My sweetest Lord Supreme,
Is self-forgetfulness
A divine blessing
An animal curse?

'Self-forgetfulness can never be
A curse.
It can only be
A sad experience
In a seeker's ever running and
Transcending journey
To the Beyond.

The self-forgetfulness of puny 'i'
Is a blessing supreme indeed,
As the self-remembrance of the giant 'I'
Is an unparalleled blessing
On the seeker's march along the path
Of reality's space.

Forget the sad and the saddening past;
Remember the illumining
and the illumined present.
Accelerate the birth and the life-flow
Of the fast-approaching future-noon.

Before the dawn of realisation-height,
Self-forgetfulness at times saves
The seeker's inner sky
And outer moon.
After the birth of realisation-height,
Self-forgetfulness in the heart
Of a Master divine
Is the zenith of impossibility remote.'

About Sri Chinmoy Ghose

Chinmoy Kumar Ghose, also known as Sri Chinmoy was an Indian spiritual teacher, poet, artist and athlete who immigrated to the U.S. in 1964, the founder of the religious organization "Sri Chinmoy Centre Church, Inc." better known as "Sri Chinmoy Centre". According to his followers, Sri Chinmoy wrote 1,500 books, 115,000 poems and 20,000 songs, created 200,000 paintings and gave almost 800 free peace concerts in notable venues around the world. As a spiritual Master, he advocated meditation, chanting mantras and prayers, performing dedicated service to God as a way to personal enlightenment, or God-realisation as described by Eastern religions,... Read more...

Poet of the day

Christopher Pearse Cranch (March 8, 1815 – January 20, 1892) was an American writer and artist.

Cranch was born in the District of Columbia. He attended Columbian College and Harvard Divinity School. He briefly held a position as a Unitarian minister. Later, he pursued various occupations: a magazine editor, caricaturist,...

Poem of the day

Songs that could span the earth,
When leaping thought had stirred them,
In many an hour since birth,
We heard or dreamed we heard them.

Sometimes to all their sway
We yield ourselves half fearing,
Sometimes with hearts grown grey
We curse ourselves for...