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