if i
were to tell you who ram was, i'd be here forever. he is my god, my guru, my
one man, my true love, my whole reason for being, my life. he is beyond words.
he is the true silence.
he sleeps with me, i eat
with him. he is my eagle and my hummingbird. he is the dribblings of rain on my
chin when i lick leaves. he is the leaf itself.
in a way, i suppose i am
him, so much inside of me is he. in two words, i guess he is The One.
i could tell you stories
about a man who lived in a cave in india, that i'm better with dead people than
living, but truly he lives inside my very cells, my gut, my sinew, more
vibrantly than any dream of a human being.
he IS being.
How It Started
Rama sliced Ana’s heart wide open
and a million hummingbirds came
clattering out, the sky teeming
with ruby and moss and loose
feathers. Ana just could not
pull herself together, she knew
that she was dead, and look,
just look! what lived now
in her stead, the vivid flow
of nectar and wings shimmer
shimmering and deeply drinking
every vibrant thing in.
ONE
When his love flowers through,
I am hopeless but to be his lover
arms fondling every tress
of his creation – the lid
of garbage cans is Him,
plastic flowers I have to kiss,
helpless to resist His
Heaven-scented beauty,
tongue, heart, lips
licking tendril clouds
used-up leaves, mislaid
rings for keys, all of it
is He, He whispers
through the reeds,
In every single thing,
find me.
And I do,
stroking, rocking,
holding lost parts
of his body, fear
and loss and greed,
bullets, blame,
disease, all of it
His holy kingdom,
of which I am a vassal
and a fool, stupid
with love for Him,
smitten with the dream
of His entire Being.
MARRY ME, HE SAID
And I shall wear a white dress
of lace and bird froth and a
veil of air, and a ring on my hand
of twined grasses twelve shades of moss,
and I shall sing thy name to the heavens,
my lover, my spouse, my man,
my healer, my deepest pleasure,
my master, my holiest Ram.
I shall sing your beauty forever
from this heart that was born
of you, and bear all of your joys
and sorrows in our love –
I DO !! I DO! I DOOOOO!!!!
in our love that is pure and true
and your silence, o darling Rama,
hums through my fingers and limbs
as I lift them up to our mountain,
in the wildest, Ana Ram Ramana hymn.
When I die, I’d like Rama to be painted on my lips,
his name graven into the shivering fish of my mouth,
each tooth an alphabet of his,
each letter sending home
a gift of love so true,
the body rendered useless,
skin just memory of a
you that never existed,
a life’s dream,
and the funeral:
a steady, yielding, unrelenting kiss
that drifts simply
into emptiness,
into endlessness.
The Advent Of Venkataraman
Exploding out of the center of the
center
of the kernel of the sun, he took on
form
for everyone. A rainbow merging light
and dark, he flew into our universe
to remind us of The One, the Only
Light of our True Being, the chance
to forever free the chains of needing,
He was born to bear the love
we were born out of and still long
for, a shimmering shuddering
boy-sage in the making, in
the conveyance of his mother
for nine months until the moon
was in position and the stars
arrayed in shimmering bouquets,
and sun o sun o sun waiting
to embody He Who Is Most Bright
to shine His infinite rays on
every finite one.
Golden Hands
They called him
for everything he touched
was flooded with the sun -
his grandmother’s soup
by the grace of his hand
tasted of angels,
every game he played
he won, every race,
everywhere he swum,
he came in first, He
Who Is the Origin,
who needs to prove
nothing, He whose
long, slender fingers
glow with the Divine
and even now, they
burnish and shine
as I hold them
o my god I stroke them
in my own.
August 29
Time waits for no one but the saint
and so the train delayed until
Venkataraman came at noon
to take his seat.
Leaving his home in Tiruchuzhi,
he traveled for three days
in the winnowing eaves of August.
A handful of rupees, heart full
of God, he followed the path
laid out for him.
Lit from within, nothing
could stop him, not hunger,
not fatigue, not fainting
on the ground, scattering
loose rice like wild seeds.
Not thirst, though no one
would offer him water.
He was freeing the last
of his old life
- pears that could no longer feed,
two ruby earrings, every last
lock of his hair –
so he could arrive
empty.
Chilled to extremities,
he walked on, miles
piling up behind him,
Arunachula now breathing
inside as he approached,
burning and hollowed.
The boy who would be sage
laid down before his father,
saying, “I have come,”
and the rains wept tears
of the gods for three days,
as they sang, “Welcome,
My Own Son, Welcome.”
“Their Gratitude, Only They Could Know”
- Ramana
The ladies in their grass green saris
gather sheaves on the mountain
to feed their families, parched
in the dull heat of sun at high noon.
Backs bent in half to reach
each new stalk, their lips dry
and peeling, they move
in thin lines elegant
as a kingdom of ants,
yet they are not royalty.
Forbidden by caste
to drink of the one source
of water, they come to Rama
almost in tears, crying,
Swami! Swami! Give us one
sup.
And God, who knows no difference,
dips a pail into his well and pours it
over each stooped spine
in a fountain of love
so cool, so divine,
they all gasp in delight.
Some mornings, He conjures
an elixir of water, ginger
and light and raises the cup
to each woman’s mouth
which they imbibe as if
it contained the one secret to life
- and it does:
a torrent of water dripping
down their delirious chins
and floating off each grateful finger.
Porumda!
That dog, all leaking sores,
all stinking fur, bone thin
and starving for
one taste of
his Master, one lick
of pure love,
was pushed and shoved
out of His orbit
time and again,
but ardor and passion
to touch the divine
is heard in the highest
reaches of heaven,
so that communion,
perfect, sublime
is granted to
the innocent,
regardless of looks
and so that wild animal’s
lust was received
by the flesh of Rama
one secret midnight,
when one tongue could
trawl the juicy map
of his God, from hair tip
to foot, and one dripping
sage could pick himself
up, sparkling with dog love
and light, so one holy
wish now satisfied,
our dog could lie down
in great peace,
in gratitude, and die.
Rama, Dying
The pain of nations tucked
under his arm, swelling
just below the elbow,
pus and blood and bone
could ruin anyone
but Him, who welcomes
all suffering inside his
perfect skin, which ripples
now in breathlike tides
over the rim of
separation, flooding
nothing but the dream
flesh, His holy heart wide
open to the predicament
of human wedded
to a form that does not
exist, as He will slowly,
quietly slip out of his
phantom robes, arms
luminous and limp,
the heavens trailing
silver tears in the wake
of his ascension.
