ALL THAT IS LEFT
In Nepal, a
young girl, who has not yet menstruated, is chosen from a certain caste to be
the reincarnation of an ancient Hindu goddess.
She is named Kumari and black circles that arc up to her ears are
painted around her eyes. On certain holidays, the public is able to view Kumari
when she briefly presents herself from a high window. It was my privilege to see the Living Goddess
in May of 1969.
by
Burgess Needle
Hearts
pound at any strange city
but
Khatmandu’s sucks
lungs
dryer than adobe bricks.
Walk
faster. Sense Taleju’s presence.
Their
eyes, those Nepalese, arch and glitter.
Hotel
porters, nimble Sherpas,
clutch
your sleeves to your room.
Feel
the cardiac flush still blooming
from
Calcutta’s Dum-Dum Airport:
a cow’s head pecked by something with
black wings is the final frame of that
scene.
Word is
out the Chinese are buying dollars.
Rastra
Bank gives ten official rupees.
Night
hands slip out fourteen
and try
for your watch,
“Your
camera, sir? Your shoes?”
Swedish
mercenaries in from central Africa
stride
past with casual Mausers, brushing
cracked
stucco their shoulders touch
Tibetan
dust pressed into walls
when
our Lord Gautama spoke.
On to
Tiger Tops between bounties
for a
smorgasbord of fresh meat.
Look
away from the blue-eyed death pair
to
skeletal romantics
from
that place near the Golden Gate.
Males
in Kashmir shirts, cavalier
on
cheap hash, deigning
not to
stare at young breasts grazing
Shantung
silks.
And
they have children!
Fly-specked
boys and girls with exotic leis
jingle
by a bit listless with dengue.
Conceived
near the border of Mustang,
they’re
now precociously bored with charm.
Cutting
stone, the Manahara River flows
to fill
the valley’s unseen aquifer
with
the wastes of Bhotis, Sunwans
and all
others who live high.
Down it
all runs to froth through bronze
tiger
eyes, elephant trunks and monkey lips,
clear
and cool, parasitically littered,
so
attractive in the shimmering heat.
Rose
petals are strewn
in the
path of nodding monks.
II
Where
was I in all this?
Watching
the hotels at dusk
when
Western trekkers were hauled
out on
stretchers, their faces healthy
as Tut
when they found him.
Going
home from Shangri-la.
Thinner.
I
sipped lemonade, listened to the fucking tourists.
And
waited for news.
Her
address came to me from a clerk at Rastra,
a
simple money-changer who knew some truths,
cousin
to a monk I’d befriended in Luang Prabang.
Walking
slow, I imagined how She would be,
waking
each day on the rim of Her life.
She was
born for us all.
Again.
Never
having known the blade of fear
how
could I have guessed
I would
leave Her knowing dread?
For
myself, that is the dread of acceptance,
a life
already written.
I
wanted to be Saved
and
none of the Gods I knew were up to the challenge.
Had I
not tested out well in the field?
The 40
baht whore’s betel-stained teeth bruised
my neck
erect carrying hash taped
secure
passed the leather of law to
a room
in Rawalpindi where that German girl o.d.’d
in the
night by my side and, yes,
Even
Frau Eva’s hot morning breasts
could
not take my chill.
But,
She had warned me. You know when:
2026
Baisakh dateline: Khatmandu
Let me
tell you.
III
Kumari
is all that is left.
The
Living Goddess of Nepal
secure
in third-story quarters
overlooking
courtyards and shrines.
Red
brick dust in my eyes, I squeeze
each
image down to fleeing atoms
charming
physics itself and get slapped
by
morning sun that forces
me to
see bird-droppings on sills, up
to the
figures painted omega blue and magma red
frozen
in sequential postures of sex.
They
cavort above the living.
Where
is there a Fisher King about these days
to
enact new rituals skillful
enough
to net a few worthy metaphors?
No
stone to move this time,
merely
a disappearance.
And,
the sign? A stigmata!
What
does she show? I asked the clerk?
“She is,”
he paused, “no longer pure!”
By what
sign?
“She
bleeds! You must hurry. They will take her!”
IV
The carvings
are finely wrought,
ivory
and wooden shutters. I look
to Her
window. She gazes
out.
Her face festive
as a
rouged mannequin.
The
Living Goddess. The Virgin Goddess.
PHOTOGRAPHY
IS FORBIDDEN
She
turns.
Then,
sadness I feel, and more, to be aware
of
Kumari, and, finally, the endless game.
Despite
myself, I know
of all
that happens in this place
that
tries to explain in a single act
the
great cycle enveloping us all.
But,
for what?
Her
eyes - what have they seen
in
twelve years? In a thousand? Stared
down at
me yes, serenely!
But,
black, my liege,
black
as those wings in Calcutta.
It is
true, sire.
By my
faith, I have been here since.
She
died for us all.
And for
you, sire. A rupee for salvation?
Bless
you!
GIFT OF GOODNESS
How to insure the elegant citrus branch
softly
dipping with the weight
of
dimpled oranges continues to sway
in
concert to the earth’s breath?
How to guarantee
hummingbirds
will always find
nector
in a nodding salvia?
Are the premiums for that
Prayer? Karma?
Or, may we hope
the
return on goodness
is perfect sunshine?
KISS
OF JOJOBA OIL
Swerve to avoid
roadrunners and discover
Your next intersect with a swirling
mass
of wind and debris results
in
the kiss of jojoba oil
On your forehead and the scent
of
musky creosote
in
your nostrils
A Karmic blessing
for
merely being alert
TUCSON
ROSE AFTER RAIN
Peering through a ragged tear
Between the news and family events
Rising and setting sun
Sin and forgiveness
After rain
Before cloud break
A Tucson rose emerged
Still crying in bloom
Nestled in green love
I found redemption
Some grasp of tomorrow
Red beauty amid thorns
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