Incondicional -Patanga

De novo, Ele não me deixa dormir,

Fazendo me sentar aos pés da cama

Para escrever antes que vire névoa:

Eu nem tenho sido grato, nem nada;

Não tenho feito tantas coisas para Ele;

Mas Ele faz tanto por mim, tantas coisas

Que me fazem sentir amado, e até por isso

Mais ingrato; mas não, Ele não deixa;

Ele me faz sentir amado

Mesmo que eu não O ame;

E incondicional; sinto que é como

Se meu coração fosse conquistado,

E Ele me faz ficar acordado

Com alegria e também receio

De que esse ser amado um dia


Mas não; sei que só aumentará.


Once more He lets me sleep not,

Making me sit at the bedside

And write before it turns to mist:

I haven´t been grateful or anything;

Haven´t done much or anything for Him;

But He does so much for me, so many things

That make me feel loved, and for that even

More ungrateful; but no, He won´t let me;

He makes me feel loved

Even if I don´t love Him;

It is unconditional; it feels like

My heart is snatched away

By His disarming love,

And He makes me stay awake

With joy and worry too

That this being loved would one day


But no.


-Patanga Cordeiro

The Epic of Ushika at the 3100-mile race

The Epic of Ushika at the 3100-mile race

This is a short or long story
About a a Hermit brave and a Rishi sweet
from Rig Veda of now or yore
Who were walking down the street.
Most precisely,
They were walking down nigh
Grand Central Parkway,
just behind Thomas Edison High.
One seemed to be running,
But that is just from a distance wide;
A savvy onlooker will quickly
Ascertain the wanning-ralking stride.
Anyway in lack of topic and alms
For usual conversation or filmscreen
They wandered surreal realms
Of rubber, skin salves and ice cream
Delving deep into the world
Of perilous mobile surfing
Credit card issuing on hold
Hopes for proper shoes vanishing
Realms of blister, and of chafe,
And of sun and concrete hard
Ever lightened by valiant Max
The Hermit’s squire and bard,
To safeguard the promise and duty
Of now, the Race of Eternity
Halfway into the darkest dungeon
Also brings the Hermit one,
The Worshipper of Dawn,
Halfway into the Light Divine
But… nowhere the end at hand!
Well, Tis´ not for one to know where
He will get, for one thus surrendered
Is rather taken somewhere, doesn´t go.
Oh, yet!,
The one chosen now strides aloft
The hope of completeness soft
The goal seemingly unattainable
Suddenly beckons the able
For what Grace one is due in ruth
Tis’ not for one to know
Grace is swift and strong, its truth
Alighting on sweated brow
By hearkening to the call
One was already destined
To the heirloom divine:
Guru´s Divine Love for all,
The very end of all in All.
from the book:
Tales from the Vedas: the Rishi and the Hermit
Banana-Leaf Publications 13700 B.C.

Poems on Japan




Tokyo (I)


Asia’s cherry and
Europe’s rose –
In the selfsame tree
Blossoms Japan’s soul.



Tokyo (II)


Citadel of silence
Dreams of the highest
In her answered query
Japan’s five-petaled cherry.


Tokyo (III)


Her body a land of duty

Her vital a fort of purity

Her mind an ocean of silence

Her heart an altar of simplicity

In her flourishes

Japan’s jewel Tokyo –
The joint streak

Of a smile from the Sun
And a tear from the Moon.


Japan (I)


In a land of beauty
Sprouts from the earth

A body of purity and
A temple of silence

Scattering moonlight
In starclad firmament



Sakura sakura


The life and dynamism
And people of elegance

Skies of silence-vast
And Tokyo’s might

All bow to the minute merry
Of Japan’s blossomed cherry





First time there was no expectation,

But this time I know what to expect

And still I am surprised.



Tokyo mother


Her worshippable duty

Raising her children

In a bicycle seated

The world inhales



Japanese language

is that which

the more I know

the less I know

the more I like

the more I like

the more I understand

and the less I understand

– the more I like.


I like its charming childlike sounds

I like its hide-and-seek of words

I like its beautifying of words

I like its addition of non-words to words

I like its love of structure and non-structure

I like its cadence more like a train with a few clear stops

I am refreshed by its simple grammar and few exceptions

and baffled by its writing system

adopted from Chinese and made irregular and chaotic

so that I dare not guess-read the names of my japanese friends

so as not to call them “lion-cub-rice-field-swamp”

and last but not least

I love its loanwordmaking square-type forge

– by that it is made all the more childlike

and all the more beautiful

and I simply love it.

When near you

I am your babe-in-arms.





