Songs Of Rama: A Journey Of The Self, A Song Of The Soul Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Songs Of Rama: A Journey Of The Self, A Song Of The Soul

Songs of Rama: A Journey of The Self, A Song of The Soul

I do not know it nor can I say why have I called these poems to be put before as Songs of Rama: A Journey of The Self, A Song of The Soul and what is that makes them readable and if your want to read them, you may or otherwise leave them as I have written them in the memory of my youngest brother who was no doubt a promising martial artist who lapsed in addiction and depression as for in the absence of opportunities and I used to serve him, but the path of life for him had been very zigzagged and painful, recovering and recuperating and finally losing the battle of life. He used to try to climb up the thick rope hanging from the banyan tree in the highland area and used to run on the river bed, sparring, running for miles, lifting weights, doing asanas, pranayams, sit-ups, jogging, as such was his practice, but God willed it otherwise and he died away living a miserable death under neglect and poverty. None supported us too. Neither the relatives nor the officials, everyone exploited our cultural refinement and meek nature, scholarship and property as we had not been hard. He was the fellow who used to accompany me up to the brook, the crematorium, the cemetery, the hills, the woods and solitary landscapes as for to help me in the writing of poems. Honesty too pays it not always, neither simplicity nor high thinking. Our diary firms used to run in losses and the pure milk takers used to befool us. Tears welled up into the eyes when I had been writing the text of it as it did in writing Bapu, Asthi-Kalasha and Pinda-Dana.
They also sing the songs of Rama who but sing in whispers, they are also the devotees of Rama who pray it silently and the Lord hears them, definitely hears them coming to the bhaktas. The Singer of Rama singing the song reminded me of Mahatma Gandhi spinning the wheel and singing the song toothlessly, Raghupati raja ram patit pawan sita ram. What it is in Nissim Ezekiel's Poverty Poems and Jayanta's Dawn at Puri too flashes upon the mind's plane. Side by side a picture of Ananda coming again before Chandalika to take water from her hands and going away singing the song of Buddha, dances before the eyes. There is something of The Listeners of Walter de la Mare in it as there lie in some imaginary listeners in the haunted house listening and saying in whispers. An autobiographical poem it is but a memoir in verse banking upon remembrances, anecdotes, memories and reflections. There is also something drawn from the gharana stuffs which may refer to cultural side and what it lies in Eliot's Tradition and Individual Talent. The memory of the In Memoriam of Tennyson and The Waste Land imagery as applied by T.S.Eliot hangs over as an indirect impact over the writing of the poem. The Singer is but a listener of the poem while the writerly persona a speaker. A Dadhichi he was, a Karna to some extent in dana, a Bhishma in his vow, an archer like Arjuna in his art. But he could not take the things of the world into his stride, erred and fell down to be in hell. Had he been worldly, clever and farsighted, it would not have happened. Even King Harischandra had to ask for the taxes to be given for the cremation of his son, Rohit working as chandal of a samshana ghat and so how could he allow her without collecting the charges for his master under whom he was working. Similar had been the situation of the family full of chaos and pandemonium. Rahu and Ketu had affected the family with Shani looming large over and Ganesha or Lakshmi's blessing too seemed to be withdrawn from. Drunken demons and devils started dancing nakedly in the house and with this ruined it all, everything up and down, at sixes and sevens. The whole world seemed to be a graveyard, a cemetery, a crematorium ground or a Tower of Silence; man a naked Jaina sadhu going. The burnt libraries of Taxashila, Nalanda, Vikramshila and their ruins brought me to the ground. Abnormals and drunkards, ganjeris, bhangeris and darpiyas seemed to babbling on the floor. Bootleggers, drug-traffickers and chain-smokers laughed like the hyenas. Daruwalla's The Professor Condoles took me by strike and I remembered the beginning. Misfortunes never come alone had been the case with similar to that of Keatsian Ruth and Job of The Old Testament. The Mrityunjaya Japa too could not bring him back nor could the discourses of Nachiketa console. A wailing soul, he got lost wandering with the wind, blowing and sighing by, whistling and ruffling it all like the Mystic Noon of Harindranath. At that time after being so much disillusioned and devastated in life, when it seemed to be on the crossroads, fate crisscrossing the lines of the palm, I in frustration thought of showing my hand to an astrologer who could be a thug. But I had no money as for buying his gems and stones. Devdas too seemed to be struggling with life when on the verge of his tragic end. Allen Ginsberg's The Howl like elements cannot be denied and also those available in Sylvia Plath's Daddy and other poems.
Something it remains even after the poem is finished, be it the poetry portion or the introductory note. Hence, the post-script is appended to when the re-editions are brought out. So, in the company of his I felt it all. While with him late into the evening in the graveyard, the Elegy used to take the canvas away from, but when to the secluded hilly tract the domain used to give the impression of Tintern Abbey or Pope's Ode on Solitude. Where did I not go to in his company? The musical murmur of the hilly brook used to enthrall me and made me remember of The Brook by Tennyson. Sometimes I used to be to the dam and standing on the footbridge we used to see the green waters flowing as Auden describes it in Look, Stranger. The hills used to shine blue when seen, pictured, imagery taken from far. Sitting under the grove, I used to hear the bird notes so musical and sonorous reminding me of Lines Written in Early Spring by Wordsworth. It has rightly been said, man goes, but memories remain it.


