Into the summer pageantry, I go forth unfailed by noon, unhanded by time. My spirit’s lonely shell in diabetes lay, is fretting upon the Earth. I can’t seem to get lost here and forget the Infinite for whom my life’s pay. Golden bridals of dawn have lit the morn, and I suspect Earth shakes. I suspect I’m wrong. Too horrible creature for words I belch poems of fire.
I don’t know where my destiny lay. It’s deeper than me. I don’t know where I’m goin’, and I’m in a car upon the roads of time. I just sit there and wait, going forward, lifting up my voice to fate. I can’t catch my dreams. I don’t know where they’re taking me. I’m in an uncertain moment, labeled a monster of the wood by someone who gets away with it. My home I fled from. She’d put a gun to my head, nobody to help me but this old guitar on the lifebeats of time.
Will I wake up and understand the morrow? I don’t know what business there, and I can be crucified today. Oh foolish Sun, is so much wasted on thee? What am I doin’ it for? Why do I plot my life towards the Spirit’s call? It is within me and I do it that is all, and I’m frying in a frying pan, having melted my home for her, where she had all power. Where did God help?
I suddenly escaped, and great large forces prepared that, and people did help. Fine, fine, I’ll go. I’ll transcend time and climb out of time to see my Face once more. I wear him still, where I find him today a necessity, the greater being that I am, so close it’s a million miles away, a chariot on my moon. Stronger now I gather evidence.
You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. I just want to lay me down to sleep and be oblivion to all that encompasses me. I’m watchin’ the freeways turn to some other destination I can’t read. I can’t even see. I was born to put the incarnate in verse. I cannot count the cost I’m done. I am the uttered word taken apart by kingpins and pushed into the dirt. You see the history of this? Jezebel come forth. I am writing on the Sun.
Are you sure you’re led halfway? What rallies against your speech now? What blinded impulse urge did you do? You are innocent of her charges. Where do we get this out of here? There is nowhere where we haven’t drawn our horses. We are an envelope on our soul opening it. When I walked my soul I was in daylight. Love is the threatened of my feelin’ knowledge, the smushed of the prepared in my shield. I feel my stomach in it, all this mess. I spit it out my room. I’m not a devil. I’m not even a bad man. I’m certainly not raping my dog or about to blow up and kill the neighborhood or kidnap Nithish from India. Why would the cops take her seriously and come to my door and harass me?
I don’t understand this murder or the threat of jail for weeks afterwards, or that they might take my dog. This is ungodly. I didn’t commit a crime. I didn’t even do anything wrong. Where do this lead us? On the wrong road. We are not Bridal Falls, Minnesota. We’re Hell’s bells in this situation room Florida. Why would I suffer here? What’s the door? Poetry I let out. I called Trump out of office. I talked about infant orgasm I received, not condoning it nor encouraging it, and I didn’t let Christianity get away with it, putting people in Hell for all eternity, even most voters in the world, because they didn’t vote for Christ, and what about ICE? I’ve poetry’d against them, their murderous ways, their racist endeavor.
Okay you found me. I’m a poet you need shut up. I’m a poet you need out of town. Did you do that? You let it happen. No one came to my aid, except who I’d reached through friendship, and they are great on that, but we’d shared life together, and we’ve been in the presence of each other’s eyes soft and warm. They came in and helped, put me on the road again and a place to go to, and they’re ground guiding me in. I discovered reef, what the fishes know. It provides for me.
Okay now where is your soft and warm, your care and concern? Where do you hold freedom as a value you prize? Is anybody listenin’? You know what happened to me? Can you understand this in America? Poetry got me in trouble with the law. Nothing illegal I wrote. Someone took my poetry to the police and alarmed them with the accusations I’ve mentioned, no evidence provided, no evidence needed. This woman had power. She wanted me removed and did it.
What do you say to that? Do that for lunch, crap all over somebody, show them to be a monster, try to remove them from society, because they’d written poetry that offended you. The patriotism of this lady would turn your head, her salute the flag, but isn’t this typical of Americans nationalistic to the core? They will take your freedom away from you if they don’t agree with it. They will burn the Constitution, if you’re protected by it, and they don’t want you to be.
I’m still tryin’ at your door. Who does a poet talk to anyway? Who does he appeal to, the lawyer who wants ten thousand dollars just to investigate this case, the civil liberties union, who won’t even answer your email, the legal aid society, who won’t give you a dime, if the matter here is crime? You’re a warped society. No protections for someone such as me, who has no special name among you, who is not rich and doesn’t need one, who’s not a member of a minority. I did not carry a gun to a protest. I did not hit a policeman with my car, even a little bit. I wrote poetry and got in trouble for it, and you only give those murdered people credit to get protection from law enforcement, from cops carrying guns who unfailingly use them to murder citizens. What about a living poet? What about the rule of law that should in theory protect him?
