Bikku under the Bodhi Tree
yogi under the banyan tree
yogi under the bodhi tree
bikku under the banyan tree
waiting for release
bikku in blissful nibbhana
yogi in extinguishing moksha
Penniless poet under the tenement roof
Jazz organist under the pavement sky
Struggling novelist under the Riviera blue
Russian ballerina under the American umbrella
Apprentice painter under the Sistine Chapel
Sculptor Underground
waiting for the agent's call
burning Anne Frank manuscripts in an air-raid fire
singular melodies drowned in the descending drone
Kafka writing without a morrow
van Gogh dabbing his tormented palette under the Arles sun
Sartre turning the Nobel Prize down for teenage girls
Siddhartha abandoning his body's palace for the people's pain
the common man unable to abandon his workload family
bikku under the bodhi tree
his body shrivelled under the saffron robe
his begging bowl filled by karma-earning hands
the last trichinosis-filled moksha meal
bikku rising on a thousand-petalled flower
bikku piercing through the cakras' splendrous colours
bikku on a burning pyre
(©: T. Wignesan 1992 & April 29,1997, Paris, from the Sequence/Collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent' and in the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems) ,1999.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Related quotes
To our dearly-beloved son, now dead
In a makeshift vihara in the heart of London
Bikku then disclosed his parents long gone
Might one dare utter after all these years
Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears
Somewhere in the saffron folds of his faith
A lonely boy still lurked wanting his mother
Or brother sister and hope-dislocating father
Of how they could abandon even his wraith
Just a single line in the inner board of a book
Over dried blue ink his fingers caressed words
A life he might've had in who knows what worlds
He just wanted to say: ‘See, who so forsook! '
In an unwatched vihara in the heart of London
A forsaken boy dared break out of monkdom
Might one dare utter after all these years
Was it yesterday he would shed dry tears
Too late he had come to own up this truth:
‘If there's a Supreme Being leave Him well be
He knows best what He's doing forsooth
Mind your own business leave Him well be! '
Should one gauge the measure of a man's humanity
From his ability to outgrow imposed attachments:
Such as confines of his community race or country
But most of all withstand the viral encroachments
Of his conditioned beliefs upon his own personality.
Dedicated to Mahathero Gunasena
(© T. Wignesan - Paris - September 8,1983 - Rev.2012, from the sequence/collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent',1999.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Banyan Tree
Banyan tree, banyan tree
that century old banyan tree
standing grandeurly for us to see
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Cool breeze passing through
seeking blessings of banyan tree
branches shaking in approval
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Glassy green with majestic trunk
touching the earth, not breaking free
shelter home for different birds
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Yellowish streaks, some with reddish tinge
welcome every season with a glee
symbol of eternal life
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Shedding leaves, like tears falling
a grandfather lamenting on its knees
new plants cuddling around
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Lord Buddha became its buddy
meditation was the only key
peace you get underneath
that is why it is banyan tree.
Banyan tree, banyan tree
wish fullfilling, it is banyan tree
just pray here and let you see
Banyan tree, banyan tree.
A life giver and just for free
Banyan is my national pride
preserve these at any cost
don't commit a homicide?
God blessed us with banyan tree
heat absorbing banyan tree
has healing powers this banyan tree
banyan tree, banyan tree.
---- X -----
copyright/Children of Lost God/Tribhawan Kaul
All rights reserved
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Forgive us please our enormous bilious hubris
The quasar-lit heavens smile only down upon us
For Our Master he presideth over the Universe
Our Architect-Father he beds down in the blackest holes
Our temple bells and lodges' knell toll only for Thee
While Thou slips from one parallel universe to another
Yeah, notre terre qui est à Votre taille
The muezzin's cry reaches far into the darkest cloud
From turret to galactic turret resounds the prophetic call
Colliding antennae make a murky Baghdad morass
The fallout heralds the bigcrunchy messianic massage
Our Master who art the shine on the Brahmin's head
Which knows no limbs feet chest nor shivering loins
Forgive us our cowering at the spewing Purusha mouth
For Thine is the thunder exploding forever and ever
Did not a bodhi prince once keep a damning silence
He saw no need to undo Thy mighty male tie
Lest he's forced to traverse this soil again in rags
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
As for the other fully bearded nodding mates
They are those who first invoked Thy game
They've now bought the world over in Thy name
But prefer to run the banks ‘ere Thou cutteth the rates
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Is the epicentre of the roiling boiling might
Where domes echo for the right to languish at Thy side
And watch the Goya geek chew the heathen to shreds
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
All the stars you see out there in the ever-ever
Are but the conjurer's balls dancing up in the air
The illusory waking dream of the never-never
Notre terre qui est à Votre taille
Give us every day the fireworks in the sky
For Thine is the show and ours the joy
For ever and ever spinning a lie!
