, till arguments
crept in, hectoring voices raised.
But memory was so strong, it lasted
years after the sweet had inevitably soured.
Its aftermath was cruel, the ending then unknown.
* * *
This other love is incomparable.
A small man wearing an orange gown,
whose eyes burn into your heart and soul.
Electric black hair frames his face.
But that is only an earthly form.
What he is, is almost too vast to comprehend.
The kindly face, so near yet distant,
which can mislead you into thinking
of favourite uncles you wish you'd had,
or the kindest father you've ever known.
This love will never fail, Him or us.
He pours his nectar of sweetness into our cupped hands.
Why does he bother with us? I sometimes wonder.
Only God could have that unflagging patience,
swift to protect and rescue, against every odds.
This Sai, this Avatar, who can reform you
or shatter your ego in a million pieces,
whose love is endless and who never tires.
Descending to earth in a human shape,
come to change the world while there's still time.
1994
for Sai Baba
I've known the one kind all right
which comes like a disease, will not let you rest,
the mind constantly obsessed, like an aching tooth.
Sated and exhausted, you take refuge in sleep,
sinking your senses in silence and welcome oblivion.
My time of honey lasted fourteen days
till arguments crept in, hectoring voices were raised.
But memories were so strong it lasted years
long after the sweet had long since soured.
Bitter words repressed, unsaid hurts compounded.
* * *
I was led through many winding paths
through a maze of tortured days and nights.
But divine love is infinitely patient, never tires.
I recognised my master's words at once.
He expressed my deepest thoughts,
with an electric shock, I knew him.
This avatar, whose eyes look into infinity
while gazing deep within your deepest soul,
whose love never tires, exhausts or drains you,
who gives without stint, who is never bored,
but expects your love to the uttermost farthing.
Sometimes I'm tempted to forget him,
the path too rocky, I'll never achieve the best.
But He never leaves you, He's always there,
within you and without you, behind and before you,
urging you on to realize this dream.
1994
I am a most reluctant traveller,
suitcase full of medicines and remedies,
ignoring injunctions to `travel light'.
Baggage from my past makes a heavy load,
weighing me down with unknown burdens.
* * *
ETNA (Sicily)
By night, streams of lava coalesce,
fiery red snakes running down the mountain
burning into ashes of their own destruction.
Below me, Vulcan's forge growls angrily
spewing elemental fire from middle earth.
Stench of sulphur hangs acrid in the air.
At dawn, a grey lunar landscape surrounds me.
* * *
LINDOS (Greece)
Peasant faces, lined like raisins, glow with adoration.
The priest has called on how many Easter midnights,
`Christ is risen, come and take light.'
We light one another's candles in the dark,
points of flame spread their shining message.
Perfume of incense and lilies hangs heavy in the air;
ikons glitter gold and silver against white walls.
* * *
OSHOGBO (Nigeria)
Brown-green river goes from nowhere into nowhere,
flowing swiftly beneath protecting palm trees.
Statues carved like foetal creatures inhabit the forest,
springing out of the ground, made from tree-trunks, stone, mud.
Oshun, goddess of water, is the presiding spirit.
Ancestral power is palpable springing from this red earth.
We kneel here where so many have prayed before us.
* * *
PUTTAPARTHI (India)
Mandir shines blue, pink and gold in the sun.
We wait silently in our lines for Him.
Faces turn like flowers towards the sun as He comes,
His orange robe flickering like flame in the early morning.
His eyes see past and future before Him,
rearranging, restoring the balance of karma.
This is home at last, my road ends here.
1994-5
You won't find India's secrets in great cities,
in hotels of Taj Mahal splendour, rising upwards
amid packing-case dwellings thatched with straw.
At night, you see people crouching by flaring torches,
all their worldly goods around them.
In the `Garden City' of the south, I saw
a whole family riding pillion, perched
on a motorbike like acrobats in a circus.
There's a daily melee in the streets
that you have to be born into, or else not survive.
Stinging green of the paddy-fields, more vivid
than any green I've ever seen before.
Gentle bullocks, pulling carts full of coconuts
waiting to be chopped by the machete of the vendor
(How do all his fingers stay intact, I wonder.)
