The Bliss of Death

The music from the violin,
Arises from the hidden world of the heart,
Mingles slowly but gradually,
Into the vastness of Her open embrace.


When the music shows up in all its youth,
It enthralls and amazed all!
In all its pride and voluptuous presence,
It basks in all the highest glory!
Gradually but to eventually vanish,
Entering into Her,
With certainty and un-diluted love!


The Sun rises in all its magnificence,
Only to more and more realize
Its love for her, with every passing moment,
Being eaten by Her,
In all arduous and unstoppable Love,
To the ultimate silent night.
Having being hugged to nothingness,
The Sun in hope of more,
Again rises the other day,
Just to experience being exterminated
All over again, Eaten wholly in Her Love.


The song from the depths unfathomable,
From the throbbing soul of the poet,
Emanates out in all ardor,
Determined to escape to the fresh air of life,
From the suffocating entrapment
Of the chores and rules.
With grown feathers it does explores
The horizon wide.
Flaunts its radiant color,
And novel expressions.
Only to realize eventually its only Love,
The Love for Her,
Vanishing in her bossom,
Like nothing existed a moment ago!


In the landscape that is known as reality,
The games, dances and the celebrations,
All the chimes of the bells,
And the hues of vermillion, crimson, and indigo,
All the strokes, shouts, moans, and laughters
Appears such that
Hidden within all what is manifest,
Is a hidden truth!
The truth of that un-dying Love,
The eternal attraction to Nothingness,
Entering into Her,
Forgetting all that ridges, highs and lows,
Being erased for all and ever.


Walking by the silent Nile,
In the canopy of the twinning eyes,
Of the ageless twinkling sages,
Watching as stars from the infinitude of the open space,
Simoni moves on in ultimate surrender,
In his Love for Her,
Watching himself to be wasted,
With wrinkles, and all frailties of age.
Just to discover in all newness,
That rejuvenated primordial attraction,
From eons past and eons to come,
To be taken forever by Her
In that bestial grasping, clasping,
That tightest hug of the Beloved,
And Her cuddle of the all encompassing Mother,
Warm, violent, ecstatic, relieving and certain!
Into the eternal bliss of Death!
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She

An evocation of the Primordial Song,

From the deepest recesses of the Soul!

A huge splash of buckets of Vermillion,
On the huge dusky canvas!

An all embracing inclusiveness,
Like the magnanimous Mother Earth!

A bestial throbbing urge,
Eager to engulf within all that is!

A damsel in trance,
Swooning in overflowing emotion!

A process of expanding the self,
Increasing in the breadth, spreading all around.

Disappearance in that vast openness,
Nothing to hide in tensed closeness!

The act of the turmeric dissolving earnestly,
In the all accepting being of the milk!

The fragrance of the Jasmine,
Enthralling the being of the whole garden!

The birth opening up as the virgin dawn,
Death ensuing to a new horizon as the wise dusk!

The wheel of Life goes on,
She is watching it in her full grandeur!

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Saluting Motherhood

A portal for an angel to taste
What it means being a God.
Being in the pedestrian of the Highest Glory.
Of being the Creator,
Of a new Life, a new Hope, a new Dream!
It is being the Mother.

A re-creation of the self,
In the primal being of Creativity,
Giving birth to a New Dawn,
With Potential anew,
Nurturing the seed,
With all the Possibilities in potential,
Grooming it to the fully grown Tree,
Beautifying the landscape and Sustaining the same!
The stroke of being a Mother.

A stance of grace,
All alone through the solitary journey,
Nurturing a life within Her womb,
Containing all in her,
The fear, hope, pain, dreams and Love,
Of Hers, and the one to come!
Bringing forth her creation,
Through the lonely torture of that unbearable pain!
Is that Elegance of Being a Mom!

Being able to contain all in Love,
Nurturing with that all encompassing Hope,
All forms of Life, All forms of Possibilities,
A living Channel,
Bringing down the Highest Invisible Archetype,
From the horizons unknown,
To the tangible reality of day and night!

A Being exemplified by Mothers all over the world,
All colored in just one garb of Grace,
The Grace of Motherhood,
Bringing forth to the world,
What it means to be a Creator.
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The Solitary Vagabond

There lies the vast expanse,
The green meadow,
The strip of crimson flowers,
The dots of flowers and fruits,
In colors yellow, green, blue, and red.
The trees, the stream, the mountains and the sky!
All varied and unique and so special!


The vastness of the sky,

The grandeur of the mountain,
The still and strong tree,
The shy bushes,
The frigid touch me nots!


The Solitary Vagabond roams
From meadows to stream,
From trees to falls,
From oceans to deserts.


In his journey, he stops often.
Either to the pink tulip, or the green cactus.
Sometimes to the clean flowing stream,
Or to the passionate roaring ocean.

All elements in nature,
Established in their own beauty,
Flourish, Blossom and Thrive!
The Solitary Vagabond, stops by,
Listens to their song,
Hums it a while, loves the music,
And kisses them, as he goes by!


