Saturday, September 5, 2015

The Idol Maker's Prayer

To you who sits serenely on her chariot,
thronged by hordes of mad devotees;

to you whose brilliance bursts through burnished bronze
 never quite buried under layers of silk and fragrant garlands;

to you whose smile is a lotus just starting to bloom,

I, being a petty mortal, am always aware
that the whole world dances to your whims.

You are
the fecundity of green paddy fields
and cracks on parched earth of a long drought.

You are
a house filled with the laughter of children
and cries of women with barren wombs.

You are
the comfort of full coffers
and a beggar's empty bowl.

But as I lie prostrate before you,
I desire nothing,
except to mould you with my own hands.
All over again.

No matter how hard I try,
I can never numb this
piercing pang of separation.
I can never forget
that I birthed you
and you birthed me.
But who birthed whom?

You're a daughter I'm about to lose
to your bronze counterpart;
he's dying to wed you
just to bed you
in the sanctum sanctori
of a timeless temple.

You were
the germ of a Goddess in beeswax
as you flowed through my fingers
and filled yourself out.

You were
pliable clay with which I caressed
the lotus blossom of your bosom.

You were
bliss that became solid
like the clay that caked your body.

You were
a spurting stream of molten beeswax
that gushed out in the heat of the moment.

You were
a hollow womb
yearning for more than just pleasure.

You were
green glowing bronze
straight from the furnace of frenzied devotion,
with which I filled the aching void of your being.

You were
a babe becoming a Goddess
in her secure cocoon- a womb of clay.

You were
agony tearing me apart
when I cracked open your hardened cast.

You were
no longer mine
when I carved your eyes
with a golden chisel,

For
you became Devi
when you opened your eyes to the world.

16 comments:

  1. "But as I lie prostrate before you,
    I desire nothing,
    except to mould you with my own hands.
    All over again."

    I am stunned by the beauty of the images and the knowledge that as we make our art it makes us, and we lie down before it and it's greater being in the hope that it/we contain the divine. WOW! What a poem!

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  2. Fabulous poem. Amazed at the words used and the experience narrated

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  3. "But as I lie prostrate before you,
    I desire nothing,
    except to mould you with my own hands.
    All over again."

    ah yes the devotee needs the image to be visually realized. birthing like a poem spilled out in words across a blank page

    have a nice Sunday

    much love...

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  4. Wow. Powerful verse and truly heartfelt. There are tones of scripture to me and in the strong desire to raise up our children and that separation. One of my favorite of the day. Felt

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  5. Such a wise and powerful verse!

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  6. Beautiful write! Very powerful!

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  7. This is close to perfection. Such depth and wisdom here. Breathtaking.

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  8. Beautiful and powerful words and images woven here!

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  9. It is so nice to see you in the Pantry, my friend! A brilliant write. Beautifully done.

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  10. Profound and nuanced. Brilliant writing!

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  11. I like to think that mothers everywhere feel that about giving birth to their own daughters; of being a part of the world's creative process; such a such precious gift. A stunningly beautiful poem.

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  12. Nice to see you here after such a long time...i like this theme on artist and his art work which gains its own identity independent of the artist...the beginning reads like a hymn...a brilliant piece Madhumakhi...

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  13. Gorgeous imagery ... could be about giving birth to a work of art or motherhood ~ so powerful & hearfelt.

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  14. Really well versed. Poetry of its own kind. Loved it

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