Home and Hearth

Prayed a prayer

For world sanity

And lost consciousness.

Found myself on God's hearth

After an evening talk with him,

Before the kindly hearth

I wonder why

I don't lock myself in this house

Journey to the Centre of Light

 

 

I.

 

 

Diminish into majesty

And be weak to be strong

So weak as to be gasping

For breath, another breath

That will get you on your legs

To face the disappearance again.

You are your only obstacle

And when the I is annihilated,

Hope remains.

 

The stars disappear,

One by one,

Twinkling stars,

Little stars,

One by one

First the light of a cheerful sky,

Then the fellowship of mundane mirth,

Then the eyes and the light,

And superimposed realities

And the night itself

One by one

In pugnacious, noisy exits,

One by one

Hope is the puny thing with feathers,

A flying bird shot down

 

Sorry, but chill - it’s not all burnt yet.

You’re not the one who

You once were, nor are you

Who you should be.

You are a muddled up mess

Of yourself. Get yourself straightened out

C’mon round here,

Take the road right here,

The narrow one,

Or the one over here

The one that is no road at all

I know you ain’t ready

For the first one yet,

So buck up, get yourself together

(To tear yourself apart)

Don’t be such a sloth.

We all have to go this way,

If we wanna get real light

Of all this, whatever this is

(So tear yourself apart)

 

You are not what you were meant to be

The regale king lives in elfin fatuity

Rage against yourself

At the bathetic hebetude of your existence

For the regale king lives in distracted absurdity

Take a breath, and exist

Be, be what you are,

Not what you were or will be

But what you are

And what you were meant to be

 

And O, although this is night,

The night will not hold

 

Ignorance is the wisdom of the light

You know nothing, do you realize?

You are nothing, do you see?

Come to this fountain of wisdom, follow me

Or watch me lead myself

 

 

II.

 

 

Hubris is a number of stones

Tied to one’s arms and legs

And you jump into the river of your illusions

You’re now under the water,

Drowning and gasping for breath

For goodness’ sake,

What are you waiting for? Fight!

Fight and struggle and rage,

For your struggle begins here

Break free of those nasty stones,

And the cords, and save yourself –

You are all that you have –

Save your life, or what’s left of it,

Something, anything

 

Ah, I see from the shore

That you have broken out,

And are floundering at the surface,

Gasping for precious breath.

Very pleasant and satisfactory,

You have saved yourself,

Or what’s left of yourself -

Or so you think so.

The fight is only beginning, really –

The war’s right over there,

Round the corner, turn right

After the decrepit buildings

But that’s all later, of course.

Now, follow the man on the shore,

Who is actually yourself.

 

In the distance you see

The approaching enemy army,

Innumerable but not insurmountable

Your enemy is no less mighty.

Don’t be afraid – fight

And you know you have to

You do not know who the enemy is

But fight you have to

You know you have to

The two armies rushing to each other

Each somewhat familiar to the other,

And you recognize the enemy:

Yourself.

You fight anyway.

 

Follow yourself into yourself,

Where the war is

Destroy all within reach

And salvage what you can.

 

And at the end of it all

You’re lying there, gasping –

Wounded, but victorious

You attempt a ghost of a smile

Then, blackout

 

 

III.

 

 

The glass filled with water

Is neither half-empty nor half-full

But only mere illusion

Do not be struck by the geography of the words

My words could lead you nowhere,

Could give you nothing

Wriggling out of the theses and antitheses

And the stating of facts and their negation,

Stop all that – too confusing

There’s something better – the truth

 

The way to existence is its annihilation

The way to yourself is away

Close your eyes, and you can see

Open your eyes and be blind again.

You are now not who you were

You will never be what you were

You are not and thus you are

 

Well. That was a periphrastic way of

Telling you that you are not

There yet, wherever there is

You are halfway in the middle of

Nowhere, and still you are somewhere

Look, young fellow, you’ve stumbled into

Your morgue or something,

So shut up and let the

Roadside mystics and street philosophers

Perform the exequies. Stay put

Now is no time to ask the mirror, 

“Who’s the weakest of ‘em all?”

Stay put, where you are,

Or where you are not

You may be here or there or anywhere,

But you are nought.

Walk away from your sorry self

To reach yourself, that’s the best advice

I can give you or myself.