Do you know what’s happened here? You think it’s dictators. It’s your worst nightmare made real. It’s your apathy and compliance to the mass enslavement of people to the cruelty of the machine. Another man taken down, so what? Do you hear me people? So removable, the awakening of the crowd. Storm Heaven with the right to be not a Christian. I think you like this speaker. He’s American. You told me something. Put on the vote get power out of office that’s goin’ down these lanes, where even art and poetry is in danger, or even freedom of expression they take from you now.
Am I a flywheel? I am the culling house today of let’s make this real simple. We’re lookin’ for a depository where instances of fascism can be recorded and set up criteria for the legitimacy of that reporting, a national hotline, an email you can tell, a national depository. You’re online, and we can review these cases ourselves, see them grow. You know, we’d get somewhere. We’d see it happenin’. We’d know it’s there.
On Old Galveston Road, or just down the lane, I rose up into Wonder’s sphere. My seat of consciousness came out the top of my head several meters into a whole other plane of existence, the larger I that I am beyond this sphere of lives. It’s conscious and it’s free. Several seconds I sat there. Then went back down to myself driving the truck. So, I know it’s up there above everyone, a being so unimaginable, it is the divine self of you above, the divine self of everybody, individually sphered, is the innumerable self above. It is one being one in all. Yeah, I ride that the poetry I write.
I have breached the spheres, and I know this is all bullshit, this whole damn ride we have down here, but it’s not an illusion. Nor it’s a lark. We change it one combustion at a time, until the Glorious comes down here to work more often than it does now, the Being that surrounds the universe with its gaze. Of course I’ll be persecuted. Of course Jezebel will hunt me. Of course these things happen. I’m on it. I’m right here describing it to you, fillin’ the details in with know whodunit.
Left lane ends one mile. This breach in the reality of the universe, the reality I’ve described to you that is the sole heart of this one, will be addressed and repaired not long from now. Can you get that? I will not be persecuted much longer by these people. I have some poetry to write. First thing I need protection. No, I’m talkin’ in a space that can't do that? Careful, you might lose your own freedoms in your notebook.
Tryin’ to humanize the experience. I’m tryin’ to show it to yah. It started when I lost my job for poetry months ago. Before that in India I got kicked out for writing poetry, separated from my family. I think you think it’s okay there, but has America lost democracy too? What are we tryin’ here? The way of the world. Do you know what engines are about, the directions of population control, the implements in place for that? No, I’m not talking gruesome they kill you there in mass droves. The everyday means of livin’ are being turned into a cattle bin. It exceeds any report about it. Look at your phone. Look at all the control devices. Look at the rules and regulations to even open a bank account, to rent an apartment, to put vehicles in the street, to go to the doctor. How hard is it to get a job, and what do all the questions ask you? Are you friends with the machine?
Everyday liberties are being taken from us, and it is as though they never were. This is insane, the normal people operating in society rule checks the automaton, is a pipe in a machine that pipes to no thing that eases its desolation, is a calling card to the Man to check the citizen's every move. We are becoming unmanageable as isolated freedoms. We’re too expensive to just let loose. We must be bound and carded. We must toe the line. We must do all this and merely say it’s fine. Dissidence is becoming too dangerous to harbor. You report dissidence to the police. That’s what happened to me. That’s what’s goin’ on now.
We’ll see yah tomorrow mornin’ chicken noodles into a fight. Are you gonna fare me? I’m not gonna shut up. Leave us alone. Take down my playbill, you can see they’re experienced today. Everything’s written around that. I was there in a Haight-Ashbury’s shoes yoga year. And to think that you’d become on the ground of being, often on the road, a vehicle for God’s registry to put his voice, a lone weaver of the hour of God, and what do you do for a livin’? What cycle do you wanna take? The song of poetry, my voice lifted high to the sky, my words reverberating on earth matter.
Is this a dream? It is thy wild wood. It is thy heart’s desire to thee. It’s where we go from here. It’s the stadium we pass now. It’s yours for the beholdin’ kin. I can do that. I can land on your word the vehicle of my speech. I can land yours in mind and plant mine on your feet, so the heart shall know love crude as a peacock has glistened his moons today, has arrived with liquid voice to show you the Sun’s risin’ ways.
