Madness

the world has a name
for everything
that is nameless
and formless;
a wild shot
piercing darkness,
to make sense
of the dark.

but darkness is not dark,
like wetness is not water.

and yet, madness
is the name given
to a wild
untamed heart,
drunk with
its own spirit,
so full of itself,
and an intense love
for all of life.

Endless Love

all she wanted was a place
to unwrap her long-folded heart
now bursting at its seams,
a place where her smiles lengthened
like warm shadows
growing and glowing
over a seamless, full-bloomed day;

all she wanted was a place
where she could walk or dance
unburdened, unleashed;
a place where her soles could kiss the soul
of a giving, affirming earth,
where her breath moved freely
through countless hidden pores,
for she was born out of endless breath;

all she wanted was a place
to die and give birth to herself
over and over again;
not for once stopping to hold
and change her course
seeded by a fickle will,
but to fill every nook and crevice
of wounded hearts with little room
for themselves and others;

all she wanted was a place
where she could stretch and spread
her unused wings into the vastness
of a wind-swept sky; for
you cannot bring the ocean to a river,
but you can call upon the unhewn wind
to fill an empty bottle or hollow reed
with formless, endless love.

Prayer Flags

the cold wind
stings and bites
into half-dead skin
ready now
to be shed
and blessed;
scars and wounds,
some healed, or
not healed -
chants of private grief,
framed in eternity.

memories and dreams
tied to
unwavering trees,
stories of pain
and longing
left untold still,
like silent prayer flags
dancing and riding
on the breath
of a fanning,
folding wind.

The Taj

and there she stood
like moon dust
in back light,
a demure bride
looking up
from behind
a veil
that doesn't
become her;
mesmerizing
hearts
that wander
and lust
after worldly things,
with her pure
fierce love;
they stand
before her -
stripped,
bewitched,
by her silent song
of love
resting
her hungry
wings.

Morning Song

sometimes
when I wake up
in the morning
and think of you,
your side of the bed
still feels warm;
sometimes
I run my fingers
over the old crinkles
on the sheet, and
I feel your breath
blow over
each trench,
like the wind
that cuts through
each accordion pleat,
filling up
the emptiness
with morning song.

When I Rest My Head....

when I rest my head
upon your chest,
I hear a butterfly
flap its wings
in a dance
on a gentle rose,
my being smiles,
and is lulled
into a stillness
that creeps up to me,
to hold me,
warm and close;



when I rest my head
upon your chest,
I nuzzle up to the hair
that holds my breath
and yours
for a moment,
my being sinks,
into the vortex
of emotions,
and I lose myself
only to find myself,
again and again;



when I rest my head
upon your chest,
I feel held within
the fragile, strong walls
of a safe nest
upon a tottering tree,
and I move
with the shifting ground -
rooted, as Life holds
and twirls me around
in a sacred dance
through fire.


when I rest my head
upon your chest,
I feel myself -
a child,
a woman,
and a man,
all at once -
in one breath.

we sat for a moment
on a cold bench,
wearing the Taj
in our hearts,
and then we met
in the white
of our eyes,
like thirsty pilgrims
drinking
from each others'
souls.

In the Quiet of the Morning....

in the quiet
of the morning,
when the world
is still asleep,
the taut skin
of a navy sky
ruptures
with ecstasy,
reminding
a half-open heart
of its sweet longing
for itself;
eyes now opened
with the salt
of a stinging passion,
where darkness
mates
with light.

Old Things

I love old things -
milestones of moments
frozen
inside moments,
used, bruised,
knocked around -
stories of survival
and resolve,
that sit now
by themselves,
on freshly painted walls,
and slow rocking chairs,
pickled in air-tight chests,
or seasoned like old wine
in dark forgotten closets;
suspended in moments
of holding their breath,
for that quiet celebration
by little hands -
where the lines
of the heart
and life,
are still being drawn.

DISTANCE

DISTANCE

Sometimes feels like that insipid horizon that never arrives; a road that is endless, lifeless, weary and often deserted, or a shimmering mirage that keeps us thirsting for that indescribable elixir that will quench our thirst for life.

