This poem was written for the trustees of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Pondicherry, India, and was given to them the only way correspondence can be, if you are not an ashramite or someone they know, by giving it in an envelope to Mr Puru at the photo room adjacent to the Samadhi, and whether or not he will pass it on is entirely up to him. The Samadhi is the tomb of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, where people come to sit, meditate, and pray, which is located at the ashram.

We met these tomfooleries.
Do you ever look at your own car?
Can you be a better sadhak in wood,
a better disciple of Sri Aurobindo?
I lunge there:
I spend my day in total concentration.
This is a farmer on my land.
I really till the soil.
The concentration comes and goes,
but it’s picked up time and time again.
It’s fits and starts,
all day long.

Can you be a better sadhak of Sri Aurobindo?
I’m burnin’ on that ground.
I clear my mind and find it’s there,
for few certain minutes.
Can we come back to this?
I always do.
I am disciple of Sri Aurobindo
that always hears words
my inner ear hears.
I write them down
through a voice recorder.
My God I’m a seer someone said.
No one’s said this yet.
I’m just this guy with wood,
if you see me on the street,
held by my little boy.

He’s white and I’m black,
as society sees us,
an easy lesson in symbols if you hear.
What color am I with him?
I am navy green.
That means he’s safe with me.
What a spectacle for a pair of eyes.
The racial mix’s intriguing,
on the bandwidth of ourself.
Don’t doctor this up.
We’ve got infinity going for us,
racin’ around,
a whole field show.
We do sadhana together.
I be his teacher.

He’s not cloven foot.
He stands on his sadhana too,
a kid in grace and poise.
Okay stand back.
Here’s where we differ.
Open the inner consciousness
child.
Reach in there and find soul.
Open up in vision God.
The Mother and Sri Aurobindo take those places so many times
in his dreams and visions,
and in his understanding of God.
A child’s understanding basks in time.
No matter,
they are his guides and goads.

He’s opened the inner consciousness,
and his poetry would map our Earth,
if we but could give it time to breathe.
School shoves it down his throat:
hey kid, study for your exams?
An exam is a holdover from the last institution:
caveman you gotta learn this mile;
it’s survival of the fittest.
My God the lists against this kid are strong.
It’s a wonder he’s even doing it,
bein’ a vehicle of the inner voice.
The inner lines are strong.

I know the doubt and fear cast on this.
You would only see
to know.
His latest poem I include
at the back of this email.
His latest voice I include.
We measure this
by the strength of his ego.
That’s not fair.
A little kid’s sense wrote this.

Now here we are sittin’
at the back of this ego.
And we mention the poet.
I’m in the poem you see.
Now listen to a story.
I’ve given my kid the voice recorder.
He might get a line.
We are at the opposite pole of the Samadhi from the crowd.
I’ve never sat there before.
I'm with my other student Mithun,
who hears inner music.
I don’t got no more students but them.

A band plays.
I hear the line “Ice cold Samadhi”
just given into my inner ear,
but my boy’s got the voice recorder occupied,
whisperin’ in two lines of his own:
“Rechargeable minds here,
Olympus.”
Here’s where it gets weird.
Someone not connected with the Samadhi watch,
not a staffer there,
or so I think not,
gets an eye on the voice recorder,
walkin’ by the mountain.
“Gimmie that.”
No polite words were spoken,
no considerations one,
no respect none.

It’s here you’re doin’ sadhana,
when somebody pops yah.
All the gold comes out.
I’m sorry to say none of mine did.
In the ensuing conversations
with this person and that,
I just defended myself,
and my boy there.
I did not do what I was supposed to do:
not react,
but I didn’t tell one person off.
I kept reaction out of my voice,
to the degree
anger and ill will
I didn’t let show.

This I was careful to do.
No one heard me.
No one said a word.
You know how this is gonna be reported:
that son of a bitch lied and stole.
You will believe your people,
of course,
but all things show themselves in time,
and no one will be able to lie then,
together or apart.

I’m left with a voice recorder
I’ve used there now many years.
I’ve written poems from that Samadhi,
framed one and gave it to yah,
“The Rotisserie of God”.
No one has ever copied me,
the reason I was told I couldn’t do it:
everyone will.
You think I’d of been discovered by now
if it were a ruckus,
but I can bring a pencil and paper if you insist.
That leaves me with gold
they will take from me there,
when I come to pray.
We will check you now every time.
You know when a threat’s spoken.
It’s the hatred in their eyes.
We will harass you every time you come here.
Can this not be what they really said?

Well Savitri asks for boons,
from the spectre death.
I’m not gonna ask for the blind to see.
I’m just a sadhak not Savitri,
but I hear you call my name,
and can I write poetry sir
on my voice recorder at the Samadhi?
Well, I’ll wait.
Now here’s the one I’m worried about.
Can I enter the ashram gates
without bein’ harassed?
I’ll bring pencil and paper sir,
until you tell me otherwise.
No hidden cameras to record my voice
I’ll wear.
Do we have a deal?

Trustee please,
are you spiritual?
This is a Samadhi question.
I live there
in my heart all the time.
I react, sure, but I’m there,
and I live in vision.
I see the world before my eyes
a thing under creation.
It’s being made right now.
I hear this in vision,
and you did too.
“Ice cold Samadhi” means
it was a frigid place
emotionally,
and where was this?
It was in the situation I described.
These men were ice cold,
no warmth at all in their voice
or in their eyes.
Immediately they rose to anger,
all riled upon themselves,
and I’d had prevision of this,
in that line of muse,
just before it started.

