- The Galleria
Poems by R Y Deshpande
Will This Flame...?
Will this flame hold in its intensity the whole burning Truth,
And the silver of the dew drink the sea’s deep tranquillity,
And the owl of the barn look through the telescope for the stars,
And the spoken word climb up to the snow-white silence,
And the rose of God seize in perfection’s smile the Infinite?
Will the little crying soul of man gather the distant Ungrasped,
And the heart of anguish surrender to the goddess of grace?
Will these faint dimensionless points merge in the Invisible,
And the moments clicking in Time’s tower bring in Eternity?
But then the sun became a million sparks in the dense night,
And they broke in happy songs of birds with blue-gold wings,
And the Immobile leaped into the laughter of hurrying streams,
And the mountains jumped up in joy to the companion moon,
And the moths disappeared in the flame lit by the Oneness-knower,
And the dreams glowed like subtle presences in stretches of sleep,
And the thermosystaltic modes of death beat in immortal love.
Then rains came down in ceaseless epiphany of the Unmanifest,
And the quarks of fire quivered in transparent pools of the Eye,
And the roar of the Bull went abroad like the unseizable sound.
Therefore, O virile Flame, beget thee many offspring of sacrifice,
Beget thee fish in sweet lucid waters of rivers, and corns in fields,
Beget thee silver-white ideas that soar like the ecstasy of the eagle,
And the will that burns under the roots of this giant tree of creation:
O thou unborn, fond child of earth and heaven, beget thee children.
The House of Idea
Now these birds reach the aeons of the beyond,
Like songs breaking he solitude of the mountains
Or triumphs ablaze on summits of puremost Thought;
Like calendars leaping into golden years
These ages open to the symbols of the New.
From rushing hearts of rapture flow the high hymns,
Above bright palms sway moods of the blue wind:
Across the wide quiet beaches of the Milky Way,
Where is heard no more the roar of Time’s sea,
These streams, these green fields, bear no vacant life;
But lifted high to regions of transparent peace
Many-hued sounds of the swift orbiting spheres
Bring to dream-spaces the superconscient’s sleep.
There in the house of idea resides the knower,
As does the illumining ray in the parent-sun,
And the flame-apocalypse burns in the All-splendid.