Poem — An Invocation to The Master #54

Acts of oblation cherished by my soul,
My heart’s lore of ascending sacrifice:
My captive-self blind and bewildered of Thy ruse,
And at last, my horror turned to Thy mirth wonderful.

What is in an act of self-giving,
What mystery-poise holds the scales of being in duality?
What dreams worthy of Thy eternity,
Only through acts of heart’s oblation conveniently known!

An irreverent mind deft of copious flow is
Only a small muddy brook hampered of self,
But because it wells up joy and grief,
Thy pure streams won’t fill its muddy grounds.

In acts of submission Thy floodgates open,


I was courted by God in earth’s battlefield,
When my dreams were splintered of His eternity.
I saw my soul capitulated of His fierce delight,
And my happy defeat knighted of His victory.

My life forfeit in a great joy to be
Is God’s steed immeasurable of might.
My mind submerged in His bright infinity
Is now His infinite sun of inexhaustible sight.

I was courted again in His eternity of delight,
When I passed through occult barriers of infringing light.
My spirit became nude and gloriously mysteried
In the ineffable nature of a self-revealed, secret Godhead.

I was courted at last in my body’s breathless grave;
I became at once a seat of His immortal treasure-trove.

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #53

There is a joy in the siege of Thy embrace,
My heart enraptured of Thou beats unmasked of mortality.
The white streams of Thy ineffable bliss
Fill my empty chalice with Thy deathless infinity.

In my brood is Thy empyrean spirit’s embodied glow,
As if my frame drew from Thy vast breath its mead of existence.
My mind is filled of Thy exhilarating cinematic show,
Beaming upon my white soul-screen Thy forms marvellous.

Thy pounding force the whole measure of my breath,
It lives in my heart’s centre like a tempest of Thy light.
I move earth and heaven by Thy single gesture and mirth,
Yet am incapable of pulling a grass by its tuft.

In me the world-motions thrill of Thy ecstatic dance;
Fulfilled in me at last the heaven’s quest for Thy earth-grace.

Poem — An Invocation to The Master #52

My soul grows measureless by the rapture of Thy gaze,
As if my limbs were suddenly larger than the universes.
This life, which is man’s tomb of embalmed longevity,
Is my brief passage to Thy immortality.
Wherefore this death and decay, this suffering and sin?
wherefore this play of darkness and cruelty and deviance?
Cold and indifferent seem the high halls of Thy venerated heavens,
And though bright as they seem from afar like stars
Upon skies pregnant of looming darkness,
A trickle of them my marrow and bone decidedly feel at times.
But Thou pointest to the levers below my battered feet
To force open the magic springs of everlasting…

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #51

Canst an errand spirit choose
Twixt a repose in Thy roseate heart
And a resting spot upon Thy heavenly feet?
Canst his love be worthy of Thy embrace?

Canst my imperfections cease at once
In the great tides of Thy perfect motion?
Canst my dreams wake up in the passion
Of Thy spirit marvellous and deathless?

Canst my vice, not only my virtue, be
A mirror of Thy inviolable purity?
Canst my marrow and bone equally
Bear the pressure of Thy dense infinity?

“Thou canst, thou canst”, Sayest Thou to me;
Am now a master of world and fate integrally.


I saw a mind rapt in thoughtless brood
Twixt the poles of endless mysteries:
One leading to the spheres of inexistent Nought,
Another to the white seas of infinite Bliss.
Two poles to brood over for the indrawn mind,
But to the spirit bathed of Inconscient’s spring
Only the pole of conscious Light.
But to the mind lost in the unknown Thing,
A way still laid back to the grinding grooves
And the indrawn soul must again wed the dolorous existence.

Such is the play of Krishna fulfilled of himself,
Such are the wondrous theatricals of his incorrigible self.


I hear thee, thy cries most poignant of despair,
And when I read thy footnote of lament and pain,
I could see why thou art perplexed of the hour
Whose every chime to thee is an excruciating pain.

But this world is my mask of lavish mirth,
My chuckle of spirit of infinite delight.
Why thou dwell into sordid holes of death,
Whilst thy mere step leads into my deathless light?

I hear thee, thy passions most pure and marvellous,
Like soul-flavoured incenses they rise up towards my maple feet.
But this world is thy brief excursion of sorts,
Thy presence here a stamp and seal of my light.

I hear thee, O my sweet son and wondrous boy,
Hear, hear! ever to be with Me is My will with thee!

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #50

A clasp of hearts infused as one
In the Eden of Thy white infinity,
Souls impassioned of Thy ecstasy
Throng the rapture-spectacle of my seeing.

I, who art at once Thy slave and servant,
Am a master of my own fate impelled of Thy will.
I, who art unbound and free in Thy spirit still,
Am the tremendous enjoyer of Thy world’s mead.

A mere look within of Thy blazing sun,
My ignorance fell like sundered of Thy immortal light.
I rose like a phoenix into Thy wingless flight
Towards the brood of Thy transcendence divine.

I, who art a tiny inhabitant in Thy one body,
Am an apportioned self of Thy illimitable terrestriality.


I have sojourned in a subconscient realm
Twixt the waking blind and dreaming brute,
Where eternity-like passions surge and brim
With forms both of standstill and strutting gait.

A wickless lamp was lit of a strange act,
Which burned almost motionless and stiff,
Until I sensed a looming presence around,
And all grew indifferently curious of the repeated stuff.

On a pedestal of too much cushion
Appeared a loose form of shapely limbs.
It woke up to overtures of my premonition,
Accepting a brief clasp of touch and distant kiss.

Overtly though it seemed a form divine of Him,
But my heart and mind rarely entwined rejected the dream.

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #49

He is the panacea of my unfulfilled dreams.
Not in the sunlit halls brilliant of eternal light,
Not in the dreams to be of delight,
But in my dreams His panacea of marvellous grace.

Not in the heights fully, though immanent, all-pervading,
But He in my limbs of excruciating pain.
His bliss of myriad raptures entwine
With my nerves bloated of His vast becoming.

He is the blossoming rose of my heart
Even the high gods envy and curse:
He is the mind of my submissive cells,
He is my immortal stream in my depths uncoagulated.

He is the panacea of my soul mired in ignorance;
Suddenly ignorance no longer felt, and He alone is.

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.

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