Oh whatever. We been talking too long.

Buck up, and follow.

 

And O, although this is night

 

At the mathematical centre of the

Spherical universe is the still point,

The point that does not expand nor implode

But is still and at peace

As calm as is the eye of every storm

The still point that is both motionless

And moving at the speed of light

For it is light itself

And this surrounding storm

Deserves itself, is willful

For creation is not yet at peace

The universe revolves around this light

Would you care to see it?

 

You are the weakest of them all.

 

 

IV.

 

 

Time is non-existent , a desultory myth

That primitives cooked up; Realize –

History is measured in a series of lives

Short lives, long lives, bright ones, dark ones

All festooned with smiles, tears and the lot

If you want to escape the tyranny

Of living in history, follow me, or watch me lead myself

Rise above the smiles and the tears

And be transfigured once and for all

Live with one foot in time, one foot out

Dancing all the while in this dance called existence

For the secret to life is the celebration of existence

 

So dance now and dance forever,

Dance quick and dance long

Geworfenheit. You have been thrown into the dance.

Dance to exist, to save yourself

Come celebrate existence and not disaster

Do not stay chirping at the sky and the trees

And the clouds and the breeze

Do not be captivated by the wisdom and the folly of man

Search deep, past the depths,

Into the meaning of existence

Or the existence of meaning

I do not know which,

I do not care which,

For I know nothing, I feel nothing,

I am nothing -

Follow me.

 

 

V.

 

 

And where are we going, you ask me

We are going to the center of the dance,

To the whiteness and the light

And the beauty and the purity

And the power and the peace

And the joy.

This is another kind of sublimity

You have heard of this road all your life

Perhaps you have known this road before

This road so squeezed that we walk in single file

Yet when we walk it, it seems

We have never known it

 

Only transfigured sight can see and

Comprehend without burning

What none understand

The light that is more than light:

A sheer effulgence of fellowship.

Feel the immanence of the light,

For we are close to where we should be –

To the heart of reality

 

Be born in this blinding light

And feel the pain and the simplicity

Relish the utter poverty of not belonging to oneself

And be born in this effulgence

 

Yes, a dream deferred explodes forever

And what we crave is not what comes to pass

The right concoction of resignation

And fiery ambition is the white water

That will tame your thirst for glory

The stars disappear, twinkling little stars

One by one

But hope remains – do not explode

We are there at last, at the end of the road

And you see sheer Light smiling at you

With a smile that was always there

 

And the night will not hold

 

The Sunrise Fable

 

 

 

Okay, I’m not going to make things too complicated. It’s all very simple. Nothing to it.

The sunrise here at my place hasn’t been all that beautiful these past days. Been getting bit faded here and there, you know. Not much life in it. That ‘extra-worldly’ shine was out. Less of heaven in it, if you know what I mean. Like, sometimes I just prop myself down on this beach here on the Swiss coast at, what – 5 in the morning, and I’d be waiting for dawn to burst. With my canvas and brush at hand, of course….  And there’d be glimpses of heaven here and there. The moment felt ethereal.

Not now. I look at the sunrises these days and can’t dabble a shine of colour. Sun seems to have gone colour-blind.

And so. I’m off to tell God about it. I’m going to ask Him to do something about it.

I get out of my modest cottage in Downtown Switzerland, and I began walking. All I’ve got is my orange shirt, pants and a knapsack with brushes, colour and one sheet of thick paper. I know I’ll have to go a long way, and I can exchange on-the-spot paintings for the food and rest I’ll need.

I walk and walk and walk and that night I stop before a quaint bakery. I paint a melody of a painting of the old chap in the bakery, on a single paper. I show it to the pleased chap and he agrees amiably to my request of a loaf of bread and a place to rest. Biting into the fresh loaf, I ask him if he knows where God is.

He says no. The next day I continue on.

I walk and walk and walk. When I’m too hungry to go on, I ask a school kid to give me a plain sheet of paper. I tell him to sit down by the side of the street. He sits, bewildered. I paint him in a quiet pasture, with a breath-taking sunrise watching him. I’m done in five minutes, and I hand it to him. He squeals in delight, gives me a pound, and rushes to show it to his Mama. Artistically the sketch would fetch 700 pounds.

