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215 Posts

Posted - May 01 2013 :  11:54:07 AM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

A prison folded within prison, where
"all life dies and all death lives" - Milton

Days starved of living light
nights stripped of sleeping shadow
fog-bound island
echoing thoughts: sirens of sorrow
calling the soul to inner shoals
as time blows its whole hoard of hours
on little old me.

Purgatory of accusatory brick
horizonless world, mud-stone hurled
sterile sheath of latex stain
where seeds of hope catch and die:
barren womb, baneful bitch, what
demons have you birthed
before my hitch?

How long have I lain
in this encircling house of pain?
How long to go, helmless
hulk drifting in a swirling
Sargasso Sea of memory?

Best to cloud the eyes
with cataracts of forgetfulness
pluck them out, set sense aside
throw a darkly silent cloak
abandon every thought and hope
until thrust back into Bedlam's choir
to recommence the chorus as best I can
in the yowling prison world of cats
all crammed into the big concrete bag.

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on May 02 2013 09:04:41 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - May 02 2013 :  08:10:51 AM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

The lachrymal boughs of prison walls
throw long forsaken shadow-tones
and strife-laced, sharp-edged stumble-stones
across poet-stream, in dusk-inked dream
flowing up thru angst and anatheme.

Rock-falls make such a tumultuous plight
around the bend from loving sight
for in battling death with written gesture
each damming locks me down to fester;
a drowning cat with screech objections
kayaking about in white-water gyrations
paddling the air and all standing near
(friends as well are not endeared)
and this bounding clamorous state of alarm
the streaming clash of splashing arms
resounds with every furtive dash and frantic
crash against stifling ironstone ground.

But no stone fist can full overcome a rhapsodist's
lungs, probing the clefts with syncretist tongue;
and no flinty fingers cold and numb can mute
mysongs once they're sung. However -- it seems more
embodied dreams must be deferred, there being
some bluffs overawning and rapids too daunting
for any hopeful eelpout's spiritual spawning!

For tho my bathysmal waters run deep and far
your eyes are drawn to just one surface particular --
a condemningly smudged official imprimatur --
full theatric scrim that's badly marred
by convict stain and rippling scar:
the scourge-marks of an outcast Cain
and veil I disclaim as false canard
but you stamp with seal of full regard.

In all fairness it should be said --
your own biography is read as far more highborn bred,
The wind hungrily plucked it up to publish as delightful
tales on illustrated leaves, then circulated and strew
your bright little manifestos all over my shoals.
How can I help but be such a kaleidoscopic fan?!

In the delight where you've played such a prime starring role,
have you glimpsed your likeness in my roiling flow?
Have you ever felt a pull, a shared emotive undertow?
Were you even tempted to tug back to let me know?

But then surely thru my spilling ink-song of letters
came the riffling clink of prison fetters
and you blinked away the gracious thought
and were gone.

- Ananda T

Edited by - anandatandava on May 14 2013 5:22:29 PM
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215 Posts

Posted - May 02 2013 :  08:23:27 AM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Native Son

A reign of consecrate calm drapes the scene......
From gilded boughs knit high above
plaits of light play sarbande grace
thru glow-soft golden grove.

Gentle gusts waft lustrous clouds of drifting
pollen-puffs, like Sutter's sun-flecked glory dust
to sift and linger o'er fertile virgin spires of pine
the auburn needlepoint carpet below
and a sparkle-haired boy, his soul grown swollen
in permanent pregnant awe and wonder.

Years of private worship passed
then gnawing saws of sightless
men invaded with the snows
deflowering, devouring the land
bruising the soul of flash frozen
boy furiously scrubbing away
the distained modern stain
from his skin -- relieved there
to find, beneath the icy rind
aboriginal blood-waters of
tannin-warm tint welling up
arterial strong: healing, sealing
the wounded primal world arisen
in living diorama within.

So should your own child wander
in the forest with wondering ears and eyes
the wind-chimed trees may dream and sigh
a doctrine deeper than man devised
of land not marred, or bought, or sold
of epoch scales untold
and the balanced pace of a wiser race.

Then silent thru the sylvan dew
strides Native Son fresh imbued
a convert brave in creed and hue
incarnate form of golden spire and forest loam
who with limbs of polished auburn tone
walks hand-in-hand with his earth-born home.

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on May 05 2013 09:05:55 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 03 2013 :  6:31:28 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Stillwater Maximum Security Prison

(Ananda's take on Wen I-to's poem "The Dead Water")

This is a ditch of hopelessly dead water
a place where beauty can never prosper.
May as well culture it thick with vice
and see what kind of world can grow.
It may even ferment into an overflowing brook
..........of green wine
and possess its own small measure of splendor!
Then if the frogs still in silence throng
let this drunken green brook burst into song!

Any St.Patrick's Day requests?

- O'Nanda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jun 13 2013 2:55:30 PM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 03 2013 :  6:45:21 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

The book never opened, the seed never planted
to never know the dilation and expansion that life offers
in the dark they wait, seen without purpose
moored in the Lacuna blue, the curling Abyss --
Do they feel it? Do they know?
Some do.

