Sunday Poem #14: Buddhist Chronicles 4
BUDDHIST CHRONICLES
4
Prajapati
I loved Siddhartha as my own
my sister’s child, suckled
at my breast
but I saw him always
for what he was
a prince
shielded by garden walls.
He had never known death;
even the flowers in his orchards
were picked before their petals fell.
He never knew the stench of decay
or the rotting fruit
life vomits up.
Yasodhara was different;
she knew their happiness was fragile
a pale blue egg bravely held
in the hollow of her hand.
She fought for it
while he, who had never been denied
crushed it
in his fist.
And yet, he was tender,
an orchid sweetening this mountain air
his father’s prize
he could have turned out spoiled as a peacock
all those palaces built for him, all those
dancing girls with naked breasts and
rubies gleaming in their pubic hair.
But he had a purity of heart that would not let him
sink into these pleasures. He was very young
when his cousin shot a swan and claimed it
as his trophy. Siddhartha drew the arrow from the bird’s
bleeding breast, warmed her injured heart against his own,
nursed her till she healed
and flew away.
Still, he was a prince
raised to believe
the kingdom took wing from him.
Selfish in his way, as she in hers, he was all
clarity and air,
cool detachment;
she was earth, and water.
Asceticism.
Appetite.
And yet, they chose each other.
This is the secret that overflows
in her eyes.
I wasn’t surprised when he left,
though I feared for Yasodhara’s sanity.
………………………………………………….
As always, I’d love to hear your poems, thoughts, feelings and insights on Poetry Sunday. Poems are the call and response of our hearts. Let’s share them and celebrate the love that we are, together.
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Siddhartha’s Swan
Is it true
this swan you saved
honored a vow
you would later flee…
a vow to mate for life?
I don’t doubt your tender heart
was also punctured by an arrow;
a divine arrow that could not be removed.
And maybe your own white plumes
turned flamingo-pink from the sacrifice
of flesh and family?
But, like your swan, were you seized as trophy?
As iconic representative of illuminated minds?
There are lesser fates.
Erika Harris´s last post … What do you do with your untold stories?
Erika,
Thank you for this gorgeous, moving poem!
“And maybe your own white plumes
turned flamingo-pink from the sacrifice
of flesh and family?”
There are lesser fates, indeed. Yet shattered hearts and lives know only the pain of that fracturing, as they lie helpless amid the rubble of what was once whole.
For a while…sometimes for a long while.
Love, Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #14: Buddhist Chronicles 4
(taking a stab, inspired by snowstorm I am ‘trapped’ in:)
bury me in your beauty
blind me with your purity
stop me in my busy-ness and haste
and humbly remind me of my powerlessness against your cold gentle strength
Gina Loree Marks´s last post … When Worlds Collide
Gina, thank you for this snow-poem! Wishing you warmth and a loving peace in the heart of the cold.
xo Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #14: Buddhist Chronicles 4
(What a beautiful exercise this Sunday Football Morning!)
These sacred caves and spaces
hidden, hushed, are waiting.
These painted walls wait to hear your voice
echo in prayer…in song…in declaration.
Hollow, quiet, this space waits.
Bridget´s last post … Your Energetic Body- The Basics
Bridget, oh, the beauty of hollow spaces, so perfectly held in the lines of your poem! Spaces of resonance, of possibility, awaiting the movement of voice and vibration, intention and action.
Thanks so much for this lovely poem!
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #14: Buddhist Chronicles 4