There's a path in there somewhere.
a retreat poem
साधना
(sādhanā: practice)
ah such storied selves
conceived
between 2am and birdcall
starved there
like wolves known
could guide
or sheltered, embrace
and heard may keen
while the hungry one
will outrun
and sisters outflank
just as sol outshines the lamps
Outside, in
the warm west wind
hills rise, eclipse
the sun.
Lift and fall
from trees – each a shaken
counterpart to Eliot’s flowers –
brindle autumn leaves.
Left-handed bloom a red
gash on the side table
petals agape
falling in that silent withering way.
A lens winnowing all
to that, there, then;
here is no beginning
and no end.
Lift and fall the hills
turn towards and away
the endless night and never
the always and only one day.
—
This is about how we always see things from our own perspective, and from our current moment in time, as if it was somehow more important than the others. I tried to write the whole thing in present tense to convey a sense of eternality.
I wish that these words
were emeralds
I wish that these words
were emeralds
not penned between points
en route to Delhi but
camel carried from broken lands
to Istanbul
where your wailing
song beats
the cool white brick
the warm blue tile.
That Bosporus saline etch
where East and West mingle
take myrrh and sprinkle it, let
flaccid sails unfurl
thrum taut; groaning
embrace the salted gulf
between us
your many-dreamed return
on worrying wind
from Istanbul.
Sing me, pain
your sweet ache
breathes a turning softness
into lossful love
sing me, loss
endless end of all
your edgewise pulse
keen blade of breath
sing me, song
cloth’s connecting thread
your little death
inflicts love and life
“I am” is the mantra of Consciousness.
I sing and I am song, I am Sung.
I love and I am love, I am Loved.
I am and I am that, I am One.
