Sai by Ann Scourgie

[Guest guest]

Sairam

 

A few poems by Ann Scourgie on Swami

 

Lalit

 

 

Now, I have seen my master. Not here

but among gilded domes and perpetually green trees.

He says: the only difference between us is,

I know I'm God, you just don't know it yet.

In that strong gentle presence, all wounds are healed.

 

 

Coming in to land

 

Landing in London there is chill fog.

We wait endlessly but no-one arrives.

I long for India, sun and bougainvillea,

jewelled saris and roses all year long.

 

Most of all, I miss Your physical form,

gliding gracefully over sand each morning

like an orange flame, barely touching ground,

omniscient eyes that see and act.

 

You come physically near me each day

but yet you are centred in eternity,

past and future, all the keys to our hearts

are wordlessly read, all comprehended.

 

You are silent, no words, no talk.

But I so miss your slender physical form

that bears our heavy load and lightens it.

No-one else could carry that burden.

 

One day we were hidden by children.

Suddenly You bent backwards and waved

as if to say: `You think I've forgotten

but I don't forget. I see you there.'

 

I'll remember that wonderful smile,

your compassion stretching to infinity.

Healing us, searching us, leading us on

to where you, teacher and friend, always are.

 

1992

 

 

Ashram

 

It was a difficult pilgrimage,

often I felt alone and frightened.

That first night in the vast shed,

lines of bodies criss-crossed by mosquito nets,

toilets far away and steps at night.

 

Huge crowds at darshan, we pushed

and scrambled to reach the inner sanctum.

"No Madame, you cannot come here, too full today."

Crowds of schoolchildren at half-term.

Suddenly He comes and the clouds lift.

 

He floats weightlessly, not of this world,

His robe burns like an orange flame.

One day I waited two hours in hot sun,

crowds in front had drifted away. I pushed

my wheelchair forward into the empty space.

 

Smiling and laughing, He appears from the side,

sun through black hair is incandescent blue.

He comes towards me, sweetest smile

in the world on His face, all love there.

Aura of His hair turns glowing pink.

 

I sat by my crippled friend, so anxious

to deliver the letter she'd received from her daughter.

We comforted each other, there on the ground.

I stared at His window, praying for her.

No one ever knows if He will take a letter or not.

 

He has returned from a tour, days spent away,

Delicate feet lightly stepping on sand,

He passes us, then wheels back,

questions my friend while He collects the letter.

Later I hug her as she sobs with joy.

 

He stares at me: "You here too?" the look says.

I smile back silently, happy for her

as He passes on, leaving her blissful.

This place can be one's heaven or hell,

everything you can know, you will know it here.

 

His presence is bliss, He'll lighten your load,

but the entrance to paradise is snagged

with barbed wire, teeth that can bite.

Tempers flare in this hot sun

but he is Siva, creator and destroyer who burns.

 

My last day, He comes directly across,

smiles with a look of recognition but no words.

He knows us all through and through, He says.

A last gift was given, its munificence astounds,

its true value unknown until my return home.

 

1993

 

 

Maya Mornings

 

I heard the cry of a night-owl in the summer garden,

and the soft sound of rain which soothes and protects,

reminding me of childhood's early Sunday mornings.

 

* * *

 

India was already hot in February this year,

sun glinting gold on the mandir at sunrise,

on the dragons, gryphons and elephants painted

blue, pink and white, all chanting the Lord's praise

in ecstatic stillness as He slowly moved among us.

 

Bhagavan Himself, gliding over sand,

dressed in his gown of orange, spreading benediction

to all His creatures on this vast earth.

How fortunate I am to have known these moments,

a tangible God who speaks in our own tongues.

 

* * *

 

I returned to winter in England, having left

the summerlands of Heaven. Snow began falling,

I watched flakes like large coins slowly

drift past my window, carpeting the ground in silence.

I wondered which was the dream, which the reality.

 

Nothing in this world is permanent or lasting.

I listened to the Lord's soft voice as he told us,

`You are not the body, you are the atma',

and the sound of the night-owl crying in the rain.

 

1994

 

atma --- divine essence, the highest principle in life

mandir --- temple

maya --- illusion, unreality, apparition

 

 

Earthly and Divine Love: Version 1

for Sai Baba

 

I've known the one kind all right,

making love ceaselessly through night and day

till you're too sated to concentrate on anything.

