~ The Philosophy of Dreams ~👍

One dreams many things that are never to be experienced in this life such as “He dreams he is flying in the air.

“ A dream is not an entirely new experience, because most often it is the memory of past experiences.

In the waking state, the light of the self is mixed up with the functions of the organs, intellect, mind, external lights etc.

In dreams, the self becomes distinct and isolated as the organs do not act and the lights such as the sun that help them are absent.

The dreamer is not affected by whatever result of the good and evil he sees in the dream state.

No one regards himself a sinner on account of the sins committed in dreams.

People who have heard of them do not condemn or shun them.

Hence he is not touched by them.

The dreamer only appears to be doing things in a dream but actually, there is no activity The Sruti says, “He sees to be enjoying himself in the company of women.“

He who described his dream experiences uses the words “as if“; “I saw today as if a herd of elephants was running.

“ Therefore the dreaming self has no activity in dreams.

An action is done by the contact of the body and the senses, which have formed with something else that has form.

We never see a formless thing being active.

The Self is formless.

Therefore it is not attached.

As this Self is unattached, it is untouched by what it beholds in dreams.

Hence we cannot ascribe activity to it, as activity proceeds from the contact of the body and the organs.

There is no contact for the Self because this infinite Self is unattached.

Therefore it is immortal.

Doctors say, “Do not wake him up suddenly or violently“, because they see that in dreams the self goes out of the body of the waking state through the gates of the organs and remains isolated outside.

If the self is violently aroused it may not find those gates of the organs.

If he does not find the right organ the body becomes difficult to doctor.

The self may not get back to those gates of the organs, things which it sent out taking the shining functions of the latter, or it may misplace those functions.

In that case, defects such as blindness and deafness may result.

The doctor may find it difficult to treat them.

Dreams are due to mental impressions (Vasanas) received in the waking state.

The consciousness in a dream depends on the previous knowledge acquired in the wakeful state.

The dreams have the purpose of either cheering or saddening and frightening the sleeper, to requite him for his good and evil deeds.

His Adrishta thus furnishes the efficient cause of the dreams.

Even in the state of dream, the instruments of the self are not altogether at rest, because scripture states that even then it is connected with Buddhi (intellect).

“Having become a dream, together with Buddhi it passes beyond this world.

“ Smriti also says, “When the senses being at rest, the mind not being at rest, is occupied with the objects, know that state to be a dream.

“ Scripture says that desires etc. are modifications of the mind

Desires are observed in dreams.

Therefore, the self wanders about in dreams together with the mind only.

The scripture in describing our doings in dreams qualifies them by an “as it were“.

“As it was rejoicing together with women, or laughing as it were, or seeing terrible sights“

Ordinary people also describe their dreams in the same manner.

“I ascended as it were the summit of a mountain, I saw a tree, as it were“.

Dream creation is unreal.

Reality implies the factors of time, space and causation.

Further, reality cannot be sublated or stultified.

Dream creation has not got these traits.

The dream is called “Sandhya“ or the intermediate state because it is midway between waking and the deep sleep state, between the Jagrat and the Sushupti.

Dreams, though of a strange and illusory nature, are a good index of the high or low spiritual and moral condition of the dreamer.

He, who has a pure heart and untainted character, will never get impure dreams.

An aspirant who is ever meditating will dream of his Sadhana and his object of meditation.

He will do worship of the Lord and recite His name and Mantra even in a dream through the force of Samskara.


~ Song of the Wave XVII – Khali

The strong shore is my beloved, And I am his sweetheart.  We are at last united by love, and  Then the moon draws me from him. 

I go to him in haste and depart  Reluctantly, with many  Little farewells.

  I steal swiftly from behind the  Blue horizon to cast the silver of  My foam upon the gold of his sand, and  We blend in melted brilliance.

I quench his thirst and submerge his  Heart; he softens my voice and subdues  My temper. 

At dawn, I recite the rules of love upon  His ears, and he embraces me longingly. 

At eventide, I sing him the song of  Hope, and then print soft kisses upon  His face; I am swift and fearful, but he  Is quiet, patient, and thoughtful.

His  Broad bosom soothes my restlessness.

As the tide comes, we caress each other.

When it withdraws, I drop to his feet in  Prayer. 

Many times have I danced around mermaids  As they rose from the depths and rested  Upon my crest to watch the stars;

Many times have I heard lovers complain  Of their smallness, and I helped them to sigh. 

Many times have I teased the great rocks  And fondled them with a smile, but never  Have I received laughter from them;

Many times have I lifted drowning souls  And carried them tenderly to my beloved  Shore.

He gives them strength as he  Takes mine.

Many times have I stolen gems from the  Depths and presented them to my beloved  Shore.

He takes them in silence, but still, I give fro he welcomes me ever.

In the heaviness of night, when all  Creatures seek the ghost of Slumber, I  Sit up, singing at one time and sighing  At another.

