Sarva Mangalam: Left
Hand Poems
by
Hiro Boga
2004
Mouth clamped shut, corners crimped tight
over teeth pressed against the soft insides.
Nothing will enter, nothing leave, this cave.
I am empty and intend to stay that way;
all my fire used up to digest what’s already
been swallowed. If I don’t die of it, I’ll
live forever on the contents of my stomach
Now this is what I feed myself: sleep
in the nest of my feather bed; buttered
cream of wheat with goat’s milk and cardamom
raga bhairavi, shimmering jazz
renata tebaldi’s legs wrapped around
verdi. poems that bloom like roadside daisies:
jane hirshfield, kabir, mirabai
basho.
rumi
white lilies in a blue vase
my fingers like warm wax around the barrel
of this pen; lined paper beaded with the
mercury of my heart. the peace of things—
their comfort, silently offered, their patient
giving. round plates with red and yellow rims
cobalt cups, hot as the kiln which fired them
the perfect heft of stainless steel forks
shallow ponds of spoons. the beauty—the
sturdy, honest beauty of things, ungelded
by tricks of light on water, innocent
of tidal undertow
i say no to plunder and papayas
ripped from their beds at midnight, the black pearls
of their seeds crushed under careless feet. no
to raids on houses of the poor who must
lick their honey off the edge of a razor
blade. no to revenge; no to seductions
that ring like crystal goblets stained ruby-red
with the wine of entitlement. i bite
the hand that reaches for cream without passing
the coffee. i say no
to arguments about angels dancing
on the heads of pins. angels have better
things to do—tend to plants and babies
mothers and turtles, those who stay home
move slowly, live close to the ground. who do
not expect the universe to throw them
a meteor shower to celebrate every
changed diaper or the patient laying
and hatching of eggs. I say no to clutched
fists and fires that feed on stolen fuel. no
to being buried in the Department
of Home Furnishings at Sears. no.
Every no bears in its belly the sibilant
yes: a pomegranate seed white in its
sheath of translucent red
On the balcony of our house in
my mother grew dragons in pots. Their
shimmering heads emerged from dark soil,
wobbled on delicate necks, grew muscular,
breathed gusts of fire. Their scales were iridescent,
light shimmered in peacock folds on their backs.
Eventually, they smashed the pots with their tails,
their leathery wings opened and they flew
around the house, hovered above the balcony,
settled on the terrace. At night they slept
under my bed. One dragon had a tongue
of silver. One breathed gold. One scorched my
eyebrows when he laughed. One bit a hole
in my heart, planted a dragon seed, which
grew and grew. Now a baby dragon flicks
its tail between my shoulder-blades, between
the shadow and its whisper:
wings, wings
Ashem vohu, vahishtem
Ushta asti, ushta ahmai
Standing beside Zarthustra's
portrait, facing the rising sun, my father
chants prayers. Zarthustra's eyes look up to
heaven. My father's eyes are closed. Sunlight
burnishes his face. I think my father
is more handsome than Zarthustra. I think
my father is god. This love that blooms in my chest
is god.
Shekaste, shekaste shaitan. My father
flicks the whip of his kustee behind him,
drives the Evil One back. With his words,
he banishes the dark. I believe in
the power of his words. I believe
Lying on my back on the verandah
of our summer home in Khandala.
Overhead, the sky is warm, purple-black
and plump, like jamun berries, swimming with stars.
I'm in love with night. Floating up into
the circle of the Seven Sisters, my
cheek scrapes against Orion's belt. Dragon
wings spread. The right wing casts its shadow
over
to grow, is a painful nub of tender
light. The night sky is God. This
wordless love
is God.
You gods and bearded prophets, go squabble
in the pub for a while. I’ve heard enough
of heroes and lightning chariots streaking
across the sky. My companions are
and Devi. They cook with me and wash
dishes afterwards. This chipped blue bowl
into which I dip my spoon is the
goddess’s face. The hand, which caresses—
its tendons and veins and miraculous
fingers—works her threads of light into
muscular days. I kneel to scrub the floor.
Night stretches around me like a giant
balloon. Thirty-four, and my nightgown
smells of sour milk. My first-born cries and will
not sleep. My mouth tastes of dead fish. Dark as
jamun berries are my
son's eyes, wide open
as night sky. Ashem vahu, I chant into
his perfect ear, vahishtem
exhausted love, is it god? My son, my
perfect wailing son
Fifty-two. Body aches—burning back,
grinding hip, throbbing ankle—speak to me.
I reply: yes, tell me; or love . . .
I say, how about a hot bath?
No longer lie on my back on the
balcony. No longer swim in the night
sky.
Om
the
goddess rises.
Star, evening star
Heart's small voice sings
we
us
this
yes!
Heart wears itself on its own sleeve; it
delights in slippery mud and fallen petals.
It kisses Head's myriad grey pleats and
great, furrowed brow. Head mutters: you
time-waster, mooner, you singer who can't
reach high c; mistake-maker, incontinent
bleeder; giver of gifts you cannot
afford; blissed-out, undiscriminating,
lacerated fool
Yes! sings heart
bird
flower
rock
fish
star
starfishrockbirdflower!
Show me in your emerald heart, in the
current of your river. Show me how
to open my hands, your laughing light
trembling between my palms.
I have left the house with no roof. Hands ache
from clutching water, gripping air. No
ground, no walls, no rooms. I have left them all
behind. See my boat leak. See the boatman
return to our ruined village. My clothes
left on the river bank. I don't know how
to swim, how
I have forgotten my name