Saturday, March 29, 2014

Poetry, Interludes

a butterfly,
hovers before me,
in a parking lot
no less messenger
of hope, 
into some blue distance:
whole, winged,
always going home.

Struggling with unexpected fate
my tropical imagination
carries me still,
among volcanic archipelagos,
remembers the Island of the Gods
in mango season.

Here, heat rises
from waterless pavements.
I walk to the "Memory Care" unit
the long beige hallway, too familiar now.
Bewildered eyes
sometimes regard me from wheelchairs.
The old man says,
"Take me home. I don't belong here".
If I could,
if I only could,
I would take us all home.
Instead, I bring fruit,
to share
imagining for them
mango season
in all its splendor.

Love is Saraswati's river
flowing through our lands.
She will feed the rice fields,
She will accept our woven offerings.

She will bear our ashes
and the fires of Kintamani
to the sea.

Formless, she neither takes nor gives;
we impose these significances
upon the flowers we cast in her. 

From birth to death,
Saraswati's river sustains us to the sea.
E. Nyoman Warini