temple of brihadiswara
11th century a d
we shall speak first of the emotions [rasa]
nothing goes on in drama without emotion
bharata in natya sastra
rasa 1
on the banks of the venna
palm trees cobras papayas langurs
on the brink of the jungle
peacocks lizards fireflies mangos
on the brink of the rice fields
baskets flood gates mosquitos ibis
rasa 2
days spent
cleaning rice carrying water
washing clothes of god dancing
making garlands
fanning the carved god sweeping
dancing lighting the lamp
preparing incense
and dancing coins and flowers
tossed at my feet
rasa 3
too old now to dance
for the god
to wear my anklets
and sweeten the air
of thanjavur with their bells
for the king
of the chola empire
for rajaraja
builder of a new temple
rasa 4
sweet milk
buttermilk
warm from my
goats
sweetened with gin
ger
strengthened with mus
tard
milk for the servants of shi
va
milk for the builders of his tem
ple
rasa 5
to sculpt the great nanda
the guardian bull
to smooth the mortar
between stone blocks
to secure the wood
of scaffolds on trusses
to paint white the finished walls
as the snow covered mountains
my lord shiva calls home
rasa 6
sweet square
sweet mandala
entered by the rising sun
rasa 7
shiva born on the flame
of the breath of your dying father
rudra roaring
rasa 8
stone lingam
father of an ascetic
and father of a god with an elephant head
god with no third generation
god wearing a chain of skulls—
have the granite stone in my garden
make it the coping stone
of your tower
Early in the writing program at USF, I started a series of persona poems in the voices of Christian saints. Could this be the basis for my major project? While searching the online catalog for reference sources, I pulled up a subject heading to Saints- Hindu. That led me to a small pamphlet entitled Women Saints of the Tamilnad by M. Arunachalam. Fascinating. No one had to be blinded, have a breast hacked off, or die for a god. These were stories of holiness I wanted to share.
Alagi was the first saint I wrote about. Her story introduced me to the Chola empire under Raja Raja (947 CE – 1014 CE) in southern India. She lived along the track the workers used during the construction of the Brihadisvara Temple at the Chola capital, Thanjavur. She provided them with spiced buttermilk in the hottest part of the day. The boulder in her garden became the capstone of the temple’s vimana (tower). Lord Shiva appeared to Rajaraja in a dream and told him about Alagi’s part in building the temple.
Her story awoke in me a desire to see Thanjavur. This led me to make a trip to India over winter break. (At the time I worked at E. O. Lawrence Berkeley Lab and had vacation built up. That was the 2000 new year, when some people thought the last thing I should be doing was flying.) I justified the trip by saying that if I were going to write about India, I should experience what I was writing about. The visit to her temple is one of the clearest memories I have from the two-week trip. The cobblestones were wet with recent rain. I left my shoes on a shelf and approached the massive building in wonder. . . .
How does a poet describe a world that is strange and new, while keeping the reader in a state of similar disorientation? For this poem it meant eliminating capital letters and punctuation. Interlinear spaces line breaks were put into play. I began with the setting in rasa 1, moved to what I thought would be the typical day of a temple devotee in rasa 2, then Alagi introduced herself in rasas 3 and 4.
This poem and the series that it belongs to seem like they were written by another person. I am struggling to find my connection to it. Yet it heralded an adventure that was so unlike me as to seem like a fantasy now. They became a chapbook put together as an assignment by Aaron Shurin at USF. Since then I have added to the series, but only one has been published in a journal.
Why do we feel an affinity for a place to which we, our friends or our family have no connection? The arts and traditions of Egypt, China, Japan, and India have called for my attention at different point in my life. Though I have no claim on these countries, poems about them do come to me. What writer could refuse them?
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