Hymn to the Teacher’s Wooden Sandals
To you, across endless illusion’s ocean
sailing as boats, devotion-inspiring shoes
leading souls into the realm of dispassion,
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
You, moonlight like on a visionary sea,
putting out rain-like the flames of misery,
healing the sorrows of them who bow to you,
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
For those who bow to you fear no poverty,
swiftly their spirit soars from rags to riches,
the speechless mute becomes the master speaker –
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
To you that bring closer the sweet lotus feet
while wiping away all confusion of mind,
you granting the hopes of the humbly prostrate,
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
That glow like a gem of the emperor’s crown,
that stand like a girl in a crocodile stream,
bestowers of royalty upon the bowed,
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
Your lineage is sunshine through darkness of sin,
the eagle that seizes the viper of pain,
the miracle flame that burns dullness away,
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
That foster the sixfold sublime mental state,
that initiate me to illuminate,
that bend the devotee to God’s mystic feet,
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
Fulfillers of dreams that in worship abide,
dispellers of burdens for all the three-eyed,
trustworthy and true purifiers of the mind,
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
You Garuda-like strike down vanity’s snakes
and let me of blissful dispassion partake,
awakening seekers who walk in your wake:
to you I bow, wood sandals of the teacher!
Octet to Durga Bhavani
Not parents, nor patron, nor donor, nor kinsman,
nor master, nor servant, nor daughter, nor scion,
nor spouse, education, vocation, profession –
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
Afraid and despondent in this sea of being,
I’m bound to the wheel of the infinite cycle
of pleasure, obsession and intoxication;
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
I don’t give donations, don’t do meditation,
I don’t practice tantra, cannot chant a mantra,
I’m not skilled at rituals, don’t do nyasa-yoga,
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
I’m not schooled in virtue, not much of a pilgrim,
I know not the methods of emancipation,
I know not devotion, nor renunciation,
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
Bad actions, bad circles, bad concepts, bad choices,
Bad glances, bad speeches, bad discharge of duties –
I’m guilty of every conceivable failure,
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
Sometimes I forget about Vishnu and Shiva,
the Sun God, the Moon God, and Brahma, and Indra,
And what of the others? I always forget them,
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
In squabbles, in madness, in sorrow, in travels,
in fire and in water, on mountains, in forests,
at home and in foe land, today and forever
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
I’m needy, I’m helpless, senile and decrepit,
I’m emaciated, impoverished, dull-faced,
I’m prey to misfortune, I’m as good as finished,
you are my sole refuge, sweet mother Bhavani!
Nirvana Sestet
Neither reason, nor thoughts, nor the ego am I,
Not the ears, nor the tongue, nor the nose, nor the eyes,
Neither ether nor earth, neither fire nor air:
Conscious bliss, holy form, I’m Shiva, I’m Shiva.
Not the life-force and not the five conduits of breath,
Seven humors of flesh, or the soul’s layers five,
Not the voice, not the limbs, not the anus, nor sex:
Conscious bliss, holy form, I’m Shiva, I’m Shiva.
Not for me hate and love, greed and madness aren’t mine,
Nor intoxication, nor is envy my lot,
Nor duty, gain, pleasure, nor release from rebirth:
Conscious bliss, holy form, I’m Shiva, I’m Shiva.
Neither virtue nor sin, neither wellness nor grief,
Neither temple, nor chant, the Vedas, sacrifice,
Neither food, nor the feast, nor the eater of it:
Conscious bliss, holy form, I’m Shiva, I’m Shiva.
Not for me fear of death or distinction of caste,
Father, mother and birth I have none that are mine,
One without kith or kin, teacher or disciple:
Conscious bliss, holy form, I’m Shiva, I’m Shiva.
I’m the shapeless, changeless, conscious, singular form,
Omnipresent, I’m both in the senses and not,
Neither free of the world nor aligned with the world,
Conscious bliss, holy form, I’m Shiva, I’m Shiva.
Adi Shankara (Shankaracharya), the great 8th-century Indian philosopher of Advaita Vedanta, was also a poet. A striking body of vivid spiritual poetry is attributed to him by tradition.
Philip Nikolayev the poet of Letters from Aldenderry (Salt) and other verse collections, has new volumes forthcoming from MadHat (USA) and Poetrywala (India) in 2018. He is coeditor-in-chief of FULCRUM, a serial anthology of poetry and criticism from throughout the English-speaking world.