Sleep will close your eyes remorselessly,

in the middle of a play, on the beach at midday.

 

My days of honey were short, till arguments

crept in, hectoring voices raised.

But memory was so strong, it lasted

years after the sweet had inevitably soured.

Its aftermath was cruel, the ending then unknown.

 

* * *

 

This other love is incomparable.

A small man wearing an orange gown,

whose eyes burn into your heart and soul.

Electric black hair frames his face.

But that is only an earthly form.

 

What he is, is almost too vast to comprehend.

The kindly face, so near yet distant,

which can mislead you into thinking

of favourite uncles you wish you'd had,

or the kindest father you've ever known.

 

This love will never fail, Him or us.

He pours his nectar of sweetness into our cupped hands.

Why does he bother with us? I sometimes wonder.

Only God could have that unflagging patience,

swift to protect and rescue, against every odds.

 

This Sai, this Avatar, who can reform you

or shatter your ego in a million pieces,

whose love is endless and who never tires.

Descending to earth in a human shape,

come to change the world while there's still time.

 

1994

 

 

Earthly and Divine Love: Version 2

for Sai Baba

 

I've known the one kind all right

which comes like a disease, will not let you rest,

the mind constantly obsessed, like an aching tooth.

Sated and exhausted, you take refuge in sleep,

sinking your senses in silence and welcome oblivion.

 

My time of honey lasted fourteen days

till arguments crept in, hectoring voices were raised.

But memories were so strong it lasted years

long after the sweet had long since soured.

Bitter words repressed, unsaid hurts compounded.

 

* * *

 

I was led through many winding paths

through a maze of tortured days and nights.

But divine love is infinitely patient, never tires.

I recognised my master's words at once.

He expressed my deepest thoughts,

with an electric shock, I knew him.

 

This avatar, whose eyes look into infinity

while gazing deep within your deepest soul,

whose love never tires, exhausts or drains you,

who gives without stint, who is never bored,

but expects your love to the uttermost farthing.

 

Sometimes I'm tempted to forget him,

the path too rocky, I'll never achieve the best.

But He never leaves you, He's always there,

within you and without you, behind and before you,

urging you on to realize this dream.

 

1994

 

 

The Reluctant Traveller

 

I am a most reluctant traveller,

suitcase full of medicines and remedies,

ignoring injunctions to `travel light'.

Baggage from my past makes a heavy load,

weighing me down with unknown burdens.

 

 

PUTTAPARTHI (India)

 

Mandir shines blue, pink and gold in the sun.

We wait silently in our lines for Him.

Faces turn like flowers towards the sun as He comes,

His orange robe flickering like flame in the early morning.

His eyes see past and future before Him,

rearranging, restoring the balance of karma.

This is home at last, my road ends here.

 

1994-5

 

 

Journey

 

You won't find India's secrets in great cities,

in hotels of Taj Mahal splendour, rising upwards

amid packing-case dwellings thatched with straw.

At night, you see people crouching by flaring torches,

all their worldly goods around them.

 

In the `Garden City' of the south, I saw

a whole family riding pillion, perched

on a motorbike like acrobats in a circus.

There's a daily melee in the streets

that you have to be born into, or else not survive.

 

Stinging green of the paddy-fields, more vivid

than any green I've ever seen before.

Gentle bullocks, pulling carts full of coconuts

waiting to be chopped by the machete of the vendor

(How do all his fingers stay intact, I wonder.)

 

In the village endless kids come begging ---

bananas, chocolates, ballpoint pens.

It must be hard to see these foreigners

come with all their wealth --- watches, suitcases ---

riches they can only dream of.

 

With relief, I seek the sanctuary of the ashram,

withdrawing from the pace of that too vivid world.

There's a kind of life here unknown back home,

not hidden behind curtained windows.

I need to reflect again on why I'm here.

 

It's a long journey from yourself to yourself,

but I find I'm finally at peace here.

The aim of all my seeking is here before me.

I look deep into those eyes of infinity

that understand everything that was or will be.

 

1995

 

 

Darshan

 

India is always there with bougainvillea and roses,

even during our Januaries and dark days.

