The day was a passing Epiphany, a poem being unrolled. I am enjoying the easy-go-lucky -time of Summer Holidays.
Morning was a mystic poem—a sonata of celestial colors. Monks rowed across the sky in sparkling splendor. I thank God Jesus for all the blessings given. The son rose as a poet reciting a verse.
I have started reading the Gospel of Mark and I came across the incident where a woman who had an issue of blood touched the garments of Jesus and was healed. Jesus on realizing some energy had gone out of him asked who had touched him. The woman replied it is she. Then Jesus blessed her.
My writing has led to the discovery of the self and I want to harmonize my fictional self with the real self.
I recall the words of Christ—if you honor me: the Father in heaven will honor you.
Lord Jehovah Jesus: Yes what I yes on earth in Heaven.
I rejoice as the Prodigal Son who has returned to the Father and whom the Father Forgave and accepted without any conditions.
Lord Jehovah Jesus: windfall my purse with a gain of 20000 Rupees today. My wallet has become dry. Water it with a good some of money.
My thoughts are drifting to two art movements in History: Romanticism and Imagism.
Romanticism according to William Wordsworth is the spontaneous overflow of feeling. Sight, Smell, taste and touch become tropoligized into aesthetic artifacts. Romanticism is a poetic sensibility, the art of transforming into a ritual of poetic beauty. Has romanticism become decadent? Romanticism is an art to appreciate nature. Here is a romantic epiphany. Dawn Started Moving with the lovers communing; colors nuzzling fawns, surging tourbillion glowing passion; eternity flies as Sadhus (birds) in white, unveiling time on mystic flight; brook of beauty running through gurgling moksha (salvation) all the way through; swaying pebbles glistening karmic odes, samsara (cycle of rebirth) meanders pilgrimage blues; beyond mundane life of aching pain and deadly strife, Heraclitus is moving from flux to feeling.
Another art movement that fascinated me is Imagism founded by Eliot. He defined imagism as an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time. Words in imagism become poetic ornaments. Some examples of Imagism are: The eye of the night shone in mystic glory. Poems gently float across the sky. I played the guitar on her body. Psyche, you beautiful ornament, you are an epiphany in rendition. Rain in Kerala is the heart of monsoon. I poured ecstasy into her body. Memory is a photograph in the album of the mind. Waves in the sky rolled like a hyperbole. I submerged in her lake of passion. The unconscious is an odyssey of the mind. Beauty blooms in a color. Echo is music of the earth. Art is the music of making love.
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.
You are ….
Of the plough ….
Of art and
It was a machine that picked the draws for the Lottery. Someone said that mind can influence matter and others said chanting mantras would be enough. So I tried hocuspockusabracadabra but nothing came out of it. Then I tried the law of attraction and then again it met with misfortune. Then I tried programming my subconscious mind and again it was of no avail. I felt like an ironic bum. Lottery, you burn a hole in my pocket.
Though art a giver
Of all Mastery
As Art and Craft—
A legacy so
In the ruler and the compass—
The G an opera
For God and Geometry—
Give me fortune’s
Nourish in me
Your art and craft
And perfect my
Ways to a sublime
A Surreal beauty—
The All Seeing Eye—
The EYE that gazes
Prosperity’s ’ Worth—
The Unfinished Pyramid?
A wish to secrete finances
To a bounty.
As a Mystic Saint;
The sky is a
A stained glass
Of lyrical poetry;
Muses float in the sky—
Their dance a
Rhythm of pulchritude—
Beauty lies as an oasis
I watch the even fade
I savored the beauty of the sunrise with a mystic passion. I heard the chirps and tweets of birds singing a fond lullaby.
I took an English Class for the 8th graders, the story being 6 Napoleons by Sherlock Holmes. I am not a big fan of pulp fiction, but I enjoyed the plotting of the story. Conan Doyle is a master of storytelling. In the story we find the busts of Napoleons being broken to rubble. Then we come to understand that it is the work of an escaped convict who had placed a priceless pearl in one of those busts. Sherlock Holmes discovers that the 6th Napoleon is to be burgled and makes a plan to catch the intruder. The robber is caught and Holmes smashes the head of the bust to recover the valuable pearl.
I read the Bible and in it the Story of Moses. Moses was born at a time when the Pharaoh persecuted the Jews and ordered that all the male children be beheaded. When Moses was a baby, his mother put him in a reed basket and placed him in the Nile. When the Pharaoh’s daughter saw the basket, she asked her maid to fetch it. She adopted the baby as her own son. The mother of Moses was called to look after her own son. When Moses was a young man, he saw an Egyptian hitting a Jew and then in a fit of anger, he killed him. When the Pharaoh found it out, Moses had to flee to Midian. There he married a Priest’s Daughter.
Frills of tweets woke me up to a pleasant day. The day passed on without anything much happening in my life.
I am having no luck with windfalls after all the prayers I have made.
I have started reading Kierkegaard’s Philosophical Fragments, but I have reached only its preface.
I have coined some metonymies
A congregation of Pens met at the resort. A Pen was crowned as the monarch of writing. The fruit of democracy is love, peace and joy. The head resigned and the others followed. Many mouths of the organization spoiled it. The herd grazed in Green pastures. The flock swam as a poem in the sky. The muse is writing poetry. A chorus started howling. Oh Pen, yield thy art to me. The cards played a game of Rummy. The cup drank a lot of whisky. His body was covered with wool. Time moved on dials. She wore the ornament of beauty. The honey he carried in his purse is new. The bum roared with ecstasy. The flower palace blossomed with many hues. Feathers plucked the guitar. Devil is a serpent of all lies. I played on her fan and drove her to ecstasy. A dramaturge cheered the sky. Heaven’s persona: you are wonderful in my sight. Her body is a mystical island. His words were a tasty tongue. The soul is the music of emotion. Love is a soaring bird. I have tried to woo a tulip but it did not yield. Life has gone out of the body. The biceps are doing a workout.