Poems about writing … “so I have resigned to writing poems.” – Patanga

Even if I do not know how to write,

you let me write

Even the occasional

beautiful thing.


You do so out of Your Compassion,

So that I may spend my time

thinking of You

and not my self.




How can I write anymore

if the pen in my hand

Can only move by a Force within me?


It is not I who write;

Writing is not for a caveman like me.

Writing is for the devotee who,

Even though he does not know anything

Still he wishes to worship You.





Once I tried to write a poem,

But I decided there was nothing to write about.

You have already written Everything.

Writing now would be

Like plucking a flower from a tree

And offering it to You.



You Yourself made the flower,

You Yourself made the tree,

You Yourself made me.




Why now You make me sleepy

When I finally want to write.

This is not at all right;

If it were so,

I should be able to wake myself

When I want to see You.




You opened a bakery and let me play

pretending I am the owner.

As the bread leavens,

So Your expectations of me grow.


Yet when they flourish,

I offer them to a customer

And forget

That they were born for You.




Today as I meditated

A stream of lines came.

As I hurriedly wrote them down

My pride grew and I forgot:


I forgot that it is You who made me,

You who woke me up,

You who made for me a shrine in the world,

You who made me meditate.

But you just *let* me write,

And I feel all responsible.





A flower lasts only so much,

But not You.


If we use the most beautiful words

for the flowers,


Then what words shall I use for You?




If You ever let me speak

through my pen

You would then

Hear things

I could never say.




I wish I could be like You,

And not this life of rue,

Making lines out of the Blue,

Pretending them to be true.




Everybody speaks of a garland of gratitude.

I must be honest. I never made one.


Or at least, not one totally befitting You.

Therefore, I keep on writing.




How can a child repay its mother

for bringing him up?

How can a disciple repay his spiritual mother

for showing him his Guru?


Even a lifetime of gratitude

would not be enough.


Since I am still a mother’s child

and do not have full strength in my heart,

I know I cannot yet offer

a life complete of gratitude.


So I have resigned to writing poems.




Tonight I took up pen

To say I am the One Invincible,

But then I would have to prove myself.

Defense: what a useless waste of capacity.

Maybe I shouldn´t.

(say that or defend myself?)




Why do I take paper again

to write quasi-equal poems over and over –

have I nothing better to do?

A flower knows only how to bloom

and that is what it does.

That is what You gave the flower to do.

Likewise I write. That is all I know,

endless empty pages full of words.

Or then give me something else to do.

Wait. Have You done so already?

But even then I did not hear.

Is it that verily, what You want…

should I start…

listening to You?




A myriad number of lines

Hint at what You are

Just follow the strokes

But stop not where they end

Life is exactly that chore:

To find what lies beyond shore.




Yet left to write


I see You in black and white

More real than I ever could be


I see you in my dream

More real than I could ever seem


All these are mere words

– When will You be mine?


Glancing at the pages

yet left to write I

almost feel

Your boyish smile.


-Patanga Cordeiro

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