Sometimes, it is walking on the edge of a ridge, a closeness that is filled with both a sweet anticipation, an unnerving thrill and a terrifying fear of wanting to take that next step into the dark.....the one step that can make us fall or fly, rooted in the knowing that we will be okay either way. 

It is that nameless, invisible longing that drives us to flow on no matter what... with the occasional pauses for a well-earned rest and the passionate bursts of a powerful life-force that we feel within, a never-ending dance of stillness and movement. 

It is an estimation, a judgement of what can be, based on what is, that comes from knowing deeply that there is that invisible hand and voice within holding us, pushing us, even when we are on the verge of giving up.

It is the 'space-less' space between the present and the future, that are both constantly changing and forever meeting....the river that journeys on through changing landscapes, not knowing how or where it is going to flow, but knowing that both its death and life lies in its merging with the vast ocean. 

It is the journey that we all make from an unfathomable beginning to a nameless, formless end - like the leaf that falls to the earth below, like the dew that vanishes with the rising sun, like the sand that is sifted and washed as it rests by the shores after a grueling journey downhill. 

Distance is the emptiness that is both full and empty at once; full of something both haunting and powerful, and yet empty of everything that is meaningless, a readiness to be filled up afresh over and over again. 

It is the pull of ocean tides that gives us a sense of timelessness; it is what drives the cosmos in an endless mysterious dance that we cannot even begin to understand; it is what moves us to build and breaks walls between people and nations; and gives us the room we need to nurture ourselves and grow with each other. 

It is what dreams are made of; the meeting ground beyond what is, for that magical rendezvous with ourselves and each other; the ground that allows the destruction of what is not needed, so that what is needed can flow in and through. 

It is the container that holds both the in-breath and out-breath that sustains all of life. It is a call to live life and meet death wholeheartedly, in every moment.

Knots

and I sat one night
with a ball of knots
trying in vain,
tugging
at elusive
loose ends,
until
I gave up
and saw
that every knot
was made from
the same string
that held them
in place.

Opium

wading
through darkness,
blinded by tears
that sting
her exposed innards,
she rests awhile
upon an empty sky
blackened
by the fires
of hate
that raged,
and ravaged
her womb;
all is taken now,
every scrap
of thought
consecrated
to memory;
her worn out eyes
close awhile
and remember
the primordial dance
of exploding stars;
as she lays her dreams
upon wayward clouds
beneath a new moon night,
and where solitude
is the opium
of her precious broken heart.

Growing in the Dark

I know
a little flower
who's taken years
to bloom,
she's ready now
to unfold
her creased petals;
weighed down
by darkness,
she still found
the space
to grow,
without light
and love.

Wings

I see a butterfly going higher than she can.

Fluttering up and toward a darkening cloud,

she dances around its shapeless border, her golden wing looks darker.

She hums, swishes her wings, pauses and pecks at the cloud…

a few drizzles from it, her wings get drenched.

She hovers to another part, doesn’t nudge it this time;  it feels so much colder.

She grabs with her wing, a holding space; and snuggles as the cloud wraps her in.

She peeps, pulls back in, peeps again and pulls back, quickly into the cloud;

the sights unfamiliar, the height dizzy, the air scentless.

Golden streaks fly off a bright day star; to her, it is melting honey.

Her frail body feels shivers of heat, wings dry in a trice.

She sways, makes her own path in moving cloud to cloud; Oh! What a dance.

She has strayed this far, away from the buds, flowers, barns and the woods,  
now, seeing nothing and shivering some more, she just keeps on, cloud to cloud. 

When in doubt, despair, in solitude, and when in peace, just close your eyes;

Watch her, see this beauty glide and cut through the cold air.
Up, up towards a cloud, towards somewhere, to maybe nowhere and yet, everywhere.
Watch her change as she hops clouds, drinks rain, chases the light, slides down a rainbow!

See her fears, her delight as she flits through shade and sunlight,

her courage, and her bigness despite her delicate form.

She makes me look beyond, and my life smiles!

~ Sowmya Sunderarajan

Listen to 'Wings' 

Sowmya is a rehab counselor during daylight 
and a life searcher through nightlight,
with solace from words.