Invisible Habits

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the ecstatic poems of amonjot

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invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits invisible habits

invisible habits ‥

the ecstatic poems of amonjot

C H A RY B D I S P R E S S new york

Published by Charybdis Press New York 2017 Charybdis Press Some rights reserved Printed and bound in the USA 15 14 13 12 4 3 2 1 First Edition http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/

Poems by Amonjot Layout and design by Jason Blasso Invisible Habits is set in Wessex, Warnock, CiscoSerif, Rockwell & Whitman designed by Ken Lew www.charybdispress.com

For Robin, who remembered my name

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I. Pseudonyms are true names for those with no need for names. * Love is a pseudonym for that which has no name. * God is a pseudonym for that which flows through these hollow words.

 

II. Amonjot, listen: Your Beloved is calling you, She is hiding, still, behind red curtains, waiting to be unveiled, waiting to unveil.

 

III. Sing, Amonjot!

My love, I’m always a step behind, chasing your sweet scent through classrooms, courtrooms, hospitalrooms.

You were there, I’m sure of it!

Though I see you not, I’m carried by your scent.

It moves me to the next room, the final room, and beyond.

IV. My favorite bird— A bird of paradise My favorite word— A word of paradise.

Let fly such birds, Let fly such words.

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V. For so long, I’d worn old clothes, hand-me-downs.

Thread by thread, you stripped me bare.

Now, I return to the market, naked.

Floating from stall to stall, I recall frayed habits.

They served me well, I wore them well.

Now, I need them not, for I feel neither heat nor cold, dust nor rain.

Unrobed, uninhibited, I meet thee In the market.

Unrobed, Uninhabited, I see the threads that come together, robing thee, robbing thee.

I love thee, as filthy as your clothes are.

Let me wash you.

Let me strip you.

Let me adorn you in these invisible habits.

VI. Do not forget, dear Amonjot, There’s a certain alchemy to the family, a way of spinning dross from gold— Your father, the defrocked priest, handed you the rusted chalice, so you could melt it to pure gold.

Your mother, the wearied nurse, handed you the broken staff so you could rejoin its fallen snake.

Remember their lines, Amonjot, weave them into your work, your word, your world.

VII. You came to me, brother, a pillar of salt, asked I pray for you.

The only prayer I have for us— May we see God in all the pillars of marble, the pillars of salt.  

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VIII. My Love, How did it come to this?

Your skin is cracked, every crevice, caked in filth.

I see the needle’s track-marks dotting poison veins.

I see the bastards’ bite-marks, savaging your skin.

They did this to you!

But I am not innocent— I see my track-marks.

I led you here, whored you away.

I see my bite-marks, where I drew first blood.

Fool that I am, I take you in my arms, mouth some stupid words.

You turn to me, as if to speak— Instead, you laugh, the way mothers

laugh at sons’ stupid apologies.

Your laugh rattles me, accuses me of wrong’s undone— the verdict: Guilty yet guiltless, I am life-sentenced to transcribe poems of love, of death— all in your name.

IX. The King is a Jester, or a Banker.

He’s banking on his jokes.

Bad jokes. very bad.

Ah, he kills me.

But I’m tired of this show.

Tired of his killing jokes.

Time to pull him off stage, strip him of his garments, peel away his mask.

Now, look again.

What do you see?

Beloved, there you are— asleep. your emptiness still invested in walls, in skin.

One day, you must divest, cede all walls, cede all skin.

This is the joke

of jokes.

It cracks me up.

Let it crack you up too.  

X. At the turn of a coin, My Beloved’s skin shines onyx.

The Watchman sees his face reflected in your black mirror.

He trembles, then wounds you, my love.

He rends your dark skin, from his pale skin— Here, my words fail us, for they make the ugliness of your wound, less ugly, than it was, is, will be.

XI. Hear these words, Amonjot, and practice: Stand still.

When the world rages ’round you, stand still.

Some revolutions begin and end with stillness.

Let worlds and words revolve ’round thee.

Then, only then— act!

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XII. Beloved, forgive me.

In mastering you, I enslaved myself.

In injuring you, I injured myself.

In forgetting you, I forgot myself.

Amonjot, do not speak of forgiveness— You remember me.

I remember thee.

Tis enough.  

XIII. Brother Sun, Sister Moon, In naming you, I lost sight of our light.

Let’s strip away all names: Sun, Moon Brother, Sister I and thou Let me unname you.

And you— come— unname me.

In the nameless light— Sun, moon, and eye eclipse as One.

XIV. Man— a pyramid of the Sun, pierces the night.

Woman— a chalice of the Moon, pours water onto sunbaked earth.

The pyramid and the chalice— memorize their angles, Amonjot.

Feel their centers of gravity.

Witness what occurs when angles meet in a single body, in two bodies: When two are One, One finds the center, the laws of gravity no longer apply— The pyramid floats.

The chalice overflows.

A six-pointed star is born of sun, of moon.

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XV. My Love, We are wrapped in Baba’s blanket— Cold words, Cold worlds can touch neither you nor me.

So make yourself cozy, relax, warm up to me as I warm up to you.

Let’s snuggle into that cosmic giggle that ripples the fabric of all time, all space.

XVI. My Love, Do you remember?

The first time— The doctor sank, showing us that dark circle.