For I know where the autistic gazes
and What it is that gazes back. I know Who
accompanies him rocking, twirling, and playing patty-cake
in his seeming inner solitaire
I know Who.

I know the Otherworld sources of his off-key noises
the internal Realm he guards against your glances
and your touch
I do.

"I Am! I Am!" he cries in formless voices
in a turning twilight black
where I also too long sat
till my Strange Angel equip'd these hands
with pen and parchment, then gave the command

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jun 13 2013 2:59:11 PM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 03 2013 :  6:57:09 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Silly Goose

Writing is all I have and am, you know,
so for sequels would you throw
a single buck in a communal cup
perhaps a PayPal loving cup?
every month or so?

With a trusted soul it should reside
to show that it's all bona fide:
records kept on open book
so anyone can take a look.

A sad quid pro quo, I know,
but it's touch and go in my skid row imbroglio.
It won't take much, for my needs are low
and the rest could all then backward flow
and to other paupered pilgrims bestow
a little group love trousseau
eggs hard laid by a silly goose
for their hopeful spiritual use.

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jun 13 2013 2:51:26 PM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 13 2013 :  3:51:51 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Greatest Flame

It takes indeed the Great Flame
.....to burn in full the greatest pain
I chased this Gift and came to learn
.....how to sit and chastely burn
When Sacred Storm came on full strong
.....once my Soul sprang into Song
Sheets of Fire from sweeps of eye
.....all upon a self-born Sky.
My mantra? -- sever, center, in, in...
.....ah -- ignition -- there's the Spin!
I must now ask, O Sweet Divine
.....by what Power are you mine?
To be as with a Treasured Lover
.....holding at the Crest forever
I pierced this Sun true as an Arrow
.....breath-wings drawn both long and narrow
A Lingum stylus dropped in my groove
.....and the Sacred Spiral began to move
Now does the flute care where he lays? --
.....no, only that he purely plays
For not in human clay alone
.....is found God's fondest sacred home
Music floated out as hymnal gift
.....tho razor-wired that it might drift
Crystal rhyme set in wintry rime
.....etched and twined to glint sublime!

Tho long exiled from realms of men
.....no concern this matter has the pen
When writing's become a tantric art
.....where gendered tools play their part
The virgin lambskin coaxes on
.....urging plume to come full drawn
Soon passions reach their highest yen
.....and Love runs directly from the pen
The rush of dreams from up the well
.....choice word-drops stroked aquarelle
This Holy lift of flesh and Spirit
.....much more methinks I'd ever merit!

It seems I've been forever a bell
.....now breath-heft'd up to heartily knell
How easy 'twas to ring my chimes
.....when flying high on melodic rhymes
Gliding the lilt of tremulous cry
.....not caring if I live or die
E'en now I feel my Angel's lance
.....transfixing deeper than by glance!

To think how very long I'd sought
.....what Seed Sound now has somehow wrought
I weep then wheel to Heaven's Eye
.....blind to mundane worlds crashing by
And make madly wanton Love with God
.....jewel-pave' Ground that few have trod
Come, my friend, don't look askew
.....'tis the Fire of Love -- pray you taste of it too!

-Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jun 19 2013 08:24:24 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 14 2013 :  12:37:41 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Dead Lyrists' Society

"The beauty of the world...has two edges, one of laughter,
one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder." -- Virginia Woolf

So -- can I ask a great big favor?
Keep right on air mailing those
pantomimed poison-pen letters
dead on arrival, then poured
down the throat of my choking soul --
that's right -- all your sweet absolute nothings!

Your novel story remains unspoken
yet the words strike true as a cobra's bite!
So stretch those singing coils, Bhujangi
that this stinging silence finds its voice.
There seems to be no other choice
so in hopes thereof to kill my pangs
I'll bare my soul to your phantom fangs
then fall on the ghostly proffered foil
and shiver down its keenly absent blade
transfixed to the quick but unafraid.

For in the deepest wounds I find my center
the single point I may then enter
the open vein my Muse prefers
to dip the pen in piercing pleasures
and fill me with stigmatic pain and strife
in dance macabre around Her twisting palette knife
painting eviscerated dreams in lurid still life
with saturate slabs of bright blood tones
to draw Yeats up to weep and moan
then flow free down my marrow bone.

All this so the plaintive reed won't stop
the aching joy, the falling drop --
as forlorn love just keeps on gushing
and Kama runs in, fevered, rushing
to fall heart-struck on page-prone lie
condemned thereon to writhe and die
as I hurried jot his expiring cry
and kiss his cuts to make them bleed --
a favored way to hold my seed
yet spill it out for all to see.

So since life will stay this open wound
where love instead I had assumed
a new dream gains ascendancy:
just witness for me -- the Dead Lyrists' Society
for as with Keats I too hold the creed
that Verse turns Death to life's high mead --
every poet's penultimate endpoint plea.

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jun 24 2013 7:34:52 PM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 20 2013 :  4:46:02 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
You Should Really Keep Me Around

"In the gloom the gold gathers the light against it." --Ezra Pound

"God is fully known only thru love, which accepts everything." --Hafiz

With me you get raw grain, not sacramental wafer.
I definitely won't melt on your tongue; you really
gotta chew to get me down! There's no winnowing
process, editorial filter, or the polishing of time,
restraint, or inhibition. Having lost everything, I don't
even have a reputation to protect. So with the occasional
kernel you get lots of husk, grit, crunchy bugs, and
even the coupled writhing of earthworms
(tantrically dual-gendered, by the way).

