A few poems


A few poems I wrote the other day. I just felt like writing, nothing more. 



How can a child repay its mother

            for bringing him up?

How can a disciple repay his spiritual mother

            for showing him his Guru?


Even a lifetime of gratitude

            would not be enough.


Since I am still a mother's child

            and do not have full strength in my heart,

I know I cannot yet offer

            a life complete of gratitude.


So I have resigned to writing poems.




Even if I do not know how to write,

            you let me write

Even the occasional

            beautiful thing.


You do so out of Your Compassion,

So that I may spend my time

            thinking of You

            and not my self.




How can I write anymore

            if the pen in my hand

Can only move by a Force within me?


It is not I who write;

Writing is not for a caveman like me.

Writing is for the devotee who,

            Even though he does not know anything

Still he wishes to worship You.





Once I tried to write a poem,

            But I decided there was nothing to write about.

You have already written Everything.

            Writing now would be

Like plucking a flower from a tree

            And offering it to You.



You Yourself made the flower,

You Yourself made the tree,

You Yourself made me.





You opened a bakery and let me play

            pretending I am the owner.

As the bread leavens,

            So Your expectations of me grow.


Yet when they flourish,

            I offer them to a customer

And forget

            That they were born for You.




Today as I meditated

            A stream of lines came.

As I hurriedly wrote them down

            My pride grew and I forgot:


I forgot that it is You who made me,

            You who woke me up,

            You who made for me a shrine in the world,

            You who made me meditate.

But you just *let* me write,

            And I feel all responsible.





A flower lasts only so much,

But not You.


If we use the most beautiful words

for the flowers,


Then what words shall I use for You?




Everybody speaks of a garland of gratitude.

I must be honest. I never made one.


Or at least, not one totally befitting You.

Therefore, I keep on writing.




Once I cried for You

Because I could not see You,

I could not feel You.

It was all needless tears.

You were there all the time,

Like the light inside my room.

I had only closed my eyes.