Spring 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1996 |

My Guru

My husband's people have always had gurus. I have never had one but was expected To manage on my own, chant my own Vedas.   Gurus have so many holy words, mantras And suchlike, philosophies too they have With umpteen followers if they wish.   They say they know the meaning of love, Spiritual, warn against the carnal, They become gods, goddesses, Holy Mother.   They have astral auras, some of them, Idiosyncracies which are extreme, They have dreams and visions, psychic maps.   They guide the vagrant, the searcher, The lost, their bodies the abode Of the great pantheons; they, the avatars.   How did I manage to get here, anyway? The stones rained down upon me, Blows fell on my head, barbed words Pricked rose thorns to poison flesh.   It's time to write my own sutras, Sit, under the branching bo tree Utter my discourse, deconstruct assumed   Identities, let the atman seep back into The ancient egg of antiquity, the shell no longer Brittle, unassa

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Chicago

By Jean Arasanayagam

My husband's people have always had gurus. I have never had one but was expected To manage on my own, chant my own Vedas.   Gurus have so many holy […]

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