Like the proud inventor
of colour and form
you quickly slid open
all those secret drawers
showing me treasures
that pressed in
like love or sunlight
deeper than my retinas
so the moment you closed them
I could not say
what they were. One of your tricks!
to place an image
an inch
behind the eye, and a universe
deeper than the heart
so I do not know
quite where to go looking
to understand what you have given.

You are the mountain, the drawers,
the content, the falling away,
the longing and the dusty path whose every stone
is infinitely full of promise
and perfectly complete. You breathe
and never die and your stillness
spreads its golden silence so deep
the question
how can God be man and mountain,
gentle breath and solid rock,
is answered before it can rise.

I need only meet your eyes
to be reminded
that the colour and form
are only you
in all your delicious beauty
ruffling the surface
to get my attention.
And now you have it! so drop me
into your depths. I know the price
but do not know how
to hold it all in my hands
so you can take it. How slippery
this gift
you ask for, how fast
some pressing need arises
for me to pull it back from you ...
let me just rework it
into a shield so I don't die here
in the sudden crossfire ... Beloved, in this vast moment
between my holding it out to you
and your taking it
you must blind me. Can't you see
I take this war here to be real!
Better yet, pour that emptiness
that gives birth to light
in between all my cells
so I can't move. And when you have me
there, safely out of my own reach,
collect me.

What a mystery
that the eye
cannot always see you

but knows
there is nothing
but you.

And this world
that springs up

in all its glorious
and sickening detail -

what a miracle
that a lion is willing
to walk through all this,
his feet

so real
they stun even things
seemingly invulnerable
to love or its absence,
like the spin of electrons
or the space inside a mirror.
Feet so real

they can silence
any kind of storm.

One lion, perhaps
one real lion in a vast strange dream
is believable.

But what about this:
this cup of water
he tips into our mouths
every time we call to him.
Follow the relief,
the certainty
that he hears every single word
before we form it.
Try to trace this.
There is the joy, and the water,
there's the cup ...
but what is this hand?
What is this wrist?

Just when you thought you'd understood!

Beloved Lord Ramana,
take my hands and move them
only in ways that make it clear
I am yours. Untie the strings
that work me as a puppet of fear,
desire, and restlessness.
Steal me from myself,
most treasured Heart of ours!

Remake my mouth so only words
of praise and love for you
can be formed. Put an end
to all other talk, those careless
unnecessary words that spill
the life force
that should all be harnessed
for separating the real
from the unreal.

Take my feet and let them only
circle you. Work your magic
on my eyes so I need never again
see anything
but you. Divine surgeon,
cut every knot,
toss away anything
that resists you, make me just
a place for you to rest your dear Feet
and allow them, after all this time,
to be kissed and kissed and kissed.

hold me still

Father, when
will you finish
me off?

How long, Beloved,
are you going
to hold me here

ruined for anything
but news of you?

Forced by your love
to pace back and forth
in rooms where people
dare to mention
wastelands in which you
have not been spotted?

I can smell your delicious fragrance,
taste you,
and feel you testing me
with your teeth.

And I only cry for you
to sink your teeth in!
Can you not hear me
begging you!!!
Will you not answer
to your Narasimha
Ramana name?

At least invent
some hunger for my sake
and remember how you promised
minds were tastiest to you.

What more must I do
to convince you
to finish what you have
started here?

This mind will only
die through your grace.
Please do it now!

Down the path
I see some trouble ...
someone spinning lies
and someone else
flattened by the weight
of this cruel dream ...

why do i start walking
that way? Why do i imagine
those lies are anything
but my own?
Why do I pretend
to be a form
compelled to rush along
and stamp out dream fires?

What drives this nonsense
Beloved heart-tamer?
Why do you keep allowing me
this ridiculous "freedom"?

Grant me the real freedom:
hold me still
in You.

birth

There was a search.
What was needed
was a mother, a father,
some siblings born
and unborn, a country,
a bed to be born in.

The universe was scanned,
the choices made.

How innocently
those blessed ones
went about their business,
Alagammal with her burning skin
soothable only with tulsi leaves,
Sundaram drafting his documents.
And Nagaswamy
learning to talk, to run ...
what things to bite
and what to leave alone,
while Nagasundaram and Alamelu
bided their sweet and formless time.

In the house, the stove
heated and cooled. Water
was used for all the usual purposes.
Floors were swept, laughter
filled rooms and ran off
to the places it retreats to.
No one had a clue!
On they went
with their joyous hymns
and generous ways.
If they secretly hoped for a reward
(life cupping them
just a little more gently
in its unpredictable hands)

nothing could have prepared them
ever!
for the beauty
that was to spring

fully formed
and exquisite

from that blessed mother's womb:
a package of love
that would take years
to be fully unwrapped.

A human baby, seen right away
to be a boy. Mother took this in
and rejoiced, Grandmother frowned
and began to lodge a complaint
with fate
but was silenced by the blind neighbour
upon whose ruined retinas
light fell
with the suddenness of grace.
Those eyes had waited decades,
blank canvases
which stubbornly refused
to accept the impression
of a tree or cup, holding off instead
for the bright form of the newborn.

"Hush, hush! Can you not see
the darling is made of light?"

Alagammal's heart jumped
up in size to accommodate
the inevitable explosion
of tenderness
as the baby's cry
assured them all
that life had combined with him.
Her arms, holding him,
became a cradle
for the mysterious fulfillment
of all this world longs for,
though she could not have said so
yet. He still seemed
only hers.
His hair still wet, his lungs
wondering what on earth
this new sensation was,
his eyes adjusting
to the newness ...
he appeared complete
and was complete
but how much more
was yet to come!

Seemingly from some distance
away, Arunachala
said His own name
but no distance registered
in the tiny shell-like ears
which heard the sound
as if his father's lips
were brushing the ears,
or even lighting that name
as the flame in the heart.
And so he came to know
this as his Father, Mother,
source, and destination:
Arunachala, Arunachala.

one glimpse

Beloved Liberator,
whose realization gives way
seamlessly
to your body, life,
and eternal presence,

your hands
express and offer
your state:

holding the injured creature,
picking up the spilled grains of rice,
cleaning your little nephew's teeth with a twig.

To watch your hands
is to understand how grace
moves from the formless
into the world
we call to you from.

Your eyes
are our window into the Self,
our invitation,
our dissolution,
our arrival.

Unceasingly, you show us
how and why
to love.

One glimpse of your feet
marks the end
of all seeking, all sorrow.

There is nowhere left to go.
Your heart alone exists.