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The outer world of the self starts disintegrating inwards as one slowly wades through these verses. Grammar and syntax and words themselves begin to fall apart leading the senses on a journey of inwardness. The little child in the big man starts giggling. The beardless face of a little soul begins to emerge from the shards of a broken self. The soul begins to whisper. All one has to do is to allow these experiences to seep inwards without meaning without effort. History and mystery vibrate in union. Sound and sense space each other out of being. Only the soul begins to unlearn on its own.
I may, at times, lose ground,
Glide and float through the celestial space
Below and beyond the arrogant clouds,
Fly up heaven over the seas
And above human civilizations!
Below the silky clouds I could see the bygone
Empires, dynasties and their ruins
Clouded with pride and greed.
From above the silky clouds
They all disappear as if they were not there at all!
There is a distinct a-historically discontinuous line of poetry that runs from immemorial days of human kind and that surfaces occasionally to visibility in the works of spiritual seekers like a St John of the Cross, Jalal-ud-din-Rumi, Maharshi Ramana and a few such. Santhi's poetic lineage fashions itself in this invisible tradition. He doesn't write poetry as happening; neither does he compose verses for didactic purposes. His is a lineage of spontaneity. As one lone poet wrote once a long time ago: if poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all! The poet of Soul Whispers certainly seems to comprehend this. Here are the efforts of a blissful, awakened mind. The freshness and spontaneity are what touches one at the very outset. In the end all words leave with a valediction, and the sahrdaya is left alone!
From Review by Dr. S. Murli is a poet, painter and critic - a specialist in Indian Aesthetics. Is presently Professor of English at Pondicherry University. smurals@gmail.com
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