You may contrast me with Yogani, who paints with broad sunlit
brushstrokes, good for everyone. I am his bookend -- the dark
to the light: a burnt Valentine, buried ashes, a shadow
that lies beneath the earth. Yogani helps you develop your
spiritual love and I test it. Can you open to even
this... this mess... of me? Well, as you've seen,
even your distant shocked silence is enough to
encourage me to shoot up my own food for thought --
enigmatic cognitive edibles -- dewy and succulent with hope
if not merit. Children frequently encounter and
browse on me in their digging, and, like little Krishna, return home
with grimy faces. Do they know something you've
forgotten? Perhaps you should reacquire the taste...

Hey, I can really be quite good for you! Lots of fiber
and minerals, to start with. So come get dirty with
me! You'll poop papyrus scrolls that floss you
clean as a whistle, plus you'll fart like a bunny
with the fresh scent of clover! Now, who
wouldn't want all that?

Or at least go barefoot so we can snuggle up more intimate:

..........The soul to the soil thru the sole
.......the spiritus to the talus thru the callus
...................ahh, the suchness!

Yup, that's me there,
the fecundity that lies below. So let me lighten
your journey and add a spring and mossy
depth to your vision-quest steps! And let's not
stop at that. Come down to my level -- yes,
way, way down, and let the Night weep me from Her
darkness, out in a lotioned flow in which we may blissful
swim and drift towards the dawn! Then yawn and stretch
and uncurl your toes, my Fawn, for it's time for a
bit of pavane dream and teaspoon-paired sleep. But please
wait to wash your henna-bright feet, as I've grown quite
fond of your Nile-grown cotton sheets!

--Ananda T.
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 20 2013 :  4:49:36 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Kissy Mouse

Here I sit in silent tomb
But am borne on bliss.
Friend me quick and make it soon
Finger-swipe o'er a kiss!

-Ananda T.
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 24 2013 :  7:21:17 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Happy As Your Clam

I knocked on the polished pane of that
crystalline carapace of consciousness
and there you appeared, birthday-bared, nectared
Beauty, slow-cooked in the simmering half-shell
broth of your mother-of-pearl womb-symmetry!

I see that God has ladled out all bitter flavor
and basted in a taste-whetting savor
then tuning-fork'd over a harmoniously
humming oyster of pleasure into the freshly
warmed heart of your elegant banquet bowl!

And now the sand has been whisked from
beneath your private spiritual sanctum
and set you serene as a barnacle upon
unwaivering bedrock, all curled up
and relaxed against the curved cistern
of your unsurpassed moluscan bliss!

So come, succulent scalloped sweetmeat
Little Hooded Bo Peep Periwinkle, I see you peek
from your peaked cone of silence, your domed castle keep
and its high time to ring that in-born temple bell
to hear you drum on the vaulted walls
of your glowing nacreous home
and sing the sumptuous surf-sounds
of the hot-buttered sea-dumpling electric!

For God has carefully tooled cursive scrimshaw
Faberge' glory into the toothsome ivory shell
you now sail like a cameo caravel o'er Ocean swells
shooting the stars of navigational sutra-constellations
carved with such deep relief into your cowrie fo'c'sle
to arrive in the land of madly dreaming lotus-eaters
and their delightful plight of supreme delight:
the crazily consuming bhakti itch
and its completely curative scratch
that like two bodies with a single Soul
synchronize and syncopate as one Whole!

And now, my Snail-Naveled One, your sighs flow light and freely
as you arch and bare both delight-swept bellies
to the pulsing Tide's caress and truly become
the most blissful bivalve in the Sea!

Yes, what a devilishly clever little dual-gendered Dulcet
you've become to swim in God with every mantle-breath!
In fact, packed all secure in the excelsior
of your pearl-strewn clam-bed surround
clad for seduction, gem-enchased and cloisonne'-bound
you "roll and rock" in a rich cradlesong of peaceful sound
and spread cupped wings where smooth sculpture parts
flying in place with love's strong art
thru inner space and gusts of liquid fire
as I rise to burn in tourmaline spire!

So with heartbeat hands I reach in dream
to part your veil of crepe de Chine
and trail my fingers thru flesh of cream
then guide your flight in a graceful sweep
to dip my tongue in the glace' Sweet
and partake in the crux, the seat, the pivotal point of your seafood Treat!
(Dare I add the ambrosial gynecological gyre of inner Heat?)

Don't try to hide your Secret, O fresh-lacquered Child of the Sea
for your callipygian, high-buttressed shape and
briny-firm consomme' taste most certainly give you away
as Pacific-rimmed loving cup and snug harbor for my Seed!

Thus I shan't ever tire to tempt across your Pearl
and urge your welcome Depths to full unfurl
but must I scold o'er who's moist your folds
and warmed the waves since Time began?
Awake! -- there's more to you than mere enameled clam!