I am awake always.

Alas! Sleeplessness has weakened me!  But I am a lover, and the truth of love  Is vital.

I may be weary, but I shall never die.

~ Song of the Wave XVII – Khali



Mystic Poet

“NOT RECOMMENDED.”  a poem   January 18, 2020 (Saturday)

What have I learned,

These last (few) years,

With some clar i ty?


That NOT to anyone would I    recommend me,

For any purpose. 

And what am I?   Am I strong or weak?

Well, whatever I am, it appears to me it must be pretty bleak,

When I can’t guarantee DELIVERY   for what the PEOPLE  want,


     a stable mind and a deliberate hunt.

Perhaps, I’m good to know for a greeting at The Market,

Or a hug OR a “Good O see you,”  but I’m QUITE sure do not “park it,”

Herewith all the highest hopes; it appears I’ll disenchant.

Mystic Poet

Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together,but do so with all your heart.


Your eyes are dancing ~

In the evening
A heron floats across
The glass sunset
Through the window
You point, saying

The bird is gone
Before I reach you
Hand pressed
Against the frost
Still, you watch
The water ripple
As raindrops fall

Watch, you tell me
I cannot see
What it is
You want me to
Instead, all I see
Is the evening sun turning
Your eyes into gold


Lizard 🦎

Deep into spring, winter is hanging on.

Bitter and skilful in his hopelessness, he stays alive in every shady place, starving along the Mediterranean: angry to see the glittering sea-pale boulder alive with lizards green as Judas leaves.

Winter is hanging on.

He still believes.

He tries to catch a lizard by the shoulder.

One olive tree below Grottaglie welcomes the winter into noontime shade and talks as softly as Pythagoras.

Be still, be patient, I can hear him say, cradling in his arms the wounded head, letting the sunlight touch the savage face. ~ May Morning


Visiting a dead man in America

In flat America, in Chicago, Graceland cemetery on the German North Side.

Forty feet of Corinthian candle celebrate Pullman embedded lonely raisin in a cake of concrete.

The Potter Palmers float on an island Parthenon.

Magnates of hog fat, railroads and wheat are postmarked with angels and lambs.

But the Getty tomb: white, snow patterned in a triangle of trees swims dappled with leaf shadow, sketched light arch within arch delicate as fingernail moons.

The green doors should not be locked.

Doors of fern and flower should not be shut.

Louis Sullivan, I sit on your grave.

It is not now good weather for prophets.

Sun eddies on the steel smoke air like sinking honey.

On the inner green door of the Getty tomb (a thighbone’s throw from your stone) a marvel of growing, blooming, thrusting into seed: how all living wreaths and insinuate in the circlet of repetition that never repeats: ever new birth never rebirth.

Each tide pool microcosm spiralling from your hand.

Sullivan, you had another five years when your society would give you work.

Thirty years with want crackling in your hands.

Thirty after years with cities flowering and turning grey in your beard.

All poets are unemployed nowadays.

My country marches in its sleep.

The past structures a heavy mausoleum hiding its iron frame in masonry.

Men burn like grass while armies grow.

Thirty years in the vast rumbling gut of this society you stormed to be used, screamed no louder than any other breaking voice.

The waste of a good man bleeds the future that’s come in Chicago, in flat America,

where the poor still bleed from the teeth, housed in sewers and filing cabinets, where prophets may spit into the wind till anger sleets their eyes shut,

where this house that dances the seasons and the braid of all living and the joy of a man making his new good thing is strange, irrelevant as a meteor, in Chicago, in flat America in this year of our burning.

To be a famous poet you must be dead !


Stars 💫

I listen to the stillness of you,

My dear, among it all;

I feel your silence touch my words as I talk,

And take them in thrall.

My words fly off a forge

The length of a spark;

I see the night-sky easily sip them

Up in the dark. The lark sings loud and glad,

Yet I am not loth

That silence should take the song and the bird And lose them both.

A train goes roaring south,

The steam-flag flying;

I see the stealthy shadow of silence Alongside going.

And off the forge of the world,

Whirling in the draught of life,

Go sparks of myriad people, filling The night with strife.

Yet they never change the darkness Or blench it with noise;

Alone on the perfect silence


Stars 🏹

See the stars, love,

In the water much clearer and brighter

Than those above us, and whiter, Like nenuphars.

Star-shadows shine, love, How many stars in your bowl?

How many shadows in your soul,

Only mine, love, mine?

When I move the oars, love,

See how the stars are tossed,

Distorted, the brightest lost.

—So that bright one of yours, love.

The poor waters spill

The stars, waters broken, forsaken.

—The heavens are not shaken, you say, love,

Its stars standstill.

There, did you see

That spark fly up at us;

even Stars are not safe in heaven.

—What of yours, then, love, yours?

What then, love, if soon

Your light is tossed over a wave?

