nama om visnu-padaya Krishna-presthaya bhu-tale
Srimate bhaktivedanta-svamin iti namine
namas te sarasvate deve gaura-vani-pracarine
nirvisesa-sunyavadi-pascatya-desa-tarine

Dear Srila Prabhupada,

Please accept my most humble obeisances in the dust of your lotus feet. On the occasion of your most blessed Appearance Day, I respectfully beg to offer two poems, about you, at your lotus feet.

Reflections on Salvation, Even in Modern Times

I
Executive, peon
shapely, deformed
fabulous, hideous
all, all adorned
with the fabrics
of earthly complexion
stepping out all ghostly cadence
the beat of highly drugged drummers
Time, time, the tide
moving clay feet
to the funeral beat
for the fool, the wise fool
the savage,
the bosom and hairy breast
ravage
the drummers, their beat
and their cadence repeat:
Time, time, and the tide

II
But darkest clouds
split and drift
sky blue, blazing beams
break through
the world’s gloom
killed by light, people
sigh and smile
Thus the sun, sun, glaring glory, God’s
own ray, right arm
His eyes and tongue
O Prabhupada! Light of God!
To kill the world’s doom—
Through the clouds
Your honest arms
wrapped around our maddened chest
Close, close to the precipice
Thwarting the hell-bound drummer
The vulgar pit
held foaming at bay
The bloody dagger
tucked neatly away
by your mercy
O lord! O master!
And on, with you
To the Orchard of Love
Home and abode
With Krishna above
Forever bliss, foreverness
All known and nothing unknown

Meditation on Prabhupada in His Mayapur Room

One month in 1976
February
I was your secretary
I came to you
in this very room
That day
I arrived, I ran
to you
with my impulsive poem
jubilant, singing
the glories of green
golden Mayapur
I didn’t know
how to cook for you
to massage you
to prepare your correspondence
to handle your affairs
that bothered
you, to relieve you
that I didn’t know.
But you let me come
to you, to be
with you
February, 1976
in this holy, holy room.
O Prabhupada!
How gracefully,
aristocratically
you moved
your ruling hands, rolling
deftly your silver and
hardwood cane, but more
your godly eyes, piercing
perfect words, in this
holy, holy room.
Like God’s own
omnipotent, serene
decisions, conclusions,
stately just, justice,
spoken quite
like God, by you,
to the godly men
and ladies, there
in holy Bharata land,
in this very holy room.
How far has time
taken me from you?
O Prabhupada!
How very much I worshiped you,
I loved you Prabhupada,
but heartless wheels,
cold time’s gears,
took me far from you.
Rudely rolling on,
graceless age
hardens the simple heart,
and rolling farther
breaks the heart it hardened,
humbles grave conceit
of one who came to you,
to give his youthful love
when it was soft, only to
you, because you
were everything to me
in this tearful, holy room.
Amends, amends repent
repent! Time, ironic
to supply a precious
moment to undo the
darkening drift of time.

Your insignificant, fallen servant,
Hridayananda Dasa Goswami
1984