In the village endless kids come begging ---
bananas, chocolates, ballpoint pens.
It must be hard to see these foreigners
come with all their wealth --- watches, suitcases ---
riches they can only dream of.
With relief, I seek the sanctuary of the ashram,
withdrawing from the pace of that too vivid world.
There's a kind of life here unknown back home,
not hidden behind curtained windows.
I need to reflect again on why I'm here.
It's a long journey from yourself to yourself,
but I find I'm finally at peace here.
The aim of all my seeking is here before me.
I look deep into those eyes of infinity
that understand everything that was or will be.
1995
India is always there with bougainvillea and roses,
even during our Januaries and dark days.
I smiled the first time I saw your face,
and the joy of that memory is always with me.
One shining day succeeded another,
memories blend seamlessly beyond time and space.
I only know I am happy there,
the sun so ceaselessly coming near.
My bed was three old mattresses on the floor,
piled one on top of another. Our washbasin
hung off the wall; despite its weight
didn't fall and crush our feet
* * *
He came to the end of His verandah one day
and stood near my wheelchair, a slender figure in red.
He was silhouetted against the sun behind him.
I was aware of His hands raised in blessing.
He remained for half a minute or more
while I could hardly believe my good fortune.
`That was a wonderful smile He gave you',
a kind friend said before departing for home.
* * *
Another time at a rugger-scrum darshan
(thousands had come from Madras to see Him)
He was always laughing as He continued giving out
portions of sweet rice to His eager children.
How we loved Him, and He fed on our love,
always generous, His patience never failed Him.
I was afraid He'd be toppled by the crowd,
but He just came back for more amid laughter --- Him and us.
* * *
Just before we left the attendants gave us
permission to sit on the ground in the front rows.
He gave me such mischievous looks as if to say:
`What are you doing, sitting in that peculiar place?'
A sense of intimacy remains, despite a cast of thousands.
I feel it still despite our winter climate and gray drizzle.
The greatest healer is love, burning beyond time and space.
Wherever I am, I'll keep that love in my heart.
1995
The grail is within ourselves,
not at the end of some distant rainbow.
It can take lifetimes of searching
for that elusive vein of pure gold.
* * *
In my early years, I loved green fields,
wind in the leaves by a brown river.
Picking cowslips for wine in a wartime spring,
then plums and damsons for our Kilner jars.
Later came London suburbs, little houses all alike
with cream-coloured paint and pale green doors.
Rattling carriages along the Northern line
home to mum every night and my small sister.
Paper-thin walls and monotonous days
as I thumped a reluctant typewriter in city offices.
My pain turned inwards as I struggled to conform.
On winter evenings, I watched the lamplighter in Birdcage Walk.
* * *
Joys were transitory: one summer at Avebury
living in an ancient house, I felt its arms surround me
like a dear friend I once knew. I loved guiding
curious crowds through an uneven maze of rooms.
There were happy years in the Georgian House,
my small office on the fourth floor with no lift.
Once a window cleaner descended past distributing leaflets,
`Heavenly Delivery Service', he said, as he moved on.
Making another fresh start, I came to this elegant city.
My tall windows looked on to a formal garden, goldfish in a pond.
That basement flat saw me twist and turn, freeze and burn.
My lover's words bit like corrosive acid into my soul.
* * *
Now, I have seen my master. Not here
but among gilded domes and perpetually green trees.
He says: the only difference between us is,
I know I'm God, you just don't know it yet.
In that strong gentle presence, all wounds are healed.
1995
Morning sun rises and glitters on golden spires.
At noonday, sand burns and blisters my feet.
At night, the temple shines like an illuminated ark.
I am a disciple of the guru who lives there,
Call Him God or what you will. My spirit
often falters in grey hours of early morning.
But he comes again at sunrise and the sky turns pink
spreading love across this universe once more.
1996
Many times I have wanted to leave,
this refining process is too hard.
The familiar road is more comforting,
I feel weak and vulnerable here.
Each day, before dawn, I grope
through darkness and unfamiliarity,
praying for light which must come,
struggling with strange perspectives.
It has been raining, almost chill.
