Prologue
I am still completely intoxicated, in love.
And with this love, I watch the circle.
- Chogyam Trungpa
Yesterday, I took some photos
of my feet at the lake, the camera
did you know?
- it is an ordinary one
Yesterday my feet, you know?
my feet are always wet
from standing in sweet water
Wet from waiting
waiting for you, my love
***
1. Poet’s pyre
In a blindfold world
I go beat the deathless drum
– Bhikku Nanamoli
This is not the first poem
I have taken out from the dusty old file
there are a number of poems which are still
fresh and smell of new earthen pots
Agnaye swaha!
it is the primary offering for the pyre
the journey into your being
and not being
You were here till yesterday
and in the yellowness in the corners
of leaves you now stand as a pen in my hand
in its scratches on paper
you are the rolling wind through my fan
I smell you as I smell sharp spices
Agnaye swaha!
thist is the second offering I make
for your pyre
The boat is in the sea
the net is in the boat
the fish is in the net
the fisherman is killing the fish
blue is a shade that fades
a boat is the one that sinks
I am fish for you
Agnaye swaha!
you are
in the verses of this poem’s remains
we wrote them together, remember?
the words
the melody
the hum of our breaths
you are in here
in the threads of my thoughts
in the endless infinity of my love
for you
Agnaye swaha!
and for ever and 4 days
you will remain with the poem
and the empty box
and the fallen leaves from trees
and the smell of spices as it fades away
***
2. Marks of deterioratation on New Moons Day
When I meet the right consort
my thoughts become clear
- Chogyam Trungpa
This time again
you have given yourself up to prison
you have build the walls yourself
and now you live in the heavy dungeon
even cracks won’t allow entry
A draft, but inside I see you smile
you shine like the light of the sun
oh what glow your name still have!
This time you have cheated on me!
I whom has given you warm kisses on your feet
and stroked your whole body with my eyelashes
Last night, on my window sill
I saw the marks of deterioration
and of creeping death
of my poems endings
the corpses, and my fingers are stiff
with pain in my neck
and shoulders
the crack’s inside
inside my body ache is at war
I am turning from river to blood
***