Dewa and I had a long conversation about reincarnation yesterday. I was carrying those thoughts with me as I went about my day and suddenly one line appeared on a mental blank page. “Tell me about past lives,” it said. I was near a familiar Warung (local restaurant) so I removed my sandals, stepped up to the spotlessly clean white tiled floor, took a seat on a bamboo stool by a bamboo table, pulled my notebook out of my backpack, requested a pineapple juice, and began. Half an hour and a chicken curry dish later I closed my notebook, returned it to my backpack, paid for my $3.00 lunch, retrieved my sandals, and strolled slowly home. Back in my sweet little room I took myself, my laptop, and my notebook to the balcony and translated the scribbles. The result is this poem.
Journey’s End
.
Was I here before? I want to know.
Tell me about past lives.
Was I a temple prostitute
Or one of the sultans’ wives?
.
Did my cries ring out on a battlefield?
Did I dance to pagan drums?
Was I burned at the stake for my witching ways?
Sometimes a memory comes…
.
Not clear like a snapshot photograph
But wrapped in a cloudy haze
Hinting at something long ago
Reminiscent of ancient days.
.
I seek to know myself, and yet
Can I plumb the depths of these wells
When my soul spans ages of lifetimes
And old knowledge resides in my cells?
.
When the sound of a Celtic fiddle
Makes my feet do an unknown dance
And I already know the Sanskrit words
That the kirtan leader chants.
.
I am trapped in Scandinavian skin
With a penchant for curries and heat.
A crucifix haunts me from behind
While I kneel at Shakti’s feet.
.
The teacher smiled with a knowing
And quietly said, “My friend…
The questions are the journey
The answers are journey’s end.”
.
Sherry Bronson
Apr 12, 2012 @ 12:13:00
Love your poem, Sherry!
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