The golden Flute

A sea of peace and joy and light
Beyond my reach I know.
In me the storm-tossed weeping night
Finds room to rage and flow.

I cry aloud, but all in vain —
I helpless, the earth unkind!
What soul of might can share my pain?
Death-dart alone I find.

A raft am I on the sea of Time,
My oars are washed away.
How can I hope to reach the Clime
Of God's eternal Day?

But hark!
I hear Thy golden Flute,
Its notes bring the Summit down.
Now safe am I, O Absolute!
Gone death!
Gone night's stark frown!

So that was my very first attempt — over 40 years ago. And this particular poem that I am going to read out is only three hours old. You will see the difference. You can call it either my most deplorable degradation and say that I have gone "downhill," or you can say that I have made progress in a different way.

There was a time
When the poet in me
Prayerfully desired to roam and roam
Inside my heart-garden.

The poet in me now sleeplessly cries
To clasp the flower-beauty
Of my heart-garden.

And before long, the poet in me
Will meditatively grow into
The nectar-fragrance-delight
Of my heart-garden.

Sri Chinmoy, Poetry: My Rainbow-Heart-Dreams, Perfection-Glory Press, Augsburg., 1993