Just the background has been given so that the matter can be taken into consideration easily. How will it be the path of life who can but say it? What it in my destiny? What it in my fate? What one thinks and what it happens, takes place. Three Artists is but a bronze replica imagined about the three brothers so close in thought, idea and rearing of life. They lived in a hut and passed the days in poverty and scarcity of resources, but were from a very good and noble family who never retorted in a harsh way and were from a landed, propertied family. But mismanagement and strict patriarchy never let them live a good life. The partition was a problem as people do not like to divide among so easily. None in a joint family likes to partition properties so easily and the case in hand takes to the Mahabharatan and Ramayanan tales doing the rounds. So the things raked up so badly, finally leading to the crumble and fall of the House of Maya. New members were inducted into but appeared to be indifferent and self-centred rather than giving time to or showing any interest in him.

I Lost Them All One By One, The Fall of The Wickets

First, my father
After that
Then my aunt,
My mother,
My youngest brother
And my eldest brother
One by one.

Now I am alone,
All alone
In my life.
Three Artists, A Replica of Three Unknown artists
A sculpture of three artists,
The world did not know it
But they were artists.

The Text

Just the voices in the dark singing the song of Rama in whispers and so much soulfully with tears flowing the cheeks is the melting scene of the poem; a remembrance so full of fond memories. Here one can assess what life has given? What has it not? And who gets what? All the people do not get their dues. The situations of life keep changing so the times. How will be one's time none can say it. The house I am going to build I may not be able to live in. The things which I think to be own may not be. A man may have everything, but bhoga may not be in his fate while the other fellow may not have things, but he is enjoying a good life. This is called luck. Many of us who had to be on the footpaths of life are on chair and vice versa. In the pull between poetry, poverty, philosophy, culture, heritage, scholarship and classicism on the one hand and while property, money, belongings and lands on the other ruined it everything.

I Heard The Souls Praying, Hare Rama, Rama-Rama, The Distressed Souls

I found them singing
The songs of Rama,
Hare Rama,
In a very slow voice,
Voice of their own,
The morose souls,
Frail and weak spirits
Singing the song of Rama,
Hare Rama,

I heard,
Heard the song
Sung silently
In whispers,
The song of the soul,
The liberated spirit,
The psyche in trouble,
I heard them
And felt pity for
The voices aligning,
The spirits whispering,
The souls praying,
Singing the song of Rama,
Hare Rama, Rama-Rama.