I am a purple heart, and I dance on you now the purple pageantry of love putting hate in its place out of bridal dawn. Fine, I’ll grip your heart today. Will you dance on me now love’s pageantry today, love’s high noon? I’m the alien to all your notions of time, to what you view as the larger picture, to any answer that you’ve come up with to our state, because I’ve seen what I know, experienced it firsthand, and no amount of convincing me otherwise will prove it to me that I didn’t. This is my livin’ faith. This is what I hold in my hand. This is the knowledge that parts the stars.
Fine, I’ll be your bended wood, the poet you won’t give that title to, the one who stands here and sings like I’m in a vacuum. I know I know who I am. Gonna pull over somewhere and realize I am you. This is the knowledge that welds together the stars. It’s all I really ask from you, the empathy of that name, the identity that helps. We’re in the zone now I reach all the way to the public. We will see if you care. We will see if you know the difference between love and hate.
That’s what you guys for, to engender freedom and our care for one another. Corona’s the last time I saw you just shoveled aside for. Herd you away from the freedom we need to breathe almost everything in society now. Somethin’ is not right in our day to day ritual. I have the field glasses to see that. I have the equipment. Wrong kind of recipe you put under freedom. I gotta tell you somethin'. You’re makin’ some big mistake puttin’ poetry in the corner.
Now you can play off of my poems that I give you. I’m givin’ you poetry, and you’ve completely forgotten we manage by it freedom and help to wipe out hate and to be a true language model. What is this world? I’m late. We’re supposed to manage this world a better friend to everyone. Why on earth would you not agree? Why on earth would you fail here? That’s for poetry to answer, and I have. That’s the start of you wiping it out our rise to the occasion you take a poet and shoot ‘im or take his freedom.
Run up to see what you’re sayin’— the freedom loving individual. You’ve done it before. Remember your Walt Whitman? I fly my seat upon the roads of time. He axed; he falls more gravity than I can bear. I just look you back here, all that’s gathered back there and start doberman. Readers pipe in. I mean you gotta go down something like this don’t look at it all— Mrs. Mean Date in the earlier walking. Another purple heart. The first two, they will blasphemy.
Somebody spittin’ you and you go right down there: just as I am I cross thresholds. I try to be myself all the time. I don’t exaggerate my being. I want you to see me as me, and we identify with each other from there, from that bake, a humanity seeing, a humanity start. We’ve got to stop this revolution that puts us all as automatons at the hands of society, that takes our lives away, and they become the machine, that puts us at odds with each other so we change our core being, and you are not my brother, my neighbor; you’re a stranger we can do away with when society says that. We want to stop the revolution of ourselves turning into a mass of product. Can you realize that far? Please, come with me.
This is one of the poems that got me fired from my job at the Greater Fort Myers Beach Chamber of Commerce. The president, who fired me, told Douglas, who also works there, that board members and others were sending her excerpts of things I’d “penned”, claiming I was making fun of them.
If you are reading this poem on a phone, note that the integrity of the lines, a major feature of poetry, is not displayed properly. Many if not most get cut short because of the small screen.
Under Fire Lake with the hatred that rules society. I’m on a mountain. Each new tap on the shoulder crosses worlds Snoopy rides, but I’m into the fire large out on the floor from all the spiritual dawns. You hear the spiritual advice at the Roxie? Knock it off. I’m a tourist information booth.
Everybody has left the United States. We are beached on a poem. There’s nowhere to turn. I’ve fucked up. I’ve called poetry in on its job. I can’t even show you the poem. You’d fight me for it. Guaranteed I’d lose my job, and I’d be homeless again.
What’s these great stakes? Snowball, we’d watch it rise downhill, until my boss heard about it, our not allow four dogs landlord. Can I call them on it? I can describe their preferences that would reach the limit at this poem. How much help they’ve given me would end there.
What I am sayin’? I’ve got a poem to knock your socks off, but you don’t want to read it if you’re a normal American fanfare, if you reach deep in your pocketbooks to exploit people, if you make hell the end of the game for non-Jesus people.
Can I get away with murder? I have to be careful what I say. I can’t open my mouth in poetry. I wanna see my dogs, and I wanna live again. Can you blame me for self-censorship? This isn’t fair. I suffer.
I do not understand capitalism. It won’t accept another way of life that makes sacrifice a way of life, sacrifice for your brother and sister in life, sacrifice to the better in you. We’re beached on whale, and even communism beaches there and our church’s regard.
