POEMS OF THE VAISNAVA SAGES
Dawn by Padmapani dasa-
Alas, we're drowning deep
waves of colored hue,
winds and thrashing gale
blight all reason true.
of fire licking flesh
in all directions bound,
of fallen angels
stains upon the ground.
death and courting friends
rule this land below,
nether regions manifest
hope, no chance, no remedy
fled in fear,
rows of dead, rising up
to fall again to dust
this night of dread and fear
mindful Lord did send,
rare and precious jewel of light
broken dreams to mend.
-- the Lord's dear wish
ignite the darkened soul,
immortal nectar sweet
cups to overflow.
vessels full and lips still moist
we now begin our task,
spread his mercy everywhere
souls rejoice at last!
Moon c 1995
winds from the North bring another storm.
came, I'll never know, You came into my heart.
kingdom come, and we know His will be done,
by Mahaksa das
to read more poems by Mahaksa das,
click here- TheVulture King
Four poems by Kusakrata dasa-
Lord Krishna Returns at Day’s End
As the great red sun sets on the western mountain
smiling Krsnacandra returns to the
Vraja. From the glistening endless fountain
of his flute sweet streams of music
brown, grey, and black cows now follow Him.
beside Him, Balarama jokes. The boys
Krishna’s glistening curly hair is tied
with flowers, and His horn and wooden
tucked into His sash. His parents run to
greet Him with great hugs. Soft tears
from Yasoda’s reddened eyes. “Son! Son!” she cries
with heaving chest and moistened
Crossing a Grand River
As They wandered in Vraja’s forest land,
Sri Krishna, friends, and cows all came to cross a very deep and swift and dark and grand grand river where hosts and hosts of great waves toss the restless dark blue waters to and fro The cowherd boys all said: "Alas! Alas! This river is very mighty. We have no power to pass, no power to pass, to pass this way. "
then Krishna played a melody upon His bamboo flute. Then that great stream at once was frozen, stunned in ecstasy. The startled boys thought: "Do we wake or dream?" Then Krishna, boys, and cows all crossed the wide, grand frozen river to the other side. The Final Tally of Sri Krsna’s Glories The great wise sages gather now with diligence and care to count the glories of jasmine-vine-eyebrow Krsna and see their full amount. Under a leafy forest bough they count and count. Alas! Alas! They cannot find, find, find the end of Krsna’s glories, which surpass always the count. Laments ascend into the air. On kusa-grass seats, stunned, they sit. Their lips they bit. In counting Krsnacandra’s sweet glories they admit defeat.
Advice to the Heart O my heart, please, please, please look at Krsna, whose graceful face and limbs are like a fragrant lotus lake. Please look, please look, please look at Him. O my heart, do you not like to look at Him? Please, like a stick, now fall before His lotus feet. O my heart, please, please, please lick the nectar of sweet, sweet, sweet looking at Him. Please, please look. Never, never, not ever, ever at any, any, any time have you seen someone so sublime. By Kusakratha dasa
To find more poems of
Kusakratha dasa, request at
By Yamunacarya dasa-
Bhagavad Gita chapter 9:1 The Supreme Personality of Godhead said: "My dear Arjuna, because you are never envious of Me,I shall impart to you this most confidential knowledge and realization, knowing which you shall be relieved of the miseries of material existence."
Shall Be Relieved
Envy's spite burns the gut and fathers fiery miseries. Ever reborn of resenting, these wild, these wretched and lost on the road, distrust and despise the very One Who would comfort and take them home,
if only their grief and greed, their anger and disdain were not feeding on each other and coldly killing faith. Jealousy's sullen slaves, how CAN they wish to serve? Yet from complete love and its friendship forever with Him greater than glory we ever imagined before, He whose beauty passes all dreams, come valleys whose days of perfect peace know no end, where the soul and the mind laugh gladly and sweetly together as childish brothers would tumble into the first spring hills. One's heart is finally home One's loftiest friend finally found. Imagine unalterable love. more massive and gentler than early morning's mountains. Real love yearns to love, and only that, having no rooms for sulking, secretive boarders. One who knows this love in the perfect and finest Friend cannot but fill with highest feeling, wishing only to prove his grateful thrill. Imagine, then, the sheer showering mercy, the fullest fruit of freedom bestowed by the most wonderful, limitless Being, He who knows our heart's hidden wish through countless, unfathomable lives past and our heart's hidden wish before we take next breath! Ultimate friend of true return, beyond all bald betrayal and subtly tailored falsehood born of fear, One for Whom pettiness is impossible. Truest full return, forever given. For our full love that is too eager to serve and praise to harbor any touch of lust, anger, envy or greed, He simply lovingly banishes misery from our lives, opens every prison grate, twisted latch or locked grip of grief in our mind and calls out from sickness. No further fear of death, decrepitude, the cruel, creeping dread from gnawing dreams of body and mind. No further beatings by the flood-crazed mob of insatiable senses or resenting and lamenting in the dark weeds of the cold lake of the the heavy heart. Midnight's ticking web of doubt, regret and every insoluble, craving greed of demeaning flesh and material mind are lifted and swept away. The mind's sealed vaults are opened, the dust and smoke blown clear in the heart, only blissful love for His beauty is singing, and we at last are released. How could one resent the Friend so willing to give from infinite treasures of peace and the eternal dawn of joyful relations? Yet we slink and we doubt, beaten into blinking, grunting mummies of dead dead desires by the brute repetitive strength of the dream that WE can control, so used to fear and lust for what we'll never have that we can only put the Lord aside Who has everything indeed. Swapping trust for lust, we cannot love him. Rather we resent His unsullied splendor and His effortless sway over all that is instead of holding for dear life to His glory and becoming greedy ONLY for His guidance and direction. Would not ships shattered by storms struggle for port, for harbor, and cling there for comfort and repair? Yet we'd rather the white waves and looming thunderheads, rudderless and leaking, the heart of the craft-- our souls's pistons--all out of time, because we're convinced that we can control our fate. We'd rather have our cheap, vanishing seconds, our puny pomp and strut of the dying flesh, the nerve ending's flicker, power and prestige raising their wagging finger with rolling eyes and ravenous, careless blurted words like heroin hounds howling for the next taste of the very stuff that stuns and enslaves. From beauty to sex to fame, for plan, wealth or post, we crave what disappears, as if we insist on the bitterness to follow. And we crave complaining most, for the mess we make of our stumbling lives. In these growing wild waves, our compass smashed, radio gone and sextant overboard, when we mutter in the shriek of the wind that WE can take control, we're sailing further and further away from the Source of our deliverance, sometimes so far that centuries must uncoil before we'll see Who is our Friend at last. While lifetimes tending this seething pile of dark desire's tangled weeds, all of them bitter and utterly useless, we'll deny ourselves the harvest of ultimate mercy, that very elixir of glorious golden grain that ends all pain. For those who crave no more than the chance to know and serve the Lord, Who is lasting home and beauty, the essence of all that satisfies forever, the height of all power, depth of all charm and love and breadth of all knowing, for these true friends the Lord shall give everything. Past any touch of selfish, doomed desire, past any chance of the dark's return, they shall be free. -Yamunacarya dasa, 1996
EPIC SOJOURN OF KING
by the Author of night and fire,
Composer of wind and heaving waters
and the delicate feet of rain,
or He who built each subtle level's brain?