The distressed souls
Singing the song
Of Rama,
Hare Rama, Rama-Rama,
They asking for not,
But the half-fed, half-clothed
Morose and maligned souls
And spirits seemed to be in pain,
Pain, but said they it not,
Went on singing,
Singing the song,
The song of Rama,
Hare Rama, Rama-Rama.

They asked for not,
But they seemed to be praying,
The dead and gone spirits,
The bereaved voices,
Souls and spirits praying,
Asking it not for food,
But singing,
Singing the song of Rama,
Rama-Rama, Hare Rama,
Rama-Rama, asking it not
And having sung vanishing they,
Vanishing far into the gloom
Just like the voices never heard before.

Who Is Singing The Song of Rama? Whose Is The Voice Coming From Feebly?

Who is? Who is it singing,
Singing the song of Rama,
Who is? Who is it?
Who is in the dark
Standing afar
And singing,
Singing the song,
The song of Ram
So feebly, but lucidly
In whispers?

O, you, you, who, who you,
You the singer,
The singer of Rama,
Who you singing,
Singing the song,
The song of Rama
So devotedly,
So soulfully
As a true devotee of Rama,
Whispering and singing,
Singing in a feeble voice
But lucidly
And I hearing from far!

Perhaps the song,
The song of
The distressed soul
Is it, is it,
The song of the soul
In pain
Or liberated from pain,
One who is poor and destitute,
One who is neglected and ignored,
One living in abject neglect,
Wandering with the wind,
Loveless and love-lorn!

Your Love I Calling Me

Your love is still calling me,
Where are you, my love,
Your love,
Your love is still,
Where you, my love?

Your love is calling, calling me,
Where you, you, my love?

O, Who Are You Singing The Song of Rama In The Dark?

The voice came it not,
The voice
So marauded and maligned,
So pitiful and sadly-saying,
So feeble-voiced, but melodious!

I went on asking, asking,
Who, who you are,
But it came to naught, to naught
And went on, went on signing,
Singing the song of Rama,
The song of Rama with zest,
With zest but so spirited and inspired
From his within

Though was marauded,
Though was a maligned soul,
He went on, went on singing,
Singing the song of Rama
Hearing which I wanted to be closer to
And the more I approached, the more got he away from.

Say, what singer was he, what singer,
What singer of Rama?
And I returned back wiping the tears,
Wiping the tears,
The singer went away singing the song
And returned he not again.

Hey, Who, You, Singing The Song of Rama?

Who are you,
Who are you
Singing in the dark,
In the dark?

The song of Rama,
Who, who you
The singer of soul,
The singer of spirit
Singing the song of Rama?

The voice was so feeble,
But so delightful
Like that a devotee of God,
Singing with zest in so much delight,
But slowly singing

And saying the prayers
With delight,
But a morose soul,
A maligned spirit
With tears dried in the eyes.

Went Away He Singing The Song of Rama

A singer he stood
Singing silently
In whispers,
A poor destitute soul,
A self split miserably
And in crisis,
Asked he not for,
Went away singing the song,
The song of Rama,
A soul so distressed
But delightful,
He came and stood before,
Sang and vanished out of sight,
A poor soul so calmly composed and good.

O Singer Divine

Tears had been in the eyes
Of the singer,
The singer of Rama
And also in the eyes of mine
When I tried to call,
Stood he far from
But getting the message sent across just

A singer of Rama,
A poor soul destitute,
A maligned spirit he
Singing the song,
The song of Rama
With tears dried down
Which but I could not control.

I called him, called and called
And heard he,
Heard he so tearfully,
Though wanted he to,
But could not, could not
As a spirit was he,
A self liberated from the body!

In The Anand Ashrama

Came he the singer
Of Rama
Singing the song of Rama,
Though not willing to,
Tears had been in his face,
Tears had been in mine,
We wept inconsolably,
But what could we do?

And having sung,
Sung the song of Rama,
Sung delightfully
With all the zest
Went he away jollily
Taking permission,
Bidding goodbye,
The singer,
The singer of Rama.