We stared at it, transfixed.

It could be many things: a wound, a starless night, a black hole.

I do not see these things.

Grasping your hand, staring at our dark circle, I receive your lesson from a week before— Seven days ago, you parsed the word Guru in a way only you would.

Guru: that which brings us from darkness to light.

Teachers often focus on the light, but you turned to the darkness.

You told me not to fear.

My dear Amonjot, The only danger is failing to see what darkness conceals— Your golden-winged words took seven days to fly home.

They find me in this sterile room.

They take nest.

I nestle in, hold your hand, tighter.

Staring into you, into our dark circle, I see that I can see into the dark.

I feel light.

XVII. The second time— I see your light, little one, amid the murkiness.

The spotlight passes over you once, twice, a third time.

You shimmer, little pearl, but only for a second.

If I could, I would take you in the palm of my hands.

You can, dear Amonjot— Be the pearl diver. breathe deep, dive deep, till you grasp me.

If I slip from your hands, come up for air, still yourself, breathe deeper, dive deeper, again and again, till we find the surface.

XVIII. The third time— Darkness, again.

Sweet pearl, swirled into the depths.

Till next time.

XIX. My Love, do you recall The bird outside our window?

He sang sixteen songs, cycled through them all for five nights, calling his lover, warding others away.

On the fifth night, I fumbled stupidly for the recorder, captured only three of sixteen songs.

I realized, then, I could not name the bird.

He was a stranger to me His songs escaped me.

In days gone by, I knew the bird’s name, knew his songs by heart.

In those days, I would answer his call.

Words would take flight.

Not now.

Those birds have flown.

Oh, Amonjot, do not fret— All knowledge takes wing.

All knowledge returns.

XX. The orange cat jumps on our altar, punctual: 4 am every morn.

The yogis call this Amrit Vela, the ambrosial hours, but I prefer the taste of sleep.

We hear him from our bed, nudging the holy objects, pudgy paws gently pushing pictures— Baba, Robin, Christ, Gabe, Mary, Ma, Jimmy, St. Francis, Guru Mantra— he gets them all moving.

I know this is his way of saying: I want out. Time to ramble under the stars.

Time to run and roam, roll about in dirt, gather fleas.

I don’t want to hear it, cat, not now.

Just give me another hour.

But I can’t ignore the thought of holy men and women sliding closer to the edge.

I groan, tell her I’ll deal with the cat (you and the baba need your sleep).

I lift this sleepy body to the altar, pick up the wide-eyed cat, plop him down, get to work: bitterly, mindlessly, I move holy objects back into place.

I eye the cat angrily.

Can’t you let me sleep?

Then I hear you— slowly, Amonjot, with peace.

I want to ignore you, want to think of bed, of her warmth, of dreams.

But your words cut through my wants— Moving the holy photos, I see their faces, your face, for the first time.

Movement becomes ritualized, becomes sadhana.

I place you as the cat displaced you: With reverence for the ambrosial hour.

After this offering, I open the door for the orange cat.

He flows out into the night, a drop of liquid fire.

Go with peace, orange cat.

Thank you for waking me up, again.

Thank you for opening the door.

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XXI. What has become of you, dear Word?

They’ve forgotten You, as they’ve forgotten themselves.

The Students are handed your urn.

They’re taught to hoist you up, hawk your ashes at market.

The Politicians peddle your scraps in boardrooms, courtrooms, chatrooms, toss you out, poison meat for starved dogs.

The Reporters sell you at auction block, mark you up, doll you up, dole you out, hoist you up in trees and billboards.

The Poets and Critics forget you, too, mistake you as hammer or cloud, or as keys to the prize behind doors 1, 2, or 3.

Where are you, dear Word?

I feel you, out there, attracting, gathering force.

But the world is spinning fast, false words are spinning fast.

Can I catch you in the spin?

No— You find me, as lightning finds its mark, I attune myself to you, channel you, let you flow through me, electrically,

ecstatically.

You come home, dear Word, strike me dead— Om, Om, Amen.

XXII. Words written upon the scientist’s grave: It’s all energy, moving, changing form.

Words written upon the mystic’s grave: It all brings us closer and higher.

Words written upon the alchemist’s grave: It all turns to gold.

Read their words, Amonjot, But look for truth elsewhere— on old gravestones, moss-covered, weatherworn, words rubbed out.

Find truth there, in timeworn graves, and in the dark gyre that spins overhead, allowing us to rise, allowing us to shine— beyond life, beyond death.

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XXIII. Mataji, You remembered my name, found it etched in unwritten unreadable places.

What could I give you in return?

For you— I would free Blake’s Robin Red Breast from its cage, unfetter the world of all its rage.

I would move mountains, lay them at your feet, bring you sanjeevani from the highest peak.

I would slow the celestial dance, take you off stage, to see the cosmic lovers frozen in a last and first embrace.

I would adorn you with wildflowers, bow deeply at your green altar with sister bird and brother deer.

Last nite, you looked me in the eye, silently said: I don’t need these gifts, dear Amonjot— Your tears, your smile are gift enough.

Stop writing for me.

Let your words cry, let your words smile.

Let them fly, not to me, but toward the world.

Transcribed Ninth of June 2017 AD to Third of July 2017 AD