Seshendra Visionary Poet of the Millennium
From word to century
Sitting on the banks of an afternoon a butterfly and myself were sipping the perfume of a flower. Sun had spread up to the heights of Oak trees. This is an ideal niche for a soul yearning for a place not trampled by human path. On the spur of that very movement I rushed into myself.
How few of us are left behind like the last rays of this setting century how much we have achieved, how lonely we are , If we were to write only our sorrows and sufferings how much ink would go waste The new century would not forgive us it would make us stand before the jury of history and enforce its sentence
Oh! When Life is being dragged, tied to this gigantic wheel we realise how helpless creatures we are
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| Seshendra’s Greek Portrait by famous Greek painter Paul Kouyioumtzis Athens, Greece: 1987 |
Waves of life ebb and flow deepening my loneliness, seasons of spring come, cuckoos sing times of years and silver my hair, take me back to the universe of formlessness.
The sun sliding in to river is an orb. shadow of sun breaks into pieces and washed away in the river waters. Shadows of even mountains and trees tremble in waters. Creation may feel that it is a stoic greatness but to the stream of river creation is disconcerted pieces
But every day sky lays a red egg called sun and rooster announces sun’s daily engagements.
Spending all his life
In only living the life
He is tired-
From the present he retired into history-
****
My thought
Like brilliant sun
Fell Upon the word
And its long shadow
Fell Upon the century-
Sun was playing
With the early morning flowers
And time was frightened at the
Sight of martyr.
***
One-twentieth century devotee
rang the temple bells
From a distance
I heard the old temple was coughing!
Its stones fell away
Here and there like teeth
Man is still in the temple
In quest of the super-human
To save him!
***
Those hands in the clock
Are not gymnasts in a circus
They are partners
In turning our life
Into time
The objects in creation
Have perhaps within them
Two turning hands
Which transform
Life into time
Dropping leaves
Flight of birds
Snow like moon
Melting away in the
Morning sky/skies
Are all but objects
Moving to join the procession
Towards horizons of time
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ETERNAL INVASION ON TIME
They are not folded faded paintings on the wooden cupboard
They are peeping at us through panes of centuries
The elegant men and women under the cool shades
Of huge trees, the flocks of sheep
Wandering over the slops
Like balls of pure wool
The flute of the shepherd elongated by
The lens of time
Those sprawling lawns
Over which space reclines
Setting mind in calm repose
Though before us
They are astronomical distances of light years
Away from us
They are surely tired and weather-beaten
In their everlasting journey
Those figures in colours
Those and those on stones and sounds
Are monsters of art let loose
On the omnivorous dinosaur of time
The hand of art
Is the womb of creation
And creation is eternal invasion on time
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