Saturday 22 July 2023

Four Poems by Burgess Needle

 



 

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





Burgess Needle’s poetry has appeared in: Blackbox Manifold (UK), Galway Review, Concho River Review, Boston Literary Magazine and Santa Fe Literary Review. Fiction: Connotation Press and Black Market Review. Collections: EVERY CROW IN THE BLUE SKY (Diminuendo Press). THAI COMIC BOOKS (Big Table Publishing). SIT AND CRY: Two Years In the Land of Smiles [a Memoir] Wren Song Press). The author lives in Ripton, Vermont with a hazel-eyed woman of wit, charm and beauty.

 


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