Anand Ashrama, Ashrama of Delight and Anand Mela, Fair of Delight, these two have been presented as divine platforms of meeting where the souls can have a visionary sharing of feelings and emotions. Eklavya as a poem tagged in here too tells of the rearing of the aggrieved soul, but the things could not acclimatize in his favour. A poem on silence too has been dragged to give peace and calm of mind and soul. The poem may be designated a strange meeting with the Singer of Rama. The Strange Singer of Rama here lies it as a remembrance and the singer singing it to be back, on his retreat journey or just as for nostalgia sake we quoting it. There is something of The Murder in the Cathedral and the choruses here in this poem. If to see it differently, the autobiographical piece almost like the anecdote, Dream Children: A Reverie by Charles Lamb.

When the Music Is Gone

The music is gone,
The situation is changed
But whenever feel I sad and lonely,
Melancholic and painful,
I turn, turn to the singer of Rama,
The singer of Rama
Singing the song of Rama in zest,
In full zest
So soulfully and with love,
When Anand Ashrama got deserted
He felt lonely
When all the members went away
One by one
And there lived not anyone
He got depressed
And it wept the soul of his
Which I felt to see.

And when it finished it all,
The singer went away
Just promising to meet
In Anand Mela
But he was but a different man
Indifferent to it all
And philosophical,
Free from all the fetters
Which but bind us.

God's Anand Mela

O God, Anand Mela, Anand Mela,
Anand Mela, Fair of Delight,
Here people come, meet
And go away
And so did he come again
But was indifferent,
Indifferent to joy and sorrow,
Completely a changed man,
Liberated from the bonds of maya
And moha,
Sang he not the song,
Just balancing himself
He came and went by
Just casting a glance over!


How had it been
Guru Drona
He asked for
For your thumb,
Expertise thumb
As for guru-dakshina,
His guru-dakshina
And you gave,
Gave it
As your dakshina,
To him!

Why did you
Cut and give
To him,
To him,
Was it good,
Good on your part
To cut,
Cut and give to him?


Silence please,
For some time,
Silence please
Stopping it all activity,
Keeping at bay
The brain, the mind,
Loosening it all,
Closing the eyes
To be lost in
To regain it all.

Freeing the mind,
Un-taxing the brain,
Letting the emotion go off,
Fixing the mind,
Closing the eyes,
Loosen you it all
For a minute,
A few moments
To regain the strength,
Silence please,
Silence for some time.

What It In My Karma, Dharma? My Karam, Dharam

What it in my karma,
What it in my dharma,
I know it not,
The unseen fate,
The unseen destiny of mine,
What it in my karma,
What it in my dharma?

My karam-dharam,
I am going with
My karam-dharam,
And the rest
Into the Hands of His,
The Master
Who knows it all.

The Strange Singer of Rama

Who is it singing
The song of Rama
Slowly, but delightfully,
Who the singer,
How the singer of Rama?

Who the distraught man,
Dishevelled and devastated fellow
Standing far from
And singing the song of Rama
In the dark?

Who the poor fellow,
How the song of his
And his submissive voice
And singing soulfully
With tears seemed to have
Dried into?

Who the poor spirit,
The poor soul
Singing the song of Rama
But without any repentance
But so soulfully?

(The Singer went away and never came he again and as thus faded it the fond memories of his life, just like as a man comes into this world and goes away from here. But the song which he came to whispering, saying it humbly still reverberates with resounding with resonance as if he were here, he were here. The Song of Life is never done with; in every age man will sing whenever he will feel sorrow and pain.)

O, God test You not
As have tested You so much,
I am hopeless,
Hopeless and helpless,
Get me across! ,
With these the protagonist looked upwards
And prayed for flowers to fall upon
As for blessing to be bestowed upon
The bereaved grievingsoul,
Have mercy, have mercy upon him,
The poor soul, the poor spirit,
My God, my God!
(Wiping tears)

This is the way one comes into the world,
This is the way one goes
And there lives it not anything,
Anything as own,
This is the way one comes and one goes away

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