Editor’s note: The poet speaks of a light within. Finding that light within is an inner invocation of the Shakti that is the source of everything, is behind and within all and everything, which moves everything including all that may appear chaotic or destructive on the surface.
The Poet’s Note:
Sri Aurobindo says that Durga is the Mother’s power of protection. When I envisaged this poem Waves and frequencies, I had ‘Mate Durga’ in mind. The image of Durga has been an intrinsic part of our growing up years beginning with the vehicle she arrives on earth and her definitive victory over all the adverse forces.
In this poem, all that emerged from my subconscious as symbolic of winning those battles both within and in the external sphere. It is also, I believe, about Mother Durga’s Shakti — the energy which encompasses not only time, space and eons but also the tiniest creatures on this planet carrying within them the same fire. And all this coalesce in this exact moment and through these days of joyous worship of Navaratri, culminating in the Vijayadashmi. And we are all safe.
Read more by the poet in Renassiance
The lion with Durga on it is the symbol of the Divine Consciousness acting through a divinised physical-vital and vital-material force.~ Sri Aurobindo, CWSA, Vol. 32, p. 69
Waves and Frequencies
Lamps light up her darkening eyes
as she tramples the blueness of sea.
Her boat laden with fish and stars,
she arrives in all her new glory.
She rides a single wave,
cymbals clashing with timelessness
spread across dreams
of sea creatures and peace-keepers.
All day, harbingers of storms and fire,
brought news from another sky,
of seasons of seeding and harvests –
celebrating waxing moons,
death of Betelgeuse.
Planets as if dwarf – the word quickly spreads
riding with waves and frequencies
signalling from hearts of dragonflies, fairy tales.
The rabbit hops away from the dream.
A certain creature falls asleep
ensnared in the light of sorority –
bearing the “burden” still . . .
The same light sparkling waves exploding
in the face of all ships’ commerce and toil –
anchored in the ocean of Mars
with no mouths here to feed.
There is “no one” dying –
when rivers run dry
on rain-drenched nights,
the seas, they roar.
Dreamers make their escape swift
on yellow wings of lightnings.
In monochromatic stories,
accounts get lost, baroque;
the prevaricator now tight-lipped.
All dreamers’ tales turn deceptive
hidden from the gaze of third eyes
etched on stones and banks of beliefs.
All creatures made up of light,
only they do not know it.
Dragging their tails,
they run gathering momentum of flight
in shadows of lighthouses and melodies.
The night hatches back-stories
of winged stars, blueness of skies,
theories of relativity.
Mayflies, butterflies order
the continent to sleep;
turning moments to eternity . . .