I’ll be on vacation next week without my studio, so Michelle will have to twitch the first prompt of our next tale herself. I really loved working with this Hindu myth. As always, I learned and was nourished from the deep interaction with story our process provides. Krishna inspires me; for that I am deeply grateful and leave you with this poem in his honor. ~ Christine
His couch lies ready
linen strewn with marigolds
bedposts hung with silk
Where is the Dark Lord?
In the wet grass – footprints;
forgotten bracelets,
Where is the Dark Lord?
Laughter light as spider silk
spun to snare a blue-skinned god
floats fragrant on the dusky air
slides like an errant wisp
of perfumed hair across his lips
burns like whip-lash, bends
the sacred mouth and strings
it with desire.
Echoes fade.
Cows low
nightingale sings.
The Dark Lord lifts his pipe.
Notes fan out like soft-nosed ferrets
quartering the grazing ground, dodging
clumsy hooves to nose past crimson saris;
ride streams of spurting foaming cream,
flash cobalt sparks round a brass-rimmed milking bowl.
Cream spills white across the black-churned earth.
Gopis desert their lowing cattle, beating
up-turned jars like drums.
Constellations shift and shimmer
Universes disappear.
Krishna blows sweet longing down his flute
Worlds reorder.
Brass-bound jars set up a timpani
each milkmaid drops her gold embroidered hem
into a sister’s calloused palm and spins.
Red silk settles in circles.
The naked god comes forth.
©2013 Christine Irving