Come on Sacrifice Capitalism, the laissez faire don’t believe in, can we change the world there? I have a hunch. Before profits we ask need, what’s best for the community, and can we have humanity please considered too? Can we grand the whole world in business decisions so that animals matter and the breath of our life trees, what about for our island Fort Myers Beach?
Sacrifice Capitalism ladies and gentlemen. Work out the details school children in role play, every business leader. The profits take a backseat to need. Can we get there?
Not even to a poem I cannot show you because you would not let me do it, be a poet on live, talk about the weather, and political Christians control the weather that bursts apart in our minds, and money rules the show.
I can’t spit out the juice. I’m not exactly at fault. Do you believe in poetry? It’s just somethin’ to report to your superiors? Now I need everybody to take a deep breath. Is this paper weight? A ninny of a poem, a filler for time shares. Wanna see the real thing? Wanna see it? You do? Do you thirst for it?
I’m on a bank of the Lord deliverin’ the paper. A big decision, and I’m not safe. Ask you another question. Glory did somethin’? Whoa my poem just went in the air. It’s gonna take some doin’ I rush this right through. I’m 33-years-old, givin’ out a lot of free material. They killed him. Damn, you got your hands on me. Do you get me my poetry constituents?
Fire in the yard, I’m gonna put some poetry someplace else, a whole nuther anthem from here. I don’t trust you. You’ll kick me out for poetry. You won’t even give me a chance to bring my dogs to town my poetry has made you so mad.
This is the price you pay for poetry. They take from you what you love. They make you know you must comply in the bowels of the truth and keep your poem from the public mind that would change minds.
“Faiths Are Only a Doubt”, or whatever title it bears, the poem I’m waiting for to set the record straight, is blowin’ in the wind. Can you capitalism that? Can capitalism show that?
We have that place where, yep, you need to turn on that character light. I would say he does not deserve the title respect call him. Thank you sadhak. Nat started a story. It was obscenity of being, the crazy what’s up nails trauma a bunch of us go through. Are we on your calendar?
You’re nice and pretty. Does that mean you’re good in the sense of good to all of us? We’ve got a world here in a tin can. It hurts everybody. You would not like a story that makes you mean. Is that transformative?
Watch movies that’s all you see, a blight of entertainment “televised from the gulfs of Night” [from Savitri, an epic poem by Sri Aurobindo] that tells stories to pit you against one another, to make your blood boil, to let the demons in.
There isn’t a place on the planet it’s not on your local TV. This is what we’ve gotta get out of, get back to our dream maker as the one we watch and write. Is that a perverted slam?
You would boil at the inner consciousness because it pits you against your morality papers: don’t say cuss words; don’t mention sex; don’t talk about getting your dick sucked when you were five by your mother. What have I just done?
I let the inner consciousness in in language that grabs you and moves you, that has the day on it, that gives you a porn whereabouts so many faces are into these days. It hits you where you’re at if you can’t tell right from wrong, if you’re lost in all this sleaze. We’re tryin’ to reach people not preach to them.
A dream comes out from someone who suffered this in the language that it felt like, and the elect can’t take it because they don’t know how to deal with it. They’re into quotes of Sri Aurobindo and pictures of deity. They look at spirituality as the cure and not addressin’ what’s wrong in the language that needs to.
Everybody just be nice. Make your concentration daily and let no wrong movements in. Be cheerful and happy. There’s no end to the advice in spiritual seeking. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty of life. Let’s use those quotes to solve problems. The Mother and Sri Aurobindo are a wealth of that, applied in ways you haven’t imagined yet, because you’re religious and one-sided.
We need to heal, so many of us. You can’t imagine what it’s like where hell has opened in humanity. This is all over the globe, terrible stories that’ll make you cry if you had your empathy on.
We need to heal the world first, then spiritualize it, and spirituality will be healing, because that’s what it’s made for, if it’s the soul involved. You don’t know this. Soul healing’s to you a preacher wrote. It’s not test the limits of humanity in making healing the order of the day. This soul is wide and free. You don’t know that either.
You look at the Gods of Overmind, the lowest rung. They’re moral and straight. They have seen God in passing one time maybe. They are closest to us in the ways of deity. They make rules and regulations, put experiments on vice and get rid if it not heal it. Our whole world is taken by Them. It’s what we need to change and bring a new order upon the Earth, soul healing in the dynamics of Supermind.
You don’t know how wide God is, when it comes to the personal growth process of wholeness and healing. / That’s been my path all along, and it’s gotten acute where I show it to you, all Sri Aurobindo’d. What else can I do? I’m his disciple and a seer of his wisdom, and I’ve been told to talk to you.
