Can We Hide Back Or Act Like Nothing Is Happening?

The Beacon, Eternity, Our Collective Merits--
To err is human; to see and act for the latter
for being so timely is incumbent upon each one of us,
Tsampa eaters.

Now my dear fellow compatriots, I think it's so timely to prove our piety, our reverence to our only Sun, His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I mean if it is more than just saying 'one more blessing audience'. It's the time to be well-tuned for those volleys of scurrilous invective hurled against him in the name of 'freedom of faith'. Those manipulative questions and gestures, so luring for those non-Tibetans who don't care about our political side at all but such quasi-declamatory issues like stumbling on a ready-made hobby to pick up out of sheer casualness or ignorance, shouldn't be ignored. I mean, if you can write, it's the time now. Don't hide. But come forward and let's fight for our own freedom too, even if the target is nothing other than 'those flunkeys', fed ones. Speak up but in decent, grounded and skillful ways as we are familiar with. See what they have been up to. I mean spare some time. It is serious. I think it's as serious as Free Tibet.

Here is an example:

http://www.tsemrinpoche.com/tsem-tulku-rinpoche/buddhas-dharma/dorje-shugden-people.html

And I pose the following questions for the above:

Manipulative questions so one-sided, so irresponsible of the dark political side, the collective tragedy of the Tibetan at large.

If a real modus vivendi is timely as per your seeming concern, as per your fluency in English, then I think you should take the overall situation in account, especially the political side. As you know, to be 'unbiased' isn't an easy thing. What about the divisive supremacy-oriented elements through such infantile threats? Don't you think a functioning ecumenical overture as per His Holiness the Dalai Lama's dedicated commitment is timely? Why sectarian fundamentalism? Isn't it the violation of freedom of faith?

སླར་སྐད་ངན་ཐེངས་གཅིག

ད་ནི་ཀུན་ཚོང་རྫས་དང་།

ཡོད་ཚད་འདི་ནས་དབུགས་དེ་མ་ཆད་བར་ཙམ།          

ཁག་ག་ལ་ཡོད།          

ལྟད་མོ་མདུན་བཤམས་ལ་སུས་མི་སྨོན།          

ངན་ངོན་ཙམ་སུས་འདོད།          

བརྩེ་བ། ཀྱེ་མ།          

ཨ་གསར་མེ་ལྕེའི་མྱུར་སྐྱེན།          

ཚུལ་འཆོས་ལྕེ་རྩེའི་ལས་རྒྱུ་འབྲས།          

ཁག་མེད།          

རང་རིགས་ལགས། ཁག་མེད།  

སྟངས་སྟབས་དེའི་རྗེས་མ་སྙེག་དཀའ་མེད།        

ད་དེ་ཡང་་་་ཆེས་སྐྱིད་སྐབས་ཀྱི་གཏམ་སྙན་་་་་་ཚོང་རྫས་ཁོ་ན་སྟེ།          

སུ་འཇོན་སྡུག་ཕྱུག་ན་དེར།          

དེས་ན་སྤོབས་པ་སྨུག་པོ་ཞིག་གིས་མ་གཏོགས།          

གྱེས་མཚམས་མེད་ལ། སྤྲེལ་མཚམས་ཡང་མེད།          

རང་དབང་། རང་ཆེས་གཅེས་རང་དབང་། མདུན་གི་དོང་ནག་ཕྱོགས་སུ།          

ལྷད་མེད་གཞན་གཅེས་ལགས།          

ཐག་རིང་ཐག་རིང་ནས།          

སྣང་བའི་འོད་མདའ་མག་མོག་ཀྱང་།          

གཏན་དུ་གསལ་རོགས།          

གཏན་དུ་གསལ་རོགས།

Fading Gold-Shine

Why friendship doesn't last, if it means not that exaggerated insanity what is known as Love so evanescent when exposed to a situation where it's all hard bread without butter and meat? Why? I am really curious. I mean particularly between a man and a woman, peers of equal footings. I also mean in general. Why it's all hypocrisy at last, the shed foul sweat to be seen but started with such infatuated passion and rhetoric? Why a human heart is that myopic just planning for this life while mouthing grander ideas with the touch of spiritual sublimity?

Oh, my fellows compatriots!

So that's why, I sense, that's why a good friend is so hard to find, so so hard. Really!

“If you have two friends in your lifetime, you're lucky. If you have one good friend, you're more than lucky.”__ S.E. Hinton

And now I begin to see the treasure enshrined in the above aphorism.

Even though I am not a hero who can pirouette across a posh carpeted floor with a skilled agility, even though I lack the advertised chivalry of being brazenly proving that I have a heart of gold, even though I am not princely in bearings with curtsying way of ducking and craning like being able to pick up and hand over right away or like caring only about the two core zones, I know where I stand, what is for me and, above all, what it costs to be a hero in the cutting-edge setting or era now, to regale in that way...

I am not designed for it. Yes, dullard yet not simpleton.

A Fraying Summon

When a thousand reasons fail,

Namely discriminatory junks,

It takes a moment insight frail

Yet acutely relieving for the sunk.