I walk and walk and walk. Weeks pass. I’m out of Switzerland. In a month I reach France. I ask them, “Do you know where God is?”

“Quest’que ce?” They ask.

“Dieu.” I repeat.

“Non, non….” They reply.

I go on. Past the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre…. On and on.

I soon reach Italy. I pass the Leaning Tower of Pisa, saunter through St. Francis’ Assisi, and continue.  

I reach the Persian lands. The winds blow without restraint, making musical sounds among the sand dunes. The sun is scorching me. I sit down.

In the distance I see a man in white approaching. When he is near, I ask him, “Sir, do you know where God is?” He seems to be a man of God.

He nods. He points to the wide waters by the desert. “Travel onwards. Go on and on and on till you find Him.”

I sketch a picture, nod in thanks, and accept what the man offers. With it I buy a boat and continue on my way, by sea.

On and on and on…. Three days pass. I begin to feel hungry. That evening, I seem to be alone in the whole wide world, with the circling horizon around me showing me nothing but water. After a while I see a speck. The speck becomes bigger. It’s on the east horizon. I paddle towards it. It becomes an island – quite a big one. Soon I reach the coast. I tie the boat to a pillar of limestone and with my knapsack I venture into the island.

The island is about four or five kilometres across. It’s covered with trees and bushes. In the middle of it all is a huge mountain. I head for it.

It takes about an hour to scale up to the top. I reach the top. It’s quite wide, 20 or 30 metres across. The centre is hemmed in by rock walls, so I can’t see the centre. I walk around the perimeter till I find an opening.

“No, that’s not going to happen,” a voice booms amiably. I hear the voice first, then I see God, in a corner of the little ‘room’ of rock. His back is turned to me. He turns to me and smiles. He has got a huge beard, friendly eyes and stands tall, a bit more than me. He is dressed in a white cloak. There is a shine about Him.

“Good evening, Jonathan!” He exclaims with a friendly laugh. His laugh captivates me – it’s infused with raw happiness. I smile back before I know it.

I enter into the mountaintop room. “But how do you know my name?” I ask, seating myself on a stone shelf, tired after the long walk.

God smiles. “Oh, I know.” His eyes sparkle bright with something a thousand times more explosive than what we fancifully label ‘love’. I have a hard time holding his gaze, but I can’t help but look again, like a boy who looks right at the Sun when he’s told not to do so.

I hesitate. Then I ask, “Are you God?”

He laughs. The booming echoes surround me, and caress my very soul. His happy laugh takes some time.

Then He looks right at me. “My boy,” He says, amused. “I’m all there ever is.”

I muster up all the courage I’ve got. “I’m from Switzerland – “

“I know.”

“I came to ask You something.”

“What is it you want, Jonathan?” He asks, sitting beside me.

“You know, the sunrise back there at my place isn’t like it used to be,” I began. I get bolder and everything comes at once. “Like, there isn’t that ‘other-worldly” touch to it, these days. Less of heaven in it, if You can see what I mean. Usually I get lost in sunrises, but the ones that’ve come round these couple of weeks are uninspiring…. They don’t captivate me like they used to.”

He nods. “I see.” He is silent for a while. He seems to be thinking.

“And so”, I continue. “I’d really appreciate it if You could lighten it up a bit.”

He looks at me for some time. Then He repeats. “No, that’s not going to happen.”

“Oh,” I merely say, taken aback. I must look crestfallen, because He pats me on the back and smiles affectionately at me. “But don’t feel sad about that,” He consoles.

He stands up, and ruffles my hair. “I’ll make the sun rise every day in your heart instead.”

I nod, feeling better. I get up too, and pick up my knapsack

“Here, get something to eat. You must be hungry,” He says, pointing at the shelf. I put some loaves and fish in my knapsack.

I give Him my hand. “Well, bye then. And thanks for everything.” I say.

He nods.

“Wait a moment,” He calls after me as I leave.

I come back.

He gives me a sheet of paper.

I sit there and start painting Him.

 

 

 

This Day

This day I hope you will blossom

Once more into life

And I wish you all the hopes and dreams

And aspirations that were, and ever will be

May you see through flimsy fears

To a solid faith in God - 

I wish you a bright present and future 

Zeal

The first deluding zeal walks to slumber

And your zest ends in an exercise in laziness.

