I just wrote this poem on Shiva, one of the Hindu trinity— the wild unruly paradoxical one,. It’s a contemporary interpretation of an ancient Hindu myth, the Churning of the Ocean, in which Shiva drinks the poison in the world…
Shiva
the oceans heaved. those who lived for others and those
living for themselves churned the earth’s blue blood
desperately
searching for the nectar
of immortality hidden deep beneath the eyes
of men demons
and gods. they pulled on the serpentine rope
desperate for treasures lost in a deluge:
a tree, cow,
and goddess
who grant wishes:
Lakshmi. Herself.
the goddess
of the best
and blessed
in this fractured world
where mens’ wishes matter most
(to men).
but before this,
poison. gurgling pitch
toxin surfaced.
demons; suffocating.
gods; at a loss, needing demons to churn the wavering body
of water.
will we
forever be
mortal?
then-
Then.
storms
of fire ash rain.
a howling deity of destruction
and dance
arrived his skin opaque
as pain.
gods shuddered knowing--
their insignificance gnawing--
not one of them
could bear the venom vehemently of this world
except this wild, primeval one.
cupping his hands Shiva drank
viral infection. imbibing corrosion
into his enigmatic ascetic
self
he neutered nano no-things suspended
in the fearsome lit-up night between death
and life.
He swallowed festering contamination—
finding it insipid for viruses are boring.
they possess no life
of their own
but catch and latch
onto the breathing
of others.
the deity of knowledge as pre-existent as birth
lapped up nuclear unthinking contagion
smeared with fear;
gods watched.
demons watched: will this disobedient one
who has the audacity
to dance in cremation grounds
fall?
how could anyone
absorb
such putrescence
and not
implode?
eons evaporate;
oceans become septic
with plastic.
still Shiva drinks.
sea foam glitters
aquamarine turquoise.
still Shiva drinks
undistracted.
he knows
each sun-born waterspark
is a soul
leaving for
it is done
with the chimerical chemistry
of existence.
waves waft human souls away.
still, Shiva drinks.
*
finally the feral one pauses.
seeing skies clear
as his midnight blue
throat
he thinks of ceasing
but
no one is left to churn
human consciousness
but men--
cupping his hands,
once more,
Shiva drinks.