Taoli-Ambika Talwar

Taste of Wholeness from the Great Empty

My arms rise to sky in longing…
Drum me into fullness.

This chilling autumn sweeps
fallen ground poked with frost.

Such brilliance that my heart
weeps with fire for thee as I

rise ever taller — stretching bowing
pine peers into your faraway face.

Yes, we are surrounded by fluted
October colors: Where are you? You...

drummer to drum me into thee
brilliance of bliss is this...just this..!

Does it all end in searching, or shall
we be found in veins of fallen leaves

this autumn plum-orange-brown
skinned for feast of immortality?

Drum me into fullness a rich song,
sing this: why are you not here?

I taste the sound of each beat as
my heart sweeps wild empty spaces.

In fire in frost we melt we burn –
What kind of love is this?

That we wait to ascend into
Great Empty to be whole…!

Painted Egg

Beautiful painted egg
wound by threads colors
contains all before
the web of life: thereafter?
Unending destiny.

Humankind: tears laughter betrayal drunkenness kindness jealousy faith confidence envy love loveless absence presence murder ad infinitum. Put it in a bag and throw it in the river.

Humankind: ditto above. Cleanse the grime. Detox history of past and of future. Before the egg cracks with desire, prepare it for poetry that brings light. Serve it for supper.

Unending destiny—beautifully painted egg is colored with life's innuendoes. The after is the anodyne that must come before the plunge.

Drink a cup of cold water before the mouth of the river opens to swallow the egg whole not cracked. Matters not if this is non-sense.

Endless destinies are wound unwound by threads. Choose the color you like. Dip in the river. Cure All. Egg hangs in the balance between breath and no breath, between memory and desire. Someone plays a flute.

And I must go home. By the lake where sun rises and sets to my music. By the one who knows...that the sum of all virtues is allowing the earth to turn on her side when she sleeps.

With the one who knows that the space of silence is courage to understand self. Better to do so before laying an egg and swallowing it.

Birds of Paradise in Dance With Light

Birds of Paradise we are. Yes!
Birds of Paradise on our way
to clear the moss and heartache.

To clear the moss and old heartache,
we move out of shadows and murky spaces,
so we can dance a new language!

So we can dance a new language
to clear the moss and heartache,
we find a new granary, an orchard.

We make a new orchard and pulsing lakes,
to dance a sweetening new language…
clear away hiding moss and heartache.

To clear the moss and heartache,
we sew torn up lands and severed roots for
tribes whose blood cannot feed the fruits.

Tribes whose blood cannot feed on fruits,
we scattered seeds seek luscious land
to clear the moss and sordid heartache—

Scattered seeds of light seek luscious land
so we can dance a new language—
We are but brilliant Birds of Paradise!

Birds of Paradise we are on our way.
We make new granaries, orchards, and lakes;
Newly fused seeds, we light a new dance.

On our way to sew up torn lands,
we plant seeds of light, a new language
to clear away the old worn out heartache;

To clear overhanging moss and drooping eyelids,
we dance a new grammar, feed our healing hearts.
We become tribes whose blood feeds a new love.

Birds of Paradise! We are but in paradise…
On our path of gold we make even stars dance.
We tribes, we feed on the language of love.

We soak in this wildly delicate language of love!
We become light intensely dancing like stars
dying into spaces of between fused hearts.

We are Birds of Paradise unable to turn back.
We cannot turn back from our manifest destiny—
This Inevitability, Love!
                      To dance a new language of light.

Emerald Whale

The emerald whale is at the edge of time.
Time is a golden capsule. If the whale
swallows it, it will return to a pristine moment

before the dark winds blew. But it holds off
for if it does not swallow, it shall
follow the curves of the earth at its

own choosing: Decisions empower the heart
breath wind—alchemy moves upward all
that does not falter, but knows the goal

is to ascend into the heavens that sparkle
with gold ambers and emeralds before the
sapphire winds that swirl with diamonds…

The night sky brings to rest all that’s forgotten
lost despairing into a cup that renews—
my heart has known what metamorphoses

into molten is ready for the golden chalice.
Emerald whale awakes one morning with wings:
White-gold breath becomes dawn: Awaking music!

Walking With a Difference!

            (for Mary Ann Sullivan
             and our collaboration
The world is crumbling again as words and wings
of warring tribes tumble on mountains of innocence:

Piles of carcass move around taking care of business.
Is task of bringing balance left to vultures who feed
on dead-dying-delusional flesh in the towers of silence?

Sun hides behind a darkening mountain, wondering,
waiting for a ray of glory to awaken dying masses –
Oh where is the music of creation? – Those notes I hear
so dimly in the distance dredge up chords from the dust.