What's that you say? -- it may be sin to put a little yang in your yin
or the touch of masculine in your feminine? Tout au contraire, my Dear.
Here's the real Truth revealed: Desire and Divinity make for greatest Unity!
So unlatch that untouched porcelain egg of yours, and breath...me...in!

-Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 11 2013 3:51:49 PM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 25 2013 :  5:52:25 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

You think thru stillness you forsake me?
No, Silent Lover, it is then you most take me,
the gushing inkhorn, the loquacious dart
pen dipped in your inscrutable dark
free to see anything, all things in you
as I unclasp the gift-wrap camisole
and dawn upon your twin-moon gloriole:
sweet-cakes served upon eager arms
chaliced breasts as alter charms
...and now my Book of Bedroom Rites Opens...

O Sacrificial Lamb marked by gentle cipher
you fill Passover Feast with Pentecost Fire! --
and falling to the dish most admired
I warmly baste love's weeping passage
with tears that seek a full engagement
in life's main urge and hope's presagement
to gorge upon your most cordial places
and trace your well-moist'd conchoid spaces!

Deaf to the voice of a vice-worn world
I hear mute lips speak - for others dumb
of plunging pleasures to flex and come
so I, Zen archer of ardor
body bowed and tautened harder
aim thru closed eyes at the target
to run a mind-shaft around its rim
and raise a boldly swelling hymn!

Well now, little Miss Perfection
since you seem to have no real objection
and show every sign of warm affection
please assume the pose of bipedal bisection
and plug onto my firm hard-wired connections!

You and I start off real slow, as feels apropos
for in flagrante delicto, but as passions further flow
sink suede in suede in breathless tableau
and begin inch by inch to stroking row
in fits and starts, in deeps and shallows
at varied pace, both fast and slow
(mayhaps a foot, to-and-fro?)
in onesy-twosy, then woozy bunches
stirring it 'round from tip to ground
across at times the scandalous line
to pulsing depths, the inmost shrine
where no other sun has rose to shine! --
Consumed by such a stunning consummation
say what you may, it feels like...Resurrection!

So you see, my Sweet, that tho you firmly rule your day
when houselights become finally dimmed
a different stage is revealed, from another play
and there in shadow a new actor is glimmed
with plans to direct a risqué little soiree! --

May you then have blissful dreams, Cherry Pie
for your Incubus throws wide a rested eye
and when he comes in softly stealing
all those bedclothes you best be peeling!

-Ananda T

Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 11 2013 3:35:54 PM
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375 Posts

Posted - Jun 29 2013 :  11:01:17 AM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

...this is as hot as the weather out west in the U.S. today!

130F in Death Valley and 120F in Pheonix, Arizona.

But 150F in Anandatandava's thread!

Edited by - BillinL.A. on Jun 29 2013 11:37:56 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 30 2013 :  9:16:11 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Jungle Love

Shy Gopi, I can taste you thrilling
to my roars in darkness milling:
come my gentle curvate doe
when you plant your feet just so
close your eyes, and breathe real low
you think your thoughts that I won't know?
Hah! - that flimsy ring of hush you draw
I'd breech and gnaw by teeth and claw!

So open wide that thornbush belt
and feel the air of open veldt
no point to cower there and hide
take a stroll on my wild side,
for Jungle Love waits in the night-
a heat to melt all chill and fright!

Then stay as still as you may like
throat held firm in Raja's bite
your form pressed down onto the loam-
but you may well then give out a moan
when to the sharper pleasures carried.
All the same-
if I wanted talk, I'd gotten married!

- Ananda T

Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 14 2013 10:40:34 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jun 30 2013 :  9:20:05 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Hot Blood Sport

Most folks court first with words
but you're a court assassin who goes straight for the throat
and such fierce growls emote as you wield that garrote-
gack! - you pinch off my air and kick me downstairs
(take just one guess where)
but I happen to like your tight-gripped clinch
so this crazy tantric mix
has become exactly my sort of fix!

Yes, altho it took us goodly time
we've both now grown quite well acclim'd
to a spectral thrust and parry
repeat assault with over-friendly weaponry
crime against person - in the first degree!

Now if the needle would just hold still
I could thread and drill a deeper thrill
-but for now-
you slap me with silence, I prick you with wit
aiming for each most sensitive bit
as fencing goes, it's tat for fictional tit
a public tryst that nears illicit!

This sport and performance art has so grown
to keep us spun up in racing tone
and inner parts well lubed and honed:
a two-stroke motor with friction unatoned
in endless revolutions of reciprocation.

Radical cams have cranked up our voluminous
reducing valves of superconsciousness
so let's test your Oh! rings with tumefaction
stroked and bored, heavy metal action!

For the strip is open and the green light is on-
wanna go blow our doors of perception off?
Run me for your pink slip and nightie,
laying burnouts all along the settee!
(Let’s just not call them skid-marks – agree?)

-Ananda T

Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 14 2013 10:28:04 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jul 02 2013 :  1:37:52 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

Autistic, autistic, what's your worst characteristic?
It's to speak too much or too little
or - even worse - in nonsense screams or dribbles
then writing and dispensing them on reams full of scribbles!

Sacred Monster, let me go!
Leave me normal but - God! - not left alone.
L'enfant terrible, cruel bridle hand
it's more than anyone can full understand.