I sit and meditate

And read

And stand outside on the verandah

All silence

And beauty

Nishitokyo’s sky


I sit and meditate

And read

And stand outside on the verandah

Pure and crisp wind

Steals my heart away

I sit again

Find my heart

The wind takes it away


I sit and meditate

And read

And stand outside on the verandah


Do I return home

Or go away


-Patanga Cordeiro

Poems about Radha



You give me the sky velvet

Late night

Dark blue

Like Radha´s sari to wear


Her Golden skin

And black hair

With Krishna’s dark skin

And Golden wear

My Beloved,

It was by Your magic

That I spent my while

Feeling so near.




Radha’s Beloved


Beloved – are You not ashamed,

For it is You who calls Yourself so

By keeping me awake tonight.





The Prince


To my Prince

I dedicate this sleepless


That I see Him

It can only mean

I dream.


Of Him Prince

I demand:


That He not make me wake


By the touch of His Lips

I awaken.




Radha, Draupadi, e todas elas

Achavam que era difícil, mas não era.

Pelo menos elas tiveram Você.

Eu… nem sei  quem Você é…

E nem sei o que acontece comigo…

Bem, na verdade, sou como elas mesmo,

Sou como uma menina reclamando sem razão

Perdida na sua emoção,

Pois na verdade Você me tem,

E eu, Você.



Radha, Draupadi, and all of them

Thought it was difficult, but it wasn´t.

At least they had You.

I… don´t even know who You are…

Nor do I know what is happening with me…

Well… come to think of it, I am really like them;

I am like a girl making baseless complaints

Lost amid her emotions,

For, as a matter of fact, You do have me,

And I have You.






beleza sem inverno

pureza e frescor eterno

aquela que sem ela

as flores não são belas


as abelhas brincam

buscando a alva essência

e as borboletas procuram

a reluzente existência


da linda rosa-pureza

– alma-fragrância-beleza –

anunciando a chegada ao mar

antes da vista alcançar


sol dourado-prateado

reluz no miolo dourado

por ela o Senhor embriagado

de ver é até engraçado


reflete a beleza-divina

nas pétalas luz-do-luar

em quem o Senhor nos ensina

o que realmente é Amar.




Ó Amado, Sol oriental

De face de chamas e cabelos dourados:

Fujo de você para poder vê-Lo,

Pois sei que perto demais

Eu e Você não somos mais dois.

Quero sempre ser eu e poder amá-Lo.

Corro para longe querendo alcançá-Lo;

Quanto mais para longe corro,

Mais perto você parece estar;

Mas sinto a Sua presença no meu rosto

E fujo; fujo, pois não quero mostrar

Minha face e cabelos desarrumados;

Em toda parte parece a Sua Luz estar,

E você me expõe

A à Sua forma de amar.




Vá, prima*, vá agora até Ele –

Eu quero espiar, aprender;

É fala, vestimenta, ou maquiagem? Ou é poção?

Conte-me, prima, como você faz –

Ele é só seu, e você Dele;

Quero aprender.

“Querida, contarei a você;

Não tenho ninguém,

Nem a mim mesma.

Dei-me a Ele;

Agora Ele sou eu;

Mais que isso não sei.”




Quando olho para

você, minha prima*,

imóvel, vejo o vazio dos seus

olhos; petrificada, resta apenas uma

centelha; o Universo inteiro nela

abrigado; olhando você mirando

esse vazio; sei em Quem

está pensando; Está perdida

Nele, que é o

Todo; Você nem



-Patanga Cordeiro

Miscellaneous poems

There goes the burrowing badger

eats the honeycomb and never minds the stings

if one sting gets his snout

he jumps startled and resumes eating

not even a comma mid-phrase

he does not like periods

the most he will allow is a change of line

he never had to look up

the word humility in the dictionary

and even his name is not mentioned here

neither serpent-night nor python-day

neither lion bite nor the venom

from the serpents of previous lines

shake his determination more than a hiccup

he is just a small animal

and his life might be a short lived

why bother with bee stings

serpent venom or lion bite

the honeycomb he enjoys like

the burrowing badger that he is


-Patanga Cordeiro

Corrida Sri Chinmoy de 10 dias um poema em três partes


Corrida Sri Chinmoy de 10 dias

um poema em três partes


Infernos – preâmbulo


Vida fraca,

vontade esvai,

corpo fraqueja,

a mente entrega –

é o início do encontramento:







Dez dias









Calçados cortados,

fracasso cortado

tempo cortado

morte cortada


Campos Elíseos


Sétimo dia.

O céu, o lago, flores de grama

os campos elíseos.

Penas do pássaro negro

mostrando cores arco-íris.

Se é sonho

ou realidade,

o sonho-realidade é mais real

juntando duas realidades

num sonho só.


Dez dias.



e fé.


-Patanga Cordeiro

Poems about Beauty


Something Beautiful of You


Just yesterday I saw something so

Beautiful of You

That I stopped mid-breath.


Today I saw something so

Beautiful of You

That my heart skipped a beat.