I smiled the first time I saw your face,

and the joy of that memory is always with me.

 

One shining day succeeded another,

memories blend seamlessly beyond time and space.

I only know I am happy there,

the sun so ceaselessly coming near.

 

My bed was three old mattresses on the floor,

piled one on top of another. Our washbasin

hung off the wall; despite its weight

didn't fall and crush our feet

 

* * *

 

He came to the end of His verandah one day

and stood near my wheelchair, a slender figure in red.

He was silhouetted against the sun behind him.

I was aware of His hands raised in blessing.

 

He remained for half a minute or more

while I could hardly believe my good fortune.

`That was a wonderful smile He gave you',

a kind friend said before departing for home.

 

* * *

 

Another time at a rugger-scrum darshan

(thousands had come from Madras to see Him)

He was always laughing as He continued giving out

portions of sweet rice to His eager children.

 

How we loved Him, and He fed on our love,

always generous, His patience never failed Him.

I was afraid He'd be toppled by the crowd,

but He just came back for more amid laughter --- Him and us.

 

* * *

 

Just before we left the attendants gave us

permission to sit on the ground in the front rows.

He gave me such mischievous looks as if to say:

`What are you doing, sitting in that peculiar place?'

 

A sense of intimacy remains, despite a cast of thousands.

I feel it still despite our winter climate and gray drizzle.

The greatest healer is love, burning beyond time and space.

Wherever I am, I'll keep that love in my heart.

 

1995

 

 

Grail

 

The grail is within ourselves,

not at the end of some distant rainbow.

It can take lifetimes of searching

for that elusive vein of pure gold.

 

* * *

 

In my early years, I loved green fields,

wind in the leaves by a brown river.

Picking cowslips for wine in a wartime spring,

then plums and damsons for our Kilner jars.

 

Later came London suburbs, little houses all alike

with cream-coloured paint and pale green doors.

Rattling carriages along the Northern line

home to mum every night and my small sister.

 

Paper-thin walls and monotonous days

as I thumped a reluctant typewriter in city offices.

My pain turned inwards as I struggled to conform.

On winter evenings, I watched the lamplighter in Birdcage Walk.

 

* * *

 

Joys were transitory: one summer at Avebury

living in an ancient house, I felt its arms surround me

like a dear friend I once knew. I loved guiding

curious crowds through an uneven maze of rooms.

 

There were happy years in the Georgian House,

my small office on the fourth floor with no lift.

Once a window cleaner descended past distributing leaflets,

`Heavenly Delivery Service', he said, as he moved on.

 

Making another fresh start, I came to this elegant city.

My tall windows looked on to a formal garden, goldfish in a pond.

That basement flat saw me twist and turn, freeze and burn.

My lover's words bit like corrosive acid into my soul.

 

* * *

 

Now, I have seen my master. Not here

but among gilded domes and perpetually green trees.

He says: the only difference between us is,

I know I'm God, you just don't know it yet.

In that strong gentle presence, all wounds are healed.

 

1995

 

 

Sunrise

 

Morning sun rises and glitters on golden spires.

At noonday, sand burns and blisters my feet.

At night, the temple shines like an illuminated ark.

I am a disciple of the guru who lives there,

 

Call Him God or what you will. My spirit

often falters in grey hours of early morning.

But he comes again at sunrise and the sky turns pink

spreading love across this universe once more.

 

1996

 

 

Avatar

 

Many times I have wanted to leave,

this refining process is too hard.

The familiar road is more comforting,

I feel weak and vulnerable here.

 

Each day, before dawn, I grope

through darkness and unfamiliarity,

praying for light which must come,

struggling with strange perspectives.

 

It has been raining, almost chill.

Strange in this tropical landscape,

where water is usually scarce, despite

luxuriant flowers and gleaming leaves.

 

I sit mesmerised by the spectacle,

watching women in saris, mothers

cradling sick children in their arms,

men hurrying by. I am content to watch.

 

I sit in my wheelchair, looking at Him.

He comes in, the great Doctor

on His rounds, healing the sick,

speaking to some. I am entranced.

 

Suddenly, He makes a detour,

comes over to me and smiles, that wonderful face

radiating mischief and compassion.