Strange in this tropical landscape,
where water is usually scarce, despite
luxuriant flowers and gleaming leaves.
I sit mesmerised by the spectacle,
watching women in saris, mothers
cradling sick children in their arms,
men hurrying by. I am content to watch.
I sit in my wheelchair, looking at Him.
He comes in, the great Doctor
on His rounds, healing the sick,
speaking to some. I am entranced.
Suddenly, He makes a detour,
comes over to me and smiles, that wonderful face
radiating mischief and compassion.
He knows all my secrets, useless to hide.
He looks deep into my eyes,
the beginning and end of all things.
What does He see as I look back
into those eyes that see beyond time?
Man in an orange robe on a wet day,
dancing to the sound of the universe, eliding
over wet slabs with effortless ease.
Who are you Lord, grounded here?
Loving us, teaching infinite compassion,
here to take us beyond existence,
out of this slow world of routine and habits,
beyond time and space, a limitless vista.
1996
Christmas cash tills are ringing
in supermarkets throughout the land
hailing glad tidings of profit and loss.
Unable to stand the din, I take flight.
On the birthday morning, we sing carols,
holding candles against the dark. Our sweet Sai,
dressed all in white, showers blessings on our heads,
come to redeem this troubled world of ours.
Here in India we sing `Hark the Herald Angels Sing'
and `Silent Night'. Moving this, sung
in His presence. For two days they hang
golden chains for our sake. Father Christmas smiles
down from the wall in benediction.
For this one special day of the year
wheelchairs get front row seats.
The band boys enter wearing red Xmas hats,
a jazz trumpeter sets everyone's toes tapping.
* * *
In the afternoon I phone home
to my husband left alone this year.
When I return, I've lost my place,
Sai is obscured round a corner. As if he
hears my thoughts, He appears before me.
His discourse reiterates the Unity of God,
the Wisdom behind disparate outer garments.
As the wonderful talk finishes, people
fly away like birds, migrating to an inner force.
We enter a packed hall. The stage is set.
He enters alone inspecting scenery and decor.
He is the great director of all things.
He wrote the script and knows the final ending.
He looks at me; my eyes meet His in blissful fusion.
I watch the dancing in a happy daze.
It's almost time to leave. On Boxing Day
He comes towards me smiling, His right arm
raised in blessing of protection. I can't stop
waving back, my heart full of gratitude and love.
1997
Last night I danced with an Avatar,
alone in the ballroom of God. He held me
in His strong gentle arms, His eyes
burning to my very soul.
The boat is waiting, its silken wings furled.
He has come at this time of sorrow,
to redeem mankind, set them free.
All who can, set sail in the silver boat of God.
In the early morning rain we make our escape,
flying over snowy wastes and mountains,
names you only read in newspapers or hear on the
news.
We fly over the sea and descend through ridged
clouds.
In the lavatory, I change into cotton dresses
that are cool. Tweed and wool are no longer
practical
in the low 90s. We hear it's minus 2
in the land we've so recently left behind.
India overwhelms and welcomes me again,
with its smells of camphor, sandalwood, curry.
Back to the land I never thought I'd visit,
full of dreadful tropical diseases and bad water.
I come for Him alone, and by His grace alone.
Allowing me to come here where someone like me
should never go. My mother said, 'You can't go
to that nasty dirty place. Knowing you, you'll
catch
every disease that's going.' My husband said:
'I can just about cope with you as you are,
but if you go there you'll just get worse.'
Against that barrage of negativity, I still came.
I return each year by His grace, my love
for Him deepens with passing time. I no longer
retire to write my journal when it's hot.
I'm too busy being there, feeling love for Him.
He melted my heart. Now I'll never be free.
Lord of the Universe, King of time,
who reverses and lays waste old preconceptions
with His divine smile and limitless love.
We sit on the floor in front of the beloved face.
Only He knows the reasons He brought us together
here.
A multifarious bunch of humans crushed together
in the Divine presence of God, or call Him what you
will.
His luminous eyes scan us all. I see them
flick over us in loving understanding. I am
against
the back wall like the first time, not near enough
to touch or hold His hand, or ask a question
audibly.
It's hard to frame words aright to Him who knows
all things from the beginning. He seems pleased
to see us here. 'Very happy, very happy', he says.