(T.Wignesan, November 3,1997, Fresnes-Paris (Rev.2012, Paris)
©: T. Wignesan, November 3,1997, from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems,1999.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Coo coo coo
Coo coo coo
somewhere here and there
At my mango tree somewhere
At my neemtree somewhere
At my banyan tree somewhere
At my bael tree somewhere
Somewhere somewhere somewhere
Coo coo coo.
This song is yours
This song is mine
This is our song
We all are here
This is ours
Our life is here.
Coo coo coo
Everywhere I wander
Wonder and wonder
unable to move but stay
Here I am with my
Lost time and space hay.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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What is it about genus arboretum that socks us in the figurative solar plexus We see a logging truck go cruising down the road, stacked with a bunch of those fresh-cut giants, we feel like we lost a brother. Next thing you know, we're in The Brick, we're flopping money down on the bar. Wood. We're under a roof. Wood. We're walking the floors. Wood. Grabbing a pool cue. That's wood. Our friends in the forest carry a set of luggage from the mythical baggage carousel. Tree of life, tree of knowledge, family tree, Buddha's Bodhi tree. Page one of life, in the beginning. Genesis 322. Adam and Eve. They're kicking back in the garden of Eden and boom, they get an eviction notice. Why is that Lest they should also take of the tree of life, eat and live forever. A definitive Yahweh no-no. Be good to yourself, go out and plant a wet one on a tree.
quote by Diane Frolov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet- Nature Is Wonderful
A Banyan sapling's growing on the wall;
From near the drainage-pipe, luxuriantly;
Astonishing the people near-by all;
Its trunk looks almost like a mini-tree.
Look how, the leaves appear so verdant, stiff;
The aerial roots are three metres in length;
The tree looks gorgeous as if on a cliff;
And everyday, God gives it greater strength.
Bless'd is the Bird who spat the Banyan-seed;
Thanks to the water o'er-flowing from tank;
'Tis photo-synthesis, soil-less, indeed;
It cant grow fast like ones on River-bank.
But if the roots manage to reach the ground,
The tree will live a thousand years, ‘Tis found.
poem by John Celes
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An uncreative medicine
no hope
no friend
no family
no home
no nativity
no nationality
no fame
no name
no future
no points
no market
no identity
no possessions still a tree without roots
no relationship still a tree without roots
no anarchism still a tree without roots
no hiearchy still a tree without roots
no country still a tree without roots
no colours still a tree without roots
no degrees still a tree without roots
no certificates
no imaginations
no dream
no poetry
no fiction
no story
no news
no media
no happiness still a tree without roots
no genre still a tree without roots
no labels still a tree without roots
no names still a tree without roots
THE FOURTH EYE
of
A post-conceptual poet.
The Vision the Tree that was Me
I saw a tree so tall and straight
It almost reached to the heavenly gate
I was very close to that tall tree
I became the tree, and the tree became me A fire was burning all around
It burned the roots that were attached to the ground
The fire did not burn the heart of the tree;
As I was the tree and the tree was me. God saved the tree that was me,
God looks upon the heart you see
He saw a sinful heart set free
Sins all buried on the cross of calvary God took the tree that was me,
And planted it by crystal sea
I am the tree, and the tree of life is in me
I, and the tree are one you see, Would you like to be our neighbor?
A tree planted by the waters.
