Devdoot hopes a change
Birds, strange are the ways of the world!
Heidegger said we don’t get to think; they come to us… And when you feel the Logos, the beginning word of the universe whispering a vibration, what can you do? You express yourself, sometimes singing, sometimes writing or drawing, a little differently than your brothers who think what they receive with his education as an engineer or lawyer. You, the writer, are the chronicler of your time. Thus, Sudhakar Gaidhani is involved in observing, analyzing and reacting according to his conscience. A fable captures mostly flaws, vices and substitutes them for the angelic conceptions of a veteran bird in years and experiences. Old, wounded she brings the poet the memories of an entire life. Wisdom dominates and his last words are to be shared the knowledge of his sisters, like the village old man who gathers young people around to reveal himself, like Jesus preaching on the mountain to his disciples. Jesus said: I am the Light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life (John 8:12). Bhagavad Gita in Chapter 5 showed that the darkness of the soul is pursued by light, shining in the manifestation of truth if the sun of wisdom rises to reverse its dawn protection: He still meditates, He seeks, together with the remaining mixture in Him, enlightened souls whose paths are not meant to turn. So the secret fire we observe between Kundalini, Kabnal and Alchemy is the central part, which prepares the middle pillar of the sefirotic tree embraced by wisdom like the oriental practices of Chi Kung, Indian Tantrum or Tibetan Vajrayana yoga. This brilliant force of energy forcing the path from the soles of the feet to the vertex of the head, like a spray along the edges of the aura is precisely the link known as the elixir detached from the body to the infinite reflex arcs and which always returns beneficially to the feet. Devdoot still has the power to know his role and mission:
And I can hide this earth
under my outstretched wings;
This cyclic image is repeated several times in the same way as the spiraling of the body – vehicle to penetrate the steps of the universal soul, from bell to bell, successive heavens that encapsulate the spheres in cubes and cubes in the pyramids, the matrix of the great divine eicosaedru. “A grandfather begins his story of the great wounded bird, and perhaps for the last time, by nausing the experiences of life and teaching his followers,
always, always, I will act as you taught me;
I will test the virtue of my language
before I ever speak;
your sayings will be royal edicts;
I will have a wise poet
discussing every word of yours;
I’ll have him sing
a song about your life,
all your dear teachings.
I’ll act as I speak
but if I stumble
by any inconvenient truth
I’ll use ruses –
how can I perfect my behavior otherwise? “.
It was not the prizes and performance of the great Indian poet, identifying with Devdoot, that convinced me to make this wonderful work known to Romanian readers. Reading, I was impressed by the force of the lyrics chained in successive scenes apparently treated as a story but which stir the reader’s soul. Everyone wants to know the author’s almost revolutionary involvement in the perception of contemporary reality. What it was will be, and Devdoot hopes a change. It is the testament of the ancient sages that many no longer find their place in heaven or on earth.
Here’s life, friends,
enclosed in a warm skin with blood,
Sometimes like a flower that blooms on a ram,
sometimes like a kite that happily floats
in the distant heavens.
Suddenly the thread breaks
and the kite is alone, liberated.
Friends, life is a bud
that deepens shadow with shadow.
Friends, life is a flower
that blooms, but it also vestiges.
A bud turns into petals,
petals turn into flowers.
And so always. That’s how I fell in love with this giant bird. Some thoughts, although the speech is cursive, may have been mitigated by two translations. I never accepted that for the sake of rhyme I would distort the idea. That is why I believe that a good translation of poetry can only be done by a poet doubled by a master of knowledge. God bless the poets. The angel says:
To this day I cherish in my wings
the eyes of Christ
and the smile of Buddha
That’s why this sea has made me captive.
Fallen on an island, the magical island of The Blessed in Greek antiquity or that of Euthanasius, the angel gives himself to eternity.
It is the poets who bring a breath of freedom, courage, disregard for standards, have understood and explained the system of functioning of life and the universe, the cosmos in which life and thought manifest themselves. “A living and unmeasurable poem is the size of a philosophical system” – wrote N.Steinhardt and continued: “The truth is that at the foundation of the poem lies a talmes-balm, a pot, a kind of primordial soup in which it enters the wave and imagine and the hubris and the humility and the feeling and the knowledge and the intuition and the metaphysics and the precision and the orlocity and the intelligence and… and…”. Maybe we’re birds who haven’t been able to cut off the tip of their wings, too. Some of them marked us with paint stains or recorded in gold cages. But contrary to this too common typology our refuge turned out to be in the poets. Here we found the solution and the right expression, the holiness and humility, the consolation against the indomitability, the cold and the worries, the hideousness of obsessions that we cannot yet escape, neither through work nor through hope, but through a perpetual integration into art.
