Pilgrim Route - freewebs.com filePilgrim Route Poems by Ashok Niyogi © 2007, Ashok Niyogi All...

Pilgrim RoutePoems by Ashok Niyogi

Pilgrim RoutePoems by Ashok Niyogi

© 2007, Ashok NiyogiAll rights reserved.

Photo by Robert Kitay, Used with Permission.

Readers are granted the right to make copies of this collection of poems or any one poem under the following circumstances:

1. If you are creating a single physical copy for yourself.2. If the copies are used for an educational workshop or school.

Copying this collection or any part of this collection in circumstances other than the two listed above requires the written consent of Ashok Niyogi.

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Table of Contents

Fish ................................................................................................................................................4Rosary ............................................................................................................................................5Around the Bend............................................................................................................................6The Drama Before ......................................................................................................................... 7By Name .........................................................................................................................................8Enough ...........................................................................................................................................9Progress Report on My Meditation ............................................................................................. 10We are the Sun ............................................................................................................................. 12Lotus ............................................................................................................................................ 13

River in High Mountain .............................................................................................................. 14

Tonight ..........................................................................................................................................15

Late .............................................................................................................................................. 16

Glacier and a Mulberry Bush .......................................................................................................17

Conversation by the River ........................................................................................................... 18

In Lament .................................................................................................................................... 19

Her Lord ......................................................................................................................................20

Women by the River .................................................................................................................... 21

Lamps are Lit ...............................................................................................................................22

Rickshaw ......................................................................................................................................23

Moving On ...................................................................................................................................24

Fear ..............................................................................................................................................25

I Am Angry ...................................................................................................................................26

This Day Will Pass .......................................................................................................................27

About the Author .........................................................................................................................28

Pilgrim Route •Ashok Niyogi

Fish

the cage thinksit has imprisonedan imaginary birdthe bird thinksthe cage is make believe

such is comprehension

without herwe cannot quantifyhis grandeur

dazzled by the infinitewe standpupils magnificentopaque whiteeyelids don’t blink

now all is revealed

without himshe would hardly beload bearer for divinity

this is immersionwe dredge deepfor lake weedbearing algae for fish

our puddles stand exorcised

in the lake swimsa reflection of the sun

4 - Pilgrim Route •Ashok Niyogi

Pilgrim Route •Ashok Niyogi - 5

Rosary

Chanting with a rosaryslow deliberate monotonousthen the finger is franticand my mind runs awayto nail a few words to a cross.

Fractured throbbing lustHydra-headed like the pastencounters arid sand and parched nailsdeposited in folds of ancient skinintertwined mortality strains powerfullyat the purity of your name.

And then the spell is brokenI wander away with memories of hurtjuvenile revenge mitigated by fearof reprisal curiously mixed upwith overwhelming crueltyin the interlude beforeI am wanted and admired.

Like waves that run back in gleeinto an auditorium full of sinor logic that transcendsmy gazing at the open sealike a wide bodied whalebeached on middle-aged rock.

Back to chanting into my cowlsuch quaint patternsdroplets of spit and beads makeon my familiar middle-aged soul.

Around the Bend

Life was essentially the simplicityof throwing up clay pigeonsinto a nondescript sky,followed by a shot.Scattered clay,and no pattern preordained.

Of course, there were cucumber sandwicheswith the afternoon tea,periodic visits to whorehouseson the open sea,fashion shows and income tax woes,continuous endeavor for merger or acquisitionand disciplined effortsat propagation of the human race.

In the climbing of mountains,there were no mountains to conquer,just the periodic annoyancewith the inability to be free,a few isolated tearsin mountains of debris.

With religion rediscoveredat the last time share resort,along with vegan foodand masturbation in serious solitude,I have a well rounded personality,sharp edges no longer cut or shred.

I am wedto a cushion floatingon molecules of air,this is consciousnessas it were.