You experiment with truth and deal out its versions

But there's no denying that you do the job,

And give us the roof we need over our heads - 

But the tiles are falling

There's a huge gap above us 

And the brooding clouds spit rain at us.

The next minister files in.

Will you fill the gap,

Or will you tear it all down?

A Shower of Blessings

With a shower of blessings upon you,

With roses strewn across your path,

With every coincidence becoming meaningful,

Fulfilling all the dreams you have harboured,

May you dance through this journey called Life

And blossom like a wildflower

In the hands of God

Phoenix

“Once upon a time in the cyberworld. That’s what I’m going to name my blog,” Nguyen Thi Phuong said to her friend, Huynh Minh Kim. They were at the writer’s club in the Ba Dinh district of Hanoi. There had been an informal meeting of the writers nearby, and now they were all dispersing.

 

Kim, a middle-aged blogger with sharp eyes, gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “At last! I guess all my bugging you about it was worth it. Now give up those poems, for goodness’ sake.”

 

Phuong laughed. Kim had been urging her for the last few months to write things that actually had something to do with the people around her. Which meant that he wanted her to speak up bravely for the truth.

 

But in a country like Vietnam, online censorship was intense and ruthless. One word against the government and you’d be in for up to five or ten years. The writers of Hanoi had seen whole generations of writers effectively silenced. There were bloggers and activists that had been in jail for even twenty years. You had to be die-hard brave to speak the truth. And being brave wasn’t necessarily easy.

 

But Kim was different. He didn’t care a fig for what they would do to him. He was a terrific blogger, posting new write-ups every day. Pretty much everyone knew that the authorities had an eye on him, because his writings wandered dangerously over the boundaries of what was allowed and what wasn’t. The last few months Kim had spoken against the unexplained attack against an activist in the Ba Dinh district. Last week he had gone all out and condemned the “inhumanity of the present regime against the artists of the day”.

 

“Get busy living or get busy dying,” was what Kim would say with a grin.

 

At last Phuong had decided to speak up as well. This evening she would start her blog. “Well, see you. And keep safe,” she said to Kim, and boarded her bus back home.

 

That was the last time she ever saw Kim.

 

At five o’ clock, one of their mutual friends, Hoang called her up agitatedly. “Phuong, they sent a group of thugs to attack Kim!”

 

Phuong’s gasped. “And?”

 

“They took him into a van and drove off. He’s probably in prison now.”

 

Phuong felt dizzy. She let this settle in her mind.

 

“Well, I don’t think we’ll see him again, will we?” Phuong asked.

 

“No, we won’t…” Hoang replied quietly.

 

Phuong hung up. Well now the fight was in her hands.

 

She went up to her laptop immediately, and started her new blog.

 

She was going to post at once.

 

It took her about two hours, but at last she had ready a stabbing essay of two thousand words condemning the attack against Kim. She titled it “This is Now: When Our Officials Become Thugs”, and sent it to all 270 of her contacts. She also shared it to her writer’s club WhatsApp group. There were two hundred writers in that. “Writers who would never stand up for the truth,” she whispered to herself angrily.

 

Two minutes later tens and then hundreds of messages swamped her WhatsApp. Hoang sent an angry voice message: “What on earth do you think you’re doing, you nitwit? They’ll have seen it by now! They’ll come for you.”

 

Phuong replied with a calm voice message. “I’m past caring. I’m all for the truth now.”

 

“They’ll beat you up just like they did with Kim, you idiot,” Hoang replied urgently. “Go hide somewhere….”

 

“Well, what doesn’t kill me is gonna make me stronger,” she replied with a quiet voice message.

 

She put her phone aside and flexed her paining hands. She began to type her next essay.

 

Ten minutes to ten, her doorbell rang. Phuong got up, trembling. She sent Hoang a voice message: “They’ve come for me, Hoang.”

 

Let the fight pass on into another writer’s hands, she thought to herself.

 

She stood before the locked door. The doorbell rang again. She drew her breath, and for some reason, she thought of her name.

 

Phuong.

 

It meant ‘phoenix’.

 

“Well, time for me to go down burning. Let the next phoenix rise from the ashes,” she whispered, and unlocked the door.