So count your feathers in the dark,
sp in your beaks
rubbing them against each other
and letting the night pass
don’t upset the light day
with your beaks
for the night will quickly return.
The diverse theme is approached metaphorically but also neorealistically, not trying to hide either the past or the present:
Each cloud like teary eyes
rushing towards a life-relaxed;
this country, elder witness,
who recounts in the night fascinating stories
that probe the wombwhile while ensuring their pleasure:
such things, you say,
should be guarded like a cornered plag.
God is everywhere and in us, as we are in places of suffering, of mockery and demeaning, or modestly in the places of the Last. In our hearts lies the magus, the poesia. Here is the form by which we can travel to Him. We touched in our travels, paradoxically, that beyond, without space and time, and placed it in the lyrics.
It’s a valley of tyrants where
all hell has been unleashed and there
where there is a war – a real forest fire –
while the waves that heat me in chains
sin free with the shore.
Whoever lived in the world of the gods for a moment understands the meaning of this world. But for all this, peace is needed. And peace can be achieved through the Word. Rows, lines, our words lay down and transmit axperients of the atma, fragments of spirit in the fleeting world. “A book is made of signs that speak of other signs, which, in turn, speak of things. Without an eye to read them, a book bears signs that do not produce concepts and therefore is mute” – writes Umberto Eco, and therefore our purpose is to find a way of understanding for the salvation of the soul and mind of those who listen to and read us, for what we writers portray in the Great Journey, too high for anyone to believe that he has been absent for a moment from the creative workshop, is also a magical palace, encoded, encrypted, in the cipher of human greatness.
“It’s my land to the hedge”
“Yes, it starts from the stones” –
with such imaginary lines
mark the earth I own.
Think of the left arm and the right arm
that divide the body between them.
Arguments, therefore, equally vain seem.
For land ownership, people struggle. And the earth just looks amused. The writer cannot, therefore, remain indifferent to the abuses of powers in a state, even by law, takes a stand in favour of those around, oppressed and knowingly impoverished in order to be able to control them. It’s not good, it wasn’t and it won’t be for licks, acolytes and profiteers, unfortunately there are plenty of them among us.
The benevolent cataclysmic forces
of the universe have broken out
shaking all that is fast or dead.
The sun, full of stars
trembles, looking for alms,
with its skyline beggar bowl
at the gentle gate of the evening.
This is where the subconscious comes in, the true nature of the poet, equivocal. If we live in the midst of climate change- a political world being in a third, virtual and exponential war at the same time, with politicians destroying their own countries and peoples, what could literature be like? The poet in the name of the angel addresses the young:
I hope you are not such fighters,
such as the horses that graz
the trembling grass of the gossip of war,
fantasy, and suddenly, a change of place.
I hope your habits are not
of a country with dictatorial rule,
where the sword deviates from war
only because of the wrong opportunity
the loss of a piece of the cow when the war is in full swing,
as always through a war diary written by those in the fire or from an ivory tower. Literature remains divided between gangs of interest and not doctrinal, between the value and non-value present predominantly in contemporaryity, accessing pro domo samples of friends and interests, throwing itself from the frontier of the third millennium and is no longer the reflection of dreams, is no longer objective or subjective, vis-à-vis experiences. But, fine observer, Gaidhani writes:
You, who can distinguish
a bird from a nest,
why don’t my eardrums vibrate,
why can’t I hear the painful chirping
of birds that can’t find their mother?
How is it that the spirit
that runs through the five elements
has become completely deaf?
Or is it impossible –
resurrection of new angels?
