Heavenly Lore Poem by Bhanu Padmo

Frail and fragile,
Powers I did seek;
Denial came then as heavenly lore.

Sullen and lonely,
Down dust-road I shambled;
With guilt-torn mind,
With shame-sunk heart;
When denial came as heavenly lore.

Hemmed in darkness,
By river of despair,
I succumbed to a broken moon;
And its downcast shine;
When threatened by a rain-cloud train,
Overhanging and lurid,
The cruel carrier of heavenly lore;
To deny powers to the waning moon,
Frail and fragile.

With guilt-torn mind,
With shame-sunk heart,
Sullen and lonely,
By river of despair,
Fierce I grew with redeemed freedom.

Entreaty forsaken, martyrdom I chose;
When I was one with the tormented moon;
In the vicinity of creeping apocalypse,
Snail-like and stern and unforgiving.
Frail and fragile,
Though powers still I did seek.

Sullen and lonely,
By river of despair,
A well I did fall into;
Bottomless I thought.

Befell me at length as bottom my mind;
Afloat upon the stream of genes;
Liquid heart, they say;
Afloat upon a legacy incredible,
And effaceable never.

Supported and secure,
I felt free and relieved;
Upon the cradle of survival eternal.

Like mother*s lap it was;
Like dust-road I had shambled,
Sullen and lonely.
Frail and fragile,
Though powers still I did seek.

Set at bottom of creation I looked up;
From my new home of eternal survival;
From the well that tradition dreaded,
Shrieking often *it*s the bottomless well*;
Cautioning *tread not this one-way contingency*.

From the bottom of creation I looked up;
And befell upon my eyes the zenith with moon;
Broken and waning,
Sullen and lonely,
Hemmed in darkness;
Hemmed in rain-clouds,
Overhanging and lurid;
Hemmed wistfully in misfortune unremitting,
As wish ran contrary to heavenly lore.

Through downcast shine whispered moon,
Ark of mind O Human, now you dwell;
Upon the lake of liquid heart;
And its swells,
Invisible and mighty.

Envying I could stop not;
Ere this resurrection unforeseen;
Of benedictory freedom,
Candidly redeemed,
Fiercely wielded.

But now I acknowledge and admire.
O Shaman, O Savior,
Tell me the cogent secret,
The secret of powers I seek;
For survival of my body,
Frail and fragile;
For survival of my soul,
Sullen and lonely;
And to work the alchemy,
Reckoned by mind,
Approved by heart;
Of all-seeing dream,
For ever earthen,
For ever ethereal.

And tell me what went wrong,
In affairs terrestrial;
Even in prayers, sweetest and earnest;
Why are desires denied and doomed,
Contradicted by heavenly lore?
Why thus indicted of fortuity this heaven is,
And of fallen divinity?

All eyes I was by then,
When piercing heaven floor, truths befell;
Like meteor shower never seen erst;
Piercing mind, it did strike heart;
To blaze the head,
To enlighten the body.

So, curtly I said, O Moon, listen,
The universe I see behind you,
Dark and heavy,
God incarnate though,
Blind god this is;
A door-less palace it is,
For all personal powers;
The reservoir ultimate.

Yet, as source of powers it can*t boast,
Unless you, O Moon, bear the eye;
The eye local, universal not.

You are the door that makes god the source,
Of benediction, of beneficence,
Of powers all,
Ever personal, Universal not.

When eyes close in prayers of entreaty earnest,
Doubly gets blinded the helpless god,
Originally blind,
though profusely ornate.

Then like spilled blood, drains out powers,
Ever personal, universal not;
Making the subject frail and fragile.

Listen to me, O Moon, trusting and naïve,
Trustworthy you are not;
For, you believed and preached,
Local lore agape,
Contrary, though coping;
Killing god*s tale,
real and potent.

Ornate, you said, god was, blind never;
And thus spread virus-like rumor contagious,
Like wild fire,
Like monsoon flood;
Turning the vulnerable powerless,
by and by.

Struck thus the laity this heavenly denial,
An anathema insidious,
With no parallel,
With remittance none.

This is the lore heavenly,
of divine reason;
Consistent with such piquant tale;
The tale of god,
Ornate and blind.

O Moon, You must know this and remember;
And tell the world when I am gone;
This saddest tale of an inverted world;
When ark of mind lay at bottom of lake;
The lake of liquid heart, they say.

And tell the world when I am gone,
Of the magic that could turn the tide;
Sovereignty of personal truth, that is;
The pristine form of benedictory freedom,
Candidly redeemed,
Fiercely wielded,
Begotten of awe and will.