Buddha always fascinated me. I find the transformation of Goutama into a Buddha intriguing. What happened? At the end of that strenuous journey of his, his penances, his trials, his longings to find answers to life's questions, his unwavering pursuit of Truth - what actually happened? Who knows! But I see him, in my mind's eye, poised at the door of whatever Truth was revealed to him - alone on that moonlit night. This poem is that picture.
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the pournami moon shines
a gentle breeze
a cool whispering movement
a pregnant night
the tree heads bathed in silver
in the silence
a wisp of fragrance
of parijata and jasmine
the devadaru and the red soil
a world, a canvas
- the grass and the bush
the molehill and the stone
the conscious world asleep, unconscious
cocooned in itself
there Goutama!
the seeker, alone
in the womb of the great peepal
wrapt in its rugged sinews
a man blended with earth's vapors
soft rustle mingled with breath
the locks matted and solid
a spider, a beetle resting in the folds
the care worn face! burnished bronze
eons etched in its lines
miseries carried in the arched brows
lips drawn - the question of life pulled taut
teeth bared in lifetimes lived
moonbeams glinting white
the long nailed fingers - tense, digging
unconscious, conscious!
the eyes!
part open, part shut
seeing not at all the world around
- no silver moon
- no swaying shadows
- no blades of kusa grass winking wet!
unaware, aware!
seeing in
seeking in
searing in
being in
probing in
deeper, longer
stiller, silent
standing on the lighted shores of the void
on the edge where nothing is everything
where everything is nothing
poised in the moment
poise is the moment
a stillness, a perfection
a non-thought
a brilliance, a clarity
a wisdom
the fingers un-tensed
the spine relaxed
the mind drained, the heart merged
the rainbow blended into white light
here the Buddha!
the pournami moon shines
the Buddha smiles
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