Recovering the Sacred - Dhyaanavati (top 10 best books of all time TXT) 📗

in things,
with a new impetus of
Desire-Power, decided to
burst out of a possibility
into a concrete reality
and recreate
an earthly body into
a luminous house of
its living treasure.

In a voice inaudible
and immediate in effect,
it said to its playmate:

You are sitting now
on My phallus fully erect.
Feel it! This is My gift to you,
a sign of My presence you’ve been
wanting to be whole: this is a form of
My utmost sacrifice. And your offering in
this rite, a token of your collaboration
with the indweller, needed for this
play to go on, is your ego-god. Know:

My phallus, beautifully
aroused by the fire of Love
you’ve never deemed possible to be
lit in your life, fills the space emptied thus
by the sacrifice of your ego-self; and explodes
in your inmost cosmos, and leaps out towards
the ever expanding outer frontiers—to weave
your threads into My Bliss firmaments, beyond
the galaxies of all cognizable or imaginable heavens,
and bring everything down into the sanctified vessel.


Living Light,
Dying for Life


1

As I move slowly
lightening my burden
along the way and basking
more and more in Thee, Beloved,
the glowing amber of my being,

I find myself sitting
and churning on the old
Tortoise back risen from
the opaque waters of
the ocean depths:

Her slightest motion
synchronous with
Thy heel’s subtle lift
brings about in this
body for dying fit
the irreversible
transmutation of
poison into amrit.


2

Watching my grey hair
and beautifully wrinkled skin
I welcome the Lord of Death
who sent these heralds to me

and invoke the grace to part
while bathing in light of Thy
diamond Mind and wine of
my pierced ruby heart.


3

Dance, dance, my friend,
the awake desirous mind
on the narrow path of
falling through the heart
and smoothly flowing
upstream; dance in
ecstasy of the being
overflowing with joy
in love embrace with Him!

And when you come to the point
of not knowing any standardized
human code nor finding a proper
word to give a language form to
the beatitude and ever-welling
splendor of His love making
with the innermost self,
simply give thyself
to it, and dance,
dance madly
celebrating this event,
the ceaseless orgasm of
their ultimate merging; dive in,
die gladly in the raptures of That Bliss!


4

No more postponing
for anybody’s sake nor
any other purpose,
including, in particular,
the demands of your ego-
cropping. Now is the time to
receive what I’ve been wanting
to give since you were conceived
as a spark of Divine growing through
many lives on this living planet so loved
by all the Masters of Shambala born from
the secret Heart of the universe. Now is
the time to hold up the torch and live
That Reality, and serve the purpose
supreme: the Great Mother’s
Work on reclaiming
the whole of Her property.


* * *


In this life, which is
not mine anymore, I
have nothing else to
do. My Beloved is here.
He is taking care of the ‘I’, all
its possessions and undertakings:

In an emptied house, nobody
has washed any left laundry
neither swept the floors
nor had a coup of tea
afterwards. And that’s all
for this blessed morning.

*
An old soul mate, yet unknown
Friend says: With no sense of doership
one floats free like a flower uprooted,
lighter than a cloud, falling back in
its own source—the pure
subjectivity of the cosmos;
no one does anything, everything
gets done; nor anyone exists,
the existence but acts out
its own dream.


Vision in the Dusk: Cloud Divination

I
Linga,
the sacred
Phallus, enfoldment
Mode of feminine Powers,
The Formless in all forms, not
The Cross of suffering and doubts
Will be the symbol of a new ‘Heaven
Upon Earth’. The Mother’s Spaceship,
Not the Body of the Church, the bloody
Bread of Eucharist, will take us through
The Milky Way of our cosmic communion into the absolute
Freedom of identity with the Supreme. Ecstasy of Bliss,
Not Passions of Golgotha will be the truth-revealing
Voyage, the dynamics of a psyche and Being
For a new resurrection occurrence of
The Source-Consciousness
In every one of us

Dancing on the roof,
Dancing with winds,
Not confessing the sins
Will be the liberation
Process, immediate
Redemption, and the way of life—
In full awareness of the one who mastered
Destiny, the books of stars, one’s own mind,
Instead of crucifying the Master time and again
And living like a corpse, postponing
Death and running for trinkets
Outdoors, entirely unaware
Of the great treasures
In the basement of
One’s own home

The ‘New Age’ will have
The name of Eternal Bliss,
Beauty and tenderness of
The delicate rare Flower,
Generosity of the swelling teats of
Wish-fulfilling Cow, and sensitivity of
The open wound of Mother Heart;
The all-penetrating brightness of
Diamond Consciousness is
Its nursing Ground


II
[A word of mouth
The diviner allowed
About herself:]