I’ve spent 25 years learin’ my craft, a lifetime before that as a poet. You can’t fault me in preparation, all prepared for yah. Grab me by the balls will yah and throw me to policemen, or at least try to shut me up? God’s will be done.
One editorial board member, Dr. Alok Pandey, who is listed as a “Member, Research Advisory Council, Sri Aurobindo Society,” replied to my emails, three times, the first: “May Her Grace be with you,” her meaning the Mother, the second: “What is tormenting your soul so much dear child?” and the third: “You are quite right. You seem to be an angry and arrogant brash revolting angel. I don’t find your poetry tasteful or even poetry. It is a blurting out of things stirring in your subconscious, not mind nor higher, but inframental forces. That’s my view about your poetry. By the way I am not part of any organization nor have any access to publishing poetries so you could perhaps try some other place or person. Good luck. May the Grace be with you.” No one else on the board or in that organization has replied.
That’s why what I can get on the television is behind your imagination,/ you’re too fat. What’s that? It’s a soft glow. You’re wrapped around the axle of society eating everything you can get your hands on, entertainment spook outs, song after song after song, the news minute, and bubbles and bubbles of internet stuff, and books that make you mean.
You can’t get away from society in your newspaper. What’s that supposed to mean? You suck society’s dick a porn hub. I’ve just offended half the nation. The other half’s asleep. Why can’t I suck dick on television?
I’m using figures of speech to show our involvement with society. I just got censored out of society, but can I employ you in your mule, weave together a story using pockets of molten lava? I’m tryin’ to get yah riled up. I want to show you you’re pasted by society.
Would Sri Aurobindo say that? I think he would allow inspiration to come and not worry about sensibilities. He would not future poetry to make it stand a language model that forgets our garbage stuff. He would future poetry.
I want you offended. I want to show you what you’re made of. That’s not squeaky clean. It’s all over the place. If I took you into the Silence, you would want to come back. You do not know the spiritual consciousness. You think it’s a morality speaker, a set of rules you follow to get there.
A whole other world arrives when spirituality arrives. I don’t think you saw that yet. You’re a radical revolutionary if you’ve taken off ego a moment. I have never been there permanently, so I can’t say there. Did you think Sri Aurobindo was like your local priest?
I want you to examine yourself in the light of society. It’s mean it sucks, and it will throw you to the wolves if you just can’t make it fit right, your will with what society says no. Say you molest children— I’m going to marry a millionaire. Oh my God you’ve processed God, and you no longer molest children.
You can love a child now like it’s God lookin’ at yah, and you love that child. The formula’s in the Bhagavad Gita; you just don’t hear it, or you think it can’t be done. Fuck a child, and society will never let you in again. I’m boilin’ your paper right now. I wanna show you how small you are when it comes to the big stuff. You just morally react.
You don’t know how to do it, heal a person from society’s ways. It’s society that fucks children; I guarantee it. What’s the softball today? We learn to love each other, even those you hate. If I can’t accomplish love, I can at least accomplish understanding. That mother beats my child, and she’s raped him from me. I could take a stick and beat her myself, but that would just make her meaner. I understand her jealousy and her lack of control. I just sit with it.
I’m rescuin’ my boy. You hear it done special in our media. I’m gonna see him safe, and I’m gonna bring him back to papa. That’s my name on his lips. He calls me daddy. We have a room for him in a whole new place. This is spiritual journey, in the air of spiritual journey, where that boy’s no longer in Pondicherry, so that boy’s ocean will work. Grab you guys in a manner of minutes, and anyway, I’m makin’ sure the roads are prepared for him.
I was gonna give this poem to who would’ve thought it, but for now let it sit on this Facebook page. Those of us who would change society have to live under its auspices. Society would rather kill than change. It’s acquired a life of its own apart from the individual. It’s got great steed on it, but we’ve reached the end of its present rope with us. The world will be destroyed before society changes; I mean it’s bragged about that, if you can hear the writing on the wall.
How do I know all this? I’ve been from one end of society to the other, from the mountain to the monster, and I’ve grown bigger than society makin’ that monster climb to the mountaintop and seein’ God from there. The monster changes his panties and grabs society by the horns so that society can see itself for the monster that it is. I’m no more monster.
Can you ride with me? I have some beef to show you. Holy cow, let somebody eat beef, if they’re just tired of the same old fare, what doesn’t take you rocket launch, what keeps you in the bounds of society, what goes no deeper than a three dimensional world bound to love its aunties and the open vigilante.
