Ganapathim Bhaje

Karpaga Vinayagar, Pillaiyar Patti

Muthuswamy Dikshitar's Vatapi Ganapathim 

Rendered By MS Subbulakshmi

Pallavi:

Vathapi Ganapathim Bhajeham

Vaaranaasyam Vara Pradham Sri

Anupallavi:

Bhoothaadhi Samsevitha Charanam

Bhootha Bhautika Prapancha Bharanam

Madhyamakala Sahityam:

Veetharaaginam Vinutha Yoginam

Vishwakaaranam Vigna Vaaranam

Charanam:

Puraa Kumbha Sambhava Munivara Prapoojitham Trikona Madhyagatham

Muraari Pramukhaadhyupaasitham Moolaadhaara Kshetrasthitham

Paraadhi Chathvaari Vaagaathmakam Pranava Swaroopa Vakrathundam

Nirantharam Nithila Chandrakandam Nijavaamakara Vidhrutekshu Dandam

Madhyamakala Sahithyam:

Karaambujapaasha Beejaapooram Kalushavidooram Bhoothaakaaram

Haraadhi Guruguha Toshitha Bimbam Hamsadhwani Bhooshitha Herambham

I sing in praise of Vatapi Ganapati, who has the face of an elephant, and who is a giver of all boons. All the living beings worship His feet. He transcends the past, the future and the universe, comprising the five elements. He is devoid of passion, and is saluted by the Yogis  He is the cause of the  creation of the world and He is the remover of all obstacles.

In ancient times, He was worshiped by Saint Agastya (born out of a pot). He resides in the middle of the mystic triangle. He is saluted by the prominent Gods, Vishnu and Others. He resides in the Mooladhara Chakram (cosmic circle). He represents the four forms of speech, beginning with the inaudible Shabdam namely Paraa. His trunk is curved in the form of the sacred syllable Ohm. He is eternal, and His forehead bears the crescent moon. In His left hand He carries the stack of  sugar cane. He also carries a noose and a pomegranate fruit in His lotus-like hand. He is of an immeasurable form, and He is faultless. He is the protector of the meek, and His figure is adorned by the Hamsadhvani Raaga.

e.e.cummings

Somewhere I Have Never Traveled

somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

~ e.e.cummings

Pink Floyd ~ Another Brick In The Wall

Another Brick In The Wall

Daddy's flown across the ocean
Leaving just a memory
Snapshot in the family album
Daddy what else did you leave for me?
Daddy, what'd'ja leave behind for me?!?
All in all it was just a brick in the wall.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.

"You! Yes, you! Stand still laddy!

We don't need no education
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

We don't need no education
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

"Wrong, Do it again!"
"If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you
have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?"
"You! Yes, you behind the bikesheds, stand still laddy!"
 "The Bulls are already out there"

Pink: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgh!"
"This Roman Meal bakery thought you'd like to know."

I don't need no arms around me
And I dont need no drugs to calm me.
I have seen the writing on the wall.
Don't think I need anything at all.
No! Don't think I'll need anything at all.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.
All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.
 

~ Pink Floyd

The Hollow Men ~ T.S. Eliot

The Hollow Men

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

~T. S. Eliot

Borges and I : Jorge Luis Borges

 BORGES and I 

The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.

Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago, I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

I do not know which of us has written this page.

~ Jorge Luis Borges (1899~1986)