Make me flaccid, placid, plodding, and flat
given to TV, magazines, and moderate chat
oh, board games too, and so goddamned boring
that like a potted plant, I leave 'em all snoring.

Not to be gulped down my high-volume throat
amazed at the things that it may connote
for that's just not me, why can't they see
that I'm filled with some stange-urged verbosity?

For I'm not empty at all, but really too full
and it's That which then calls, and pulls, and climbs
inhibiting walls like a dendritic digital vegetal vine
throwing limbs over in cross-twined profusion
and wheedling hot tendrils thru each fertile mind
seeking to plant the means to speak
not caring a whit if direct or oblique.

But perforce the pen must be Source
the origin of all expanded discourse
so with each and every plausible compositor
my motives ulterior are soon slid in non sequitor
(and voiced disarmingly soft): "So, can you type?" *cough*

Alas! - that Voice fools no one, and soon harmony's undone
for potted botanicals should be seen and not heard
and I lay no blame when friends do depart
not even on me, who too has a heart
tho overcome it may be by a fiery subterranean hearth.

So what is this emergence, this motive absurd? -
a deaux ex machina in deep earth interred?
No, 'tis sap-driven foxfire, probing for laptops
to track torrid voiceprints all over their desktops
then curl up to purr out hot catnip rap nonstop!
(Ach! - someone shoot me and stop all this yawp!)

Now this should make it quite clear why not to come near
possessing such huge eyes as you do there, my dear -
for your pupils punch apertures in my camera obscura
like bright strange attractors, toward which I am drawn
like a sprout starved of light and left sad, pale and wan.

So try as I may to rein back the mad and fey horseplay
skip undue wordplay, stick to the everyday, and not go astray
my Muse knows how to more strongly inveigh, and flower up
Her own oriflammed flamboyant firework display!

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 14 2013 10:31:21 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jul 02 2013 :  2:59:48 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

"Catch a wave, you'll be sitting on top of the world." - Beach Boys

My ribboned waters run without cease to you
postcard perfect Star-Crossed Isle
bathing in the fragrance of your fig-fattened land
as you do in the waters and dews of me - the Sea!
Truth be known, tho sight unseen
your maidens bare their breasts to my burgeoning tide
and source to you of all succor and pride
I come to fill their wombs with Time
for tho your future may be unfortuned short
there's always time for my blue-fathomed Sport!

With the patient power of continental drift
I range and prowl, riparian raider on the sniff
and probing for passage thru which to pour
I purl my current along your goose-pebbled shore
those undulant foam-rimmed flanks to well explore
then gather aloft my moist desire
to slide a teasing coastal conquistador
up that cheekily uptilt floor.
(Octopus, guard well your winking back door!)

Now tickling thru your wildly kicking pint-sized feet
and betwixt those wriggling wee urchin coral-button toes
I quickly run trickling ashore
in a happy laugh of lapping wavelets, to riff them o'er
you soul's most secretive, shyly-turned furrow
and it's Jeweled Delight - cute little literal man-o'-war
bright-rubied semaphore fit for battle boudoir!

Then swirling thru the coves 'neath Mount Mons
topped by its gentle mantle of moil
a soft-curled down on ascendant mound
I press into the pleasured milk of your generous soil
sampling at each sweetmeat taffy treat
and supping from all and sundry swell and deep
along the whole of your sun-stroked sweep!

Oh! - I could never drink my fill of you, my pomegranate Grenadine! -
from those proud gumdrops of coralline
and every living cleft and seam
all my thrusting tongue-tips upcurled in encore exaltation
and watery laudatory exclamation - ungh!

Entranced by our private pulsing play
your limbs slide down my feathered spray
pearls thrown 'gainst your graceful throne
and my! - how my want has seamount grown!
So I flash moire smiles and flounce your kelp skirts
to wetly glide both arms and eyes
up those sea-dipped, flashing, sighing thighs!

Archaic light sets the scene pre-Hellenized
as we weave thru the heave of timeless swells
and surge to the urge of the flesh-immortal
a long-held, mind-meld flowing spellbound
each ceding the other's firm-held high ground
like interlaced, passion-braced fingers
pressed against the bed of the earth...and there to linger.

Lo! - there's a forecast of friendly tempest on the wing
as satin-heaped cloud-blossoms start to flower
and rub, kissing, at the roof of our o'er-arching bower
then change their mien of leaven and tower
to flash a warning in blood-blowzy glower
till Heaven's shot thru with crepuscular plumes
scintillated striated finery in fiery full bloom
blazoned coruscations, stiletto streaming
ornamental trills, runs, and arpeggios
skyscript coloratura, eye-candy of the gods,
and here's one now, to lure love like a lightning rod
and the looming act to bless and laud.

A ravenous anvil of amorous storm then sweeps in
to clad metallic skies with forced strains of wind
and forge steel into my damascene-hammered skin
as up I rise, sinew-strung Sea, to roil and herd in lust-hard waves
that blanch and break, shudder and cream
as they mount upon your coastal loins
and inward drive your jetty groins - Oh!

