National Poetry Month
Apr. 10th, 2014 11:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brigdhTusker Kills Mahout at Religious Ceremony by Anand Thakore
Nine weeks now, and the tamarind tree has put out a new branch.
A fresh wind from the west, the first rains.
The men barely notice me now on their way to the fields.
The womenfolk walk past me nonchalantly,
On their way to the river.
The village pundit is punctual about his weekly exorcisms:
Rosewater. Turmeric. Sandalwood. Ash.
Only the children still fear me.
***
A local poet has composed a paean
In praise of what he sees as my rebellion,
My willingness to be ruled by nothing
But an ancient impulse to break free.
The nation, he sings, has much to learn from this.
The villagers who hear him are amazed
That a demon so vile
Should have dared to lodge itself in *me*,
A beast half-divine, the mortal god of their tribe.
They tell him the same demon now lives in his songs.
***
Sure, they have their reasons, all of them,
Poet and pundit, men and women of the village,
For believing what they believe;
But all it was, really, was lust,
A minute's raw lust for a dead mate,
That tore me from my senses:
A huge haze came over me. A chaos
Of people and rocks, clouds, fields, hills and trees,
A compelling smell that meant: her skin.
Gravity deserted me, my light legs floated,
My body convulsed,
Then threw itself back before I knew it.
I trampled fences, crushed a thatched hut.
I uprooted a mango sapling not yet three summers tall.
When I lifted his broken body into my trunk,
I was not sure he had hit the ground,
I was that uncertain about where the earth really was.
Nobody understands I was trying to save him.
***
My new mahout is a good man.
He brings me fruit and wreaths of flowers at dawn
And says his prayers before he mounts me:
But I have only to think of her again, in that way,
And I am sure I will kill him.
Nine weeks now, and the tamarind tree has put out a new branch.
A fresh wind from the west, the first rains.
The men barely notice me now on their way to the fields.
The womenfolk walk past me nonchalantly,
On their way to the river.
The village pundit is punctual about his weekly exorcisms:
Rosewater. Turmeric. Sandalwood. Ash.
Only the children still fear me.
***
A local poet has composed a paean
In praise of what he sees as my rebellion,
My willingness to be ruled by nothing
But an ancient impulse to break free.
The nation, he sings, has much to learn from this.
The villagers who hear him are amazed
That a demon so vile
Should have dared to lodge itself in *me*,
A beast half-divine, the mortal god of their tribe.
They tell him the same demon now lives in his songs.
***
Sure, they have their reasons, all of them,
Poet and pundit, men and women of the village,
For believing what they believe;
But all it was, really, was lust,
A minute's raw lust for a dead mate,
That tore me from my senses:
A huge haze came over me. A chaos
Of people and rocks, clouds, fields, hills and trees,
A compelling smell that meant: her skin.
Gravity deserted me, my light legs floated,
My body convulsed,
Then threw itself back before I knew it.
I trampled fences, crushed a thatched hut.
I uprooted a mango sapling not yet three summers tall.
When I lifted his broken body into my trunk,
I was not sure he had hit the ground,
I was that uncertain about where the earth really was.
Nobody understands I was trying to save him.
***
My new mahout is a good man.
He brings me fruit and wreaths of flowers at dawn
And says his prayers before he mounts me:
But I have only to think of her again, in that way,
And I am sure I will kill him.