Come to the cross dear sisters and brothers
Jesus will meet you; and we will meet each other.
poem by Pearline Wagner
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Golden Secrets in the Flower
'...The Secret of the Golden Flower is not only a Taoist text of Chinese yoga but also an alchemical tract. (...) it was the text of The Golden Flower that first put me in the direction of the right track.' C. G. Jung
'The Golden Flower alone, which grows out of inner detachment from all entanglement with things, is eternal.' Richard Wilhelm
does it bloom in the subatomic quark neuron
a flower
petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark firmament pullulating infinitesimal quasars
unpeeling layers of nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in time
childhood slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by of-all beings friends
those who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts of a nature to make you hate fate
then the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes and opens again
and again
till the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling all thought
or is it mere doubt
the intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out neuron paths
then the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussednesses
to this world
to words
to wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a world dying
dead
a tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what eyes make belief
even when words don't mean what they see
(© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 3,1997 [Revised May 2003] -from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems.1997)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Sing haughty Yacht-y Yea
bayboats purse seine whey
journey yearlong gay
laddy inured dryup
haughty yachty yea
mildred mayhem dewlap
naughty jaunty jay
car sons caught in capers
haughty yachty yea
vicar baking in butterfat
orphan boy screwed in larder
bluejay frollic jane
and a haughty yachty yea
bombs in bay bombard
dickson singsick cockpit
french chicks s'envoyent en l'air
oh a haughty yachty yea
idols jailed in temples
choked in garlandy incense
priestly eyedance pose
yes a haughty yachty yea
masons' mildewy masters
with compass stone and pilasters
plan solomon's might on earth
yea sing haughty yachty yea
royal houses love in stables
lords and ladies love in regalia
loving ones love in limbo
cry haughty yachty yea
dote on damsels in december
hey yachty haughty yea
make them deliver in september
ho yickety yackety yea eh
[©T.Wignesan - Paris, May 4,1997 - from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems. Paris: 1999]
poem by T. Wignesan
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Peacocks and Nightingales
Danseuse peacocks frequently assembled
Under an arbour of a banyan tree
And enacted among themselves their skills.
Each came with mind and eye set on
Its feat and went with no notice on others feet.
Melody queen nightingales often gathered
Upon lush branches of a banyan tree
And recited among themselves their skills.
Each came with mind and ear set on its tone
And went with no effect from others’notes.
Peacocks and nightingales for dance and music
Aren’t good audience; it must be ducks and doves.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Poem Of Syntax
A poet and his bird, his dog, his cat and his tree
A poet and the bird in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree and the wind and the cloud
The bird in the tree, the dog in the tree, the cat in the tree,
The bird in the tree, the dog on the tree, the cat under the tree,
The bird on the tree, the bird in a tree, a bird in a tree, a bird in the tree,
And the wind and the cloud and the poet and his dog and his cat and the tree
The dog chases the cat the cat chases the bird
And they all arrive in that tree
Where the poet is sitting under that tree
The poet takes the dog and the cat was envious
And the bird looks at them in silence
The silence looks at the poet in the eye
Of the cat and the bird flies away
The poet and the dog is the poem of friendship
The cat and the dog is the poem of the endless natural quarrels
And the bird that flies away against the cat and the dog and the poet and the tree
And flies against the wind that the bird is now fighting
And the clouds that seem so blue and blue
The bird that actually flies away
Is actually me
I was not the poet with the dog
I am not the tree I am not the wind I am not the cloud I am not the poet there who had a dog as friend and I was not the quarrelsome thing from the blue and out of the blue
I am the bird with wings and I always fly away to places
Against the wind to places where I can be as always be the bird with wings in silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Komori
The komoris' eyes fix the camera
from around
and in the straining double bandoliers' hump
the babies shaven heads strain
The body dares not face the camera
The frontal posture is not for the servant
heads turned bent regards meek and in stress
hair hastily gathered in the dark
now straggly with their loads
and in the eked-out smiles
the years of sleeplessly fading pallid faces
the rough cotton kimono
drab thick resistant to baby-faeces and crachat
And in their stilted sandals
their meagre dignity in a stoop
the bare adolescent feet still showing
Whose mothers are whose children?