Am I chargin’ wool? Hey man, are you mediocracy? I sucked the wrong dick. You are basically a big person. A big person, you are God unawares; you are the look of the Lord when He forgets Himself. Let’s all dance to this tune: hey God, wake up.
See yah on Sunday, on Saturday, in your religious house of worship. It just kills the kids doesn’t it? They know there’s more to God than that. They know there’s Everlasting, but you’ll just slap them around if you find out this thing has to do with naked and not with their school books.
I’ve been the danger a kid faces at midnight, and my God watch it grow, their Shazam. They know there’s more than little TV, and I’m not talkin’ about the sex stuff. They know they can get beyond this movie, that God is bigger than Her lists, and don’t just stand there; do somethin’.
It’s put up here hangover on that third eye. You’re just gonna have to get your shit together. I’m compound joy. There is actually a petting session over here. Nithish called. Everything’s fine. I will see my little boy soon.
We’re all at a movie. It’s packed. Saw the hall were you there? Every divine minute the time it took to free me. No, you were there willingly and cooperatively, and you woke up with a bang; it hurt too much, just like the Buddha said. We just don’t put illusion on everything, because God’s there the hunt.
Wanna see? See past your nose blockade. Make you feel the situation, make you feel the heartbeat, make you get out of yourself, river find out the apocalypse, if you don’t hum the right tune. That’s in our field today.
See that little boy? He’s weathered the storm. I’m not just gonna leave ‘im there. I’m gonna bring ‘im home. I’m gonna open up where God dwells. Wanna see me do it? I know how.
Alright people, listen up. The Earth song, do you just cram society? These are open bars. Come on Grace, let’s go pee pee. We can’t send her out alone. That little Beagle’s still a puppy. I gave ‘er more than the rat race. Come on let’s go to your human, darling, and I took myself to divinity. You comin’?
Society rose, what’s the historia? It’s wide open, every means to God to get there, even through the snake. You just stop biting people, even through the murderer and rapist. Now that I can put this in literal terms, so can your doctor. I be doc.
Listen up, let’s start from the beginning. Dicks out. No, you don’t go out. The boy’s offended by the balls. That boy’s offended by the power of some certain dirty thing even mentioned in a poem. Take it off the neck. No, I don’t wanna get yah to do it. Can’t heal it ‘less you hear it, and that’s in the meat grinder, a poem so everybody can get off, a poem so everybody heals from this disaster we propagate as society.
That boy got offended, that readership. I won’t say fuck you God no. I’ll see yah when you’re open again, after death, or this poem will. It’s got strings on it that pull you along where this poet meets the world.
There’s a response. There’s a regular response. Can you feel it? It’s on the way home. You’re bigger than mountains, and you don’t have to be bothered by anyone or what they say. This is a test of your truth speaker. Can you get past this test? All we are saying is give peace a chance. [above line heard sung by Plastic Ono Band] Truth can be known that doesn’t betray yah. Get back in there tenderfoot. I think my muse is talking to me. Goddamn, there’s just no end to the beginning.
This poem was written for the Facebook page Teachings of Mother and Sri Aurobindo – Discussion forum, but I’ve tried to post it twice, and each time it’s been deleted automatically upon posting, and so I submitted it to a member of that group called Renaissance, an arm of the Sri Aurobindo Society that is doing a feature on the purpose of art. In their series, there’s an essay by Nolini Kanta Gupta, arguably Sri Aurobino’s main disciple. Ignore the introduction by the Renaissance team and just skip to the essay: “The Obscene and the Ugly – Form and Essence“. It will add flavor and standing to my poem in the light of the the Integral Yoga.
This is Nitish’s new video for his YouTube Channel
Nitish wrote this song himself, while in school. Sitting in class, the core of the song and its basic melody came to him via the inner voice in the space of several minutes. He heard the lines sung to him on the inside, and he copied them down one by one, a process he’s watch me do since he was very small in the writing of poetry. Then, over the course of the next two weeks, as I put the song to the guitar, both he and I heard lines of the song sung to us on the inside, my muse giving the last 2 lines of the 3rd verse and the last 5 lines of the song, the repeats not included.
You may not grasp the significance of an 11-year-old having this kind of ability and talent, or that of his inner self speaking its truth. Heretofore he’s only written lines of poetry via the inner voice, and this is his first song. And, despite him not being able to carry a tune to save his life, it’s a song so you might listen to him this time, this video, as it seems you only really like music videos.
