The Dark Lord

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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

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