Poem by Babaji, Himalayan Saint

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I came across this poem in an astrology book by James Braha (fantastic writings — check out his books online!).

I have many favorite lines from this poem. Two of my favorite lines can be inferred from this accompanying image.

angel_and_devil

Anna Ignatieva – Demon and Angel, 2005]

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A Poem by Babaji, A Himalayan Saint

Love and serve all mankind. Assist everyone.
Be cheerful, be courteous.
Be a dynamo of irrepressible happiness.
See God and good in every face.
There is no saint without a past.
There is no sinner without a future.
Praise every soul.
If you cannot praise someone, let them pass out of your life.
Be original, be inventive.
Dare, dare, and then dare more.
Do not imitate. Stand on your own ground.
Do not lean on the borrowed staff of others.
Think your own thoughts. Be yourself.
All perfection and all virtues of the Deity are hidden inside you — reveal them.
The savior also is already within you – reveal Him.
Let his grace emancipate you. Let your life be that of a rose.
Through silence it speaks in the language of fragrance.

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Poet Interview, Gordon Ramel

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Interview #45, with English poet, Gordon J.L.Ramel!

gordon_ramel

Describe yourself in 5 words:

Poet, philosopher, ecologist, almost human.

Share a short excerpt and blurb of your work (10-100 words):

Oh Lord, she looks so beautiful to me;

how is it that so many fail to see

the glory and the wondrous majesty

of Nature in her wild diversity

and the beauty that is Earth’s eternally?

Share an excerpt of your favorite poet’s work (10-100 words):

I have too many favourite poems, as an Englishman I am a great fan of the romantic poets, especially Wordsworth and Tennyson, but also very fond of Blake, Thomas and Eliot. From US poets I love Frost, Dickinson and Poe, but this leaves out so many.

I love Blake/Dickinson/Poe myself! Did reading a poem first spark the desire to write poetry, or was it an experience?:

It was my mother reading Nursery Rhymes to me, and then hearing “The Man From Snowy River” by Banjo Paterson read aloud in primary school — it was magic…

What goal do you seek through your poetry?

To perform magic.

Please share your #1 tip for poets/writers:

Be truthful, be honest.

Your websites/blogs/etc:

www.ramel.org

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Much thanks to Gordon for stopping by!

+ GORDON’S BIO +

Gordon was born in England, raised in Australia and is an Ecologist by training, from Exeter University in the UK. For most of the last 12 years he has been working as a teacher of English or Science in schools in Bulgaria, Greece, Thailand and currently in a University in China.

Gordon has published poetry in various places since the beginning of this century. His poetry collection, The Whispering of the Leaves, can be purchased at Cafepress (this book is focused on Nature and Mankind and the interaction between the two). Other poems can be found at Ecology Info, The Hypertexts, and The Hexagon at Point & Circumference (this features poetry pubished in the print magazines The NeoVictorian/Cochlea and The Deronda Review).

Gordon is also the author of The Earthlife Web, originally uploaded in May 1995 (one of the first sites for home schoolers!).

P.S. Be sure to check out his epic poem, Tears of Kharnoon, on my 13-years-strong website, Dragonsinn.net.

The Boy at The Train Station

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–> pic by buttonheart

‘The Boy at The Train Station’ is a poem I wrote, which features in the January 2010 issue of AMULET (print issue / AMULET features 12 carefully chosen writers each month to be presented to the literary public).

Here it is, because it’s one of my personal favorites, lol.

The Boy at The Train Station

I only saw him for two fifths of a second.
I wish I had for longer.

He was seated on the floor, against a wall.
Nobody saw him.

He remained unseen as commuters streamed out.
People were rushing, talking on their cell phones,
laughing with their friends and colleagues.

Station officers.
Students in uniform.
Business people with their laptops.
Fashionistas in their heels and make-up.
No one looked sideways or turned their heads for
a backward glance.

He wore a baseball cap back to front.
An oversized black T-shirt, battered Vans sneakers.
His fringe had streaks of faded red.

His head was bowed low; his arms circled round his
propped up knees. He was alone, he was quiet, and he
was crying.

Boys cry, but it’s not often that I actually see them do.

He seemed oblivious to the crowd, to the endless
stream of people stepping and moving out of the train
station. He could have been there for hours, or he
could have just gotten there.

I wanted to ask if he was all right. I wanted to go up to
him and ask, “Do you need any help?”

I had the time; I could listen.
I might not be able to fix the matter (or matters)
down to the last detail,
but I knew how important it was to simply
have someone,
be there.

Like the rest of the human traffic, I didn’t stop.
I made a turn to go up the escalator,
to the world of more traffic and people,
outside.

I moved on without ever letting him know that

I had
seen him.
That I did care.
That if I could make a difference,
I would have been happy to do so.

But I’ll never know.