Thought and its Futility
Thought and its Futility

Thought and its futility

Are seen

Desire and its pointlessness

Are seen

Fear and its subsidence

Are seen

The unwavering flame of attention

Engulfs all that is

Mind is still, void of content

Ego sinks back in quiet repose

To its source

All is as is

Naturally at ease

And the Self is all there is

A presence within and all around

The benevolent monarch

Calm and eternal

Patient and gentle

Soft and subtle

All-pervading, yet untouched

Creator, mover and destroyer

Of worlds upon worlds

Which are all but itself

Playing with itself

The raas of Krishna

And Shiva’s tandav

Are one cosmic dance

Of the unmoving Self

Gaurav Mathur

Gaurav Mathur, MD, is a poet, philosopher and cardiologist who loves to explore the core of every issue, the heart of the matter. He lives in Florida with his wife who is a psychiatrist and two lovely children.

Ouevre

Deliverance Through Surrender

Poetry by Gaurav Mathur

Deliverance through surrender Order re-restored My true self is now in form Whole, wholesome, pure Unchanged, or rather back to the original form Self before me, before time Unchained, or...
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Do Not Ask

Poetry by Gaurav Mathur

Victim or victor I am not Friend or lover I am not Poet or philosopher I am not Seeker or seer I am not Thought or thinker I am not...
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I Sit Silent in My Chair

Poetry by Gaurav Mathur

I sit silent in my chair Poised with pen and paper All eyes and ears Waiting to catch a glimmer Or the faintest whisper Of the Eternal Nothing And all...
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Anthology

Deliverance Through Surrender

Poetry by Gaurav Mathur

Deliverance through surrender Order re-restored My true self is now in form Whole, wholesome, pure Unchanged, or rather back to the original form Self before me, before time Unchained, or...
read more

Declension in April

Poetry by Frank Golden

Lacking an ordained task, I sit in the blue chair facing south, rain on the circular field past Ballyhaine, rifts of blue opened by the wind, a taper of baling...
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How do you make green?

Poetry by Bettina

In school they threw her out of painting class. She was useless at colours, she says. Her face is wrinkled now. Her frame has shrunk to the size of a...
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