He appears to relax and talk about Himself. His
body has weighed
108 pounds for years (the names of God are 108).
'I never take a holiday', he says to a young
hitchhiker.
'I never stop working, day after day.' Everything
here is organized
by Him - the rooms we get, people we meet.
All part of an encompassing plan unguessed by us.
His eyes are translucent or sometimes soft brown,
the irises flashing white against the dark pupils.
He has become even more like Krishna since last I
was here.
We gaze at each other locked in perfect intimacy
and love.
Kneeling at your feet, I offer my letter
spelling out the grief and pain of twenty years.
I'm asking you to take it from me, dissolve karma,
give me back my life, lighten my burden.
You come close to me, I can see the lines
on your dear face. Your eyes meet mine,
not judging me, just dissolving me, like
the squares on a television screen when analysing
colours.
I know I recognise you, as you recognise me
from how many lifetimes of infinity
I can't pretend to know. Our eyes join and
it's like looking into the eyes of an old friend,
one you've always known, the reasoning mind
doesn't know where, or how many times, before.
You pause before me but do not take it from me.
Your eyes rake me from head to toe,
seeing what, I can only guess.
The letter was offered, but whether accepted
or rejected, I do not know, from this small
punctuation mark in time.
Strains of a sarod remind me of the first time
I heard Indian music. The divine flute
echoed in my cockleshell ears,
and I never wanted to lose the sound.
I went back to an empty flat, its silence welcome,
not knowing then that the flute is Krishna's
instrument,
though I loved my torn poster that showed
the divine pair in the garden of delights.
Finally the paper ripped, leaving a white patch
in a sea of grey over the radiator,
till I replaced it with your photograph,
and saw I'd found the blueprint of all past images.
I can barely see my hand before
my face. Yet it is midday.
I turn on all the lights in an effort
to beat the premature dusk.
Days draw by to the end of the year.
Soon I will fly away again
to golden sun and warmth,
to the place where God treads the earth.
We sit in the hot afternoon
hour upon hour waiting for Him.
Girls like flowers,
mothers carrying deformed children,
many still hoping against hope
for freedom from enchainment
of one kind or another.
Under the green and gold ceiling
grilles at His windows protect
from too much seeing.
Birds and monkeys are frequent visitors
coming through open windows and doors.
A woman with a long pole shoos
them away - a fruitless task.
Birds join in the morning singing.
He welcomes all to His temple,
children and animals, folk, all are His.
Sai Baba, man or God?
The wise one never knows.
I watch Him as He walks away,
a solitary figure in a red gown.
Does God ever feel lonely
here in a human vesture?
Or is He always in a state of bliss
unfettered by the things we humans feel?
Sometimes I'd just like to hug him,
most unacceptable I'm sure.
His body seems a little bowed
with burdens beyond our imagination.
I can sit for hours on the ground waiting.
Who else could teach me that patience?
The smile He gave me when He came near
was full of love and wisdom.
Another time early on I tried to smile
but He remained stern as Shiva.
And then once I was almost alone
in the wheelchair line. `He'll ignore me',
because earlier He had. Instead
He ignored the others, looking at me.
With those searching eyes
He seems to rearrange the atoms
in these frail human personalities.
His phenomenal patience can only be divine.
I've waited hours in the heat
hardly noticing the hard ground,
as if time were suspended.
Infinitely old, infinitely new.
You smile at me with
the wisdom of ages and sages.
I wish I could imprint a photograph
of that smile I could tune to at will.
You were here before I was born.
It doesn't matter what people say about you,
you are That, loving and eternal.
Here, I am always renewed.
My fears, so huge, become nothing
in the power of your smile,
in your dazzling look.
We fly over clouds like snowfields
in bright sunshine.
Gradually the plane starts to descend,
the pull of gravity brings us down.
Yet the distance indicator says we're
still miles from our final destination.
My mind's eye is still dazzled
by jewelled saris, curry and coconuts.
We land, and everything seems grey.
The March cold outside
hits my body like a sledgehammer.
I feel like a displaced person.
I was born here yet feel a stranger,
the warm land far away seems nearer.