He knows all my secrets, useless to hide.

 

He looks deep into my eyes,

the beginning and end of all things.

What does He see as I look back

into those eyes that see beyond time?

 

Man in an orange robe on a wet day,

dancing to the sound of the universe, eliding

over wet slabs with effortless ease.

Who are you Lord, grounded here?

 

Loving us, teaching infinite compassion,

here to take us beyond existence,

out of this slow world of routine and habits,

beyond time and space, a limitless vista.

 

1996

 

 

Happy Christmas

 

Christmas cash tills are ringing

in supermarkets throughout the land

hailing glad tidings of profit and loss.

Unable to stand the din, I take flight.

 

On the birthday morning, we sing carols,

holding candles against the dark. Our sweet Sai,

dressed all in white, showers blessings on our heads,

come to redeem this troubled world of ours.

 

Here in India we sing `Hark the Herald Angels Sing'

and `Silent Night'. Moving this, sung

in His presence. For two days they hang

golden chains for our sake. Father Christmas smiles

down from the wall in benediction.

 

For this one special day of the year

wheelchairs get front row seats.

The band boys enter wearing red Xmas hats,

a jazz trumpeter sets everyone's toes tapping.

 

* * *

 

In the afternoon I phone home

to my husband left alone this year.

When I return, I've lost my place,

Sai is obscured round a corner. As if he

hears my thoughts, He appears before me.

 

His discourse reiterates the Unity of God,

the Wisdom behind disparate outer garments.

As the wonderful talk finishes, people

fly away like birds, migrating to an inner force.

 

We enter a packed hall. The stage is set.

He enters alone inspecting scenery and decor.

He is the great director of all things.

He wrote the script and knows the final ending.

He looks at me; my eyes meet His in blissful fusion.

 

I watch the dancing in a happy daze.

It's almost time to leave. On Boxing Day

He comes towards me smiling, His right arm

raised in blessing of protection. I can't stop

waving back, my heart full of gratitude and love.

 

1997

 

 

The Dance

 

Last night I danced with an Avatar,

alone in the ballroom of God. He held me

in His strong gentle arms, His eyes

burning to my very soul.

 

The boat is waiting, its silken wings furled.

He has come at this time of sorrow,

to redeem mankind, set them free.

All who can, set sail in the silver boat of God.

 

 

Flying to the Sun

 

In the early morning rain we make our escape,

flying over snowy wastes and mountains,

names you only read in newspapers or hear on the

news.

We fly over the sea and descend through ridged

clouds.

 

In the lavatory, I change into cotton dresses

that are cool. Tweed and wool are no longer

practical

in the low 90s. We hear it's minus 2

in the land we've so recently left behind.

 

India overwhelms and welcomes me again,

with its smells of camphor, sandalwood, curry.

Back to the land I never thought I'd visit,

full of dreadful tropical diseases and bad water.

 

I come for Him alone, and by His grace alone.

Allowing me to come here where someone like me

should never go. My mother said, 'You can't go

to that nasty dirty place. Knowing you, you'll

catch

 

every disease that's going.' My husband said:

'I can just about cope with you as you are,

but if you go there you'll just get worse.'

Against that barrage of negativity, I still came.

 

I return each year by His grace, my love

for Him deepens with passing time. I no longer

retire to write my journal when it's hot.

I'm too busy being there, feeling love for Him.

 

He melted my heart. Now I'll never be free.

Lord of the Universe, King of time,

who reverses and lays waste old preconceptions

with His divine smile and limitless love.

 

 

Sai

 

We sit on the floor in front of the beloved face.

Only He knows the reasons He brought us together

here.

A multifarious bunch of humans crushed together

in the Divine presence of God, or call Him what you

will.

 

His luminous eyes scan us all. I see them

flick over us in loving understanding. I am

against

the back wall like the first time, not near enough

to touch or hold His hand, or ask a question

audibly.

 

It's hard to frame words aright to Him who knows

all things from the beginning. He seems pleased

to see us here. 'Very happy, very happy', he says.

He appears to relax and talk about Himself. His

body has weighed

108 pounds for years (the names of God are 108).

 

'I never take a holiday', he says to a young

hitchhiker.

'I never stop working, day after day.' Everything

here is organized

by Him - the rooms we get, people we meet.