The world rose there,
before my very eyes,
and I only saw it after it was over.
Could help then?
Well it sure helps in our conversation.
I don’t think those men
gathered the future before it happened.
They were not focused and gathered.
All came to put that foreigner in his place,
like their reaction was natural the order of the day,
like they weren’t doing sadhana.
They acted like the inner voice had no place in Sri Aurobindo’s yoga.
It was wrong.

Can I tell you something else?
Well, my inner voice was right on.
I forgot to tell yah…
Some people say no
I just made a mess.
He wants to go over it look—
my muse on where I’ve been.
I’ve been to the moon and back,
if you’re listenin’ to muse,
and I’ve danced with the military
on tactical nukes,
a U.S. special forces commando.
I’ve been in the heart and breath stop in Silent Mind,
that hurried glance,
and I saw the Gods in their tiers in Overmind,
and on a rim of dreamless sleep,
dived into the well of soul.
Would you believe in overhead?
The consciousness raises up there,
like several meters,
and there you find Supermind.
Makes for a lot of poetry.
Brief glimpses all,
but I’ve seen what I’m sayin’.

I can go round about the world
a penniless vagabond—
27 countries in 10 years.
Do you have that faith?
I don’t think you even learned Classical Greek.
Translate Euripides into English verse,
and you’ll gather strength in poetry.
You also get good at it,
in time.
Took me 25 years,
even after I started hearin’ it.

Now can we define the future poetry?
The future’s got that in hand.
I don’t understand.
I’ve heard the future call my name,
and you won’t show this to anyone?
Paper airplanes
every poem I’ve made?
Make or break yah,
these are not conventional teeth.
Are you open to the divine?
Candywood
make or break yah,
what you hear on the internet today.

I’m sorry I took it up,
the internet speaker.
I get laughed at and lauded.
The latter’s not louder,
but they’ve gotta eat too,
the people on there for the breeze,
and I might be seen soon
by a pitchfork and a vital
that hate me so much I go viral.
Look there’s nothing in them,
the threats I face today.
The rotating officer
is not interested in me.
I’m not hurtin’ anybody.
I’m not doin’ anything wrong.
Now you’re starrin’ me,
at your look see.

Oh well,
do it to her face okay?
Get another bad piece from her.
You gave her a poem
that said she needed to work on it,
humanity’s tiger.
Do people really wanna act like that at the ashram?
A boy his hair,
that’s what he does.
I thought you’d notice
they walk silly.
Good idea,
I’m talking about
being human kind and loving
to all who enter your gates.

You’re gonna have to,
whadda you do?

Really buckle down and be good to people,
and her hair could be picked up too,
and she could focus and concentrate,
breakin’ along can reality period,
yeah, yeah.
Global,
I even ask you to global change.
Here it is you have a mirror.
There’s broad stroke said it.
There’s the yoga.
Everybody makes mistakes.
Would you offer this to the Mother?

Opening up kids,
I agree with you.
We don’t block them from society.
We fathom them God.
We don’t fathom them school.
And they become there,
on the journey to God
a society rose.
What do we hope by it?
We get bigger than ourselves.
His heart,
a little boy rises
his soul.
A little boy rises
I’ve been meanin’ to tell you.
The expectation’s not the kid.
It’s the consciousness.
What’s this mountain?
You wanna bring God into the world.

I tried to do a little explainin’
on boyness and the nature of man,
on bein’ human.
We are here for this.
We need all our strength.
Practice is another suite.
Send it sweet.
Did you get everybody put in this spirit?
It takes the world to make it up.
Blown up yeah.
We made it here,
in this section,
to the touch of a magazine.
Everything’s online,
and this will be too,
now or never.

Do you understand the flavor here?
That’s the flavor of change.
That’s the flavor of Harm’s End.
These are bunk beds,
and we live here,
grandfather
and his grandson
you keep hittin’ at.
Did I mention Douglas?
Puts together his life with the Mother.
A house is not complete without dogs,
and we have four.
They are the love of our life.

Our friend is on the roof,
Narasimha,
protecting my house
if you should try to take me down.
I don’t die.
A divine worker is protected.
This is what I’m aiming:
the life divine.
So much power,
you’ll have instructions.
May God bless you.

Your outer form was carried right.
We are not derelicts or sinners.
We are safe and sound.
I’m will
extra deep,
alright?
Okay,
you have been warned.
You don’t mess with divine protection,
but are you really mean-spirited?
Does the Mother cross your brow
if you should hate someone?
Okay your character’s on the table now.
May you wish blessings for all.
May you really hold the Mother’s hand.

I bear you no ill will.
I’m not in a campaign to smear your name.
I’m doin’ what I’m supposed to be doin’,
here writing you a poem,
now doing sadhana.
I’ve changed the ticker tape in his life,
that kid.
Am I glad
he met me with the divine.
I’ve met you that way.
That’s the story.
Oh wait a minute daddy I wanna fix my lunch,
one second.
A purity of kid rose,
a gracious cartoon.
Now let’s survive this
and become better friends.

You know it’s there,
the fact of your will or consciousness behind a lesson.
Okay,
noted.
Well it will transfer
that it was made by the foreigner.
Okay,
spit on ‘im.
I don’t think so.
Your thought process in relation to your thoughts,
and you pick them up randomly?
Now that’s got uncle and brother,
your bigger clothes,
without AI.
I’m here to help.

Paradise Things With Lyrics
by S. Nithish

Reach for peace,
but it’s a long jump away.
It’s One stairs.
Butterflies are our airplanes.
They’re peaceful and calm.
They can fly us to space.
From there we need to walk.

There’s a place for everybody in the world.
I did two steps:
let the Light be the guide;
my place is out of this world.
We all have something that we should pass on.
I do not have a turnoff button.

The ancient minds were better.
They left out clues for us.
They left out clues around the world.
We should always say thanks.
Stars were meant to be together.