Will It Come to Me?

from Mother Poems and A Crack in Time by Shambhavi Sarasvati at Kindred 108. We're all kindred here.

Graveyard, St. George, New Brunswick. Photo credit: Shambhavi Sarasvati

Complaining to God and writing poetry about it is a time-honored tradition in India. Ramprasad Sen railed at Kali and Mirabai at Krishna. The time of complaint does pass. And then comes again. And goes again until it ends. This is my little contribution to the genre. Love, Shambhavi

Will it come to me?
A friendly way to live in samsara?
So far no dice.

I wander around in dreams
visiting cities, towns
seasides and markets
in unknown times.

I talk to strangers and
lend a helping hand.
Then I'm gone
or sleep is.

Dreamtime is wandering free
but daylight brings
obstinate minds
walled houses and
other simulacra of
the longing for
eternal life.

I chide myself:
Stop complaining!
Everything’s perfect!
All phenomena are equal!
Samsara and nirvana the same!
Awake and dreaming both magical displays!
Even having seen this for myself
I still want out.

Last night, day
invaded the dark.
In my dream
a student piled
shopping, schoolwork and
shoes on the floor around the
worship place.

While cleaning up
I yelled:
An altar is no place for this mess!
All over the house
students had replaced my
offerings with the resilient detritus
of their lives.

A team of rough men posing as
inspectors barged in.
They rifled through everything.
When asked for identification, 
they puffed out their chests and glared.
I woke with a strangled cry.

My teachers say it’s good
when everyday appearings
become intolerable
and one loses the taste
for the mundane
even for waking up.

I pray to receive the teaching about
whatever comes 
after this.

from Mother Poems and A Crack in Time by Shambhavi Sarasvati

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