This minor miracle is a soul rescue. The boy was once again on the verge of tears at school, because he’s unable to keep up academically because of undiagnosed dyslexia, but at least at this school he’s not being beaten for it, as has happened in the past, trauma that surfaces very easily. His soul is not telling him he’s a victim, however. It’s letting him tell how he feels, but, it’s telling him not to run from his challenges. It’s interesting that it’s not telling him to do good in school but to shine in his room, your room in dream and vision a symbol for your own personal room in the house of humanity, your individuality, your personal consciousness, the body included, distinct from others but an integral part of the whole. We need parents, teachers, religions, organizations, big business, and governments to respect the sanctity of our room.
You might understand that the sudden attention to the song and the making of this video concentrated him on a difficult task, not to mention the awesomeness of having your inner self sing you such a song and all the faith in the divine that brings—like God really cares—drawing his attention away from his suffering and his ‘woe is me’ attitude, and it’s also helped him to cope at school, and now he’s doing a little better academically, but he wants me to home school him, something I very much want to do because it’s my job with him to teach him the craft of the poet-seer, my craft, and tell me the Tamil people and the world does not need another poet of that force and stature. Here are some recent lines of his inner poetry:
ஒலைய வெட்றது மட்டும் தான் நம்ப வேல, ஒலைய கட்டுறது கடவுலோடய வேல. [Translation: Don’t believe just the sound. Building a sound is a divine task.]
I wasn’t born to be my parent’s child. I was born to be the universe’s child. You will express trauma.
Sometimes you can bend life.
God’s gift.
He’s wearing a ghost costume and a makeshift burka as a means of protest. It’s an artistic representation of the social position of children. Their voice is not respected or even heard, and they are not looked at as real people but only as someone to indulge, protect, and care for. Adults speak for them and tell them what they should think and how they should feel. They have no right to be an individual. They must obey the adults in their life, and they must go to school. If they protest, they’re threatened with punishment. It’s as though they themself, their personhood, is a ghost because it’s not seen or recognized.
The costume is also a creative symbol of the attitude in society of restricting the images of children in the public sphere of the internet, speaking of images that are not pornographic in nature. It’s as though we’re putting burkas on them in our attitude and, increasingly, in our policies. Specifically, we are protesting YouTube recently taking down a video, “Nitish 9 to 10”, a video that features photos and videos of him around the house and outside. In some of the indoor shots he’s in his underwear. There are no nude shots, no shots to suggest anything sexual. No strike was given for the video. As time goes on, YouTube is restricting content more and more, and what was okay before suddenly isn’t now. We would like YouTube to reinstate the video or at least give it back, as we don’t have a copy of it, and it’s an important record of his childhood.
(Note: from July 2016 to December 2016, I posted seer poems on Facebook written specifically for our educational page Harm’s End. I know FB was aware of the posting at the time, because some poems were boosted and had to go through Facebook’s review process, with one being rejected, one about the prophet Mohammad, although FB did not take it down or flag it in any way. On August 4, 2020, I copied all the poems, along with their images, to my computer, and a day later a poem from 2016 was taken down for violating their community standards, showing me my activity was being closely monitored by FB. I then deleted any image I thought FB might object to, unaware that an image of Hitler is now flagged by FB as a matter of course. That it is now but wasn’t in 2016 reflects a growing trend of censorship on the net. It won’t be long before anything that seriously questions the generally accepted reality construct or tires to introduce things that construct isn’t seeing and doesn’t want to will be banned from the major social media platforms and taken as far as possible out of the public eye. In other words, the net will become like TV.
This poem along with this image was posted on FB September 10, 2016. It was flagged August 15, 2020, but not taken down, citing it violated their community standards, and I edited it the following day, adding material in brackets within the poem that explain the poetry, to make it clear I wasn’t violating their community standards. Within 10 minutes after editing it, our page Harm’s End was unpublished. Although this poem fits into a poetic conversation on my FB feed and is out of context to post here by itself, I’m posting it here to protest the censorship of art and poetry on Facebook and on the net in general, in this case, poetry whose purpose it is to heal, not harm, however controversial it may be.)
Executive order.
Anyway she just surprised me.
Hitler, the 1st letters of incest,
rape.
It started World War II.
Half the money
the gate come open.
What come out?
I know it,
the material,
the material of war,
the material of concrete war.
Incest gun,
check it out.
That’s not a gift.
It’s an orgasm
your mom gives ya,
or your dad,
an adult in the family.
The house owner
outside of somethin’.
