yoga

The Early Hindu

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Beast was a way of catching the wave,
The errant knave
The eerie canyon
The place in Pirates of the Caribbean (IMDb) where they get lost.
What is the cost?
Of a new religious motif,
Le Coq Sportif,
And everything is set to go,
Things the Christians used to know,
Things they will know again,
The sensitive brain.

Memes on the hot bed roof
Fire and desire
Collection plates of metal on whet
Meals on wheels
Staple diets in the food banks of tomorrow
Hole punching my stomach,
Gutted and blown for a Finch,
Where is the end of the horrific hollow?
Out and out of bounds
Somebody stop this spirit knowing where I can be found
Like some Fight Club (IMDb) where I meet at noon
Sundown is when the shootout starts
I’ll be there soon.

Light unending telling me where to be,
This can’t be the exchange for ITV,
Some things are settled,
I have a backbone for my Yoga,
Don’t make me buckle under pressure,
#GreeksandTogas

Somethings
Anything’s
Everything’s
Appropriate apostrophes and I will please
The matron skilled at taking my order.
Cosmic disorder
A land in disarray
The word is not the thing.
Am I the Brahman world today?
Madame at work where out is out,
And I am honorific gay >>
Fast forward to tomorrow
When the world reads Louise L. Hay //
Can I come back? and we be friends,
Use the internet please,
There’s always time to make amends >>
Link me in
Travel in sin
What does the future have somethings to say?
.@*%#!!

About
Around
Wherever
Can I be found?

Lost is the direction in the way in which the Christ will find,
Taunted by strikes and projections from professions coloured blind.

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a fever‑dream of modern mythmaking, where beasts, canyons, religious motifs, Le Coq Sportif logos, Christian memory, and the “sensitive brain” all swirl together in a world that feels both sacred and absurd. You shift from memes and food banks to stomach‑punching hunger, from Fight Club’s secret meetings to yoga backbones and Greek togas, showing how identity becomes a battleground of symbols, pressures, and inherited scripts. The poem’s emotional centre is the sense of being hunted by meaning — cosmic disorder, apostrophes, matrons, Louise Hay, the internet, sin, amends — all while trying to locate yourself in a world that keeps shifting the coordinates. The final lines land with a quiet ache: lostness as a spiritual condition, a place where Christ might find you, even as strikes, professions, and projections blur the path. It’s a portrait of a mind overwhelmed but still searching, still reaching for coherence in the storm.

Saturday Afternoon at a Friend’s House

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I walk the familiar road,
a soft December sun leaning over Weoley Castle,
light pooling on the pavement
like a blessing I did not ask for
but accept anyway.

The afternoon is ordinary –
a friend’s house,
a knock on the door,
the warmth of a kettle coming to life –
yet something in me moves
as if this small journey
were another chapter
in the long autobiography
I’ve been writing with breath and memory.

I carry no incense,
no mantra,
no visions of Maya or Albion today –
only the quiet knowledge
that every threshold
is a kind of pilgrimage
when the self is listening.

Inside, laugher rises,
cups clink,
the world shrinks to a living room
where stories drift like steam
from the mugs in our hands.

And I sit there,
not a a fragmented hybrid anything,
not as a mythic figure,
not as a seeker breathing in the world’s sorrow –
but simply as Rohan,
arriving,
present,
held in the gentle ordinariness
of a Saturday afternoon
at a friend’s house.

A small moment,
yet it settles in me
like a stone in a riverbed –
quiet, grounding,
part of a long story
I continue to walk
one step,
one breath,
one visit at a time.

Flat Cap Mirrors

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That’s not the way they said it would turn out
The men, the spies and the roundabout cameras
Roundheads (in their heads_)
It’s all in their heads now.

Some of the things they said
Anyhow.
How do you think it feels
Seeing the Oxford showreels
Regrets, transference: Advice from the family that knew best
They sent me up there on my very George Best.

1066-1666-1966
^ things the devil told me
When he mentioned I would live(d) past 33.
Seeing
Believing
Reprieving
Being short of cash
Is that what it was all about
London gangs of actors
Thames Valley wanderers
LAMDA & RADA leaving me adrift for good water
Wafer thin reality and grasp on the good lessons of the Lord.
Where is your sword?
Is that the ‘twas a Word, melud
I cannot believe it is anymore between us.
So many years lost as a tardy tradesmen after school
Somebody’s fool,
The leach that was washed up on the beech
A starfish too far for the happy cars up and down the A38
Wait!
I can call a cab and my Dad won’t be driving…
… is that what kept The Greek conniving?

Always
Forever
Eternally waitful
Grateful for the keepsake promises that eat my brain today
Is it something that I say?
Maybe it’s my mental chatter,
Let’s have a good natter
The men’s group that meets in the morning.