The Drama Before

on a white sunny daywe see in the distancea very small boystanding by a clotheslinefrom everyday

in the skyone dark grey cloudwalks across the suna bed sheet out to dryflaps aboutand wraps itself aroundthe little boy’s little headto compound darkness

momentarilyit is visceral darkit is before morningsalmon swim up and dieon the barn roof a cock crows

out of the boya bird flies up and awaya clockwork birdwith wheels and gearsnuts and bolts and wire mesh wingsof midnight fear

his tom-tombeats the heart of a skypregnant with forecast rainonce the cloud moves awayit will be sun again.

By Name

Not embellished by namenot molded into formbut from just below my nostrilswhere breathing startsI inhale some pollen grainthat tingles my nasal wallsin night’s last watchin the illumined companyof your name.

Specks and dots and crosseshyphenated multiplied at the rate ofsome inter-planetary alphabetin my cranial cavitywhere my third eye should bemotes in kaleidoscopic viscositywaft and wave about in aimless infinitythen settle down into the complete ecstasyof your form.

Opaque dazzling whitenessbetween eyelid and eyeballyour silhouette cross-leggedwith wild hair spewing phantomsonto a receding singularitybeyond name and formabsolutely consciousin the total delight of a storm.


Enough

No pedestrian supplicationFor faltering sexA new set of artificial teethOr warm affection genial companyBedsheet passionThe illusion of health and wealthAnd back-slapping wellnessAt golf.

Just the elevated callTo let grace fallThe indignant wantThat I blissfully chant.

Wordless with frightBirds take flight.



Progress Report on My Meditation

Every time I twist and prod and churnit is not ocean that I find,but your hazel eyes,as alive as they were in the Moscow snow,a decade ago.

You had told me that ocean beds are asheswhich rise when disturbedby the fury of a new found wind,you had promised to empty me,but there is so much you yetmoving back and forth between mid-morning sleepand afternoon sweat, there is much gaspingmuch wanting, much wandering unknown roads,much passing by your apartment doorwith unstamped travel documentand the green churning rodof a new born mendicant.

What alms will I get, when I am stillfrothing venom into my extinct cellular phoneand you back at your ‘Russian-English’,your vanity mirror gifted by me, your outdatedjewelry,stale flowers advancing into middle years,your holidays in Sochi with impoverished travelgroups,indefinite Armenian brandy and water melon fromAzerbaijan,and nothing that will ever go according to plan.

With my newfound friends, I sit and meditate,constant prayer cocooned in incense,reflection on after effects of lingering deathand being caged in catheters,refusing, at last, to take in anymore,of someone else’s blood;I will not be sedated, but there is yet themid-morning vision

of my confusion with names of Russian streetsthat I have left far behindwith the lurching Myitnaya auto-bus.

The timepiece on your TV set ticks away another day,I get well away from this obscenely throbbing, soggymess,sit down at my sterile corner with prayer beads,knock my knees and fuss.


We are the Sun

Awake with faculties intactassorted dreams interlacedwith hemlock and hymnstotal sleep as indeath with breathbut keenly consciousof intervening space.

In this space as in all othersat this time and before and beyondall is lightday and nightspectral and white and black.

Engulfed in our effulgencethe manifest and the unmanifestare like foothills asleepand mountains lit up by the sun.

We are the creatorlord and protectorwe seek refuge in the effulgenceof the one.


Lotus

The current is too stronghere the lotus does not bloom.

Lotus luminousthousand petalledlotus cool as the moonlotus untouchedwater fed water groomed.Here the lotus does not bloom.

lotus at your feetlotus for your seatlotus your crownlotus your scimitaryour proclaimed virtueredolent in shame-colored sin.

No dead flowerno laurel to winno swallow flyingout of memoryalive and thin.Reaching outFor the bend.

No the water does not stay.The mendicantclimbs out of the shadowsand walks away.



River in High Mountain

Outrageous riverRebelliously grapplesWith ordered banksRiver dancesWeaves into its musicWith bed and rockGurgles down an inclineAnd like realityLays baredTo the mountain sun.

Up the hillsidesAmidst pineIllusion lurksOver this riverInclined to delight.

