The seal of the infinite was upon our little deeds and these crowded days held a secret purpose. In the cauldron of life, seeming chaos brewed a heavy fate, while from a sacred dipper the immortal drunk. Our lives were a page of blank to plain and curious eyes.
A little bombastic? A hint of bravura?
You be the judge. I just like it for an introduction, and with no plans to publish the collected works soon, it can start today's blog post.
My fascination with Tagore of late has extended to tracking down a song written by him called Mon Mor Megher Sangi, performed by Hemanta Mukherjee.
As for as finding a translation or notation, no luck. Any suggestions?
I have been pondering a poem for a few days, ever since an experience I had during meditation on Sunday. I have come to realise that this poem is not about describing an experience, I actually want it to reveal the nature of my experience. I want it to be my experience, like a pure drop of existence in a snowglobe. Will it ever be finished then? Can it contain the perfection that is the process of perfection itself? God knows.
Tonight, walking to the car after work, I joking composed:
The rain teaches me
How to get wet.
A little drier now, I can recall that the coin of heaven is rain, and this currency is freely given to all. In the words of Shakespeare and Sinatra then:
'The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath:
Each cloud contains
Pennies from heaven.
You'll find your fortune
Falling all over town.
Be sure that your umbrella is upside down.'
You just never know who you might meet walking down the street.