I am the same noble
Woman put in the fire by
Her husband-king pressured
To follow the public opinion about
Her morality (and the pressure, indeed, was so great
That I dropped on my knees and crawled on all four along
The corridors of underground maze, which sucked the juices of my
Flesh and soul); and I am the same priestess of Light witnessing
Her slow end while defending the last crystal obelisk alone
Against the forces of Darkness that attacked her island
Thousands of years ago; and the same witch
I am, burning in the Church’s flames of
Fear, ignorance, greed for power
Above everything else; and
The impure non-Aryan
Girl treated in a Nazi
Soap factory with
Millions of others
Outcasted by society
There and then, or any other
Ingeniously perverted
‘Aryan’ machinery
In any other time

In the new becoming
We are the queens of
Our kingdoms we nurture
With care of self-unfolding
Wisdom, ruling with the healing
Powers of our deepest scars and bleeding
Womb of all beginnings; and nothing can
Win over nor ruin our advances to
Reveal, ravel in, and live
Truth of our beings—with
Might, beauty, and grace
That come only from
The sole authority,
Which the world-mind
Fears the most: the same
Self-Source within, frameless
Non-entity, and purposeless besides,
Like this poem vessels of weird offerings


And, for those who know us better, we are
The Keepers of the Sacred Fire (drawn by
Gravity pool of Beloved again and again
Whenever Shadows swallow the earth)
And the clay pits aptly remolded
For the ultimate merger of
The Supreme Lovers in
Tandava orgies of
Their utmost sacrifice—
Complete descent to the densest
Depths of Consciousness and glorious
Uprising from the most obscure interiors of Matter


A Multilogue before Dawn


I

Tonight, I washed my
ears and bleached
a garb of the soul
in a pulsing sound
of a singing bowl,
then offered a
skull-full of
gratitude
to the flower
flaming from
Thy hidden scroll


It is yet to be revealed, in the ritual
chalice of grand transmutation, Thy Truth
unchanging as Beauty of the form and Thy
Will to Love as the movement of an urge
to grow and create anew, seamlessly
working in a single cell as well
as in the Whole,
throbbing
from the secret
chamber of each atom,
the womb of every universe—


it is yet to be seen
in a conscious light

and lived
in a body
thus transformed:

Mystery of the clay
changing into gold


II


A rightfully concerned,
by nature conservative
mind questions, with
certitude of one who knows
the answer and never looks at
one’s own underwear: What the hell is
this quasi-ritual and all the accompanying
nonsense? What tradition does it come from,
to what school of thought does it belong?
Who sanctioned it, what sanctified?
Is it not, therefore, offensive to
the fundamental sense of right
and our Lord on the high!


Another mind, dropping all
queries and concerns along with
an impulse to justify or explain,
beams in a gentle smile
meaning to say:
One needs not go that
far, o fellow—just sit in the Heart
while the Grace pours down, allowing
the Presence to fill you up. All the answers will
come now without your invitation, before you even
conceive any question; and you become an instrument
of the path-breaking influx from rarefied regions of
the universal Mind—repository of all traditions.
Serving a cause greater than logic of ours
is as simple and fructifying as this—
at contagious delight of the cosmic bees.


Here is coming
another poem:
one more initiation,
carving the cacophony of senses
with the silence of Being


Just listen,
listen deep:
this no-poem
can take you
back home


A Vignette of Bengali Bay


I am the ocean bed
unconditionally prostrate to
its timeless movement; silent in
intimate knowing of its obscure
bottoms and secrets of the depth

You are the formless
mass of waters, ever changing,
ever the same, rolling the origin tales
over my soundless bosoms you press
with all your heavy weight

Together we make this
primal sound, a mighty harmony of
undertones wherein all words and
forms disappear, as if suddenly
swept in their own drone


Re: Supramentalization


I
Even in His eyelashes,
sky winged,
the commending power
and love all-seeing


He slowly looks down—oh!
my up-facing receptacles
gathering the conscious
caresses of the air:


in the bowing of His eyelids
the Sun grace
descending
onto the earth


II

With the supramental
as His favorite cloth
He glides over
the floor of our hopes—


a Great Swan of the shoreless lake,
casting the shadows down bellow
as He moves unmoved far above the thoughts,
moulds our heads into the blooming flowerpots


Behold: when all dross is burnt in
the blaze His mind is made of
whatever He touches becomes
a masterpiece of pure gold—His own seat


EMULATING A GREAT SAGE
or, weaving the words
with a soul thread
to catch the Lord


1
Arunachala! I remember Thee
now, after all my reaching out
for Beloved have failed.
Thou art the only refuge.

O Arunachala, the inscrutable
faceless Self, how could I
even know of Thee
or gaze, magnetized,
at Thy delightful form
of formlessness if
Thou have