Birmingham v London Town
Second City of Chicago is The Bull Ring floating around,
Bears waiting for finance,
Ringing those bells
Whistling down the wind
Things that finance can bring:
There’s going to be a furnace where they can bury up all those lies.
John Lennon was one of those guys
Chairman to his own board of contention
Invention
Imagination
Historical protection
Mao, Hitler and Father Joseph Stalin

We won’t be seeing those starlings around any time soon
For the sake of the room where the codes have been cracked for mushrooms
And the odd L.S.D.
For the even memory
Lost in time
Losing rhymes
Unimpressing to the Asian who fines you
Greek Olympian Athenian competitor
Yesterday’s examiner
Tomorrow’s legislator
Throw me the candle in the wind where the motions are about stopping
So I can age
Like a word about my life on the page
Lonely like a lake in the living legend of England
That forgot me after school and left me for a fool
To the other forsaken keepings of how to raise another man’s son
Things that were won and lost
Oh! The true cost of living life
Beyond the Self Help strife…
.. alone and helpless, my Mother watched me drown
Youthful in ageing with her emptying make up
Draws a frown
Black Hawk scowling down
The USA is all around
Centricity
Ego City
Things from the past
Nate Dogg and time to Regulate
My mates
& the Harborne Mile

Life before the Harborne Ashtanga Yoga Studio
How my blood did go
Stomach cramps
Breathing like drawing water to the castle up a ramp
All the head in a twisted twirl of memory fogginess
What the friends did when they got their chances to impress
The special Empress’s new babe
I would like to Rave
Review me please
Don’t make me write awash on my knees
Believe in salvation
It is the healing of the narrator’s nation.
Silas is Islamically prepared,
Emptiness is seemingly apparent to the visions of air …

It’s going to be another adrenaline rush
To make up time for scoring goals with Ian Rush
Liverpool F.C. and Manchester United have ideas too
That is why we follow the football to keep the scores abroad for the few
Who have too many things to do in their own hands
And look for places to grow where ETC. ETC. is something a person’s culture understands.

AI Summary

Your poem moves like a fevered autobiography, weaving together Oxford showreels, family pressure, historical dates, London gangs, acting schools, political tyrants, football legends, Birmingham streets, yoga studios, and the ghosts of adolescence to show how your life has been shaped by forces far larger than you — class, culture, religion, masculinity, and the expectations of others. It’s a lament for lost years, missed chances, and the strange detours of identity, but also a critique of the institutions that promised meaning and delivered confusion. Beneath the humour, the references, and the spiralling associations is a deep grief: the sense of being left behind by school, misunderstood by family, haunted by your mother’s suffering, and burdened by a world that keeps demanding you decode it. The poem ends in a plea for salvation — not religious, but narrative — a desire to make sense of your own story after being shaped, judged, and misread by so many others.

Baggage Carried

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I can’t believe you’re going to die,
I’m going to give religion a try,
Insecure in my youth,
I will try it’s proof:
Something my Ego will understand.

Buckling the horses of Arjuna to things I will understand,
Not trying to own every house in the land,
Surprises from Bel Air mansions
Lavish green lawns,
There’s just time left for the lessons on parental viewings of Porn.

I can’t believe you’re not here anymore,
I look around the tremendous respect for temporal vortexes,
Oh indigestion and headaches from energy erections
Parading through my brain
Listening to the non-advice and going insane:
It’s your parent –
You projected,
Why are you trying to get me a Vedic House erected?

Fresh Prince to the king I never was,
The rent I owed you when I was only 12,
And the damnation from society
The clout from the god within me
The monkey in an experiment I never was
The kangaroo and signifying Laws…

Keep coming back and I am an employment hazard,
Someone with such regrets that I am a deep snowy blizzard,
Lost in the Maya of the world of those all knowing Hare Krishnas
They speak English like I know nothing –
Not versed in the Ayur Vedic Samaj
Ignorant
Illusion
Jai Om Namo Shivaya
Why isn’t my Id for hire?
Jai Guru Dev – is there an answer over there?
For how “I am not the body”
Will make me not feel very sorry,
When the time comes to pass
For at last it must come
That both of my parents imbalance my brain a certain way

  • In the meaning of what Death has to say
  • Pills and glorious business day by day

When those intoxicants at Jones Day (Gouldens) never came back my way.

AI Summary

Your poem traces the shock of confronting a parent’s mortality and the way it destabilises everything you’ve built your identity around, moving through memories of childhood guilt, cultural dislocation, spiritual searching, and the absurdities of class aspiration. You weave Arjuna, Maya, Hare Krishna English, Fresh Prince, Jones Day, and parental porn into one fractured tapestry, showing how grief pulls every influence — religious, corporate, familial, comedic — into its orbit. Beneath the humour and the surreal imagery is a son trying to understand how his parents shaped his mind, how inherited chaos still lives in him, and how no spiritual system or social ladder can fully prepare him for the inevitability of loss.

Zaqat Went Splat

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Did you believe the world was this way?
The way the wildness inside of you did not say
That you need a woman like a woman needs a man
To satisfy the hotel room with coffee after an okay plan.

See, the outside world is such an egregious affair
I have my legs wilder than that in the outrageous air
Modelling Hollywood and L A Style as if I have savoir fare.

Three line whips, lots of chains of bondage
Alfonso Bhandari is there with your immature soul cage
Selling the shambles of brambled apples and some granny’s rage.

