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A collaboration over too much coffee.
coffee and pen

06 September, 2004

Raga Bhairav: Orgasmic Bloom

We praise Bhairava, the hero,
the source of life,
the measure of rhythm,
pervading the ocean of notes and intervals.
A scull in his hand,
the crescent moon upon his matted hair,
he worships Shiva, the Lord of sleep.
His body is smeared with sandal paste.

--- Raga Sagara (3, 1)


Whenever I think back, I can echo
the experience of your weathers ---
thunderclaps, rain hitting stones, rattle of windows.

Every so often, I have rested between
your storms.
Partings, tears, discoveries --- these are all
epiphanies of our solitude.

In our crude, vague and dreamy ignorance,
we have recognized the subtle,
elusive beauty of human grief.

Those sunrise colored clouds
around my head,
those inconceivable enchantments ---
they have always brought me
back to life.

Across this short, dark distance
of years, you are a thought of mine.

An object among dreams, you sit here
with your bare feet and curl your
legs under you.
Your eyes close for a moment,
your face luxuriates in my gaze.

Time fades away.
Motion turns to stillness.
Space becomes void, once again.

I dissolve to my nudity,
in the soft brilliance of the
newly risen sun.

Your nakedness comes towards me,
transluscent.
Your body is made of infinite, whirling
points of light, each one a galaxy.

Through them, a few stars
and the moon’s crescent still glisten,
faintly.
You come to me on imperceptibly drifting air
and bite me on the
edge of my shoulder.

Your tongue thrums and moves
into me, I become hollow
and blaze with the whirling light,
like the inside of a vast,
expanding, pearly universe.

Your body flows into mine,
each corpuscle of
blood and flesh.

As we become one, the world vanishes.
My Self vanishes. I am dispossessed,
only into an abyss without limits.

Only, into the dark oblivion
of sense and mind.

Only, into an un-illuminable void.

Then, I package your edges .

Each time you look at me,
with your fluid gaze,
the moon flickers and I invent
more of you, in the space between.

The rhythm and the notes
enchants your movements.
You now oppose the whole sea,
the moon and the music.
You are the only thing
you now know of.

Now I see you motionless,
still within your stillness,
having turned
into your own Art.

Brahmanand Singh
(Part of a series called Raga Poems,
read on the 8th Aug 2004 meet)

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2 Comments:

Blogger Max Babi said...

Hi Brahmanand,
I had this niggling suspicion that your mega-opus on Lalit and Bhairav [both my special favourites] would be a headbanger each.

I am jelly in your hands, poet. Bhairav contains more erotic phantasmogoria that a hundred pulp fiction novels ground and mixed into one big mess. Amazing piece, friend.

Have read this ten times and cannot stop reading it. Feel like a street urchin thrown onto an opulent dinner table -I hope I behave myself.

Tks a lot for this rich fare....

cheers

Max

09 September, 2004 08:08  
Blogger Brahmanand Singh said...

I think it's something to do with that time of the day ... the color, the light, the mood ... and the erotic austerity of the raga associated with the most bohemian of Indian gods, Shiva ... there's, therefore, perhaps, a drugged multiplicity of those erotic images ...

Your encouraging words charge me on to read them myself and find more and more each time ... now, isn't that a wonderful thought ... when you discover things in your own work, sometimes ... thanks for the lovely words for the poem ...

Brahmanand

15 September, 2004 13:05  

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