Then onward we thunder, all caution sundered
on a sharp-tossed sea of cries, each meakness plundered
and bowing your palms flat down in fright
fronds held blocking both sound and sight! -
and as the storm climbs fully galvanized
we feel ourselves swelling up oversized
and then - Holy of Holies, and greatly prized -
our Souls come together in flight, synchronized
in a cresting lava tide of creation, vulcanized!
(Surely, 'twas a dead heat, martyrized....)

Now we abate, weightless in grace, drying in veils of liquid lace
but look! - the tumid surf, in its ebbing drift
has left us both a gift (did you feel it lift?):
braided chains of pearl, strewn along your streaming swash
limpid, limpet-lined tidepools, starry life awash -
in you is splashed my open desire, in little secret swatches
the seeds of life hidden here or there
oops! - even your hair!

Great purpose drives these, our shared waters of satisfaction
for tho I spangle-stud in the first animation
our ripening fruit requires your uterine bowl of earth
as protective harbor, provisioning berth
and launchway for all future birth -
so look past the day there is no room
for bulls, bull-leapers, and my wave of doom
your land and race will rise again unladen
for I'll take care to spare those topless maidens!

I do hope you see the gist of all this
for it's really one you should not miss:
each and every eager aspirant
should flirt and flow with my current
friends in low places and all - get the drift?

So choose your bloodlines purebred Brahmanic
immersed in pelagic life, the Deep Oceanic
- and, like me -
caress fair shores far beyond Magellanic!

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 14 2013 10:38:48 AM
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215 Posts

Posted - Jul 11 2013 :  2:03:37 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

As if there were ever any doubt that I don't walk
solidly upon the earth, I've been getting crushed quite
regularly for the little wanderings of body and mind,
the little getting lost in time and space, caused by my
lifelong hydro.

In between crushings and their attendant trip to seg
(with all that entails), I've been writing in a blazing
and often rebellious intensity. Sorry if I've offended
anyone with content or lack of polish, but you're hearing
from me during the times I'm at the surface gasping
before being pulled back under. Here we go...

- Ananda T.
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1491 Posts

Posted - Jul 12 2013 :  01:26:32 AM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Ananda T.

Every now and again, I drop in on your thread to read what's going on with you. I said this before but can't help repeating:
You are absolutely brilliant !

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161 Posts

Posted - Jul 12 2013 :  09:07:06 AM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
I love reading ananda's posts :)
Thank you for sharing with us Ananda, you are a gift.
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375 Posts

Posted - Jul 15 2013 :  01:36:48 AM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
No offense at all. Like you say:

"I do hope you see the gist of all this
for it's really one you should not miss:
each and every eager aspirant
should flirt and flow with my current
friends in low places and all - get the drift?"
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843 Posts

Posted - Jul 17 2013 :  9:15:51 PM  Show Profile  Visit Radharani's Homepage  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Agreed. Anandatandava is extremely profound and an incredibly talented writer. He expresses so well the unfathomable Bliss of the Divine embrace. Even while held "captive," his spirit soars. [img]icon_heart.gif[/img]
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215 Posts

Posted - Jul 26 2013 :  2:45:21 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Do Not Disassemble!

I was talking to a physical therapist the other day
and asked what would happen if one placed a TENS
electro stimulator on, say, one side of the throat under
the jawline. He responded like the old movie robot,
Johnny Five, all super-anxious: "Oh no! That's contraindicated! The
carotid sinus and baroreceptors are located there!"

I hadn't expected such a big payoff in terms of verifying the
potential effect of the baroreceptors, which, given that
they feed back into the PNS, I suspect to be the major
power source of Jalandhar a, especially in its dynamic form.
So I pressed further: "Well, what might
happen?" But he began stammering, clearly unwilling
to say more: "Um, um, it might effect blood pressure for
one thing." "In what direction?" "I don't know." "Have you seen research?"
"No." "Anecdotal comments?" "Yes."

With that I let him off the hook, since my interest
was only academic. I get all the stimulation I can
handle as it is without any external crutches or props, thank you
very much. But it was a curious interaction
for a curious mind with no Google access.

-Ananda T.
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215 Posts

Posted - Aug 13 2013 :  3:32:19 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply

(Just because you explain something doesn't mean you explain it away. -V.D. Ramachandran)

I’ve long believed that the supreme ecstasy trained for in AYP has its foundation
in the human erotic response and crests in the neuroendocrinology (and thus experience)
of love. Also with Yogani, I believe there is actual science behind it, direct neurological
and physiological correlates of spiritual evolution that the core yogic methods of AYP
go to train. At the risk of flummoxing anyone (take a deep breath here), I further believe
that any accurate view will have to take into account, at minimum, how spinal breathing
remaps the somatosensory cortex, how bandhas, mudras, and pranayama manipulate
the autonomic nervous system thru their stimulation of cranial nerves that feed back
into its parasympathetic portion, and (exhale now) how everything comes together in
whole-body mudra, our entire being ecstaticized, and sensorium glowing and twitching
like Rudolph’s nose with the slightest move, heart-beats going off like sun-bursts,
and the breath playing us like a Stradivarius! (Ooh – learning can be fun!)