Notes
'KOMORI is a generic term that consists of a noun, ko (a child) , and a verb, moru (to protect or to take care of): Japanese use it to refer to any person, male or female, old or young, who takes care of children. (...) Like their European counterparts, nursemaids and nannies, komori began to appear in what Michel Foucault has called the 'discourse of power' in the late nineteenth century...'
from Mariko Asano Tamanoi's 'Songs as Weapons: The Culture and History of Komori (Nursemaids) in Modern Japan', in The Journal of Asian Studies,50, no.4 (November 1991) : 793-817.
[© T.Wignesan - March 9,1992, from the collection: longhand notes: a binding of poems. Paris: 1999]
poem by T. Wignesan
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When I was only three I planted a tree
When I was three I planted a tree. This was my tree and together we would always be. I gave it love and it to me, and so we were happy, me and my tree.
Then one day they came to see me and my tree. Men with no faces, and they said to me, you must go, and leave this tree.
Buy why I ask. For we've done no harm. Me and my tree, please let us be.
So they left us alone, me and my tree, but only for a while but I could not see.
Then one day they came and took me away. My tree was needed to save the day. Goods it will make it makes perfect sense. So we will take this tree, for wood we need. And so it was done, they took my tree.
And now I look around, my tree I no longer see. Taken from, this tree I planted when I was three.
poem by Brad Milner
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Waiting In Vain
I STAND ALONE UNDER THAT TREE
WAITING FOR YOU
I DON’T SEE THE HOURS FLYING BY
THE PEOPLE DARTING BY
THE TREE UNDER WHICH WE HAD MET
DAYS PASS INTO MONTHS AND YEARS
STILL AM WAITING FOR YOU
AS TIME PASSES BY THE LOVE FOR YOU
GROWS AS THE BRANCHES OF THE TREE
BUT ONE DAY ALL THE LOVE SHATTERED
AS I SEE YOU UNDER THAT TREE
IN SOMEBODY ELSES ARMS.
ALL THOSE YEARS OF WAITING WAS REWARDED
BY THE HAPPINESS YOU HAVE
BUT AM LEFT BEHIND THINKING
IS THIS THE ONE I WAITED FOR
ALL THESE YEARS IN VAIN.
poem by Kanu Aravind
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You Were Like The Young Fig Tree
You were like the young
fig tree by the cliffs.
And when I passed by
you filled the sierra with sound.
Like the young fig tree,
resplendent and blind.
You are like the fig tree.
The old fig tree.
I pass, and silence
and dry leaves greet me.
You are like the fig tree
that lightning struck old.
poem by Miguel Hernandez
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A Christmas Tree! A Christmas Tree!
A Christmas tree! A Christmas tree!
With dark green needled memories
Of childhood dreams and mysteries
Wrapped present-like in front of me.
A Christmas tree! A Christmas tree!
I glimpse a past wherein i see
The child that then grew into me
Not forward fast but haltingly.
A Christmas tree! A Christmas tree!
A time for being with family
A time that's gone so fleetingly
Yet lives for always deep in me.
A Christmas tree! A Christmas tree!
When twelfth night comes whole hauntingly
One lingered look and then i see
No Christmas tree where it would be.
A Christmas tree! A Christmas tree!
With feelings now felt longingly
No corner in my house to see
The magic of that Christmas tree.
poem by David Keig
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A cure for forty death-dealing cells
Impotent at birth
Impotent at death
and only somewhat potent in between
Why were you born without your own consent
What was the karmic guilt of your first birth
and what about those maimed in the mind
crippled in the womb
eaten by meningitis
by herpes
by syphillis
by aids
What are their chances of mending their karma
And what about that baby born without a brain
How is it to be blamed
for not giving its organs to some transplant bank
Who cares if you live on
If you die
who cares
and for how long
Does one have to care
being but ephemeral
(© T. Wignesan, April 2,1992, Paris - from the collection: back to background material,1993)
poem by T. Wignesan
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A Tree in a Field
There once was a tree,
A tree alone in a field.
And as that tree grew
It got bigger than all 'round.
And people would often stop
Just to look at that tree,
That tree in a field.
Till one day one person,
Went and cut down that tree,
That tree in a field.
And you know what?
That tree learned one thing
Don't stand too tall too fast,
Or someone just might
Cut you down.
poem by Matthew Tener Wade
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And Consciousness Said
(to the tune of Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree)
Don't sit under the Bodhi tree
With anyone else but me
poem by Patti Masterman
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