I squint my midday squintAt this ribbon-riverFlowing trueAnd make sureThat eternity is water-tight.

Tonight

What is this questat which you hintwith every irregularityin the roundnessof my prayer beads?

Birdsong and cricketcolored pencil sketchesof flower and fruit.Is that whyYou string afreshYour lonely guitar?

Your sounds hintat some alien refrainyou comfort mewith sepia highlightsin leafy gladesof black and white.

Squirrels listenpast their bedtimenight birds hootand carry ondoing whatever it isthey usually do.

My prayer beadshave rough edgesand have acquiredimmunity to touch.So now I knowit is the nightof your lightyour white night.


Late

Insanely bothersometoday’s versionof my last will and testament.

For whom my frayed vestmentscharged with sepulchral fervormy talisman from TV shopthis fragile necklace of basil woodthat symbolizes premature widowhood?

And who will bear the loadof my rather verbose faiththat now critically restsin annotated holy books?

Let me at least clothe my feetin unsoiled virgin whiteclosely shave my underarmsand perpetually delinquent head.Now while you hold me tightlet me fight this urgent urgeto donate divinityto this passing day.

Which way to the taxi stop?

Take me to be pickledand hung upon that taxidermist’s wall.


Glacier and a Mulberry Bush

One last nagging wordand we will let this day pass.

Tomorrow in distressI will think up another phraseone more oblique wayto indicate I am freeat least for now.

Until the argumentturns upon itselfsuffocates and diesand silence flies.

To perchon that mulberry bushand let words fallfrom branches heavy with forbidden fruit.

These are bouldersbetween which glaciers flowprivate space we dare not trespassthis day will pass.


Conversation by the River

‘Look yonder.Your chariot awaits.Golden steedno more strainagainst their rein.Familiar charioteer,that smile in his eyes,on his lips.’

‘What is this music in my ear;do you also hear?’

‘The chorus beckons.This is your curtain call.Cymbals clash in complete lightdrums beat to delight,this music is made of sunlit notes.Hurry, bathe away all your nights,let the sky be your garment,embark on your journey to stars,to forever dwellin bliss.’

‘But this music sings otherwise.I am unshackled.I have no tears I have no fear.I need no incense no sandalwood,my fire is ash no smokeno sadness no joyI need no toy. I have coveredmy limbs with free wind,the sky is nothing if not with starand planet, I am not nothing,will never be,I am now pure and being pureI am not this I am not thisI am bliss, forever bliss.

‘So let the chariot wait no moreunharness the golden steed.’


In Lament

On the blackboard, neatly chalked,are the relics of some conceptsof tutorial living,from when we were young,

‘Memory breeds desire----for everything, evermore,possession is causefor wanting more,this will set in motionacceptable sleep patternsbetween life and deathand whatever thereafter.’

The devil was meticulous in his ways.

Now everything is power-pointand wanting is not really in fashionespecially after you possessyour bigger house and better car.Perfumed candles in a herbal bathafter spiritual calisthenics and vegan food.

Renunciation is today’s watchword.

But I am the eternal tutorial man,Petulantly, I ask,‘Wither went unmitigated lust?’


Her Lord

In the temple,the idol is still.Devoted are wavesin tumultuous unrest,on his left,his consort rests.

In a forest of abandoncarpet grass did once bearthe burden of her footfall.And then whenbranches touched lipshe had walked aloneas was his wont.In his armsshe was silent,even as her consortdanced to his flute.

Many a petaldid many gods showeras their chariotsrode the milky way;they had tarriedto see the incarnationat divine play.

Not much of moment,in this, no great import,just the giving up,the being still.

And all the while,we huff and puffwith human will.


Women by the River

Long back,before stars were born,this lazy riverflowed through another spatial worldby bathing-steps of sandstonethat was new.

Time had yet to start to tick,night was fragrant blue,the lord and his flutewere at water playwith village belles.

