Monkey Poetry

I know that a room full of monkeys have typed all my poetry
My monkey mind runs the show, after all
I take credit for the random blooms which come
from the seeds of their discarded bananas

Travellers of Yore

A random list of some of my favorite travelers, with a bias against missionaries, sailors, invaders and colonialists -:

1. Hiuen Tsang, China
2. Fa-Hien, China
3. Ibn Batuta, Morocco
4. Marco Polo, Venice
5. Fernão Mendes Pinto, Portugal
6. Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca, Spain
7. Lewis and Clark, America
8. Sven Hedin, Sweden
9. Ferdinand von Richthofen, Germany
10. Richard Francis Burton, England
11. Adi B. Hakim, Jal P. Bapasola, Rustom B. Bhumgara, India
12. Jack Kerouac, USA

1. Hiuen Tsang
Chinese Buddhist monk/scholar who traveled to India around 630 AD on a pilgrimage to acquire sacred scriptures. He traveled the length of India and some parts of Ceylon. He also spent time with scholars at Nalanda University during its hey days, under Harshavardhana. I've been reading Samuel Beal's translation of an account of his travels, by his disciple HuiLi, called The Life of Hiuen-Tsiang. His own extensive writings on his travels Si-Yu-Ki , is next on my reading list.

2. Fahien
Another Chinese Buddhist monk/scholar who was the first traveller to leave an account of his travels to Central Asia, India and Ceylon. He predated Hiuen Tsang, and his visit to India was around 399 AD. His mission was to specifically find the scriptures of Vinaya Pitaka, which detailed the monastic rules set by Mahayana buddhism, and also visit sacred sites. I am currently reading Samuel Beal's translation of an account of his travels, Travels of Fah Hian and Sung Yun from China to India: 400 AD to 518 AD

The rest in the list will follow...

Random Journal Entry

How do I read a book? The same way I travel ofcourse!

I travel, over land, with unrestrained senses, and an intellect sufficiently reined in. I allow everything within the realm of my senses, and that significant other, that which can be received, but is outside the realm of senses and the intellect, to affect me. I offer myself up as the clay, that under such forces, results in this living self. I have no travelogues, no photographs, no statistics...I have nothing but myself to show as a product of my journeys.

I read the written word with the same lack of restraint, with scant regard for details, and only a sufficient application of intellect. I do not allow that which is written to camouflage the unwritten. I weed through the written, to come under the influence of that which is unwritten.

Untitled

the blaze
in eyes
that wakes up
the night
the moon

the kiss
that stays
in the solitude
together

then

a smile
half-opens
reluctant
to miss it all