He is in love,
With the flamboyant Albatross,
And the coy turtle,
For he knows all have a heart of Gold!
He tries to touch them,
From the core of his truthful heart,
With the touch of his throbbing Love.


The cactus bleeds his fingers,
The touch-me-not closes her away,
Vanishing in the closeness of darkness,
The Albatross takes his new flight
Charting a horizon new,
Leaving him abandoned.


All continue to follow their journey,
Some love the Solitary Vagabond,
Some hate him from core.
For all are different, unique and so special.
They have their own language, their own fears,
Their own songs and their own strokes.
All see the Vagabond colored in their own colors!


The Vagabond continues to be solitary,
Always being in Love,
He continues to stop by,
And touch all with the touch of his soul,
From the depth of his pure heart.

With every touch, and every hurt,
With every stone toppling him,
With every new pain, and scar deepened,
He has a new impression,
The impression of Life and Love.


For the Solitary Vagabond,
All the scars, sweat, pain and tiredness,
Is the gift of Life,
For he is able to see the invisible,
The archetype hidden in beneath
The surface of all the diverse chaos.


Bliss sails him through in ecstasy,
Pain churns his soul,
And brings forth the pearl of wisdom!
All play their own role,
Nourishing the Vagabond in his journey!
For, he knows for sure,
The truth is just One - Love and Only Love.
It is just he has to know it better,
With every scar, with every blow.

Sun is about to set,
Vagabond is tired,
Every joint of his body is pain.
Stops he not.
Continues he the journey eternal.


Sun sets, and Moon rises.
Stars come up twinkling in amazement.
The Vagabond continues his journey,
Going beyond all that is non-essential,
Beyond all barriers
Of hatred, meanness, closeness, and delusion,
To touch all, in his purity of Love.


He has no one with him -
No person, no thing.
He is solitary and alone.
But more than what he has,
He is happy with what he is,
For he has been able to Love,
In equal fervor -
The Cactus and the Tulip.


At the sunset of his life,
He knows nothing will be take with him.
When Death hides him
In the dark shroud of the unknown,
He would know that he is happier,
For he has been able to touch the Heart of All,
Knowing the bliss,
Not by what they felt or gave back,
But by what he was able to give, and discover!


His God is the invisible core,
Of all that is alive,
Beneath the bustle and chaos,
Of all judgement, illusions, transience,
That Truth which thrives
In the Space of the perpetual Sanctuary,
The Sanctuary of Love.

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Simoni's Closet

Ever changing is Time, as the Things.
So do people, feelings and seasons change.
Good that memories don’t.

Opening the huge closet, Simoni was about to
Start the Journey to the bygone lanes of his memory.

The closet of red velvet, lined with glistening gold,

Opened into precious memories
Of years gone by!

There were rings, bells, books, notes, book-marks,
Plaques, and trophies.
All impeccably placed, clean and shining.

In one corner was a rolled red muslin.
Seeing it Simoni remembered it!
Unrolled he the muslin with peace,
Was there a strand of hair,
And note of thanks! - Still Fragrant in that youthful Love.

Started he reading through the lines,
Between the words, and letters.
For started surging the invisible waves
From forgone years of abandonment.

The waves of feelings, emotions,
Vulnerability, fear, pride, honor, and Love.
The note, the letters and that
Most Beautiful handwriting!
All appeared like the Harp of Venus,
What was more essential for Simoni,
Was the hidden Symphony.
The Symphony of that pristine Love.


The color and texture of the paper has aged,
Simoni’s eyes have gone weaker,
His fingers has wrinkles many,
The Love from Her, is now lost
In the commotion of years gone by.
But then, what was still young, fresh and unchanged -

Are the memories, the throbbing of the heart,
And that surrender in the space of Love,
Simoni was going through.
It was all the same then,
It is still the same now!

It was about a century ago,
When the Love was born,
Out of an innocent liking.
In that space in time and dimensions,
Before She loved him, a century ago,
And after she changed, and never loved him again,

In that space behind and in-front,
Simoni was sailing on his suchness of Love,
With shimmering phantasm of
Emotions, lust, longing, sensations,
Rising and dying on the eternal ocean of
The Suchness, and Permanence
Of the Sanctuary of Simoni’s Love,
Always present in Peace.


His possessions in his secret closet,
That strand of hair, the note, the book mark,
The ring, the bells,
All appeared to him keys to the mystery,
The Mystery of Life and Love,
The Eternal, un-changing, constant and un-altered,
Axis of his every youthful Love,
For Her.

For more poems on Michel Simoni and his love - 

http://criativ-mind.blogspot.in/search/label/SIMONI%20SERIES

http://www.amazon.com/Simonis-Story-sculptor-his-love/dp/1481128590/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1367386585&sr=8-1&keywords=samrat+kar

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Copy Right © All rights reserved - Samrat Kar