Will you count the darkness a grave, And swoon, love, swoon?

Maybe so my love

Sooner than you think


Buddhism 🌟

Then a ploughman said, “Speak to us of Work.” And he answered, saying: You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth. For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life’s procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission […]

Famous Poets

Poetry Plus – I know a bank where the wild thyme blows – A poem by William Shakespeare

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows. A poem by William Shakespeare From a Midsummere Night’s Dream Deep in the Wildwood Deep in the wildwoodAmid night’s moonlit flowersFairies tend their queen Poem Attribution © William Shakespeare, I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Midsummer Night’s Dream Source Attribution Haiku Attribution […]

Poetry Plus – I know a bank where the wild thyme blows – A poem by William Shakespeare


On Love Behold

TO the assembled folk  At great St. Kavin’s spoke  Young Brother Amiel on Christmas Eve; 

I give you joy, my friends, That as the round year ends,

We meet once more for gladness by God’s leave.

On other festal days  For penitence or praise  Or prayer we meet or fullness of thanksgiving;

  To-night, we calendar  The rising of that star  Which lit the old world with the new joy of living. 

Ah, we disparage still  The Tidings of Good Will,  Discrediting Love’s gospel now as then!

And with the verbal creed  That God is love indeed,

Who dares make Love his god before all men?

Shall we not, therefore, friends,

Resolve to make amends

To that glad inspiration of the heart;

To grudge not, to cast out Selfishness, malice, doubt, anger and fear; and for the better part, To love so much, so well, The spirit cannot tell The range and sweep of her boundary!

There is no period Between the soul and God;

Love is the tide, God the eternal sea.…

To-day we walk by love;

To strive is not enough, Save against greed and ignorance and might.

We apprehend peace comes

Not with the roll of drums,

But in the still processions of the night.

And we perceive, not awe

But love is the excellent law

That binds the world together safe and whole.

The splendid planets run Their courses in the sun;

  Love is the gravitation of the soul.

  In the profound unknown,  Illumined, fair, and lone, 

Each star is set to shimmer in its place.

In the profound divine,

Each soul is set to shine,

  And its unique appointed orbit trace.

There is no near nor far,  Where glorious Algebar  Swings round his mighty circuit through the night,

  Yet where without a sound  The winged seed comes to ground,  And the red leaf seems hard to alight. 

One force, one lore, one need 

For satellite and origin,  In the serene benignity for all.

Letting her time-glass run 

With star-dust, sun by sun,

In Nature’s thought, there is no great nor small. 

There is no far nor near  Within the spirit’s sphere.  

The summer sunset’s scarlet-yellow wings 

Are tinged with the same dye  That paints the tulip’s ply.

  And what is colour but the soul of things?

(The earth was without form;  God moulded it with the storm,  Ice, flood, and tempest, gleaming tint and hue;

Lest it should come to ill  For lack of spirit still, 

He gave it colour,—let the love shine through.

  Of old, men said, ‘Sin not; 

By every line and jot Ye shall abide; man’s heart is false and vile.’

Christ said, ‘By love alone  In man’s heart is God known; 

Obey the word no falsehood can defile.’…  And since that day we prove  Only how great is love,  

Nor to this hour its greatness half believes.

  For to what other power  Will life give equal dower,  

Or chaos grant one moment of reprieve!

Look down the ages’ line, 

How slowly the divine  Evinces energy, puts forth control; 

See mighty love alone  Transmuting stock and stone,  

Infusing being, helping sense and soul. 

And what is power,  

In-working, which bids be  The starry pageant and the life of earth? 

What is the genesis  Of every joy and bliss,  

Each action dared, each beauty brought to birth? 

What hangs the sun on high? 

What swells the growing rye? 

What bids the do loons cry on the Northern lake? 

What stirs in swamp and swale,  

When April winds prevail,  

And all the dwellers of the ground awake?…

  What lurks in the deep gaze 

Of the old wolf?

Amaze,  Hope, recognition, gladness, anger, fear. 

But deeper than all these  Love muses, yearns, and sees,

  And is the self that does not change nor veer. 

Not love of self alone,  

Struggle for lair and bone, 

But self-denying love of mate and young,  

Love that is kind and wise,  

Knows trust and sacrifice, 

And croons the old dark universal tongue.…

  And who has understood  Our brothers of the wood,  

Save he who puts off guile and every guise  Of violence,—made truce  With panther, bear, and moose,  As beings like ourselves who love make wise?  For they, too, do love’s will,  Our lesser clansmen still; 

The House of Many Mansions holds us all;  Courageous, glad and hale,  

They go forth on the trail,  

Hearing the message, hearkening to the call.… 

Open the door to-night  Within your heart, and light  The lantern of love there to shine afar. 

On a tumultuous sea  Some straining craft, maybe,  

With bearings lost, shall sight love’s silver star. ~