Granted, a reductionist scientific perspective on spirituality can be
jarring to some, but I believe an amazing modern light and confirmation is
ready to be thrown on the ancient teachings. And the counter is
also true, in that information gathered and passed down thru countless
generations can now inform modern science. The cat should be released
from the bag!

Well, I, itinerant mind-migrant, smell a pleasant ripeness – a veritable orchard of
mature science as available as low-hanging fruit! But has anyone yet
gathered a full harvest and baked the pie? I’ll explain what
ingredients and recipes I’m particularly after in a subsequent post,
but just about anything can serve as a firebrand of enlightenment
to a caveman who hates to mutter alone in the darkness.
And where gaps in the record still occur I’m more than happy to
offer my theories, to which I welcome agreement or disagreement,
as long as you come armed with science I can get my teeth into.

Established researchers may well still remain uncomfortable
publishing along the science/spiritual boundary – a political
no man’s land due to sensitive funding sources, tenure concerns,
and the hidebound nature of large human enterprise. Even
Richard Davis at the U of W meditated for 20 years before
daring to study it openly. This reticence leaves the impression that science
and spirituality are mutually exclusive
paradigm, if not outright antagonists, but nothing could
be further from the truth in the meditative arts, where
they are simply two ways of knowing the same truth,
two maps pointing to the same destination, instructions
written in two different languages. It seems high time
that someone chisel out a Rosetta stone that conglomerates
these closely adjacent sides together. I think the
pieces fit together in a very self-evident manner, but
a current literature search should be done, and
that, alas, I cannot do on my own.

Why wait for someone in a lab coat to lay this stuff out when
we could do it ourselves, with you as
laid back in your PJs as you like? So come on, this
would be fun, practically just a matter of plucking pertinent
research from the Web and kneading it into the pan.
I can point out the choicest branches and juiciest scientific
plums within easy grasp of the layman, plus contribute all
I have already gathered and a ton of surplus time and energy.

Do you question the value of this whole enterprise? First off,
check Amazon stats to see how popular topics concerning
spirituality, love-making, and accessible neuroscience are. What would a combination of all three be like? I've learned that on this path knowledge speeds progress and does not destroy the numinosity and wonder any more than a neuroscientist’s insights lessen the pleasure of making love. To the contrary,
it can augment one’s repertoire and penetration into the moment, whether meditating in union or not.

Feeling inadequate to the task of science writing as an amateur?
Well, you don’t feel inadequate to yoga, do you? This is simply an exposition concerning familiar territory and an expansion of its borders – something you’d enjoy. Then know too that the very word amateur comes from amore, for “lover”, and aren’t starry-eyed devotees of any type real forces to contend with?
‘Tis wisely said that if you pick a job doing what you love, you’ll never work
a day in your life, for a labor of love is not experiences as labor at all!

In contrast, pity the poor diploma-bearing professionals,
to whom the sublime power of our practices will likely remain
only a theoretical concept. Though professionals may initially
embark on their path with broad and deep interest, the exigencies of
schooling and career commonly lock them into a narrow
specialty. Then like a carpenter possessing only a hammer,
all they see are nails fitting their preconceptions, and the lack of variety soon burns out their original zeal. What was once challenging and fun becomes a 9-to-5 grind, and a reluctance grows against
stepping outside the borders of institutional “groupthink”.
The rebel, the rugged individualist, is lost – the very
person who makes the big and novel breakthroughs.

For illustration, pan your camera over to Ananda’s Allegory of
the Beach and watch a professional drive a pitifully thin
piling of inquiry into the sand, hoping to gain indirect
knowledge thru soundings – tapping on the wood for distant
echoes. Whether thru single or multiple soundings, he
attempts to map and catalogue the subterranean world thru
second-hand reports of its wonders, but does not go there
himself. Really now, how can you ever hope
to understand a subjective but powerfully magic realm
while remaining as objective as a stone?
(Heaven is an experience, not a place!)

Contrast this with the adept who, free from constraints
of politics and schedule, gets a shovel, punches thru the
cartographers’ charts, and goes dig up the treasure for herself!
Her knowledge is then fully immersive and experiential, for he
apprehends her new diadems by immediate sense and personal
possession, and knows they are as alive as she! She can touch
and taste them, sit on and amongst them, breath them up her
spine, use them to drape and ornament her body, peer at the sun, or, why,
even fashion something from them to give to others!

So I argue that we should not sit around all smugly smeared
with the fruits of yoga without doing all we can to expand the
recipe for the many who struggle to reconcile or having to compartmentalize their
spiritual and scientific beliefs. Help to bring
everyone’s brain and heart, mind and soul, to full accord.
You may have swallowed the canary, Kechari-Cat, but there’s a feather
on your puss – open up!

- Ananda T.

Edited by - anandatandava on Aug 25 2013 7:51:55 PM
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215 Posts

Posted - Aug 13 2013 :  3:37:53 PM  Show Profile  Reply with Quote  Get a Link to this Reply
Razor-Wire Mind Flossing

“Through me forbidden voices…” – Whitman

(I submit this with trepidation
but it is my bloodchild nonetheless
and must be claimed and loved.)