Something Beautiful of You


Tomorrow, O Lord,

I wait anxiously –

Will you snatch me away





You are Beautiful


You are not only Beautiful for what Beautiful things You are,

but You are Beautiful also for the things You are not.




It rains now


Like the russety covers in fall

Like the parent of a child small

He even makes the raindrops small

So they don´t hurt when they fall.



Benevolent unto us


Did you create writing

Thinking of this day

When people would write

Out of love for You?

Could You be so benevolent

unto us?




How come?



of myriad grains

no end.



of myriad brains



But you come

just to snatch my tiny heart away.

– How come?





World of beauty-day


My poems will have to

end one day,

Verily because I shall make my life

end one day.

But You will not let Your creation, poetry

end anyday.

You wake us up once again

In this world of beauty-day

And long silence-night

And no one to tell

And leaving no choice

But to sit up and write.




When I want to see You






After the rain

Every stalk of grain

Gently and happily shaking

Under careful Blessing

Moving flowers to be

Like you and me.


-Patanga Cordeiro

Poems about victory

Each meditation is a battle

From the moment I wake up

And dress to suit

To the final bell and beyond


Armies of thoughts

divine and undivine

Clash in my mind´s eye

As I look at my Master´s Eye


Body, vital and mind

throw all their letargy, impurity

and doubt projectiles


That simply smash against

the impenetrable wall

of the soul-fort


The heart-captain collects the fallen soldiers

and the undivine weapons

placing them in his silence-throne


Then a battle cry is heard

– aspiration-cry,

and finally the battle

for real life begins.






“The secret of meditation,” my Master says, “is aspiration. Aspiration is the inner cry.”

One day I shall cry inwardly,

if not like a helpless baby hungry,

then like a soldier who knows

this can be his last fight.






A victory song is

A defeat sung by the victor,

For anything “we win”

Takes us away from Him.


-Patanga Cordeiro

Poems about writing … “so I have resigned to writing poems.” – Patanga

Even if I do not know how to write,

you let me write

Even the occasional

beautiful thing.


You do so out of Your Compassion,

So that I may spend my time

thinking of You

and not my self.




How can I write anymore

if the pen in my hand

Can only move by a Force within me?


It is not I who write;

Writing is not for a caveman like me.

Writing is for the devotee who,

Even though he does not know anything

Still he wishes to worship You.





Once I tried to write a poem,

But I decided there was nothing to write about.

You have already written Everything.

Writing now would be

Like plucking a flower from a tree

And offering it to You.



You Yourself made the flower,

You Yourself made the tree,

You Yourself made me.




Why now You make me sleepy

When I finally want to write.

This is not at all right;

If it were so,

I should be able to wake myself

When I want to see You.




You opened a bakery and let me play

pretending I am the owner.

As the bread leavens,

So Your expectations of me grow.


Yet when they flourish,

I offer them to a customer

And forget

That they were born for You.




Today as I meditated

A stream of lines came.

As I hurriedly wrote them down

My pride grew and I forgot:


I forgot that it is You who made me,

You who woke me up,

You who made for me a shrine in the world,

You who made me meditate.

But you just *let* me write,

And I feel all responsible.





A flower lasts only so much,

But not You.


If we use the most beautiful words

for the flowers,


Then what words shall I use for You?




If You ever let me speak

through my pen

You would then

Hear things

I could never say.




I wish I could be like You,

And not this life of rue,

Making lines out of the Blue,

Pretending them to be true.




Everybody speaks of a garland of gratitude.

I must be honest. I never made one.


Or at least, not one totally befitting You.

Therefore, I keep on writing.




How can a child repay its mother

for bringing him up?

How can a disciple repay his spiritual mother

for showing him his Guru?


Even a lifetime of gratitude

would not be enough.


Since I am still a mother’s child

and do not have full strength in my heart,

I know I cannot yet offer

a life complete of gratitude.


So I have resigned to writing poems.




Tonight I took up pen

To say I am the One Invincible,

But then I would have to prove myself.

Defense: what a useless waste of capacity.

Maybe I shouldn´t.

(say that or defend myself?)




Why do I take paper again

to write quasi-equal poems over and over –

have I nothing better to do?

A flower knows only how to bloom

and that is what it does.

That is what You gave the flower to do.

Likewise I write. That is all I know,

endless empty pages full of words.

Or then give me something else to do.

Wait. Have You done so already?

But even then I did not hear.

Is it that verily, what You want…

should I start…

listening to You?




A myriad number of lines

Hint at what You are

Just follow the strokes

But stop not where they end

Life is exactly that chore:

To find what lies beyond shore.




Yet left to write


I see You in black and white

More real than I ever could be


I see you in my dream

More real than I could ever seem


All these are mere words

– When will You be mine?


Glancing at the pages

yet left to write I

almost feel

Your boyish smile.


-Patanga Cordeiro