All part of an encompassing plan unguessed by us.

 

His eyes are translucent or sometimes soft brown,

the irises flashing white against the dark pupils.

He has become even more like Krishna since last I

was here.

We gaze at each other locked in perfect intimacy

and love.

 

 

The Letter

 

Kneeling at your feet, I offer my letter

spelling out the grief and pain of twenty years.

I'm asking you to take it from me, dissolve karma,

give me back my life, lighten my burden.

 

You come close to me, I can see the lines

on your dear face. Your eyes meet mine,

not judging me, just dissolving me, like

the squares on a television screen when analysing

colours.

 

I know I recognise you, as you recognise me

from how many lifetimes of infinity

I can't pretend to know. Our eyes join and

it's like looking into the eyes of an old friend,

 

one you've always known, the reasoning mind

doesn't know where, or how many times, before.

You pause before me but do not take it from me.

Your eyes rake me from head to toe,

 

seeing what, I can only guess.

The letter was offered, but whether accepted

or rejected, I do not know, from this small

punctuation mark in time.

 

 

The Divine Flute

 

Strains of a sarod remind me of the first time

I heard Indian music. The divine flute

echoed in my cockleshell ears,

and I never wanted to lose the sound.

 

I went back to an empty flat, its silence welcome,

not knowing then that the flute is Krishna's

instrument,

though I loved my torn poster that showed

the divine pair in the garden of delights.

 

Finally the paper ripped, leaving a white patch

in a sea of grey over the radiator,

till I replaced it with your photograph,

and saw I'd found the blueprint of all past images.

 

 

Solstice Wind

 

I can barely see my hand before

my face. Yet it is midday.

I turn on all the lights in an effort

to beat the premature dusk.

 

Days draw by to the end of the year.

Soon I will fly away again

to golden sun and warmth,

to the place where God treads the earth.

 

 

Darshan

 

We sit in the hot afternoon

hour upon hour waiting for Him.

Girls like flowers,

mothers carrying deformed children,

many still hoping against hope

for freedom from enchainment

of one kind or another.

Under the green and gold ceiling

grilles at His windows protect

from too much seeing.

Birds and monkeys are frequent visitors

coming through open windows and doors.

A woman with a long pole shoos

them away - a fruitless task.

Birds join in the morning singing.

He welcomes all to His temple,

children and animals, folk, all are His.

Sai Baba, man or God?

The wise one never knows.

 

 

Sai Baba

 

I watch Him as He walks away,

a solitary figure in a red gown.

Does God ever feel lonely

here in a human vesture?

 

Or is He always in a state of bliss

unfettered by the things we humans feel?

Sometimes I'd just like to hug him,

most unacceptable I'm sure.

 

His body seems a little bowed

with burdens beyond our imagination.

I can sit for hours on the ground waiting.

Who else could teach me that patience?

 

The smile He gave me when He came near

was full of love and wisdom.

Another time early on I tried to smile

but He remained stern as Shiva.

 

And then once I was almost alone

in the wheelchair line. `He'll ignore me',

because earlier He had. Instead

He ignored the others, looking at me.

 

With those searching eyes

He seems to rearrange the atoms

in these frail human personalities.

His phenomenal patience can only be divine.

 

 

In the Patients' Line

 

I've waited hours in the heat

hardly noticing the hard ground,

as if time were suspended.

 

Infinitely old, infinitely new.

You smile at me with

the wisdom of ages and sages.

 

I wish I could imprint a photograph

of that smile I could tune to at will.

You were here before I was born.

 

It doesn't matter what people say about you,

you are That, loving and eternal.

Here, I am always renewed.

 

My fears, so huge, become nothing

in the power of your smile,

in your dazzling look.

 

 

Coming down to earth

 

We fly over clouds like snowfields

in bright sunshine.

Gradually the plane starts to descend,

the pull of gravity brings us down.

 

Yet the distance indicator says we're

still miles from our final destination.

My mind's eye is still dazzled

by jewelled saris, curry and coconuts.

 

We land, and everything seems grey.

The March cold outside

hits my body like a sledgehammer.

 

I feel like a displaced person.

I was born here yet feel a stranger,

the warm land far away seems nearer.