The Moment of Creation

You told him once that the Poetic Orb was geometrically perfect,

Drunk by the God’s of silence.

Aspiration flew upward to their vision far above,

In a world where formless Yogins rest self enraptured

By the torrents of original creation.

A colossal stillness rocks the Creation in its cradle

On the crown of their heads

They disappear. You told him that music ends

In silence and silence is creation. He yearned to merge

His subtle body in that solitary note-

Cascading down in golden waters

They received it below-

Dancing in their cupped fingers, they

merged it with their blood. In their next fall

To Earth they arose into living Gods of daylight

And silently scattered their creative rays.

Silence radiated downwards like a million suns.

He heard a cry below. He knew where the Above lead

But he could not fathom below. He could not reach

That crown tangled in the Sun.

You told him of sound that created the world of silence

Made from the very dust of that Original Beauty.

The whole world was enraptured inside Krishna’s laughter.

They sent it back unopened, those clay men below.

Clothed in horrid garment. You were already down below

But lived in all spheres, the new Christ fully risen

From the Supreme’s very own bow. You consoled him

When he could not reach the Abode of silence, written

On his soul. He was destined to rise to the silence and be wedded

To its veins. You are the new Christ fully risen, riding on Krishna’s chariot

Armed with a Sudarshana. With the brotherhood of Islam

With whirling dervish eyes

With the steed of Vivekananda

With the ocean of creative suns

At his finger tips awhirl.

He signed the pact and arose

To the living God of Flame. It embraced he was enfolded

In its universal love. And for one moment he too became a God.

He was lost on a wave of your singular love. Then he slipped from that sun

Fast fading in the dark.

A dizziness overcame him. A stupored stillness became him.

Cords grew in him, words implanted

That had never been there before.

He was suddenly formed into a horrid lump

Like some potter had made a grave mistake.

The cords that him to the Living God was snapped in his wake.

When he awoke more cords were being fashioned

And his poetry was bound by them

And their essences became a subtle communication

Bounded by his element. Not unbounded in the mystic

Senses. He felt pain for the very first time. They took

A knife to an organ and made an incision.

A stranger took him in her arms who was bound to him

By a thick cord. When it was snipped there were many cords

In unknown places tugging him to their destiny.

You told him later that the only way to know below is to be

Made of its substance and woven to its woe.

By: Arif Khan