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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - May 01 2013 : 11:54:07 AM
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Segregation
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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - May 02 2013 : 08:10:51 AM
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Poet-Stream
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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - May 02 2013 : 08:23:27 AM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 03 2013 : 6:31:28 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 03 2013 : 6:45:21 PM
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Charybdis
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 "Write!"
- Ananda T. |
Edited by - anandatandava on Jun 13 2013 2:59:11 PM |
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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 03 2013 : 6:57:09 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 13 2013 : 3:51:51 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 14 2013 : 12:37:41 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 20 2013 : 4:46:02 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 20 2013 : 4:49:36 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 24 2013 : 7:21:17 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 25 2013 : 5:52:25 PM
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Resurrection
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
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Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 11 2013 3:35:54 PM |
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BillinL.A.
USA
375 Posts |
Posted - Jun 29 2013 : 11:01:17 AM
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Mercy!
...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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 30 2013 : 9:16:11 PM
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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
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Edited by - anandatandava on Jul 14 2013 10:40:34 AM |
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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jun 30 2013 : 9:20:05 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jul 02 2013 : 1:37:52 PM
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Autistic
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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jul 02 2013 : 2:59:48 PM
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Minoa
"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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jul 11 2013 : 2:03:37 PM
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Espresso
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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SeySorciere
Seychelles
1563 Posts |
Posted - Jul 12 2013 : 01:26:32 AM
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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 !
Sey |
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Kahlia
161 Posts |
Posted - Jul 12 2013 : 09:07:06 AM
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I love reading ananda's posts :) Thank you for sharing with us Ananda, you are a gift. |
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BillinL.A.
USA
375 Posts |
Posted - Jul 15 2013 : 01:36:48 AM
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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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Radharani
USA
843 Posts |
Posted - Jul 17 2013 : 9:15:51 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Jul 26 2013 : 2:45:21 PM
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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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Aug 13 2013 : 3:32:19 PM
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Kechari-Cat
(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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anandatandava
USA
215 Posts |
Posted - Aug 13 2013 : 3:37:53 PM
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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.
Postscript: 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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