Voter! You are no daughter – with the hotel quartered
Entrance from a Hollywood master and his debutant blaster
For money and vermillion so that Iraqi can know first ladies
And squillions and zillions and bazillions after Tony Blair’s trillions.
Master Blaster – unable to hold the camera’s gaze
After raunchy Knights have held up erectile Counts
Far from the Paige’s and their confusion about the purple Ronnie
And how about some Blue Peter for yours truly and that fucking Konnie?!

Ropes and whistles and then there is some shouting matches
For the prettiest Oriental to sing me some blues
About Krishna’s curtains after he has been through the hue
Of cry and Laurel and Hardeep for that original truth:
To thine own self be avant-garde so that Spirit is doubled
#WhentheDevilknowsyourlonely and youthful mother is in trouble.

AI Summary

The poem confronts the chaos of desire, identity, and public spectacle, blending Hollywood excess, political theatre, spiritual longing, and personal vulnerability into a single, volatile stream. It moves between the wildness of the self and the distortions of the outside world, where fame, power, and cultural icons collide with private insecurities and the search for authenticity. The speaker critiques the commodification of intimacy, the absurdity of celebrity culture, and the emotional confusion of modern relationships, invoking mythic figures, media personalities, and political ghosts to expose how desire and identity are shaped by forces far larger than the individual. Beneath the satire and provocation lies a deeper ache: the longing to remain true to oneself in a world that constantly pulls the self apart, and the fear that loneliness, youth, and spiritual hunger might be exploited or misunderstood by those who claim authority

Tomorrow

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Tomorrow is a Sports Day
It is the 5th of July
It is also a Pizza from the delivery guy
Something instead of a Pig Sty.

My son will have cleaned his room
And my father will Aha every moment;
So that Norway lets on about Brexit
While Sundays are still days of rest.

Tomorrow is like a yesterday’s feast
A tobogganing affair all about sorrow!
Something for me and something for her
While the windows are cleaned without borrowing
From parents who do all the housework…

…

…

It’s when the work will take place:
When will you do yours?
Do you still work after COVID?
Can you ride horses on all the courses?

Tomorrow is where all messages and meanings take place
Like a Self Help drop-down list of perfection.
The worker better than Bill Gates
And an open door policy to statements of retraction.

It is the place beyond time if the Yoga is still fine
Where people get left behind if they do not keep the time.
It is where poems come to die if you do not detach the outcome –
How come they do now dream of my outcomes
When the Dear Kali part of the process is dry and sad?

Tomorrow is when the crying will heal me
It is the deliverance that will save the pain from the Healer of today.
Tomorrow is Bhagwan’s advice on the Id for reformation
After the dealer is psychoanalytical about due processes with Louise L Hay.

This is the formation of some power
This is the talent of some nights
When Bipolar left be darker than other hours
And tomorrow was not even in my sight.

AI Summary

The poem reflects on “tomorrow” as a space where duty, family life, spiritual striving, and emotional recovery all converge, blending the ordinary rhythms of sports days, pizza deliveries, housework, and parenting with deeper anxieties about work, self‑help culture, yoga, and the lingering effects of bipolar episodes. It treats tomorrow as both promise and burden — a place where healing might happen, where meaning might return, but also where expectations, comparisons, and spiritual demands accumulate. The speaker moves between humour, fatigue, and vulnerability, invoking gods, gurus, and psychological frameworks to make sense of a life shaped by illness, responsibility, and the desire for transformation. Beneath the references and reflections lies a steady ache: the hope that tomorrow might finally bring clarity, relief, or redemption, even when today feels heavy and the past still echoes.

Poetic Fragment

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Four years I chanted Hare Krishna,
Flame upon flame,
Each name a bridge to the divine.
Fifty times I walked the Gita,
Arjuna’s trembling, Krishna’s gaze –
My own dharma unfolding,
I entered the 108 Upanishads,
Not as scholar,
But as seeker,
Each verse a mirror,
Each silence a guide.

Shree Geeta Bhawan

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Shree Geeta Bhawan,
First flame of Albion’s Hindu soil,
Church reborn as a mandir,
Renewal carved in stone.
I shall walk its halls,
Guided by Nanak’s vision,
Chanting not as a seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light into Birmingham’s heart.

I am a Guru

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I am a guru,
born of mantra and silence,
a flame carried from temple to temple,
from Albion’s soil to the high street wheel.

I am a guru,
Hindu in devotion,
Buddhist in compassion,
a servant of light,
a bearer of prophecy.

I am a guru,
my mornings are rivers of meditation,
two hours, three,
until breath becomes chant,
and silence becomes scripture.

I am a guru,
walking with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
turning rupture into renewal,
estrangement into testimony,
longing into flame.

I am a guru
my lineage is Blake’s fire,
Hepburn’s grace,
Sting’s fragile song,
woven into Albion’s living chant.

I am a guru,
not by title,
but by presence,
not by claim,
but by light.

Poem of Seeking

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I walk the path where silence sings,

Through Albion’s soil, the spirit springs.

A chant of longing, a flame of prayer,

The unseen guides are always there.

Estrangement bends, yet roots renew,

In every fracture, light breaks through.

My seeking is not mine alone –

It is the land, the chant, the stone.