Any small crisis leads to a socio-psycho-spiritual change of the whole. Our dependence on the assurance of living conditions has been presented since ancient times, the culture as a whole belonging mainly to the human factors of civilization, described in the Egyptian papyrus, the Old Testament, the Sumerian, Chinese, Indian and more recently in the Greco-Roman or Mayan ones. If, after a wonderful age of literary baths of the last centuries on the neurons of mankind, we feel a state of laziness, of numbness of the senses, of renewal (to continue the metaphor), the only explanation is the powerlessness felt in the face of poverty and material hunger. My opinion is that literature is not in crisis, qualitatively speaking. It only captures socio-human changes and, as it will always decant over time. One such chronicler is the author of this:
Of course, the rains fall every year
to satisfy their own whim,
but in the process the rivers flood with rage,
and the villages cling to the earth
are washed, powerless trotting
like goats in sacrifice
to appease the rain of the gods.
And, along with the drowned life,
are the cows scattered, biting,
with the plucked
from the mouths of the calves.
The gift of godliness helps me to show my awe for divinity and to respect others because they are, like me, children of God. In this way the gift of godliness perfects in us the virtue of righteousness, helping us to fulfill our obligations to creation and to our neighbor, a fact recorded by St. Paul in his apostolic messages; we keep the commandments not simply because they are commandments but because of love for the universe that governs our lives and for the other beings we live in.
During the ice storm, the other day,
the wind destroyed my shack,
and the lamp that flickered ‘and all,
landed on the master’s mansion
I then rushed and prayed:
“Father, Mother, be mercy,
Please give me my hut”.
In response, he said:
keep the one who finds it, t
he one who finds it will keep it.
And as his more intense laughter became
the floor of the mansion was engulfed in fire.
The social involvement of the angel is felt in numerous fragments, often associating with natural catastrophes. Behold:
Not even the sky can reap
gold scattered revoltingly
by the sun on the edges of the clouds.
From the dust the bread is breaded, yes.
but no matter how hungry you are,
you cannot eat dust or an excellent ass,
every season reaches
the age of old age in its sap.
A hungry austerity
will not give birth to liberation dear, my.
O, stand among the penitent,
rains do not fall from a dry sky,
and when the stem is dehydrated
buds will not bloom.
I was also impressed by the extraordinary force of the association of metaphor with the surrealism of modern poets. So the poet is a notorious representative of the lyric of the present. An example is the following verses:
Thus, one day when I had gone hunting,
my feet led my body
to a metropolis by the sea,
and I realized after a while
that I was on an island of birds
whose eggs are precious stones
and which human beasts use for food.
I spread my scars on the iris,
I closed my eyes,
and I realized
that the evening that sinks into the sea every day
and the morning that decorates
the salon of the day –
the wishes of both
here are called prostitutes.
So, subject to the vicistitudins of nature, man dominated by unrecognized vices overcomes the fact that everything is fleeting and lives to the full estre of life.
Philosophically, there are two ways to address the study of natural and universal laws. The first is to imagine what can be the Supreme Cause of all things and, starting from the idea that we do this, to give meaning to our terrestrial life. Second, it is up to us to examine ourselves and, from this examination, to generalize in the universe the laws and principles that govern both our body and our consciousness. Poesia is a synthesis of these two methods, for it always associates the study of man with that of the Divine. In other words, as far as it shows how to apply a particular cosmic law on a human level, it also highlights the cosmic counterpart of a terrestrial principle. That’s why it is indeed a mystical application of the great hermetic law: “All that is down is like up and, all that is up is like the bottom” Hermes Trismegistus. On the other hand, such a way of appreciating human existence constitutes a spiritual alchemy that really takes into account the duality of man, the ambiguity to which it is tributary. Devdoot transposes itself from an observer over a thousand years of human evolution into a critic who pays attention to even solutions. Some of them are suggested:
The honest day covets
but the night is plundering:
The Virgin on the street can’t speak
so many sighs or the sun is no longer sun
when the shadow is’broken.
And when the shadows in the sun enter,
they become desolate.
The symbol is a typical example of ontological totality that justifies a hermeneutics of totality, because the dominant tradition is to integrate into One, in the divinity, the organic and sacred universe. So the primordial model is the center and integrative factor of man, part of creation and also part of the Creator. Even knowing we do not understand, understanding seems to me closer to intuition and revelation, and thinking we educate it through erudition, that bridge to ever higher levels of meaning and understanding. True short forms of poetry, like haikus we encounter giving gravity to the text, emphasizing and accentuating poetic messages:
But, O, my live wizard,
after I have thrown my body,
where to put my soul? Or: For a worm of desire
pleasure is a necessity:
A raven of worldly taste –
his ruin in vanity.
