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The Reply
Princess, I write to you of rain-soaked mornings,
with showers of bright pink bougainvillea flowers
strewn on the damp front yard and of bird calls
of every kind, mornings and evenings, but one
especially sweet and insistent, repeating itself
in heart-wrenching cycles of melody and pain—
I mean of course the call of the kokila, the
dark, passionate, red-throated bird that revels
in monsoon afternoons and mango blossoms. O love,
that I could hold you in my arms so tightly
as to draw that subtle, throbbing, sacred spark
that I see pulsating so clearly--if I could only
extract that secret strength, that certain energy
which you radiate with so much careless ease,
I'm sure I would grow immortal all at once,
and return your power to you magnified manifold.
But, like the man in an opium trance, who awakes
to find a world too ugly, harsh, and bright,
I too awake by myself in strange room far away
from you or from home, in an empty bed, deserted,
except by the sharp ache of absence. Yet I must
thank you for your parting gifts; you left me
distracted but richer far. You gave me, in your stead
a God made holy by your daily prayers. He stands
on the mantelpiece, staring down at me, large-eyed,
flute at his lips, triple bent, in classic pose.
As I bow to this laminated image of grace,
I find my thoughts winging back to you, like
homing birds. So thank you, Princess, for your
disarming combination of largesse and restraint,
a nostrum that opened the sluices of my dormant
imagination, and recharged the long-empty wells
of my dried up talent. Yes, I am that wretch
who must always be in love, moistened by longing,
before I make a mark or do anything worthwhile.
Some people drink, some take drugs, others travel,
read or fornicate--to each his or her aphrodisiac--
mine is love. So tolerate this glare of affection,
remembering always that I seek not just you butg
the self beyond name or form, of which you are
both symbol and part. So even before I receive
your first letter to me, I begin this poem to you
as a token, if not of commitment, at least of intent:
I love you as truly as an artist his inspiration,
or, perhaps, far, far more, as soul loves body,
or as God loves this world, the self of his self.
