Murli R

Poetry — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #36

A pivot of all my stumblings
Upon Thy spirit’s pedestal stands erect:
Not just great timber or polished edifice,
But a firm ground of Thy marvellous spirit.

All Thy works into me pour and relish,
Like dreams cast into a waking hour of Thy bliss.

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #35

All Inspiration comes from Thee,
Words draped in gold, silver and purple:
All Speech Thy gift unto me;
Out of Thy silence I joyously babble.

My heart is Thine, my body Thy temple;
Am a bright scribe of Thy impetuous will.

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Poetry — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #34

A conspiracy of Thee am aware of,
Of Thy plans to scuttle my earthly bed;
All comforts plucked away, all my grief
Too, yet remains a gesture of Thy dazzling light.

I am stripped bare and nude
And through my skin pass Thy deathless air:
I breathe now Thy vaster delight
And in my marrow feel Thy hurricane-pressure.

O what night can scare my stride
Into Thy denser light and truth
Or what pain fierce can defeat
My dreams of Thy joy and mirth?

Though bruised and beaten, I stand still
Upon the pedestal of Thy secret puissance.
All Thy heavens into me descend and dwell,
As I plunge deeper into this unholy Inconscience.

O Lord, if Thy conspiracies save and deliver,
So be it, so be it, my beloved Sire!

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Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #33

My enamoured thought is Thou,
Leaping out of a sacred fire
Into joy and mirth of Thy love,
As if a child reaching for its beloved Mother.

My impassioned heart is Thy temple,
Built of Thy own edifice lent out:
It is marbled and rubied of Thy smile,
A rapture-sanctum of Thy ineffable light.

My body is Thy playground,
A battlefield of many woes,
But in it Thy dreams wander bare and nude,
As all my battle and struggle melt in Thy bliss.

O Lord, my whole self is Thou;
I am Thy embodied infinity in Matter’s deep marrow.

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #32

A twisted brain imagined
Its brilliance was almighty God;
When body coughed of cold,
It thought God was sick and sneezed.

A demented heart its own deity
And godhead of perverse ecstasy.
When its tubes ruptured and failed,
It dying thought its Godhead too died.

Some impaired nerves
Bleeding profusely amid a crisis
Died inglorious without knowing
What God or Devil in them residing.

A soul from the askesis
Looked at their collective plights,
And went into a blissful sleep
Till the next drama of human grief.

A night and day in the annals of mortal brith
The Spirit’s infinite joy and mirth.

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #31

Peace, peace, marvellous peace,
Raining bounty of heavenly kiss
Dreams, dreams hither into my brows
With thy rapture-dance of immortal bliss.

Come, come, impetuous of Grace;
My heart and soul filled of thy presence.

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #30

My limbs a physical rendition of Thy peacock plumbs,
An ode to Thy mysteried Self of immortal hue,
In my nerves Thy streams of heavenly rapture run through,
I stand a strong limbed child of Thy bliss.

I wade through Time into Thy timeless Infinity,
Embodied, myriadly grown and measureless of Thy ecstasy.

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #29

What riches of Spirit can I buy
With my scanty purse of mortal dreams?
How my dreams to immortality
Aspire in a twisted plot of Inconscience?

However, a Godhead in me still broods
Of his riches, though pauper seems he.
From Night into Twilight he closely lingers,
Ambushed for ever and invalidated of joy.

Though a marvel of Spirt draws close,
The soul from slumber and twilight must break free,
And all world’s pain and ignominy must it embrace
For the deathless Sun to shine of Krishna’ s ecstasy.

In me still a Pythagorus measures the universe,
While my own Godhead blissfully watches his scale.

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Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #27

A sound of mind on a prowling spree of reconnaissance,
Hissing about dangers of immortal Silence:
A brute living amid our confounded members,
A vicious bearer of Life’s shocks and mortal impacts.

A secretary to the Ministry of Disorder,
Its name spells absolute din and drumbeat of mire.

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Murli R

Murli R

Founder@goldenlatitude. Lover of Sanskrit, Latin, Greek & the English Metre. Mostly write on Sri Aurobindo’s Yoga, whom I earnestly follow within and without.