"See that the forms of things are just things and in reality nothing else. Then, in an instant, freed from all bonds, you will be in your true nature" (Astavakra Samhita)
gambbit light-writing: a lens into the potjie
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Sadhus: The wandering ascetics
These are photographs of the wandering Indian renunciants, begging monks, mystical walkers, roaming philosophers, miracle-workers, hash smokers, holy men and tricksters. These Sadhus are photographed in the holy cities of Rishikesh and Haridwar.
Each Sadhu will have his personally chosen avatar; pictured above is a massive statue of Shiva, in Haridwar, on the Holy River Ganga.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
zenblasts: visible & honest?
surging from the nest of mites in the
nested bent bough of the milky firmament,
comes the collective aid of
an unconscious unity,
unconscious insofar as it is without self,
belonging within us all;
a cosmic bodhi-branch, a vein,
a meridian.
snakes carry ladders
as we rise and fall;
zenith & nadir,
the necessary circle, we spin in a
material vortex,
limbs are boughs
you are I
we are, as we are not.
your simian obsession
we breath ; I&I;
chokes & vibrations, a relative sense;
I & I ; I & I;
sense & senses
no ego-mind; no-mind
exercise spontaneous caprice beneath
all conceptual, rational, linguistic
FRAMEWORKS
NO NAME-WORKS; NO SAME-LURKS;
LASH-OUT-INTO-THE-ETHER-OF-ALL-ONE-MINDED NO-MIND WHICH REACTS IN ITS ACTION
cause and effect only makes sense in words,
like birds making no sense in nonsense.
the tapestry is wrenched beneath the
...vibrating moon,
the sun wanes & bursts
like incense sparkling in an ancient tomb
no eyes see
no mind says me
in the sprawl of being we reach the
point where it's the only choice
to do nothing,
a marvellous emptiness which hosts
immaculate compassion & humility.\
like the midnight train,
like the moon-lit bower,
like the human evolution,
like the spider's holy-hunger,
like the monsoon of rationality,
like the bees' comb so sweet,
like all "quivering meat conceptions"
materialism prevails
we begin to wail
Triup's snow unveils
the masked fever of
the leaping faith of
a tormented gecko into
a concrete void which
falls bygone & returns
to those who heave with
sorrow for man's own
man-ness ; holiness ; growth.
Alas. words are not birds
comparisons are odious
the ink will not run
the link is not all fun.
BOOM! we cry tonight,
alive
passive
hungry
eager
Bent. There's my vent.
southern means - a cup of Kerala
fisherman on anchor
the waves slide beneath the boats,
they bob, silent, contemplative, mindlessly so.
anchor lines taught,
as the wind pulls like gravity,
boats on water, specks afloat the void
the bliss of the anchor;
a main-stay binding to a point,
around which you may drift & sway,
returning, or having the potential to,
at whim and will
freezing dawn; the light lets known
the cold, calmly pitted at its zenith,
moves slowly with the breeze as
rays massage the sands into their appearance
of summer.
hammock sleepers writhe and wriggle
beneath thin blankets;
the stars' indifference forces the
recognition of the illusion of coldness.
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