This poem is called "Mother of the Buddhas, Queen of Heaven,
Mother of the Son, Marici, Goddess of the Dawn."
The title is the--
the title is the attributes of the 12th century Mahayana
Buddhist goddess that got lost somehow in history.
However, this poem is dedicated to a Cambodian Buddhist
monk named Ghosananda.
I was walking with Ghosananda in a field in Bihar.
And we came across a statue sticking out of the ground
and he said, "Aha, it's Marici."
It was a statue of a naked lady standing on top of a ball,
holding a sword in one hand and a bundle of thunderbolts
in the other.
And he said, oh yes, it's Marici.
She has been out of circulation since the 12th century.
Her vehicle was a pig, and pigs are
the food of outcasts in India.
In fact, only the outcast people raised pigs, hence
the connections.
"Old sow in the mud, bristles caked black
down her powerful neck.
Tiny hooves churn, squat bodies slithering deep
in food dirt, her warm dirt, deep plowing snout, dragging
teats.
Those who keep her or eat her are cast out.
She turns her small eye from earth to look up at me."
This is called "Nanao Knows," Dedicated to Sakaki
Nanao, a Japanese poet friend of mine.
Don't ask me why, I [INAUDIBLE] this way.
"Mountains, cities, all so light, so loose,
blankets, buckets, throw away.
Work left to do.
It doesn't last.
Each girl is real, her nipples harden.
Each curl is damp, her smell, her hair.
What am I to be saying, there they all
go over the edge dissolving?
Riveters bind up steel rod bundles for wet concrete.
In and out of forest cities, families like a fish."