13th February, 2012
The eight-fold path of Astanga Yoga promises to take one closer and closer to the true self. But in my more practical experience, these are wonderful tools with which to make one's life simpler and more clear to oneself. As soon as one starts practising these tools , the results are apparent. Of course there is pain, as there is bound to be with change, but the beauty of this path is that one's relationship with pain changes as one moves forward. There is more respect for it and less denial of it. There is more acceptance and less running away. There is more clarity.
This is probably going to be my longest poem so far. It is not complete yet.
Simple steps but eight,
Lifetimes of learning unfurled,
Purple flames oscillate,
through the outer and the inner worlds.
Burning, bleaching, reducing,
Leading towards an entity,
Composed of nothing,
And yet all-encompassing.
Of life and time and beyond,
Of ideas not yet dawned.
A ladder of silken steps,
Slippery as they are strong,
Leading forward forever,
Floating on the breath’s song.
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First of the eight- the
yamasare a link,
Between what’s out,
and what’s within.
To clarify,
To understand,
To purify.
To embrace,
And,
to defy.
To see the subtle string of life,
That wraps one with the world,
Further beyond the face,
The birth, the time, the place,
Delving deeper,
To what’s underlying all.
The
yamas speak of non-violence.
which connects,
which lightens,
which burns.
Which sews a cloak of love,
Pacifying the pain,
Reaching beyond refrain,
Touching the troubled parts,
Of muddled minds and hearts,
To soften the sword of anger,
And the hurt that it spews forth,
An unsaid, unwritten oath,
Promised on one’s part.
The
yamas speak of truth.
Acts that mirror your words,
Words that mirror your thoughts,
A heart as free as a flying bird,
Freedom from what is not.
It connects,
It lightens,
It burns.
It clarifies to you your own self,
It dissipates that which is not,
It is the pillar, the light and the sieve,
In a world with impurity fraught.
The world within your withering shell,
That resonates with reels untrue,
Truth will set you free from this,
Revealing the real you.
The
yamas speak of not stealing.
For what is worth is with you,
Deep within your distraught shell,
If you will only care to listen,
It chimes as clear as a bell.
Lifetimes linger by,
Time enough to tinker with,
What you do stays strong,
What you have is the ego’s haul,
It’s what you do that moves you along.
To take that which is not one’s own,
In thought, or word or deed,
Is to pile up one’s plate,
With no actual abate,
With pain, and suffering and need.
It is to employ emptiness,
By gnawing away at greed.
The
yamas speak of abstinence.
A loose heart and a loose mind-
The slinking shadows of life,
The senses they play,
All night and all day,
In the garb of pleasure,
one swallows strife.
To remain an onlooker,
Who chooses carefully,
What enters his heart,
What captures his mind,
To the play of senses,
By choosing to be blind.
Storing one’s energies,
For higher quests and goals,
Freeing one’s spirit,
From the material hold,
One can move further,
closer,
deeper.
Like a still pendulum,
That has found its centre,
Like the lost child,
Who has gained,
the highest mentor.
The
yamas speak of non-hoarding.
To be content,
To be with the breath,
To savour the moment,
To transcend death.
Break loose the shackles,
That bind you to what you see,
Hold lightly the bonds,
That urge you to be.
For all that you see and hear,
Will filter through one day,
And content and calm,
In your nakedness you will lay.
Beauty will be forever yours,
In the mirror of time,
You will find yourself in eternity,
Your identity sublime.
----------------------------------------------------
The second of the eight- the
niyamas,
Are rules for oneself,
And oneself alone,
As clear as water,
As stable as stone.
To cease the ceaseless chatter,
Of a swinging, sweeping mind,
To delve into the abyss,
Of the unknown self and time.
To burn, to brighten, to bow,
And with light oneself endow.
The
niyamas speak of cleanliness.
Clean the clutter,
To make space for the pure,
Dust out the darkness,
Ignite the impure.
Ashes of ignorance,
Swept into spools of fear,
Clarify the clouded,
Question the term `dear’.
Release your raving mind,
From the cobwebs of time,
Shine in some light,
Bring in what’s bright,
Release and realign.
The
niyamas speak of contentment.
The fullness of a morsel,
Felt in its every grain,
The wetness of a downpour,
In every droplet of rain.
A heart that seeks no more,
Than it has or will see,
To be in the here and now,
Than in what has or what can be.
A palm that holds lightly,
Willing to give away,
Willing to transform,
to whatever is life’s way.
The
niyamas speak of penance.
Flashing flames of penance,
Fuelling your every thought,
Cleansing,
Filitering,
Burning,
All that with impurity fraught.
Towards a calmer mind,
Towards a giving hand,
Towards a smiling face,
Towards a flexible stand.
Burning through the ego’s
Bumbling game,
Burning through the needless,
Fear and shame,
Is the purer,
Clearer,
Self-ignited flame.
It leaves behind the ashes,
The remnants of a regal war,
The ghosts of a distant past,
Put to sleep at last.
Until one becomes a mirror,
for objects within and without,
An ocean of clarity,
With no room for self-doubt,
Baggage burnt away,
A silent sea at bay,
Silent, simple, pure,
With the power to endure.
The
niyamas speak of introspection.
A watchful, inner self,
Alert and alive,
To the known and the unknown,
To the seen and the unseen,
And to the senses five.
Looking inwards I know,
That it’s the world I see,
Everything lies within,
Where I am and where I was,
And tomorrow where I will be.
Perplexed puzzles of pain,
Swirling spills of sanity,
Curdled cobwebs of time,
And the sourness of vanity,
They all huddle from the light,
Hiding, haggling for another life,
But the self is sharp, and swift, and sound,
It brings them all under the knife.
The
niyamas speak of surrender.
The warm cloak of the infinite,
Covers my every pore,
It’s in my breath, my thoughts, my life,
It forms my very core.
To let go of the shackles,
That comfort and cloud my mind,
That deludes me into madness,
When sanity I’m trying to find.
To let go,
To the infinite,
To settle in its palm,
To lay down in its lap.
And like a gift,
Its every treasure,
With excitement unwrap.
Unknown to me the future remains,
Unknown as a dark, blue sea,
Its mysteries deep, its waves countless,
Stretching unto infinity.
I let go and breathe,
I let in the new,
With no reserve,
With no ado,
I trust,
I find,
I grow,
I see,
I become one with
Infinity.
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The third of the eight- asanas.
My body, my instrument,
To feel,
To do,
To undo.
Fragile but sentient,
A vehicle,
to carry me,
through.
Succulent shell, it houses,
My being, my breath, my life,
Often confused with the true self,
My source of freedom and strife.
Knots of awareness,
awoken,
A dead shell,
resurrected,
Flavours of life,
Fragile death,
my appetite for the truth,
Whetted.
Movements,
move into,
A dance towards clarity,
A ballet of awareness,
Mental alacrity.
The breath is the music,
Notes high and low,
In control,
Contented,
The body begins to flow.
Trangressing the temporary,
Into the infinite,
Lifetimes left behind,
Loosen and unwind,
Until bit, by bit,
You acquaint a clear mind.
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