Come! Dance us into a new awareness – Hurry.
Crescendo us into fields of green and gold under blue skies
where a child can feed on its mother, where a mother
can sustain her tribe and lovers beget each other.
where a man can be a man. So holy is he. We are!

Come! Look not for glory in the trenches where people hide
to save their skins from exposure; move to glow of virtue.
Come here to the house where dancing souls renew.

Come! Sing of the heart that makes a hearth that seeds
divine foods—Just come! Make me a picture that feels
like peace rising like a mantle of love on the land,
where people grow wild gold of singing corn fields
or paddy or wheat from soil untainted by chemicals
so we can dance our blue-green feathers of peacocks in rainfall.

Move like the tightrope walker delicately on path
near rivers distilled clear like pure crystal flowing, a path
like a finely tuned chord that sings our matrix
into renewal. Or recognition. Or rebirth.

Keep me awake with your words with your dancing feet –
Take my hand: Untie my feet.

Let us walk with a difference. Head held high
children dancing around us….feet making music
unto the stars! Such is the emergence my skin understands
as cosmic flute plays quietly in my heart –

And your eyes understand!

The Open Door

One half of bridge emerges
on the other side of Cloud River.
It’s hard to see for the golden-blue shades
contain the fading light...

Maybe the bridge is inner light...
Someone turns it on: Someone's knocking
on the roof. A dream comes
to peel away noise from the music.

It isn’t breath that makes one immortal
but breathlessness: what death's dying
does to us when we cross that bridge;
Wash our feet skin bones in rivers

too fast to understand or hold in our arms.
Sometimes life is like that: too fast
to hold in our arms. So we pass on beyond
the bridge, hope to land on the steps

of the yonder bridge. I wouldn’t like to fall
in space of clouds. I'd shut my eyes,
be swallowed by the river that runs away.
Am I in hounds of silence? Or in heaven?

Golden-blue hues color my windows.
The clarity of my eyes sees through
my living my dying my arriving as I ascend
a staircase to the open door. Shall I enter?

A Vanishing Point

Woman on fire—ineffably on fire
fired in clay pit
inevitably arrives
glossed and brushed.

Thusly, my imaginal selves
remember forgotten tastes;
veil of fog lifts a hem
reveals possibilities unnamed.

Yes, Beloved.

We wander through
bitter-sweet blood
orange orchards where

trees sing with embers’ glow;
here fire cools under the soot
where stories have lain.

Such is the quickening memory
twice born three times
in crimson red sun—

Those are your eyes.

Your rubies fall into my lap
like love I welcome...

Brightly my ambers embrace you.
We are on fire even as
sapphires dangle from sky;
I am held captive in your eyes,
I have swum in your longing.

Familiar songs awake my feet,
those finely chiseled feet
aching for resolutions...

All my life they have ached
my breaking feet making whole
the earth where I walk;

Lives are not wasted,
tho’ it feels this way.

After a life, comes
this celebration:

Now answers need no questions.
Edge of darkness shifts lifting
hem of Gaia's unending ridges.

Our eyes glow, tongues intone,
sacred kiss quenches pale
yellow sky into acquiescence.

We are anointed with a hymnal
so sacrosanct
that gods part cosmos
to be witness:

Perfect vision of garden
delights our silent gaze;
tears become pearls.

Greatest dream arises
like Venus flowing in fabric
of emerald azure seas…

We are a vanishing point.

Shadowed by the Light

How shall I count my days?
But with the bookends of many ways
that collide with destiny, we
wondering at markings on the wall.

Even walls have shadows that come alive
from book to book, the poems
that shatter our beliefs
are yet a-coming.

How shall I count my days?
Text on bookends changes
with the complexion of the roads
we traverse. Flowers of dust arise.

Even the sun blocks our vision
and we see not that old words
have lost meaning. I wish to
become that—beyond belief.

Why count the bookends of our days?
When there is no end, no wall,
no road—There is only this.
And only this: my empty palms

turning up turning down. Arms
opening to mark horizons wherever
they are. These shall be my days!
My new days—roads where

there are no roads. Bodies where
there are no bodies, yet fully
embodied—emboldened beyond belief,
endless as days that gather

all that is fresh, alive, beautiful
shadowed in the light—Just! Only this.
Shadowed with the light—Awakening!
Tumbling into effulgence. Even

this is not what I am/we are! But we
quicken into void of destiny:
No bookends no ways no walls
no poems. No, not even this.