Now the river has walked awayhard at chatter on her cellular phone,the sandstone is weatheredby the gritty wind,the river bank left behindis coarse like adulterated cement.

And in the evening light,the women sit on weathered stone,pick at licefrom matted hair,and wistfully stareat distant boats and dirty toes.

The lord ponders over worldly woes.


Lamps are Lit

My marble idoltakes his evening constitutionalin a silver palanquinon sorry shouldersof malnourished assistant priests.

Fountains with rationed waterpoint gnarled fingersat the river that refused to stay attachedto a temple that would not changewith changing times.

It is not the time of the yearfor fresh flowers,but my lord will not invoke now,as he once did, eternal spring.So worship with wilted jasmineon an ochre string.

In the sanctum sanctorum,oil lamps have been lit,cymbals clash,and devotees must loudly clap and laugh.This is as it has always been.

I too grin,in apology of omitted sin.


Rickshaw

We pedal pilgrims to and fro,I have a rickshaw.I am the pilgrims’ charioteer,I am their hobbled horse,we ferry the devoutfrom temple to hotel to brothel….

I spice up pilgrimage with anecdote,I am the champion of the myth.I monitor avarice in fervorI am the devotees’ devout.

I am linked to priest and pimp,parking attendants and vote banksbehind overflowing garbage stands,I am the prince of caravanserai touts.

I negotiate with stray cattle,immigrant beggars and mutants,the hovering housefly in sweetmeat shops.

In all this, and in more,the pilgrim with me,is witness to the footprints of the lord.


Moving On

Flat landUp to the horizonAfter that what?

An earthquakeHappening nowBowels eruptWe will goWith the lava flow.

Until thenThe cold logicOf seismic shock.

Epidemic deathCompoundsA personal lossI claw upTransparent glassAnd tell myselfThis day will pass.


Fear

Every Delhi Saturdaybeggars invoke ‘Saturn Monarch’at traffic stops.

Passersby throw coins into tin bucketsin which the Monarch lurksbut the undercurrent is vicious.

Charity is propelled by mute fearthe malevolent beauty of the rings.

But in this CosmosI have seen angerin the eyes of monkeyshungry on a temple top.


I Am Angry

I am sure now.

In the new internationally acclaimed graded scalefor importance of human activity,after the two top positions of ‘making money’and the glorious spending this money,made or otherwise,is the importance of sleep,drug induced or otherwise.

Much lower down in the pecking order,are verbalizing and making love.Absolutely ridiculous is spiritual query,contemptuous, this pondering of life,forbidden, the contemplation of death.

In the last fortnight,a call-center cousin phoned me through the day,[starting ten a.m.]and, because I am not ‘gainfully employed’,kept checking whether he had disturbed my sleep.And my daughter, who is in Silicon Valley,called in the middle of my unsleepably hot IndianSunday,

I wake up at five, to meditate.Forgive them, Lord,they do not knowthat ‘gentlemen’, never did do,an honest day’s work.


This Day Will Pass

This weight on your chestwill go away,this day will pass.

Towards mid-morning,low clouds split,and we lit up to a sliver of sky.On fresh snow, children playwith dirty dogs on makeshift sleds.

Some mystery birdhops about your winter feet,looks up when you laugh,then looks away.

Across his bird eye vision,the snow is undulating,but still;his eyes say nothing, because he knowsthis day will pass.


About the Author


Ashok Niyogi is an Economics graduate from Presidency College, Calcutta. He made a career as an International Trader and has lived and worked in the Soviet Union, Europe and South East Asia in the ‘80s and ‘90s.

At 52, he has been retired for some years and has been cashew and timber farming, writing and traveling. He divides time between California, where his daughters live, Delhi and the Indian Himalayas.

He is increasingly involved in his personal spiritual quest and has undertaken serious study of scripture. He has published a book of poems, Tentatively, (iUniverse, Lincoln, NE, 1995) and has been extensively published in print and online magazines in the USA, UK, Australia and Canada. Numerous chapbooks of his poems have been published by SCARS Publications.

Ashok writes about life.

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