All This Is Not
All this is not
created by
some foreign god.
That which changes
and what does not,
hammer, iron, and anvil,
sulfur and fire,
the garden of river and fruit,
the city of nine gates,
earth, sea, wind, and void—
None can say
if any of this
be true or untrue
for where there are two
there is neither
one.
As such,
the long low note
of the bamboo flute
and the silence that carries her
are inseparable.
***
Like the Night Sky
River and sea are one water.
Beggar and saint receive alms.
What is deemed unholy
is also sacred—
So, receive all this
like the night sky
that we cannot fathom
yet gaze upon without fear,
the infinite space
that holds every heavenly body
as it explodes or implodes,
sending forth the mystery of light.
***
The Door Is Open
The door is open. No door
has ever been locked.
Why search for a key—
That of bowing.
That of chanting.
That of fasting.
That of sack cloth
and ash.
A wooden fish.
A tuft of hair.
A wheel of sorrow.
Throne, pulpit,
begging bowl.
Holy war.
Drop empty reverence.
A lover walks this earth
with hands open
to give and to receive,
for what else
can any of us do.
As we wail, so we sing
in a world where we know little—
The depths of sea or sky
as fathomless
as the certainty of light.
***
You Were Not Born
You were not born
to be hungry or lost.
to sin and repent,
to deny yourself,
to wear a hairshirt,
to believe you are unworthy.
As great a danger as pride
is not to imbibe the wine
of this life and dance.
A ruby gleams in your pocket.
Hold in hand a simple stone,
so like this planet as it spins
gently through a sky whose end
we cannot know.
Friend, this body of fertile earth
and river, the sacred fire,
the bright shadow play
are your creation,
my creation.
The hour now
is what we make it.
Be tender with yourself
and with your people.
Let the moment be sweet,
like raw, wild honey,
like the jasmine star,
like a gentle lullaby.
I love you,
I whisper into your ear
as you sleep,
though you do not hear me,
or do you, now?
***
All Language of Prayer
God speaks all language
of prayer,
and no language
but silence.
God does not read
holy books,
but god will read the heart
at the end of a day,
at the end of the road.
If we hide anything,
we hide it from ourselves.
Do not believe in
a muddled mind.
Drop the veil.
Unbind the turban.
A lover looks into the mirror
and sees your face and mine,
for are we not ever being polished
to reflect each other’s light?
***
Bio: Sri Lal’s writings have appeared in Fiction International, the New York Quarterly, Epiphany, Daedalus, Bombay Review, Indian Quarterly, Chicago Quarterly Review, Bamboo Ridge, Setu and others. She is the author of Atma Bodha (O Books, 2010), a collection of Indian hymns in English translation. She teaches literature and creative writing in the English Department at CUNY’s Borough of Manhattan Community College.
Email: pengirl16yahoo.com