It’s American.
We know it’s German.
It’s also England,
all countries,
just a story on it
broken.
You wouldn’t hit everybaby,
enough to organize
the required material.
Is that war?
You said it baby.
It’s German
under the feet.
That means it’s right there:
kill ‘em,
thousands gas.
Bring them on the table
but be careful.
Daddy was good wasn’t he
or mommy special?
We do this in an orderly fashion.
Got that right.
Just line ‘em up
and shoot ‘em,
terrible.
I’m gonna
keep comin’.
What’s this?
An orderly compound,
an orderly room.
Procedure, procedure?
And we built the gas chambers,
and we built
orgasm.
Give that kid
trouble,
not between his legs,
not
now,
not now.
Look out the window.
Go to the door.
It needs an umbrella:
the night of the generals.
They have a very detailed IQ.
THEY.
People are bad.
Not everybody.
He doesn’t like,
he has a very knowledgeable
presence with Jews.
Art school,
they wouldn’t let ‘im in.
Art college,
they wouldn’t let him in now.
Okay make them unworthy,
lump them with all the undesirables,
society’s degenerates,
but blame them for everything.
They are the masterminds
of all that’s wrong with the world,
of all that’s wrong with our country.
[understand the poetry: those are Hitler’s views, not the poet’s.]
Fell down –
see a war,
a war,
a world war:
give to me
my mountain.
You have to understand
orgasm.
It changes war.
It’s a blitzkrieg
of physical pleasure
on an I unformed.
One second.
There’s an I.
Is there
more like the animal I.
Is that me?
That building centerfold
the earth
is removed from the scene.
I’m a baked chump,
burn in a holocaust of pleasure.
Understand
repeated action,
all this mess over time.
It has a tendency
to rob you of pleasure,
organize your role
an antenna
to try and get things in order,
down
if you know what I mean,
not up in the sky.
Look at
the nice uniforms,
the insignia,
the roll of tanks.
You’ve been robbed you see,
and that damage,
and you in ego formation,
and God did it,
your parent.
Any questions Paramount?
That’s it.
(There is, it should be understood, a personal interpretation to this poem throughout, since, in truly inspired art, in seer poetry especially, it’s at bottom, however remotely, also about the artist. In this light, the verse about Hitler being rejected from art college and subsequently scapegoating all Jews because of that can also be interpreted to be about the refusal of my entire society, Jews, non-Jews, everybody, to let me into the art of the day, but the personal interpretation isn’t tit for tat with the poem, as it just lights upon it here and there. If you want to know how the personal interpretation applies to the main subject of the poem, infant orgasm, read this comment I posted on Medium before my Medium account is also suspended, because I color outside the lines.
If you want to know the occult truth behind Hitler, read the book The Light That Shone Into the Dark Abyss by Maggi Lidchi-Grassi, 1994, Sri Aurobindo Ashram Press (not available to read online). Facebook, which almost a third of the world’s population uses, has such an unwarranted and inequitable influence over the knowledge that we pass around, and it (like not only the other online mega-businesses, but also the major news outlets and the great majority of the entertainment industry I might add) is in its core beliefs reductionist materialist, however many employees it has that doesn’t hold those beliefs. If that’s not enough, it’s in it for profit, and if Facebook encounters material that makes people feel uncomfortable, a loss of profit steps in and makes the decision, and even if it doesn’t violate its policies, FB will simply ban it. Now, the truth of us, the good, the bad, and the ugly, it might hurt to hear it, you know?
Is the human matter finished? I mean, is there anything more to discover about us other than the fundamental beliefs that we’ve built human society upon, and those are that we are individual human islands expendable to the sea of humanity and inconsequential compared to it, islands possessing an absolute freewill and a consciousness that doesn’t extend beyond the island that we each are, and, in the intrinsic ground of who we are, we are nothing more than that island? Here we are at the cutting edge of humanity. This is the denied knowledge trying to gain entry: there is more to discover about us, and we are more than that.
I’ll end with an analogy to put the subject matter of this poem into a context that will make what I’m attempting here more apparent:
“This thing no one ever talks about before, and when we are the first ones to talk about it, there are a lot of people that think this thing shouldn’t be touched, this thing is you know, sacred, and the people that think you are going too far, and all of these people are going to undermine our movement, for sure.” Quote from a Thai protester in Bangkok speaking to a BBC reporting about protesters questioning the power of the Thai monarchy. Source: BBC video “Thai protests: Thousands join rally in Bangkok”, 17 Aug 2020.)
Harm's End 