Love: Salt of the Earth

we are the salt of the earth...so some say
we taste ourselves in our tears
we wish these be tears of love
or why waste the wellspring of the eyes
even the morning sun breathes through
morning water eyes shining through the window
as its light spreads incandescent
over a sleeping city
good morning !

yes we are the salt of the earth
even when the day is done
wings of evening begin to spread
organs play their paean through the furrows
taste of kisses brings us home
this is how the morning sun comes to rest
cleaving us to our arms interwoven
the salt of you in my mouth

I smell what you have endured
thoughts that make you wondrous
all your toiling peppered with knowing
darkness of night leaves salt hills on the beach
our sweat salts our sheets—taste of comfort
that nothing else creates. Not breakfast

But something like this. That we awake
always to this melt always to this
smile nose to cheek always to this
salt of the earth with wings
when sun sultry returns winking
through the filigree of our fingers
that will spread nimbly to make new things
even to fashion flour, salt and water
into nourishment with the wine…

if this isn't love, what is?
that our skins be woven together
salt sweat smiles tears...you are food
to me as are my dreams...

Ache of Worlds Arriving

We are mirrors unto
ourselves: first look in a meandering
stream flowing effervescent—

it moves on, never looks back.
We are that face we have witnessed
so many times and maybe

never. We are that image
of a god that we have defined
in innumerable ways,

ephemeral in divinity,
forgetting and being found. Now!
Yes, we are that—guide, pupil!

We are that with whom
we sit abiding our many destinies
multiplicities of romances,

journeys into caverns we know
not of, but they are everywhere we turn
like so many barks of trees—

We are that hollow that smiles
sings, weeps, howls making silent
the mountains, we are!

We are mirrors unto ourselves
like the first look into a raging river
never the same portrait ever—

we are faces in the train choo
by, whose windows breathe
our passing immortalities.

We sit by our teachers who remind
we are but the breath of breath learning
the art of reflections: mutations of color.

We are rainbow reflections in matter
of the god we are seeking—however we
define the mirrors gods emerge

from. We are the ones that wipe
the mirrors clean when dust and drudge
have crowded the spaces in our

hearts’ heart. So we may not be
forever lost, alone like northern star.
When I look into the mirror

of your words, I see my ache,
grit of sorrows, raging summers marking
eternally a broken fingernail

my invisibility in romance, world
of earthly love, my aching presence
yet yearning to be felt

as uniquely as I am destined;
I see my lineage ending where it was begun
I see my tears fall in your palms,

but your eyes so layered with
beauteous mirrors, they reflect my
undying selves carefully

or carelessly unwinding
like a bush on fire that must start
a new religion of self-discovery:

We are always at the beginning
of who we are—what choices mark
Bach’s solo cello or Beethoven’s

symphonies as rings of trees
that have sprung up before time
could be counted in caves

and horns of bulls for goddesses
whose triune wisdom enlivens presence
which dances in you and in me.

We are the love we have
transpired for: ache to become
a dying a humus a hymn.

Sing through me! So the river
that passes through my skeletal caverns
resounds with flutes of cosmos,

for we are those reflections
ongoing in cosmic strings uncut
never the same face, eyes, skin, hair

never the same river, but like
light dancing we forget who we are
so we become who we are:

flame in immense dark, where
we both-and dance sans end, sans beginning
no single reflection but singular.

We are mirrors unto ourselves
moving still like tender velvet wine
dark burgundy shot with

cosmic blue and gold—
we have seasons that quietly dance
in and out of existence.

Do not forget to hold my hand
when I travel to and away from you,
when I wander into worlds

too far to fathom: the ache
of my reflection and yours must abide
or the world: Be still!

Copyright © 2013 Taoli-Ambika Talwar

AMBIKA TALWAR is an educator, published author and artist, who has written poetry since her teen years. She has authored Creative Resonance: Poetry—Elegant Play, Elegant Change, 4 Stars & 25 Roses (poems for her father) and other chapbooks. Her style is largely ecstatic making her poetry a “bridge to other worlds.” She is published in Kyoto Journal, Inkwater Ink - vol. 3, Chopin with Cherries, On Divine Names, VIA-Vision in Action, in Poets on Site chapbooks/collections, St. Julian Press, Tower Journal, and other journals; has been interviewed by KPFK; has recorded poems for the Pacific Asia Museum; and has won an award for a short film at a festival in Belgium. She also practices IE:Intuition-Energetics™, a fusion of various modalities, goddess lore, sacred geometry and creative principles for health/wellness.  “Both poetry and holistic practices work beautifully together, for language is intricately coded in us. In resonance with our authentic self, we experience wholeness & wellness,” she notes.  “I love to work with people to help them discover their unique creative purpose.” She has taught English at Cypress College, Cypress, California, for several years.  She is originally from India.

Current Sites:  http://goldenmatrixvisions.com & http://intuition2wellness.com

Under construction:

Interview: http://www.timothy-green.org/blog/taoli-ambika-talwar/