How splendor in this fragment that can be a great poem alone:
A nine-day wonder –
so they say about our life
Even so, the moon
Poetry places images that the soul in the subconscious lines of the author are in precise states of thought and creation. This is the miracle burdened by time and obligations, life experiences that are beneficial to the writer on the other hand. God is everywhere in us, as we are in places of suffering, mockery, and obscurity, or modest in the places of Mystery. In our hearts lies the magus, the poesia. Here’s the way we can travel to divinity. Sudhakar Gaidhani excels with the voice of the huge wounded bird:
Suppose you pushed the earth —
into space where would you park it?
Suppose you captured the sun and the moon –
where would you make them prison?
Poets, astral travelers, have passed through places of suffering or mystery, where secret harmonies combine with subtlety and tenderness, in decency and purity, in the most beautiful combinations of beautiful and ugly, good and bad, explicit and absolutely encrypted. We arrive in our travels, paradoxically, to the other side, without space and time, placing it in the lyrics. I’ll give some examples of memorable lyrics that give flavor to this wonderful poem:
Hope is something crazy, Friends…. The sky falls, floats slowly
without limits for your joy, good friends….. In the hills wandering saints to this day play on the harp ropes this sad ballad.
There’s a legend… According to Apollonius of Rhodes and Ovidiu, amber comes from the tears of the heliads, encased in poplars as druids, shed when their brother Phaethon fell from the sky, struck by the lightning of Zeus, in the river Eridan, where to this day the swamp exudes heavy vaporrising from the smoldering wound; no bird can spread its fragile wings to fly over that water, but in the middle of the flight it falls dead in flames along the green banks of the river. So, behold, the angels, willingly or contrary to the divine will, always subjugate the hopes of men, their purpose being to capture where and when their help is needed and to protect the divine blessing. They therefore play memorable lyrics that impressed readers:
Dressed in rags we went to sell Gold
not a soul turned to us.
Then dressed in gold we went to sell rags,
and lo! mad was the rush.
Anyone who has lived in the world of the gods for a moment understands the significance of this world goal. But for all this, peace is needed. And peace can be achieved through the Word. Rows, rows, our words come together and transmit atmospheres of the mind, fragments of spirit in the passing world. The poet’s saying is to find a way of understanding the salvation of the soul and mind of those who listen to and read it, because what we writers present in the Great Journey is too high for anyone to believe that a moment was missing from the creative workshop, is also a magical, coded, encrypted palace of human greatness.
Did you have readers to such a book
well linked, having only a few lines in it?
Tell me, who will pay the volume in which
no words have been written?,
asks the author. But the writer cannot remain indifferent to abuses of power in a state, takes a stand in favor of those around him, orphaned and poor with good knowledge to control them. It’s not good, it wasn’t and it won’t be for licks, henchmen and profiteers. In fact, our inner worlds hide in the lyrics. This is where the subconscious comes in, the true nature of the poet, reflecting the mission of the angels. If we live in the midst of climate change, with a political world in a third virtual and exponential war at the same time, politicians destroying their own countries and peoples, how could the poesia be? As always the poem remains a war diary written by those in fire or in an ivory tower, observation tower, urging action:
Go and liberate the world from its wealth –
treasure treasure being the pains of men.
With the ink of the ocean, on the sheet of heaven
the sorrows of the human pen.
This was and remains the poesia.
Academician Liviu PENDEFUNDA
(March 10, 1952, Jassy, Romania).
Doctor and writer. MD, PhD, university professor, member of many academies in Europe and North America, Vice Chancellor of the World Academy of Letters, member of the Anthropology commission of the Romanian Academy, Secretary General United Cultural Convention, Doctor Honoris Causa in Literature, founder and director of the Contact International Press and Publishing House and with his wife, Julieta Carmen, of Contact international magazine since 1990. Member of the Romanian Writers’ Union, honored with dozens of awards from around the world. He is married to Julieta Carmen Pendefunda, an economist, writer, editor and business woman and have two daughters together: Sandra-Cristiana and Elleny.
He has published poetry, essays, short prose and novels (author of over 120 books (medicine, philosophy, fiction, etc.) and was translated into English, French, Italian, Greek, Arabic, German, Aromanian, Hindi, Marathi, Spanish, and Chinese.