The poetry room


by Maggi Liddchi, Niranjan Guha Roy, Deirdre Maguire, Sri Aurobindo
T he Psychic Being 

It is the inner wing that quivers undislodged by sorrow. 
It is the delicate thing that smiles untouched by joy. 
It is the shimmering undefined by colour, 
The song that cunningest throat can never even utter. 

It sheds its gladdest, strongest rays through total darkness; 
And by no darkness can it be extinguished. 

It walks on water, walks on air; 
Unlike the apple knows not how to fall. 
It seeks for nought nor lacks for ought. 
All lies within its calm dominion. 

Of all the myriad things in life it is the one 
To which it blithely can be said, 
"Tomorrow you'll be there." 

-Maggi Lidchi
T Lonely Flute 

In the hush of the soul listening, 
A deafening crash of cymbals announced 
The apocalyptic fall and final demise 
Of the moribund Asura, blind lord of this world of matter. 
Riotous winds shipped up the sea, a thousand violins 
In ecstasy, presto, crescendo, ripped the veil to ribbons 
Between the devotee and the dazzling splendour of Mahashakti. 
The waves gone mad, danced in frenzy, foamy hands lifted high, 
Thundering, a choir mingled with the voices of a hundred nations, 
A huge roaring cosmic harmony, an eruption of laughter, 
A volcanic outburst of soul's release from death and pain, 
A giant symphony of orchestras from the East and the West. 
Warriors on horseback descended galloping, brilliant, 
From the high plateau, the hooves clanging, ringing. 
In rhythm with a legion of timpani and drums, 
Trumpets striking terror into the guts of demon hordes 
Who infest the earth and feast on human misery. 
An entreating flute came floating from some Wonderland. 
Gods and angels, the Devil and his brood, man and beast, fish and fowl, 
Felt an irrestible charm invading their distinction. 
All barriers softly melted, revealing an eternal single Vibration. 
Om Douce Mere, Om Sri Aurobindo. 

-Niranjan Guha Roy
Listen, My Friend 

Listen, my friend- 
I've been wondering, 
if I could truly love 
an apple: 

not for its pungent whiteness 
  (guilded with 
  red or 
  yellow or 
as it meets the cut 
of knife 

nor for its winey-tartness 
as it stings my tongue 
to life 

not even for THAT 
which drove Cezanne 
to paint. 

Listen: if I could not 
love an apple 
  (or an otter 
  or a bee) 
simply because it IS . . . 
how then, my friend, 
could I love thee . . . ? 

-Deirdre Maguire

The poetic word is a vehicle of   the spirit, the chosen medium of the soul's self-expression, and any profound modification of the inner habit of the soul, its thought atmosphere, its way of seeing, its type of feeling, any change of the light in which it lives and the power of the breath which it breathes, greatening of its elevations or entry into deeper chambers of its self must reflect itself in a corresponding modification, changed intensity of light or power, inner greatening and deepening of the word which it has to use, and if there is no such change or if it is not sufficient for the new intention of the spirit, then there can be no living or no perfect self-expression. 

-Sri Aurobindo,
The Future Poetry, p 255
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