When a thousand ills befall me,

Life, oh, so painful yet funny,

Taking snatching moment in thy name,

I wish thee to come as my savior sunny—

Bask me in thy sweltering tenderness

To show me a way to that depth,

I have tried to shun out of meekness,

Where I hold thee till my last breath.  

Lisper

The two bright eyes

As the pale hope teeters,

The enlivened will shudders—

The close-up demonic views

Guffaw undoing each screw

That upholds a notion so basic,

Estranged by a version eccentric.

As erratic as a charlatan’s sanctimony

The sentimental cliché what is penny!

‘You dumb fool, lost, coward.

Why you lisp and drawl, dullard?’

Yes, right, I a mere by passer

But why I lisp and falter?

It’s up to you, the estranged bubble.

Answer it for the one at his wit’s jumble.

Yes, I stutter also, laugh if you wish—

The closely networked mishmash,

The surreal within surreal matrix,

Has programmed me into such fix.

Why you just pick up those?

There even things laudable:

Those at public disposals, yes, buses—

The joy of ride marked by poses.

(I can’t stop chuckling here, sorry.)

Yes, deserted parks just as follies…

Yes, above all, the punctiliousness,

The smoothness of bureaucracy—

Thanks for those fake smiles

And sometimes sarcasms spicy

That let me inculcate more words

And self-mirror more closely, this dullard.

A Summon Yonder

Now as you demand it out of me

Or may wonder if I am an obtuse,

Uncivilized for the infernal indelicacy,

I dig within me to find a nugget.

But, alas, diffidence instead of such snippet.

Yeah, call me coward or mummified.

Holding desperately on to this defunct means,

Telepathy, the channel of those great prayers,

Like the one on the verge of being swept away into apocalypse,

I can see you, the outline of your lovely smile.

Yes, I say shine with it ever!

I just see a world yonder. 

A Strange Rain

Nogent Sur Oise, Criel in the background

The same panoramic view,

The texture now drowsy

And now resplendently new—

The providence of mother busy—,

Before the same two dull eyes

Now blood-shot, now morbidly dyed.

It’s the rain of today

Like the rare expo of mother’s skill

Languidly falling bigger drops, say

Like beaded curtain in rolling drill

But the ripples of distant tiny drops

Myriad, entangled like flurry of hopes—

To live now or stuck out there;

To value it or to be swept away

Into myriad eternity yonder,

Uncertainty flickers at murky bay.

Even so attached tomorrow

Like a formless desperate crow.

Nay I can look out there

Or have such intertwined plans.

Nay, even for a second, I dare

Think that I of such swimming clan.

Say coward. Yes, I am but dreamer

I am but so preposterous for you—

As I dream

Off the ground of flurries,

So novel yet so outrageous.

One Day

It’s only the turn of time—

This time you,

Gone yet heavier and more obsessed,

The narrow dark corridor speaks,

The shrill breezes with the drizzle wail,

The glistening yet dewy life

As brittle as an egg.

I remain,

Grossly existent yet lighter and adrift,

The flying time whispers,

The dying soul laments,

The slipping dreamy realities

As hectic as the senseless machine.

So could be seen from Sylvain’s meditative ironies,

More than usual rites of marihuana-shot reverie.

So his 13 years old son Christope’s ironic lightness,

‘He, Patrick, has gone forever,’

Followed by pointing towards the grey-dark sky

Above the silhouette of the nearby wooded ridge

That could be seen from the open window.

It was middle-aged Patrick,

The crippled ex-army,

Who had seen the world,

As per through his military posts.

His sedateness cost him,

Even during the cruel stroke?

His broken English,

The two treasured photo albums,

Told me that far about him.

He was a drummer,

His band mostly Philippines,

‘The good persons’ as he said.

With my prayers,

As I do wish,

I hope this broken piece,

Would preserve his fleeting image ever

Marked by his English,

‘How are you? Good?

I am good. Thank you.’

How his brooding plus loneliness,

Despite usual carousal with the pockmarked aged Muslim guy,

Could be detected by such as I,

Rawness plus self-search shot?

The aged Muslim guy

(Sorry I don’t know his name yet),

My next door one,

Now with more of himself:

‘On doit partir un jour,’ I tried my French.

‘C’est, c’est,voila, un jour,’ he said.

He meant to draw attention of Sylvain and Christope

Both my broken French and the gist

That regaled his searching heart at the moment.

It was he who had found out

After pounding repeatedly on the russet painted door

On that day and the previous.

More through his gesticulations

Like slicing the void at his will

I got thus,

I felt something of true self—

Bereft of any prejudices.

Now, as late Patrick was alone in this murky world,

With no one all gone as from the Muslim guy,

Who could be an ex-army as well,

The old sycamore claims,

Through how many hard seasons,

As the only one, more than the today’s full moon there,

Who still stands next by the strip of new road.

The narrow dark corridor is darker,

Pregnant with whizzing obsession

Yet still and to wade across,

The mystery of life by the death.