Will It Come to Me?

from The Mother Poems 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,  
guarded 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 and 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 ID,   
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 The Mother Poems by Shambhavi Sarasvati