It was the sound

of a man and woman

falling out of love,

the sound of a century

caught in the dark.

A deep-throated howl

made under stars,

made against death,

insisting there are drums

underground,

cymbals in the clouds,

a music that goes on and on

because someone

somewhere

is listening.

Ode to Drowning

is it or is it not

the cold monsoon

bearing the shape

of my dark lord,

speaking of his cruelty,

his going away?

NAMMALVAR

I.

This is an ode

to be sung

in the latest hour of night

when rain clouds

have gathered

over shingled roofs

and blue-skinned gods

with magical flutes

seduce the virgins to dance

For there can be no love

without music

No rain

without peacocks

perched

in branches

of sandalwood trees

with plumes

of angels

and voices of thieves

pleading for their loves

to return

II.

If rain signals

the lover’s return

then I am lost

in the desert

burning

like the brainfever bird

looking for images of you

through mesquite

and teak

because there’s no sign

of you

or what I know

to be as you

only clouds adrift

in a vanquished sky

like vines

of throbbing arms

and mouths

drinking at the shore

intoxicated

with the night

III.

There are as many ways

of yearning

as there are ways for rain

to fall

slow

incessant

gentle

squalling

melancholy

warm

It’s that old idea

of drowning

in another to find the self

the compliance

that water gives in form

and depth

to something else

But what if the humming bees

are quiet

and the garlands of jasmine

have been laid out

to dry

How long to wait

for everything to turn

heavy with flower

washed of dirt

IV.

It’s desire after all

that spins us

Demands to be praised

as though it were new

like the stillness

before the first monsoon

when the hymen

of the earth

is torn into

and the brazen smell

of damp

fills the air

Must there be surprise

after we’ve thundered

and rolled

and appeased our thirst

when the silence returns

again

In truth

isn’t it a waiting

that never ends

like the chasm between

the cycles of the world

Between separation

and union

longing and abandonment

And somewhere

between the waning

isn’t this what

we’re left with

the music

of uncertainty

the aftertaste of rain

Lesson 1: Building a Bridge between the Past and the Future

The road is long. So do not mind the smallness of the present.

PRAJNADEVA IN A LETTER TO XUANZANG, CIRCA AD 645

I. SAMSARA — THE WORLD

“Journey long,” the teacher says,

so we go down, deep and deeper,

till we see ankles first, then feet.

And only after touching our heads

to the diamond back of the earth,

do we rise again, arched like curls

of river silk, emptying our souls

into the sky, forgetting the world.

II. DHAMMA — THE MEANS

We meet as lovers do, through births

and deaths, worn-down nubs of thigh

and breast, silent spaces of inadequacy.