Prison life is taboo truth
barred from view in penumbral darkness
where stern-faced retainers feed
their sepulchral Machine with paper –
and people of course – all peppered up
with distortions, omissions, and lies
but I’ve whipped up a special treat this time
to gum up that ravenous maw
like peanut butter ‘twixt a pit bull’s jaws!

For I’m not fully weld into the flux of time and steel yet
hell, even my silence means more will follow
and I invite you along, hand-in-hand
lest anything be lost in translation.

Let me be your Marco Polo, or Joseph Conrad
better yet, for we’re going direct to the
Dark Heart of certain ticklish matters tonight.
“(Is it night? Are we here together alone?)”
Camerado, better wash up later – never know
what may reach from shadow so close
even Buddha seemed at first uneasy.
(I should know -- I, Ahimsaka, was there.)

I reckon I’ll start off right here
tattooing the air and all around with
that highly questioned flair:
wild and full-furred word embellishment
pop-up erotic and tribal art
and all manner of prurient bedevilment
driving deep into my water world of exotica
despite many warnings, shouts
and harpoon shots across the bow.

Well, here’s my response – an outlaw scroll
I’ll then place in a hidey-hole
a demijohn of sorts, a burial urn
to later set adrift
in the hope it finds certain
special beachcombers who enjoy a little shock –
an electric ecstasy – and who understand
its purpose. Someone may also just need
my cathartic flotsam to stay afloat –
or perhaps it’s just me.

For that time is back – yes, segregation –
or the Hole, for those of the more Gothic mold:
lost-wax casting for scars more lasting
soaking up the roar of a teeming penal colony shore
where even prison time breaks its viscous flow:
flinty beach-masters and downtrod man-pups
futile cries of pain wept in hard pelting showers
and squalled in stormy tearful gusts
against the freshly glass-washed walls.

My God, those eyes, those brooding
ink-brimmed orbs of stone-ground tint
that fill my absorptive soul with the scent
and glow of eloquence their language cannot sow! –
nor perhaps my paltry own
but it is yet mine to speak
where others cannot
For when punishment becomes a form of sport
it puts a man well out of sort.

So I stand, yes, I stand up! –
in the face of all, raising my voice
in raucous clarion call
above a sea of sweat-gleamed faces
silent upcast in scant redemption’s hope
for I was once mute, like them
and spoke too late to effect escape
from Billy Budd’s portion as pendant charm
on destiny’s prison yardarm.

Well – silent no more
gone to rich in words from poor
so now, and not just for myself
I’d like to live a little
paint the town in convict stain
dip right in the brightest flow
- but you first need to know –
a lifelong fare of scourge and blow means
I’ll not bow to force or reason now: no, my pen
and its tongue-o’-nine-hundred tales
shall not be shackled and tied
this side of death!

And even then voices like mine shall yet be heard
anywhere power has grown so corrupt
so as to offend the nostrils of God
who watches… and waits.
But in the meantime
when they think to block me
why, how far would a river go?
So when denied an easy flow
here, at cataract’s brink
don’t blink, don’t think, don’t even breathe –
or I’ll leap!

For when set in darkness, a strange sun
rises to burn within, and I must
in measured tempo release its rays or burst –
abacus shafts of light-beads shot falling
ever falling drops of ink, tears, and blood
farthest thrown when hope furthest flown.

Driven to seek such intense escape – are you aghast?
This approved method for going beyond consciousness
comes from good authority – Lord Shiva’s words spoken lifetimes past
in Vigyen Bhairava Tantra, sutra 21:
“Pierce your nectar-filled form and attain to the inner purity.”
You still doubt? Drive against your own kechari parapets.
In that moment and its lingering aftermath
having overcome the fear of the flesh for spiritual gain
is there a certain…satisfaction? Then you understand my meaning.

Although often taken to even greater extremes
similar outlets are used in these environs
to fight conflagration with purposeful backfires.
For when burdened down with mental irons
buried deep in the Belly of the Beast
and dipped by the wick in spermaceti wax
what other freedom has a candle but to burn
and glow thru repression’s fetid meaty fist?

For every soul has a right to speak, or cry, or scream
in opaque, or salt, or crimson themes
or swing silent on a metal beam;
some dig up a pulsing vein
to paint the walls in vivid pain
then wear their gauze like lily
corsage on veterans of hard-won campaign.

Others pick private lines on cotton swathe
Or pointillate platelets on parchment scraps
then smuggle them through their abutment underpass
pucker-tucked in their cul-de-sac
their privy pocket way out back –
an inmate's aswini port of last resort.

Yes, picture it! (Oh, I insist.)
How many times have you read
the crumpled, rumpled contents
of a brain-food bolus strained out to the light?
“Sewer O Sewer my bloodchild under your water.”
(This ain’t no country club, baby
the ends justify the means – do they not?)

Now do you still insist there are
a million singing Anandas, ho-hum?
Then tell me, if you would –
who else speaks from so deeply
in the … bum?

-Ananda T.

Okay, this poem dumps all the fluff
to speak the hard core prison stuff.
Did I smash the protective glass
of social class a bit too strong
to plant an image quite so crass?
Feel free to lodge a complaint
or well-placed kick up my a__
for any touch is better than its lack.

Edited by - anandatandava on Aug 26 2013 6:55:46 PM
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