Unknown to all who know better
or settle for loving less,
sold to none and sought by few,
He is the Glory of knowledge
that transcends all we see
and seeds eternity's engines.
How high the next less exalted field of thought,
trifling idly, perfecting doomed conjecture,
absurd beside His vast circles of completion?
We'll learn nothing near to Him
whose blissful glance in an instant
runs the sparkling maze of all our hesitant hearts.
So many struggle to know,
but who is willing to know
from the Source and endless springs of knowing?
What lyrical lunge
built the blunt, awesome, fathering oak,
the indefatigable ant,
the flying kick of antellope, a mother's infinite smile?
Unmoved by bodily faithless force,
this is the pure waterfall of spirit
that is and kindles knowledge'
the bottomless crystal of ultimate sight
that teaches us who we actually are
and Whom to serve and at last love.
Our bearings are sure at last
in relation to seas of bewildering stars,
for we gage our lives by His touch and standard.
The grief and self-inflicting dead-end daze
we've so long suffered from not knowinwg this,
the body's desperate blunders
in its heavy harness of habitual sludge,
and the maddened mind's indignant, misplaced eyes
are surely finished once we find again
this utter simplicity of self and contented peace
ultimately ours and finally us when the rash of clawing desires has no
nest left in our soul. This comes only from His mercy, because we have made the knowing He gives our only ached-for goal and our only guide and hope. We wish to love Him over all else and trust He'll give evreything we need, down to the last atom of detail. Then we cannot fail, ready for all and the worst-- the fevers, falls, disasters and the hearse.
All other calamities are cheapened
by the loss of this offered, purest, secret jewel
that blooms in the eager heart and mind,
where every word sows wonders
and every phrase fills lack with light
and soul learns the taste for eternal strength.
It is pure distilled awareness,
the full, final and freeing one.
There's no distortion here
from false or pompous pedagogues.
The Teacher is utterly pure.
We're granted sight of everything within
and thereby spared all illusions abroad.
And greatest of all its gifts,
and crown of His infinite mercy
is that, once attained by a humble heart
and the fertile fields of a sweetened mind,
this peak of understanding,
deathless as our newly sighted souls,
is ours beyond time,
now joyous, full and free to serve
the highest of endless Mercies
from which it kindly came.
12 November, 1998, the blessed Appearance Day
of our beloved spiritual master
by Dravida dasa -
Inspired by a Sanskrit poem by Sriman Kusakratha dasa
Holy is Your Name
Poem for Kierkegaard-
by Tirthaprada dasa
"I tell you, I would rather be a swineherd, understood by the swine, than a poet misunderstood by men."
God, why should I write another poem? It certainly will never get paid for on acceptance… Is it for the fame of a poet, Or for the adoration and distinction of being a pundit? Is it for the beauty of a giant Sequoia shrunk to a computer screen, Or the ego and majesty to climb to the top of Grants’s tree? Is it for the blood that turns in my veins like Mists Falls, Or for my two-year old crying, "Swing me high, Pits, Swing me high?" Is it for the degree of depth that steals away God’s mind, Or the superficiality of a flea diving off our cat’s pennyroyal? What dualities forced me to the surface at this moment- For cat burglars to be tortured and shot in the night? Ah, perhaps, I am getting closer, For it could be that I love questions more than answers, Or a word more than the new release of an epic comic book? Is is it just to show mastery over the word, Or I’m not going to be caught in the death throes of ignorance, Or drowned in the love for service on a higher plane? Maybe, just maybe, we should not overturn every silent stone, Leave the one way paths alone, or to only those who lust for power? But whatever competes with the cat’s purr Or ruffles her pentuphouse Frisco longhairs to quake and scream- Whatever shakes the fig somewhere from a lone banyan tree Has not forsaken me here and left me for dead in eternity. By Tirthaprada dasa
Articles / Articles #2 / Hearing and Chanting / Selections / Vani / Offerings / Current Events / Letters / Images / Sastra / News / Book Reviews / Vaisnava Art / Message Board /